Fellow guests, excuse the interruption during dinner, but I am compelled to share some grave news about something serious that has occurred on this great vessel.
When I booked my suite aboard the RMS Titanic, I simply could not contain my joy. A floating palace not even God could sink? The finest passengers high society has to offer? Even after we set sail from Southampton, I felt as if I were in a dream, blanketed in good fortune and bliss. That was until moments ago when tragedy struck.
I’m speaking, of course, about how two people banged in my car.
That’s right, I’m the owner of the car aboard the Titanic. And if you’re the couple who boned in it, I’d like to have a word with you—a friendly chat about your public perversions.
You see, it’s not just any old car. It’s my car. My new car that I bought with my hard-earned money, so my family and I could tour America together. But now that’s out of the question, what with you turning it into a STEAMY SEX CARRIAGE.
I was trembling with anger when I discovered you soiled my automobile. It felt like the entire ship was scraping against 1.5 million metric tons of ice. I was that mad.
For starters, the stench you left behind was terrible. A strange mix of pheromones and flatulence and strangely, fresh ice. That may be what love smells like to you, but it does not belong in my luxury car.
You may be saying, “Uh, it’s 1912. All cars are luxury cars.” Not true, you proletariat paramour. That baby is a Renault Type CB Coupé de Ville. And you just had to turn it into a hay-filled barn and roll around in it, didn’t you? You tactless lovers, with your wanton disregard while making flippy floppy!
And the stains. Good God, they were in all shapes and sizes. One looked like a badger dancing on its hind legs, another like the state of New Hampshire (or Vermont, depending on your angle). Soak it on the ocean floor for a hundred years, and it’s still not coming out.
I’m sure everyone agrees when I say your actions are obviously a symbol of humankind’s hubris and an omen predicting what the twentieth century has in store. If I had it my way, I’d have you two thrown overboard with a piece of debris only one of you can fit on.
Let me ask you this: How am I supposed to drive my children to school when the stains of your love are embedded in the fibers? Where will I put my groceries? My work papers? MY MOTHER?
For the record, I’m not a prude. When the brandy starts flowing and the orchestra picks up, I can turn into quite the Casanova. But I always keep my activities to my stateroom, not the backseat of some stranger’s car. I don’t care if your cabin is flooding. GET A LITERAL ROOM!
History will call this a “night to remember”—on account of the car boinking. So congratulations, you’ve forever tainted this vessel’s good image.
Okay, listen, as mad as I am, I want to be civil about this. So let’s just talk, all right? You’ll foot the cleaning bill for my car, and we’ll go our merry—
Damn, they’re calling us up to boat deck. Maybe that’s what all the screaming is about. Anyway, this isn’t over! No, sir, it’ll take a catastrophic, society-altering event to stop me from settling this. Believe you me!