(Room 6B at the Bunny Ranch – Las Vegas)
Bambi: We can do it again for another two hundred dollars. For three hundred you get the works.
Bob: Does that include a coat of wax?
Bob: You said the works and it sounded like the car wash, uh nevermind. Sorry, I’m flat out broke. The river card wasn’t kind to me last night. That was great though. I hope it was for you too. You must hear that all of the time.
Bambi: Try not to say oh boy so much next time. Yah, you were fine.
Bob: Just wondering, I mean since you’ve been with so many guys…..
Bambi: You’re average kid. Not the biggest, not the smallest.
Bob: How big was the biggest?
Bambi: Well you know those tall boy beer cans? Put a corn muffin on it.
Bob: Jesus. A black guy?
Bambi: No, a Jew. Abe Lipschitz. A talent agent for Fabio, Carl Weathers, Bridgette Nealson, the kid who played Webster. Real talent. He’s keeping an eye out for me for a roll in any of their upcoming movies.
Read more in Humor« Missing Tosh
Bob: Good for you, good for you. And the smallest you ever had?
Bambi: Nothing. I mean he pulled his pants down and there was literally nothing there, like a Barbi doll. I guess he was born deformed. Anyway he had a sense of humor about it and we had fun. We smoked crack and read the Koran, cause that’s what he wanted.
Bob: Interesting. Well it was nice meeting you Bambi. Maybe if I’m back in town…..
Bambi: You know where I am Honey, don’t be shy.
Bob: Well ok, bye.
Bambi: Bye Sweetheart. (Bob exits) What a douche.
(Bob’s workplace in the coffee room a week later)
Bob: So she’s screaming for more, more, more and I’m giving it to her good. She told me I was the biggest guy she ever had.
Tim: Out of how many?
Bob: Oh, like, I think, four thousand or eight thousand. A lot.
Tim: Wow, I gotta go there. Sounds awesome.
Bob: It is, but if you go don’t get Bambi. She’ll compare you to me. No bueno para usted.
Ed: Sounds like your a legend there.
Bob: I am, I really am. I gave her the Bob Gimble spectaculate and she was toast.
Ed: You wear protection?
Bob: (giggles) Never. I like to leave fingerprints, heh heh.
Tim: Gutsy. You da man Bob. You better hope Gwen doesn’t find out.
Bob: That old ball and chain is so clueless she couldn’t find her way home without a map. Besides she gets the Gimble spectaculate too. Shows me her O face, oh oh oh!
Ed: Yah boyee!
Bob: Now show me how the fuck to get on Facebook.
(The next day at Bob’s desk)
Bob: (at computer singing) ‘Do it, do it, do it……do the hustle, doo doo doo da doo da doo…’
Ed: Bob, we need to talk.
Bob: I’m kinda busy Ed. I’m addicted to this facebook. By the way, if you’re on Mob Wars, I need an AK47. I’m talking to some chick I hooked up with in the men’s room in the high school gym thirty years ago. I think the janitor was there too. Anyway she’s a district attorney.
Ed: Bob did you know the Bunny Ranch has it’s own Facebook page?
Bob: Are you serious? I could write to Bambi, see if she’s still walking bow-legged.
Ed: Bambi’s on there and she’s writing.
Bob: Probably mentioned me, that little minx.
Ed: Yes she did Bob, She talks all about you. Your name, job, where you live. Did you give her all of that information?
Bob: No, no way. Just a personal check.
Ed: She wrote your social security number.
Bob: Oh God, I filled out a waiver for STDs..
Ed: Jesus Bob, it gets worse. Go to their page.
Bob: (looking up Facebook) WHAT! Bob Gimble has a tiny…….couldn’t feel him…..like a fat kid eating cookie dough! I left my passport there? Oh God!
Ed: She posts your passport photo on that video link.
Bob: Ed, I have chest pains. I’m not gonna make it. When Gwen finds out….
Ed: What about all that talk about the Bob Gimble treatment?
Bob: Ed, I can exaggerate sometimes to make a good story. There’s no O face and Bambi didn’t say I was the biggest. In fact, she scolded me for licking her feet.
Ed: I know, she says you are the third smallest in the video. It’s actually pretty funny, she does a little puppet show about you and her. (laughing) Did you yell oh boy alot?
Bob: I fail to see the humor Ed. I’m dying. A good man is going down here.
