Nash sat in his folding chair awaiting his turn at the podium.  Thus far, this was the lamest roast he'd ever encountered.  Part of him wondered if it was like Norm McDonald's tribute to Bob Saget, but he concluded that the coordinators of this particular event were the kind of people who read stories solely to make their lips move.

Hours progressed, Cheeselicker occasionally opened his eyes, acknowledged the newest speaker, and returned to dreamland, dozing loudly in his mock throne.  To the housemates' credit, they made some mighty-fine barbecue wings.  Nash concluded they learned to type by pushing microwave buttons.  Regrettably, that was also the extent of their knowledge about story structure. 

(C'mon, guys.  Four of you in a house?  Certainly you can concoct better shots than that.)