Younger Brother says, “Have you shown your kids Goodfellas yet?”
I say, “Pop more Herion pills. Your brain hasn’t taken enough of a beating yet.”
Brother adds, “I got a tad misty when Ray Liotta died.”
I say, “Why, because you waste your life taking more heroin pills after being revived by a narc gun while I’m still treated like the deplorable fella by mom and dad for being guilty of supporting Trumpy Poo on my podcast for free? Before he pushed the amazing clot shot that dug Ray Liotta’s hole in his heart and premature grave without selling coke behind Paulie’s back?”
Younger Brother adds, “I didn’t know the kids ate meat now.”
“Kosher meat only. I’ve only been a practicing Koshertarian Comedian for the past 2 years, resulting in 108 comedy records such as the Koshertarian Offensive, Big Mouth Moses and The Pig-Headed Jew. Rebbe Lives for comedy record 109, coming right up. Try to keep up already. Pretend you’re trying to keep track of how many more heroin pills you can pump your next woman for all she’s worth, her credit card line and punctured ruined heart included. The Good Men Project published my letter to God about breaking my Koshertarian diet for a night because I sensed it ruining Cheap Trick perform Live at Budokan in full at the Capital Theatre on Valentines’ Day, which was an avoidable shame. Because my wife was pushing me to try her Shrimp and Grits prior with divine powered fury like a religious fanatic freak who insisted I watch the Passion after all these years to prove my undying love of promoting Jesus Jew killer theories about Jewish ancestors six degrees separated from Don Rickles being responsible for heckling the Romans into crucifying the original Super Jew to death. I’m sorry, wrong target audience, you booked stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. In between, I pen The Great American Jew Novel that gives birth to the Do It All Dad Hero comedy tale about the 1st ever Kosher smoked Brisket cheese steak sandwich truck, that uses a plant-based cheese wiz, which produces a series of career launching friendships that prove Do It All Dad isn’t the last-self-loving Jewish New Yorker after all. Times of Israel produces my blogs Back To Hebrew School and Growing Up Koshertarian, putz for brains before they fired me from a free guest blogger job for insisting Andrew, no I won’t jump off my own Bridge finally found a way to kill old school Italian Grandma without throwing her off the train, while having to die all alone under his all-knowing morally grounded watch no less. I don’t know why I waste my breath. Then again, only a scheming A-plus, plus, plus scumbag like yourself would coin expressions such as 100 percent happy after rehab, assuming you could afford enough coke to impress your friends and keep your ego afloat. Don’t blame yourself for sending mom to the loony bin in her mind after she invested all her hopes and dreams for a star-studded seed in you to bloom. Which is like waiting for Hunter Biden, AKA, Sir Snort A Lot to give up blow for blow painting after the election steal was in the bag. But being a lying, degenerate sleaze who causes more collateral damage than Agent Orange isn’t your fault. It’s the demons who raised you in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, only 20 minutes away from your 3rd generation coke dealer, Julio Silver Blade The 3rd from Washington Heights. So don’t fret, Jesus forgives or God if you believed more in the Old Testament God, assuming you fess up to making Hunter Biden come across as a slacker, underachiever in comparison. Just say Jesus, God, I’m a self-serving cunt for brains who makes the Clinton foundation appear like a charitable foundation for others. But you can’t blame me completely for trying to demean my big brother’s comedic mojo because it only makes my parents love my big brother less than they already do, because we played 0.0 role in the development of his fast forward funny ego. I’d make out with my mom if it could score me an advance on some more inheritance money already. Mama’s Boys oblige. Plus, Dad is on my side no matter what. He loves cleaning up my messes more than retelling stories about how he was the Jew in shining armor from the Bronx who saved mom from a life of abject poverty distress in Kentucky. Before he retired and rode off into the sunset with mom in Arizona against her will with his head held high despite his shoulder’s collapsing if you decide to hug him with real deal, reciprocity feeling for old times’ sake, not. Who cares if Dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx growing up was Trips on Curbs? I only care about being 100 percent happy on my terms. Me, not you, gets to be Ayn Rand without the talent. It’s not my fault A Plus narcissism is our family tradition. ”
Hank Williams Junior lives. Fast forward funny, Challah. Thank you very much.