• Are you an innocent nightclub patron who has been the victim of an unprompted spitting attack?
• Are you a valet who has been stiffed on a tip?
• Are you a stripper with a heart of gold who has been cheated out of a hard-earned pile of floating dollar bills?
• Are you a bodyguard who has been punched by his own client?
Then chances are you could be entitled to a:
We are the Law Offices of Darnell and Peters, and we are North America’s LEADING practitioners of Adam-Jones-related-felony-and-misdemeanour law. We have helped hundreds of clients get the money they deserve as a result of their unfortunate altercations with this oddly-nicknamed menace.
But don’t take our word for it! Take it from our clients:
Ray Sefretti, Portland, Oregon:
I was working as a gas station attendant when Pacman pulled up in his Humvee. When I told him his gas came to $120, he flashed his genitals at me and whipped me with my own squeegee. Darnell and Peters got me $18,000!
“Prius”, Las Vegas, Nevada:
I danced for Pacman for two and a half hours at the Spearmint Rhino. When the time came to pay me, he told me he was friends with Ludacris. I told him that was fine, but I still needed my $900. He proceeded to pour an entire bottle of Grey Goose in my hair and steal my sunglasses. Darnell and Peters got me $38,000!
Marcus Thomas, Jacksonville, Florida:
My six-year old son and I saw Pacman at Best Buy. I asked him if my son could get an autograph. He said he would only do it if my son gave him a piggy back ride. When I refused, he called my son a coward and pushed me into a display of discounted British comedy DVDs. Darnell and Peters got me $13,000!
Roger Goodell, New York, NY:
I spent so much time dealing with Pacman Jones-related incidents over my first two years in office, I missed my daughters’ birthdays, developed hyperhidrosis and let the terrifying devolution of Ed Hochuli continue unabated. Darnell and Peters got me $6.2 million!
So there you have it. There are dozens of firms specializing in Pacman-Jones-related-felony-and-misdemeanour law, but only ONE has the experience, tenacity and toughness that it takes to get you the money you so rightfully deserve!
Call Darnell and Peters at 1-800-BINPAC’D!*
We’ll help YOU take a BITE out of Pacman!
*The exclamation point is just for effect. You don’t actually need to dial it.
Given that our readers are all savvy afficionadoes of urban music, it probably won’t come as a shock to them that Canadian hip-hop is, in street parlance, “where it’s at”.* Yes, nobody knows the banging beats of the hard Canuck streets like thirty year-old, mildly overweight, white desk jockeys. Is it worth even naming Canadian hip-hop royalty? They’re ubiquitous. Maestro, Rascalz, Checkmate, Kardinal, Thrust (yes, the whole “Northern Touch”** crew), Choclair, Snow, Jelleestone, Michie Mee — need I go on? But what about the unknown talent north of 49th parallel? The undiscovered MCs that for some reason or another have not surfaced on the urban music radar? Who’s going to let you know about them? Food Court Lunch, that’s who! And even better, we are going to destroy the stereotypes that go along with this genre. Who says that hip-hop can only be made by black people? Not these hard-rhyming Quebecois. They are MRF*** (Mouvement Rap Francophone). What do you think, music fans?
Yeah, we know — needs more coonskin caps. Also, more MCs with Tina Turner’s haircut. Still, it’s better than the shit coming out of France — that’s right, we’re looking at you, MC Solaar!
Can’t Canada do better than this? What about our native brethren? There appear to be enough social ills in the Canadian aboriginal community to generate an MC with so-called “street credibility”. Well, show us what you got, Joey Stylez!
Wow. Fuck. Big Sav didn’t exactly save that one. I am pretty sure that is what being fucked in the ears feels like. At least I got a glimpse into the rough life of urban native youth. Apparently faux lesbianism is a huge problem. Poor bastards.
Well, that’s Canadian rap for you. Truth be told, it’s not looking too good for us. Maybe I’ll stick with hip-hop from south of the border. Oh, and I want it performed by an MC with Down’s Syndrome. Nine bullets, 50 Cent? Pfffftttt. Call me when you have 21 chromosomes. That’s street credibility.
* Sorry, that’s California Scientologist hipster musician parlance. From about ten years ago. My apologies.
** “Northern Touch” is what precedes the “Southern Touch”. The Southern Touch will get you a sticky hand, a short prison term and a series of school-related restraining orders.
