It is called the “WORD RAPE JOKE THEORY”

As foul as it may appear, it derives from a rich history of blue-blood, private school, Budnick boy billiard bitches with too much time, and a rotten imagination of self-loathing, regurgitating pop-culture references with tantalizing imagery, toppled with random assumptions, usually Rubles of shit. It’s not funny, but could it be? It’s free, as well as chosen freedom to splurge ideals (a smart government should keep it under lock and key). It’s inside jokes for outside dogs, sold in second-hand stores, and always ending on the outside of the norm, a humor not respected, but prized in it’s how dedicated its players are. Anyone can play, no one can win….building to shards of sassiness, ultimately capitalizing as 100% pure awesomeness, in other countries, known as “classic edge.”

It is a time capsule of moldy tits that will only be recognized for its brilliance in the future, preferable 3020 joke squared to the ninth Ezra, and more preferable in Hell.

I was born on the outskirts of Hades, my mother’s water broke creating the River Styx, and I’m still Just as Confused as every, Help, Help, Help, actually don’t…I don’t want it.

So, here are my shitty examples:

A CROSSING GUARD extends his hand blocking Me, Myself, and Stupid’s path.

MAN

Don’t cross the street. I’m a crossing guard.

ME, MYSELF, AND STUPID

Don’t cross my crucifix. I’m a

cock calligrapher.

MAN

I hate everything about you.

What is funny here?

Me, Myself, and Stupid then steps into a CLAWED BATHTUB, and sits down. He plugs in a GEORGE FOREMAN GRILL into the wall.

Next, he opens the grill and presses both sides down on his cheeks. Smoke rises. The BOY screams in fear. Me, Myself, and Stupid, with face sizzling, smashes face first into the

water. Flashes and shocks ensue in a electric spectacle.

CUT TO:

INT. BOY’S ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

The lights are low. The boy snaps up in bed. It was adream. There is a soft voice.

VOICE (O.S.)

What is it young boy?

BOY

I had a nightmare.

The lights rise. EDWARD FURLONG sits with SUFJAN STEVENS, both strumming badass banjos. JOHN WAYNE GACY stands behind both popping his PIMPLES in a MIRROR on the wall. A McFATTY FLUBBER MACHINE works Gacy’s stomach. He’s enjoying himself.

EDWARD

Don’t worry. I’m in one right now. You’re reading it.

There’s a POP.

GACY

(victorious)

Got it!

SMASH CUT INTO MIRROR ON GACY’S PUSS: THE PUSS FORMS ERIC WEEMS’ FACE. WEEMS’ FACE IS IN PAIN, AND CUT-OFF HANDS ARE PULLING OUT HIS HAIR.

I need to change a lot of things in this, but can you see where I’m going….down.

Now, on a very hard, serious note for me to commit to, here is a rationale understanding for the “Word Rape Joke Theory.” It is shitty/heaven-sent. It is hard to describe. Visualize a pyramid scheme of absurdism, word play, non sequiturs, surrealism, malapropisms, and ubiquitous name dropping. It is riddled with self-questioning, self-doubt, self- annihilation, hubris, confusion, and many times suicide.

Case and point, it is funny to some, but many times, not to

most. You either love it, or you pray to never hear, witness, experience any form of it.

It’s hit or misanthropy.

Overall, it is Verbal Anarchy.

My last, simple example follows:

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

Two men sit by the window.

MAN #1

I like snow balls.

MAN #2

I like piggy back-pack Latin, on Jansport abominable bitch boy ball

effect.

MAN #1

Yeah. I see what you mean. You never stop your nonsense.

Man #2 stands and walks to the counter. He buys a donut. He comes back to the table, and gives it to the man. There is a strange smile on Man #2’s face.

MAN #2

Tell the story of the Joke Juggernaut.

(beat)

But, if you come up with something funnier, tell that.

Man #2 pulls out a gun. He shoots himself in his head, and falls to the ground. No one reacts. Man #1 eats his donut.

SORRY PROF. MORIARTY. IT FELT RIGHT. IF I CAN’T GET AWAY

WITH THIS STYLE, LET ME KNOW. I’LL STILL TRY.