"You passionate lovers are in for it once the Internet tells me what to do about your shenanigans!"

As so often happens with threads like this, most of the responses either consisted of unfunny people trying to take the original poster seriously, and funny people taking the piss out of those people and the original poster. Then ominousoat (Micheal’s handle on the forums,) said this, which got my motor running (the motor in my brain, not the one in my pants*. Micheal’s the crazy pervert, not me:)

*Why yes, my junks are gas-powered.

“Yes, but if I don’t defend boning, who will?”

Googling "boning" turns up the expected gamut of porn and fish mutilation, but I also found this guy, whose name is actually "Duane S. Boning." He seems like he's got it together; I don't think he needs defending.

A lesser man might have let this go, but I am very large and thus was instantly inspired. I recall thinking to myself: “Hm, Micheal’s doing a pretty good job of making himself look like a sex-obsessed maniac… but I can probably one-up him.”

And so it was that I wrote and published the following chatlog. It’s important to remember that even though the entirety of what you are about to read is completely fictional, this is still a fairly accurate approximation of what it’s like to associate with Micheal Rader.

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Oh Christ, not this again.

Dude, I get that everyone has their pet cause, but it’s really annoying when you make every conversation about boning.  Do you not remember the conversation we had about it online the other day?

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: hey dude

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: you got a sec?

OatLuvs8008135 says: JUST A MINUTE FINISHING SOMETHING UP

OatLuvs8008135 says: whoops capslock lol

OatLuvs8008135 says: but yeah no seriously I’m just having some pretty wild sex with a lady right now

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: again?

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: oat, this is the third damn time I’ve tried to talk to you about important shit and you’ve been too busy fucking to care

OatLuvs8008135 says: whoa, chill out

OatLuvs8008135 says: I can do both at once probably

OatLuvs8008135 says: hang on, I’ll ask her if she can hold the laptop

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: um, no

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: that’s alright, I’ll wait

OatLuvs8008135 says: cool, peace

OatLuvs8008135 is now known as OatIsHavingSex

OatIsHavingSex is now Away (Message: “Sorry, but all this sex I’m having has gotta come first, lol”)

OatIsHavingSex is now known as OatSexPlease

OatSexPlease is now back from being Away

OatSexPlease says: okay what’s the haps

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: wtf I thought you said you were almost done

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: I had time to watch last night’s Lost

OatSexPlease says: was it a good one?

OatSexPlease says: did they have sex in it?

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: I guess there was a little sex

OatSexPlease says: I KNEW IT

OatSexPlease says: I like sex

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: yeah um that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: the article you just sent me is kind of weird

OatSexPlease says: you mean “80 Words I Can Type With My Penis”?

OatSexPlease says: what’s wrong with it?

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: well for one thing I thought we agreed that you were writing about “The 7 Burliest Lumberjacks”

OatSexPlease says: oh yeah well Prometheus thought that topic blew

OatSexPlease says: so we had a little brainstorming session and it all just kind of ‘came’ together

OatSexPlease says: lol

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: Prometheus?

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: oat, please tell me that’s not your dick’s name

OatSexPlease says: what?

OatSexPlease says: he brings the heat

OatSexPlease says: he’s got a big heart and a poet’s soul

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: so you’re telling me that you just smacked your cock against a keyboard eighty times and sent me what came out

OatSexPlease says: only seventy times actually

OatSexPlease says: I had to bring in Wilbur and Orville for a consult on the last ten

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: oat

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: oat, why on earth would you name your testicles after the Wright brothers

OatSexPlease says: they’re very lively

OatSexPlease says: all they want to do is fly

OatSexPlease says: that reminds me, we gotta wrap this up

OatSexPlease says: Prometheus and the fathers of powered flight have got some surly bonds to slip, if you get my drift

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: oat I think you’ve got a problem

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: maybe you should take a break from sex

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: like, just for an afternoon

OatSexPlease says: man fuck you

OatSexPlease says: you’re not my mom what you do care

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: you just sent me an article that you wrote by humping your keyboard for five minutes, I’d say that’s pretty serious

OatSexPlease says: I’ll have you know that that didn’t take nearly five minutes

OatSexPlease says: shows what you know

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: listen oat just get some help

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: I’m begging you

OatSexPlease says: oh yeah speaking of sex

Shenanigans4Lyfe says: what

OatSexPlease says: gotta motor

OatSexPlease says: (boat)

OatSexPlease says: lol

OatSexPlease has Quit (Message: “My dick’s got a table at Chez Vagina and he’d hate to miss his reservation.  Later Hater.”)

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I should emphasize that this wasn’t the end of my fictional-chatlog-creation days. A little while later in the thread, the talk turned to a possible excursion for that meatiest of loafs, meatloaf. Obviously, my fictional self was determined to try and break fictional Micheal out of his self-destructive downward spiral:

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ShenanigansInDaHowse says: hey oat

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: buddy

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: some of us are going out to get some meatloaf, how ’bout you come with?

