The aging media mogul Rupert “Old Guard” Stone, a man who owned three satellites and zero original hips, was celebrating his 98th birthday at his penthouse. He was flanked by his newest “discovery,” a 23-year-old blonde anchor named Tiffany who read the teleprompter like she was casting a spell.
His billionaire rival leaned in and whispered, “Rupert, be honest. You’re nearly a century old. What on earth do you do with a girl like Tiffany? Does the equipment even… broadcast anymore?”
Rupert took a slow, shaky sip of his $10,000 scotch, winked a cloudy eye, and rasped:
“My boy, it’s just like the cable business. I might not have the content anymore, but I still own the prime-time slot… and I’ve got enough money to make sure she stays tuned in through the commercial breaks.”
Tiffany leaned over, adjusted her microphone, and purred, “Ready for the late-night segment, Mr. Stone?”
Rupert grinned, his dentures gleaming under the chandelier. “See? I may be in the ‘Legacy Media’ phase, but I still have the highest penetration in the market.”
