Fifty gags in and Eddie feels philosophical as hell.
'Hey, what do you call a fat chef with coronary failure?
A taxi! A taxi round to my flat,
so I can shag him probably.
Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!' Eddie begins miming
intercourse with the chef's corpse,
grinding his pelvis against the stool with his Evian on.
In his head he thinks this: brilliant clowning Eddie.
He is cartooning out a 'bit'. It is improv.
The child whose birthday party it is
begins to cry.
I'm a very bored data entry clerk and have accidentally read all of these, and this was like an assault. Bless you.
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