Editor: All right, Jimmy, you're up to paint the next cover. I think Kevin and Morris overdosed on that Chinese Testosterone I've been slipping into their coffee. When I came in this morning, I asked what the score was in the Sox game last night and they both choked each other to death on the spot. Now, I'm not gonna lie to you, son: I was up all night drinking motor oil and gin. I'm almost positive I'm going to die, and I am absolutely sure that I'm drunk as fuck. So I'm just gonna throw some words at you, and I want you to paint me a picture that incorporates all of them. Ready? Here we go: Topless sluts. Tribesmen. Jawlines. Jungle. America. Rickshaws. Dueling pistols. An amputated left foot. Got it? Good. Now, I'm a reasonable man, so I'm going to allow you one blackball, for the sake of coherence. What's it gonna be?
Jimmy: I abstain.
Editor: Jimmy, I've never told my wife that I loved her. I've never told my son, or even my own father. But I ... I just wanted you to know that, Jimmy.
This isn't even a fight; it's just what men did instead of handshakes back in the '30s. Or if it is a fight, then the only loser here is going to be "humanity at large," which will be lesser for the loss of either man.
The title of this piece seems to be "Gentle Slaughter of the Virgin Bride."
Or at least, that's what I assume it is, as the only other options are "Why Rocky Marciano Didn't Really Retire," and "The Red Plan to Conquer America." Unless the real reason Rocky didn't retire was that he secretly entered the professional log-stabbing circuit, or the Red plan to conquer America was to challenge us all to a Lumberjack's Debate, then I am forced to conclude that "Gentle Slaughter of the Virgin Bride" is the most likely title of this masterwork.
And actually, it makes a strange kind of sense: After clocking a solid nine hours at the Log-riding Harpoon Factory, can you think of a more accurate way to describe what a man must do to his woman than "a gentle slaughter"?
There are myriad reasons for a man to be seen beating crabs to death with a piece of driftwood, and they're all as valid as they are awesome: Maybe you're relaxing on the beach when nature responds jealously to your natural musk. Or else you're bored, you have a stick and there's a line at the volleyball courts. Or hell, maybe some shit just went down at a Sizzler.
Don't scoff, it happens:
Jim: Thanks for taking me out to dinner, Don. Too bad your wife couldn't make it.
Don: Ha! The day they allow women in a seafood restaurant is the day I start throwing women out of seafood restaurants. Come on, Jim, you know they don't have the heart to pick out a live meal. They'd probably try to dress the crabs up in little suits or something.
Jim: True, true. They just don't seem to understand how taking a life enhances flavor, do they?
Don: It's like I keep telling Donna: "Lay off the MSG, and just let me fight the chicken to the death first. Mortal combat is the best seasoning."
Jim: Say, Don, do you know what time it is?
Don: I sure do, Jim. It's time to beat them with their own kind.
Jim: What? No, I have a doctor's appointment after this and I- oh, OK; you've already started. All right. Let me get my Crab Stick ...
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Or you could just beat everything with its own kind. That's really the central message here.
For more from Robert, check out The 8 G.I. Joes Most Frequently Left In the Box and If The Characters from 'Street Fighter 2' Got Hammered.