- huh ? -
When the cops left, I crept out from behind the fridge where I'd been hiding. The bunker was decimated. My ginger-beer was all over the floor. It was the best plant I'd had too! I pulled away the badly scarred doormat to reveal the trapdoor I'd so carefully disguised as a trapdoor. It's well oiled hinges made no sound (because, as I said, they were well oiled) as I opened it and stepped down into the consuming darkness.
I was a new man. And not one that looked like Oprah either. A new identity. With a new plot. One that didn't have a nun fixation. As I descended the ramp, the trapdoor above me slammed and someone put the rug back in place. That could mean only one thing; The troll room should be around here somewhere and I didn't have the dagger.
- lung problems -
I pulled the light cord and the new plot appeared. It looked the same as the old one but smelt of boiled cabbage and old peoples' flatus. Yuk. It was also quite dead judging by the axe in it's head. The dead plot thickens....
I looked in the mirror. I was a typical up and coming young urban professional. I hoped I didn't have one of those cars with spokes for hubcaps - I hated them. Or worse, a car with animal horns on the bonnet! This and the thought of Prince's trouser wardrobe set me off, and while I was busy emptying my stomach of the last yuppy meal it had had (Which, incidentally, looked as though it had consisted of lentils, perrier, french toast and a baseball glove) something moved in the corner of the room, right next to my Hoffa souvineer cement block bridge. I didn't let on that I'd seen anything, just kept yodelling into the procelain megaphone, hoping I didn't cough up a kidney in the process. I didn't, but I saw...
- quantum physics -
...Plot's brother, back again for some reason which eluded my new persona's mind. (This of course, was not the LATE plot's brother, but the previous plot's brother.) I stumbled (dry retching to cover up my movements) over to the basin, under which was hopefully strapped my S&W Blitzblaster. Plot's brother looked at me curiously and spoke.
"What the fuck's a S&W Blitzblaster?"
The cover was blown, so...
"Would you use that language in front of your mother?" I ask
"Yep, and I put my feet on the table in my own home too" he replied. "Now what
the fuck's a S&W Blitzblaster?"
"A Smyth and Western pistol, firing a titanium sheathed split-top, phosophorous slug." I say, ripping the gun out from under the basin. "Say your prayers, you peice of indecent verbal refuse.."
- anyone know why my modem's not Xon/Xoffing properly? -
"Oh" P.B said
I shot him.
Before the fiery slug could hit him, he dissappeared.
Shit!
The slug carried on it's course, passing through the wall like a red hot penny through a fresh turd. It must have passed a water main, as there was a flash and the room started filling up with water. I slipped the S&W into the front of my threads. The red-hot barrel cauterised the syphillitic sores on the yuppy body before it and fell through my smoldering trousers to the floor. I had to get back up to the bunker quick. I invoked GDT, answered the challenge, turned off deaths and the troll, then patched U to be equal to the bunker.
I was in the bunker. There was debri all around me, and no trophy case. Bum!
I got out my personality backup tapes from the Red Bucket where I'd stashed them, and put them online. The download took 18 minutes.
Operah beware, I'm Back!
- Rebirthed -
So I go to the Operah show, as a studio audience participant. I pass the pre- show interview with flat pastel colours by putting my hand down my pants and answering the test question "Who is the most underprivileged person in the world" with "carrots" - just the sort of person they're looking for.
The intro plays, Operah trundles in and the cue cards go up: "APPLAUSE", "CHEER" and "MASTURBATE". I comply to none of these, although the air is full of the results of persons doing all three. I wipe the back of my "seriously black sports coat combination childs tent" on the seat in front of me.
- I hate her, I hate her -
Operah starts talking at the cameras.
"TALENTLESS PERSONS ROOTING THROUGH PEOPLE'S DISGUSTING PASTS IN AN ATTEMPT TO EARN MORE BUCKS, I'M Operah WINFEREY AND HERE'S A CLOSE UP VIEW OF MY `CARING' FACE."
