(The sketch begins with Stretch Armstrong and his son in the backyard, looking up at a Frisbee on their house's roof.)
Son: Dad, could you reach the Frisbee for me?
Stretch Armstrong: [tries to stretch his arm, but is not able to] Uh... no! [accusing his son] You should have been more careful!
(We cut to Stretch Armstrong at the dinner table with his family.)
Stretch Armstrong: Pass the salt. [his wife and his son only stare at him in confusion, so he sighs in frustration] Please pass the salt.
(The other two just look at each other, and then we snap to Stretch Armstrong and his wife in their bed.)
Mother: [relieved] Well, that was...good.
Stretch Armstrong: [still frustrated] Don't patronize me.
(The next shot is of a doctor's office, where Stretch Armstrong is questioning the doctor about his non-stretching powers.)
Stretch Armstrong: Doc, I've lost my stretching powers.
Doctor: Yes- well, that's no surprise. You're getting on in years, Stretch; your corn syrup has hardened.
Stretch Armstrong: [shocked] Oh, no!
Doctor: I'd recommend a full corn syrup transplant.
(The next scene is the exterior of an emergency room, where Stretch Armstrong, in a wheelchair, is pushed outside by a nurse, and his doctor awaits to tell him about the operation.)
Doctor: The transplant was a complete success, but you can't do anymore stretching until your stitches are healed.
(We cut back to the family at the dinner table.)
Mother: [holding the salt shaker] Would you like the salt, dear?
Stretch Armstrong: [scoffs] I'll get the salt, and afterwards I'm getting that Frisbee off the roof and showing my wife a night she'll never forget!
Son: Eww!
(With that said, Stretch Armstrong stretches his left arm all the way across the table to get the salt, forgetting all about his stitches.)
Mother: [trying to warn him] Honey, your stitches!
Stretch Armstrong: [panicked] My stitches?!
(The stitches pop apart, spraying corn syrup all over the place. He deflates as the corn syrup squirts out of his body.)
Stretch Armstrong: Remember me, as I once was... [his head droops on the back of the chair]
Mother: [tearfully] My baby! [starts to cry]
Stretch Armstrong: [dying as he weakly says his last word] Stretchy....
Son: Daddy! [also starts to cry]
(A title card that says: "One Year Later" pops up, and then we snap to kitchen again, where Plastic Man has taken Stretch Armstrong's spot at the table.)
Plastic Man: [stretching his left arm] Who wants salt?
Son: [furious, pointing to him] You're not my real dad!
(He throws his plate of food on the wall and storms out, ending the sketch.)