“Nay, yer daft,” claimed a speaker. “’Tis a Rectum poor Bill be needing.”

“Aye, aye, that be it,” agreed another. “A Rectum fer sure is what he should have.”

“Well, then,” someone said and raised his mug on high. “Let us all drink to Bill’s Rectum!”

“Aye, aye” was the chorus, and they all quaffed their drinks. Then they all went home, feeling much better about themselves.

Sometime later when the Innkeeper was closing up for the night, he went over to where Bill was laid out on the floor and gave him a swift kick in the arse. “Git yerself up, Bill and git on home.”

Turnip Bill moaned and rolled over. “Huh? Whazit?” he mumbled.

“Time to go home, Bill,” the Innkeeper told him. “And ye better quit passing out drunk on the floor like that. Some night those bloody idiots are goin’ ta think yer really dead and they’ll manage ta bury yer sorry arse before they sober up, with or without yer Rectum.”