“So I was just sittin’ there, talkin’ to my boo . . .”
“Which boo, Bry?”
“Oh, you know, Lakeesha.”
“Ah, OK. So anyway, you’re in jail, right?”
“Yeah, and you’re by my side.”
“Why, because we share a cell?”
“Yeah, you know it.”
“Alright, go on.”
“Alright, so now, as you know, we’re both sittin’ there and talkin’ to our boo Keesha, while eatin’ some pie and watchin’ a sitcom. But then Keesha yells to us: Don’t eat that slice!”
“Why, Keesh?”
“Because it has a serrated blade inside it.”
“OK, Keesh; thanks for the heads-up. Now we’re ready to break out of this prison.”
“Hell yeah, we’re gonna break out and escape from this jail cell, without a doubt.”
“Yo, Keesh, drive the getaway car and meet us by the barred window.”
“Yeah, and bring our favorite arcade game along.”
“Yeah, go put a family-entertainment console into the back seat, so that we can play our favorite video game called U.S. Football 1995.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Alright, so now we’re out on the loose and broke free.”
“Thanks, Keesh.”
“Yeah, I second that: thank you, Keesha.”
“OK, so now we’re out of prison. What should we do?”
“Why don’t we visit Mick’s Hoochie Bar?”
“Oh, you mean that sleazy club owned by our enemy Mick?”
“Yeah, the one with all the slimy tramps and sticky bondservants.”
“Alright, so now we pull up at Mick’s Hoochie Bar and go inside.”
“Holy moly, man, look at this sight that I see!”
“Hell yeah, they’re selling bacon in this place.”
“Excuse me, mistress vendor, my friend and I would like to order a rump roast.”
“Yeah, you can serve it right here, baby mama.”
“Ooh, look at this dish! This will really hit the spot.”
“This is a choice piece of meat with all the guts hangin’ out.”
“How much do we owe ya for this high cuisine? Just one dollar? OK, here: I’ll stuff it into the waistband of your work-pants.”
“Now I’m bored. Let’s go grope all the bouncers and security guards, to see if we can start a fight.”
“Hell yeah. Let’s start a fight with that huge thug standing over there.”
“That guy who looks like a sumo wrestler?”
“Yeah, he resembles our enemy Mick. — Hey, punk, what’s your name?”
“Yo, my name is Mick. I own this joint.”
“Oh yeah? Well take THIS!”
“Ow, you hit me.”
“Damn right, you cowboy.”
“Whoa, hold on: nobody calls Mick a cowboy.”
“Oh no — look, Bry: now the cops are here to drag us to jail.”
“This is bad.”
“Yeah, ’cause, in the prison cell, they feed you tasteless food, like hail from heaven.”
“Yeah, plus the other prisoners bully you.”
“Hey, I have an idea: Let’s go have a meeting with our boo Lakeesha Gypsum.”
“Ah, Keesh is saying that she’ll bring us some dinner — ooh, look: she’s serving us fresh hail that just fell from heaven.”
“Mmm, so flavorsome.”
“Uh huh, this food tastes good.”
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