"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.

———————————————————————————————————

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.”)

———————————————————————————————————

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:

——————————————————————————————————–

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.

"Oh look, TLG updated. I guess I owe Todd in HR a dollar."

(I’m not going to link to the thread that today’s bit comes from, not because it was an especially terrible thread or anything, but just because it’s in a restricted area of the boards and a good part of you wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.)

So in the Cracked Writer’s Lounge, someone had started a thread asking about the pay scale for writing articles. It was kind of a dumb question, since the answer is plastered all over about eight different places (the answer is fifty dollars, no matter what. In case you were curious.) However, it led to someone else making the joke that they had thought that we were paid by the dick joke, which served as my inspiration for the coming three-hundred-and-fifty-word travesty.

"Wait, he just mentioned dicks! I LOVE dicks!"

There really isn’t a funny story to go along with today’s update. I just remember being in kind of a dumb, over-caffeinated mood and wanting to see just how many times I could use the word “dick” in a single post. Some TLG readers may be shocked to learn the answer: a whole bunch.

Now, with the preamble out of the way, let’s wait no longer before stumbling headlong into my explanation of the majesty that is Cracked’s approach to a dick-joke-based economy. For your enhanced pleasure, I have modified the original post in order to highlight every single reference I make to the male genitalia. Enjoy!

RANDOM FORUM USER: “Wait, I thought we were paid by the dick joke.”

That’s how it used to be in the old days when Cracked was the only place on the internet to find penis jests. But pretty soon that shit went mainstream and we entered the period of time most commonly known as the Dick Boom. No matter where you looked, there were people giggling about cocks; anonymous sources telling the Drudge Report that George Bush had eighteen ballsacks, people buying face-penises for their avatars on GaiaOnline. 4Chan was so inundated with dick jokes that simply typing in the web address caused your monitor to turn into an actual severed penis. It was bad, but it didn’t get really bad until people started trading dick jokes on-margin. Do you know what happened then?

The price of dick jokes plummeted overnight to a rate of 400 dicks to the titter.

Sorry, fellah. That last sentence isn't nearly as filthy as it sounds. We're talking economics, not bukkakenomics.

Panicked dickvestors rushed the dick-banks to make mass dick-withdrawls, causing the banks to exhaust their dick supply in less than four hours. Millions went dickless, jokeless. Wailing filled the internet, and sorrow reigned. The Dick Bubble had burst.

Luckily, while frenzied investing was ruining the American dickonomy, David Wong had predicted the dick market crash and began exploring dick futures overseas. He managed to convince a consortium of wealthy Greek aristocrats not only that Cracked-flavor dick jokes had value as exotic tourist attractions, but that he would also personally guarantee a minimum of fourteen such dick jokes in ever Cracked article from thereon. A rate of fourteen thousand drachmas to the dick joke was agreed upon, and thus when dickvestors were losing their shirts the country over, only Cracked.com managed to stay afloat. Thanks to Wong’s guidance, Cracked was once again free to bring the magic of laughing at cocks to a new generation of internet users.

(David Wong would later realize that he didn’t know the drachma-to-dollar exchange rate, and decided that it probably worked out to about fifty dollars an article because “You know, what the hell.”)

Cracked: The Purest Dicks, Into The Future

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

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.

“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