Salt Lake City alternative radio DJ Cory O’Stuart has a complete grasp on modern social media, which he uses to promote his station’s contests, sponsors, and his own “all-request” show on weeknights.

O’Stuart, who works at a real radio station, not one of the fake internet ones at school that anyone can do, receives ratings for his show which make Tyler Riggs blanch with envy.

Riggs on his first day of eighth grade at Mount Logan Middle School.

“It’s not fair, we need a more powerful antenna out at the ‘Radio Ranch,’” said Riggs, flagship of KVNU 610 AM in Logan. “I asked Mayor Watts the tough questions on my show, ‘For The People With Tyler Riggs.’”

Big city jerk O’Stuart credits his amazing success at a young age to his mastery of social media.

“I was the first radio DJ to have a Facebook page,” O’Stuart said. “In America.”

O’Stuart paused to sip a frothy coffee drink from the coffee shop right around the corner in his trendy neighborhood in the most cutting-edge part of Salt Lake City, and then continued: “Last week I again redefined cool when I deleted my Myspace page and told everyone about it on Facebook…yeah, so many people ‘liked’ that.”

O’Stuart has the (now-) obligatory Facebook page, a Twitter feed, a LinkedIn account for when a station in a larger market inevitably takes notice of his impressiveness, a blog at his station’s website, a Gmail account, a Google Wave thingy, and a GPS app on his Apple iPhone 3G so his fans can follow him to his live appearances. Listeners who have connected with O’Stuart online presumably learn of the station’s promotions while listening to the radio, and then are reminded by a shoulder-tap from one of techno-God O’Stuarts e-tentacles later.

“I had a Facebook account to share pictures and talk to friends,” O’Stuart said, “and these executives think I performed a magic trick by talking about my job on Facebook. I’m also making seven times what Riggs makes this year.”

O’Stuart then departed on his bicycle–even though it’s cold out–for his pottery class, or maybe it was organic gardening, but at any rate, he has lots of time for those sorts of pursuits thanks to his internet wizardry and healthy ratings.

Riggs, on the other hand, puts in five hours every night recording promos for local businesses he detests, especially Westates Theaters.

“If only I could get on the air in that big market down south,” Riggs said for the 1,000th time, reaching for his well-thumbed copy of Howard Stern’s Private Parts for the 6,823nd time. “Maybe if I gave people an option to ‘Digg’ what they read on my blog, I could throw lavish parties where no one watches tv, like O’Stuart.”

Riggs often listens to O’Stuart’s show and various promos before recording himself, so he can “see how a professional radio personality does it.”

“It’s the little asides that make Cory so alternative, young and cool,” a now-depressed Riggs said. “Forget about all his blog bullshit, it’s the fuckin witty asides, man. I wish I could do on-air patter. Did you hear my interview with Randy Watts? It was like Karl Rove trying to roof a militant lesbian but accidentally slipping her a gram of meth, then trying to sweet-talk her back to a Focus on the Family rally in Starkville, Miss. with keynote speaker, James Dobson.

“YES IT WAS THAT BAD!!” Riggs shrieked.

As an example, Riggs played a recent O’Stuart live appearance at a Coors Light party at Liquid Joe’s, where O’Stuart remarked that he could barely even say the words “Coors Light Party Girls” because the Coors Light Party Girls are so hot, and he is “just that kind of guy.”

“That’s fucking gold!” Riggs screamed, throwing down his headphones in frustration. Riggs was in the middle of recording another enlightening interview with conservative wack-job, print shop owner and Providence resident Richard Watkins, one of KVNU’s most important sponsors. Richard is coming out with another fucking calender with Cache Valley art again this year, everybody, and these are just lovely art-pictures taken by local photographers.

Riggs has facebook friend-requested and been denied by O’Stuart five times. “I like to keep it classy on mines,” O’Stuart said. “Riggs’ only facebook friends are the same five dickheads who dominate the KVNU chatroom and always call in. No one listens to his show either, just those same five dickheads.”

