This is something that really happened to me back in 2006. At the time I was the assistant foreman at a small owl farm in New Hampshire. As you might expect, I got the joke about "four men" a lot. "Hey, Assistant Foreman!" my buddy Bruce would yell at me. "Did you have fun with those four men last night?" He would then wink at me as if he'd said something profoundly original.
It got to the point where I couldn't take it. Bruce was an all right guy — he let me borrow his handkerchief to use as a tourniquet the time a pack of angry owls bit my foot off — but he didn't know when to stop. One night he started calling himself the "Pelvis King" and threatened to shoot anyone who referred to him as anything different. My other buddy Ryan (Gosling, but he wasn't famous yet, so we mostly called him Lyin' Ryan because of his propensity for not telling the truth) forgot midway through the night and the Pelvis King stuck a Bunsen burner so far up his cloaca we had to call an ambulance. (We told the driver Ryan put it there himself, which is how he got his other nickname, Fryin' Ryan).
Anyway, that night I decided I'd had enough, so I devised a little plan to keep Bruce in line. The next day I called him over to look at the weird rash on my hamstring.
"Yeah that's a nice rash," said Bruce. "So what? Maybe you have a rash, but you'll never your dad's Toyota Tercel that you can drive whenever you want to, like me."
But while Bruce wasn't looking, Fryin' Ryan and his cousin Elmer Gosling grabbed him by the taint and took off with him. Bruce screamed for help, but no one at the owl farm really liked Bruce except some of the owls, and we'd made sure to distract them with some LaysTM Dead Mouse and Vinegar Potato Chips.
We spent the next two months hiding out in Mount Moon, torturing Bruce and plotting our next move. Eventually we joined up with Team Rocket, not for ideological reasons but simply because we needed allies and they were the only people around. Team Rocket isn't exactly a noble organization, but they aren't ISIS either — they have scruples. Eventually we defected to a more-moderate splinter group that only sought to steal some of Red's Pokemon and repurpose them as evil fighting machines.
By the end of all this, I think Bruce had seen the error of his ways. He'd been subsisting solely on the sawdust and pinecones Ryan and I allowed him, and we frequently tormented him by making him write five-paragraph reports on the role of women in A Tale of Two Cities. So Ryan and I let him free, and I think he lives somewhere in upstate New York now. We exchange Christmas cards, and so far neither of us have sent a quantity of anthrax to the other that would be lethal to humans, so that's nice. Ryan now lives in a birdhouse and started in Drive.