Holy Jesus! That laughter! It... reminds you of... oh shit...

Your neural synapses begin to pump, your neo-cortex is stimulated like it's never been stimulated before, your frontal lobe does a double-take... Yes, there's no doubt about it, you're having a...

FLASHBACK!!!

Your mind hurtles back across the vast expanse of time, passing through the mists of memory, plunging into the sordid depths of your childhood. You follow the sound of the laughter across the years like a kid might follow a trail of breadcrumbs. You're suddenly 8 years old again, out on a clear, sunny day, and you're all alone, standing in the middle of a crowd. Distantly, you hear Simon & Garfunkel, live and KICKING ASS. Mommy and daddy are nowhere to be seen, and why would they? They sent you off to stay with... You're about to start bawling, when you're startled by a nearby girl screaming and calling someone a 'filthy old man,' to which a gritty, familiar voice replies "you know you love it baby!" and then cackles maniacally.

Yeah, it's your grandpa alright. Most likely he forgot he brought you along, but there he is again. He walks around you a couple of times, asking other kids "are you my grandson?" before he comes back to you.

"There y'are!" he caws. "Hey, walk up to that hot mom over there for me and tell her how big my johnson is!"

You look at him horrified, and he punches you in the shoulder, rather hard.

"Just kidding, just kidding, you little turd." he says, but you're not so sure. "OK, let's blow this joint, none of these chicks are puttin' out. You know the drill." And you do. You start wandering around and asking strangers for bus fare.

It's just one of many occasions where you're subjected to your grandpa's combination cruel sense of humor and unkillable sex-drive, especially when he loses his house in a game of poker and has to move in with your parents. Your ascent into puberty becomes a nightmare, every time you bring a girl home concluding in grandpa talking dirty to her and attempting to feel her up. You never even get a chance to masturbate because of him following you around the house to tell you all the latest dirty jokes. From that moment on you've pretty much been on edge all the time, walking around with a perpetual boner, relying on electrical tape - cause duct tape just won't cut it - to hold it down at presentations and job interviews. Of course, because of that, you don't have a single pubic hair left, and the skin around your zipper-weasel is always red and irritated. You've tried a variety of ointments...

You slowly begin to come out of your flashback, realizing that your rather frank talk about your disturbing sexual past has caused your would-be girlfriend and all your friends to leave you by yourself with nothing to keep you company but the cold corpse of Dizzy Steve's hippy chick. And come to think of it, that memory had nothing at all to do with that strange laughter you heard. And now that you're in the 'guy who's left by himself / gotten separated from the group / offered to stay behind' bracket, your chances of survival are fairly slim. You know what, I could describe how something HORRIBLE that has been watching you from the bushes ALL THIS TIME leaps out and slashes you to ribbons, but why beat a dead horse? Speaking of dead horses...

YOU'RE DEAD, MR. ED. START OVER!