Malcolm: Sex! It’s fun, everyone wants it, and there are any number of ways to get it. But where can you go if you’re creepy, spastic, ugly, or just generally unfuckable? The Internet, of course! The Internet is choc-full of creeptastic homebodies hungering after a few sweaty minutes with the person of their choice; some of them are women, most of them are men, and they’re all downright terrifying!

Lucky for you, TLG is on the front line, keeping you safe from scary old men who want to fondle your parts by making ass-fun of the terrible personals they post. For every installment, two TLG contributors will make accounts on one of the many dating sites that populate this web of ours, be immediately inundated with moist fuck-mail, and reluctantly pick out several choice profiles to riff on.

In this inaugural installment of TLG’s newest feature, Michael and I will be examining Seeking Arrangement, a charmingly upscale little slice of webspace dedicated to connecting hot, lazy, young people with rich, horny old people in a process that is just this side of prostitution. In other words, it’s where sugar daddies come to find sugar babies, and that means some truly alarming personals. Let’s jump right into it!

“Muy intersante!  Verdad?”

Michael: Oh… oh man.

Michael: He’s almost 70.

Malcolm: The description of the type of arrangement he wants is what terrifies me the most.

Malcolm: “Satisfying.”

Malcolm: That could mean any number of gruesome things.

Michael: It could mean pumicing his feet for all these unassuming women know.

Malcolm: Or it could mean feasting thrice nightly on the blood of virgins pure.

Malcolm: He looks almost a little too proud of that boat, you know.

Malcolm: I am willing to bet all the cash in my wallet that it was carved from the bones of orphans.

Michael: “I will expect you to fuck the boat. Fucking the boat is a must.”

Michael: “And I will watch.”

Malcolm: “Fucking not of the boat will have consequences. The boat will ANGER.”

Malcolm: “The boat will fuck YOU.”

Michael: Was the boat made in Soviet Russia?

“Metal Guy”

Michael: This man describes himself as “metal.”

Malcolm: Well, “Through the Fire and the Flames” came on just as I clicked that link, so I think he might be onto something.

Michael: Somewhere, Dee Snyder feels a great disturbance in the force.

Malcolm: I wonder what “self-employed” means?

Malcolm: Does he live in the woods?

Malcolm: Michael, I think he lives in the woods.

Michael: Lives in the woods, fighting bears with the power of rock.

Malcolm: You know what, I think he might be a druid. The more I look at this picture, the more convinced I am of how awesome this guy is.

Malcolm: Look at that smirk. That is the smirk of a man who knows that at any given moment he could summon forth a Gargantuan Earth Elemental to smite his foes.

Michael: I can completely picture him wailing on his axe during a thunderstorm, somehow harnessing the awesome powers of nature as an amp.

Michael: Standing atop a mountain, buxom nymphs clambering at his feet.

Malcolm: His “Arrangement I am Seeking” section is a little vague. I bet he’s looking for a second party member to tank for him while he casts Harness Nature’s Rock IV.

Malcolm: Wicked long casting time on that.

Michael: Probably about as long as it takes to play the solo in Freebird.

Malcolm: “Freebird” is totally this guy’s druid name. Agamemnon Freebird of Elad’ras.

Malcolm: He describes himself as a “light smoker.”

Michael: He literally smokes light.

Malcolm: I think we need to move on, or one of us is going to marry this guy.

“Play with Daddy in His Paradise”

Malcolm: You know, on the one hand, I want to slap him heartily on the back and congratulate him for being so sure of what he wants at his stage of life.

Malcolm: On the other hand, Jesus.

Michael: I don’t know, I think he’s got this whole life thing figured out. Here we all are toiling away like chumps when we could be whisked away to this island paradise and live like goddesses. Er, sorry, I get a bit too caught up in my alter ego.

Malcolm: You have to admire his willingness to admit that he can’t get a boner. “Unsuccessful with all viagra-type medications.”

Michael: He finally found the cure men have been seeking all along: hot, bisexual women.

Malcolm: Is it odd that the thing I find most worrisome about this profile is that he used single apostrophes to form quotation marks?

Michael: Freakshow! What does he think he is, British?

Michael: Oh snap, he has a newsletter:

Michael: http://www.pepeshideaway.com/newsletter.php

Malcolm: Huh. That’s actually pretty well-designed. Way to web, creepy metrosexual seventy-year-old dude.

Michael: I’m beginning to think this might not even be a sexual thing.

Michael: This reminds me more of that Simpsons episode where Kang and Kodos whisk the Simpsons off to share with them the wonders of their culture. I believe Pepe is just trying to share that magic he feels everyday with a few nubile bisexuals chicks.

Malcolm: Didn’t Kang and Kodos also want to devour the Simpsons in that episode?

Malcolm: …ooooooooooh.

Michael: No, no, Lisa only thought they wanted to. It turned out they were on the level.

Michael: In the same way, you and I are skeptical of the joys Pepe wishes to share.

Michael: You think he may want to… devour us, metaphorically. But I think there might be more there.

Malcolm: He also has a six-foot-tall statue of what looks like a hippogriff, Michael.

Michael: So, he has a hippogriff. Big deal.

Michael: More and more I find myself pining for this island Xanadu, cursing my father for giving me that damned Y-chromosome.

Malcolm: Dammit, this is supposed to be a “look at these creepy old men” article, not another “Michael wishes he were born a woman” article!

Malcolm: I think we’d better move on before any more uncomfortable epiphanies are reached.

“Gentleman”

Michael: I would certainly say he’s an unforgettable character.

Malcolm: This is what Oompa-Loompas grow into.

Michael: Oompa-Loompa Doompaty-Doo
I have got another riddle for you
What do you get when you make lots of cash?
The ability to buy yourself ass

Malcolm: I know he looks like such a sweet, cherry-cheeked old soul, but make no mistake: he will cut your throat and step over your cooling husk.

Malcolm: As he says, “There’s plenty of time to sleep in the grave.”

Michael: That is essentially the only advice in his book, the rest is just eyebrow grooming tips.

Michael: Step 1. Disembowel your competition and place their head on a stake outside your skyscraper.

Michael: Step 2. I suggest using geri curl for that “interested yet in control” look.

Malcolm: I don’t know why this punk is expecting anyone to respond to his ad. I mean, he’s only got a SMALL library named after him in Oxford University. Pssh.

Michael: You know what they say about guys with small libraries.

Malcolm: They don’t not know too much?

Michael: Also that they are grotesquely wealthy, cherubic millionaires seeking protege/fuck buddies online.

Malcolm: And, presumably, somebody to hang out with their 15-year-old daughters.

Malcolm: That must be one well-adjusted kid.

Michael: “Misty, look! I bought you a friend online.”