/additional reporting by Lordy Tremain

The newly garnished air of superiority appeared to Peenbranch when Canada played the United States for the Gold Medal which adds yet another affectation to make him seem more complicated than just a man from Idaho Falls who lived in Georgia for a summer and has been to Oregon twice. During the two week Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Peenbranch realized  his father was born in Canada, and that he could, however tenuously, assign himself ‘a Canadian’ and that perhaps, maybe, he could get away with it without everyone realizing just exactly what the fuck he was doing and wouldn’t think him a giant disingenuous douche. It didn’t work.

“Sure his Dad was born there, and Jerry even lived there for a time, but he isn’t Canadian and doesn’t even enjoy hockey, it is just Jerry [Peenbranch] He is full of shit, but he is harmless,” said Bob Savage his roommate and occasional beer buddy. Peenbranch has ordered a Maple Leaf flag from Amazon and hung that bullshit in his room, on the off chance someone actually spends the time and energy to call him on his stupid, unconvincing bullshit so that he’ll be able to say, ‘Hey man, I have the [Canadian] flag hanging at my house.’ The 20 year old English Major has also typed ‘Rules of hockey”  into Google a couple times to brush up, in case someone asks him what ‘forechecking’ is, he can actually explain instead of what a real Canadian would do, Tell you to “fuck yourself with your fist.”

‘Pretension’ is clearly a word Peenbranch understands, and even describes Fraternity and Sorority members as ‘pretentious fucks,’ which is mostly true, but ironic in more ways than could be described in writing. This situation isn’t a first, say those close to Peenbranch, who is well known amongst his friends for his artificial posturing. Among Peenbranch’s other accessories include  a Spanish girlfriend, 8 songs on the guitar, poetry he doesn’t understand and listening to The Helio Sequence, even though he hates it, all in an effort to make himself seem more than a-mile-wide-and-an-inch-deep.

All the theatrics won’t  last though. The World Cup is starting in June and Canada didn’t qualify. A source close to Peenbranch thinks he’ll cheer on Spain because his girlfriend is from there and they are currently ranked #1 in the FIFA world ranking. ” He is a front-runner, like that,” said a friend who declined to be identified.

Peenbranch, who is just a few short years away from rolling his r’s or adopting a Boston accent, actually only derives pleasure from just being the coolest guy in the room even if that paradoxically makes everyone think he is giant shovelfuck.

Excuse me me miss. Could I have a moment of your time,  I desperately need to tell you, that I need to get something straight between us. My name is Lordy Tremain, and I am the Reichsmarschall over at The Truant. But don’t fall all over yourself about that. I come from humble origins, born to a Pipe-fitter and a seamstress in suburban San Diego, I was home-schooled by my dear mother, who despite her negligible Saxon heritage taught me the finer points of courtship and chivalry. I need to get something straight between us and I will not be denied.

The lost art of courting a beautiful person such as yourself is not lost on a nobleman like me, I’ve listened to many many Michael Buble records and have a very refined palate to which I can amaze you with knowledge of wines bottled in far-off places. I am going to assume you saw me over there by the bar, telling hilarious jokes to my friends and that you wanted to get to know me. Surely by me coming over here makes this almost a celebration for your sparkling eyes.  I believe you will acquiesce to me getting something straight between us.

Did you notice that elegant piece of art on the wall? I painted that, wouldn’t you say that its pretty great? Haha, well, at least we agree on something. I want you to know my intentions are good and that I will treat you all the class and distinction a woman like you deserves. You need to know, I need to get something straight between us.

I am such a fabulous lover, yet I am polished enough so that you will not feel bad introducing to all your friends and co-workers. I am a giving person and I will take my time getting something straight between us, make sure you are comfortable with the fact that I, Lordy Tremain, am getting something really straight between us. Shh, don’t speak…Just look into my dark gaze and defined forearms and you will be overcome by my rugged masculinity and soon we will be on our way to a magical world of joy and exultation. I will be getting something straight between us.

In the interest of disclosure, it is not totally straight, it curves up and to the left, but I just can’t walk up to you in a bar and tell you ‘I need to get something up and to the left between us.” It is not clever or funny and in all frankness, doesn’t make much sense.  Its just a lame pick-up line crafted into a long winded article.

Sorry for the digression, but allow me to reiterate that I will be getting something straight between us, hard and straight.

