Lance climbed back into the cabin. “Story time?”
“It’s titled Die Laughing, which you already know, I imagine.”
“I do. A comedian. Outrageous. He’s bulletproof. American Indian. Retired, decorated Navy vet. Queer. Brainiac. PhD. In theology, a masters in computer science, another in diplomacy. Daffy Donald. Love the name. Tell me more.”
“Yes, he is bulletproof. He can get away with shit that no one else, not even Trump, can get away with, because of his background. Double oppressed minority, patriot, hero, religious expert, expert in diplomacy.”
“He doesn’t have to be diplomatic when he’s bulletproof. He can run and gun his mouth until the cows ascend to Nirvana.”
“And he does just that. One of his favourite routines is about money.”
“Gimme, gimme never gets. Don’t you know your manners yet?”
“Show me your titties!”
“Gimme, gimme never gets. Don’t you know your manners yet?”
“Show me your titties, please.”
Kitty took both hands off the wheel, turned towards Lance, laughed, “I’m such a whore,” and pulled her shirt over her face. She jiggled for thee, count ‘em, one, two, three seconds, then returned Lance to the regularly scheduled programming.
With disappointment thick in her voice, Kitty said, “You didn’t even try to grope me. You are gonna cum too soon!”
“Yeah. Me too, and all that.”
“Oh, nice double entendre! You’re funny Lance. I like that! C’mon, make me laugh some more. Gimme your money shot… pretty please!”
“Okay, but just a bit. I don’t wanna give you more than you deserve. More than you can handle.”
“Shut up and do me, big boy!”
Lance pulled out his phone, and pulled up his book. “Okay, here we go.”
The Master of Ceremonies stepped up to the microphone, and hushed the giddy crowd. ‘You’re in for a Roman orgy of laughter tonight, kids. Fresh off a sold out, three month run at Caesar’s Palace, and on his way to New York, to open his one man Broadway show, ladies and germs, Daffy Donald!’
“And the crowd went wild! Daffy strutted out as the curtain opened. He was dressed as a pimp, straight outta Compton, and on his way to the Hamptons. Over the sound system, the chorus to Jessie J’s hit, Price Tag was, booming:
It’s not about the money, money, money
We don’t want your money, money, money
Just wanna make the world… dance
Forget about the… price tag!
Then the sound of a needle scratching across vinyl, and then the needle coming off the record roared through the speakers. Daffy Donald took the microphone in hand, and laughed, ‘Don’t believe a word she says, Chicago. It’s all about the money!’
And the crowd went wild!, and Daffy sang,
It’s all about the money, money, money
I want your fucking money, money, money
Just wanna make the world… laugh
But that comes with a… price tag!
Money is the most fucked up thing that man has ever created.
Seriously. More fucked up than religion, even.
The world is full of people who don’t want any more religion in their lives.
But everyone wants more money in their lives.
Even religious people.
Every church in the world wants more money.
Even the Buddhists have their begging bowls out all the time.
Do the Buddhists want more Buddha in their lives?
They’ve got all the fucking Buddha they can stand.
They want more money.
Does the Pope want more Jesus in his life?
He’s got Jesus up the yin yang.
He wants more fucking money.
The Pope wants more money, because the Vatican has to keep shelling out billions of dollars to all those kids their priests keep raping.
Neither the Vatican, nor the rape victims, want your thoughts and prayers.
They want money.
If religious people don’t want more religion in their lives, do rich people want more money in theirs?
Does Jeff Bezos want more money in his life?
Fuck yeah, he does.
Do Warren Buffet, and Elon Musk want more money?
Fuck yeah, they do.
They can’t get enough of the filthy shit.
When some horrible tragedy results in the deaths of innocent people, do their families want your thoughts and prayers?
They want money.
Do they want the apologies of the people whose fuck ups caused the tragedy?
They want their fucking money.
They’re not suing the fuck ups for apologies, and thoughts and prayers.
They’re suing them for their fucking money.
Why are they suing for money?
Because apologies, and thoughts and prayers, are bullshit.
And, even if they wanted thoughts and prayers, lawyers sure as fuck aren’t working for anything but cold, hard cash. They want the fuckin’ money!
Do the families of the victims of tragedies want changes to legislation, and regulations that will prevent similar tragedies in the future?
So long as they’re getting money, too.
Otherwise, the only ones making money from the tragedy would be the lawyers, who are writing all the new laws, and regulations, and the lobbyists who are hired to make sure all those new laws and regulations s don’t go too far.
How the fuck is that justice?
Johnny got decapitated on a ride at Disneyland, and the only ones getting money for it are lawyers, and lobbyists?
Fuck that shit.
Now, the families of the victims always say shit like, ‘All the money in the world won’t bring Johnny back.’
And they’re absolutely rigt.
But that don’t mean they don’t want money.
What they mean is that all the money in the world isn’t enough to cover their pain and suffering… so give us a fuck of a lot of it.
How much do they want?
More! I just told you, all the money in the world won’t bring Johnny back, so just keep filling these here wheelbarrows.
They can’t actually say that shit, but we all know they’re thinking it.
And their lawyers know they’re thinking it.
The lawyers know the families are thinking it, because sooner or later, the families always ask, ‘How much do you think we’ll get?’
And the lawyer has to say, ‘Well, all the money in the world won’t bring Johnny back… ‘
And the family says, ‘No, no, of course not, but… how much do you think we’ll get?’
The family already knows that the lawyer is gonna get every dime he can get out of the people who killed little Johnny, because he’s getting a percentage – getting his pound of flesh, as Shakespeare might say – but they still want an expert opinion as to how much they’re gonna get.
