Growing up on the Satellite of Love: How MST3K Helped Me Survive and Thrive

When I was ten years old, my heroes weren't Superman or He-Man or Spider-Man or any of the other Man-Men. I was more of a Ro-man kind of kid. Give me a cheesy monster clad in ape suit topped with a diver's mask any day of the week. My heroes were Coleman Francis, Ed Wood, and Roger Corman. I had the deepest wish that Johnny Long-Torso was a real action figure I could play with. I wanted to be trapped up on the Satellite of Love with Joel and the bots, at the mercy of the Mad Scientists who had no mercy, so they tortured you.

Needless to say, I was a weird kid.

I first encountered Mystery Science Theater 3000 on an early Sunday morning. Nestled into the beige shag carpet of our living room, my bowl of Lucky Charms precariously balanced on my knees, I stared at the old woodgrain console TV that dominated the room like some ancient, humming altar. For me, it wasn’t just TV—it was church. Forget Sunday school; my gospel was delivered by Joel, Crow T. Robot, and Tom Servo from their pulpit aboard the Satellite of Love.

For the uninitiated, MST3K is a show about an average guy (originally Joel Hodgson, later Mike Nelson) who’s trapped by mad scientists on a space station and forced to watch terrible movies as part of an experiment. To cope, Joel creates sarcastic robot companions who help him riff mercilessly on these films. What began in 1988 as a quirky cable-access experiment in Minneapolis soon snowballed into a cultural phenomenon. It found a home on Comedy Central, then later the Sci-Fi Channel, and eventually on the web—where its legacy endures. Today, I stream episodes on YouTube’s official MST3K “Forever-thon” stream, where a small but mighty crowd of 500-plus fans banter along in the live chat. It’s a beautiful, nerdy sanctuary.

But what made MST3K so special for me was its message: even when life is absurd, painful, or downright hostile, you can laugh your way through it and find a way out!

“Oh, Look, Breach Hull, All Die. Even Had It Underlined.”

Back then, I was the chubby, quiet kid—the one bullies would single out for their sadistic amusement. I didn’t feel like I belonged, and school often felt like a cruel social experiment I couldn’t escape. Watching Joel aboard the Satellite of Love, I found someone who understood. He was trapped too, subjected to the whims of the nefarious “Mads,” but instead of crumbling, he made the best of it. He worked with what he had and made his own friends. He riffed. He joked. He fought back with humor.

While the movie riffing was fun, what truly captivated me as a child were the host segments—the goofy skits between movie scenes. Whether it was Joel unveiling some ridiculous invention or the bots parodying the movie they’d just watched, those moments felt like a lifeline. I remember laughing so hard I spilled my cereal the first time Gypsy tried (and butchered) a musical number. The Mads’ over-the-top evil schemes mirrored the taunts of my bullies, but Joel showed me that I could mock the absurdity of it all. That laughter could be a shield.

I can still see myself sitting there in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, digging my toes into the carpet as the bots squabbled over whether Apple or PC was the right choice. That living room became the Satellite of Love, my place of escape, where nothing could hurt me. The house would be silent except for the faint sound of a coffee pot burbling in the kitchen. Even now, I can close my eyes and hear Crow’s snarky voice or Tom Servo breaking into an impromptu song.

“Trumpy, you can do stupid things!”

As I got older, my focus shifted. My pre-teen angst gave way to full-blown anxiety—complete with panic attacks that left me convinced I had every illness imaginable. I spent months being homeschooled because I couldn’t even sit in a classroom without my neck muscles seizing up and forcing my head to tilt sideways from stress. Those were dark, confusing times, and I didn’t yet have the tools to manage what I now know was a mental health crisis.

During those days, the movie riffing segments of MST3K became my escape. The black-and-white monster flicks, the shoddy sci-fi plots, the bizarre melodramas—they all transported me to another world. The jokes, laced with obscure cultural references and rapid-fire wit, made me feel less alone. It was like Joel and the bots were reaching through the screen to say, “We get it. The world’s a mess, but we can make fun of it together.”

One of my clearest memories is of sitting on the couch with a VHS tape cued up to an episode. The tape was was one I’d recorded myself; old, worn thin from overuse, and the picture would sometimes warp into static before snapping back into place. My neck was tilted from the tension, and I clutched a pillow tightly, but then Joel would deliver some dry one-liner, and I’d laugh. For a moment, my muscles would unclench, and I could breathe again. Those moments were a kind of magic, a temporary reprieve from the storm raging in my mind.

"We've got COMMERCIAL SIGN!!" The Time We Built Our Own Satellite of Love

There was one period in my life in my early 20s when Mystery Science Theater 3000 was completely out of reach: when I was homeless. For months, I lived in my car, my belongings reduced to a backpack, and my connection to the outside world severed. It was 2003, and DVD had already taken over, but the shelter’s recreation room still had an old tube TV on a rolling cart and a beat-up VHS player. We didn’t have MST3K tapes, but we did have movies. One night, someone brought in a copy of Robot Monster, one of the most notoriously bad films of all time. I instantly recognized it as a movie Joel and the bots had riffed on in Season 1.

That night, after a dinner of chicken and stars soup and Kool-Aid, we dragged folding chairs into a circle around the TV. The kerosene heater hissed in the background, trying to keep the Kentucky winter at bay. The movie played on that small, grainy screen, and we took turns riffing, trading jokes and jabs just like Joel and the bots. We laughed until our sides hurt. For a little while, that cold, drafty shelter didn’t feel so bleak. We had full bellies, late-night coffee in styrofoam cups, and each other. We built our own Satellite of Love.

“It Stinks!”

Now, as an adult, I appreciate MST3K as a whole—the host segments, the riffing, even the endearingly lo-fi sets. The show is a testament to creativity, to finding humor and joy in the most unexpected places. Its enduring charm lies in its humanity. Joel Hodgson, the show’s creator, once described it as “a puppet show for smart people.” It’s silly, yes, but it’s also whip-smart, warm, and weird in the best possible way.

These days, my life looks very different. After years of therapy and finding the right mix of medication, I’ve pieced myself back together. I have a partner, Amanda, who keeps me grounded, and a creative writing and photography career that I love complete with my zine Static Reflections, and this blog. I’m not perfect, and I’m not rolling in the dough, but I have food, a warm home and my dogs and cat. Most importantly, I’ve learned to live with my flaws instead of fighting against them.

And through it all, MST3K has been there. I still keep the “Forever-thon” stream running in the background, whether I’m working or just hanging out with the dogs. It’s become a comforting background soundtrack, a reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. Sometimes I even join the live chat, trading riffs with strangers who feel like old friends.

“Push the Button, Frank”

Mystery Science Theater 3000 isn’t just a show to me; it’s a survival guide. It taught me that even when you’re trapped in an experiment, you didn’t sign up for—whether it’s middle school, anxiety, homelessness, or life itself—you can make it through with humor, creativity, and a little help from your friends.

I’m no longer that scared kid sitting in front of the TV with his bowl of Lucky Charms, or that homeless young adult, gripping his coffee like a mooring buoy in a dark ocean storm of fears. But when I hear Joel’s deadpan delivery or Crow’s sarcastic quips, I’m reminded of these past selves. I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. And I’m reminded that even when the world feels dark and absurd, there’s always room for laughter.

So here’s to the Satellite of Love, to Joel and the bots, to every obscure reference and ridiculous skit. Thanks for helping me escape the experiment—and for making me laugh through it all.