Someone behind me can't take it and starts vomiting noisily. The sound's quite a relief compared to Operah's voice.
"TODAY WE DISCUSS A TOPIC CLOSE TO PEOPLE'S ATTENTION SPAN WHILE YOU GET SIX DIFFERENT VIEWS OF ME -CARING- ON STAGE" she goes on. WE'LL ALSO BE TRYING TO MAKE OUR STUDIO AUDIENCE LOOK LIKE THE MOST PATHETIC BUNCH OF LOSERS WHILST SIMULTANEOUSLY MAKING ME APPEAR TO BE A THOUGHTFUL CARING INDIVIUAL, NOT AT ALL INTERESTED IN MAKING A QUICK BUCK BY VERBALLY SODOMISING OUR POOR GUESTS. TONIGHT'S TOPIC, SEX WITH PETS; IS IT SO TERRIBLE?"
The cue cards go up for the audience's benefit. "SAY OOOOOOOOHHHH!"
About a quarter of the audience complies, while another quarter of the audience is still complying with the last instruction from the previous cards. The remaining half of the audience are asking each other what the card says.
"WE HAVE IN THE STUDIO A MR. JOHN IRONDICK, WHICH IS NOT HIS REAL NAME, IS IT MR JOHN COCKSUCKER?"
A wimpy little guy with a bag on his head walks out and answers her.
"Ah, no, JOHN IRONDICK is not my real name"
"MR IRONDICK, YOU'VE TOLD US THAT YOU LOVE YOUR PETS, IS THIS TRUE? STUDIO AUDIENCE, DON'T WE THINK THIS PERSON IS LOWER THAN A PREGNANT SNAKE'S PRIVATE PARTS?"
- Guess -
The cards go up "NOD" and "SHOUT YEAH!" etc.
1/4 of the audience complies once more.
"SO TELL ME MR IRONDICK, JUST WHAT SORT OF DEPRAVED ACTS ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE?"
"Well" Irondick says "I'm a dog-lover at heart, so me and my Doberman are good friends"
"YES, YES, BUT WHAT DO YOU PHYSICALLY DO?" Operah asks, breathing heavily into her microphone
"Well, I usually get Kahn to cuddle up close..." "MMMmmm" Operah weedles
"And then we... we...."
"YOU UNZIP YOUR TROUSERS AND TAKE OUT YOUR 17 INCH LOVE TRUNCHEON AND DEAL TO THE POOR ANIMAL!" Operah shreiks
"W-What are you talking about, You asked me here to talk about why I brush my dog!?!"
"STATION BREAK" Operah screams
Ten minutes later she's back..
"We're going to talk to the audience now" she says, as the camera spins around to us.
Earlier on I'd overheard the guy in front of me saying that he was going to get interviewed, so I jump over and push him into the foot area of the seats where he drowned in the results of placard #3.
The camera's on me, so I go straight into dofus mode.
"You sir" Operah Gargles at me "You've something to say about sex with animals, what is it precisely?"
"Well, I don't think that sexual relations with animals is such a bad thing. I used to have a big fat cow, that I called Operah, and we used to..."
The sound technicians were rushing me with axes, there was only one way out...
I used it.
- My life with Operah -
I started crying.
Mid bash, the sound techs backed off. I blubbered like a shamed President. The sobs were full-on as I Nixoned my way into Prime TV space.
"I'm so pathetic!" I sniffled "I didn't have a cow at all. I just made that up because my true crimes are so hideous that I couldn't come out in public and admit to them! I'm such a pus-soaked-hanky!"
Operah's mind's going at twice it's normal speed, 2 twinkies a minute. I can almost see the gamble she's got in front of her - cut back to her and get on with the program, or get the best confession since Jim Baker faced the big public confessional at the end of his career.
- TV Hype -
She cracks.
I knew she would.
I just KNEW she would.
Really, I *KNEW* she would.
Now to play it for all it's worth.