Ed: Don’t be so dramatic. You cheat on your wife, your not that good of a man. Were you really talking to a girl you balled in the men’s room on Facebook?.
Bob: No, I was just looking up porn. I’m insecure so I make up things like double teams in the men’s room to sound like I’m a ladies’ man.
Ed: Well this you didn’t make up. I suggest you do something and stop this crazy hooker before your wife finds out.
Bob: Ooh don’t say hooker. It makes her seem so cheap. Alright I gotta get a plan together. Should I bribe her?
Ed: I don’t think she needs the money. She seems to be doing this for enjoyment. You’re gonna have to threaten her.
Bob: I’ll tell her I’m gonna sue her pants off.
Ed: Bob, she takes her pants off for a living. Your gonna have to threaten her health and safety. I’s the only way.
Bob: I can’t…..
Ed: What happens when Gwen sees this shit on Facebook? Or the broad calls her?
Bob: Ok, I’ll have someone straighten her out.
(In an alley)
Goon: Well it’s done. She won’t be causin’ you no trouble from now on Doc.
Bob: Good, good. I hope it went easy enough. No struggle.
Goon: (laughing) I just went up behind her and put two in her head. Naw, no trouble.
Bob: Wha….what do you mean?
Goon: It’s the easiest way to do it. You come up behind them. They don’t see it coming so there’s no trouble. The whore never knew what hit her. Barely any blood too.
Bob: You’re kidding…….you mean you……I just wanted her roughed up!
Goon: No, you ordered a snuff. I got the receipt. When you dialed our service did you hit number one or number three?
Bob: Three I think.
Goon: Ya you’re right, that’s a tune up. One is a murder. We’ve had trouble with the phones lately getting the signals crossed.
Bob: Trouble with the phones! You just killed someone!
Goon: Hold on popi, we killed someone. You’re in this with me. Remember I have your credit card receipt.
Bob: (staggering) I’m gonna throw up. Oh God what have I done. I have to confess to the police.
Goon: Don’t get any bright ideas pal. I’m not going down because you hit the wrong button.
Bob: I hit the right button, you said phone trouble.
Goon: Oh ya, oh well. Nothin’ we can do now. Don’t lose sleep, she was just a whore.
Bob: Bambi was not a whore. She was a warm and decent human being!
Goon: Bambi? I thought you said Bunny.
Bob: You mean you didn’t kill Bambi. White girl, blonde hair, five five, blue eyes.
Goon: No, this broad was a black girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.
Bob: Who the fuck did you kill?! Was she even a girl from the ranch?
Goon: Yah, a big red dildo rolled out of her bag when she hit the pavement. Listen, I gotta run. It’s five thousand more.
Bob: I paid you five thousand!
Goon: Yah, that was for a beating, not a murder. There’s a differential.
Bob: I didn’t order a murder! You didn’t even get the right girl you idiot! I’m not giving you a dime. And I want my money back or I’m getting a lawyer damnit.
Goon: (Sticking a 9mm S&W in Bob’s belly) Bad idea Einstein. Remember you’re one half of a murder now. You want a life sentence? Remember what I do for a living popi, you’ll live longer. Get your shit together, capece?
Bob: Uh yah. I was just nervous. You were probably the same after your first murder. I’ll have to get you the money later this week.
Goon: Fine. I’ll meet you here next Monday, eleven PM. I want it in cash, small bills. And don’t get any bright ideas about going to the police or it’s curtains, get it? (Jabs the gun hard into Bob’s gut and leaves) By the way, after my first hit I took his BMW for a joy ride and had a great time.
Bob: (doubled over) Uugh. Oh God, I shouldn’t have eaten Indian food. (Vomits)
(Bob’s house – Bob is in the basement tying a rope around a beam with a noose.)
Gwen: Bob, what are you doing?
Bob: Nothing, nothing, just putting some things away. (nervously unties the rope)
Gwen: What are you doing with that rope?
Bob: Um…..I was going to hang that old exercise bike in the air, get it out of the way for you. You could put your pilates mat there.
Gwen: Bob, I don’t do pilates.
Bob: Uh….it was going to be a surprise. I was gonna get you a mat and a tv and dvd.
Gwen: Oh, how sweet. But the basement isn’t finished, I mean the floor is dirt and it only gets to fifty degrees. Are you going to finish the basement too?
Bob: Uh yah, I guess so. Listen, Gwen, can you give me five minutes alone.
