In the last half-hour of sleep last night, I was an Indiana-Jones-esque manly-man badass, steeling the lost artifact I needed from an evil(?) cult of wealthy bastards before dropping off the remaining relic they thought they were really needing: the decomposing body of their holy saint, John the Thatcher (Margaret Thatcher's brother).
They drank some potion made of oarange juice and a cap of 5-Hour Energy out of a flask they found next to the body, I think to ensure they would remain oppressively wealthy or something. Of course, I removed the fun bits of John's casket, so even though I hand delivered it to watch their orgiastic Bacchanal, they'd be poor again my morning.
Then the tiny waif con artist/female lead made an Indiana Jones joke about clams (which is not from any Indiana Jones film, but it was in this universe, apparently a new one, since) my reply was to chase her across the room until she tripped over a picnic table bench because no one can run in an ankle-length slinky cocktail dress. She really thought I'd out her at the party as my sometimes-accomplice, but by the time I caught up to her all I did was pick her up and say, "Sorry, I've never seen that one.". And then there was a lot of kissing. Like, a lot a lot.
The original joke I made to get sarcasm'd at was something about clams.
Oh, did I mention the slinky badass cat burglar chick I was making out with at the end of my movie was Emma Watson? I probably should have mentioned that I made out with Emma Watson. In a blonde wig. I told her I liked her better as a brunette. I don't remember if she liked that.
(Because there was too much kissing.)
Sometimes, I love my brain. Thank you, brain.
Posts
No comments :
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.