In their impenetrable Portland fastness, the Council of Brendans meets for their annual Pancake Feed.

“Order! Call to order!” raps out the surly one, this year’s chairman.

“First order of business: fellatio. That’s a penis trick. Ladies,” quips the horny one. He has to yell pretty loud, though — after the first couple of years he was exiled to the kids’ table with the rest of the Brendans they’re ashamed of.

“I love this chum!” the one who’s a shark reassures him. “Chum is lots of pieces of fish! Rar!”

“Keep it down, clowns,” barks the Rock one. “Don’t make me bench press you into oblivion.”

Back at the big Brendans table, the one that’s your dad is attempting to tell the same joke about a potato that he tells every year, and the creepy one is interrupting every so often to hiss “Love meeeeeee,” not making eye contact with anyone in particular.

At the seat of honor, the first one, the seed Brendan, his legs chained to the chair, palms a knife and desperately tries to set them all on fire with his mind.