"Oh, I'm such a bastard!" I cry. "I can't bring myself to tell you all the truth, it's too depraved."
She's hooked.
Now to reel the self-righteous, chunk of moral booger in.
"What did you do?" she asks, in a kindly, grandmother-like voice - the sort of voice you'd associate with Sunday lunch, walks in the park, Pet food sandwiches..
- The ultimate sin -
"I can't say!" I blubber
She's committed now, she NEEDS this, She needs some DEPRAVED act. The audience can tell that she's closing for the kill, and they're all preparing their righteous indignation, every closet pedophile and public masturbator of them.
"Come on now, it's ok, we know you want to tell us..." she coaxes
It's well past "Poke-the-pet" time now, we're in Richard Gere country and going down fast. If I leave it too much longer insulation tape is going to mean nothing, I'll be surrounded by "me too"s from the audience and she knows it. She gambles again that it's going to be worse than Hamsters and lets me have another few valuable seconds of airtime.
- blubber blubber blubber -
"I... I... " I sniff, looking up.
I notice from the monitor that I'm in extreme close-up, the camera doesn't want to miss a thing - or maybe it's because about 10% of the audience can't stand the strain and are whacking off into their show-programmes. I don't know, all I know is that the time is right
"I'm so ashamed!" ((c) 1990 - Jim Baker) I sob, "IT WAS A PIG!"
Operah's on a winner now and she knows it. She winds up her fury and rouses the well-trained audience in seconds "YOU FUCKED YOUR PIG!!?!" she screams, the mock horror and revulsion coming at me across the monitor in 26 inch chubbo-colour
- there, i said it -
"Shit no." I said "I had a PIG named Operah. Looked like you too!"
As the sound technicians clubbed me into oblivion I was pleased to hear a quick snuffle of indignation from Operah
- Just when you thought it was gone -
I woke up in an alleyway. It was dark, I was sore.
I decided to go home. It had to be safe, after all this time.
Sure enough, no-one was watching the place, and all appeared to be well. After my "death" it seemed that I was persona-nonexistanta, or however you spell it in greek.
I went in, the place had been stripped by my ex-wife, she'd obviously wanted to make up for the projected loss of alimony by taking everything of any value from my estate. She'd contested the will and won damnit, I'd really wanted to leave everything to the Nebraska Testicle Replacement Foundation, to fund their extensive research into stainless steel ball-bearings. Ah well, there was only one thing left, collect the false passport and papers and leave once and for all.
- Clean up -
I headed to the den and twirled in the combination on my 53 tumbler Who-would-shoot-the-President-Seriously-Black Safe and opened the door. As cool as a chilled cucumber, I defused the nitro-bomb inside the door and extracted the papers for the new persona I had created 3 episodes back. I stashed my old persona backup tapes and disks in the safe (in case of any emergency) and left my house, probably for the last time.
I jumped in the corvette stingray that I had conveniently written into the plot and stoked it up for my interstate trip. I figured I should be in my new persona by 7am tommorrow. (I'd prepared perfectly by sending guys in black suits and dark glasses to check out my house weekly for about 7 weeks and interview the nieghbours. Then I had one of them "accidentally" drop the words "Witness Protection Programme" into conversation. By the time I got there, I'd be more well known than the Hoffa Cement Contract.
- So, I made a mistake -
At the border, there's a couple of state troopers stopping people. I slow and they wave me over to the side of the road.
"Are you carrying any weapons sir?" they ask me
I can't understand this, but what the hell...
"Uh, let's see, two Magnum Magnums, one .44 and on .63"
"Uh-huh"
"A pump action lead slug cannon, 3 school-issue Uzis"
"Yeah, no worries"
"One Nuclear Reactor, as used in `China Crisis'"
"MmmmHmm!"
"and Liza Minelli's `Caberet' on VHS"
- aaaaaaaaAAAAGH! -
"Step out of the car sir, and place your hands behind your head." he says, turning nasty
"It's the edited version" I plead
"How edited?" the other trooper asks.
