Hey, look. Here comes Dustin.
::Throws opens door, visibly staggering:: Guess who’s home, bitches?
Looks like Little Dustin’s home to me. How ’bout you, Hazel?
Yup. That’s definitely the mighty midget.
Wrong and wrong. The Rookie of the Year is home. You got that, chief? Rookie of the motherf@#king Year! Sing it with me! ::starts stumbling into wall, trying to dance::
That’s awfully impressive, roomie. I gotta say.
Your mom must be so proud of you.
I think we should celebrate. I’ll make Dustin’s favorite cookies and we’ll crack open the chocolate milk and–
No, no, no. See, I’ve been taking crap from you three all season long. But not tonight. This is my party, jack, and I’m gonna party with my own special friends. Come on in, ladies.
::stumbling in, eyes crossed:: where’s the coke?
Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.
Are you going to introduce us to your friends?
No, in fact, I am not. Instead, I’m taking my new friends into my bedroom where we’re gonna bang like some giant-ass cymbals in the Macy’s parade, after which I will smoke several cigars, finish off the beer and don my celebratory Rookie of the Year toga.
Dustin, where’s the trophy? Can we see the trophy? Pleeeez?
Ah, yes. The Rookie of the Year trophy. It’s quite something to behold, ladies. Lemme see. Where’d I put it… um…
Actually, Dustin, you left the trophy in the driveway last night, so we did you a favor and put it someplace safe.
And where would that be?
::Points to the top shelf of a six-foot bookcase::
::sighs:: You bastards.
Need a boost, roomie?
::A few moments later, at the police station::
Youkilis! Lowell! Stop frosting the comforter* and get to work! Some little guy just stuffed a trophy up his roommate’s ass and I want you jokers on the case!
::Puts down contract offer from the Yankees he was examining:: Little guy? Trophy? Sounds like our boy Dustin won Rookie of the Year!
Woo-hoo! Time to get shit-tay!
Indeed.
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*Full Disclosure: A few years back, when I was living the dream of a ridiculously underpaid freelance writer (as opposed to my current status as a ridiculously underpaid full-time marketing professional), I interviewed Jimmy Kimmel and Adam Carolla for a story about The Man Show. At one point in the interview, Carolla stopped his train of thought and noted that he “just came up with a great metaphor for jackin’ off: frosting the comforter.” He and Kimmel then just started riffing on that for a couple minutes and the interview spiraled into unchained hilarity. I can take no credit for this genius line; it’s all Carolla’s.
