Why was El Show de Bernie created?

So here’s the tragic comedy of how this circus came together…

Grace “GQ” Quintana, the Detroit pit bull in human form, was neck-deep in spreadsheets when she uncovered the obvious truth: human late-night TV sucks harder than a Dyson on steroids. Ratings were tanking faster than your tío after five tequilas and a bad karaoke night.

She ran to Bernie, the Dominican bear from Queens, who at the time was unemployed, unshaven, and squatting in his mom’s basement, living off honey straws, unemployment checks, and the false hope that his SoundCloud rap career would take off. Bernie said, “Coño, if humans are this boring, maybe a loud-ass Latino bear actually has a shot.”

Enter Oliver Whitman, the Texas turtle turned NYC wannabe intellectual. By night, he was a Wawa cashier; by day, he was a hostage to his Latina wife and her flying chancletas. Oliver figured, “If I can survive this marriage, I can definitely survive late-night television.”

Then waddled in Ray Jefferson, the Long Island uncle you wish you didn’t have. A washed-up meteorology major who somehow cared more about politics than the weather. BET rejected him because he couldn’t roll his damn R’s, so he showed up squawking, “Carajo, I’ll do the forecast—even if nobody gives a shit.”

And finally, there’s Consuelo the Abuela Chicken. Pearls on, accent thicker than cement, handing out wisdom that nobody understands but is somehow always right. The kind of grandma who thinks Vicks VapoRub fixes cancer, heartbreak, and your student loans.

And boom—the team was born.

Not because anyone wanted them, but because humanity already fumbled the bag.

Now it’s a squad of politically incorrect, culturally confused, 3D misfits who don’t give a single damn about your feelings.

Humans had their chance.
They fucked it up.
Now it’s our turn.