Tony Dungy: …it’s a gameplan that has been successful for us in the past, and it’s the gameplan that will get us past the Packers on Sunday. Now give me a ‘team’ on three. One, two, three…
Team: (in unison) TEAM!
Dungy: Good stuff. Now, before we break for the day, let’s do the weekly confessions.
Peyton Manning: (pumps fist)
Adam Vinatieri: (glares at Manning)
Dungy: Bow your heads.
(Team bows heads)
Dungy: O Lord, you know us better than we know ourselves. When we fail, you wish to restore us. We come to you believing your promise of grace and forgiveness. And for that we wish to confess our sins.
Team: (in unison) Amen.
Dungy: Now…who wants to go first?
(Peyton Manning’s hand instantly shoots up)
Dungy: Alright. Peyton.
Manning: Thanks Coach. I’ve been wantin’ to get this off m’chest fer a few days now.
Dungy: Go ahead, Peyton.
Manning: It was durin’ Monday’s film study sesh’un. ‘Member when I got up to go to the bathroom? Well, I took a bit longer in there than I was hopin’, and I didn’t wanna miss video of any of muh incompletions from Sunday, so’s I could learn from ’em…
Reggie Wayne: (rolls eyes)
Manning: …an’ so I…and I ain’t proud of this…I came out of there without washing muh hands. I didn’t even rinse ’em.
Dungy: That’s fine, Peyton.
Manning: I’d jus’ like to apologize to m’teammates, ‘specially those of you with whom I may have shaken hands or shared muh Oreos.
Dungy: Alright then. Who’s next?
Jim Sorgi: I can’t read.
Dungy: We know that, son.
Sorgi: No, I’m not just talking about the playbook. I mean…I’m illiterate.
Manning: (smirks, shakes head condescendingly)
Dungy: That’s very brave of you to admit, Jim. And we certainly will get you help with that.
Sorgi: (wipes eyes) Thanks, Coach. (Hugs Jeff Saturday)
Dominic Rhodes: Me, Coach.
Dungy: Go ahead, Dominic.
Rhodes: It has to do with my time in Oakland.
Dungy: What about it?
Rhodes: I drank blood.
Dungy: Excuse me?
Rhodes: Human blood. Al Davis made me. He makes everybody. If you don’t, he won’t let you use the showers.
Dungy: Um…well…at least you now see that it was wrong. Thanks for sharing. Anyone else?
Vinatieri: LOOKS LIKE THAT’S IT COACH!
Dungy: No one has anything they would like to get off their chest?
Dungy: Not one of you has something that they have been hiding for a long period of time? Some deep, dark part of them they keep tucked away deep inside? Something they would like to finally share in the safety and sanctity of a room full of brothers, who will love them and accept them unconditionally no matter what they might be involved in?
(Everyone turns towards Marvin Harrison)
Harrison: What’s everybody looking at? I’ve got nothing to confess.
Vinatieri: FOR GOD’S SAKE JUST TELL US MARVIN!
Dungy: (surprised) Adam! Settle down! (to Harrison) There is no one here that will judge you, Marvin.
Harrison: I know that, Coach. But really, I’m fine.
Manning: C’mon, Marv. We’re yer family.
Harrison: (sighs) Listen. I know what everybody’s thinking. But that whole thing is just a bunch of baloney.
Dungy: Go on, son.
Harrison: Look, I’m not going to deny that I knew the guy who got shot, that it happened near my bar, or that a gun I owned was involved. But did it ever occur to you that this guy came into my bar, started trouble, and I simply kicked him out? And that maybe someone else who was there, someone who had problems with this guy, took the gun that I keep stored at the bar, to protect it from being robbed, took it without me knowing, followed the guy down the road, got into an argument with him, and then shot him? I mean, some of you guys have known me for thirteenyears! Have you ever known me to get into any kind of trouble before?
Dungy: No we haven’t. And if you say that’s how it happened, that’s how it happened. No one doubts your word, Marvin.
Harrison: Well, thanks Coach. That means a lot to me.
Dungy: Okay, unless there is anything else, that’s it for…
Vinatieri: WELL LOOKS LIKE THERE’S NO ONE ELSE COACH!
Dungy: (eyes Vinatieri suspiciously) Alright then. Get a good night’s sleep everybody, and see you back here tomorrow.
(Team files out of meeting room)
Manning: (to Harrison) Y’know I never doubted you, Marv. (opens arms) C’mere.