Alright, I am now going to stop listening to the words you speak and assume you’re finding me irresistible and want to take me home to enjoy having me feed you fruits while I whisper poems of unending devotion and unbridled passion. But I want to make it abundantly clear, I will be getting something straight between us.

Yours,

Lordy Tremain

“Good morning. Thank you for being here for this do-over, and let me assure you all that I am going to be sucking a lot less dick this time. First of all, as I look out at the  sports media assembled here today, I would like to begin by saying fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,”

/points out Gus Johnson in the crowd “you’re cool,

“fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. If your company dropped me as its sponsor, bidding to get me back starts at a billion dollars as soon as I start winning tournaments again, which will be as soon as I start playing golf again, which will happen when I fucking say it will, so stop asking. I mean damn.”

/Rick Reilly: “Tiger, a billion dollars per what? Is that your signing fee? Or is it per annum?”

/Tiger walks around the podium, comes down to Rick Reilly’s seat in the first row, and face-pushes him out of it.

“A billion dollars per second, bitch. Accenture, you’re a consulting firm, has anyone every met a consultant that wasn’t an alcoholic and wouldn’t fuck a catcher’s mitt? Gatorade? In real life, I drink Powerade Zero. I’ve been meaning to tell everyone that. All you public relations wunderkinds who think it’s smart to ‘back away from Tiger right now,’ I sincerely hope you choke to death. You all know Michael cheated on Juanita, right? Right?”

/Tiger returns to the podium

“I’d like to offer my thanks to Nike Golf for sticking with me, with the obvious caveat that they don’t really have a choice since I personally built the fucking brand by being the most dominant golfer of all time. After me, the face of Nike Golf is Stewart fucking Cink, say no more, am I right? So thanks, guys, I think we all know the deal here.

“I see members of the Golf media are still filing in, so let me repeat what I said earlier: Fuck you. And that goes double for all you two-faced bootlickers who jumped at the chance to stand in judgment of me, which, oh yeah, is all of you. And another hearty fuck you to every single pundit who said they were ’skeptical’ after my big apology. You are all such amazing judges of character now, it’s quite incredible that not a single one of you hacks ever raised doubts about my fidelity to my wife, or my overall credibility, until my reputation had already been smeared. Good luck ever interviewing me ever, ever, ever again, about anything.

“If any more of you inferior golfers take this opportunity to take shots at me, it’s on on-sight. I will knock Tom Watson the fuck out, do you hear me Tom? I will fuck you up. I really don’t want to bust up your artificial hip but I will, if you don’t stop saying my name. I’ll drop you like a two-club relief from a manmade structure in the fairway.

“Just for the record, I love the fact that how I act on the course offends Tom Watson. Hey Tom: next time I offend your Depression-era sensibilities, please, say something to my face. I will stomp you the fuck out on number one tee box while the ESPN cameras roll. It would make my day.”

/mops brow with Nike Golf handkerchief

“Okay, now that that’s dealt with…

“The only people I owe any explanation to is my wife and kids. I think we can all recognize that this is going to be an extremely difficult conversation between my daughters and I in a couple of years, so can everyone fuck the fuck off for a minute? I mean, what the hell am I going to say? While you were all busy worrying about how badly my dalliances bothered YOU, you never thought about that, did you? I’m sorry if the notion of a pro athlete enjoying some road beef upsets you, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry, like what in the fuck I’m supposed to tell my daughters about this mess:

“‘When you were very little, Daddy met a very vibrant, exciting cocktail waitress after a wearying day of beating the best golfers in the world at golf, and Daddy slept with her. And the next morning, the exact same thing happened with the barista at Starbucks, and later that afternoon with a cart girl…’ Yikes. I wish I would have thought about this scenario back when I was running hoes like football scrimmage. Well, Tiger made his bed, now Tiger will sleep in it. Hopefully only with Elin from now on, if she’ll have me. We’ll see how this therapy goes.

“In closing, I would like to cordially invite everyone who is not a member of my immediate family to fuck right off and stay the fuck up out my business. You people make me sick, except for Gus Johnson, you are all diseased whores. Especially every golf magazine editor who wrote a preachy editorial about my ‘difficulties’ after steady riding my dick ever since I was a pup at Stanford, back when my dad was known as the Woods who fucked around on his wife all the time.

