Between the hours of 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. Monday through Friday, the acerbic, absurdly energetic T.D. Mischke broadcasts either from "the muddy ditches along Highway 61" or his summertime perch above right center field at Midway Stadium. Mischke's m.o. is to use tidbits from the news as springboards into the inane, the banal, and the just-plain-stupid. Once he starts tugging on a story, the facts might get stretched, but the effort often yields hidden truths or new possibilities. Once, when describing the case of a hulking brute who'd been robbing female manicurists, Mischke began weaving a yarn about the crook's cry for help as he struggled to raise funds for a sex-change operation. Was this true? It didn't matter. Mischke had judiciously plunked the proper note by robbing the bully of his most prized possession: his masculinity. On another occasion last fall, Mischke suddenly became enamored with the quiet space between his words and fell silent for the entire show. The calls rolled in, of course. "It was actually a great study in what people will do when there's silence," Mischke recalls. "They filled [the air] and I never said a word." And, when the host feels like talking, the caller can't help feeling disoriented and a little woozy--in the best possible way.


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