GYSO Reviews Part 33 - Jesus Lives in the City (and works as a comedian)

Published: 2024-02-11

Thim: Okay, that day is today. What do you mean? It’s a reference to the last post! How come you don’t remember? You never remembé! Doesn’t anyone ever think about mé? Mé, mé, mé?.

Thim is talking on the phone, wearing socks in open-toe sandals, speedos with a character from a famous chlidren’s show, and an open bath robe with a character from a less famous children’s show. In between talking, he gently lays one of his salami pieces from his pizza slice on Henry’s soil. Henry likes that, being an eldrich beast that consumes the flesh of the dead (and sunlight). Thim stops to look at the hole where one of the walls in the living room used to be. It was destroyed in the attack that killed the previous guys, whatever they were called. Tor and Jim? More and Kim? Door and Hinge?

Thim: Alright. [short pause]. Yes, there was a dramturgical need for me to say ‘open bracket short pause closed bracket’. No, I haven’t been taking my meds, why? … Anyways, look, I really have to get this thing done, I’m doing my best to postpone it, but someone has to write this shit, I guess.

Boss: Nothing is sacred anymore, huh?

MC1: No, we’re trying to tell you he is!

Main Character 1 points with one hand at Big Erectus Babe, who is looking at a plant in one of the corners in the penthouse office of the CEO of the marketing firm of the big city of the largest country in the world of the planet that this damned extended universe mostly takes place on. The plant plants secrets into BEB’s mind, most of which are about the infidel CEO’s infidelity. The boss has a pointed demeanor, and a bald head, and a pointed bald head; the boss is a conehead, is what I’m saying. He is probably smoking a cigar next to his comedically large windows, and the window behind him reflects the comedically large windows on his computer screens, overlooking the city. A Cool Breeze™ is gently blowing the clouds.

MC2: He has a really huge potential to burst on the scene in this city! Really, really huge! I’ve seen it! It’s almost intimidating!

Boss: No. My firm stands firm on this. Prove that he has to prove himself first.

MC2: But Boss! …

Boss: No butts, only Big Erectus Babe. If he is as stiff as the stiffs say he is, there won’t be an issue finding him an audience in this town.

The Boss turns around, watching Big Erectus Babe dancing the “Hitmontop Sweet Moves” dance against a bookcase filled with books on marketing and finance. Incidentally, a hidden passageway to the safe tunnels in the skyscraper complex is hidden behind the bookcase, but there’s no way for anyone other than the boss to know that.

Boss: Mr. Christ, where did you go to school?

Big Erectus Babe is speaking with a grass straw in between his teeth, and somehow changed clothing to a dirty mechanic’s overall and a cap that says “M’ELON MY ENGINES”, from a popular truck manufacturer. He is now talking with a stereotypical country side accent.

BEB: I went to Morning Wood Academy, sir. The classes were really long and hard. They gave me a massive, uncontrollable, throbbing … headache. Although my favorite class was the camping club, where we learned how to pitch a tent.

Boss: So much makes sense now. Thank you, Mr. Christ. You all may go now, and send my regards to my secretary, May Go Now.

The next Friday night, the Main Characters have a pro-boner gig for BEB at a BBQ over an open fire of the homeless people living under the bridge. They aren’t being nice or anything, they dont’t feed anyone, they just cook it and then teleport the food into orbit to add a little flare to the increasing amount of space debris around the planet.

BEB: Say… what am I even supposed to say? I don’t know how to be funny or nothing.

Big Erectus Babe is, in fact, not funny. He’s wearing his drinking helmet charged with two triple-A batteries. He’s drinking battery acid, for the slower people in the audience who didn’t pick that up from context clues.

MC1: You’ll be fine, brother. Just do your thing.

BEB: I don’t even know what my thing is! …

MC2: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

BEB: How did you even say that out loud?

Instead of answering, Main Character 1 pushes Big Erectus Babe up on the stage. The audience immediately starts laughing.

BEB: Okay, so let me start my routine now.

The homeless people are already throwing what’s left of their fingerless gloves onto the makeshift stage, that isn’t a stage at all, their hands being kept warm by their love and enthusiasm for the Big Erectus Babe.