Michael: “I’m also totally going to ream her later, hopefully this isn’t weird for you at all.”

Malcolm: “You can play with her just after I’m good and done dragging my moldering sack across her brow.”

Malcolm: I love how we went to the exact same place with that. There is no way this guy doesn’t tell his daughter all about his freaky sex habits.

Michael: It’s pretty well the logical conclusion.

Michael: Imagine that dinner table.

Malcolm: It’s probably shaped like a map of Earth, with a flag planted in every country where he’s banged a hooker.

Michael: “Honey, did daddy ever tell you about his trip to Thailand?”

Malcolm: gestures to thick clump of flags

Michael: “It was when I first discovered my taste for ladyboys.”

Malcolm: impish wink

Michael: “Daaaaad!” *rolls eyes*

“Iron hand in the velvet glove”

Michael: Here’s one I’m sure you already have, but he sent me an e-mail, so it’s important.

Malcolm: What did his e-mail say?

Michael: You me he didn’t e-mail you?

Michael: I feel special.

Michael: “I am intrigued by your profile. Would you consider a dominant man in his late 60′s that would spoil you when good and spank you when bad? If interested write back.

Michael: “Master Mike.”

Malcolm: Holy shit.

Malcolm: It says here he’s a consultant. Do you think he shows up to meetings wearing a leather corset and assless chaps?

Michael: “Gentlemen, the key to any effective corporation is the principle of ‘iron hand in the velvet glove’”

Michael: “If you would allow me to demonstrate.”

Malcolm: “If you don’t leverage your synergies in accordance with Cisco 4.1 while tonguing my dusty taint, I will leave you in the harness overnight.”

Michael: When I first saw his picture two thoughts occurred to me.

Malcolm: Do share.

Michael: Thought 1: What the hell are the white spots in his picture? JPG artifacts or lice?

Michael: Thought 2: Holy shit this guy looks like the minster from the Baptist church my family attended when I was young.

Michael: Which just makes this one a bit too uncomfortable for me.

Malcolm: Well, that, and the fact that he’s got the same name as you.

Malcolm: Hey, maybe this is you from the future!

Malcolm: You have to admit, a lot of it fits.

Michael: Well, I do get sexually excited when I electrocute a woman’s nipples.

Michael: I figured that was normal.

Malcolm: And I remember you frequently expressing your fondness for over-sized old man indoor-outdoor sunglasses.

Malcolm: You know, I’m feeling better now. At least we know that in the future time travel will be developed, and that you will steal the machine and use it to go back in time to score some submissive tail.

Michael: Good God, I’m having a very existential moment. I’ve seen the path in life I will inexiorbly follow.

Michael: I’ve seen this dark future of knife play and rubber hoses shoved up colons.

Michael: And I’m loving it.

Malcolm: This has been a good entry for everyone, then. Moving on.

“THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING”

Michael: Hey! It’s Pat!

Malcolm: Pat?

Michael: It was a Saturday Night Live skit about an adrogynous person and no one could figure out their gender.

Michael: It was turned into a movie.

Malcolm: Yes, but this is very obviously a clay golem in human shape. Duh.

Malcolm: Don’t bother using magic against him, by the way. They’re properly immune to that shit.

Michael:

Malcolm: Okay, I find myself slightly swayed.

Michael: Is he hanging out with Courtney Love in that second picture?

Malcolm: Is he? Is Courtney Love the horrible mockery of the human form that appears to be undergoing an agonizing melting process?

Michael: Yes. That’s Courtney Love.

Michael: He obviously already has a hideous, empty gold digging harpy in his life, why is he on this site?

Malcolm: I hear that if you leave Courtney Love out of the freezer for more than a week, she starts growing mold and smelling like wet leaves, so he probably needs someone for every other week.

Michael: So we’ve established his motivations. I think we should discuss how incredibly WACKY he is. I mean, look at what a fun guy he is, he’s sticking his tongue out! Will wonders never cease.

Malcolm: I also like how he used ALL CAPS in every possibly place where you could enter text.

Michael: In that first picture he’s STANDING AROUND LOOKING AWKWARD WITH A DRINK IN HIS HAND ALSO SOME TACKY CHRISTMAS LITES ARE ATTACHED TO A PILLAR BEHIND HIM. Haha! I want to party with this wild and crazy guy.

Michael: I IMAGINE HE’S ALWAYS TALKING LIKE HIS WORDS ARE IN CAPS! GOSH GUYS THIS PARTY REALLY IS SWELL! I’M THE PARTY KING!

Michael: REALLY! I KNOW COURTNEY LOVE!

Malcolm: The other fields might’ve been dropping him subtle hints about his typography, but FUCK THAT SHIT. THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING IS BIG AND LOUD AND IF THE INTERNET CAN’T HANDLE THAT THEN HE’LL FEED IT TO COURTNEY LOVE.

Malcolm: Maybe we should move on. Courtney Love is starting to seriously unnerve me.

Michael: LOOK AT HER FEET! HAHA WACKY!

“Like No One You’ve Ever Met” (Picture split into two parts because… well, you’ll see.)

Malcolm: B-Ben? (Note to casual residents of the internet: you’re probably going to want to check out the videos we link to have any idea of who Mr. Metzger is.)

Michael: If not Ben Ryan Metzger, it’s his spiritual successor.

Malcolm: PLEASE BE SERIOUS ABOUT MEETING (atop the mountain where I have planted the flag with your name on it.)

Michael: Note the numbered list at the bottom where he explains that he’s the only genuine man on SA.

Michael: Admittedly, his list is incredibly accurate.

Malcolm: Wow. The other dudes were creepy, but this guy actually manages to be a cunt about it.

Malcolm: That’s practically zen.

Michael: Somehow Roissy in DC collided with Ben Ryan Metzger and the result…

Malcolm: An incredible cunt.

Malcolm: THE incredible cunt.

Michael: Faster than a speeding tractor tire rolling down a hill.

Malcolm: I don’t think it can be overstated: this dude is a massive cunt.

Malcolm: I mean, Jesus, look at his requirements.

Michael: So I can’t think of much more to say about this guy other than, man fuck this guy and his extreme cuntitude.

Malcolm: If Obama wants to fix your economy, he just needs to tax cunts.

Michael: And disband the disastrous Bush Tax Cunts.

Malcolm: Shut up, I’m serious. Fine someone a hundred thousand dollars every time they’re photographed on a jetski.

Malcolm: Add another fifty thousand for every time they use the word “natural” in online dating ads. BAM, GNP sorted out.

Malcolm: Hold up – that photo of him standing in front of Angkor Wat – does that look Photoshopped to you?

