up that when they finally got down to the sex they enjoyed
themselves far more than ever, and didn’t even make use of the
surplus butter.
“Bobbus! You’re a genius!” cried Humungulus, who had just
taken to wearing golden chains around his neck in the interest of
attracting new and better-looking females. It was a few days after the
orgy and the elites of the city were just starting to recuperate. “We
must have more and better parties! What have you planned for this
weekend?”
Bob had been sitting in a Greek restaurant for the past hour
trying to figure out what everything cost. “Hey man, how much are
eggs? I really need some eggs,” he asked, nursing a wicked hangover.
“There,” said the waiter, pointing to the menu, “They cost CIX.”
“What, six?”
“No. One hundred and nine.”
“Fuck, those must be good eggs.”
“Inflation,” said the waiter.
“Jeez. How much is the fish?” Bob asked the waiter.
“We don’t serve fish,” he replied.
“But your logo is a fish!” Bob said, pointing to the menu.
“It’s the letter
alpha
. ‘It means the beginning. The most
important. The best.’”
Bob frowned. “I hate alfalfa,” he said.
Suddenly, the rest of the bleary-eyed committee strolled up to
the table.
“Bobbus!” cried Epithelian, “Or should I say—
Bacchus
? Ha ha.
Quite a party! What have you planned for next week? Everyone is
excited to hear what you’ve come up with.”
Bob looked up from the menu and trained his gaze on the
assembled committee. Some were laying down by his feet, which
made him proud, until he realized that they had just passed out. He
looked upwards at Epithelian and tried to come up with a good idea.
What was good? Eggs. Video games. Chicks. Booze. Music. Violence.
Aha!
“Hey,” Bob grinned, “You guys ever heard of S&M?”
“No,” said Epithelian.
“Well then, loan me CIX for some eggs and I’ll tell you about it.”
Time passed, though most of it was edited out for viewers at home,
and Bob soon became somewhat of a hero—to the Romans, that is. At
H O L Y S H I T !
200
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