Open on a homey living room, featuring a couch in front of a set of stairs. BIG BEN is sitting down. The time is noon.

BIG BEN: DONG! DONG! DONG!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY bolts down the stairs.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY: Big Ben! What did I say about chiming when I’m trying to hold mass?

BIG BEN: Uhh…to do it if it’s on the hour?

WESTMINSTER ABBEY: No! Christ, you’re the most annoying little brother ever! Why can’t you be more like the twins?

Pan to TOWER BRIDGE’S NORTH TOWER and TOWER BRIDGE’S SOUTH TOWER, who are working studiously on their science fair project: a miniature bridge.

BIG BEN: Hey, I’m not little! I’m big!

BUCKINGHAM PALACE and THE TOWER OF LONDON enter from the left.

BUCKINGHAM PALACE: Now, now, kids, I decree that you stop fighting!

Laugh track plays.

THE TOWER OF LONDON: Your father’s right. Big Ben, how was school today?

BIG BEN: Okay, I guess. The Shard made fun of my outfit again. He looks so new and cool.

BUCKINGHAM PALACE approaches BIG BEN. Sentimental music plays.

BUCKHINGHAM PALACE: Hey buddy, bullies just say stuff like that because they’re jealous. Don’t you ever forget, you’re Britain’s premier example of Gothic revival architecture. Now gimme a hug.

“Aww” track plays. Neither of them have arms, so the hug doesn’t really work.

BIG BEN: Thanks, dad. When I grow up, I want to be just like you. 

BUCKINGHAM PALACE: That’s sweet, but physically impossible. Say, what’s that sound?

THE LONDON EYE runs in from the right, spinning in circles.

THE LONDON EYE: I’m spinning! I’m spinning!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY: Oh, The London Eye—you’re so goofy!

ALL laugh. Frame freezes. Outro music plays.

It’s a little-known fact that the London Eye is but one of a series of anatomically-named places throughout the city.

The London Third Eye: A British-owned marijuana dispensary located two thousand miles from the London Eye in Brooklyn, New York.

The London Kneecap: While it might seem like a whimsical name, the London Kneecap is actually the name of an alleyway in which the British branch of the Crips (locally known as the Crips, Innit?) kneecapped (or shot the kneecaps off of) thousands of British teenagers between the years 1980 and 2010. Some say that if you walk through the London Kneecap at night, you can still hear the cries of young men who will walk with a limp for the rest of their lives.

The London Circumcised Penis Head: Originally designed as a nightclub, it was recently converted into a school for underprivileged youth!

The London Dick: This was not a structure at all, but the name Prince Albert went by on Epstein’s Island.

The London Boob: The London Boob was built in—come on did you really think someone would come up with a structure called the London Boob, you misogynist pig? Stop reading our magazine!

The London Breast: First built by Richard Breast in 1930, the London Breast was the first mental asylum in Europe to offer at-will, no-questions-asked lobotomies. Winston Churchill was actually a patient at the London Breast before ceding the entirety of Europe to Adolf Hitler.

The London Clit: Based on our travels so far, we are fairly certain this does not exist, and if it does, we cannot find it.

The London Anus: More commonly known as the Tube.

The London Heart: A tiny house occupied by the Keating family. The man of the house, Jonathan Keating, works an honest job, and every night he returns home to a lovely home-cooked meal by his wife of forty-nine years, Bethany Keating. Throughout their long marriage, Jonathan has given Bethany every gift she ever asked for—that is, except for the one gift she always wanted: that of motherhood. Deep down, she resents him for it. Though Jonathan tried every night—and trust me, Jonathan tried like hell—his silvery bullets were never anything more than hollow casings, barely rippling the surface of Bethany’s uterine kevlar vest.

The London Belly Button: McDonalds!

Late on a snowy night, a young woman answers a knock at her door. Standing on her doorstep is a royal guard holding a stack of giant, white cards. From inside, the voice of the woman’s new husband asks who’s there. The royal guard holds up his first card.

SAY IT’S CAROL SINGERS

The woman smiles. “It’s carol singers!” she calls back inside. She meets the royal guard’s eyes. He smiles back at her. He flips to his next card.

I REALLY AM A CAROL SINGER

She looks at him confused, yet playfully so, as if he is telling a joke she does not yet understand.

AS IN I CAME HERE TO SING CAROLS FOR YOU

YOU SEE, I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SING CAROLS

BUT ROYAL GUARDS ARE PROHIBITED FROM SPEAKING

THANKFULLY, I FOUND THIS NIFTY WORKAROUND

Before the woman can say anything, the royal guard pulls out a boombox from behind him and hits play. An instrumental version of “Silent Night” echoes out into the crisp, winter air. He resumes flipping.

SILENT NIGHT

HOLY NIGHT

ALL IS WELL

ALL IS BRIGHT

ROUND YON VIRGIN

…

Fair Lady: Ahhh! The bridge is falling down!

Some Guy: This would lowkey make a fire song.