Textual

I thought I'd try to re-tell one of the jokes I'd received via text the other day. Don't worry, it's not one of those that has the punch line, "Yeah, then they all fucked off home". Here goes:

It's late in the evening, it's also November, so there's a cruel chill in the air, one that gets under your scarf and reminds you of your mortality. A Vicar shifts into the lobby of a B&B. Actually, scratch that, we'll say its small town America, he's a priest and he's heading into a dirty motel, covered in the sticky Deep South heat. He sidles over to the desk, which has a hick behind it, leafing through an old issue of Rolling Stone some former guest left. He looks down his long, pointy nose at him with the kind of beady eyes that a life of celibate piety brings. He leans over the desk & says, "Excuse me, can you make sure that the... (struggles to get the words out)...pornography channel in my room is disabled, thank you".

The hick, who represents common norms looks up from his desk & puts down his magazine. He tries to keep the disdain from his voice but to little success, "No Sir, just the regular kind here. You sick fuck".