“So let me get this straight,” Brian started as he loomed over Biscuit Pisser, arms crossed authoritatively but eyes blank and glazed as the skydonuts he wished he was eating. “Er, Dougie, help me get this straight.”
“So let me help Brian get this straight,” Dougie started, flipping through his notedly non-sexual notes, “You were drunk, but you weren’t captaining the ship? Because the original captain was murdered by an ostrich with a magic machete? And furthermore, you were not steering the ship when it crashed? Instead, your friend, who was measurably less drunk than you yet somewhat still intoxicated, was steering? ”
“I mean if you call that steering. Really she just got herself caught on the wheel and couldn’t stop spinning.”
“Couldn’t…stop…spinning…alright, got it all written down.”
“I love how you take notes, it’s so smooth,” sighed Brian in admiration, “Some day you’ve got to teach me how to, Dougie.”
“Can you two wait to flirt with eachother til after you’re done interrogating me?”
“Hey now lady,” Brian asserted, “I only ever flirt with the people I’m interrogating I’ll have you know.”
“Simmer down, Brian.”
“Don’t tell me which direction to simmer, Dougie! If I want to simmer up cock hamnit I’m going to simmer up!”
Dougie sighed and pulled Brian’s lumbering form aside and down to his level, peacefully whispering in his ear, “Look, Brian. You can simmer however you want to simmer, okay? But I think we’ll both be happier if instead of focusing on which direction you’re simmering and how strong that simmer is you just…try your best to do your job.”
Brian’s eyes grew teary. “Thank you. You’re so emotionally centered. I wish I could center myself. Maybe you can teach me how to, Dougie.”
“Wait a second, Brian!” Dougie gasped, “Where’d she go?”
They looked around, eventually spotting Biscuit Pisser scaling up the creaking hull of the Floating Englishwoman with a large decantur of vodka hanging from a strap she was clutching in her teeth.
“Looks like we’ve got a runner,” Brian tried to look cool while he pulled up his pants. “You know what that means, Dougie?”
“Oh you know I do.”
They began to search the ship, violently smashing glass whenever they came in contact with it, shredding papers, farting on deckhands, and planting drugs in places they found humorous. Finally, they came upon a small storage closet. The door knob was slightly sticking, so Brian pulled it off the hinges and tossed the door aside, unknowingly bludgeoning another deckhand.
“What in cock’s glorious name is that?!” sputtered Brian, staring at a lanky, rubbery ostrich with a cigarette hanging out of its mouth.
“Why it looks like that ostrich is having a smoke, Brian.”
“Looks like it’s smoking faster now that we’ve showed up.”
“Say, Brian, look at my notes.”
Brian looked at Dougie’s neatly written text that did not even include nude sketches in the margins. “Beautiful notes, Dougie.”
“Let me rephrase that. Read my notes, Brian.”
Two figures stirred inn the shadows behind the ostrich.
“Looks like we’ve got a couple of oinkers on our tail!”
“Cluff em up, Wonawldo!”
A magic machete fired through the air and into Dougie’s neck. He fell back, sputtering.
“Dougie!” wailed Brian, dropping to his knees in red faced terror. “Dougie! Dougie, speak to me!”
“AaaaAaaaaggghhck!” Dougie attempted to gurgle something out, but the blade in his neck made it impossible.
“Such soft, dulcet tones,” wept Brian.
“AaaaaaAAAaaaagghhck?”
“If only I could speak so sweetly. Tell me you’ll teach me how to, Dougie.”
Before Dougie could die, a large beak chomped down on the upper half of Brian, tearing him to bits. Then, the smoking ostrich fainted.
“So let me get this straight,” Brian started as he loomed over Biscuit Pisser, arms crossed authoritatively but eyes blank and glazed as the skydonuts he wished he was eating. “Er, Dougie, help me get this straight.”
“So let me help Brian get this straight,” Dougie started, flipping through his notedly non-sexual notes, “You were drunk, but you weren’t captaining the ship? Because the original captain was murdered by an ostrich with a magic machete? And furthermore, you were not steering the ship when it crashed? Instead, your friend, who was measurably less drunk than you yet somewhat still intoxicated, was steering? ”
“I mean if you call that steering. Really she just got herself caught on the wheel and couldn’t stop spinning.”
“Couldn’t…stop…spinning…alright, got it all written down.”
“I love how you take notes, it’s so smooth,” sighed Brian in admiration, “Some day you’ve got to teach me how to, Dougie.”
“Can you two wait to flirt with eachother til after you’re done interrogating me?”
“Hey now lady,” Brian asserted, “I only ever flirt with the people I’m interrogating I’ll have you know.”
“Simmer down, Brian.”
“Don’t tell me which direction to simmer, Dougie! If I want to simmer up cock hamnit I’m going to simmer up!”
Dougie sighed and pulled Brian’s lumbering form aside and down to his level, peacefully whispering in his ear, “Look, Brian. You can simmer however you want to simmer, okay? But I think we’ll both be happier if instead of focusing on which direction you’re simmering and how strong that simmer is you just…try your best to do your job.”
Brian’s eyes grew teary. “Thank you. You’re so emotionally centered. I wish I could center myself. Maybe you can teach me how to, Dougie.”
“Wait a second, Brian!” Dougie gasped, “Where’d she go?”
They looked around, eventually spotting Biscuit Pisser scaling up the creaking hull of the Floating Englishwoman with a large decantur of vodka hanging from a strap she was clutching in her teeth.
“Looks like we’ve got a runner,” Brian tried to look cool while he pulled up his pants. “You know what that means, Dougie?”
“Oh you know I do.”
They began to search the ship, violently smashing glass whenever they came in contact with it, shredding papers, farting on deckhands, and planting drugs in places they found humorous. Finally, they came upon a small storage closet. The door knob was slightly sticking, so Brian pulled it off the hinges and tossed the door aside, unknowingly bludgeoning another deckhand.
“What in cock’s glorious name is that?!” sputtered Brian, staring at a lanky, rubbery ostrich with a cigarette hanging out of its mouth.
“Why it looks like that ostrich is having a smoke, Brian.”
“Looks like it’s smoking faster now that we’ve showed up.”
“Say, Brian, look at my notes.”
Brian looked at Dougie’s neatly written text that did not even include nude sketches in the margins. “Beautiful notes, Dougie.”
“Let me rephrase that. Read my notes, Brian.”
Two figures stirred inn the shadows behind the ostrich.
“Looks like we’ve got a couple of oinkers on our tail!”
“Cluff em up, Wonawldo!”
A magic machete fired through the air and into Dougie’s neck. He fell back, sputtering.
“Dougie!” wailed Brian, dropping to his knees in red faced terror. “Dougie! Dougie, speak to me!”
“AaaaAaaaaggghhck!” Dougie attempted to gurgle something out, but the blade in his neck made it impossible.
“Such soft, dulcet tones,” wept Brian.
“AaaaaaAAAaaaagghhck?”
“If only I could speak so sweetly. Tell me you’ll teach me how to, Dougie.”
Before Dougie could die, a large beak chomped down on the upper half of Brian, tearing him to bits. Then, the smoking ostrich fainted.
