A/N: I have been on hiatus because I've been brain-trippin', yo. No drugs or anything like that. Just movies and books. Movies and books. Like Ponyboy Curtis! I am sorry. I love me some good cheap Agent laughs. Don't you?
"Pointless Agent Insanity! Part XIV:
You Fothermuckers!"
Smith bust the door open. Jones and Brown sat on the couch watching TV.
"What's head-banging?" he said.
The two Agents, wide-eyed and pale, turned their heads around like the Exorcist...nah, I'm just kidding with ya. They really just sat there as they spun the world around them. So there. Take that, Linda Blair!
Jones gasped. "You don't know what head-banging is?"
Smith shook his head.
"Why, it's the most important thing in the world!"
"It is?" he said, alarmed. Apparently no one at the meeting had sent him a memo to that C-14 bomb pack he called a beeper that was strapped to his chest. "What is it, then?"
"I don't know," Jones shrugged, turning the world back on its regular axis of rotation. "I just like brain-trippin' with ya. Go ask Brown."
Smith killed Jones with a pillow and took his spot on the couch.
"For the last time, what's head-banging?" he demanded. "Is it when you bang somebody's head with a spoon?"
"I thought that was when you took somebody's head and played the drums with it," said Jones, puzzled as he reentered the body of a Cheeto lying on the floor. He began licking himself. Strangely enough, he tasted like chocolate.
"No, and no. It's when you bang your head against objects to achieve specific ends," Brown said.
Smith crushed the Jones-Chocolate-Cheeto into the carpet with his heel. Because of this, the real Agent Jones sprang up in full form straight from the floorboards. He licked himself. He thought he tasted awfully bland without a pinch of oregano. Reloading his Desert Eagle, he shot himself in the head in order to wind up in the place of Hansel and Gretel. He ate the entire gingerbread house in one bite. But don't call him fat when he walks by us, okay?—he's not fat. He's not fat. Don't call him fat. Got it? Okay. Good. Now shush. Shush. I said shush, Agent McBlimp is walking by us right now. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"No—I use my head to bang things in very practical and efficient ways, Agent Smith," Brown explained. He motioned toward the door. "For example."
He charged into the door, which crumbled under the sheer hardness of his skull. Then he ran over to the mailbox outside to check the mail. When he saw his subscription to Country Living had run out, he cursed Paula Dean, and thence used his head in the manner of a baseball bat to swing the box clean off.
"Sucker," he said, despite the fact that it had been his own mailbox.
Smith slumped on the couch.
"What's wrong?"
"Gentlemen," he said gravely, "we must take action."
Ten minutes later, they stood in the middle of FF dot net, removing via black spraypaint the word "less" in Pointless Agent Insanity!
"Hey!" I said, running out to the front porch wearing nothing but a sawed-off shotgun and red polka-dotted patched-up hillbilly overalls. See, what I tell you? What I tell you? I tell you and I tell you, and you still dun believe me. I brain trip, yo. Why you no believe me? Now look at what you did. U made meh verah sadd. Tanks a lot, u modderfocker. "What the HELL are you kids doing?"
"We are not required to acknowledge your presence, O young one," Smith said, cleverly sidestepping a new fanfiction chapter, "for I believe we are much older than you."
"Indeed," Brown concurred. "By the standard of human years, we're stuck in perpetual menstruation—" Jones hit him in the arm to get him to try again. "Ahem, I meant—multiplication—melioration— masturbation—MIDLIFE CRISIS! MIDLIFE CRISIS. YES, THAT'S WHAT IT'S CALLED," he announced too loudly, smiling.
Smith walked away, unable to form any kind of coherent response. Except for maybe running up to the camera and head-banging it a little.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH...ER, NEBUCHADNEZZAR
Link, Morpheus, and Trinity sat in the mess hall.
"So...why isn't Neo coming to breakfast again?" Link asked.
"You don't want to know," a bleary-eyed Trinity said.
"Why?"
"Yesterday he went to the ghetto to rescue a redpill," she said, rubbing her forehead. "Let's just say he learned some new swear words along the way."
"Good morning, you fothermuckers!" Thomas sang, beaming a brilliantly stupid smile as he took his seat—reserved only for the One: the honorary adult-sized high chair, constructed 72 feet in the air—at the table. "How about some of that fothermucking good breakfast, huh?"
"We do not condone swearing at this table, Neo," Morpheus said.
"What'chu talkin' bout, Willis?"
Willis slapped himself in the head, for this was the fourth time this gag had been mentioned thus far in the story.
"I mean, clean your dirty mouth up!"
"What?" Thomas said, looking down at his adult-sized bib labeled: DEAR NEO: FOOD NO GO HERE. He banged his fork indignantly against the table. "Okay, I admit it. I eat fast. Is that a freaking crime, Morpheus? Last time I knew, the Soviet Union was a free country!"
Trinity popped a truckload of aspirin and was carried off the set. Link babbled. Morpheus' voice grew dark as he stood up and pointed a quavering finger of rage at Thomas.
"You shall never speak of that...that...that...political farce ever again," he said.
"Tzar Nicholas II! Alexander Kerensky! Vladimir Lenin! Joseph Stalin! Nikita Khrushchev! Leonid Brezhnev! Yuri Andropov! Konstantin Chernenko! Mikhail Gorbachev!" Thomas sang in a taunting schoolboy voice. He stuck his tongue out at his glaring captain. "Admit it—socialism is the socio-philopsophical EPIC FAIL of the political and economic world!"
"Perhaps in the secular district," Morpheus remarked, "but it does promote some of the higher nuances of man's natural tendency towards egalitarianism."
"Fallacy! Fallacy! Oh, the horror!" Thomas shrieked, rolling his eyes to the back of his head and clutching his ears. "Oh, the utter lack of objective evidence!"
"But, but, but," Morpheus stammered, his eyes growing wide and glistening as his jutting bottom lip trembled, "that's just theory—"
"Admit it—you EPIC FAIL AT EMPIRICAL RHETORIC!"
"STFU!" Morpheus screamed, and with that most sorrowful utterance ran out of the room crying.
Link shot himself in the head with an ice pick that melted before he pulled the trigger.
"Hehehe, don't you know? I'm the One. I win at everything," Thomas said, "you fothermuckers."
End of brain-trip. Class dismissed! ;D