Harrison: (whispers to Manning) You know I dream about burying your ass every single night, don’t you, Cracker? And I wake up every morning with the biggest god damn smile on my face, happy as can be.
Harrison: It’s gonna happen. And it won’t be the first time I’ve done it. Count on it.
Manning: Hmm. (confused) Wait a sec, what’d you say, Marv? Hey, Marv! Wait up…!
Hunter Smith: (to Vinatieri) Hey Adam, feel like getting some extra practice in? I’ll hold for you.
Vinatieri: Uh, no, you go ahead home, Hunter. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.
(Smith leaves. Vinatieri is alone in meeting room. He carefully surveys the room, then shuffles over to overhead projector and leans towards it)
Vinatieri: Vinatieri on.
(Suddenly, a tiny hologram of Bill Belichick appears on panel of projector)
Belichick: Your report.
Vinatieri: C-coach Belichick, I d-don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. I’m starting to think that Coach Dungy is on to me and…
Belichick: SILENCE! Need I remind you of the 2007 AFC Championship game? Do you really wish to fail me twice?
Vinatieri: (lowers head, sighs) Petyon Manning goes to the bathroom without washing his hands.
That’s right – today is the Canadian federal election, when Canucks from Dildo, Newfoundland to Klukshu, Yukon head to the polls in the hopes of ushering in yet another minority government. Huzzah! But who should one vote for in turbulent times such as these? How can we be expected to circumnavigate the treacherous waters of Canadian politics and decide between the unknown players, now that Wayne Gretzky has decided (again) not to stand for election? Fortunately, Food Court Lunch is here to help, with its “How To” Guide for the 2008 Canadian Election:
Step 1 – Find a Polling Station (also know as “One of Them Places What Where They Takes My Name and Gives Me A Slip Of Paper To Vote For Cousin(t) Earl”). But be warned – notwithstanding the confusing title, a “polling station” is different from a strip club (except in Nova Scotia). Butter Chicken found this out the hard way last year.
Step 2 – Register to Vote. If you’re reading this on the day of the election (which coincidentally is the day on which this half-assed post was conceived) and you have not taken advance steps to register, fear not! Our backward little nation still accepts the “vouching” system. What is that, you ask? Why, that is where you can tell the election officials that you vouch for Jim as in fact being “Jim”. Fortunately, Jim can do the same for you, so essentially ID is optional. And if you live in the North, you pretty much just have to show up with pants on.
Step 3 – Cast Your Vote. Our system stills works on the technical “slip of paper” system, so you need not fear any “hanging chads” in our neck of the deep woods. However, you do have to possess the requisite motor skills to make a “tick” in the appropriate box. For those of you that have trouble finding box, it can be a difficult struggle. I personally searched for box for most of my adult life, to no avail. Box can be quite elusive, but once you find it the process is over in a matter of seconds.
Well, that’s pretty much it. In the event that you are unfamiliar with the candidates, here are your options (choose wisely – we don’t want just anybody forming part of this minority government):
A critical look at the headlines that shape our world
Just a reminder to our American readers (i.e., NSA surveillance operatives, the infirm and the unemployed) that Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving today. Notwithstanding our respect for the injuns from which we wrested this great nation, on to the headlines!
I know, the whole “Isn’t it Ironic” angle is getting tired. Well, excuse me mister cutting-edge. Maybe you don’t understand the pressures and constant deadlines that come with writing for a top-notch not-for-profit website. That’s right: not-for-profit. How the hell am I supposed to feed my kids?
The Detroit Red Wings, the 2008 Stanley Cup Champions, kicked off their regular season last night with an impressive trifecta: (i) a loss to the Toronto Maple Leafs, whose bench is about as deep as Paris Hilton, (ii) a live performance from every hockey fan’s favourite songstress, Alanis Morrissette, and (iii) a barely living performance from 80s rockers Def Leppard.
The latter of these would not have been so bad had it not been for the decision to pass the Stanley Cup to the band during their performance. Apparently, 1980s British rock icons are not overly familiar with the design of Lord Stanley’s Cup (or with basic cup design generally), as demonstrated by Joe Elliott’s decision to precariously place our nation’s most hallowed trophy upside down on an elevated pedestal:
Thanks for coming out, Joe. Love may bite, but so do 6000 angry hockey fans… They also c*ck-punch indiscriminately.
