After the commercial, a pre-recorded message is shown, which I admit is an absolutely bogus thing to do. I explain that it's so I could focus and thank everyone who made the show possible. I thank Clorox -- the best sponsor CBS could find, apparently -- and my safety team. I also thank the folks at home, who I say I hope are in their perfect place. And then Carson reads the rest of the sponsors while a terrible, horrible Michael McDonald-sounding song plays over a quick shot of the tornado platform. I swear I had nothing to do with that song. You have to believe me.
So there you have it. Anticlimactic? Perhaps. A bit of a letdown after all these years of preparation? Maybe.
But you know what? I'm David Copperfield. And you will never be anything close to David Copperfield. Tonight, when four under-aged mail-order sex-maids are attending to my slightly warmed-over naked body on a king-sized bed at Caesar's Palace, I won't be thinking of any of you at all. Illusion that! You little shits.
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The trick proper begins with a mirror placed behind a big steel platform to make sure no funny stuff is going on. Mike and I stand together on the platform, but not in a gay way. David is all man. ALL man. Now, Mike, I don't know about. He may be "experimenting." Mike and I take the photo, and Dreadlock Boy sticks the Polaroid in his pocket. I pass a drape around Mike and me on the platform. A light inside shines. I scream, the curtain draws away, smoke rises, and poof! We're gone. So gone, baby. Good God, I frighten myself sometimes with the sheer ferocity of my talent. Next we look at the big TV monitor, live from Hawaii. The lackeys raise a sheet, and BOOM! Mike and I are in Hawaii now! Mike runs to the water and goes in knee-high. When he returns, I show off my "TS" tattoo. So. Fucking. Brilliant. If I were British I'd be knighted by now. I then present the photo with "Amber's" name on it. I shove it into the camera. I tell Mike to take a camera to "that guy standing over there." Hey, it's Big Daddy! Mike and Daddy hug. So heartwarming. Ladies. Love me. I go back into the canvas platform, and as the audience applauds wildly and lightning crashes, I COME BACK! Jesus! Look at me! And it's raining! I brought rain with me back from Hawaii! Can I be any cooler? Tell me one thing that God can do that I can't. The lights flash brightly. I take a big bow. Jacob comes up and gives me some mad high-fives on stage. All must fear me.
Oh, Carson Daly says some stuff in between these segments, but since he's only there to attract some young college-aged poontang, I'll just ignore him.
Okay, now. Here it is. The live portion. The part where I make Carson Daly piss his little plastic pants. Carson shows the warehouse on "Pier 94" where I will face a tornado of fire. Carson talks about my safety team. "So here we go. The time has come," he says. Carson also mentions that this may be the hardest thing I've ever done. No, the hardest thing I've ever done is allow a jackass like him to host my special. He's like the guy who hangs out in teen nightclubs when he's 32 years old. After showing shots of my massive fire tornado, all he can say is, "I can tell you, I was in there earlier, and that is one hot fire." As opposed to the frigid, chilly fires that you'd find elsewhere, Carson? Putz. God forgive me for inflicting him on my fans. While I joke around with my Reynolds Wrap-wearing assistants, Carson continues to talk. He makes me want to go ahead and kill myself in the tornado. We show the folks at home the massive turbines creating this F2-size tornado. It's huge, guys. And not at all cheap. I had to sell my vital, fantastic David Copperfield blood to fund some of this. I start putting on my fire-resistant gear, including a white hood, fire gel for my eyelashes and eyebrows (I have to keep my eyes out to "locate the core," as Carson says), fire-resistant straps to hold me in place against the wind. Two guys on the side, looking like Dr. Evil in their foil wrap, are to hold me in place. "This is real
fire," Carson says. Good God, Carson. Are you still here? The gas pilots are lit. A bunch of witnesses stand around to make sure I'm going to be nice and crispy. More test shots are shown. A blast of cold smoke is thrown up as a test. I'm holding a remote to control the fire. I stare into the camera as Carson says, "I can't imagine what he's thinking right now." I'm thinking, "CLAUDIA!" Yes, it's true. Every waking moment is that singular thought. I place my hood back on. I nod my head. The smoke begins to rise as a tornado. I push the button and two quick blasts of fire erupt. "Ohhhh!" I moan. The fire suddenly stops, and I fall to my knees. "I'm hot!" I yell, as my slow-ass jerk union assholes take forever to spray me with the extinguisher. As soon as I cool down, my fiery foot is going to be up someone's ass. "Just give me a minute," I say, more calmly, as a tiny window with Carson's ugly mug appears. "I have one word: Unbelievable." Well, I have one word for Carson: "Herpes." Yeah, that's right, Carson. I've been talking to Tara, and that's why she postponed the wedding. We go to a blank screen suddenly as I stumble to my feet, looking very shaken. Oh, don't worry. I'm just a little fried, is all.
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