"They cut out everything but the previews of other movies..."
"Sounds ok, what do you think Dave?" Trooper #1 asks #2
"Has it got the cover sleeve?" #2 asks me
I decide to lie
"No"
"Ok, then, you can travel on sir, but you should realise that there's harsh penalties for possesion of that sort of stuff in this state. We've got taste here, and we'd like to keep it that way..."
- my new home -
So I get into my new home, it's a one up, three across, two down, word that means "anal surgery" brick house with 5 bedrooms, 2 garages and a picture of Sylvia Crystal in every room.
Yuk.
But what the hell, it's home, and that's what counts. I call Super-Duper-Pooper Security and ask them to install their new line in safes, the Virgin-Marriage-White 77 tumbler, anti-static, time-release, high impact, Dr-Who-Alien-Proof safe. They say they'll come tommorrow.
For the rest of today, I've got to set myself up to look like a federal witness. I pull all the curtains and fit 2 safety chains to all the doors and windows. I call the guys in the black suits and tell them to buy me some furniture and move it in, and to look up and down the street suspiciously while they do so.
- the nebbor -
The next day dawns bright and shiny. There's a knock at the door. 500 pounds of beer gut block my view of out the door, so I am to assume that I've met the little-known species of Insurance Claim Millionare.
"HOWARYA" a chubby voice shouts from behind the stomach "DAN FARJWAA, I'M YA NEW NEBBOR! JUST THORD I'D COM AND MEET CHALL!"
Immediately I regret not buying the two savage Dobermans that I'd seen eating a school child whilst shopping yesterday. A fat arm that would've had them salivating faster than Pavlov's bell pokes out towards me. I shake it and put two of it's liberated gold rings in my pocket. Easy.
Blubber King walks in, and as his gut goes past, I get a look at his face. Sure enough, the round rubbery object is held up by a neck brace. I decide to get it over and done with as soon as possible.
"Gee, what happened to you?" I ask
- nice, family entertainment -
He tells me. He mentions nothing of the sofa and fried food that must make up around 90% of his life and favours me instead with his rendition of the cruel twist of fate that put him here. Apparently he was involved in a head -on collision between his Buick "woody" and a four year old on a tricycle.
"THE KID WAS MASHED LIKE BUGS ON A WINDSHIELD" He says, really warming to me "BUT LUCKILY I WAS ABLE TO SUE THE PARENTS FOR LEAVING THE GATE OPEN AND GET 4.8 MILLION OUT OF THEM. THEY'VE GOT THREE JOBS NOW AND ARE PAYING ME OFF AS FAST AS THEY CAN. tHEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO AFFORD CLOTHES IN THE YEAR 2000."
I decide to break my new years resolution. I shoot him - then I feed him peice by peice down the garbage disposal. Three days later, I'm finished and come out of the kitchen to find my safe has been installed. I hate it when I get wrapped up in fun like that.
I figure by now someone's got to be looking for what's-his-name so I click on the news. Nothing there. Just as I'm about to turn off, "STUDZ" comes on the box. Hey, this is a new one. I decide to take a look.
- Studz -
"Ok Barney" the presenter warbles "You took these women out on a date and probably bonked every one of them..."
"Right.." Barney says, with a slowness of reaction and speech that infers that the only "bonk" he's probably had was his household pets, and then only after death had made them "willing"
"So now" presenter-"dude" continues "what ficticious libel can you invent about these people? Come on, something demeaning"
"Duh, um, well, number one carries money in her wallet!" Barney chuckles
"Yeah! OK! ... uh .. Barney.. lots of people carry money in their wallets.."
"They do?" Barney says "Wow! That's what they're for!"
This guy's obviously and A++ student, and now I look closely I can tell. I think it's the open fly with no underpants that gives it away. Or maybe the pits that end about waist height.... It might be the "Lobotomy Rehab class of 91" T-shirt tho...
