Joe and Bob were stranded. Too much liquor, a few too many comments about the sexual proficiency of the captain's wife, and a mostly unexpected iceberg had landed them in the lifeboat together. Or more precisely: had landed the lifeboat on them. (The lifeboat was an act of mercy by the captain's wife. Fortunately, she had taken one of Bob's boasts as a compliment.)
The island they had found was small, typical of what they had seen in the comics of their last newspaper, about sixty-seven days ago. The only thing missing from their comic island was a bubble over Joe's head reading "Maybe if you just stuff your shirt with two coconuts..." and one over Bob's head reading "I'd rather drink my own urine than become your bitch, bitch."
Of course, the funny part was that they both actually had drank their own urine. Bob would make it sort of a game, trying to relieve himself and quench his thirst in one shot. Sometimes he'd miss, and accidentally write the letters "drmf" in the sand, thus creating the island's only reading material until it evaporated minutes later. (Incidentally, it would have taken an island full of monkeys at least three years to piss the letters "drmf".)
Mid-afternoon pee time came to an end one day when Joe and Bob noticed the coconuts on the top of their island's tree. The coconut meat and coconut milk were a rather satisfying meal, especially compared to their own goddamn piss.
"You know," Joe philosophized, "If we pissed coconut milk, and coconuts were stuffed with piss, we'd probably actually enjoy drinking piss."
Bob chuckled sarcastically, "But don't you see, Joe? Then your penis would look like a god damn coconut."
Joe daydreamed rather uneasily about the prospect of having a coconut-shaped penis, and soon wondered whether fruits would have to look like sex organs.
"I think I could get used to the idea of a breast-shaped pistachio," Joe said. "Or even better, vagina-shaped cumquats."
