• Farce - Bang

    An old drunk walks in the the toughest biker bar. He immediately Scans the crowd until he find the toughest biker in the bar
    The guy is a Monster or a man and looks very dangerous. The old drunken man sits down on a bar stool next to him and says loudly, “Hey buddy! Hey! Tough guy! Why don’t you buy me a beer before I go home and go bang your mom!”
    The crowd goes silent; they know this biker has killed for far less. But he just sits there turning red. The old guy continues: “You know I banged your mom last week too! She LOVED it!!”
    Again, the crowd waits for the big biker to kill the olds drunk. But he just sits there getting angrier and angrier. The old man says: “I’m going to give it to her so hard tonight! She won’t walk right after I’m done with her! What do you think about that, big guy??”
    Suddenly the massive biker stands up, spins the old drunk towards him, grabs his shoulders and says “Goddamit dad, go home! You’re drunk!”

  • Jest - Bang

    It is early January of 1793. The commotion outside of the Castle of Versailles is growing louder by the minute. Louis XVI, however, is not bothered, as he is getting his new suit matched, pleated and frilled in his chambers by his favorite tailor.
    "Ah yes, Poilon, superb work with the gold thread on my boot leather as per usual. And now: the silk pants with Morocco pearls."
    "Y-your Majesty... I think they're breaking down the front wall."
    "Nonsense! Clothe me or I shall have you beheaded!"
    "Absolutely, your majesty! There we go!"
    "Splendid! Fetch the doe skin gloves. I want them creased and covered in emeralds."
    A loud bang was heard, followed by an ominous roar. Poilon shuddered.
    "They're here, your Grace - the horde."
    "Don't be preposterous, you simpleton! Get. The. Doe. Skin. Gloves!!"
    "B-but your excellence..."
    "Get the gloves or get my sword!! Either my knuckles roll in sunlight or your head in the gutter!!"
    "Yes your Hi-"
    But before Poilon finished his sentence, the door flew off its hinges and the starved, enraged People's Militia flooded the chamber. They stopped in their tracks, gaping at the lavish wastefulness of the king's suit.
    "Blasphemy!" a peasant called out. "That outfit alone could feed a village for two years!" He turned to Poilon. "Have you designed this atrocity, this Robe of Famine!?"
    Poilon, frantically torn between death threats - obeying his King and answering to the Militia, simply opted to pleat the fist.