Michael: He definitely looks like he belongs somewhere else…

Malcolm: Hm…

Michael: Hm…

Malcolm: Well, that does it for this installment of Don’t Fear The Creeper! If you have any especially creepy dating sites that you’d like us to hit next time, don’t hesitate in leaving a comment or e-mail us your suggestion! ‘Bye for now!

I began attending bible camp during the summer at the earliest age possible, 8, and started working there at 13. My memories of camp at an early age are fuzzy at best and completely missing at worst. I’ve never been able to pay very much attention to my surroundings; often I was completely absorbed in doodling, flicking pieces of paper into the smelly kid’s hair or reading Song of Songs* and wondering what it was like to touch a boob. A girl boob.

Pictured: Girl boob, flourishing in its natural habitat.

All I recall from my first year is that I couldn’t remember my camp counselor’s face or name and often wound up in the wrong groups for activities, I vaguely remember getting hit in the face with a pillow and breaking my glasses, and I every so faintly recollect having a friend, “His name was Matt…or Mark…or something with an M,” I explained to my mom. She never could understand why I wanted to go back every year.

My third year at camp I got lost during a nature hike on a sheep farm.

I was severely out of shape at that age due to a vicious rooster my older brother kept that would attack me if I stepped outside. The days of my early youth were spent imprisoned in our home, staring longingly out the window at the sun-soaked planes of Nebraska while that vile creature strutted about freely, raping chickens and crowing victoriously.

That was tangential, but I think it’s important for you to know I was terrorized at a young age by cocks; it sort of sets the stage for the rest of my life.

Thus established, I was incredibly out of shape, and by midweek during my third year my leg muscles were soaked in lactic acid; every step was agony. I was not thrilled when they announced we were going to hike. “On a sheep farm,” the activities director said, grinning broadly and looking at us expectantly as if he had just announced the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were coming and they were bringing each of us our own personal Terminator. Our reaction was less than enthusiastic.

"Cowabunga, dude! We brought you pizza, our friendship, and robot! The robot beats up bullies with lasers."

The sheep farm was in a small grouping of bluffs, a rare change from the typical flatness that defines Nebraska. Our hike consisted of wandering through the bluffs, throwing pine cones at sheep and being told several times to “stick to the buddy system.” The “buddy” portion of my buddy system was my best friend at the time, Derek. He was a preacher’s son who somehow managed to out-dork even me. I think it was because he regularly used the phrase “Neato Frito” and said Crumb instead of Crap. Derek was; however, quite athletic and it didn’t take long for him to get sick of my hobbling pace, so towards the end of the hike, after all the other campers had already passed us, he told me he couldn’t stand going so slow and he jogged ahead. The counselors that were supposed to stay at the back of the line and shepherd campers forward also ran ahead of me, presumably to make sure the rest of the campers, now a good half-mile ahead of me, were behaving.

"Think we should go back an check on the gimpy one?" "Nah, the bears will look after him."

I was alone.

I continued staggering forward on the dusty, sheep-driven path. My legs ached, and I had made the mistake of bringing orange soda to drink instead of water. About a mile after the counselors had left me, I reached a point in which the path diverged, and unfortunately, much like the Robert Frost poem, I took the road less travelled by.

I realized my mistake after I walked another mile on the wrong path and ended up in a deep valley filled with sheep. Alright, I thought, so I’ll just climb up and out of the valley and hope the buses are there. I took a swig of my orange soda, girded my loins and I climbed the hell out of those bluffs. As I climbed, I imagined what waited at the top of that valley. I envisioned Derek, sobbing deeply, telling the activities director of his failures as a buddy, I could already see the counselors panicking and wishing they had been patient enough to trail behind that poor little boy with the achy legs, I imagined girl boobs, and what it would be like to touch them. I pressed on, emboldened by the prospect of one day touching a girl boob.

All great men, deep down, are driven by this desire.

Filled with the energy and determination which can only be supplied by crystal meth or boobs, I crested the hill, ready to fly into the arms of the nearest female counselor and blow a raspberry at Derek. Unfortunately, I reached the top just in time to see the final bus driving away.

They had fucking left me.

Still imbued with an unholy burst of energy, I ran after the bus as fast as my stubby 10-year-old legs could carry me. The bus driver, the consistently avuncular camp director Rick, spotted me just before turning onto the highway. The bus stopped suddenly and reversed, beeping comfortingly, as if to tell me I was safe as long as I wasn’t standing behind it. As the bus rolled to a stop next to me, a counselor jumped out of the side door yelling “Why didn’t you stay with your buddy!?” I simply shook my head, exhausted, and dragged my broken, dehydrated body onto a seat next to the smelly kid. I looked back at Derek, who was sitting next to a lithe, red-headed boy. “Why didn’t you tell them I was missing?” I asked.

Derek shrugged, “I didn’t really notice, I was hanging out with Lane.” He gestured to the ginger kid next to him.

Hey, Lane? Eat a dick, Lane.

I didn’t care; I got my revenge years later by touching girl boob before him, and when I got home later that week, I hit the rooster with a five gallon bucket, effectively asserting my dominance. By god, I was a man.

* Better known as Song of Solomon by those not raised Baptist. It is a book of poetry in The Bible concerning King Solomon boning his new wife, later this is used to paint an analogy about how much God loves Israel.

Truth be told, I merely 'wuv' texting.

Disclaimer: All horrible text messages are entirely SIC, all spelling and grammatical errors have been left intact. I have not changed any names to protect the innocent; however, I have not changed my own name so who will protect me from the innocent?

Very recently I changed my phone number. Not because I meant to, but because the employees of Alltel are hilariously incompetent and couldn’t understand what I meant by wanting to renew an already existing contract and instead signed me up for an entirely new contract.

I soon discovered that the previous owner of my phone number was a rather popular person who apparently didn’t like her old friends enough to inform them of his/her new number.

The first text message I got was the following:

FWD FWD if u send this 2 ten peeps the luv of ur life will tell u sumptin big 2nite if u don’t then sumptin bad will happin!!

It's true! The love of my life asked me "Would you like fries with that?"

I was kind and informed the sender of this message that they had the wrong number because my friends don’t send incredibly retarded superstitious forwards my way, and if they do they are not my friend for long. Oddly the sender of this message didn’t reply.

Next, I had the following conversation where I decided abstract craziness would bring the funny or funny simulacra.  (The sender is in red, I am in blue)

How are you doin?

I am doing quite well. It is “harvesting season” and as it were the old lady has taken an unseemly attraction to the bottle so I am left with naught but memory.

Um, cool.

But goodness do I ramble on ducky. How’s tricks?

Huh?

How are you?

Okay…I guess.

You guess?

My Grandfather just had a second stroke and we think he might die soon so I’m pretty scared for him.

