Metalocalypse2006

Pickles the Drummer:
[obviously ill at ease onstage] Okay. We are going to delight you all with a little improvisational comedy. Okay. And all we need to get started is, ah - one location.

Heckler:
How 'bout a different comedy club! [the audience laughs]

Pickles the Drummer:
Okay! I heard, uh, "gas station."

William Murderface:
I'm a gas station attendant.

Pickles the Drummer:
[sitting on a stool, miming driving a car] Fill her up, I am driving a Corvette. It is midnight blue with chrome rims...

Heckler:
Hey, Pippi Long-boring! You suck! [the audience laughs]

Pickles the Drummer:
Could ya fill it up just a little bit faster?

William Murderface:
Well, I'm trying. I just can't seem to find the f***ing gas tank!

Pickles the Drummer:
[breaking character] That's 'cause it's a stool, Murderface!

Heckler:
Hey, idiot! Don't negate the premise! [the audience laughs]

Pickles the Drummer:
[back in character and visibly nervous] It's on - on your - it's over - there - wherever... please hurry. I would like to leave this horrible place.

William Murderface:
[fed up with the act] Eh, I should check the oil. I gotta go get my tools. You know what? I'm gonna leave. This sucks. [he walks offstage] Good luck dyin' out there.

Pickles the Drummer:
[desparately trying to keep the act together] Are you leaving?

William Murderface:
[from offstage] Yes, I'm leaving!

Heckler:
Hey, ugly! What are ya just sittin' there for? Make us laugh! [the audience's "boos," heckling, and chants of "Get off the stage!" blend into each other; Pickles is sweating and frozen with fear. He finally falls off his stool, tangled up in his mic cord. He starts hyperventilating]

Pickles the Drummer:
[whispering] Help me! Help...