Do It All Dad casts away safety nets forever.
If Nike wanted to help the Black Lives Matter Movement.
They’d make a new ad campaign message that said, “Just Stop Resisting Arrest”. Hashtag, Thug Lives Matter most, not so much, which is intensely doable if Charles Barkley is doing it. Intensely doable BLM jokes live, before I’m permanently canceled next time I do that joke at the Post Office, Challah, thank you very much.
Is your mom’s mood ring, pissy yelllow passive aggressive like mine?
Intensely doable mood ring jokes live because I’m written out of the will anyway. So what difference does it make? Hillary Hammertime Cankles strikes again, Challah, thank you very much.
With or without you is about who Bono?
A fetching Irish lassie who can’t hold her liquor.
Who swallows but grazes on a lazy bloody Sundays.
Lockjaw laments live, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Shabbat Shalom Ramble Sunday Special set list for 1/22/23.
Not Working LinkedIn
What were David Crosby’s last words?
I shouldn’t have given the 4th Booster a chance?
It’s Deja Vu for Bob Saget all over again?
Pfizer, Moderna and AstraZeneca are a fake news super group.
My turn was 5 decades ago after Jimi, Janis and Jim Morrison.
Woodstock, Ohio, I’m the Ken Burns of folk rock motherfuckers.
In our house, Snopes knows best.
Helpless is trying to get it up around Joni Mitchell with no makeup on high grade blow.
Teach your children well.
Fuck your Pfizer stock, sell, sell, sell.
Helplessly boosting, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Hacks With Words
Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky, it’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.
Last night, I tried the melatonin gummies that my wife has pushed on my kids as mommy vitamins for a bit.
Because nothing screams hands on parenting than Ambien with training wheels for kids.
The melatonin gummies for kids tasted like Marty making out with his mom.
No, it tasted like I just made out with one of the Flintstones kids after being put on puberty blockers.
Doing wrong for laughs, Gallagher lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Dave Chappelle on SNL
Kyrie Irving wasn’t near the Holocaust. Playing in Brooklyn surrounded by hipster Heeb nation is harrowing enough.
What about claims about Black dudes being the real chosen people spoken down to from the top of Mount Siani Dave? Like God could’ve have gotten in a word otherwise.
Do you still think Black Hebrew Israelites are the real chosen people, Dave? Sure, like King David is showing up on Kyrie Irving’s ancestry.com, Shaka Zulu.
You’re a moderate Muslim, right, Dave? Because you tolerate Obama Be Meh, banging What’s Talent Got To Do With in the Lincoln Bedroom after the new woke, She- Hulk pissed on the ceiling fan after Trumpy Poo Tits got inaugurated. Hours later, Trumpy Poo gets pissed on for real from the ceiling fan above and says to Melania, “Is this, what’s talent got to do with it meant? When the woke she-hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high?”
But nowadays, Michelle is packing on the pounds because of Menopause. And Adam Schiff never clicked on SoapyBottoms@Nothingtoseehere@moveon.org.
Accusing the crafty Jews of stealing their chosen people identity from the black Israelites is in poor taste, don’t you think so Dave?
Being a proud Muslim, would you be happy if Alex Jones accused Allah of culturally appropriating the child wife compounds from Mitt Romney country? I didn’t think so, you hypocritical, black supremacist, entertainer protector like the rest, King of The Prosecution Complex included.
Do I think Kayne should be denied a living? No, I support freedom of speech. Plus, I didn’t demonize Kyrie for refusing to take the clot-shot because your boy Rock plugged for Cuomo during the height of his pin up prime, despite always looking like Mama Fratelli from the Goonies and the Thing had a baby. If the King of Popping Cherries were still alive today, Dave, how would he defend himself against all his never land accusers again? Would the king of popping wood on Pee Wee’s Playhouse confess, “All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love.”
Hershal Walker is, “observingly stupid”, Chappelle. Hacks like you are making me return back to IT headhunting with an open, jade free heart, if you’re considered the apex standup comedy these days, my chest. You’re a race baiting piece of shit like the rest. Lebron and the CCP, SUCKING, but you’re glued to Obama’s dick way more, sniffing his sandals after Ramadan bike rides through Martha’s Vineyard if born again Muslim John Brennan hasn’t called 1st dibs 1st. You and Obama are nothing more than hacks with words.