“Fuck you all, fuck you all very much. I’m out.”

No, not Deron Williams.

No, not Paul Millsap either.

No, look, it’s not a Jazz player. Not quite that big of a celebrity.

How big? Look, BIG, okay? At least as big as Marie Osmond’s dead teenage son. Maybe someday if you all are good and click on our ads, we will tell you who our super-secret celebrity contributor is, and when that day comes, you’ll be stunned. Anyhow, on with the article:

In what some are calling a brilliant customer relations scheme to repair Toyota’s tainted image, Akio Toyoda, president of Toyota MotorCorp., offered a tearful apology to millions of Americans affected by the defects in several of the company’s vehicles.  Toyoda agreed to testify in front of congress to address concerns over safety issues, and whether the millions of recalls are properly repairing the glitch.

“Our goal is to have safe vehicles for our customers, at a modest profit for ourselves, of course,” Toyoda said in opening remarks.  “Clearly, our growth may have diluted our commitment to safety and quality. And for that, I am truly sorry. I did, however, make a fuck of a lot of money last year. I mean, seriously. You should see the ranch I bought in Montana.”

Senator Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) confirmed that Toyoda’s ranch is off the chain.

“I just got back from there, Karl Malone and I shot a brace of quail and a few dozen elk, noble creatures,” Hatch said. “But yeah, Toyoda-san’s ranch is the shit.”

Toyoda had, at first, said he would not testify before congress, but his sentiment changed after he was nearly hit in a crosswalk on his way back to the hotel by an out-of-control Camry. Witnesses said he jumped “a good five feet or so up in the air” as the Camry careened through the intersection, crashing into a nearby bakery.  When asked if the incident had anything to do with his decision to testify before congress, he replied, “Ah, the 2010 Camry with the fuel-efficient 4-cylinder engine. One of our best models. Saved us a bundle when we installed a much smaller power steering pressure hose than we should have used. Increased profits on the Camry alone were nearly $600,000 dollars, based on the shorter hose alone.”

After congress and members of the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration grilled Toyoda for several hours over a memo that boasted a savings of over $1 million for a limited recall over what Toyota engineers call “a stupid little brake problem,” Toyoda began to cry and requested a recess in the hearings.

When the session resumed, Toyoda appeared in the traditional seppuku robes once worn by samurai.  “I have brought disgrace upon my grandfather’s company,” he said. With Yoshimi Inaba, president of Toyota Motors North America serving as his kaishakunin, Toyota sat on special moisture-repelling mats with his wakizishi pointed at him. “To the customers of Toyota in America and in the rest of the world, I am very sorry. Forgiveness, please.” He then plunged the wakizishi into his abdomen, deftly slicing his belly open in a swift left-to-rightcut.  As his bowels spilled out onto the floor, Inaba grabbed Toyoda’s katana and finalized the ritual with dakikubi, nearly decapitating the repentant Toyoda.

Republican members of congress questioned the sincerity of Toyoda’s apology and ensuing
seppuku, saying, “How can we be sure the little fucker is really sorry?”  Others blamed the Obama administration for the lack of quality in Toyota’s products. “This is just another example of Obama’s failures,” said Hatch.

Local reaction to the ritualistic suicide on the floor of congress was mixed.  Smithfield, Utah resident Blaine Riley said, “People shouldn’t a’been buyin’ that Jap junk in the first place. What the fuck do you expect from shit not made right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.” He then got into his Dodge Ram pickup truck that was assembled at a plant in Mexico and drove to the nearest Wal-Mart to purchase a 30-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a set of wrenches that were forged in China.

Chevrolet and Ford are reacting quickly to capture the surge in patriotism caused by the Toyota safety issues. In the summer of 2010, Chevrolet plans to launch a compact Hybrid minivan called the Little Boy. Ford Motor Company also unveiled plans to launch a new full-ton pickup truck, the F-350 Fat Man. A brand new Chrysler sport-sedan is set to debut in early 2011. An inside source confirmed that the working name of this new sedan will be the Enola Gay. It is expected to roll out with Chrysler’s new slogan of “Our Cars Won’t Surge Out Of Control And Kill Your Family In A Violent Crash.”