"Barney!" the guy continues "All you've got to tell us is which one of these "CHICKS" you'd like to try and score, mention a few pathetic private details about them, show your penis on national TV (which you appear to be doing at this moment) and sit thru 5 minutes of abuse about how the girls would rather leap naked into a vat of burning acidic razorblades that let you touch them AND THEN we'll give you the chance to take one of them out for the second time, if they don't kill themselves first, after they find out. CAN YOU DO THAT?"
Barney's mind's in overload, that's the longest speech he's heard since his court appearance for molesting a parking meter - he's stuffed. Looking closely, I can see his lips still mouthing "show my penis on tv" and struggling to interpret that into "gifted redneck".
"OH, YOU WANT ME TO FLOP MY DICK OUT!" he says, enlightened for once, reaching out for redneck-nirvana.
The presenter's waiting, will he do it?
Barney is completely oblivious to everything, his mental processes are irrevocably devoted to remembering exactly how he undoes the reef knot on his twine "belt".
"Come on Barney, you can do it!" the presenter coaches, breaking out the KY and applying it liberally to his ego.
Without the aid of drawings however, Barney has a brain haemmorage and falls to the floor drooling...
"WELL!" the presenter gasps "Barney's just qualified for a place in LATE NITE STUDZ, so we'll be back after Ron our announcer tells us why I find beer to be better than women.."
"SURE THING BOB, AND HERE THEY ARE:
A beer doesn't care that you've got the social skills of nose hair
A beer doesn't care that you've been having a 2 year sexual relationship with
your hankie
There's no danger of a beer being mopre intelligent than you..."
"Ah Ron..." The presenter cuts in
"..Beer's not going to say it would rather be seen with herpes than you.
You can be a complete social loser and still pick up a beer.
Beer doesn't care if you're a mysoginistic, clap-ridden, has-been show host.."
"Ron, I think you got the wron.."
"..Beer isn't fussy about a partner with zero self esteem
Beer doesn't mind that your off-screen personality is about as deep as the
water on a sewer grate.
"RON!" Bob shouts, then turns back to the audience "Heh heh, Ron's a real kidder ladies and gentlemen...."
"..Beer won't tell you how pathetic you've become after 5 years on TV.
Beer doesn't care that you've been arrested twice for masturbating backstage.
Beer is an inanimate object and as such doesn't have feelings of revulsion
towards you that everything else in the world does"
"That's enough Ron", Bob states, with the tone of voice that indicates how effective a noose a mic-cord would make...
"Beer wouldn't mind that any animal unfortunate enough to wander onto your
property leaves it with a limp and INSULATION TAPE BURNS!...
"BEER DOESN'T CARE THAT YOU'VE GOT A ONE INCH DICK!!!!" Ron screams
and it's all over.
Bob and Ron have one last horrifying lovers quarrel with mic cords (on camera, of course) before the show's director climaxes the show by shooting them both with soft nose twinkie (tm) rolls. They fall to the floor, thank goodness, dead.
The 'contestants' are at a loss, what can they do. They've got their lines but no-one to ask them.
Shame of Shames, what will happen now?
The feeling hits me like a lead sap in the cod-peice.
I fall to the floor - a very unfortunate thought..
I MUST TAKE OVER!
- woody -
I start heading towards the TV station - they need me there, I know. I jump in my "woody" station wagon (The same type as they used to use on "8 is enough" - it's an investment, some day it'll be a collectors item) and cruise on over to the Station side of town.
- 1/2 way -
So I'm at some lights halfway there and this guy in the outside lane starts giving me the eye - it was a glass one, so I put it in the ashtray for later. His engine is revving really high so I guess he wants a race, so I gun the engine to confirm acceptance of the challenge in true petrol-head style, and the guy on the inside lane thinks that's a challenge from me, So HE guns his engine, and the guy on the inside of him... etc.
