Fat Man at Last Comic Standing washing your beached walrus body in the tiny public bathroom they've provided us I find your compete and total nudity, how you say, surprising I find your fat-fuck-fuck folds ubiquitous, the hypnotic bulge that thankfully, thankfully covers your cock-and-balls mountainous and the back of your thighs gelatinous like a Cosby afternoon You have a way, Fat Man at Last Comic Standing, of producing lather so effectively that dirtier nations — perhaps such as the one from whence your fat, fat ancestors first overindulged — should study your diligent methods. Is it your cupping of the water from this bathroom sink that makes your cleansing methods so magnificent, Fat Man? Or is it the rapid-fire tossing of those handfuls onto your bulbous torso, freeing the lint and detritus from your ubiquitous creases?
A betting man would say it is the instantaneous lathering frenzy that you do, the one that makes the orgy of slaps, and slops and then slaps again, that makes things so truly special. But who am I to say? I have never had a massive coronary. Fat Man at Last Comic Standing, I appreciate you ignoring me completely as I come across your naked form so unsuspecting this early morning in this very tiny space, busily trafficked by the hundreds standing in line Oh I'm sorry did I say ignore? My mistake, I meant I appreciate you targeting me, indeed approaching me, so that there are but a few inches of space between us when you rub your hands, your soapy hands, in that cavernous canyon between your ball-sack and asshole, and then tell me how good it feels to, "Get clean downstairs after sleeping on that sidewalk in line for so long." Like any amount of soap could ever make your downstairs clean. Besides, there's no need to tell me about that newfound sense of freshness, kind sir, your semi-sexual grunts as you look directly at me, as I am urinating, convey that sentiment exactly. And as I jiggle out these last few drops at the urinal behind your gargantuan, rotting body, Fat Man at Last Comic Standing, I can't help but think, "Clad yourself." Clad yourself in your finest Hawaiian-print smock then go embrace the day; tell those jokes you have stolen from the internet, hack-fat-ass; wheeze them like you have never wheezed them before For you are a most foul and vile Fat Man at the open-auditions for Last Comic Standing And you will probably be selected for this show.
Fin. — Adam Cayton-Holland
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