Sad news in the comedy world, 3.5 readers, as comedian Charlie Murphy has died at age 57 from leukemia.
Charlie was the right hand man of his brother, Eddie, working as a writer on many of his films. He became a breakout success in his own right as an actor on Chapelle’s Show. His sketches in which he recounted meeting Rick James and Prince were especially popular.
57 is way too young. Makes me sad, 3.5 readers. Makes me sad.
Six adult male nerds sat around a kitchen table. The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles.
“Mage,” said the first nerd.
“Warlock,” said the second nerd.
“Knight,” said the third nerd.
“Elf King,” said the fourth nerd.
“Troll Lord,” said the fifth nerd.
The sixth nerd hesitated. He just sat there with his thick glasses, curly hair and bad acne, staring at his card.
“Your turn, Freddie,” the fifth nerd said.
“Ahem,” Freddie said as he slapped his card down on the table. “Dragon Rider!”
Kyle, aka the first nerd, became so irate upon seeing the card that he flipped over a bowl of cheese puffs, sending the crunchy snacks flying all over the room. “That’s bullshit!”
“Total bullshit,” added Dwayne, aka the second nerd.
“We all agreed upon a five dollar battle card limit,” said Steve, aka the third nerd. “Dragon rider is like a twenty-five dollar card.”
“Agreements?” Freddie said as he laughed. “There are no agreements in Magicians of Montazor! It’s every man for himself!”
“Where’d you get that kind of money?” asked Doug, aka the fourth nerd.
“Yeah,” Marty, aka the fifth nerd, said. “You been sucking up to your grandma again?”
“I’ll have you know my Gram-Gram is a lovely woman,” Freddie said. “I give her back rubs. She buys me battle cards. It’s a fair quid pro quo, don’t you know?”
“Ugh,” Kyle said as he stuck a finger into his mouth, pretending to gag himself.
“Dude,” Dwayne said. “You’re twenty-freaking-five. Move out of your grandmother’s house already.”
“Free rent, home cooked meals and good company?” Freddie asked. “Uh, methinks thou art just a wee bit jealous, my good sir.”
“Kyle,” Marty said. “Just kick him out of the game.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “Kick him out. He broke our rule.”
“Pardon me, oh wise and glorious Game Watcher,” Freddie said. “But I believe that section 97F, paragraph 25, sentence 47b clearly states, ‘Once a battle card has been cast, it must be played, no exceptions.”
Kyle sighed.
“Oh, come on Kyle!” Dwayne said.
“He’s right,” Kyle said. “As Game Watcher, I have no choice but to let him play.”
Kyle’s ruling was met with a symphony of moans and groans. The Game Watcher rolled a pair of dice.
“Seven,” Kyle said as he flipped through a bunch of scene cards. “Aha! The scene? The secret lair of the goblins. Everywhere you look, there are vile, bloodthirsty goblins waiting to rip you apart with their sharp, jagged teeth. What move will you cast?”
“Invisibility spell,” Dwayne said.
“Fire ball,” Marty said. “And I’ll supplement that spell with my scroll of the marksman.”
Freddie studied the map that was sprawled all over his grandmother’s kitchen table.
“Your move, Freddie,” Kyle said.
“Hmm,” Freddie said as he tapped a finger against his cheek. “I think I will cast…”
The grumbly voice of an old lady cut the young man off. “Freddie! Freddie, are you down there?”
“Yeah!” Freddie shouted.
A few seconds past. “Freddie!” the old lady shouted. “You gonna answer me or what?”
Freddie sighed as his buddies laughed. “I’m here, Grandma! I’m busy! What do you want?!”
“Are you and your little friends going to stay up all night?” the old lady asks.
“We’re grown men, Grandma!” Freddie shouted.
“I don’t like it one bit,” the old lady shouted. “You’ll be tired and cranky tomorrow!”
Freddie threw up his hands. “For Christ’s sake, Grandma! I’m a man! I’ve got a bachelor’s degree in sociology and the best fry cook Yummy Burger has ever seen! Can’t I just get a night to chill with my peeps without your shit?”
Kyle snickered. “Did you just say, ‘peeps?’”
The old lady was quiet for a few more seconds before piping up again. “Did you offer your little friends some refreshments?”
“We’re fine, Grandma!” Freddie shouted. “Take your pill and go back to bed!”
“I could make you boys some grilled cheese sandwiches!” the old lady shouted.
“No, Grandma!” Freddie screamed. “We’re fine!”
Steve raised his hand. “I could actually go for a grilled cheese sandwich.”