Gwen: Sure. But I need this rope though for the clothes line. Just throw out that old exercise bike. (takes rope, leaves)
Bob: Shit, now I have to swallow a bottle of Tylenol. (sits on the bike and cries)
Ed: You don’t look so good Bob. If you got a fever I got tylenol.
Bob: (green) God no! Don’t say that word.
Ed: What, fever?
Bob: Never mind. I think I’m gonna puke.
Ed: Did you hear that a prostitute at the Bunny Ranch was murdered? Shot in the head.
Bob: Uh no, why would I have?
Ed: It turns out she’s the wife of that famous Hollywood writer, Jack Jones. She was a degenerate gambler and hooked to pay her debts.
Bob: Jesus. Why wouldn’t she just bartend.
Ed: Maybe she was a nympho. Besides, do you know the money those girls…..oh yah, of course you do. (laughing)
Bob: Real funny. Did anyone see the killer?
Ed: No, but they caught it all on camera. He killed her in front of a bank. They suspect a contract killer from New York. Stupid guy huh? (laughs)
Bob: A bank! What the hell is wrong with him.
Ed: Just a matter of time till they catch the guy who hired him. Course they said he usually bumps off the person who hired him to cover his ass.
Bob: Why would he do that, they paid him. That’s not right, it’s dishonest.
Ed: Bob your looking for honesty in a hitman? That’s like looking for a different plot in any John Grisham novel. This guy is a cold blooded reptile and will kill whoever hired him before the police get to that guy. The police are saying the guy is from around this area. Maybe married, that’s why he killed her. His wife was gonna find out.
Bob: How would they know? They could be wrong. I mean they thought OJ Simpson was guilty and it turned out he wasn’t. It could have been a woman or a kid. Say, did they say what she was like? Was she a bad person? An addict?
Ed: No, her children said she was a great mother and a loving person. She ran the PTA, bake sales, walkathons. She donated to Jerry Lewis every year.
Bob: Ok, I get it. Jesus I feel terrible. I’m gonna throw up.
Ed: Want tylenol?
Bob: Don’t say that word! (Vomits)
(At Bob’s house)
Gwen: Bob someone was here to see you. A big Italian guy, pin striped suit and saddle shoes. Wouldn’t give his name.
Bob: What did you tell him?
Gwen I said you were at work still and won’t be home till six. He said he’d come back. Mean looking guy, about six four wearing a funny Fedora. I told him he looked like Al Capone but he didn’t answer, just kept chewing on a tooth pick. Who is he?
Bob: (to himself) It’s five thirty. I have to get out of here now before he comes back. I have to go to the police, it’s the only way.
Gwen: Police? About what? Bob are you mixed up in something? Not the ponies again.
Bob: Uh yah, the ponies. Listen Gwen, we have to get out of here now.
(Goon enters room)
Goon: You shoulda never come back here Bobby.
Bob: (gulps) I’ll get the money to you on monday like we agreed.
Goon: Forget about the money, it don’t matter. You got something I want more. (Gwen cozies up to him)
Gwen: Frankie told me the whole story. He befriended me on Facebook and showed me the Bunny Ranch site. The girl you had sex with is trashing you on it. Then you go and murder the wife of that screenwriter. What’s wrong with you Bob, honestly?
Bob: He murdered the writer’s wife! I only wanted Bambi killed, I mean roughed up.
Gwen: So you ordered a hit. You’re gonna do time Bob, a lot of it! You and your little penis.
Goon: I wouldn’t worry about doin’ time kid. Where you’re goin’ they don’t got no cuckoo clocks. Asta la pasta baby. (shoots Bob)
Bob: Are we kidding? That’s the dumbest line ever! Who’s writing this shit?
Goon: What do you want, they feed me the lines.
Director: What the hell is going on? That’s our fourth take, it was pefect.
Bob: No it wasn’t, no hitman says cuckoo clocks, it’s in poor taste. And what the hell is asta la pasta?
Director: He’s Italian, it’s a little sarcastic wit.
Bob: It’s idiotic. And how come I don’t kill him. I’m the star.
Gwen: Because no one would believe I would run off with you or your dying career.
Bob: Why don’t you go back to rehab tramp.
Director: Jesus Mike, you need to relax. You want the studio to give your part to Malcolm Jamal Warner? Here have some coke.
Mike(Bob): No, I have a raging headache since this morning.
Director: How about Tylenol?