A dying grandfather? I cursed my luck. Dying grandfathers are essentially the anti-comedy. Except for that one line about wanting to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather and not terrified and screaming like the passengers in his car. That one will never get old,  even thought everyone I know has told that one to me since 1993 and they still think they are being original and funny WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE FUCKING CHICKEN CROSSING THE ROAD JOKE FOR AS FRESH AND FUNNY AS THAT IS YOU SONS OF BITCHES I WILL EAT YOUR CHILDREN I SUPPOSE YOU HAVE A T-SHIRT THAT SAYS “NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME” THAT YOU THINK IS REALLY WITTY AND ORIGINAL TOO, HUH?

I WILL KILL YOU TO DEATH YOU FUCK

My obsessive and tyrannical thoughts on comedy aside, I realized that I couldn’t in good conscience keep messing with the head of someone worrying about their dying family member, so I let it drop. Luckily the next day I received the following message from a different number:

FWD: Msg: Hey I cant decide, should we send flowers or get well cards to all the bitches that are DYING to be like us.

Send to ur gurlz

*MiSuenO*

I am a man. I resent the implication in this statement.

Wat the hell?

*MiSuenO*

I am a virile male.

Brimming with man juice.

Wat the hell are u talking me

*MiSuenO*

Yes I am talking you.

This is not Chelse Texting me so who the Fuck Is This?

*MiSuenO*

Who is Chelse?

OBVIOUSLY the last person who had this #. I will delete it so do not text me again.

*MiSuenO*

Odd considering I have had this number for over a year now. Well, I will text you…no more.

That last statement was based on a decision to make her life just a little bit more like the Twilight Zone. Unfortunately she didn’t bite. I received the suggestion of saying “Oh, is Chelse the girl I have handcuffed to my bed?” But unfortunately at this point I presumed the age of everyone involved was somewhere around 11 or 12 based on the level of intelligence portrayed. I had a vision of me sitting in front of a jury, with my scruffy beard, wild hair and piercing Charles Manson eyes while a teary-eyed, visibly shaken pre-teen sat on the stand, chokingly reading out the message I had sent her. Since I am terrified of prison, knowing I would fall into the category of currency along with cigarettes and shanks, I chose to avoid any unseemly implications. That is, until Monte texted me.

"We, the jury, find the defendent, Micheal Rader, guilty of being really funny looking. And threatening to molest a minor."

It was late evening, just after I had gotten off work. I was cracking open a nice cold Zima, erm, I mean manly German lager, when I got a rather simple and unassuming “What’s Up?” from a number I hadn’t seen before. For some reason, the “What’s Up?” smacked of maleness, so I took a shot in the dark, and the following conversation occurred (again, I am blue, he is red. Occasional side comments are in black)

What’s Up?

OmG! I am pregnant!

Sweet

How are you!

Good just sitting at home. How u doing

Great!

That’s good

So hows the baby?

It is yours : |

Nice u should come over so daddy can play with the baby

[Take notes guys at home; the quickest way into a girl's pants is to imply pedophilia and incest! - Michael]

That is not funny. Do you think I am joking?

We nevEr had sex together but we can change that

I can’t have sex. I am pregnant. You don’t remember the sex?

No I don’t remember maybe u can refresh my memory

You are not funny. We can’t do it again. I AM PREGNANT.

I take it slow. U know who thYs right?

Let me help u monte

Monte?

Thats me

So r u comin over?

Wait. You’re not Richard?

No

Chealse right?

OH SHIT

So we havnt had sex yet

Daddy still wants to play with the baby

[Be still my beating heart, Lothario - Michael]

I would never do you. Only Ricky. Pig.

What ever

Is this chealse?

So is this Chealse or not?

[I was away from my phone for 5 minutes when he sent those three messages - Michael]

What do you think? This is someone else’s number? You know it’s mine.

[Again, in case of future legal action, I was cautious never to say I was actually Chelsea, take note prosecutors - Michael]

Ya its been awhile since I called u. I just wasn’t sure Yf u had the same number.

Lol sry. This heroin is really makin me confused.

[Hey prosecutors, it's me again, I meant heroine, I'm currently reading Sylvia Plath's ‘The Bell Jar' - "Not Guilty" Michael]

Wow sounds like good shit lol

I just don’t think things would work out with us Montressor. It would just be one crazy night and I would probably end up double-pregnant.

I like crazy their Ysnt such thing as double pregnant but we can try lol

FOR THE LUV OF GOD MONTRESSOR who here has taken Biology?

I have and u cant

THAT IS STUPID YES U CAN I do not want to be double pregnant, dick. It still wouldn’t work, ur how old now?

Still 23

And how old am I? (U better know this.)

Just turned 18 not so long ago.

[I was shocked to learn how old everyone involved was, note my subtle methods of digging for information - Michael]

Exactly, it just wouldn’t work between us.

Y not?

Because ur too old. Also I want a sex change. I am sick of being a man trapped in a woman’s body.

[r crazy

Montressor. I want to send you a picture of donuts.

Above: An actual picture of donuts sent to Monte.

Do u like heroin?

I am not crazy. It is called gender dysmorphia

But it does sound crazy

IT IS NOT CRAZY YOU ARE INSENSITIVE

Some times

So how much horion u got?

Enough to kill a warthog.

Wow that’s cool I got some realy good nug

[I had gone to sleep and woke up to that last statement, so a few hours later I reignited the conversation - Michael]

It is a new day and it is time to kick the junk

Aw b nice to the junk

[Encourage me to stay addicted to heroin, classy. -Michael]

It is a wasting disease.

It is the worm in the rose.

[Literary majors take note! I'm wielding "allusion" - Michael]

What happened to a semple good morning?

There are no good mornings in hell.

Ya ur probly right so wat r u doing today?

I am experiencing what Camus calls the existential sickness. I am pregnant, an addict, jobless and a whore. Wat r u up to?

[Philosophy majors take note! I'm misquoting Camus! - Michael]

Still layin’ in bed

U R a mess

Why do say that?

Get out of bed. Do something with your life. Today is the day of freedom.

I l.ike the way you think but I was workin last nite got home at 5 this morning

Carpe Diem, Montressor

So wat r ur plans for today?

To Die.

Well u can come over and hangout. Yf you want?

[Yiff I want? Is he a furry? - Michael]

There is no escape except through death.

The text was blank

THERE IS NO ESCAPE EXCEPT THROUGH DEATH.

Your young and gorgous dont talk like that

I am smaller than a warthog. Remember that well.

Don’t give me that shit. Ur better than that.

It is okay. I missed Hale Bop but comet H872-L is coming and I will join Heaven’s Gate soon.

So r u comin over or wut?

[Classy move. This is the point where I officially stopped feeling bad for Monte.  - Michael]

Do you know where I live?