Hershal Walker, “Has to think before Tic Tac Toe. That’s the best dumb joke you could steal from Kevin Hart’s writers Dave, you has-been, hack? Jim Brewer’s eyes and Steven Wright upholstery on your futon in Half Baked are twice as funny as you’ll ever be, Obama off the teleprompter included hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.
If Republicans want greater voter turnout for the Midterms moving forward or have any desire left to preserve election integrity, then they should showcase a shred of originality and counterattack the big tech machine with bound to trend hashtags on Twitter such as Late Term Abortions, Disinformation Dissing or Red States Bleed George Thorogood. Lazily calling them the Midterms won’t get Democrats to do anything more than bone up on the basics the night before them. “Dr. Oz, neutered nincompoop. John Fetterman, Tom Segura after a chemo induced stroke.” So cut the Hoodlum Hack some slack.”
Hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.
Sounds of Dronish Cuntry
Over Faking Happiness
Vaccinated Buzz Kills
Fame Whore Ho
A Plus Alter Ego
Master Set Sample
Rape Enablement Party
Lesbian Licking Losers
Cock Blocking Party
Racist Alien Attacks
“Nobody ever wrote the song ‘Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You’, tweets a frenzied 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar with excellent WiFi as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing that if he can’t find a virgin Earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been superangel contenders, forever.
This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old Earthling into getting them pregnant, either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com. Finding a virgin Earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing that those creatures are normally emotionally evolved and blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack, compared to their medium-length Earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO Rising, Morrison, and Bob Marley, for starters.
“Bob Marley banged out twelve kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drain your life shooter dry? It’s fake news, man,” RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin. He knows all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect serpent and guitar god Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin Earthling into sticking it into his alien procreation hole.
The other problem for RH Negative 5000 is how only ten percent of the Earth’s population was RH Negative. Due the advent of the Internet, dick-pick swiping sites, and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall ‘alien porn’ being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com. Nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com in the name of new song research about a pinball wizard who gets probed by a race of white, pureblood, RH-negative aliens for his out-of-this world, old-school arcade game prowess because playing guitar hero on the XBOX gets played out fast when you can do mind-blowing Pete Townsend solos from Live At Leeds, with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.
Little did RH Negative 5000 know that one his followers on Twitter was a nine-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY, who believed in fallen angels; especially since her father was conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house, for good.
Actually, Matilda had just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative. He lived in Boswell, New Mexico (otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings on Earth because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew that Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby—which was cool enough for them, knowing that he played one of their kind in the Doors with such believable, otherworldly authority.
Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle RH Negative 5000; especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar god Steve Vai after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages ‘For The Love Of God’. Stop letting Twitter teach your kids. Dr. Seuss is racist—he’s not.
Matilda loved that her father read Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make up his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again (because he’s guilty of peaking early).
The other night, actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing, to her extreme delight, to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancellation movement from the side of tolerance, unity, and joy, spreading peace, saying, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist, then: that’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion, yet.”
What Matilda loved most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks, was in the fact the slickest tongue-twisting cat of his time.
More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month. He was born in March, like herself, which, in her book, was extra cool.
This coming Friday was ‘silly switch day’ in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because’ despite having two working parents and being on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school, ever, which made every day, for her, Mismatched Socks Day.
Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her tenth birthday, to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology. In her final paper, she’d argue how time-release Adderall is actually legalized cocaine, in addition to being a gateway drug to weed and to high-octane IPAs to chill out your aggravated, easily-avoidable added noise, in their minds. She would do this while also making the argument on how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintain these kids’ inner, sparkly essence while helping increase their powers of concentration (in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big-pharma-cranked-out speed, too).
Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000. So she did. RH Negative 5000 was already on his 5,000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins for RH Negative, to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive.
So, in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, he sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico, who are interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love is?”
Matilda, being a huge Foreigner fan (because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own) replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan, who’s still a virgin at age fifteen. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled him through the ME Too movement, and only sent him packing for junior high with his Kiss backpack, flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani, and played ‘Surfing With An Alien’ for his Bar Mitzvah party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. “
RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin Earthling with a RH negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. “Marilyn had RH negative blood, which makes sense because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But we’re not too picky, and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars (for the past 5000 years, actually).
“Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with an alien Steve Vai drag queen look-alike.”
Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor first.”
RG 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.”
Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic tossed salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to ‘And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St’ starring Chazz Palminteri playing some second-generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx. He gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in the pizzeria on his boombox on Frank Sinatra’s birthday, to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day. Deal?”