Before Freddie could yell at his grandmother again, a bright spotlight poured in through the kitchen window. The sound of whirring helicopter blades deafened everyone.
Crash! Members of an elite SWAT team bursted in through the kitchen windows. They were dressed all in black and their faces were covered with balaclavas. Each officer wielded an assault rifle.
“Which one of you dip shits is Freddie Milton?” asked an officer.
All of the nerds pointed to Freddie. Without hesitation, Freddie threw his hands into the air.
“Freddie!” the old lady shouted. “Somebody’s at the door! Go see who it is. Don’t be rude!”
The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming…to your bedroom…dun dun dun.
Did you miss my list of the Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Russian Spy?
Fear not, 3.5 readers. Check it out now:
Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Russian Spy
12:00 A.M.
The late Countess Cucamonga’s dressing room had become a full fledged crime scene. FBI Agent Sharon Walker supervised as an army of forensic technicians worked the scene, placing every blood soaked item into individual evidence bags. She was a tall woman in her late thirties. Her long black hair was pulled back behind her head in a ponytail and a pair of sunglasses sat on top of her forehead. Much like her black pantsuit, her demeanor was all business.
“Bag and tag everything, people,” Sharon said. “And God help you if I see those butt implants being sold on the Internet.”
Sharon’s partner, Gordon Bishop, was a snappy dresser. He wore a dark suit with white pinstripes, suspenders, and a wide white tie. A red pocket square poked ever so slightly out of his breast pocket.
“What do you suppose could have done this?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know,” Sharon said. “Chainsaw? Wood chipper?”
“I suppose,” Gordon said.
“What else could liquify a human body within seconds and leave it sprayed all over the walls?” Sharon asked.
“So I’m a world famous pop star with a fat ass,” Gordon said.
“The fat ass part is the only believable portion of that statement,” Sharon replied.
“Shut up, bitch,” Gordon said. “You know I work out more than you do. So anyway, I’m a world famous pop star with a fat ass. I just did a big show. I say good night to my manager and my security guards. I come inside my dressing room. I enter my bathroom to take a shit and what, some psycho with a chainsaw is waiting for me?”
“Or a wood chipper,” Sharon said.
“OK,” Gordon said. “Assume for the sake of argument that some whacko was able to sneak a chainsaw or a wood chipper or some other kind of large cutting device into the building and get past all of the security and end up lying in wait in Countess Cucamonga’s dressing room and he slices and dices her, what happens next?”
“Both guards made it clear in their statements that the second they heard the Countess scream, they ran into the room and found the bathroom in the horrendous state it is in now,” Sharon said.
“Right,” Gordon said. “Which begs the question, ‘How did the perp get away?’”
“It’s like he vanished into thin air,” Sharon said.
“With his giant cutting device as well?” Gordon said. “Something doesn’t add up.”
Sharon poked her head into the bathroom, where a technician was taking photographs of all the blood and guts stuck to the walls. “A lot of things don’t add up.”
“Why would the suspect bust up the toilet?” Gordon asked. “Why would he break the water pipe?”
Sharon sighed. “It’s like every question generates a new question…and the answers never come.”
Gordon’s ringtone blared. “Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”
“Hello?” Gordon asked as he raised the phone to his ear. “Uh huh…”
Gordon looked to his partner and raised his pointer finger up in the air as if to say, “one minute.” He then stepped out into the hallway.
Irving, Countess Cucamonga’s manager, sat on a couch, crying with his head in his hands. Sharon took a seat next to him.
“I’ve answered all your questions!” Irving snapped.
“I know,” Sharon said.
Irving wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Sharon said.
“Good,” Irving said.
Sharon ran her left hand along the soft, velvety couch arm. “Although in my experience, people with something to hide usually don’t blurt out, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’”
“I didn’t do it,” Irving said. “Why would I? The woman was making me a fortune. She was my cash cow, my meal ticket, my, my…”
“Relax,” Sharon said. “I don’t think you did it.”
“Thank God,” Irving said. “I wouldn’t last a day in prison.”
“What I would like to know…”
Irving interrupted his inquisitor. “Seriously, they’d pass me around the yard like a doobie and do all manner of unspeakable things to my butt hole.”
“Your butt hole is safe,” Sharon said. “Now, what I would like to know, is who do you think did it?”
Irving sat back and stared at the ceiling. “Who do I think did it?”
“Any suspects come to mind?” Sharon asked. “A jealous ex-boyfriend? An ex-employee with a grudge? A psycho fan, a…”
Irving snapped his fingers. “A psycho fan.”
“She had one?” Sharon asked.
“Tons of them,” Irving said. “Literally every man in the world was in love with her enormous behind.”
