Gabe Firelance sat in his dank apartment making Sonic Prank videos. Chuckling to himself as he lifting his phone to his face, which was quite difficult as he was using skype on his desktop computer, he tenderly caressed the keyboard and typed in the number of his prankee.
The skype rang, making that slightly soothing ringtone noise that gets annoying after like twenty seconds, twice before a nasally voice picked up. “BcMonald King, are you calling about our double BcBlurry Tatertot Shakes?”
“No, I'm too fast for those, they go right through me like I go through my wine cabinet like the sad, lonely alcoholic I am. God I just want to die,” said Gabe in his best Jaleel White impression as he blared the Green Hill Zone theme. He chortled as the cashier on the other end screeched angrily, having been thoroughly pranked.
“You're gonna go on Jewtube and be sooo embarrassed,” Gabe said, snickering snidely. He opened up Jewgle Chrome, and flapped his flesh fins against the keyboard, loading the world’s most popular semitic video sharing website, Vimeo. Three hours later, he finished the two-and-a-half minute featured video because vimeo’s website is shit at buffering, and then went on to Jewtube in order to upload his epic pranking of the unwitting cashier.
“I can't wait to become the most popular prankster on JewTube so that I can create a monopoly on pranking, eventually trademark the word “prank,” and create PrankWorld™,” he jewed jewily rubbing his hands together like Mr. Burns. He sat back and happily watched the progress bar increase in length but not girth, which saddened him a bit since a loading bar that thin could never stimulate his prostate.
Standing up, Gabe tripped as the leg of his fox fursuit got caught on his chair. Slamming limply against the floor, grease from his hair splashed into the floor like BP oil into the Gulf of Mexico, killing thousands of innocent seabirds that Gabe had pilfered on his trip to Florida. The oil slid underneath the door and snaked into the shoes of his roommate, Chaz Ready.
Chaz sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling like an 80-year old vagina. “What smells like feet dissolving?” He looked down only to see his feet melting away like those Russian poor people who do krokodil, (Jewgle that, kids at home.)
“Golly this whole ‘melting feet thing’ sure is mildly inconvenient, kind of like lugging around my massive five-and-a-half inch dick,” said Chaz as he put on Oakleys and fell over, as people with no feet often do. Lol, stupid clumsy crippled kids, so fun to kick, “this sure is a fine pickle I've gotten into, Gabe, could you lend me a hand? Or two feet?”
“Sorry Chaz, I'm too busy pressing F5 to see how many views my prank video has, I'm telling you if this takes off we could team up and take over JewTube, we'd need a name, something stupid like “SwellSiblings,” said Gabe as he leaned back in his moldy computer chair, enjoying the “0” in the viewcounter underneath his video.
Chaz sighed, and dragged himself over to his phone, which was shoved halfway through a watermelon in a vain attempt to charge it. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it by dribbling some of his snot into the “Phlegmpad™”, and opened up the dialing pad.
“Hello? 912? Yes, I have a tech related emergency. What’s the name of that app that calls emergency services for you?”
“Helpr,” responded the agent on the other end of the line, lining a pistol up to her temple. “Let me tell you one thing, though; it won’t help you escape the monotony of daily life and the insignificance of every action you take.”
“That’s alright, I’m not a faggoty emo and I have a large dick so I don’t need to be delivered from that kind of evil,” Chaz said, rolling on his back so he could enjoy the outline of his massive five and a half incher. A single gunshot echoed from the phone speaker, and Chaz took this as his cue to end the call. “What a nice lady, she sure was helpful.”
Chaz opened up the app store, and while he waited for it to load, he decided to reflect on all of his poor life choices that lead up to this situation. This ended briefly as he came to the conclusion that none of the problems in his life were his fault in any way, so he turned his attention back to the app store. He searched up “Helpr” and downloaded it, staring intently at the little circle slowly working its way toward completion. After a harrowing 20 minutes, the app downloaded, and Chaz pressed the app and spent another 30 minutes giving it all of his personal information just so he could run it.
“Ah, finally,” Chaz said as he finished writing down the combination of his social security number, his PIN, and his blood-type. His nigger-eye-gouging-finger (that’s the left pointer) hovered over the “Call emergency services button”, and began its gradual journey to pressing it.
“Hello this is the Helpr Hotline: where we help you dial 911, is there a working phone in your vicinity?”
“What do you take me for, some kind of retarded caveman?” Chaz rolled his eyes, and then rolled his way over to the rotary phone that Gabe kept on his countertop, “okay now what do I do?”
“First you dial nine, then dial one twice.”
Chaz pushed his sausage finger into the nine-hole, cutting off the circulation to the tip of his finger, the necrosis setting in almost immediately. He rotated his rapidly rotting appendage until the nine was dialed.
“Alright, I've dialed nine, but I don't see the ‘one twice’ key,” said a rather frustrated and footless Chaz.
“No, sir, dial one.”
Chaz dialed one.
“Now do it again.”
Chaz dialed two.
“Hello? Operator speaking.”
“Yes, could you please connect me to 911?”
“Of course sir.”