(Air Canada Centre. Andrea Bargnani stands in front of the mirror in the Raptors’ weight room, doing bicep curls)
Bargnani: Ninety-eight…Ninety-nine…push, push…cento! (drops weights to ground; the fifteen pound dumbbells land with a soft thud) GAAAHHHHHH! It burns!
(Chris Bosh and Jermaine O’Neal, riding stationary bikes, glance over at Bargnani)
O’Neal: Check out Andrea, man. That guy kills me.
Bosh: Heh. Guy gains fifteen pounds over the summer, and all of a sudden he’s Lou Ferrigno.
(Jose Calderon, smiling, walks past Bargnani with a jar of olives)
Bargnani: Jose! Let Bargnani help you witta you jar.
Calderon: Oh, is okay, Andrea. I can manage.
Bargnani: I say gimme you jar! (snatches jar from Calderon; struggles to open it)
Calderon: (taken aback) Oh my!
Bargnani: (can’t open jar)HEEEYYYAAAAGGGHHHH! (throws jar off wall; it smashes)
Calderon: Gasp! (runs terrified from room)
Bosh: (shaking head) This boy is out of control.
O’Neal: Follow my lead. I’ll show you what we did when the same thing happened to Primoz Brezec in Indiana.
(Bargnani pushes teenage towel attendant to the side; walks over to chin up bar and attempts chin-up)
O’Neal: (walking over) Hoo-boy! Bargs, man – have you put on some muscle?
Bargnani: (struggling mightily; drops to floor) You need help witta you glasses or some-sing?
Bosh: Man, you are looking ripped, buddy! Ain’t nobody going to push you around in the paint this year.
Bargnani: (smiling smugly) They better no even try.
O’Neal: I’ll say. I’d say you are the story of camp so far. Except for…well, you know.
Bargnani: Except for what?
O’Neal: You know. Him.
Bargnani: Who him?
O’Neal: Nathan Jawai, man. The Aussie Shaq?
Bargnani: What about him?
O’Neal: They say he’s coming for your job, man.
Bosh: Yeah, yeah. He’s got you in his sights.
Bargnani: (shakes head) S’impossible. He has yet to even play, and his heart, it no work. And besides…(points to biceps)…he is certainly no Bargnani.
Bosh: All’s I’m saying is that I overheard Coach Mitchell and Colangelo talking, and they were saying that this guy is a beast. And they were also saying that…well, that he made you look a little soft in comparison.
Bargnani: What? But Bargnani is not soft!
Bosh: (backs away) Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, big man. I couldn’t believe it either. But that’s what I heard.
Bargnani: (squeezes fists together angrily) So that is what they say, do they?
O’Neal: Hey, settle down, Bargs. It’s not worth getting worked up over. But if I were you, I’d be looking to prove to Coach and B.C. that they don’t know what they are talking about.
O’Neal: Well…there’s Nathan right over there by the sink. Go show him what’s what.
Bargnani: You…you mean like to fight?
Bosh: Do what you gotta do, man. Just show him who the boss is.
Bargnani: You…you think Bargnani can take him?
O’Neal: What? Course you can, man. He’s Australian. They’re, like, the most meek, mild-mannered people on the planet. You remember the Crocodile Hunter? Guy got taken down by a little ol’ jellyfish.
Bargnani: Heh. Andrea eats jelly and fettucini for his breakfast.
O’Neal: Um…yeah. Point is, you have to show him that if he wants to step up to you, you are ready to battle.
Bargnani: (nodding furiously) Si…you are right. Bargnani is warrior…he is animal!
O’Neal: That’s what I’m talking about, baby. Go get ‘im!
Bargnani: Hey! Mister Baby Shaq!
(Nathan Jawai, adjusting his tie in mirror, turns around)
Jawai: Oh…’ello there, Andrea. Wot kin I do for ya?
Bargnani: I’m a gonna tell you what you can do. You canna tell everybody inna this room that you no half the man that Bargnani is!
Jawai: Not sure I follow you there, mate.
Bargnani: Oh, you donna follow, eh? How ’bout you follow when I do THIS! (snatches Archie Comic from hands of Joey Graham, who sits nearby. Bargnani struggles, but eventually tears it in two)
Jawai: You seem a mite on edge today, big fella. Anything I kin help you with?
Bargnani: Tell them! (gestures to rest of weight room) Tell them that next to Bargnani, you is a little girl!