Yup

Come over.

K!

[30 minutes later]

Where r u? U weren’t there.

Who is this?

MONTE!

Sorry Monte, you must have the wrong number.

GOOD!

Not satisfied to leave well enough alone. I decided to check MySpace (a.k.a. Stalker’s Paradise) for more information on Monte and “Chelsea” and I discovered the following things:

“Chelsea” actually spells her name “Chelsie” and lives about 30 miles away from where Monte does, so the idea of this horny young lad driving as fast as he can down the road to get laid only to find no one there still makes me chuckle. I also like to imagine her parents being home.

Monte is friends with Chelsie’s brother, that’s cold Monte. That is a straight up dick move.

I am well within two degrees of separation with both parties and I fully expect to find my car windows broken out with a baseball bat any day now. You all better be grateful, dammit.

So I discussed the possibility of getting a membership to our local YMCA with my wife, the conversation went something like this:

Me: It seems I’m a little out of shape…

My Wife: Yes you are.

Me: Well, I was about to say maybe I should get a membersh…

My Wife: Yes you should.

Above: Everything I need to enjoy.

Many of you are probably judging me right now for choosing the YMCA. “Michael is pretty much the gayest thing since gay came to gay town,” you’re saying. I will tell you right now, the YMCA is not longer used for indiscriminate cottaging, but rather it is now a refuge for the poor, destitute and creepy to work out. Now mind you, I’m not poor, internet comedy writing is as lucrative as it is a chick magnet, but there are only two gym-type places to work out in my town, and the other is connected to a bar, a bar with delicious, fattening beer. No man needs that kind of temptation.

After getting my membership, I found myself completely at a loss. The only “workouts” I ever did in my heyday of being pure muscled sex were chin-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups. I also discovered, to my horror, that I would have to begin using a locker room.  Dun dun duuuuuun.

Previous to my YMCA membership, my experience with locker rooms was entirely limited to films and television, so naturally my mind was filled with visions of gratuitous nudity and desultory cruelty. Essentially I imagined the first five minutes of Carrie with dongs. Needless to say, the loss of my locker room virginity wasn’t as felicitous as I had hoped.

I also wasn't propositioned for filthy locker room sex by a single female porn star. What's up with that?

I learned two important lessons the first day at the YMCA:

1.)    Try to reduce nudity as much as you can.

2.)    Try to choose a locker as far away from any claimed lockers as possible.

How I Learned Lesson #1:

My foresight is remarkably poor. Perhaps I’m too distracted by my own constant wacky antics and shenanigans to think ahead, or perhaps my frontal lobe development is stunted by mercury leaking out of my amalgamated fillings. Either way, I often live life by blindly stumbling from one experience to another with very little preparedness, while this often leads to tomfoolery, hanky-panky and sexiness, it can also lead to excessive nudity (this is not always a bad thing).

On the plus side, I was recently named "France's Finest Detective."

After my first swimming attempt in several years-essentially me floundering around and gasping in the water for five minutes and sinking like a stone when my muscles began to spasm-I awkwardly thanked the 16 year old lifeguard for rescuing me and returned to the locker room to disrobe and shower. My first thought was to put my swimming trunks in a safe place, so I returned to my locker, ditched the trunks, foolishly failed to grab my towel, and strutted back to the showers wearing nothing but my “flesh ensemble” (You try to come up with an original alternative to “birthday suit”).

When I got back to the showers and thoroughly drenched myself, I realized that I had forgotten my body wash. I debated for a moment about whether I should use the communal soap supplied as a courtesy by the YMCA, but I begrudgingly decided to go get the body wash when I found some suspicious looking hairs in the soap. By this time, the locker room was starting to get full. I walked past the group of business men chatting about whatever business men chat about (IRAs? Surety Bonds? Hookers?), they all acted like they weren’t impressed by turning away and sighing heavily. I again failed to grab my towel.

"The hooker you banged had a self-directed IRA? High-five!"

My second attempt at showering went swimmingly (HA!), and I managed to cleanse most of the chlorine off of my body. Getting a bit sick of the whole ordeal, I picked up my pace while returning to my locker, I wasn’t quite jogging, but I was certainly wasn’t ambling or moseying either. As I clipped my way into the locker room I passed a 40-something year old man teaching his young child to tie his shoes. They both had the misfortune of looking up right as I dashed by, flopping my way merrily back to my locker, the man gasped and directed his child to look away  as if my penis was some Lovecraftian horror that would drive a man mad by the mere description of it.

My penis, glimpsed briefly off the coast of Japan.

Later, when I consulted the wise folks on the Cracked forums for advice, they confirmed that I should have reduced my nudity as much as possible, and although it is natural to be nude in a locker room, it isn’t natural to wander back and forth in the buff, and it especially isn’t natural to move in any fashion which will cause swinging, bobbing, twirling, flapping or flopping.

How I Learned Lesson #2:

Due to my maddening desire to get a locker as far away from others as possible, I chose the farthest corner of the locker room. For the record, this wasn’t due to modesty; it was just good old fashioned misanthropy. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that the locker I had chosen was in a “prime” section of the locker room, and that it was between two other claimed lockers.

As I busied myself with my towel, I didn’t notice the massive, looming shape behind me. I jumped as a gruff voice grunted “‘Scuse me” and before my mind could fully grasp the situation I was in, the worlds fattest, sweatiest, hairiest and nudest man in the world squeezed beside me to get to the locker to the left of mine. “Okay, don’t panic,” I thought, “just make yourself as small as possible and you might avoid finding out what his skin feels like today. ” I very cautiously toweled myself off, trying to move as little as possible, memories of playing “The Floor is Lava” as a child flooded back to me, only this time the lava was flabby, bristly flesh, and the stakes were much, much higher.

What I'm saying is that Michael Moore could have been hiding in this man's cavernous armpits, and I would have been none the wiser.

I have never been a lucky man. I have never won a contest or raffle in my life, and I often get completely fleeced in poker. However, it seems for the first time in my life I was about the beat astronomical odds. Not only did the owner of the locker to my right come to claim his clothing, he also happened to be the worlds second fattest, sweatiest, and hairiest man, and unfortunately for me he was just as nude as the man to my left. I could only stand and gape at the situation I had found myself in, completely sandwiched between two corpulent meat mountains. I wish I could tell you right now that I managed to grab my clothes and worm out of their way. I wish I could write that I have absolutely no clue what their pileous naked bodies felt like against mine. I wish I could sleep without feeling like I was being suffocated again by that sea of coarse, fleshy awfulness.

The good kind of meat sandwich.

I wish a lot of things.

I can only hope my experience can serve as a reminder to all who read this.  Please, when you are in a locker room, and you purposefully avoid being near other claimed lockers, think of me and say a little prayer.