“Oh this sweater? I found this ish(sic’d) at the D.I. Pretty cool huh?” Kanderton, appearing as if Urban Outfitters threw up all over him, remarked. “Yeah man, I find cool shit there all the time. but you really have to have an eye for the good stuff.

“I really want to find a pair of wing tips that I can wear to church, nothing overstated. I don’t want to seem like a dick, Jesus hates fashion statements,” said Kanderton, ascribing even more man-like qualities to a God who probably doesn’t exist, but if he did, probably wouldn’t give a shit what you wore to worship him.

Kanderton is balding from all his Christian guilt and nearly catatonic from his soul-crushing existence as pencil pusher at the local Wells Fargo bank. It’s a job he went 20k into debt and spent four years getting a degree for, so he could get a mediocre home on a small lot here in Cache Valley, keep up with the mortgage and try really hard to get one of those callings in the Mormon Church where he gets to sit on the dais and judge everyone who comes to sacrament meeting late. You know, all powerful and shit.

“If we were in Austin, or Los Angeles, this vintage 1998 Old Navy half-zip sweater would be 40 bucks in any authentic vintage clothing boutique you’d be lucky enough to find it in,” said Kanderton, who always matches his belt with his shoes. The irony being that the late-model sweater is only $14 a mile-and-a-half away at the actual Old Navy.

Kanderton showed off his Ralph Lauren windbreaker, which to the layperson looks just like a regular ass zip-up, and explained how it is actually a treasure that would fetch over $400 at a vintage clothing shop. Friends say Kanderton is no stranger to sartorial elegance and has been pointing out their faults for years. Kanderton reminded us how it doesn’t cost a lot to look nice, and that people should express themselves more through their clothes.  Kanderton  explained, “I’ve have always fancied myself a bit stylish, I grow a lazy beard a few times a year and wear black rimmed glasses occasionally, but not enough to wear that look out. And I never roll up my pleated khakis, especially ones with triple pleats. How boorish!”

“I could really use some nice mother-of-pearl cufflinks, but you know, I’d have nowhere to wear them,” Kanderton said while experimenting with different tie knots on this his new-to-him end on end, spread-collared shirt with french cuffs. “I’ll just take these shirts down to the local haberdasher and have then taken in a bit, so they fit me perfectly,” Kanderton said, admiring his Oscar De La Renta blazer. “I wish this thing had a sash lapel, rather than a peaked one…oh well.”

“You take a nice pair of madras shorts and match it with a nice American apparel deep-V shirt, you’ll look all dope,” Kanderton noted. He wistfully hopes that LDS will change its stance on alcohol, as it has with plural marriage, black people holding the priesthood, and soon to be ‘the gays’. “I think a  Pabst Blue Ribbon might be the only thing missing from my carefully crafted look and/or personality.”

The announcement, much like the one proposed in France last year, comes on the heels of a string of problems (other than just believing in god), all of which have involved members of the news staff wearing burqas and headscarves while at work.

“I just can’t take it any more,” said a noticeably irritated Chennault. “I’ve got [Nixion] Dickhouse coming in late every goddamn day, but when I approach him about it at his desk, he reminds me that there are dozens of people who came to work that day in head-to-toe burqas and that I’m being racist. Racist! Islam isn’t a fucking race!”

“And [Lordy] Tremain,” continued Chennault, now covered in a heavy while pounding his coffee mug on his desk, “don’t even get me started on Tremain!  I can’t even tell if it’s him who is coming to work anymore!  All I see is someone in a full fucking dress and face mask clocking in and heading in to the steam room.  Honestly it could be fucking anyone.  I wouldn’t put it past the barely-not-unemployed son of a bitch to pay one of his old homeless friends to put on that fucking outfit and clock in for him.  Jesus fucking Christ!”

In the company newsletter that Chennault writes and decorates with stickers on a bi-weekly basis, Chennault explained that the problems in the office are nearly all stemming from the burqas, so it only makes sense that the burqas have to go.

