The hosts ask guests dumbly pointless questions as if they were of great moment. When they perform familiar bits, like wacky newspaper headlines, they hit the wrong notes. (“Pastor’s Daughter Struck as Gun Accidentally Goes Off” leads to a rim shot on “The Eric Andre Show.”) Every few minutes a dream sequence or another head-spinning conceit calls the reality of the entire enterprise into question.

What distinguishes these anti-talk shows is their stars’ sensibility. Mr. Andre, a stand-up with a lopsided smile, has nervy, flailing energy. He is either barreling forward, as in one video stunt in which he crashed a Civil War re-enactment dressed as an escaped slave begging for refuge; or falling apart, defeated, humiliated, often nude. His performance has a reckless volatility bubbling up close to the surface.

Mr. Aukerman, by contrast, is all surface. The dramatic tension in the role he’s playing, a smiling show-business phony, is the battle to keep authenticity at bay. He’s vigilant. All light banter and cheap flattery, Mr. Aukerman, who helped produce the more stripped-down online talk hit “Between Two Ferns,” belongs more to the tradition of fake hosts like Martin Mull from the hilarious, underrated 1970s fake talk show “Fernwood Tonight.” “Adam Scott,” he says gravely. “I’ve always wanted to ask you: What is your workout regime?”

Unlike “The Eric Andre Show,” with cameos only by stars (Bruce Vilanch, Dolph Lundgren, Rick Fox) marginal enough that you may worry they are doing this for the wrong reasons, this show has slick production values and comedy celebrities. Amy Poehler appears as a guest; when asked how she’s doing she says flatly that she’s been suffering from horrible mental problems. Such talk does not compute in the universe of this relentlessly artificial show. Totally unfazed, Mr. Aukerman plows forward with impenetrable glibness, asking his one-man band, Reggie Watts, if he ever suffered from mental illness, as though it were a delightful quirk.