Editor’s Postscript: I added the photo of the hot locker-room babe and the accompanying caption to Micheal’s original article. Shortly after the article was published, Micheal contacted me with his protests, saying that he had never said that he wasn’t having all kinds of crazy pornstar sex in the locker room.

So this is my lengthy public apology to Micheal. Micheal, I am sincerely sorry for implying that you ever go without sex. I know how much you hate that.

I won't let the bad man take you, Tamagotchi.

The development of my article didn’t begin until the last week of January when I began to get that sinking, depressed feeling again.  I desperately ransacked my old blogs to see if I had written anything funny in the past that I could use, but unfortunately Malcolm (A.K.A. Captain Hardass M.D.) didn’t think poetry dedicated to the cute girl who doesn’t even know I exist and long, depressing posts about how lonely Boulevard of Broken Dreams makes me feel were up to par for The Last Gaffe.   “Good Lord!” I told him, “You let a woman and an Irishman write for you, don’t talk to me about standards!”

Since my whiny adolescent ravings were so cruelly nixed, I resolved myself to be logically funny.  Think, dammit, I told myself, think.  After much research and several calculations I found that the two logically funniest things are cute animals saying things (because animals can not talk) and old people being confused by the internet.  You really can’t argue with this, I used science.

Am... am I doing this right?

Using my mad, Vulcanesque logic I concocted a brilliant article idea: Me being confused by social networking then doing humorous reviews of several social networking sites.   It seemed brilliant and surefire.   All I had to do was create a false personality and join some social networking sites. That was my first mistake.   As it turns out, there are a lot of social networking sites out there on the internet (in my article I would have called it “The Intertubewebs” because I am hilariously mystified by technology.)  From there I swiftly decided that I should focus my article on a single social networking site, Bebo.

When I was younger, Bebo was just that annoying site that my friends were constantly begging me to sign up for so they could have more people on some list or another and show off.  I would always get revenge by joining strange little Dutch website and inviting those friends to join up there.  Oddly enough, they usually did sign up, and then I was stuck with those horrible people on strange little Dutch websites and I was still getting e-mails from Bebo.  All of this is just a ridiculously circuitous way of me saying I hate Bebo and think it is a cesspool of the internet.  Basically it’s MySpace with an even worse layout and fewer people that want to be friends with you.

The joke of my article would have been that I was creating an internet persona that my totally un-hip self saw as the typical teenager.   Following is a description of my persona from my original write-up:

Who Am I?

I am Pat Pringle, a “104” year old woman from Jackson Hole, Wyoming who is “Down for Anything” on Bebo and principally enjoys My Chemical Romance, The Jonas Brothers and “sploshing.” (ed. Note: Do not Google Image Search Sploshing)My personal motto is: ♥~x~Love like you’re dancing, dance like you’re dying, and live like you’re dancing♥~x~♥ (The hearts, Tilde and ‘X’ let the kids know I am one of them.)

Goodness gracious, are your sides splitting yet?   At this point I was beginning to get that sneaking suspicion that there was no way to make this funny, but I pressed on I determined that there had to be humor somewhere, perhaps in who I befriended.   As it turns out, I’m no better at making friends on Bebo than I am at making friends in real life, because I couldn’t even get any friends from the My Chemical Romance or Jonas Brothers fan club.

I was getting desperate.   I wanted to finish my damn article but nobody was doing anything funny.  I waited days for somebody to add me as a friend, send me a message, comment me, look at my page, anything. Maddened and on an insane search for humor, I resorted to the darkest depths of internet comedy: trolling.

WARNING: I am a trained Comedist and any attempts at duplicating my actions may result in personal injury or inadvertent cybering.

I trolled, oh how I trolled, I trolled my heart out.  I told every rabid band group that their band sucked, I joined pro-grammar groups and posted phrases like “L0L I luv grammer!”   How could they have seen through such subtle trolling?   More importantly, what the hell kind of website is this that I can insult Insane Clown Posse as an obsessed Jonas Brothers fan and not have a hundred poorly typed insults informing me that they have been intimate with my mother?   For the love of God, only 1 person has even looked at my profile.   What is wrong with you, Bebo?

As I looked over my desolate Bebo page, forlorn that my only Bebo friend was someone who shared a similar interest in “Sploshing,” I saw my article slipping away and dying.  Malcolm will be so disappointed in me, I thought.   And that was about when I decided to write this stupid article about failing so miserably at being a comedy writer.

Tune in next month for an article about how I failed to eat the wedding cake and vomited on a foreign dignitary or in-law.  I promise to include pictures.

15. “BooKoo”

It’s hard to say anything against BooKoo since the drink is so damndedly tasty, but we’ll come right out and say it: their name is terrible.

For those who aren’t Francophones, BooKoo is a bastardization of the French word for big, beaucoup; however, instead of making us think “big” we think “clowns,” and clowns are spooky.

Iiiiiiiiiit's BooKoo the clown!

14. “Blow”

Despite being a clear rip-off of the much more popular and controversial energy drink Cocaine, Blow also lends itself to some all too obvious jokes we’re far too classy to print.

We will; however, give Blow extra points for actually being sold as a vial full of white powder which you mix with water. That’s pretty cool.

13. “Go Fast”

There’s not much that can be said about Go Fast, other than “well, yeah.” You’re supposed to make us go fast Go Fast, that’s why you’re an energy drink.

Go Fast is like a box of crackers called Put Cheese Upon or a WatchMe brand television set. Screw you Go Fast. Screw you for being so ludicrously obvious.

12. “Kaboom!”

We know it’s en vogue to imply your energy drink will give its consumers near-fatal doses of energy, but this just makes us feel like the product is initially defective.

The name makes us fear that it is produced by ACME, and when we attempt to drink it to get that quick burst of energy necessary to catch the roadrunner some faulty wiring causes the entire thing to explode. It could happen.

11. “Invigor8″

Do you see what they did there? It’s really very clever, you see, the number 8 sounds like the phonetic sound “ate,” they’re homophones you see, and, get this, it’s marketed by V8, so the 8 is actually part of their name, and…wait, did we say clever? We meant irritating, very irritating.

10. “Mozart”

Alright, we can admire what they were trying to do here. We all know the energy drink market is saturated with names like THUNDERBLAST, AMP, MANJUICE, and TESTOSTERZONE, so we’re fairly sure Mozart brand energy drink was trying to stand out as a “classy” drink, but really…Mozart?

Is their marketing slogan For that speedy pick-up thou need whilst penning Con Fan Tutti?

9. “Kabbalah”

Contains surprisingly little actual power.

