This is by Dave Aronson [http://www.geocities.com/davearonson]. It was published on the groaners listserv, and for us living in the Center of the Universe, it should sound familiar.

Once upon a fairly recent time, there was a puritanical family in the rural hinterlands of Massachusetts. Ma, Pa, Sis, and Bro were so poor, that they sent Bro off to The Big City, den of evil that it was, to make some money to send home.

Being a strapping young farm lad, one of the first groups of ne’er-do-wells he fell in with was a team of rugby players. This particular team, sponsored by a wealthy businessman proud of his Russian heritage, named itself after Russian royalty, the Tsars. Being nickel-less upon his arrival, Bro was a natural for the very last one, which nobody else wanted to be.

Their arch-foes were the Brigands, sponsored by Digital Equipment Corporation. So fierce was their rivalry, that in the wee hours of the morning, members of each team could often be found playing childish pranks upon the other.

After one game, Bro happened to notice what the Brigands were doing with one of their prettiest cheerleaders in their bus in the parking lot. To make a long and dirty story short, they were taking turns with her.

A few days later, while strolling through the park one evening, Bro happened to meet her.

“Gee, miss, I’m sure sorry to see what those Brigands were doing to you!”


“After the game. In the parking lot. On the bus. They ought to be locked up!”

“That? Locked up? What for? That’s our usual post-game party! We all like it!”

“They weren’t forcing you?”

“Oh, hell no! I like it! Do you want any? I do it all, baby….”

Horrified at this suggestion, Bro could contain himself no longer, and assaulted her. Not sexually of course, because That Would Be A Sin, but “merely” battering her, and yelling assorted names at her: “Floozie! Harlot! Slut! Strumpet! Tramp! Trollop! Whore!” and so forth. Before he realized what he was doing, he had beaten her to death.

Panicking, he called up some of his rugby friends, who drunkenly, but still reluctantly, agreed to help him transport her body back to his parents’ farm to dispose of it. On the way, they decided to chop up the body, put the parts in a pile, douse it with kerosene, and burn it beyond recognition.

As they were piling up the parts of the body, a young female voice rang out from the back porch of the farmhouse, “Hey, Bro! What are you doing out there?”

One of the rugby buddies gave the usual “battle cry” they used when playing nocturnal pranks on their foes, and Bro explained. The neighbors heard:

“The Tsars at night
Are Brigands’ blight!
Heapin’ the tart of DEC, Sis!”

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