Holy boat

Now, I repeat, I forgot the original set-up, and only kinda remembered the punchline, but, since it was requested I try to reconstruct it, here’s what I came up with:

An asshole from California, a zombie from Florida, a tsar from Russia, and a frog from Brooklyn go on a sailing trip to the South Seas, but hit a typhoon, and their tiny ship is tossed.  If not for the spirit of the asshole, who struggles to guide the ship while the other three huddle together in the dining area below, the ship would founder.  He saves it, but is thrown overboard and lost.

The ship capsizes and drifts into a lagoon in an uncharted island.  The zombie from Florida, the tsar from Russia, and the frog from Brooklyn struggle to the shore.

The tsar says, “Poor asshole.  He saved our lives.”

The frog says, “For a little while anyway.  You were handling the navigation, zombie.  Where the fuck are we?”

The zombie says, “I don’t know.  According to the maps this island wasn’t even supposed to be here… All I was able to recover from the shipwreck is this dinner knife.”

The tsar says, “All I saved was this spoon.”

The frog says, “All I have is this fork.”

The zombie says, “We are totally fucked.

The tsar says, “Well.  It could be worse, we could have been captured by cannibals.”

At that moment there’s a rustling in the jungle, and a tribe of savages armed with spears, and led by a witch doctor, emerge.

The witch doctor says, “Gentlemen, you are in great good fortune!”

“Fuck you say!” says the frog.

“Shut up, frog,” says the tsar.

“How do you mean?” asks the zombie of the witch doctor.

“Normally, we’d just take you captive, chop you up, and serve you at a feast.”

“Well, I’m glad we avoided that,” says the tsar.

“Instead, you will have the honor of being ritual sacrifices to the great god Googly-Moogly.  Grab ’em, boys!”

“Run away!” shouts the zombie.

Before the three castaways can escape into the jungle, the warriors round them up.  They’re brought to a jungle clearing where a big pot is already boiling.

“What are you going to do to us?” asks the tsar.

“You have three choices,” says the witch doctor,while a big bruiser in a headdress, apparently the Chief, looks on mutely.  “Each will have for you a good side and a bad side.”

“Go on,” says the tsar.

“Your first option is to die in the fire.  The bad side is that you will be burned alive.  The good side is that your remains will be thrown in the pot, the scraps of meat thrown to the dogs” – sounds of barking  can be heard – “and your left leg bone will be hollowed out and turned into a holy smoking pipe.”

Suddenly, the zombie pulls out his knife, and charges crying “Santiago and Sarah Palin!”  Before he can get even halfway to the witch doctor, he’s pin-cushioned with spears.  His knife is tossed into the jungle, and, before he’s even breathed his last, he’s tossed in the fire, then his burnt corpse is thrown in the pot, and then, before the eyes of the frog and the tsar, his left leg bone is extracted, hollowed out, and, within minutes, the witch-doctor is now puffing on a pipe fashioned from the zombie’s leg bone.

“These guys are obviously very experienced with this shit,” says the frog.

“We’re doomed,” says the tsar.

“That went well!” says the witch doctor.  “You have two more choices.  Your second choice is you can have your head cut off.  The bad side is that you die.  The good side is that it’s quick, and then you will have the honor of having your head hollowed out, the flesh boiled off, and the skull turned into one of the chief’s breakfast bowls.”

“And the last choice?” asks the tsar.

“You can be skinned alive.  The bad side is that you die slowly in horrible agony.  The good side is that your skin will be stretched to fit the frame of our holy boat, and you, or your skin anyway, will have the great honor of carrying the holy dog shit of the holy dogs down the holy stream into the holy shit-hole.

“Now you must choose which of you goes to which fate.”

The tsar turns to the frog.  “You want to flip a coin?”

The frog says, “Fuck that shit.  You want the breakfast bowl thing?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” says the frog, and adds, whispering, “I got a plan.”

“Have you reached a decision?” asks the WD.

“I’ll take the breakfast bowl thing,” says the tsar, while revealing his spoon. “What the heck –  you can use my spoon to scoop out my brains.”

Before he can say his last good-byes to the frog, who seems sad but oddly confident, a warrior lops off the tsar’s head with an obsidian machete, and tosses it into the pot.

Suddenly, the frog hops forward.  Surprised, the witch doctor steps back.  The frog whips out his fork, and, before anyone can react, he starts poking himself with it hard, jabbing himself deeply over and over as blood covers his body and his skin is torn into shreds, and he shouts, “Yeah, you wanted a fucking boat, fuck you, here’s your fucking boat, here’s your fucking holy fucking boat you fucking piece of shits!”