Bing Crosby, tired from his 12-hour workday shaving giraffes in the local arboretum, patted down the shag in his pipe, placed his hat upon his balding head at a jaunty angle, then strolled down the leafy avenue whistling a happy tune, The Funeral March. His hat was a little out of the ordinary, in that it was fashioned out of two pork chops held together by twine. They were cooked, of course, otherwise that would have just been silly. He stopped off at his large boiled egg-shaped house to pick up his faithful Jack Russell-Great Dane cross dog, Bong, and then set off for his favourite pub, The Jailed Felon, inhaling and exhaling like the best of them, absorbing oxygen into his blood stream as he went.
Bing, as everybody knows, was a massive Golf fanatic. In fact, he loved all Volkswagens equally and often had to be prised off the exhaust pipe of a Beetle. He was a bit like Nancy Shevell in that respect. After punching a baby in the face (because he saw a yellow car, no returns), he decided to lecture the screaming infant and her irate mother about the need to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and not to fuck with Mr. Inbetween. The mother and baby were not appreciative of Bing’s advice, so he bade them farewell, tipped his makeshift pork chop hat and them and toddled off down the road to his local boozer. Bing flung the doors of the pub opened, threw a yapping Bong at the landlord and shouted, “Honey, I’m home!”. The regulars grinned. They loved old Crosby.
After downing a couple of pints of Vodka, Bing felt rather tipsy. The landlord invited Bing to sing a couple of numbers for the regulars… Bing crooned, “Four Hundred and Three… Sixty-Two… Ninety-Four” and all of the drunks nodded away happily. Just then, the clock struck eleven. The local football team struck the clock back – it was a terrible scene – blood and cogs everywhere. He’d seen enough. Bing decided that it was time to go home, so he prised Bong off Van Morrison’s leg and started to leave.
“Bing!” called the landlord, “Don’t go! The night is still young, even if we’re not!” Bing smiled ruefully and replied, “I must, for – you see – I died on October 14th, 1977 and they’re expecting me at the undertakers. I’m over 34 years late as it is!” The landlord grinned, “Well, in that case, another hour or two won’t make any difference!”. Bing laughed, “Bob”, he said (even though the landlord’s name was Geoff), “You’ll be the death of me!” and then the entire universe exploded, leaving only dust, cockroaches and Kraft cheese slices floating, meandering in the vast infinite vacuum of deep, horny space.