Big Erectus Babe continues to draw bigger and bigger … audiences, and he doesn’t understand why. He just goes on stage, stammers something about being hard, and people froth at the mouth in laughter. At least three elderly people have had heart attacks from lack of oxygen at his shows. Regular attendants of his shows now have perfect wooden-cut abs from laughing so much. BEB’s been flashed so many times that the idea of boobs doesn’t even register to him anymore. Oh how far he has come from his humble beginnings on Mt. Hungolomghnonoloughongous.

At this point, the media is catching on as well.

MC2: Look at this rave review! “Big Erectus Babe STANDS OUT from the competition!”

MC1: I stole a new poster back from marketing! “Is that a Big Erectus Babe in your pants, or are you just happy to get a ticket to his new show?”

On his fifth show, for a sold-out venue of 5000 people, he can’t even get a word out in his set. He is constantly interrupted by the audience shouting loving and appreciative things like “You’re amazing!”, “I’m remoisturizing the desert thanks to you!” on top of the general commosion of the audience.

On his sixth show he sells out a huge arena, which burns to the ground from the rabid mob outside the arena that can’t fit in it. It’s like a train that’s too big for the tunnel it’s trying to enter. He gets one word out before the chaos:

“Why?”

MC2: BEB! You won’t believe this!

BEB: If I won’t believe it, then why is there a need to tell me?

MC2: I got you an interview with Timmy Fall’n!

Only now does Main Character 2 react to what Big Erectus Babe had said.

In fact, they are already at the studio, and Big Erectus Babe has his makeup done. What a goof, it’s almost like he’s not really aware of what’s happening around him.

A stagehand walks up and tells them it’s time to thrust BEB into the spotlight and ge tit on. Main Character 1 pushes Big Erectus Babe into the bright stage lights.

The music cues, and an overly enthusiastic Timmy Fall’n meets our savior on the stage.

Timmy Fall’n: Okay, wow it’s so nice to have you here, geeze, jeeze.

BEB: I knew a guy named Tim, actually.

The earth shakes and the lights flicker.

Timmy Fall’n: Don’t say that name!

Mr. Fall’n stands up, his voice filling the entire room, eyes turning a subtle shade of red, and some of his teeth grow into bloody fangs. He almost instantaneously turns back to normal, and the video cameras captured nothing of the strange event.

It’s a sweaty interview. Everyone loves it. The newspapers are basically printing money when writing about Big Erectus Babe.

“Biggest Babe on ALL the continents!”

“He’s SO BIG! When you thought he couldn’t explode ANY MORE, this happens!”

Some of them are practically spying on Big Erectus Babe.

“These wet fans dressed up as plumbers just to meet BEB, watch what happens when they fail to clean his pipes!” (He kindly yet firmly asked them to leave).

For the first part of his pocket-rocket sized career, Big Erectus Babe mostly goes with the flow. Then he gets kind of bored. But after a few months of people literally praising his name constantly, his mind starts to shift.

He tries to actually write jokes.

The only problem is that the universe is telling him “not not not”. The paper he writes them on bursts into flames. The flames of which burst into song about how bad he is as a person, digging deep into his most insecure insecurities. His laughter at his own jokes is covered by noises all around the city; cars suddenly honk, faucets burst, hard drives he writes “funny” movie scripts on corrupt, and the comedian’s union pre-emptively sends him a rejection letter to a job he didn’t even know existed. All major writing guilds, and even some fringe ones, follow suite.

One time he decides to ignore all of the universe’s signs on stage.

The dies. Then Big Erectus Babe improvises a real, actual joke.

BEB: “So what’s the deal with airplane food?”

There’s a moment of silence.

Another moment.

Then another.

Another one.

In one collective motion, the entire audience gets up and leaves. No booing, no tomatoes thrown, nothing. They just leave in an orderly fashion in dead silence. It’s quite the feat considering how half the population of the human race attends his shows at this point.

As usual, there are many reporters and news outlets bouncing on this big erectus scandal.

“Big Erectus Babe Goes FLACCID!”

“Big Erectus Babe Came, Then Left!”

“Big Erectus Babe Owes Me Twenty Bucks!”

Thim: And that’s the story of how my good pal Big Erectus Babe achieved world fame and got a global following, only to lose it as fast as it came ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°).