The families fuckin’ eh know all the money in the world won’t bring Johnny back, but that don’t mean they’re not already spending the money they’re gonna get.
But, what’s gonna happen when less than all the money in the world will bring Johnny back?
What happens when we can clone Johnny?
At a very high price, at first, but the price will come down, over time.
Let’s say it costs a million bucks to clone Johnny.
You think that’s gonna be enough for his family?
Not a fucking chance.
Even if cloning Johnny costs a mere million bucks, they’re gonna want more.
Even if it means they get a chance to start all over with little Johnny, from infancy, and correct all the mistakes they made with him, they’re gonna want more money. because having money will help them correct all those fuck ups they made with little Johnny..
A lot of those fuck ups wouldn’t have happened if they’d had enough money to pay for these lessons, or those lessons, or a trip to Disneyland… or, oh, wait, that’s where Johnny got his head ripped off, so maybe not Disneyland.
No one wants to see that again.
And if we do, it’s on dark web YouTube, anyway.
And you know their lawyers are gonna be conniving justifications for more money… because they’re getting a percentage.
Even if little Johnny’s last name is Bezos, Buffet, or Musk, all of whom can easily afford to bring Johnny back, they ain’t gonna wanna pay for it.
They’re gonna want Disney to pay for it.
And their lawyers are gonna want as much of Disney’s money as they can get their dirty, money grubbing hands on, well above and beyond what it will cost to bring Johnny back.
But, let’s say little Johnny’s last name was Smith, or Jones, or whatever.
And the family is not rich.
And let’s say it will cost $50 million to clone Johnny.
And let’s say there is a 100% certainty that little Johnny will be just like dead little Johnny was before he got his head ripped off.
And, let’s say they can only get $50 million from Disney.
But the family can do whatever they want with the money.
I am 100% certain that the only member of the family that is 100% guaranteed to vote for bringing Johnny back is the dog.
Even Johnny’s younger siblings could not be counted on to be 100% behind bringing him back.
The younger they are, the better the odds for Johnny, but kids can be pretty evil.
They start to be poisoned by money at an early age.
And with that much money on the table, you can be damn sure their parents are gonna be giving the little fuckers a crash course on the cold, hard realities of life without money, with graphic and gruesome details, and four part harmonies.
And Johnny’s brothers and sisters are gonna remember that time he laughed at them, kept laughing, even when they were crying.
And didn’t apologize, until mom slapped him a good one.
So, the vile machinations begin.
‘Couldn’t we, maybe, bring half of him back?’ says poor, broken hearted mommy.
‘Maybe we can get Johnny cloned in Mexico,’ says poor broken hearted daddy.
‘Or China!’ says poor, broken hearted mommy, who has had a thing for Chinese boys since she was a teenager masturbating to her Bruce Lee poster.
‘Maybe we can wait a couple years, ‘til the price comes down a bit. What’s the rush?’
‘Invest some of the money. Spend a bit of it. Just a little.’
If the family happens to be Catholic, they will turn to the parish priest for guidance.
Even if Johnny’s was the sweetest little ass he ever raped – and he’d very much like to dance the chocolate cha-cha with Johnny again, especially because Johnny will be an anal virgin again – the priest will understand that the church stands to gain a sizable donation from little Johnny’s family, if they don’t piss away all that money bringing back a child who could send him to prison for the rest of his life, where he’ll be on the receiving end of the chocolate cha-cha dance, and tossing salad three times a day.
And if a ten million dollar contribution to the church will help the Pope pay the Vatican’s unsustainable ass-raping tab, imposed by various courts the world over, the priest just might find his way into Heaven, after all, if he can just quit his filthy habit.
So, after feigning a long period of tortured pontificating, the ass-raper will say, ‘You know Johnny’s in Heaven, don’t you?’ He is with God, now. What makes you think Johnny really wants to come back?’
And that’s all Johnny’s family will have to hear.
‘Father Butt Diddle is rigt, honey!’ Johnny’s broken hearted father will say. ‘Johnny’s with God, now! Up there in Heaven. Where there ain’t no Jews, or faggots. Isn’t that wonderful?’
And Johnny’s poor, broken hearted mother will say, ‘Let’s go shopping! Let’s go to Disneyland… I mean, let’s go to Busch Gardens! Do they have one in China?’
Kitty was laughing so hard she was crying. And she was wet, but not from the tears. Oh, yes, Kitty would be a happy little Queen, to the boy who would be King.
Lance enjoyed the reading, especially Kitty’s highly motivating squeals of laughter. “You’re a great audience.”
“And you, my friend, are a raconteur extraordinaire. You delivery made me think of Carlin.”
“Yeah? That’s what I’ve been aiming for. He’s my fave. I’m stealing his soul, or trying to channel it. But I have to really work on the writing as much as the delivery, because it’s a book. Just words on pages, screens. It’s impossible to convey the energy that comes with a voice, and physical, non-verbal communication. I am struggling with it. If I don’t improve it, it can fall flat to readers. But the great thing about digital and print-on-demand books is that I can constantly edit them, even while they are being sold.”
“Lots of work to do. But you seem to love it, so it is not arduous.”
“No. It’s fun. Well, Dorothy Parker nailed it when she said, ‘I hate writing, but I love having written.'”
“You know who would love what you just read? Mr. Money..”
“The villain in Riff n Raff. Evil capitalist, mad scientist. Will do anything to become the richest and most powerful man in the world,
including whoring his super selfish daughter, Mimi.”
“I really am looking forward to reading it. Is it funny? Sounds funny. Is he as funny as me, the writer, I mean?”
“Ir’s a scream. Yes, the writer is funny, but I think he held himself back in the book. You can just tell he’s a lot more twisted than he lets on in the book.”