Bill Cosby showed up at my humble abode the other day and asked me if I'd help him put together a stand-up routine. He said no TV stations were calling him for a new sit-com about being the perfect father. And he bemoaned the fact that no companies were giving him the ring-a-ling-a-ling about selling dog food, diapers for old people, vino fino, or walkers for geriatrics.
"You are a living legend in the field of comedy, my man! Why in the hell would you want to have anything to do with an absolute nobody like me?"
"Well, I've read a few of your stories here on The Spoof and I like what I saw. I even had an account here at one time. Too much craziness here, though. That check, well it never arrived after I wrote some articles. And that guy who used my name, it wasn't even me.
"I'm sorry to hear about all that, Mr. Cosby. Starting over at the bottom is the pits. But what would I know about the stellar success you've enjoyed, I mean, being the consummate bottomfeeder myself?"
"Don't be too hard on yourself. You're old, but at least you're not really, really, really old. Kid, some of your stuff shows promise...Maybe you can help me out. Even a quick couple of one-liners would be great. Some slice of life of the outskirts of life, whatever. I think you get the gist of it all," he said.
"Come on in," I said. He entered my place sort of with a condescending attitude, but was nice enough not to go on a long spiel about how a middle-aged man like myself had junk lying around all over the place. He didn't say anything about the 70 cats and 39 dogs I have hoarded up in my little studio, either.
"Wait a second, sir. I've got a buddy down the hall who's your biggest fan. His name is Jacko and he tunes in each and every day to Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids.
"Is Jacko a black guy?"
"Nope, he's something else," I said.
So I went down the hall and grabbed Jacko. And guess what? It was that time of the day he enjoys the most, watching Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids.
"You know there's no way in hell I'm leaving this TV set. It's my time, bro, and you go wherever the hell you came from and leave me the hell alone."
"Jacko, what if I told you the guy who invented Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids is in my studio, just a floor up and a few doors over, right now. It's a one-chance in a lifetime thing. It will be better than hitting the state lottery.
"And who might that be?"
"Are you seeing things again?"
"No. It's him. The real deal. And he wants us to help him come up with a comedy routine. He's going back to being a one-man traveling show on the stand-up circuit."
"I'll believe this shit when I fucking see it," he huffed, and followed me up the steps.
As soon as we got to my place, Bill Cosby was staring out the little window at the parking lot. He turned around nonchalantly, held out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Bill Cosby."
And what did Jacko do?
Yes, that fucking jackass fainted and fell right onto my little coffee table, knocking over a vase, some empty bottles, and an ashtray filled with all sorts of crazy stuff. The dogs and cats kept pawing at him. A really mean rat terrier mix kept biting at Jacko's face and an old pole cat I picked up near the railroad tracks about a year ago took a shit on his head.
"I know a quick fix to helping Jacko get out of his funk," Bill Cosby said, and took out of his sports jacket a long hypodermic needle and stuck it right into Jacko's neck - right into his jugular vein.
In a half second, Jacko was back with the living and the first thing he did was start talking about the after-death experience he just went through.
"Man, these big things were flying all over trying to bite me. Then some of them grabbed me up with their long, sharp, horrible claws and dragged me into this long hole. At the end of it was Satan. And do you know what he looks like?"
"Just shut the hell up, asshole, you're not dead anymore. You're back me with. And Bill Cosby's here too, and you better thank him that you didn't just die and go to fucking hell."
Tall, lanky, stubble-faced Jacko just sort of looked bleary eyed and said, "Thank you, Mr. Cosby. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. But do you wanna know what the devil looks like? He looks like Sam Kinison, that's what he looks like. And he's dressed in a tutu, and he's a lot fatter than he ever was when he was alive. And do you wanna know what else? Man, he's waving around a grenade launcher and he's breathing fire like a fucking dragon. And that crazy motherfucker's screaming one-thousand times louder than he did when he was fucking alive!"
"That's a little more information than we really need," Cosby said with an arrogant wave of his hand. "Pull those pants up, Jacko, they're way down below your ass. You look absolutely ridiculous."
So Jacko did exactly what he was told and then we got right down to work. We tried to help The Coz come up with some good jokes, but he didn't like any of them. We tried to hit him with a few of our favorite one-liners. He told us they were terrible.
