Part IVb
"You don't need to punish yourself for drinking with more drinking. You don't need to punish yourself at all!" shouted a nearby can of Perrier.
"You are great and you don't deserve shit from outside, but sometimes you get it, and you can't change that easily, but you can at least not give yourself shit from inside!" it cried, and exploded in a blast of fizz.
"Oh yes I do," said Bugs Bunny, who had just meterialized out of fat air,
"I'm a Baaaaaaad Baaad widda boy!"
The punishment fits the crime, thought Bob.
Bob morphed into librettist W. S. Gilbert, and Bugs Bunny into composer Arthur Sullivan. They began singing "A More Humane Mikado."
“It is my very humane endeavour
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment!” Bob-Gilbert exclaimed.
Hank Williams walked in and said unenthusiastically: "I'm gonna keep drinking until I'm petrified."
Dude.
Seriously though, fuck this shit.
You haven’t committed any sin that needs this kind of punishment.
"Looks like I'm on the wagon for as long as I can hold out." said Bob.
A young Clint Eastwood rode past Bob's horse, singing "rolling rolling rolling, keep them dogies rolling, rawhiiiiide!"
Then he rolled another "dogie", which is kinda like a stogie, but made of wacky weed.
He and his pards rode their horses into the saloon in the next town to the toon of Riders on the Storm. The wind was purple that night.
The saloon-keeper was a little surprised to see five cowboys ride their horses right into the establishment, but... it was the West.
One of his pards, Bob, sat down at the bar and grinned.
"I'm thirsty! How's bout a sarsaparilla, Gramps?!"
"Not whisky! I'm on the wagon, day Three!"
Clint puffed on his dogie some more. The man sitting next to him morphed into a cartoon dog and threw him a big thumbs up.
So Clint shot him with a Nerf crossbow, then settled down at a rickety table for a game of poker with Bob and Mr. PCP.
Mr. PCP found it hard to interact with people as a giant celestial manatee-bird hybrid thing, so he manifested as a 50-year-old Mexican woman. He was a cheating bastard whose every card was the ace of spades, the ace of spades. The ace of spades, the ace of spades!
Just then, Lenny Kilmister, Lemmy's younger brother and sleazy attorney, walked in and demanded that the narrators cease and desist to describe said cheating. Then he asked Clint if they needed a fourth, to which Eastwood almost imperceptibly nodded a curt acknowledgement.
As if that wasn't enough excitement for 5 minutes, the saloon doors soon crashed open again, this time parted by a 4-member time-travelling biker gang parking right in the saloon.
"Who are YOU guys?!" shouted Lemmy drunkenly. He definitely was not on the wagon
"Kings of speed," said one.
"Kings of speed," muttered another.
"We're gonna make you kings of speed," stuttered a third.
"We're, uh, kinda like the Borg," mumbled the fourth.
"I think we should copy and paste these last days of chat narrative into the blog, and I'll draw a cartoon for it!" shouted Bob into the ceiling.
It had been snowing for days in the desert that August, and the roof was nearly at the breaking point. The sonic impact of Bob’s voice gave it that last little push it didn’t need. A spiderweb of cracks began evolving out from above and in front of Bob’s head, growing in strength and weakening the ceiling until with a crash and a sploosh, pounds and pounds of snow fell on all the poker players’ heads.
Clint was completely unfazed, of course.
The biker gang found this development very entertaining, and it became quite obvious that they were all high as kites when they began rolling around in the snow and making snow angels. The barkeep was beside himself and was already on the old fashioned telephone calling the local carpenter.
A few days later, Richard Carpenter arrived on a donkey.
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