The guy's Irish or Scottish or something like that, and he's drunk as a skunk. He staggers down the street, stumbles to his car and starts fumbling to get his key in the lock when two cops walk up, one male, one female.
The male cop says he's going to have to administer a sobriety test before he'll let the guy drive. "Would you sleep with my colleague here?" he asks the drunk.
The camera cuts to a close-up of the female cop, whose face is hideous.
The drunk looks at her, grinning lasciviously, then answers with an enthusiastic "Aye!"
Wrong! He's failed the sobriety test.
"Cuff him," the male cop says.
George Ramick laughs. "That's terrible!" he says. It's crass. But he's still laughing.
Ramick is sitting at the computer in his Rockville basement, clicking through the archives of the amazing and amusing stuff he e-mails to his friends, who e-mail it to their friends, who e-mail it to their friends, who . . .
At 61, Ramick is retired from the Department of Transportation and having a great time. With his white hair and white beard, he looks like Papa Hemingway -- or like Hemingway would have looked if he'd said, "Ah, the heck with this cockamamie Great American Novel hoo-hah" and decided to just enjoy his retirement.
Ramick scrolls through his e-mails. He clicks on one. On his computer screen a construction worker shuffles into a Port-a-Potty. The Port-a-Potty collapses. The construction worker crawls out, covered with extremely unpleasant substances.