The following is the opening satirical monologue from “The Andrew Klavan Show.“
You know, when things in America get genuinely upsetting, I sometimes like to take a step back, sidle unobtrusively to the door, slip out, run to my car before anyone notices I’m gone, drive to the airport and catch a plane to one of the isolated islands of French Polynesia where I can wile away the hours with my bare-breasted native lover Tehamana while dining on luscious local fruits and drinking the milk of coconuts, preferably laced with vodka or possibly LSD, whichever is more likely to transform this shrieking hellscape into a colorful, star-speckled hallucination, something like the album cover of the Magical Mystery Tour, except without Paul being dead.
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