Jawai: Well I kin’t rightly do that now, kin I mate? But tell you wot – how ’bout we go have a bee-yar and we kin put all this non-since to rest?
Bargnani: Or, how about I putta you to rest! (winds-up to throw a punch)
Jawai: Wot’s this now?
(Due to Bargnani’s enormous wingspan, punch takes several seconds)
Bargnani: When I’mma donna witta you face, they gonna need to fix you up like Nicole Kidman!
Jawai: Alright, that’s quite enough owt’a you.
(Jawai gently shoves Bargnani in the chest. Bargnani immediately starts to sway backwards, swinging his arms to regain his balance. The strap on his weightlifting glove catches in a nearby ceiling fan, lifting Bargnani in the air and swinging him violently. The strap untangles itself, sending Bargnani hurtling across the room, where he lands directly on top of the barbell that Jamario Moon is bench pressing (sans plates). Moon, failing to notice Bargnani, finishes his last of ten reps with a violent push, tossing Bargnani again into the air. Bargnani lands feet first, but slips on a floor full of loose olives, which causes him to fall backwards into a mesh bag full of basketballs)
Bosh: Well I’ll be…
(Jawai walks over to Bargnani, pulls the strap on the mesh bag tight, and proceeds to bounce around the room like a kangaroo, bouncing the Bargnani ball bag directly in front of him)
Jawai: Say, looky ‘ere, everybody! I reckon we’ve got two Joeys on this team now!
(Team gathers around, laughing uproariously)
Graham: Heh heh. He means me.
Bosh: (to O’Neal) So who’d you sick Brezec on?
Bosh: Wow. How’d that work out?
O’Neal: Pretty much the same, actually. So, what do you want to do now?
Bosh: Dunno. Go see Tropic Thunder?
Bosh: “Pump your brakes, kid. That movie’s a national treasure.”
O’Neal: Alright. Say, should we stop this?
Bosh: Naw. Good for the team. Look how much fun everybody’s having.
If you’re like me, you fall well within the confines of the “obese” category on the BMI scale, you have recently incorporated a pimp cane into your ensemble in an effort to appear more “street”, and you have a passion for movies that are premised upon inner-city dance competitions (in which you hope to one day compete):
Also, you love video games. And movies about video games. And porn. And movies about porn. I guess that’s just porn. Also, movies about porn video games.
In any event, my long-time compatriot and fellow gamer, Mr. Fruit Smoothie, Esq., and I recently had the great fortune to watch The King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters while recovering from a debilitating hangover. Without exaggeration, I can safely say that this is the greatest cinematic masterpiece since You Got Served. But don’t take my word for it, Mr. Doubty McSmartypants. Feast your eyes on this cherry offering:
In short, the plot involves a timeless battle between an uber-douche named “Billy” and a down-on-his-luck science teacher named “Steve” who lock horns in a fight to the death. And by “fight to the death”, I of course mean “fight for the Donkey Kong title of the world”. I will not reveal how the saga ultimately plays out, but suffice it to say that F.S. and I were on the edge of our respective seats for the entire rollercoaster. It was like watching an amalgam of Saving Private Ryan, Shaving Ryan’s Privates, The Goonies, The Notebook, all of the Batmans, 3 of the Indian Jones’ and a smattering of Sophie’s Choice. There was action, drama, laughter, tears, excessive virginity and a nerd factor that made even Gourmet Spud seem cool. In many ways, it was like watching our own lives unfold on the silver screen (except that no one paid us to make a movie about our lives as social pariahs…).
Which got me wondering why no such movie had been made (as yet…). After all, I too spent an inordinate amount of my youth playing videogames while others were out sampling the buffet of adolescent (& adult) coital encounters. Where’s my movie? Perhaps I am not a potential world record holder, you say? Wrong, jerkstore. My legendary prowess at NHL ’93 is the stuff of legends (hence why it is “legendary”). Oh sure, Fruit Smoothie will claim that HIS skills are superior to mine, but we both know that is only because he banned my dreaded wrap-around move!! You allow me access to my full arsenal of tricks, and I pity the fool who picks up that early 1990s Sega Genesis controller. I believe my highlight reel speaks for itself:
Not good enough? Fortunately, I am also a potential world record holder in another videogame classic: World Games. Now before you start accusing me of hubris, I will admit that I cannot profess to be a world leader in all events. Rather, I confine my claims to “World’s Greatest” to two events: barrel jumping and cliff diving. Again, I believe my resume (pronounced “resumee” – I cannot find the accent key) speaks for itself:
In conclusion, to all Hollywood execs reading this blog (and I know there are at least four of you): I am ready to make a movie about my exciting life as a shut-in virgin. Please contact me to discuss licensing and distribution rights (but call before 10:00, as my mom gets pissed when people call after bed time). I am picturing Johnny Depp as the lead, but I am easy. I will also consider Mark Wahlberg, Tom Cruise (on sedatives) or Tom Arnold. I look forward to hearing from you.