The moment you see the word Kabbalah, you know you’ve heard it somewhere, it lies someplace in the back of your mind and you simply can’t put a finger on it. We’ll help you out a bit:

Madonna.

Yes, that Kabbalah, the wacky ass Jewish religion that Madonna, Demi Moore and Paris Hilton support.

And yes, this is indeed an energy drink marketed by the Kabbalah religion. Reportedly it is strawberry flavored and made with water blessed by a rabbi. Furthermore, the energy drink has regular Jews mad at the Kabbalah Jews for “selling out.”

Sadly, we did not make a word of that up.

8. “Deep Throat”

Hey kids, now you too can pretend you’re Linda Lovelace with Deep Throat brand energy drinks. Finally, you can perform gratuitous sex acts for money in front of a camera well into the night without fear of fatigue.

Just thank your lucky stars they didn’t make the can a large phallus or attempt to simulate any related flavors.

7. “Kronik: Grind”

Let’s ignore the obvious shill towards pot heads here and focus on the real issue: Kronik Grind sounds like something there should be a support group for.

Note to future marketers: if your product’s name conjures up images of debilitating disease, horrid mental defects or uncontrollable self gratification, consider a different name.

6. “Bong Water”

There’s two energy drinks marketed directly towards stoners?

Stoners?

One of the least energy craving demographics in existence?

Energy drinks?

On top of that, they chose a name that may as well be “tastes like piss” for how appetizing that sounds. How hard is this? What about “Ganja Grape,” or “Bong Berry”? Don’t make me do your job for you Bong Water Inc.

5. “Phat Phruit”

We’re pretty hip people, we’re up on the slang and lingo of the kids, and we know that when a “homeboy” calls his “fine mamma” “phat” he’s not telling her she’s corpulent, but rather he is letting her know she is pretty hot and tempting.

However, we can’t for the life of us determine what a “Phruit” is. Does it stand for “Panting Heavily Ruins Unctuous Ill TaTas”? Is it a fruit that reacts readily with acid? We may never know.

4. “Who’s Your Daddy?”

Who indeed. Who’s Your Daddy claims to be the “king” of all energy drinks, which is a fittingly douchey claim for a completely douchey sounding energy drink.

In fact, scientists proved in 1932, with science, that only complete douche nozzles say “Who’s Your Daddy,” and we are left to assume, with science, that only douche nozzles drink Who’s Your Daddy brand energy drinks.

3. “1 in 3 Trinity”

Finally an energy drink for the devout Christian on the go for when the Holy Spirit just isn’t enough. Let’s be frank, we all know how hard it is to find energy drinks not mass produced by Satan himself or his corporate subsidiaries. Thankfully, the edgy people at 1 in 3 Trinity have solved this problem that has plagued all of no one with 1 in 3 Trinity energy drink.

1 in 3 Trinity claims to be “Fused with The Fruits of the Spirit”, and who are we to argue?

2. “Hunid Racks”

We lied when we said we were culturally hip. Somewhere along the way we got lost amidst the baggy jeans and angry talking music. That’s why Hunid Racks confused and infuriated us so much, and after much furious Googling we finally figured out what a “Hunid Rack” is: It’s 100,000 dollars, or as we say in America: 100,000 smackaroos.

We don’t hate Hunid Rack’s name just because it belittles us with its urban know how, we also hate it because it sounds like something found growing on the bottom of a geriatric’s foot.

1. “Sum Poosie”

Sum Poosie is the energy drink equivalent of having a “No Fat Chicks” sticker on your car or a “One in the pink; two in the stink” shirt: if you are seen with one, you will never know the touch of a woman.

Sum Poosie exists solely for 14 year old boys to giggle and talk about getting “sum poosie.” Ironically, they will never get the real kind. However, once sales eventually slip (how long can this stay amusing?) they may want to talk to the 1 in 3 Trinity people, concerned Christian parents may be interested in having this as abstinence in a can.

The early teenage years of my life were a gastrointestinal nightmare of Lovecraftian proportions; unnamable, greasy horrors lurked and slithered through my vital organs on a daily basis. It was not uncommon to find me spending entire weekends eating nothing more than McDonald’s double cheeseburgers, five per meal, my young and virile gut swollen with dubious meat stuffs. However, those days are past me; I am no longer a young pup; I am old, cranky, and my digestive system doesn’t seem to work quite right. I have now reached a compromise: I will eat the scientifically delicious food, but only in moderation.

Why do you need to know the dull, needlessly detailed history of my eating habits? Because this article is about my experiences with tackling the ominous Wendy’s Baconator, and I presume that, since you are on the internet, you think nothing of eating a Baconator. Perhaps you eat several Baconators at once and they are stacked on top of one another, perhaps your jaw unhinges and you are able to stuff the entire thing in your mouth at once like Norville “Shaggy” Rogers. You will read this and scoff at me for being intimidated by a mere ¾ pounds of meat, but know this: I am a man who eats normal things like salads and ¼ lb hamburgers, and this will not be easy for me.

The Baconator, for those who live in less civilized country, is composed of a half pound of beef (two patties, USDA approved, but they would approve Soylent Green if the price was right), ¼ lb. of bacon (six strips, no mention of the USDA here), 2 slices of American cheese, a healthy slathering of ketchup and mayonnaise, and yes, that is all on a sesame seed bun. The Baconator is also the official sandwich of The Canadian Football League, for what it’s worth. Although I doubt many nutritionists would claim The Baconator contributes to the cardiovascular fitness necessary to play football, but what do I know?

My initial feeling upon approaching the Baconator was that of confidence. I had conquered far greater masses of food than this before. However, Uneasiness soon settled over me as I picked apart the sandwich. I analyzed its pieces. I needed to know my foe, it already knew me. The ghosts of processed animal flesh haunted me as I analyzed its composition. I knew then that science couldn’t save me; this analysis was to be a personal, emotional ordeal.

Yum!

I took my first bite. It tasted much like a traditional Fast Food bacon cheeseburger: the deliciously greasy patty infused with chemicals handcrafted in New Jersey to titillate my taste buds, the liquid smoked bacon, the surprisingly strong cheese flavor, the suspiciously tasteless ketchup/mayonnaise combo. Yes, it tasted just like it should, only more so. My brain lit up with excitement as the meaty goodness washed across my tongue, I took a drag of my soda and set upon the beast with a glint of manic lust in my eye.

You would Photoshop your nose too if you had a bad cold. The Internet doesn

Several bites in I realized that the bacon flavor had begun to dominate all other flavors. There was no subtlety; there was no interplay of flavors. Here there was only bacon, grease and me. My heart pumped harder and I trudged on, a slight ache formed in my gallbladder, I didn’t know if it was my imagination or if the Baconator was trying to kill me. I desperately swigged more of my soda, hoping that the liquid and carbonation would break up some of the grease; I felt a thick film on my tongue.