RG 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap-on from eBay, and tap Bill Cosby’s old quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay ‘Racist Alien Attacks Boy’, instead.
“I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter before my planet implodes.”
High Schooler Hoody Problems
“Hear my bus coming, Daddy?” asks Art Show USA.
Do It All Dad says, “Pretty soon, Art Show USA is going to buy this town and put it all in his shoes—that’s what he’s going to do.”
Art Show USA says, “I know the town of Croton Falls is small, Daddy, but don’t be ridiculous. Plus, I’m going to build my own house in the woods next to another house I’ll build for you one day, so we can be neighbors. Plus, if I put the whole town of Croton Falls in my shoe, everyone will bother me in the woods to pick up their mail, since I’ll have absorbed the post office in my shoe, which defeats the purpose of me living in the woods in the first place, Daddy.
“Got to go now, or I’ll miss the bus. Love you, Daddy, but only if you keep on rocking the high schooler hoodie look, or I’ll stab you with our sharpest knife for real.”
Art Show USA whizzes across the street to catch his bus in time in one spark-smooth motion, which his fills his Do It All Dad’s heart with tremendous nachas (which means ‘vicarious joy derived from your kid’ in Yiddish, especially when your 7-year-old son, otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, becomes more grownz up every day. Yeah, yeah, yeah.).
Do It All Dad, though, was having reservations about rocking the high schooler hoodie look anymore. It was one he should’ve retired in his thirties, at least, when he used to be a semi-sporadic performing open-miker at the New York Comedy Club in Manhattan, if he could rally enough friends in attendance again.
Now Do It All Dad was questioning the extent of his maturity, knowing he’d never outgrew his truly tasteless jokes phase. He still puffed the green out of a one-hitter at 44 in a hoody like Sarah Silverman, minus the career.
Now Do It All Dad still got asked for ID at Target with his three kids whenever he couldn’t resist snagging another six-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only $9.99 (knowing it’s the pale ale that never gets stale).
Still, it was impossible for Do It All Dad to stare at his suddenly-grey-specked beard in the mirror at age 44 while still not showing any touches of grey on his chosen curls on top, and think, “You look better than John Oliver, these days but that isn’t saying much.”
“Now I have to worry about a podcast hosting opportunity slipping away all because I made a joke over our second call about a donkey-shaped pinata with Governor Cuomo’s ugly mug on it (except, instead of candy spilling out when it breaks, piles of pink masks come out, instead, that say “Cuomo Blows,” which got a big, cathartic laugh out of my future potential benefactor, at the time.
“I’m so tired of acting like some gun-shy stiff out of fear of never getting a job in a post-woke corporate America again, or snagging a comedy manager ever, because I dared to make fun of Obama Be Good for gifting Iran 150 billion for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal products for the Kardashians.
“I think my son Art Show likes to see me rock the high schooler hoodie look because it helps ensure I stay young at heart, and don’t lose heart, too, when I can’t even get the Jewish Book Council to review my book, ‘The Great American Jew Novel’ after sharing stellar previous reviews. It’s because I’m not an atheist has-been like David Cross, who hasn’t made a good W joke in 15 years (or even an edgy insult about Laura Bush, for that matter).
“At least Hillary had the balls to get rich or die trying, bitch. Deep down, I think my son Art Show wants me to sport the high school hoodie look more than ever to ensure that I keep on rocking in our big-tech-ruining world as a symbol of non-conformist resistance, knowing my comedy career can still take flight if I never lose touch with what make me feel most kickass and in-control alive—which is getting laughs longtime, all the time, with a big-deal-talking, NY-made, ball-busting flourish, all the way.”
Son Art Show USA enters the bathroom and notices his Do It All Dad, lost in thought, grazing the specs of grey on his beard with the tips of his fingers, and says, “Don’t even think of shaving the beard, Daddy. You’d look weird without one, like when you shaved it to dress up like Stan Smith from American Dad.
“Remember, dressing up our family, like the Cleveland Show family, was no longer an option because Megyn Kelly already stole our thunder. Plus, Cleveland’s holding up the sign “Build The Pool Fence” for Mimi and Papa to see on Facebook in Arizona would’ve lost his impactful oomph, too.
“Also, Daddy, I like you with the beard; because without it, you’ll look like a Pre-K schooler in a hoody. So, you won’t be able to boast on stage about the Jews being chosen by God to perfect the human race through your gorgeous sons, who stem from your Do It All Dad Year tree trunk.”