“It’s as simple as that,” Chennault wrote in the news letter. “And to those employees who say they would ‘feel naked’ without it, too fucking bad.  No one seems to have a problem with taking off their clothes for Casual Sex Friday, so I can see no real difference. Not to mention that as a news organization we are expected to be educated and based in reality, so I can not allow anyone to stoop to the point of pretending to believe in god just so they can wear a fucking dress to work.”

Inside sources say that what may have sparked the initial lashing out at Muslim culture around the office was when an eighteen year-old intern, who was hired by Lordy Tremain, for her “organizational skills and ass like an eighteen year-old intern” converted to Islam and started to cover up what she was good at.

“I really couldn’t communicate with her anymore,” said Tremain, or whoever it was faintly smelling  of Everclear behind a full Muslim face mask. “I hope she doesn’t suicide-bomb anything before next Friday; I want one more crack at that before we fire her.”

As of press time there was no comment from Allah the Goat Herder but sources say that Salman Rushdie thinks we’re next.

“My super-cool, secretive plans are too important for anyone to find out,” Bauer said. “Facebook? I tell even the vaguest acquaintances that I don’t use it.”

Since most of Bauer’s friends are college-age kids, he is one of the few remaining people he knows

without a Facebook account, something Bauer takes a lot of pleasure in telling virtually everyone he meets. And whenever he overhears someone else talking about their own Facebook account, Bauer is always there to make a jerking-off motion with his hand, and derisive remarks.

“He… he is just so principled. Principled, brave and handsome,” Bauer’s girlfriend of three years, Kelly Jones, said. “When he takes a meaningless, arbitrary stand against something, he makes sure you know about it.”

“I also don’t have a Myspace page,” Bauer, who is apparently unaware that no one else does anymore either, said. “Don’t bother searching for me because I’m not on there!”

According to official statistics provided to The Truant by Provost Raymond Coward, Bauer is the only student left on USU’s campus who doesn’t use Facebook, not counting the 45 blind kids who can’t use it for reasons that should be obvious unless you are an insensitive clod, in which case, it’s because they can’t see.

Coward called Bauer’s refusal to use Facebook “a stunning achievement” and “something that [Bauer] ought to bring up in conversations as often as possible, so as to draw attention to himself for not doing that.”

Bauer admitted that he sometimes does wish he had a Facebook account, if only because the status bar seems like a useful utility for bragging about not having a Facebook account to a large number of people at once.

“Also, I have a really good idea for a group I could start on Facebook,” Bauer said, “But putting the group on Facebook would defeat the purpose of the group, if you follow me.”

“Then I could put up a bunch of neat pictures on it,” Tavares sighed wistfully, “and other stuff.”

Tavares’ roommate, German exchange student Klaus Von Zauderberg, has been encouraging Tavares to follow his dream, and begin his cork collection.

“I tell him all ze time, ‘to ze victor go ze spoils!’” Von Zauderberg said. “Initiate your cork collection, und before you know it, you will have more zan enough corks to construct your board!”

Tavares, however, is unsure if he drinks enough wine to make the project worthwhile. “I’m more of a ‘Domestic, Light & Cold’ type of guy,” he said. “Maybe when I’m older.”

Tavares’ girlfriend, Tonya Reading, said she wants her darling Jakey to follow his dreams, but she is wary of the whole-cork-board-made-from-real-corks scheme.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” Reading said. “Remember his astronomy phase?”

Sewing seeds of doubt is the third roommate, who Von Zauderberg said everyone secretly hates.

“I don’t want there to be a bunch of random corks everywhere if I have company over,” said Dan Revere, a graphic design junior who is always bragging that he is a direct descendant of Paul Revere.

Tavares has been spending more and more time in his room lately, sketching possible designs for his corkboard. “I could build it really fast if I started drinking a glass of red wine every night for my heart, like my dad does,” he said. “I don’t know. It just looks kind of satsifying to glue the corks down two-by-two. But am I really a make-my-own-cork-board-from-real-corks guy?”

“It’s just so fucking pretentious,” Revere said. “People who make those cork boards out of real corks are just covertly bragging about all the different kinds of wine they have had.”

As of press time, Reading was at the liquor store, debating whether to bring over a bottle of wine for her date with Tavares tonight, or if that would be too manipulative.