PREVIOUS PAGE: OMGZ, KERIAN SI TEH COMADY MANN!!11
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That did not help.
...
*Ghand mutters something under his breath. He looks around the room.*
Hmm... must turn on anti-suck aug...
*Ghand pushes a button on his belt.*
...
Hey... Isn’t something supposed to hap-
*His pants fall down.*
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Okay, this is just great. First my interviews SUCK. Then Kieran comes in and makes the whole article even MORE embarrassing. And now my PANTS fall down in front of EVERYONE. WELL, DAMNIT, IT’S MY PARTY, AND I CAN DO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT WITH IT.
Likes serve onions and dip. WITH DEATH RAY SAUCE.
And I can play whatever music I want to. I CAN PLAY DESTINY’S CHILD. I CAN PLAY N’SYNC.
Then again, I can also kill myself by wading up to my center of gravity in a vat of acid, which I imagine would be less painful than the above described methods, but either way.
Or we could just settle for a group of thirteen sumo wrestlers singing Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” to the latest Chinese deportees.
Whatever.
*GASP!*
THE PLOT THICKENS! The proof is obviously in the pudding.
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Who writes this crap? Seriously. This is embarrassing. This episode sucks, and everyone knows it. I don’t know why I’ve held this crap job as long as I have. I mean, one year? Are you kidding me? I can’t take it any more. I’m leaving. I quit. This is the end of my article. I’m getting out of here. AND DON’T EXPECT TO HEAR FROM ME AGAIN. NEVER. I mean it. Here, I’ll just go out this door-...
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...
...Give me a gun.
Yes. Please. Give him a gun.
Wh-... Who the hell is that?
I don’t know. I mean, who the hell could it be? You know SO many fish, after all...
Egads! ...Mr. Trout?
No. It’s Mister Ed. YES, IT’S MISTER TROUT.
Trust me, chump, if I had hands, I’d gladly hand you the nearest high-caliber firearm I could find.
That’s reassuring.
Look, the thugs from the basement sent me up to remind you that you have MAIL to cover. You know, that worthless crap that people actually send to you. I find it ridiculous and insulting that you actually get more mail than I ever did in that mailbag. You know, the one that’s DEAD. Obviously because I’m gone. I mean, how the hell can something not suck when I’m not in it?
Hmmph. Well. I’m not really in the mood right now to answer mail, Mr. Trout. You see, I have this personal problem, with chafing, when I sit down, I-
WHOA! Whoa! I don’t need to hear any of your sick hippie fantasies. You don’t feel like answering mail, fine. Mind if I give it a shot? Been a while since I ripped on anyone in a mailbag, and I’m feeling rather cynical today.
Please.
NEXT PAGE: GHANDAIAH KICKS THE BUCKET
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