So there's a whole row of us at the lights and we're all dreaming Ferrari daydreams, except the guy on the outside of me who actually had a stuck choke - but it's too late now, he's got his family in the car, and they're not going to believe that story, so he's got a marriage to protect, and the pressure's on him to perform. Judging by the dissatisifed look of his wife and kids, he's not on a winning streak
"Do I need the nitrous oxide?" I'm wondering, and if so, where am I going to get some, and how will I get it fitted in time? Then I see in the rear-view mirror "EDS MOTOR OVERHAULS, WHILE U WATE!" I hope ED's a better mechanic than speller... So I signal to him, he gets out of his car and comes over.
"Gee, is this a woody or what?" he says "You know, you should look after this, someday this is going to be a collectors item (told you so!)- It looks just like the one on the Brady Bunch!"
- i told you it would be worth something -
"8 is enough" I say, correcting my typing alter ego
"No, no, that's the Brady Bunch one alright, I know, I've got every episode on Betamax" he says.
And I was thinking of letting him touch my car? What a winner..
"You just want the nitro kit then?"
He gets his kit out of the van and does my car up a dream! Whose dream I was unsure of, but a dream. Lots of spiders in the corner and rooms getting smaller and smaller and people turning up to school in pyjamas.
I look at the new vehicle: Nitrous Oxide, Overdrive, fluffly dice, sheepskin steering wheel cover, "Jesus is my co-driver - just out getting life insurance" and "If it's rocking, the suspension's about to collapse again" bumper stickers... Excellent.
And we're waiting for the lights
waiting for the lights...
Waiting..
For the lights..
- brmm brmm -
3 cars over one guy's cracked under the stress (probably an accountant, they can't handle the pace - typical) and left early, straight into the side of a police cruiser going thru the intersection, and the officers are giving him a physical warning, which is similar to a verbal warning, except completely in body language.
The space he left is taken up by a big red 4 x 4, driven (judging by the sign "Yore Dryva" sign on the door) by a guy named Hec {but his sexual partners probably call him "He" {Those that can speak}. He's got the compulsory toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth, and.. a gun rack?
Yep...
So we're waiting..
- brmmmm brmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm -
Waiting.
The lights change to green. We're off.
I'm coming first of course, with the NO2, but Redneck Hec is barelling along behind me; Outside lane's not going to good, so he jettisoned the wife at about 75, and is now Ejecting off the preschoolers as fast as he can grab them.
I'm so busy looking in the rear view mirror I don't notice the U-Haul 3rd world train on the back of a VW combi in front of me.....
[ B O O M ! ]
The road's a mess - My priceless woody is in peices all over the show, even the back seat with the unexplained stain on it - the one that appeared just after the "8 is enough" episode where the Dad puts his back out at the car wash with the french exchange student.
It was ancient television history...
Not to worry, I was just a block away from the studio of "LATE NIGHT STUDZ". (Not that I'm the blocking kind you understand - especially with the broken back seat). I decide to walk, what the hell, it's reasonably safe.
I get to Rich Protestance Channel 666 around 5 minutes later. I'm cool, calm, and collected and I've stuffed the woody's back-seat (stain and all) down my pants so I look the part.
I pause to clock my reflection in the mirror - superb. I go to the reception area and talk to the token male behind the counter. They're an up and coming station, so they're trying to put across their equal opportunities idea by hiring a male receptionist that DOESN'T sound like he spent his youth bent over a chair in a submarine lavatory. In other words, he was big. The sort of big you get by working out at the gym for 16 hours a day. And tough too. Shit he looked tuff.
"How Tuff?", I hear someone email..
- He was so tough he wore prickly woollen track pants - without boxer shorts
- He was so tough he wiped his bum with newspaper - then read it
- He was so tough he was circumcised last week - 3 inches up the shaft
- He was so tough herpes was afraid of him
- HE WAS SO TOUGH, HE WAS DUMB!
"How dumb was he?", someone else emails..
- He was so dumb he had to cram for a urine test
- He was so dumb he couldn't count his dick twice and get the same number
- He was so dumb he FAILED his IQ test
- He was so dumb his brain had frequent flier miles.