“I’m aware,” Sharon said. “I have a TV.”
“Thousands of letters pour in everyday, weirdo perverts ranting and raving about all the terrible things they want to do to her butt,” Irving said.
“The price of fame,” Sharon said.
“Yeah,” Irving said. “But there’s this one guy. Freddie Milton.”
“What about him?” Sharon asked.
“Insane stalker,” Irving said. “Sent her videos of himself naked, cutting himself, saying he wanted to crawl up inside her giant ass and live inside it forever.”
“Ugh,” Sharon said.
“She had a restraining order against him,” Irving said. “Last year, she came home and found him lying on her bed, wearing her clothes, two giant soccer balls stuffed down the back of his underpants. Told her he wanted to be with her while he was dressed like her.”
“What happened?” Sharon asked.
“Security goons beat the shit out of him,” Irving said. “Drove him out to the desert and threw him out of the car. Judge ordered him to stay a thousand yards away at all times. She never heard from him again.”
Sharon pulled a small notebook out of her pocket and jotted Freddie Milton’s name, as well as some of the details Irving had shared.
“I’ll definitely be passing this along to Miami PD,” Sharon said.
“Miami PD?” Irving asked. “But the Countess deserves the best!”
“Honestly, sir,” Sharon said. “We came at the request of Miami PD to back them up as this is a high profile celebrity case but ultimately, this is Miami’s jurisdiction here.”
Irving pointed towards the bathroom. “I know a lot of people wrote her off as just another flighty diva, but she was an angel, I tell you.”
“I’m sure she was quite special,” Sharon said.
“She was literally on the verge of saving the world with her exquisite ass!” Irving said.
“I’m sure she was,” Sharon said.
Gordon appeared in the doorway and motioned for Sharon to join him. As soon as Sharon entered the hallway, Gordon started walking. Sharon followed.
“Where are we going?” Sharon asked.
“You’re never going to believe this,” Gordon said.
“Try me,” Sharon said.
“Two more murders,” Gordon said. “One at a nursing home in Boca Raton. One at a community college.”
“Holy shit,” Sharon said.
“Same circumstances,” Gordon added.
“Same circumstances?” Sharon asked.
“Victims killed on the toilet,” Gordon said. “Their bodies eviscerated, nothing but blood and guts on the walls remaining. Toilets and water pipes broken.”
“A serial killer?” Sharon asked.
“Or a serial killing cult,” Gordon answered.
“Holy shit,” Sharon said. “The FBI has jurisdiction then.”
“Damn right we do,” Gordon said. “Special Agent in Charge Baker says we’re on this mess for the duration.”
Sharon pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and popped a smoke into her mouth. She then pulled out her lighter and lit the cigarette.
“Guess I’ll be putting off my plan to quit smoking until next month,” Sharon said.
The duo reached an elevator. Gordon pushed the call button.
“Do what you want,” Gordon said. “But can I give you some free advice?”
“Would it matter if I said no?” Sharon asked.
“No,” Gordon said.
Ding! The elevator doors opened. The duo entered. Gordon pushed the button for the lobby.
“If you wait for your life to get easy before you fix it, then your life will never get any easier,” Gordon said.
“That was exceptionally profound, Gordo,” Sharon said. “You pull that out of a fortune cookie or something?”
Gordon shook his head. “Read a book, bitch. Read a book.”
Ding! The elevator doors opened. Sharon and Gordon made their way into the lobby, through a sea of unruly fans and out of control paparazzi. Their camera flashes were blinding. Sharon dropped her sunglasses over her eyes.
“Where’s the community college?”
“Sitwell,” Gordon replied.
Sharon’s face turned red. “Son of a bitch.”
“Something wrong?” Gordon asked.
Sharon went into a trance for a few moments, then snapped out of it. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and started dialing. “No. I just need to get a pervert arrested.”
Louie, Louie, Louie, Louie…
BQB here with a review of Louis CK’s Netflix comedy special, Louis CK 2017.
Louis CK’s still got it. For some reason, he’s out of his standard black T-shirt and in a business suit. I’m not sure why. I noticed he was wearing a suit when he hosted SNL too. Is he retiring the black shirt? Is he becoming more square as he approaches fifty? Who knows. If he wants to wear a suit, let the dude wear a suit.
I don’t want to give too much away. You want to hear Louis tell his jokes, not me. Highlights include his take on abortion, the Christian calendar, and how he’d be gay if it didn’t require him to take a you know what up his you know where.
As usual, Louis has a unique ability to take the most cringeworthy subjects and make them uproariously funny. Check him on out on Netflix.
Bookshelf Battle 