"Can I get you two something to drink?" he asked.
"Well, Mr. Cosby, let's not be putting the cart before the horse here. I'm supposed to ask you if you want something to drink. And all I have is lukewarm water. I don't even have ice cubes since my refrigerator's broken. They say they'll fix it by tomorrow and you'll be gone by then."
He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and a mischievous grin. A couple of my hyperactive cats jumped over his head.
"You are going to be gone by tomorrow, right? I mean I just said that to tell you that they fix things really quick around here."
"Let's forget the formalities," he said with his charismatic smile. "I've got a little something here in this satchel I brought with me."
He pulled out a bottle of 9-Year-Old Knob Creek Bourbon, a fifth of 21-year-old Balvenie Portwood Scotch, and another fifth of Remy Martin Cognac VSOP. Then he grabbed two tumblers out of the satchel and sat one in front of Jacko and one in front of me. By then, we sort of tidied up the coffee table and besides a few ugly splotches on it, the thing was looking great. And it even looked greater with all that really good, pricey booze our new alcohol benefactor had just bestowed on us.
"Where's your glass?" Jacko asked.
"Oh, I don't drink. But my intel told me you two fools, oh, I mean, gentlemen, drank like fish."
"How did you know I was going to be here?" Jacko asked.
"Well, Jacko, again, my intel told me you were a big fan of my cartoon show and he let me know the exact hour your buddies Fat Albert and his buddies would be on your TV station here. Do you know that only four TV stations across the country still show it?"
"Yeah, we're kind of way out here in the remotes. TV land here and Hollywood are light years away from each other," I said.
"Look fellows, there's a new anti-alcoholic drug I'm going to put into your drinks. It's just a little pill and it will keep you boys from becoming real alkies. Trust me."
"Oh, man, Mr. Cosby, we passed that line a long, long time ago," Jacko said.
Bill Cosby used a pill crusher to crush up five or six yellow and green pills. Then he put the powder into Jacko's drink. Then he did the same for me. He took this fancy silver spoon and sort of wiggled it around in both glasses.
"Yeah boys, I've given up on women. Now I have a fetish for middle-age hippie types who look more like cave men than people."
And as he said this, he was beginning to look a bit washed out and fuzzy. But I came-to quickly, so did Jacko. Man, that guy has an amazing tolerance. He could probably swallow radioactive matter and wouldn't even burp.
"What in the hell happened?"
"Hey, can you pour us another tumbler full of that cognac and this time, double up on those pills. Let's get this party started!" Jacko shrieked, with crazy eyes.
"It, it, it, wasn't supposed to go like this," Bill Cosby muttered. He couldn't believe Jacko and I looked like we had both downed three pots of coffee. Each.
"What other liquid refreshment do you have in that bag" Jacko said to him, pulling the satchel from Cosby's shoulder and rifling through it. He grabbed a fifth of Bluecoat Gin and another fifth of Three Olives Cherry Vodka.
"Crush up a few dozen of those pills with that pill crusher and throw 'em in our glasses," Jacko said with glee.
"Yeah, give us something a little stronger than water," I said.
"It, it, it, it wasn't supposed to go like this. You two are supposed to be comatose."
"Hell's bells grandpa, me and him have been on heavy tranquilizers just to maintain a normal semblance since we've been in our twenties. When this asshole had a full-time newspaper gig, his head doctor had him on 3,000 milligrams of lithium a day. Now his kidneys don't work very well, but he's still crazier than a barnyard owl," Jacko said.
"I, I, I, I have another appointment. Sorry, gentlemen, but I have to run. But you two can keep all that booze. Enjoy yourselves."
And with that, our newly made acquaintance, Bill Cosby, was headed for the door. As fast as any old college football player could gallivant.
That obnoxious little rat terrier mix barked vociferously at him in a high-pitched staccato. Some of the cats jumped up onto a cabinet and then jumped over Mr. Cosby's head. The exit almost took on the dynamics of an air show.
"Hey, Mr. Cosby, come back when you're in a bit more of a mirthful mood. Maybe you'll like our jokes better then. And don't forget to bring along some top-shelf liquid refreshments and some more of those nifty atomic aspirins," Jacko said.
Cosby looked back at us like he'd just seen Jacko's description of Sam Kinison in the afterlife.