"Don't Touch That Button!"

I kept yelling at him, but he wouldn't let go of the button. "That thing's connected to the power supply!" I screamed. But to no avail. He was too far gone. His eyes, like milky eggs on the sidewalk of America's cleanest city, were an ugly shade of off-white. His arm, the one that wasn't torn off, was hanging limp at his side. He looked up at me with his dead eyes, and shouted, "I said 'medium rare!' This isn't fillet mignon!" Then he threw the plate right on the ground. How sad, I thought. Now nobody would eat that steak.

So I picked it up and dusted it off. Still good. I chopped the steak into little slices and put them on Italian bread, or maybe French bread. I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time, since I'd just received a heart transplant from a parrot. So the whole time I was walking around going "Polly gots a steak!" And all these people would come up to me on the street and say, "What's wrong with you? Stop talking like a parrot." But I couldn't, since the DNA was already fused by now.

But getting back to the button, I told that guy never to show his face in that joint again. I said, in 1930s speak, "Get on the trolley, Marty!" But since his name wasn't Marty, he just completely ignored me and kept pushing the button. That's when I lost it and started bellowing, "Your salary pays my taxes!" That's when the feds broke it up.