A little-known fact about ol’ Randy here is that I was once in charge of driving trains. I don’t mess with them metal devils anymore ‘cause of what happened after my sixth ride.
Here I am, driving my train, minding my business, smoking like a chimney, when all of a sudden, I feel a ker-thunk and a yelp that coulda woke roadkill back to life. God bless it, I thought, what are these bastards on now? I stopped the train and got out to find that I’d plowed right through an Amish family. Hell, they may as well have swallowed dynamite and a match from the looks of it. It was no good. Randy was goin’ to the slammer for a good while.
They told me, “Randy, we have to put you to death for what you’ve done.” Lord knows I deserved it, so I told ‘em it’s alright and that I’d comply. They asked me what I wanted for my last meal, and I said I wanted lard. They said, “Lard? That’s it?” Yup. Lard’s ambrosia for the soul, and I need to be purified before I meet my Savior tonight. “Alright,” they said, “lard it is, and be back at eight for the chair.” Shoot. I always hated the thought of dyin’ of electricity; ever since the war, whenever lightning struck, it made me knock my head against the wall and make sea dog noises until the storm passed. It seemed fitting that I’d die this way though, so I told ‘em, “Yes sirs, I’ll be back at eight o’clock sharp.”
Eight-o-clock rolls around and I’m plopped on Satan’s throne. The boys ask if I got anything meaningful to say before I kicked the can. I said, “No sirs, I won’t have anything to say until after.” Thinkin’ I was just being clever, they smirked and went into the other room to pull the lever. The head honcho pulls the lever and waits for me to writhe and struggle and meet my demise. Except I don’t. I’m fine.
He demands, “What the hell is this?”
“Sorry boys,” I said, “I’m just a bad conductor.”
