I don’t think Justin Trudeau is Castro’s love child. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he used that pickup line on a young Barack Obama while in town to visit a local Chicago Bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. Justin inches closer to Barack’s towel. “You know I’m Castro’s love child, right? It’s easier to believe without my candy-striped socks on in here. If you ever want to downplay your Bathhouse boners, I could hook you up with a Beard, if you’re ever serious about running for political office one day. Personally, I’m into the more manly looking she-he’s that could pass for a Michael with no makeup on to.” Barack says, “Relax Frenchie, you had me at Castro’s love child.” Wow Show, wows on. Joan lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Have you ever done a Google search for George Soros’s wife? You might as well Google Christina Tightcoochie. I don’t know why I expected her to be some old hag in an 8-thousand-dollar leather jacket that I saw in a local Hardware store in Katonah, NY while shopping for a campfire lighter with the easy to press button that my son Holy Lighter could use to light the Shabbos Candles with this Friday. Chances are, she’d just outsource gas chamber shower heads for Holocaust Remembrance Day to some out of work Proud Boys for hire instead.
Have you ever taken your kid to a 4 Car Garage Party in the suburbs before, that’s next door to Richard Gere’s pad in Northern Westchester County? You’re better off then, because in the presence of such towering wealth, I felt smaller than Kevin Hart around Eddie Murphy’s film library, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a small on laughs spectator. When I picked my daughter up from the party, Richard Gere made a cameo appearance and said hello to the birthday gal. I yell, “Those beads didn’t come in red Gere.” Wow Show wows on, Challah. Thank you very much.
The store made mozzarella at DeCicco, and Son’s is so scrumptious good, Michael Corleone would’ve divested its family interest in the Olive Oil business and casinos in Lake Tahoe if God promised to give Kay a pair of those Mozzarella tits versus a kid. Although, I don’t think Michael would be all hands-on deck about fathering a hermaphrodite after Kay’s Ultrasound. Kay gets the abortion anyway, just to fuck with Michael.
“Fuck your sacred Sicilian seed, I got an abortion Michael. But how would a Hermaphrodite as the head of the 5 families even work? Would his minions kneel down to kiss his cock ring pierced through she-he’s clit, or just be expected to show love by pinning the Hermaphrodite’s latest Gender Fluid Pink Ziti recipe post on Pinterest?
I don’t like actors playing dress up Nazi anymore. It rubs me the wrong way like my father-in-law playing Mel Gibson’s agent. You bet your ass Mel Gibson is still A List. Who cares if his mug is nowhere near the movie poster for Father Stu? You want an actor passionate about playing an easily triggered Alcoholic, you got it. “What do you mean I was speeding officer? Fucking Knish breath, my Japanese investors for Passion Of ANTIFA, can’t build me bullet train for the ADL fast enough.” Wow show wows on, Challah. Thank you very much.
But back to actors playing dress up Nazi. When I was 5, I knew that wearing a Swastika armband made by my friend Jason Metrakos was wrong, during a game of World War 2 during Recess once. Now, realizing, the Swastika looks like 2 stick figures doing a 69 on a Seesaw on some high grade, government issued Crystal Meth. Back then, I distinctly remember ripping the Swastika armband made from loose leaf paper and a number 2 pencil with extreme disgust in the sandbox like being forced to go down on Minnesota rep, Baby Face Omar gonna work it out on Yom Kippur to keep my hunger pangs at bay, while yelling, “I don’t play for your side. What about Jewish pride? Who do you think I am, George Soros’s love child?” Wow Show wows on, Challah. Shana Tova. Thanks Lord, for heart gladdening humor come rain or shine, very, very much.