Executive – ‘Morning, Betty. What’s shaking today? Can’t believe the traffic this morning. If more people took the bus, it wouldn’t be that bad. Ha! Ha! Ha! Just a little bit of advertising. Preaching to the choir, though, eh? Hey, why the long face, Betty?
Betty (the Receptionist) – Umm, you didn’t listen to the news this morning, did you?
Executive – No, I had a CD on in the car. Josh Groban. You heard of this kid? Incredibly talented. I am not a fan of that kind of music ordinarily, but there is something about his voice that just…
Betty – Sir, you really should look at the paper.
Executive – Why, is there something about Josh Groban in it?
Betty – No, there’s nothing about Josh Groban. You should really read the paper, though. I have one right here.
Executive – Why are you being so cryptic, Betty? What’s so important in the paper? (Grabs newspaper) I don’t even know what article you are….
Betty – The phone has been ringing off the hook since I got in. Head office in the States has been trying to get through to you.
Executive – What the fuck am I supposed to be doing about it? Sew the guy’s head back on? Jesus H. Fucking Christ.
Betty – People are worried about their safety on buses, sir.
Executive – Oh, come on. This has to be some sort of freak occurrence. You can’t tell me that people actually think that this is going to happen to them.
Betty – It’s kind of gruesome. Of course people are worried.
Executive – This could have happened anywhere…the shopping mall, a train station…for fuck’s sake, why do they keep on mentioning “Greyhound” in this article? What difference does it make what kind of bus it is? Here. Here. Again, right here. Can’t they just say “a bus”? CAN’T THEY JUST SAY “A BUS”?
Betty – Sir, calm down. Getting angry won’t solve anything. Don’t lose your head over this, sir.
Executive – Funny, Betty, real funny.
Betty – Oh, I didn’t mean…
Executive – Go fuck yourself, Betty. We are capital-F fucked right now. Head office is going to have our heads over this. Shit, that was terrible phrasing. Remind me never to use that expression again. Jesus, we are going to have to do some crazy damage control.
Betty – ….Um, actually, it’s worse than you thought.
Executive – How could it possibly be worse?
Betty – Remember the advertising campaign we’re running right now?
Executive – Fuck. Me.
Betty – Sir, that’s head office on line one. Something about “I’ll show them bus rage.”
Executive – I’ll take the call in my office. My door will be closed. IT STAYS CLOSED, BETTY!
August 6, 2008
Executive – Betty, I swear to God, this has been the worst week of my life.
Betty – It has been stressful, sir. No doubt about that.
Executive – Well, at least it has been dying down a bit. We can weather this if things stay quiet for the next little while. As long as no one says anything stupid or does anything stupid, we should be okay. Nice and quiet. Keep your fingers crossed, Betty.
Betty – Sir, this flyer just came in the mail for you.
Executive – That’s strange. I’m not a member of PETA. I don’t really know why they would be sending…
Betty – Sir, you don’t look very well. Do you need to sit down?
Executive – I will be at the liquor store. And then my office. No calls today, Betty. NO CALLS!
October 2, 2008
Executive – I am not kidding, Betty. I need a new job. I need a fresh start. Working here is killing me.
Betty – Then it’s not just our passengers…
Executive – What was that, Betty?
Betty – Nothing, sir. Nothing.
Executive – I cannot recall a stretch that has ever been this bad. I mean, of all the things to happen on a bus. I mean, I can even understand decapitation. We all reach our limits, I guess, but cannibalism? On a Greyhound bus? Come on, that’s just piling on.
DISCLAIMER: In the event that you are inexplicably confused by our site, this is parody (poorly executed, but parody nonetheless). For the sake of clarity, however, please note that the opinions expressed in the Comments section of this site are NOT moderated or endorsed in any way by the authors of this site, who do not understand HTML and can scarcely manage to post items themselves