Wastelands Round Up, Complaints to Waste | Wasteland Music

"I don’t sleep much. Too many old memories curled up in the static. You ever hear a child’s laugh on a dead frequency? Stay up with me sometime." -- Tod Wyoming

“Live from what’s left of my sanctum, my shrine, my temple of static and swing — this is Tod Wyoming, the Radio Host with the Most… complaints. No news. No ads. No cheer. Just rage, rust, and a whole damn list of failures.”

"‘Oh Tod, just use Con-sole 3, it’s still functional,’ they said. You know what Con-sole 3 does? Console 3 plays the theme from New Reno Nude Revue backwards and at random intervals. Like the ghosts of pre-War jazz strippers trying to summon me through broken dials. You’d think it was designed by Vault-Tec’s interns on jet and emotional trauma. "

"SEE?! WHAT DID I SAY?!"

"And let’s talk about Slugger Ricky ‘Ribspitter’ Malone — yeah, you meat-brained little league lunatic."

"Thanks for that ‘friendly’ game of Skullball. Lost my tower, my spleen, and three pounds of hair grease."

"Got it back, sure, but now my broadcast equipment smells like someone cooked a Mire-lurk in motor oil and forgot to season it." "decided the table cups are for blood now, and the floor cups are for drinking. Who in the name of Vault 75 taught you backwards hydration?"

"Who the HELL put the clean mugs on the floor, and the bloody mugs on the table?! What in the name of Vault-Tec’s bathroom etiquette is going on?! Floor mugs are clean, table mugs are full of blood. BLOOD!"
"Floor cups, people! They had one job: catch my drippings and shame. Now I’m sippin’ someone’s Type O and contemplating a hard reset on existence.”

“Oh, and the coffee machine? Sentient. I think it joined the Sluggers. It blinked ‘PLAY BALL’ at me this morning and sprayed scalding sludge at my boots. If I catch it warming up a fastball, it’s goin’ out the window faster than my last intern.”

“Slugger Ricky… ya won one baseball game. One. And suddenly you’re king of the airwaves, programming my station with grunting ads for ‘Ribspitter’s Rib Hut’ and five-minute rants about how ‘Bats are better than mics.’ He turned my weather alerts into scoreboards, folks. There was a storm, and you know what we broadcast? The batting average of a raider with a stimpak habit.”

"If one more mole rat chews on the transmitter cables, or a Slugger brat rewires my antenna to play ‘Take Me Out to the Kill Game’ in my sleep, I will personally find every last listener and scream into your ears until your fillings vibrate with truth."

“Let me be real with you, Wastes. This tower? She cheated on me. With a man who bathes in gore, sniffs chems off bone fragments, and thinks a pop fly is foreplay. But I took her back. Because love, like this antenna, is cracked, rusted, and slightly radioactive.”

"I’ve seen things, listeners. I’ve seen Super Mutants do ballet. I’ve watched feral ghouls start a cult to a toaster. But nothing — and I mean NOTHING — fills me with more despair than this goddamn broadcast light flickering like it’s afraid to commit."
“if Con-sole 3 doesn’t behave tomorrow, I’m replacing it with a toaster and a Deathclaw on mood stabilizers. At least they’d pretend to respect me.”
“Stay tuned…