I trudged onward. I knew that it was either me or the Baconator. We would both win no matter who lost. Dignity was our wager, not life. To live. To love a woman. To eat a Baconator. To die with dignity. There was but one piece left, I shoved it in to my mouth, chewing manically. My wife stared in horror. And with that it was over.

Intrepid readers will notice from the reflection on my glasses that I am watching Battlestar Galactica. This is because I wanted to give the proceedings the proper gravitas.

I had finished it. I could hardly breathe and I felt a strange taste in my mouth. It was earthy and sweet, that of grease and hickory. And I was afraid for a moment. But there was not much of it. I spat in to the sink and said, “Eat that, Wendy’s. And make a dream you’ve killed a man!”

Final Thoughts:

The Baconator was a pretty damn delicious sandwich if you have a fondness for artificial bacon flavor and grease, and let’s be honest, who doesn’t? I realized at the end, that I may have over-exaggerated the danger just a little. My heart did not explode upon completion, and my gallbladder is still trooping along. Perhaps this will open up new doors for me to experiment with exciting new delicacies such as the Wendy’s Double Baconator and Wendy’s Spicy Double Baconator. The sky is now my limit, and a world of flavor and delicious awesomeness has been opened up to me. Screw you healthy food, you can suck it.

“10. Spend 15 minutes a day having a giggling session. Here’s how you do it: You and another person (partner, kid, friend, etc.) lie on the floor with your head on her stomach, and her head on another person’s stomach and so on (the more people the better). The first person says, “Ha.” The next person says, “Ha-ha.” The third person says, “Ha-ha-ha.” And so on. We guarantee you’ll be laughing in no time.”

Michael and I, our senses of humour in desperate need of enhancement, decided to give some of their suggestions a try.  First, Michael fired up Photoshop and gave this suggestion a go:

“6. Sort through family photographs and write funny captions or one-liners to go with your favorites. When you need a pick-me-up, pull out the album.”

Next up, I did my best to envision the sort of person who might exemplify this tip:

JOHN: Oh yeah?  What’d they say?

BOB: Apparently a baby’s coffin actually costs more to make because it has to be done custom.  The whole service is looking to run me more than eight thousand dollars.

JOHN: Geez, buddy.  That’s pretty rou- oh, shit.  (He is looking over BOB’s shoulder.) Here comes Fred.

BOB (Pinching the bridge of his nose): Oh, shit.

FRED (Unperturbed by the pair’s obvious attempts at shunning him): Good morning, fellows!  Although, since it’s a Monday, I suppose I should call it a “bad morning!”

He beams at BOB and JOHN, who have still not acknowledged him.  FRED continues to stare, unblinking, his eyes shifting from one man to the other with clockwork regularity.  They hold this position for several minutes.  BOB and JOHN begin to show overt signs of discomfort at their contortions, whereas FRED has not moved a muscle, his gaze continuing to swing from man to man like a terrifying pendulum.  Finally, JOHN (at the very limits of his endurance,) emits a small, involuntary cough.

FRED (Abruptly): Ha Ha Ha!

His laugh is an empty, dead thing.  Every barked syllable is like the sound of a sparrow flying headlong into a window, a jarring impact followed by a nauseating squeak.  HUNGH-eek.  HUNGH-eek.  HUNGH-eek.  BOB and JOHN, unable to withstand both their aching muscles and the assault of FRED’s laughter, finally abandon the happy pretense that FRED does not exist.

JOHN (Straightening up): Fuck. Fred, please.  Can we not do this?  Just for today?

FRED’s laughter finally ceases, to the visible relief of both other men.

FRED (His manic grin twisting so as to reveal the slightest amount of perplexity): I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, John!  Come on, tell me a funny thing that happened to you over the weekend!  You know that I am a person who enjoys hearing funny stories of what happened to people over the weekend, much more than I enjoy hearing gossip!

JOHN: Fred, please, I’m begging you-

FRED: Go on, don’t be shy!  How about you, Bob?  (Without warning, FRED’s hand shoots out and delivers a hammer-like blow to BOB’s spinal column.  BOB gasps and staggers.  FRED’s arm returns to his side without even the slightest twitch to indicate that it has moved.)

BOB (His patience finally snapping): My son died, Fred.  My eight-month-old son fucking choked to death on Saturday.  He tried to climb out of his crib, got tangled in his blanket, and accidentally hung himself while my wife and I were asleep.

He pauses to see if any of this has phased FRED in the slightest.  It has not.

FRED: That certainly is both annoying and frustrating, Bob!  But you know what they say when your son dies!

BOB: I don’t-

FRED (Cutting him off): “A dead son in the hand is better than two in the wife!”  (The quotation marks are clearly audible.)

There is a cold, yawning silence.

JOHN: Jesus, Fred.  Did you actually have that prepared?

FRED (Pride evident): You’ll find that I have a joke prepared for any occasion, John!  It’s all part of my experimentation with jokes!

JOHN: Yeah, well that’s really-

He is interrupted as BOB starts grunting in pain, his veins standing out as he slides to the floor, clutching his left arm.  JOHN stares at BOB confusedly for several seconds before he comes to a realization.

JOHN: Holy shit, Fred.  You actually gave Bob a heart attack with your fucking miscarriage joke.

FRED (Obviously brimming with pleasure): Thank you!  It’s quite a “side splitter”, isn’t it?  (JOHN continues to gape in shock.  FRED continues.) Don’t worry, John!  Another thing I’m always prepared for is if my humour is too hilarious, and as such, I have learned CPR!

JOHN (Relieved): Oh, thank God.  Hurry, get to work!

FRED kneels by BOB’s convulsing form with macabre theatricality.  Appearing to take great care, he unbuttons BOB’s shirt and places a hand upon BOB’s solar plexus.  He presses down.

BOB (In obvious agony): GNNNAAAAAAAAAGH!  (He spasms anew, even as FRED continues to apply pressure.) HURRRAGH!  AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGRAAAGH!

JOHN, sensing something is amiss with BOB’s condition, finally seizes FRED by the shoulders and flings him bodily from his friend.  FRED lands with his palms upturned, exposing a small metal disc.

JOHN (Unable to believe his eyes): Fred, is that a fucking joy buzzer?

FRED: Never leave home without it!  I bet that came as quite a “shock” to him, didn’t it?

JOHN’s fists clench, and he is about to strike FRED until BOB emits a tortured groan.  JOHN looks from FRED to BOB, and comes to a decision.

JOHN: I’m going to go call the paramedics, Fred.  (He points at BOB.) If you so much as touch him, Fred, I will fucking kill you, understand?  (He strides away before FRED has a chance to answer.)

FIN