Post by smith on Jun 4, 2005 20:37:45 GMT -5
[The scene unfolds inside of Smith's perpetually messy bedroom. Clothes are scattered here and there, dirty dishes are piled up on his computer desk, and his bed hasn't been made in quite sometime. In fact, his sheets have taken a rather unhealthy brown tint. Smith is in his bedroom, and from the looks of things, he appears to be searching for something. Smith notices the camera and gives an acknowledging wave.]
Smith: Oh, hi. I'm searching for something...
[Smith continues his search, lifting up dirty, stained pairs of jeans so that he can take a peak underneath. A quick glance inside of his closet reveals nothing. Finally, Smith drops to his hands and knees and takes a quick gander underneath his filthy bed. Nope. Still nothing.]
Smith: Oh, this is bad. Very bad. Now who's gonna protect me?
[Suddenly, Smith's mother bursts into the room carrying a handful of laundrey. Whites, it would appear.]
Martha: Bobby, I washed your underwear, but I couldn't get those nasty skidmarks out of 'em. Honey, why can't you just switch to boxers like your pah? Your pah used to leave the worst skids of all, but with these colored boxers, it's like they ain't even there nomore!
Smith: Mah! Git outta here! And quit flashin' my underpants around for God and everyone to see! Geez!
Martha: That does it. I'm gonna get ya some o' them boxer shorts the next time I visit the Good Will. No more tighty-whities for MY son!
[Smith jumps to his feet, rips the washables from his mother's arms and deposits them onto his disgusting bed, and shoves her out of the room. Her protests are silenced by a slam of the door.]
Smith: (grumblin) Lucky I don't bend you over my knee and whip your lil' butt-a**, b*tchface...
Smith: Machine, where'd you go? Prolly ran away to Deleware, no doubt. Oh no...what am I gonna do?
[The scene fades to black as Smith continues to contemplate his unfortunate future without the big goon there to protect him.]
Smith: Oh, hi. I'm searching for something...
[Smith continues his search, lifting up dirty, stained pairs of jeans so that he can take a peak underneath. A quick glance inside of his closet reveals nothing. Finally, Smith drops to his hands and knees and takes a quick gander underneath his filthy bed. Nope. Still nothing.]
Smith: Oh, this is bad. Very bad. Now who's gonna protect me?
[Suddenly, Smith's mother bursts into the room carrying a handful of laundrey. Whites, it would appear.]
Martha: Bobby, I washed your underwear, but I couldn't get those nasty skidmarks out of 'em. Honey, why can't you just switch to boxers like your pah? Your pah used to leave the worst skids of all, but with these colored boxers, it's like they ain't even there nomore!
Smith: Mah! Git outta here! And quit flashin' my underpants around for God and everyone to see! Geez!
Martha: That does it. I'm gonna get ya some o' them boxer shorts the next time I visit the Good Will. No more tighty-whities for MY son!
[Smith jumps to his feet, rips the washables from his mother's arms and deposits them onto his disgusting bed, and shoves her out of the room. Her protests are silenced by a slam of the door.]
Smith: (grumblin) Lucky I don't bend you over my knee and whip your lil' butt-a**, b*tchface...
Smith: Machine, where'd you go? Prolly ran away to Deleware, no doubt. Oh no...what am I gonna do?
[The scene fades to black as Smith continues to contemplate his unfortunate future without the big goon there to protect him.]