Mr. P Stick
“Hello, can I speak to Mr. Stick, please?”
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand. Who do you want to speak to?”
“I want to speak to Mr. Stick. Mr. P Stick, if I must be so formal.”
“I’m ever so sorry, sir – do you have an issue I can help you with? I’m not quite sure what you need.”
“Oh, for pants sake, yes, I have a bloomin’ issue,” Underpants angrily grunts at her. “I have a match against Chip Montana and this fudging thing won’t do what it’s supposed to do.”
“Chip Montana? You’ve lost me, sir.”
“He’s this Australian bloke who likes to grab men by the ghoulies. I’m not even messing around, he just grabs a handful of their unmentionables and does pants knows what with them.”
“That does sound a trifle worrisome sir, but I’m not sure why you’re calling us?”
“I don’t want his bloomin’ hands down my pants, lady!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you. I’m going to hang up now, okay sir?”
“No! Wait just a freakin’ minute! Please! Chip Montana is gonna grab me by the short and curlies. I’ve never had my testicles in another person’s hands before. Heck lady, I haven’t taken my pants off in three months.”
“That’s disgusting, sir.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. I have these favourite underpants and…”
“Hanging up now.”
“No, c’mon, there must be something you can do to help save me from that little Australian testicle tyrant? That poopy head is gonna be mean to me and that’s no fun. He knows loads of animals but he’s not even gonna bring them to our match. What kind of person does that?”
“I don’t know how I can help you. This is somewhat out of my league. Is your mummy around? Maybe I can speak to her.”
“No lady! You need to listen. I went to the local shop and bought a whole bunch of your product. Power – they called it. Felt, fabric, plastic, wood and metal. It’ll stick anything to anything, they said.”
“Oh…”
“I’ve just spent four hours trying to Pritt Stick my bloomin’ underpants to my body and I’m no closer to stopping that handsy little man from fondling my nethers. I need to speak to Mr. Stick immediately!”
Click.
“The cheek of some people.”
“And they call themselves ‘glue’.”
“Chip Montana, all that’s left for me to do is plead with you. I know you like snakes. I know you like testicles. But what’s inside my underpants barely counts as either. If you want a cocktail sausage and two very tiny Brussel sprouts, then stick your hand down my underpants and enter the biggest forest you’ll likely never escape from.”
“You see Chippy, my underpants are sacred.”
“They’re special.”
“What’s in them? Not so much.”
“So, how about we forget this grabbing my ghoulies lark and be friends instead? That sounds like a plan, doesn’t it?”
“Who am I kidding? He’ll never go for that.”
“Where’s that hot glue gun.”