OatFuriousDickings says: sure that

OatFuriousDickings says: sounds like

OatFuriousDickings says: a good plan

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: oat, why are you talking weird

OatFuriousDickings says: got my leg stuck

OatFuriousDickings says: in a sex swing

OatFuriousDickings says: can only reach

OatFuriousDickings says: the keyboard by swing

OatFuriousDickings says: ing back and forth

OatFuriousDickings says: alright, grabbed the desk, we’re good

OatFuriousDickings says: that was a lousy six hours

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: um

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: do you want me to come get you down

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: oat are you still there

OatFuriousDickings says: sorry typing with one hand

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: oh, right

OatFuriousDickings says: not that that’s much different from how I usually do it

OatFuriousDickings says: lol

OatFuriousDickings says: but yeah my vision is getting pretty spotty and I swear I can hear the lamentations of dead relatives

OatFuriousDickings says: it’s killing my boner lol

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: oat, I would consider it a personal favor to me if you didn’t have a boner when I came over to cut you down from your sex swing

OatFuriousDickings says: no promises

OatFuriousDickings says: no regrets

ShenanigansInDaHowse says: whatever, I’m coming over now

ShenanigansInDaHowse has Quit (Message: “Don’t die, because then we can’t go for meatloaf.”)

OatFuriousDickings says: yay

OatFuriousDickings says: meatloaf

*Why yes, my junks are gas-powered.

I’ll do my best to provide context and background, and also correct some of my more glaring mistakes of formatting and punctuation. Oh, and if this whole business seems uncharacteristically lazy and narcissistic, then you obviously haven’t seen my Twitter account.

Let me put it this way: Dane Cook LOVES my Twitter.

Okay, today’s forum bit was inspired by 5 Ways To Stop Trolls From Killing The Internet, an article by Cracked editor David Wong, and was posted in the discussion thread on the forums. It’s a script of an idyllic little father-and-son scene that will play out in the not-too-distant future, after the Internet has been legislated to death.

This script contains a lot more ridiculous scene-setting than I generally trouble myself to do in comedic scripts (I find characters and what they’re doing much more interesting than where they are. This is a bad habit, and seeing how well this script turned out makes me think I should really break out of that rut.) I inserted this ludicrous imagery because I had recently been reading through the archives of Anthony Clark’s site, Nedroid. For those of you not in the know, Clark is an inexhaustible fountain of riotous whimsy, and this was my attempt at aping his staggering imagination.

In addition to being very funny, Clark is an amazing artist. He also recently started doing the colors for Dr. McNinja, so you should really go check him out.

This script is also something of a record-holder in how fast I turned it out. All 500 words of it were written between 10:00 and 10:30 on the morning of November 11th, 2008. November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada, and I was meeting my sister to attend the Remembrance Day ceremony at 11:00. Remembrance Day is sort of a big deal in my family, and neither my sister nor I have ever missed a ceremony, so I wasn’t about to bail because I was too busy making dick jokes on a comedy forum. However, I also knew that the images in my head wouldn’t survive the ceremony’s proceedings (paying respect to our nation’s fallen being something of a somber business, you understand.) Thus, the finished product suffered somewhat in terms of formatting (I normally agonize over every bracket, space, and italicization,) though you will be enthused to note that I have cleaned the errors up for this occasion.

So, with no further masturbatory rambling, I present to you: THE FUTURE!

Ooh! Aah!

The scene: a quaint suburban backyard. Father is on the deck in some comical apron, barbecuing all-American meat products. A robot drifts casually by, as though this sort of thing were completely unremarkable in the near future.

Suddenly, the virtual holo-door performs its opening animation and through dashes Junior, looking cute as a button and wearing impractical future-clothing.

Father: (Seeing his offspring approach, he lets go of his tongs. They continue to flip bratwurst independently of foreign impetus, looking totally rad.) Junior! I didn’t expect you home from E-School so early!

Junior: Father, you know that we get half the day off for the remembrance of the LoLocaust! You know, the day all those years ago when all those brave lawmakers gave their lives to scour the Internet of trolls?

Father: Ha ha! I remember, now that you’ve reminded me! Of course, in my day-

Junior: (Wearily cutting him off.) -in your day, you called it Christmas. I know, Father. You’ve told me before.

Father: (Embarrassed.) Yes, of course.

They stare off into space for several seconds. In the distance, three more robots float by, followed closely by a dinosaur.

Junior: (Obviously anxious to break the silence.) Father, I stumbled across something queer during my mandatory government-ordered three hours of browsing Wikipedia.

Father: Oh? And what did you find in the single largest and most trusted repository of human knowledge?