***
“Well, sir, I really wish there was more we could do,” said Doctor Foreskincutter, pouring water over Chaz’s medical documents as medical professionals tend to do. “But I’m afraid you got here just a little too late. You see, we could have reassembled your feet molecularly out of the grease they’re dissolved in with one of those fancy medical devices we have because it’s the future now, but we sold that device not but five minutes before you called 911 for weed money.” Doctor Foreskincutter emphasized this by smoking an obese doobie and inconsiderately blowing a cloud of dank smoke into Chaz’s face, giving him ingrown eyelashes. It’s a scientific fact that that’s what weed smoke does to you, look it up.
“Well, shucks,” Chaz said, snapping his fingers and dragging his hand across his body while a canned laugh track played in the background.
“Leave it to me,” Exclaimed Doctor Foreskincutter. Grabbing two spare table legs, he jammed them into Chaz’s foot stubs. After doing that, he slathered a numbing cream so he needn't experience the excruciating pain of having his wound punctured by two full pieces of wood with every step. Like I punctured your mom with my wood, huehuehue. In a matter of moments, Chaz had been given two crude ankles. Zealously, the doctor whittled some poorly-made feet out of other furniture, and gorilla glued them to the ankles. Eventually, after eight hours of waiting for the glue to dry, Chaz was ready to take his first steps.
Really, “steps” is a strong word, more like “stumbles.” A lot of baby deer like attempts later, and Chaz had upgraded from walking like a crippled chimp, to walking like a man with mild cerebral palsy. Pretty soon after that he was kicked out of the hospital because he doesn't have insurance. Even after all that, Chaz stayed positive, and called his roommate Gabe.
“Hey Gabe, I just got out of the emergency room, and I’m sort of in need of transportation. Y’know, with that whole ‘emergency foot surgery’ thing you caused?”
“Sorry dude,” replied Gabe, “my Sonic Prank video has almost twelve views, I can't miss the moment it becomes a national phenomenon.”
“Well how many views does it have right now?”
“Still Zero, but I can sense that soon, twelve people will watch my epic prank. They let you out right? That must mean you have feet, just walk home,” with that, Gabe hung up and returned to what he was doing.
Chaz, not one to be bogged down by something as insignificant as Gabe wasting his life, simply hailed a cab like a civilized human being would, instead of “walking” like Gabe foolishly suggested.
“Where do you need to go?” asked the Asian woman driving the cab.
“667 Horsefucker Lane,” Chaz said, sliding into the back of the taxi.
“That’s not a real address,” the woman said to him, narrowing her already thin eyes to the point where they stopped existing altogether.
“Oh, right; then just take me to Cheaper Living Plaza.” Chaz leaned back, lighting up a stogie because he was just that cool.
The driver took off down the road, doing her best to ignore the cigarette smoke pooling in the car. “Sir, could you please not smoke in my cab?”
“I’m quite sure you’ll find that it’s my god-given right as a citizen of America to smoke wherever I please,” Chaz said through a mouthful of stoges, paraphrasing the 12th amendment.
“Sir, I’m having trouble seeing where I’m driving,” the cab driver said, a hint of desperation in her voice. Chaz responded to this by removing a large amount of pine needles from his pockets and starting a small fire in the backseat. The driver, blinded by the sheer amount of smoke, and her Asian visage, screamed as she veered into the wrong lane of traffic. The cab was t-boned by a semi-truck carrying a large shipment of flammable orphans, which exploded on the spot, eliminating the entire front of the car.
Chaz crawled out from the wreckage of the two vehicles, and dusted himself off. Having managed to avoid a messy death by horrific explosion due to the boosts in his immune system he gained by smoking so many cigarettes, he shook his head disparagingly at the blasted hole in the asphalt that was once the female cab driver of oriental descent.
“Wow, an asian woman got us in a car accident. What were the odds?” The sarcasm dripping from his voice was so concentrated that it pooled on the road beside him, creating a five-car pile up as a result. Chaz high-fived himself, only to realize that instead of hands, he now had bloody stumps.
“Well doesn’t that beat all?” said Chaz nonchalantly, appreciating the irony of getting injured on the way home from the hospital. Slanty-eyed Chink woman was dead instead of him though, so he had to see this as a positive. Happily, he also noted that the stupid woman (a redundant term, of course) had crashed just outside his apartment building. So Chaz strutted his way up the stairs to his apartment, whistling a jaunty tune as he walked.
Once he had reached the top, Chaz was faced with quite a conundrum: how could he knock on the door without hands? Chaz ruminated on this for almost a full work day. He considered shouting, but that was so rude, and there was no other way to knock on the door, not without fists. Regidar is a short, retarded faggot. Chaz was at his wit’s end, which is quite close to his wit’s beginning. What I mean to say is, he isn’t very intelligent.
Chaz was sure he’d starve to death, when he saw his wonderful African American neighbor exiting her room.
“Hello miss,” he called to her, “could you please knock on the door for me? I must go in, but I haven’t any hands m’lady.”
“Just kick the door you fucking idiot,” she replied, clearly just about done with her eccentric next door neighbors. She then turned and walked down the hall, leaving Chaz just enough time to process this new information.
“Of course,” he cried, “the perfect trial for my fancy new feet!”
With gusto, he kicked at the base of the door three times, which is the optimal knocking number. After a few seconds, he was greeted by Gabe’s voice coming from the other side of the door.