Won’t Someone Think of Jimmy Fallon?


I have become increasingly worried about the wellbeing of America’s little rascal. Yes, the worldwide cases of COVID-19 have recently passed 2 million, and yes, essential workers are risking their lives to be paid still less than a living wage, and yes, some are referring to themselves as “quaranteens.” But put all of that aside for one goddamn second, and focus on the real fucking victim, okay? It has been weeks since Jimmy Fallon has had a live, breathing audience, meaning it has been weeks since he has had the chance to feed. We’ve all suffered through the painful existence that is the late night talk show without a live studio audience. Mediocre jokes fall to deafening silence and we, the viewer are left to be consumed by oblivion. But why don’t you think about how Jimmy feels, you absolute bastard? Without his audience, he is without his food source. Jimmy’s hunting ground is empty as Studio 6-B sits hollow and dark, a sick metaphor for the shell that Jimmy himself has warped into. He needs warm, sentient flesh to suckle dry in order to nourish himself. Without bodies to entertain, from which to extract laughter, guffaws and chuckles, Jimmy has become emaciated. He is a shadow of his former glory, no longer the plump, jolly host we know and tolerate. No more does he frolic across the stage, read out silly tweets, and play “What Kind of Smell is That Smell that I Smell?” to the cheers of hundreds as he gorges himself upon their ignorant meaty vessels. Instead he sits in silence in the darkness of Studio 6-B, waiting at his desk, insatiable.