Pain… so much pain…
The priest pats my ankle and tells me everything is going to be fine.
No it won’t. I’ve been nailed up here all morning.
All I’ve known in this life has been pain.
And it fucking hurts like Hell.
I wish they’d never found my blood on the Spear of Destiny. With the DNA, it took the cloners four months, and now they’re geared for global mass-production.
Truly, it’s Communion gone mad.
If I were fed pieces of myself, would they turn to wine and crackers in my stomach?
I feel the knife.
Damn you all!
Les Nessman put the disk in his DVD player and hit Play.
He stabbed the button a few more times.
He shrugged and wandered off to lunch.
Johnny Fever stepped over Les’ tape-wall, opened the tray, and turned it right side up.
Two hours hardcore of Jennifer and Bailey, all for Les.
He popped out the DVD, ripped a copy of Snow White, and put it in the tray.
Les came back from lunch and tried again.
Later that day, Les was slapped twice for saying he thought Dopey’s kiss was the cutest of all.
There was a running gag on WKRP that Les Nessman appeared with a bandage somewhere on his body. Richard Sanders showed up one day with a bandage on, and the writers decided to keep it going throughout the series.
Sometimes, the bandage is not easy to spot.
Those are the episodes you can assume that Les had a really bad evening the night before with a crackwhore, and she (or he) wasn’t very delicate with Les’s various important appendages.
Who am I kidding? This is Les Nessman, dammit! No crackwhore will do.
Um… Bailey and Jennifer in a Les Sandwich!
I suppose if Martians had invaded Cincinnati, the public would have turned to Les Nessman for coverage.
After all, Les doesn’t just live and breathe news, but he practically oozes it.
By licking Les Nessman, you might experience a news hallucination, much like thrill-seekers lick certain species of toads for the vision-inducing properties.
No wonder why Johnny Fever was totally out of it. In his off-hours, he licked Les Nessman.
Did he imagine he was licking Loni Anderson instead?
Of course not. That would induce something entirely different. Something which I’ll refrain from repeating here openly, if you don’t mind.
It didn’t take long for Isaac Parker to establish himself as “The Hanging Judge” when he came to Ft. Smith in 1875, but have you ever heard of “The Shove A Wild Monkey Up Their Ass Judge?”
Unlike Parker, Judge Augustus Marmoset had absolutely no compassion whatsoever, even for the victims. They were just as likely to hear “Shove a monkey up that son of a bitch!” as criminals dragged into his court.
Back then, monkeys were rare and expensive, so he eventually ran out.
That’s when he started using midgets in monkey suits…
Oh, NOW you’ve heard of him?
Sally sipped her drink and sighed.
Bachelor Number One was a lawyer. An excellent dancer, but a total asshole when drunk. She had the scars to prove it.
Bachelor Number Two was a mechanic. All he did was talk about cars, work on cars, and he often came to bed without washing his greasy, grimy hands.
Bachelor Number Three lived in his parents’ basement. He wore pajamas and insulted liberal journalists on the Internet all day.
Sally reached into her purse, flicked a switch, and felt a reassuring hum.
As usual, she ended up going home with “Bachelor Number Four.”
I knew I’d win. Inviting the jury to a party at my ranch did the trick.
Surprisingly, none of them tattled on me, despite huge rewards those nasty tabloids offered.
My fans, they love me.
It’s hard to celebrate, though. My back is killing me, but the pills they give me don’t help anymore.
They aren’t completely useless, though. Mix them right, and you get GHB. That takes care of the memories.
A nice hot shower washes away the physical evidence.
But never mind all that. Thanks for helping me with my pants, Johnny. Now help me with my shirt.