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**Online
Host** You have entered the "Straight Man" chatroom.
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**MikeSweeney** Hey, everybody. How's it going?
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CalJr2131: Oh, you know. Just
been serving as the voice of reason and chatting complacently in the
backdrop of some other player's wacky escapades.
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OrtizItThisOne: It's not a bad
gig. We are the fenceposts; they are the cattle.
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CalJr2131: Well said.
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CalJr2131: So...anyone have any
jokes?
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**MikeSweeney** Hmm...no. It's never been my
place to be or tell the joke. Sometimes I'll set it up.
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OrtizItThisOne: I bet we can do
it. We just have to work together. We'll just take turns
setting up the jokes, since that's our strong point, and when we feel
we've developed the joke enough, we can cap it off with the
punchline. Cool?
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CalJr2131: Sounds good. I'll
start.
A guy walks into a bar wearing a brand new suit. He orders a
Miller Lite and sits at the first empty stool.
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**MikeSweeney** All right. So, the second guy
walks in wearing a biker's jacket, calls for a shot of whiskey, and
sits down.
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**OnlineHost**
3 hours pass. |
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OrtizItThisOne: Okay. 336th guy
cartwheels into a bar wearing that one Mossimo T-shirt that said "stop
or you'll go blind" in fuzzy letters on the back. He is
disappointed that they do not serve ice milk at this particular bar and
lays down on a table.
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**OnlineHost**
76 hours pass. |
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CalJr2131: So the 8427th guy is
from the future. He walks in the bar and pulls out of his mouth a
device about the size of a book of matches on which he manipulates a
series of foreign-looking controls which can only be described as
potentiometers which work across two axes. He and the bar are
transported into dimension µ,
a "test" dimension created in a joint annex between God and Man that
allows for the practice of theoretical concept. Dimension µ is now a playground for his
thoughts. He re-casts the dimension as he sees fit. All
around him is a manifestation of his psyche. The playground from
his childhood, his tenth-grade homeroom, the wedding chapel in which
his first marriage took place. Impressed by his omnipotence, he
strolls to the bar, another of his mental manifestations. He
reaches for the door. He is as a ghost. His hand goes
straight through the knob. He walks through the closed door and
attempts to slap one of his old friends on the back. He slaps
air. He is an observer now; no longer a force. He can
create; he cannot interfere. He looks about him, weeps a tear,
and mutters, "Funny, that." |
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**OnlineHost**
342 hours pass.
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OrtizItThisOne: Zigittybop ziggittybop
zing-a-dang dong. Let go of my sweater, Presidential candidate
John Calhoun. Edward has a long moustache. The eagle has a
third wing.
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**MikeSweeney** Wait, what letter does that second
sentence stand for? H, right?
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