Running On Shtick

The Obama’s deciding to cut off Nancy Pelosi from their birthday bash invite list.

Obama: We’d cut her off from the open bar eventually anyway.

Michelle: I wonder if her nipple taps taste like Grey Goose by now.

Obama: I could get into getting pegged with those gallon jugs swinging against my bony ass from behind.

Michelle: Let’s just hope the capital police don’t turn their backs on denture breath when shit really hits the fan.

Michelle: Whatever you want Barack, but there’s no way were serving Snoop Dog’s new wine. What will our neighbors in Martha’s Vineyard who used to live in the Upper East Side full time like Spike Lee think? Wine Spectator says, “Snoop’s wine tastes like mouthwash used to porn hood hell.”

Obama: I could still get into the satanic hag pegging me from behind for a sloppy lush push. If she tears through our open bar like Cujo, on Joe’s extra strength Adderall. After I smoke through the remainders of my Presidential papers with Snoop and Martha Stewart, for teaching Malia how to make her own bong out of a Fuji Apple during our last vacation in Maui at the 4 Seasons. I better spray that ragged old ho with some Old E 1st, Snoop’s over the hill ho, sprayer of choice, to get into the mood 1st though.

Convinced I conquered COVID 19 through schtick after plowing through 3 comedy records on Sunday. But putting our country under permanent masked lockdown, relegating all business transactions through Zoom, assuming Jeffrey Toobin can behave, and keep his hands up high where his editors at the New Yorker can see them, will make our economy great again in no time.

Just to appease my nurse wife, I’m getting a COVID test, so my kids don’t have to have an abortion hanger jammed up their nose against their free will. Nurse wife says, “It’s just a little prick, that will make you tear.” I say, “That’s what Michelle Obama said, before she pegged Prince Harry’s freckles into the royal rug at Buckingham Palace, after a post Wimbledon party that got out of hand. After Meghan Markle lost a thumb wrestle bet to Michelle despite she he using her pinkie. Joan lives. Can I get a holla for more jokes to get me taken down faster than Dominion employee pages on LinkedIn the day after Democracy died, Challah? Thank you very much.

To make matters worse, I’m getting my test in a Whole Foods parking lot in Chappaqua, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles country. I say to my nurse wife, “Does this make me a marked man, like when Hillary made funeral arrangements in the woods once she caught wind of Chelsea’s fiance considering increasing his asking price while walking down the aisle as a form of last minute leverage at last the sec? And we all know how much Hillary doesn’t like blowing money on fine China, after jacking all of her white privilege China from the White House on her way out the door, to feel more more smug secure compared to her Hedge Billionaire neighbors within the elitist woke wench confines of northern Westchester country, which as a whole, exudes less sex appeal than Meghan Mccain trying to excavate a couple of Pizzeria Pretzel Combos out of her belly button on any given Sunday, when John Water film retrospectives with Divine resume for plus size ladies who mattered much on IFC.

My mother overhears me wailing on my new electric Stratocaster guitar in the garage while practicing the open C chord again and again. I greet her upstairs when I’m done playing and she says, “Nice playing son. I still think you’re incapable of making any sustainable income off any form of creative expression. But at least you’re not expecting me to show any interest in another fruitless diversion to distract you from providing for your family of 5 post COVID or not. Despite claims of you being a grossly overlooked, shadowed Hair Metal Comedian, whatever the fuck that means. And I thought Democrat pundit putz breathes on CNN excelled in verbal gymnastics. From where I stand, you’re the Mary Lou Retton of contorting run on sentences to only perfect landing scores in your mind.” I say, “I hate run on sentence critics mom. It’s not my fault, your CNN controlled brain is too slow to keep up with my gender fluid shredder flow, no offense. Like Rodney before me, I’m running on Schtick till the end of time and I feel fine. REM lives, holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth