Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast: Pounded in the Butt by My Own Butt, read by Cecil Baldwin

Howdy, Jeffrey Kraner here.

You probably know that Welcome to Night Vale does live tours.

We've done seven of those tours, in fact.

If you never got to see these tours, or even if you did and you want to relive them, we have live recordings available to you right now over at nightvale.bandcamp.com.

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Hi, Jeffrey Kraner here, and I am so excited to bring you Night Vale Presents' newest podcast.

It's by famous erotic writer and true buckaroo Chuck Tingle.

And before I even say the title out loud, please know that this new show is not for kids.

Even you cool babies out there shouldn't listen.

The title of the podcast is Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast by Chuck Tingle.

It's comedy erotica and it's dirty as heck, and it uses much more vivid words than heck.

Much more vivid.

The first episode is available now, and it stars Nightvale's own Cecil Baldwin.

Each episode will feature a different guest reader.

We have some amazing folks lined up for you, by the way.

So, now, Night Vale listeners, I'll give you a quick glimpse.

Can you glimpse with your ears?

With your butt?

Either way, here's a fairly clean sample of episode one of Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast by Chuck Tingle.

plats, the big game playing.

But one of us must choose

falls in the end zone, and we're high as the old zone.

Our kisses sign the deal.

We're proving love's real.

We're proving love's real.

Proving love is real.

Hi, this is Dr.

Chuck Tingle, and welcome to my big time show.

This is a podcast show, and that means we have to prove love is real through our listening ears.

What a dang good way!

So this is my show.

First things first, gotta tell you about the question of who the heck is Chuck?

Well, I'm top top dog in the writing world and the world's greatest author.

Next question.

Just kidding, I could tell you more.

Top author Chuck Tingle, this is me,

lives in Billings, Montana with my son John.

He is the talk of the dang town.

He is so kind and handsome.

And

I wish he could hang the heck out all day, but he has to go dang work.

So that is when I'm home alone.

Like hit movie name of what the heck there's bandits in my house.

Better hit them with a can, starring collie kraken also there is chloe and she is married to son john and she has a nice way and there are also the neighborhood birds they tell stories from the dang wire about what the heck is going on down the down the street They say they're important because there's also devil man next door.

His name is Ted Cobbler.

And he thinks he is the best, but he is the dang worst.

Wish Ted would fall in a snake pit.

But that's the story for another day.

Don't want to waste time talking on scoundrels.

When it's time to introduce my big time show.

This is first story of new series, a name of pounded in the bud by my own butt.

It is an important tale of love between man and butt.

So the story asks question, what the heck would happen if you clone your butt and it was handsome?

Would you want to take it to dinner and then show it a good time?

Would you trot together playfully?

Or would you feel the cosmic horror of big time question?

Which of our butts is the real butt?

Listen now as true buckaroo name of Cecil Baldwin reads this important tale.

All right, so this is pounded in the butt by my own butt by Chuck Tingle.

Where does the miracle of science end and magic begin?

Some people would say never, that magic is nothing more than something we can't quite understand yet, but eventually will.

Just because a force seems mysterious and exotic doesn't mean that it can't be quantified later on.

As a young researcher, I hadn't been around in my field long enough to see any of these enormous changes take place, but I like to remind myself about things in the present that must have seemed like magic to those in the past.

Electricity alone could have been framed in another way decades ago, considered the result of hours hours upon hours of careful black magic.

Of course, I know better.

Magic isn't real, nor the various mystical trappings that come along with it, love at first sight or luck, just to name a few.

I'm a staunch skeptic, as anyone else with my job, a research assistant at Rubble Biological Labs should be.

But even a hardline skeptic like me can't help but feel a little twinge of magic in the air when they first hear the news about Hunter Tuck Island.

The now private island was recently purchased by a rather eccentric billionaire who immediately went to work doing clone research and creating several living copies of himself.

At first, the news of the small island colony was met by various scoffs of doubt, but as time went on and evidence was presented, the findings were quickly regarded as scientific truth.

Of course, there are a whole slew of ethical arguments to be addressed here, especially because the clones were not exact replicas, but rather mutants of the original sample, biologically programmed to be less intelligent drone workers.

These drones were then used to build an entirely new infrastructure on the island.

And I was ecstatic.

I mean, finally, the first massive shift in biology, and I am poised on the front lines of progress.

But once the breakthroughs on Hunter Tuck Island became regarded as scientific fact, The ability to recreate such incredible results was quickly locked up tight.

And I can't can't blame them.

After all, once we have the ability to create these worker drone clones, the business potential is almost unlimited.

The entire industry would be a gold mine redefining the entire world's economy.

Of course, the government was quick to step in and put a stop to all of this.

Regardless of what a League of Worker Drone clones could do for progress, there were just too many people getting worked up about the human rights of such mindless creatures.

Now, maybe they had a point, maybe not.

But it was an absolutely fascinating new discovery nonetheless.

Here at Rubble Biological Labs, we've taken a balanced approach to moving forward.

We've used the early results from Hunter Tuck Island to create the basis of our experiments, but started over completely with the rest of the research.

To describe it another way, we've taken a photo of their finished puzzle.

And now we are working hard to put all the pieces back into the right place.

Thanks to a massive loophole, all of our research is perfectly legal.

So, long as we don't use any exact copies of the hunter-tuck method, and as long as we aren't hiring any outside tests subjects, the only people that we are allowed to test on are ourselves.

As intimidating as it could be to have a potential clone running around out there in the world, it's really not that hard to volunteer for experimentation because to this day, none of the experiments have yielded any living results.

That is,

until today.

I walked into work that morning, like I would on any other day, swiping my keycard through the laboratory reader and walking past as the automatic door opens with a soft hiss.

I say hello to the security guards and continue down a long hallway into the depths of the facility until I reach Lab 243, a highly secretive and high clearance area.

I swipe my card again and enter.

Kirk!

shouts one of my colleagues, Dr.

Porter, as he sees me.

He opens his arms wide and stands up from his row of computers to greet me with a warm hug.

Today's the big day!

I know, I say with a laugh.

I'm up to bat.

Dr.

Porter motions me over to his lead computer and types in a few quick commands, a bright blue display of cloning schematics popping up onto his computer screen.

My eyes go wide the second I see it to see what he has planned.

Oh.

Whoa.

It's great, isn't it?

Dr.

Porter offers with an excited smile.

The cloning process on the surface is a fairly simple, it's fairly simple to accomplish, but not in the way that we want to do it.

Anyone can extract some DNA and place it into an egg, creating a new version of you at birth that will take nine months to gestate and then come out as a beautiful bouncing baby.

However, for our practical application of cloning worker drones, or and other specified jobs for that matter, we need our clones to emerge at the same age as the subject.

In other words, I'm a 22-year-old man, and we need my worker drone to be as well.

The problem with this is that the rapid, almost instantaneous cell growth is far from stable.

Instead of fully complete clones, we have been creating strange and disturbing piles of lifeless flesh.

Or worse.

If I wasn't so interested in science and human progress, then I would be horrified.

But instead, I find myself in utter fascination with every passing experiment.

Now, of course, some positive results would be great, but each failed trial is just another brick in the road towards a result.

Lately, we have been trying to keep the rapid cell growth stable by combining the DNA with small markers from various animals, as well as taking them from different specific regions of the human body.

Today's trial, which I have been randomly selected for as the subject, is going to take DNA from my brain, my ass,

and a hawk.

What a combination!

I say aloud with a laugh.

Dr.

Porter shrugs.

Last time I was in there, we tried my arm, my lung, and a catfish.

And, I question curiously, we got a very creepy balloon-type thing flopping around.

Dr.

Porter shrugs.

We had to put it down immediately.

When I hear stuff like that, it makes me slightly nervous about the way that we've started playing God here at Rubble Laboratories.

On one hand, I really do understand the

history-making application of what we have going on here, but then on the other, it can be a little unsettling sometimes.

I leave, and then I meet with our resident nurses for some time who take all the required samples from my body while Dr.

Porter preps the hawk.

And six hours later, we meet back at the lab.

How's it looking?

I asked Dr.

Porter.

Good, very good.

He nods.

The DNA has been

synthesized.

Synthesized, that's the word.

Not synetathasized, because that's not a word.

And is already inside the egg.

I look out through a large glass window before us that stares into a sterilized chamber, completely white and almost entirely empty, other than a table, a large synthetic egg, and some injection equipment.

It's already in, I say excitedly.

For how long?

10 minutes.

Dr.

Porter says.

Should be ready to come out at any minute now.

Now, normally the gestation period takes no longer than 10 minutes, so if we don't see any results soon, our chances of success go down rapidly.

I lean forward, peering into the chamber with rapt attention.

I'm used to failure by now, but that doesn't mean that moments like this are any less tense.

The seconds turn into minutes, and soon Dr.

Porter and I are relaxed, talking to one another about the next genetic combination that we're going to try.

It's over.

The fact that there are no results at all was probably because of the brain cells, says Dr.

Porter.

It's just too delicate of an organ.

I mean, we never get what we're looking for when we add that to the cocktail.

I know.

I start.

I think that the brain is our only chance, though.

We need to look at whatever is happening to the bird DNA.

Other birds have had great results, but the hawk is just not happening for some reason.

Dr.

Porter is about to refute my statement and gets his mouth halfway open before suddenly there was a loud slam against the glass behind us.

And Dr.

Porter and I jump in surprise, immediately looking to find a rather large winged butt

hovering in the air just inside of the glass.

Hey there,

says the butt.

You think you can let me out of here?

I'm freezing my ass off.

The rump chuckles to himself.

My partner and I exchange glances of excitement.

Yeah, of course, Dr.

Porter says, running over to the containment chamber and opening it up.

Welcome.

And the flying butt flaps its way inside and then lands on the desk in front of us.

Hello.

Congratulations.

You're our first sentient creation, Dr.

Porter says, extending his hand to the butt, who takes it with his wing and shakes it firmly.

Happy to be here, says the ass.

But you can call me Kirk's butt.

You know that you're my butt, I ask.

Of course I do, says my winged ass.

I'm made from your brain.

I know everything that you know.

A slight chill runs down my spine.

I hadn't realized that all of my deepest secrets would suddenly be transplanted into this butt.

I try my best, but I am still just a flawed man with a penchant for running out on relationships and taking practical jokes too far.

Don't worry.

I'm not going to spill the beans, my butt says with a wink.

I'm not.

Dr.

Porter finds himself glancing back and forth between us, clearly picking up on the vibe that's being established.

After many nights out drinking with Dr.

Porter, he has proven himself to be a killer wingman, and already he's showing his impeccable support once again.

Yeah, it's been a long day, Dr.

Porter says, doing his best to fake a yawn.

Your butt can't stay here all night.

There's no place to sleep.

Why don't you take him home?

And then we can pick this up tomorrow morning.

I give Dr.

Porter a knowing look of thanks, and he smiles back in return.

That sounds really good to me, my ass says.

Yeah, totally.

I tell Dr.

Porter, then turn to my living butt.

Are you hungry?

You know, I've never eaten.

It sounds amazing, responds my sentient ass.

Come on, let's go.

The continuing adventures of Kirk.

Kirk.

Oh yeah, Kirk and Kirk's butt.

Kirk's butt, which I like making one word.

Is there a space in it?

No, there's not, but I like making it Kirk's butt because I think it sounds like something from Star Trek.

Seeing as it is his first meal ever, I decide to splurge a bit on my butt.

Come on.

Taking him out to a fancy French restaurant in the hip part of town.

It would usually be impossible to get a reservation on such a short notice.

Thankfully, I know someone who works here and she's able to pull some strings for us.

And the next thing I know, I'm sitting across from my own ass, looking deep within his soulful eye.

I'm not sure what to ask you, I confess.

I mean, you know everything that I know, right?

Yeah, pretty much, says the butt, his wings folded neatly behind him.

He takes a long sip from his wine glass, savoring every moment before setting it back down on the table.

But I've never felt it, that like right here.

Felt what?

I ask, confused.

I have all of your memories about drinking wine.

I know what to expect when I do it, and I know what it's going to taste like, but I've never truly tasted it for myself, the butt explains.

It's incredible.

Whoa, I say, that is amazing.

I'm actually kind of jealous of you now.

Really?

Asks my butt.

Why jealous?

Well, I know we're both 22, but at the same time, you have so much experience.

Everything is going to be new and exciting for you.

My butt smiles.

Yeah,

I suppose it is.

Like this steak that I just ordered.

I laugh.

Yeah, you're really interested in food, aren't you?

Well, I am a butt, my butt jokes.

I laugh out loud at this, impressed with his similar sense of humor to my own.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm really sitting across the table from someone who really gets me, like deep down to the core of my being.

It's hard enough dating as a gay man in today's world of casual hookups and reckless flings.

I'm looking for something more, and incredibly, I think I might have just found it.

That's not to say that my feelings are.

And I'm just gonna stop it right there.

This is a non-explicit feed, and the rest of this episode gets crazy dirty, hilariously dirty.

If you wanna hear the rest of this episode too explicit for Night Vale and more future episodes, you'll need to go subscribe to Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast by Chuck Tingle at Apple Podcasts, or wherever it is you get your podcasts.

And hey,

thanks, Buckaroo.

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I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

We've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look.

And we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Kanja and Hess.

So, if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unspooled wherever you get your podcast.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Are you squeamish about horror movies, but kind of want to know what happens?

Or are you a horror lover who likes thoughtful conversation about your favorite genre?

Join me, Jeffrey Kraner, and my friend from Welcome to Nightvale, Cecil Baldwin, for our weekly podcast, Random Number Generator, Horror Podcast Number 9, where we watch and discuss horror movies in a random order.

Find, here's the short version, Random Horror Nine wherever you get your podcasts.

Boo.