[Editor’s Note:] As part of National Disc Jockey Day, MVO: The Voice-Over Guys asked some of the guys to share a story or two from their radio days.
Fully 50% of the stories we got back we can’y publish because we’re not sure if the statute of limitations has expired, questions would be asked (some by spouses, some by the police) and none of the MVO guys would survive a day in the clink. We know this because some have had the brief experience (allegedly).
So after tirelessly editing, here’s this radio story from MVO: The Voice-Over Guys’ SCOTT W. BURNS.
I began my on-air career in Moscow Idaho…a 1000 watt daytimer which covered the “Palouse Empire.” The beauty of KRPL (The Kind of Radio People LIKE!) was that you got to do everything, which included turning on the transmitter (after struggling to pass the Third Phone with Broadcast Endorsement), reading the news, pulling your own 45’s, producing spots after your air shift and even taking the rain gauge measurements. Yes, that was actually an entry point on the logs!
Even more fun than learning on the job was having a fully equipped broadcast facility with which to amuse ourselves by pulling pranks on the other jocks. An extremely boring but highly listened to feature during the week was the noon-hour “Trading Post.” Yes, after Paul Harvey news at the top of the hour, followed by another 20 minutes of local news, agriculture reports and a gazillion commercials, the midday jock would spend the rest of the hour reading items for sale that listeners would send in. Sort of an audiobook version of Craigslist.
So for thrills my friend Bill Lewis and I would sneak fake items into the Trading Post copy for the jock to read, then drive down to A&W drive in to eat lunch and listen in to see if the jock could keep his composure. We’d be subtle at first:
“For sale, one all-purpose manure spreader along with industrial pedestal fan.”
Then we’d progressively slip in more stupid items to the list.
“For rent, a stainless steel cheese straightener. Good condition.”
“Lost goat near Pullman, answers to the name “Nipples.”
Stuff like that. It was well worth spewing Root Beer through our nostrils.
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