URGENT — Wednesday evening, Fat Balls, a loyal member of Tracy Jordan’s Morgan’s entourage, went missing. The following note was found this morning, taped to the entrace at Bailey Hall, where Morgan will be performing this Sunday at 7 p.m.
Dear Mr. Morgan,
If you’re reading this letter, you already know. We have Fat Balls. He’s being held at the School of Hotel Administration, and his pants is on real tight. If you ever care to see your heftily-testiculized friend and vital entourage member again, we recommend you comply with our demands. We’ll tell you what’s happenin’ chief … prepare to run away in slow motion.
You see Mr. Morgan, we’ve been following your career for quite some time. We were there in 1968 as you clawed your way up from the murky depths of your mother’s womb. Even through the thick amniotic fluid it was clear a star had been born. We were there in 1984 when you first appeared at the Apollo and startled audiences everywhere with your outrageous truth bombs. We teared up with pride as you earned your degree from the School of Hard Knocks, and learned what a sixth grade education can do for a boy who loves animals (if they love him back).
We know you can give us comedy, you can give us sex, you can give us drugs. But most of all, you can give us …
Comedy.
Unfortunately, we’re on a bender and we need more. For the sake of Fat Balls’ fat balls, hear our plea.
1. First and foremost, we want to take you behind the middle school and get you pregnant.
2. Hand over all them deluxe edition Tracy Jordan Meat Machines. Meat IS the new bread. (As an interesting side note, both of us have recently ended our long-term relationships with bread, and now can safely call ourselves “the biggest losers”).
3. 20 minutes alone with Kenneth Ellen. Locked doors, no questions asked. We may actually need 22.
4. A share in your property in the Ukraine. Y por una acción, nosotros significamos una cuna en su dormitorio. Ay. Y por ultimo …
5. We strongly believe we would be an asset to your entourage. We know how to diversify your portfolio. I mean, ex-squeeze me, but haven’t you ever heard of risk-aversion? We know what to do with ya dollaz. Earth to Dot Com, WorldCom? Try TIME-BOMB! (Also, we want to sit on you when you’re over-stimulated.)
So Trace-face, despite all our silliness we hope you recognize the sincerity of our demands. Fat Balls’ endowment is on the line, and when you arrive on Sunday to tickle our funny bones, we’ll be waiting, and watching … closely. Boundaries are meant to be tested, and we won’t be using any “safe words.” Not this time.