Numbers Joke (Ft. Tryon Pk. Baby)

Ok we're behind. We haven't posted in awhile and you know how hard it is to get back in the swing of things. The truth is, we've been going through some very heavy stuff, stuff we can't talk about here. Stuff that leaves us, three grown men, weeping in each others arms, leaning against the fridge for support, our knees buckling in grief as we slide to the kitchen floor, our naked bodies (did I mention we're naked?) writhing as the cool tile sends electric waves through our buttocks and out our nipples, creating a kind of electromagnetic man-ball, if you will, someone's wife sauntering in and dropping a piece of rye bread into the mix, toast before another tear can fall.
Anyway what have you been up to? Knocking down our door in protest of the hiatus? No, you have not. What-- you've been getting your jokes somewhere else? Tell me-- were they good jokes? Were they new... young? What did you do, laugh? No, I need to hear this-- did you laugh? Did you make the ha ha noises that you used to make at StopMe?
Well you listen hear and listen good: we have 3 expeditions in the bank and we're back and we're bringing them to you and if you so much as look at that door it'll be shoved up your ass so far people will say "Shit that must've hurt!" as you walk down the street with your body shaped like a door.
What? What's that? Get on with the jokes? Oh, is that right-- you want a joke? Here. Here's a little scrap of a joke-- a sample off the street, a taste of the old me. A little scrappy ass numbers joke for you to chew on and hold up to the light and dream about the old days and hope for something to come that can ever be even close to what was. And when you're done kicking around this poor third grader, you can get down on your motherFUCKING knees and beg, BEG for another joke and all I can say—as though you EVEN deserve a response— is we'll see.