So he was tuff. And Dumb too. Apparently he was employed as a paperweight. Anyway, so I tell him I'm there to take over STUDZ. Unfortunately his attention span timed out around the "Hello" mark. I tell him again while I'm here. Nothing.
I say "STUDZ"
Bingo! He points. I go.
Down the corridor, past the studio for "America's bloodiest home video's" they're playing the Zapruda tapes again, trying to encourage folks at home to send in Testicular Surgery and Household Firearms Accidents footage. This time they're posting a big reward, a D.I.Y kit for the videos, including a 8mm portable Sony-cam, a night light, 30 feet of extension cable, and a Black and Decker powersaw with the handle loosened off three winds.
I pass on by, past the "Jerry Lewis" memorial Retard Baiting Game - it's a bit like most of his movies, only the contestant has to laugh inanely and act like a braindamaged spastic until someone in the audience throws a fit. Great family entertainment apparently...
I go on and cut thru the kiddies science project show; this week they're showing kids all the hidden nutrients in common faeces, and why when someone tells you to eat shit you should...
Down past "Generic Family Show". I pause for a while here, as I've always wanted to see how they're done...
I'm at generic gameshows-ville.
Enter DAD: Hi Michael, [sanctimonious smile] How are you today?
SON: I'm OK I guess dad, or at least I'm guaranteed to be by the end of this family shitcom, unless it's one of those ones that gets spread over two weeks to piss the audience off...
DAD: That's fine Son. How's Anne?
SON: My sister? well she's just [generic sexual, low-intelligence slur] as thick as can be...
[canned laughter]
DAD: Oh, don't tell me, she's made some mildly amusing mistake that we're going to blow out of all proportion, yet still imply that we love her?
SON: Shit no! I was going to say that she's the thickest thing on two legs and that if the producer wasn't slipping her one she's be out on her ear.
[canned laughter]
Enter DAUGHTER: Gee Hi dad, [to son] Hi fuzzballs - still playing with your- self in the back of your changing room before the show?
[canned laughter]
SON: Yeah, why is it dad that we always seem to talk about subjects like one of our FRIENDS getting up the pole and not Anne? How come we never talk about wanking?
[canned laughter]
DAD: Well, that's because we want to solve all problems in one episode. If we let Anne get up the stick, she'd be fat and none of the male audience we aim at would dream about getting a peice of her action any more. She'd be like that for months and then we'd lose our cheap sexual appeal. And as for your wanking, I doubt that'll stop till you're about 47 and your eyesight's so bad you've started gratifying your bedpost by mistake....
I've seen enough so I move on. Studio R, "LATE NIGHT CRUDZ". Alright!
I enter stage left, goose the car seat up and go out on stage. I grab the mike from Dumb-Extremely-Token-Assistant-A and burst into life
"HI THERE AND WELCOME BACK TO LATE NIGHT CRUDZ, I'M YOUR NEW HOST DOCTOR JOHN VULVA, AND WE'RE GOING TO TALK!"
The audience cheers - if there's one thing they want, it's the chance to lie on TV without someone beside them contradicting everything they say, chirping in with "No, 3 inches" and "You never did, that was your brother" during what they consider to be their greatest hour.
I get the camera over in the face of this guy, he's just begging for it - he's obviously got a story someone told him, or that he read in Basement Magazine that he wants to tell us and pretend it was him. SO BE IT! I decide that as soon as he mentions the words "Love Muscle" I'm going to shoot him.
Twice maybe
So I'm hosting LATE NIGHT CRUDZ - As Dr. John Vulva, and I'm into the audience. I'm waiting for this guy to say the words "Love Muscle" so I can shoot him.
Me: SO, BOB, WHY DON'T YOU TELL THE AUDIENCE AT HOME YOUR FAVOURITE FANTASY THAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE OPPOSITE SEX DIDN'T LIKE YOU AS MUCH AS THRUSH?