The Glitch Losers Club

There was a deficiency. Gilbert Gottfried’s voice-acting performances were making me jealous. I had to do something, but what? Glitch awards? No.

The Rich Dynasty seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to run a kingdom. I was old, but not old enough for my penis to fall off. I was once a member of Brewington’s Book Club and the top-secret society.

But why did @DJTonyTattoni split on social media? Mediocre Nashville rehearsals, punking in lucky world with a YouTube channel, ready for middle management. A glitch dream, following his heart, instead of printing out a big book. “Ring-a-ring-a-rosies / A pocket full of posies.” Tony T. doesn’t have a clue about the future coup-coup’s nest.

Just to drive a truck and listen to it all — that was the dream, glitch or no glitch, humming through the speakers as the miles rolled by. I was always a little jealous of Jeremy Rapini; he had the perfect setup, the kind of transport truck that felt less like a vehicle and more like a moving kingdom on wheels. Every time I saw him climb into the cab, confident and content, I couldn’t help but think how much I wanted that truck for myself, just to feel the road the way he did. Tony hopped into his truck once and took off. He was said he was going to see Johnny.

Thought I told him not to make friends with Lionheart’s CEO. I saw the space texts my cousin got from his friends.

Going through a warehouse of 108.9 files, I found some mixes with Tony reciting old poems. Bro tried to keep it a secret. The selfies from Rose were a secret for a long time, but I found out. So embarrassed about my cousin’s secrets.

Tony was Duke Way-Off with a talent for pranks, the kind that seemed harmless at first but slowly chipped away at my patience. Every week brought a new stunt — rubber spiders tucked into my desk drawer, fake phone calls that sent me scrambling, even a shocking whoopee cushion ambush during a serious meeting. At first, I laughed. I laughed along like everyone else, pretending I wasn’t the designated target for his endless creativity in chaos.

But over time, the joke wore thin. The laughter faded, replaced by a steady irritation that made every day feel like I was bracing for the next surprise. I realized I wasn’t having fun anymore; I was just annoyed. Tired of being the punchline, tired of pretending it didn’t get under my skin, tired of Tony acting like it was all in good fun. Eventually, I reached my limit — and once I did, the pranks weren’t funny. They were just proof that enough was finally enough.

Just how major radio stations rose to power has long been debated among Elvis-loving internet radio junkies. Their theories range from industry breakthroughs to pure rock-and-roll mythmaking. Sure, Rose Delmato exists; an edible flower, a lady in the kingdom with swirly pasta hair, serving assistants, bossy and dusting off the throne in the main studio office located in Toronto. Yearning for more yoga, wanting to go back and fuck around at Club 108.9 or Weber Warehouse or The Rude Native. A girl on fire, gone wild.

First, on the computer in her royal residence with no air-conditioning, she’s following weather forecasts, opening new tabs, streaming RTTV porn, feeling irritably hot and uncomfortable; screaming “Fuck” at the top of her lungs. Rose bets on baseball games and she’ll curse louder. She’s like a female Pete Rose, knows how to play ball. But who’s Rose in a pregnancy suit and floral print dress? Why does Rose want to be one of Lionheart’s Russian dolls?

A pretty little liar. Pretty good at guitar. In Christine Kofan’s metal hair band the Exilirs, playing alongside Cricket, or Danielle as she came to be known. Rose won a Wesinator and she could jam. A huge GNR fan. She didn’t want to cover anything else. Is “Appetite for Destruction“ her only hunger? No, not if Elvis is playing the guitar.

Everybody wanted Buck. Mr. Rogers was never in the neighbourhood. Mike had to hit the road. Sometimes, found listening to travel tips; his ex-wife lived in Richmond Hill. Mike recorded some of the Buck Rogers Show from his car.

Not exactly a Buck Martinez, but Mike caught some games. Business news led to more economics and acting lessons. The best of Buck was worth a loonie in the 25th Century. A Metallica junkie. One glitch and Mike wanted out.

But he was undeniably good at business, always spotting opportunities before anyone else saw them coming. Buck was a serious dude. His instincts sharp, and he could read a market the way others read a menu. Even in difficult situations, he stayed steady, calculating every move with precision. People trusted his decisions, and he consistently turned challenges into out-of-this-world successes.

And nothing else matters. Imposters aren’t the only employees starving. Anyhow, now I want back in the tribe and someone from the club needs to eat the Hawaiian pizza off the floor before promoting the next great big story. I’m not proud of my body of work. Yeah, Lionheart was a terribly toxic idea. A hot bath, then more pizza. Sometimes you think you know yourself and then you order artichokes on your pizza and you wonder who the fuck you are? I can’t wait for the pizza, but normally I’m like my cousin, a pineapple-only pizza person. I really should clean up my act and collect pizza party money.

I hate “Birds“. I hate Alfred Hitchcock. Just to rant in the tub: “If there’s anybody else out there that thinks Richard Cottingham was responsible for a murdered loved one, they should also come forward.” I like rubber duckies, things that are real, blue paper packages tied up with strings; just a few of my favourite things. But I’m sick of my cheap tub.

The Breakdown Show was originally meant to dissect the day’s events — headlines, scandals, oddities. That was the plan, at least, until it hit me that people didn’t actually need another take on the world’s chaos; they needed help getting through traffic. I realized the real story wasn’t what happened in the world, but what was happening on the roads. Annoyingly, there were more phone calls.

A call from Travis? There was a glitch or something. He was never paid. He had to stop taking acid after talking to horses. Weird. Only married three times. What a mistake. I don’t get it. Swatting at himself at night like there were swarms of bats in the shed. He ranted for hours about how he hated Shania Twain, because she was so young. “That’s fine,” he said, talking to himself, trying to close a deal. He repeated, “I reckon so,” not closing the deal, but he never recorded some of his best horseshit. Only the classics.

The audio from immigrant Wyatt McReynold’s Saskatoon trafficking was impersonated by an old Lionheart kid, a contract employee, named Travis Taylor: Traffic History Month. The eighty-eight-year-old with a golden voice. His show only had one classic pilot episode on AM 2200. Glitch TV?

Wyatt was a big deal. Travis took one month to perform as Wyatt for Lionheart, but he spent many years reporting traffic for The Traffic Channel until massive budget cuts. Travis threatened to retire. They could afford good pizza, but not his own helicopter. Travis was part of the tribe, but he sucked at making helicopter noises. The worst cow thief, but fucker was hungry.

Gorge on the floor.