“Hey,” cried Sam, ignoring the Glock in his ear, “I’ve seen pictures of you with Osama Bin Laden, however it’s spelled, you little son of a bitch!”
Sam heard the hammer of the Glock pull back and began to say his prayers, as the teenage whore and the housekeeping staff ran out the door.
“Jesus, Ernie,” protested Bert, “You said you weren’t going to show those pictures to anyone, they were just for us…” “Time to come out of the closet, you perfidious little Muppet,” explained Ernie, “You’ve got to stop living a lie!”
His prayers needn’t travel far as Christ himself was standing nearby.
“Oh that’s just great,” wailed Bert, “How long can I keep my job at Sesame Street when they know that I’m a…a sissy?”
"If you guys are going to be busy for a while, "mentioned Sam, “I’ll just ease on out…”
“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” mused the dying Jesus, who it turns out wasn’t THAT Jesus, but Jesus Hernandez of Topeka.
“Screw him,” thought Sam as he eased on towards the door, “It’s every Jewish carpenter for himself.”
“I ain’t dead chet,” rasped Jesus, “It’s chust a flesh wound…”
Sam slammed the door and ran down the alley, towards an ice cream truck playing “Turkey in the Straw.”
“Y’know, I could really go with a fudgesicle right about now.”
“Sorry, Mac,” replied the driver, “those damned terrorists buy them all up for their sissy muppet boyfriends; I got your banana popsicles, your strawberry, ice cream sandwiches and those things with nuts and caramel that nobody buys.”
Lo and behold, the driver of the truck looked familiar, but he could not remember where he had seen him before.
Then he remembered, it was his brother, and he had seen him yesterday
“Nuts? Nuts?” screamed Sam, “I got your nuts right here, pal!”
Meanwhile, a small boy was growing up on a farm in Kansas.
The boy stared out at the snow steadily piling up outside his bedroom window and thought, “Whatever happened to Jesus Hernandez?”
“Y’know, I could really go with a fudgesicle right about now,” the boy added.
The young harlot looked at the dying Jesus and asked, “Master, may a stone not lie at the bottom of a river for years, slowly wearing away to smaller stones, to gravel, to grains of sand that eventually wash to the sea, where they are slept upon by creatures that live in the darkess of the oceans and never see the light of day, until they wash to some far and distant shore, to be trodden upon by strange people who crave fudgesickels that we will never see, and are our lives not like those fudge, er, grains of sand, meaningless to us but important to the world?” And Jesus wheezed through his sucking chest wound, “Did you have a question to ask, or do you want to make a speech?”
“And besides,” he wheezed, “It’s chust a flesh wound, I’m not dying, you estupido puta.”
“Su Madre,” hissed the young upperly mobile professional call girl, and strode out into the gathering dawn, her nylons swishing together like a locust, lusting uncontrollably as did the others, for a fudgecicle that was…sold out.