Junior: I’m not quite sure what to make of it. (He pauses. His voice quivers with uncertainty.) I was looking at the memes, you see. They all seemed rather foolish, but then I came upon what I thought must have been an error.

Father: (Leaping back with a start.) An error in the infallible Wikipedia!?

Junior: I could scarcely believe it myself, Father! The article was entitled “Milhouse” and the body consisted entirely of “Milhouse is not a meme.” It confused me ever so greatly, Father.

Father regains his composure and chuckles easily to himself upon hearing the source of his boy’s consternation. He walks over to and sits down in a deck chair, which morphs into a Lay-Z-Boy-brand recliner at the push of a button. Neither father nor son appear to regard this as remarkable, which is stupid, because it is. Father beckons to Junior to sit on his lap. Junior obeys.

Father: (Picking his words carefully.) You didn’t find any error, my boy.

Junior: But Father -!

Father shushes Junior.

Father: You didn’t find any error, but what you did find was one of the strangest artifacts of the wild days of the Internet.

Junior is rapt.

Father: You see, Junior… (He pauses, savoring the melodrama.) “Milhouse is not a meme” is, in fact, a meme.

Junior ponders this for a very long time. He scratches his head and furrows his brow. While he thinks, Father again stares into the distance, where the dinosaur can now be seen to be wearing rocket-powered rollerblades and sunglasses. Finally, Junior speaks.

Junior: That’s… stupid.

Father nods sagely.

Father: Yes, my son. (A single tear rolls down his cheek.) Yes, it was.

Fini

These, and many more, are the names attributed to my junks. Once upon a time, my crotch rocket commanded not only the love and adoration of the people, but also the grudging respect of many elected officials. There were many who spoke in breathless whispers of my genitalia’s logic-defying, world-rocking abilities, and many more who pined after the merest glimpse of my man machine.

However, as with all of my sweaty, multi-partner fuck sessions, the good times have come to an end. Several testimonies delivered by chesty broads whose worlds I may or may not have rocked have come forward, saying that I allegedly blew their minds so hard they needed several surgeries and months of physical therapy to function normally again. Accounts of repeated aggravated property damage caused by my robust lovemaking have surfaced, and even the Surgeon General of the United States has issued a statement likening close encounters with my phallus to ‘a series of tactical missles delivered straight up the vagina’. As might be imagined, I and my schlong were stung by these allegations.

Well, me and my l’il Apache Chieftan have come to set the record straight. That’s right, I’m sitting down to an exclusive one-on-one interview with none other than that international superstar, MY PENIS!

(Applause, cheers)

MY PENIS: Thanks, Malcolm.

MALCOLM: My pleasure, My Penis. So tell me your reaction to the media firestorm regarding the damages allegedly caused by your irresponsible lady-taming.

 MY PENIS: First off, Malcolm, let me just say that I have nothng but the deepest respect for the chesty broad community, and sincerely regret that my incredibly diverse pursuits of satisfaction within that community may have been interpreted as malicious.

MALCOLM: That’s fair.

MY PENIS: Thank you. Secondly, I put it forward that these attacks have been orchestrated by some malignant third party, bent on destroying friendly relations between myself and the chesty broads, who I cherish so sincerely.

MALCOLM: You mean, someone motivated by pure jealousy of your ludicrous sucesses inside the vagina.

MY PENIS: I couldn’t have said it better myself. To that end, I am offering a substantial reward for the live capture of this third party, whoever and wherever they may be.

MALCOLM: That’s right, folks. You heard it here first, My Penis is offering not one, not three, not five, but TEN rock-and-rolling below-the-belt encounters. Why don’t you tell us a little about them, My Penis?

MY PENIS: Malcolm, all I’m going to say is that if you aren’t delirious, weak in the knees, and babbling in tongues by the end of Encounter Number Four, then you’re likely paralyzed below the waist.

MALCOLM: Are there any restrictions to this phenomenal payout?

MY PENIS: As you know, I typically reserve my services to broads of the chesty variety.

MALCOLM: Who could forget?

MY PENIS: Given the urgency of the current situation, I am lifting this ban and extending the olive branch to broads of all denominations, provided they don’t have disfiguring skin conditions!

MALCOLM: Wow!

MY PENIS: You said it, Malcolm, and you’ll be saying ‘Wow’ too if you’re the lucky little filly who clears this whole nasty business up, allowing us to get down to some nasty business of our own.

MALCOLM: Thanks again for joining us, My Penis. Always great to have you.

MY PENIS: It was a pleasure. So was your girlfriend.

MALCOLM: Ha ha! She sure was!

So there you have it. Lines heading directly to my trouser trunk are now open, and standing by, waiting for your salacious theories. My Penis is also welcoming all fan mail through these channels, though he is asking that they are kept below two pages.

Hope I’ll be hearing from all of you soon!

“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