“Mr. Hobo, this is Fred Rice, our new weatherman. He will be doing his first live run today,” the secretary said.
I look at Mr. Hobo. A good run might keep him alive a little longer before that belly of his runs him over. “Uh, you look a little too rich for your name, don’t you? I mean, you’re the director.” I said.
He gave me a look that told me that right off the bat, he didn’t like me very much. That’s weird. Usually people don’t look at me like that. They give me a good slap before I can see their faces.
“So,” the cameraman says, “stand here and the map will appear behind you. Just look at my camera and tell me the weather forecast.”
“Uh, the weather will be n…”
“Wait for me to start filming!”
“Okay,” I say. I stand in front of the green cloth. It’s thick and scratchy. “Am I supposed to wear this?” I tug at the cloth.
It falls to the floor and I drape it around myself. Ooh, it’s warm. I start to sweat and my suit starts to get wet.
“No, no, no! Put that back up, Rice!”
What? I thought I was the weatherman! Now he wants me to get him Chinese food? “Uh, but I’m the weather man.”
The camera crew rushes around and before I know it, the cloth is up again. “Don’t… touch… the green screen!” The cameraman shouts.
What green screen? Does he mean the cloth? “Um, excuse me, Mr. Cameraman…”
“My name’s Benjamin Jamin.”
“Uh, Mr. Jamin…”
“Call me Ben.”
“Uh, Ben Jamin.”
“No… just Ben!”
“So Ben…” Wait, what were we talking about again? “Never mind. I forgot what was going to say.”
“Say the weather.”
“The weather.”
“No, no, no! What is the forecast?”
“The forecast? Forecast is um, what I tell the people live on TV.”
The cameraman looked like he was going to puke. He hissed at me, “Good job. Just remember that. You are live on TV so everyone in America could be watching what is happening right now.”
“Uh huh.” My wiener started to itch. Maybe it was the green cloth. My wiener is probably allergic to the material. “Uh, excuse me, but where’s the men’s room?”
“Don’t go to the men’s room now!”
“Why not?” Well if they didn’t want me leaving, I guess I’ll have to scratch my balls right here. I unzip my fly.
“What are you doing… what, no. No, no. Rice, stop.”
“Oh yeah, that’s the spot.”
“You know what, Rice? Go ahead to the men’s room. It’s down that hall, the first door on the right.”
“Gee, thanks.” I run off stage and realize that I actually have to pee. I dash into the first door I see down the hallway. Yanking open a stall, I pull down my pants and relieve myself. Then I realized that I wasn’t peeing in a urinary. I was peeing into a toilet bowl and the smelly yellow liquid was spraying all over the seat…which I forgot to put up, by the way.
Without bothering to pull up my pants, I open the stall door and run to the urinary that is against the wall. As I pee, I realized that the urinary is rather high. Wait, is that a faucet? Oh, I must be peeing in a sink. Ummmm, too late. I wash my hands in the sink which conveniently flushed itself and is surprisingly close to me.
I wonder why no one’s ever thought of this before. Peeing in the sink is so much easier. And it works on my aim, too.
I’m about to walk out when I realized that while I was thinking about how nice it is to pee in the sink, I forgot to pull my pants up. I reach for my belt, when a short man with large moobs and long hair walks through the door. He takes one look at me and screams a very high-pitched scream. I realize that he’s wearing a dress. He’s a woman!
“Uh, excuse me, lady, but this is the men’s room.”
“No, you idiot, this is the ladies room! The men’s room is across the hall! Get out of here before I call the cops in you!”
“No, ma’am, you don’t understand. This is the men’s room there’s even a urinary to prove it.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered that there are actually no urinaries. I had peed in the sink. Oh yeah.
The woman was so disgusted she just pushed past me and I could hear her sit down in the first stall. I could also hear scream, “Eeeeeeeeeew! Why is there all this pee here? Aaah, I have it all over my tush!” She squealed some more.
“Well, I’d better be going,” I say, rushing out of the bathroom. I could hear her yell, “Why that dirty twit, I’m going to get him back some day!”
I was almost completely down the hallway when I realized my pants were still down. I run down the hall as fast as I can while I try to get my pants back up. Just then I crash into something very big and flabby. I stumble and end up sitting on something hard, but still flabby. “OWWWWWWWWWWWWW,” the thing under my left butt cheek shouts. I stand up and realize Mr. Hobo is lying on the floor underneath me. Oops.
Just then the woman who had accidentally walked into the men’s room came out of the door on the left side of the doorway. She dropped her purse and started screaming at me. “Just look at what you’ve done! There’s urine all over the bathroom and now you are sitting on my husband’s face with your pants pulled down! I’m really going to call the cops on you now!”
“What? I’m sitting on Mr. Hobo, my boss. He can’t your husband. He’s too ugly to get married. And so are you. Hmm, maybe he is your husband.”
The woman whipped out her phone and dialed a three-digit number. She held the phone to her ear. “Yes? This is an emergency, but you can take your time. Our criminal is probably too stupid to even try to run away anyway.”
I sat in the waiting room of the court with handcuffs on. A cop was saying to me, “You have the right to remain silent.”
“To remain silent? How is that a right? I love to talk! In fact I can speak three different languages. English, uh, um, what other languages were they? Oh! Wait, have I mentioned English yet? Well…”
“Yes, yes I get it.”
“So do I get to go to court now? I heard that the room is…”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go. As I was saying… you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney –”
“Sure.”
We walked into this big room with these two podiums. I stood behind one of them. Mrs. Hobo stood behind the other. Then a woman walked in. She was short and had a biggish head. Her puffy orange hair made her head look even bigger. She was wearing too much makeup; all in the wrong colors. I mean, who puts on red lipstick? It made her look like she had a watermelon for a head. She walked over to a big desk in front of the podiums. “All rise. You’ve been sworn in and I’ve read your complaints. Mrs. Hobo –”
“Why is everyone standing up?”
Miss Watermelon Head glared at me like I was being fresh or something. “As I was saying,” she continued, “Mrs. Hobo, you say that Mr. Rice here sat on your husband’s face on purpose. Is that correct?”
Mrs. Hobo scowled. “He also had his pants pulled down.”
Miss Watermelon Head looked confused. “Your husband had his pants pulled down?”
“No, no. This, this freak here pulled his pants down when he sat on my husband’s face.”
“Oh goodness gracious. Mr. Rice, is this true? Did you pull your pants down and sit on Mrs. Hobo’s husband on purpose?”
“Well there are two parts to that question,” I said, feeling very intelligent. “I did pull my pants down on purpose. I did not sit on Mr. Hobo’s face on purpose. That was on accident.”
“You mean ‘by accident’?”
“That’s what I said, right? On accident.”
Miss Watermelon Head sighed like I was stupid or something.
“There are some things that Mrs. Hobo left out when she was saying bad things about me,” I continued. “Before I sat on Mr. Hobo’s face, I accidentally peed in the toilet.”
“What’s so bad about that?” Miss Watermelon Head asked.
“About what?”
“Peeing in the toilet.”
I rolled my eyes. Obviously this woman had never been in the men’s room. I would have to explain some things to her. “You’re supposed to pee in the urinary. You poop in the toilet. And to top it all off, I didn’t even lift the seat before I started to pee!”