He had created a sex bot home delivery sevice.
He marketed it to thirty something gamers with kids.
And to those whom wives had dried up so to speak.
Gene Simmons' hair burned like a star, as Conan held him up by his feat like a torch (after lighting the funeral pyre,) "Mitra take you old man," and with that turned and walked away from Gygax's grave, and back towards Mike McArtur who still sported Kirk's head attached to his groin.
Simmons gasped out, "...money" and then perished.
Zap.
The P.A. system sputtered out.
The three arrows look up, trying to figure out how they got cut out of the story so fast.
Mike brandished Kirk like a Ukrainian sausage at a pyrogy festival.
"Is billiards a game of chance," mused DeMoivre.
A nearby butler had wiffed his anal vapor and frowned upon his back.
"What a f!*& of a mess" Aunt Gratie observed.
when a great white shark got into the hotel pool."
The little wagger was shocked when he realized he was humping Dajobas, the terror of the Razor Coast!
Jabberjaw, however, was rather incapable of making the bulldog get off, so he tried asking politely.
Dajobas was canine intolerant however and it cause terrible gas so he was unable to submerge for days, floating sort of like a dead carp.
They are also noted for separating the giant hours from the giant minutes on giant digital clocks, but that's not important right now.
He felt that the lump of green putty he found in his armpit was far more worthy of worship.
A nearby pirate ship's sails filled with the wind, and the ship sped away, the crew cheered at their speed.
Senior Software Developer
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The pirate said: "Ahhhh, that were a fine day -- there we were, adrift, floating, nary a wind in sight -- though 'tis said ye cannae sight wind, ye have not had Cook's grog-and-beans, curse that scallawag back from hell anyway; the grog, 'tis splendid as grog always is, but by god beans should never be allowed on a long sea voyage with the men all sleeping together in cramped quarters (I'll warrant ye, there be nothing wrong with that), and once Cook got his grubby mangled paws on those beans, why, ye could actually see the flatulence, for once't a candle be lit, the wind itself would burst aflame and all manner of beards and peg legs and hooks be singed terribly, and ye can be sure there was no singing that night, no Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum, no counting the gold, no sharpening of cutlasses, no pondering the mysteries of life whilst gazing out the porthole at the strange stars of the southern hemisphere, for when ye are ten thousand miles from yer dear sweet ma's cruel willow lash and the girl ye left behind and the sons o' b~$!~es ye swore would know one day yer not some useless uneducated scamp in short pants with a runny nose, no sirree, now yer adrift in the endless ocean and nary a wench to bed, nor grog left, not after the forty-second day without grog, ye start to go a bit daft, I know ye won't believe me but you do, you begin to feel as though ye can't hold it together, whatever it is, there's always sails to be spread and lines to be lashed, and still nothing but ocean glittering like gold, yes, the ocean like gold, the gold for which we fight and kill and plunder and wreck and despoil and take, just so we can give it to the wenches and barmaids and hook-makers and parrot dealers -- and what a rum lot those are -- never trust a parrot dealer unless ye've got yer hook right there in 'is nose, those bastards'll steal ye right blind and ye'll have naught but an ex-parrot and dear god the stench of a dead parrot, why it brings to mind a time, ahhhh, that were a fine day -- there we were, adrift, floating, nary a wind in sight, when the wind arose and we all cheered for we'd been at sea two hundred days, and I swear it were forty-five days since the grog had run out and the sails unfurled and the whoops and hollers of joy at the thoughts of the wenches and grog to come, why, we thought 'twould be the end of that ghastly voyage when the stench, oh god the stench, the smell, 'twas worse than Cook's grog 'n' beans, now that were a smell I tells ye, later I heard legends 'bout that smell, 'twas the smell that drove us ten thousand miles in a single roaring flatulent gale, right back to our home port and the women and the grog and the time to chase and catch and spend and curse and drink and brag and finally realize that, you know, this is what 'tis all about and why, ye'd had it wrong all along, no, ye don't live to pirate and pillage and plunder, no, ye pillage and plunder so ye can bed down with that comely wench after telling her your tales and showing off yer peg leg and putting the hook away for a time, and afterward, ye lay there in the cool dark and there she is, lovely to gaze upon in the moonlight, and ye know that ye could spend the rest of yer life with her, and ye think on that for a bit, and ye realize that if yer careful ye can slip out the back and be aboard the ship afore dawn rises and there is the golden, golden sea stretching out before ye, calling, laughing, and ye know there will never be another mistress for ye, no matter if she cost ye and cost ye, thar she be; and besides, that's where the treasure be."
Then he pondered, why are all the rats leaving that bloke's pirate ship... do they know something?
Was this the secret to KFC's success?
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The pirate said: "Ahhhh, that were a fine day -- there we were, adrift, floating, nary a wind in sight -- though 'tis said ye cannae sight wind, ye have not had Cook's grog-and-beans, curse that scallawag back from hell anyway; the grog, 'tis splendid as grog always is, but by god beans should never be allowed on a long sea voyage with the men all sleeping together in cramped quarters (I'll warrant ye, there be nothing wrong with that), and once Cook got his grubby mangled paws on those beans, why, ye could actually see the flatulence, for once't a candle be lit, the wind itself would burst aflame and all manner of beards and peg legs and hooks be singed terribly, and ye can be sure there was no singing that night, no Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum, no counting the gold, no sharpening of cutlasses, no pondering the mysteries of life whilst gazing out the porthole at the strange stars of the southern hemisphere, for when ye are ten thousand miles from yer dear sweet ma's cruel willow lash and the girl ye left behind and the sons o' b@%~~es ye swore would know one day yer not some useless uneducated scamp in short pants with a runny nose, no sirree, now yer adrift in the endless ocean and nary a wench to bed, nor grog left, not after the forty-second day without grog, ye start to go a bit daft, I know ye won't believe me but you do, you begin to feel as though ye can't hold it together, whatever it is, there's always sails to be spread and lines to be lashed, and still nothing but ocean glittering like gold, yes, the ocean like gold, the gold for which we fight and kill and plunder and wreck and despoil and take, just so we can give it to the wenches and barmaids and hook-makers and parrot dealers -- and what a rum lot those are -- never trust a parrot dealer unless ye've got yer hook right there in 'is nose, those bastards'll steal ye right blind and ye'll have naught but an ex-parrot and dear god the stench of a dead parrot, why it brings to mind a time, ahhhh, that were a fine day -- there we were, adrift,...
LOL! Who you think you are, Joseph Conrad?
"I will trust you," you say to the priest.
"Sometimes blood in the urine is a sign of a serious problem in the urinary tract, while other times it is not serious and requires no treatment," a crewman remembered a doctor once told him.