by Balls Malone
Classy Man is sitting enjoying a scotch on his sumptuous white leather sofa. He takes a sip and smiles at us. Some light jazz starts playing.
“You know, there’s nothing like a touch of smooth jazz to really loosen me up.”
Xylophone enters the musical arrangement. Classy Man closes his eyes and smiles in appreciation.
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. That’s getting into all those hard to reach places, isn’t it? That’s what I’m talking about. Why don’t you come on over here and join me?”
Classy Man shifts his weight to slide over on the sofa. As he does, he shits himself with the sound of a seasick drunk vomiting in a snorkel.
“Ohhhhhh no… that kicked in a little sooner than I expected,” Classy Man murmurs.
He gags as the smell of his shame hits him and slides off the sofa to curl into a fetal ball, his once pristine white leisure suit now an obscene ruin.
After choking down a sob, Classy Man rallies to prop himself up on an elbow with a wooden smile:
“Yeah, that’s jazz for you!”