Do It All Dad hugs his son, Art Show USA, and says, “The beard stays, kiddo. It’s just that the high school hoodie look rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because it reminds me too much of Sarah Silverman—which annoys me, since she came out to Twitter as a social justice warrior to detract from her once-mouthwatering tits’ sagging popularity.”
Waste Of Height
Once upon a time, there was a Giant who lived in a tiny village called Humungous Falls in Northern Westchester County who never really fit in, despite owning a popular deli called Foot Long The Giant (which is what all the local lumberjack giants frequented every day, before chopping down more trees, later used for bookshelves for their hobbit hipster southern neighbors in Bushwick, Brooklyn). Every day, the Lumberjacks would taunt Foot Long The Giant, calling him a waste of height for wasting his life making sandwiches for his fellow giants, when he could’ve just hired a bunch of Hipster Hobbits to perform the job, instead. Every day, they’d accuse him of being soft for shying away from more hardcore forms of manual labor involving chopping down trees from dawn to sunset.
One day, an eight-year-old aspiring professional food writer hobbit from Bushwick, known as Hardcore Hunga, wanted to do a profile for The Bushwick Post on Footlong The Giant, considering his legacy for making the best footlong heroes in New York (which were totally worth the schlep from Bushwick, assuming you didn’t get too freaked out about getting stomped to death by a Giant Lumberjack by mistake, on his lunch break). So, one day, Hardcore Hunga faked a tummy ache, ditched out on school, and flew his pet dragon to Humungous Falls to meet Foot Long The Giant face to face, praying that none of the local giant lumberjacks sneezed in his general direction, which could send him flying all the way to Stink A Lot Jersey, where all the shitty-smelling swamp creatures roamed.
Footlong The Giant was descended from a land of giants who grew up to their full height out of Mother Giant’s womb. They expected to get working from day one, being denied any sustained age of sheltered innocence from the real world of a grinding worker existence ’till their last dying breath.
Mother Giant finally banged out her last giant, and with no female giants to procreate with, this made these remaining giants the last of their kind. They normally started dropping like flies at a hard age forty.
So, these lumberjack giants barely slept, and dedicated their walking lives to chopping more wood and tearing Foot Long The Giant down to size for thinking he was better than them by being an artisan sandwich maker instead. (This was when they weren’t getting wasted off Stouts, Porters, and Barley Wine, which they were paid in from their Hobbit Hipster clients in Bushwick, while competing in humungous cannonball contents throughout Humungous Falls after work, to blow off some much-needed steam.
They also sold wood for precious gems to local waterfall-dwelling Nymphs who made enormous bed structures (which always broke down and needed repairing) for Sleeping Giants Are Us.
Today wasn’t any ordinary day in the life of Footlong The Giant, because today he turned the big 40; but as usual, he had nobody to celebrate it with—that is, until the best looking, biggest-hearted, funniest hobbit from Bushwick graced The Footlong The Giant Deli with a tape recorder in hand to conduct a career-launching interview with the greatest hero sandwich maker the empire state has ever known.
Footlong The Giant gets ready to blow out forty lit candles that go down in a straight line along his longest, star hero creation yet, a 40-foot hero that rests on a giant bench table that reaches from one side of the deli to the other. Footlong The Giant turns off the lights in the store and braces himself to take a depressingly long deep breath to make a fortieth birthday wish, thinking that this might just be his last, and says, “Just for once, I don’t want to feel like a waste of height anymore.”
Then, as Footlong Giant opens his mouth to blow out the entire row of candles on his 40-foot-long cheesesteak sub (topped with Italian cherry peppers and lined with mayo and semi-sharp provolone), he hears a knock on the door.
This startles him a tad, because it was already way past lunch hour and he was normally used to spending this time in the store getting the chicken parm stains off the wall after the standard lunch hour rush from the sloppiest-eating lumberjacks who ever lived.
Hardcore Hunga knocks on the door again, but peaks inside the window this time, to see if anyone is inside, noticing a gorgeous flickering lighting of candles and thinking that he’s walked into a Death Memorial Giant Service (knowing that the giants of Humungous Falls are a dying breed and are dropping like termite-infested totem poles, these days).
Footlong The Giant opens the door, not noticing Hardcore Hunga, who’s a solid 4 foot 2. Footlong The Giant says to himself, “I must be hearing things in my old age.” Hardcore Hunga, still holding his baby dragon on a leash, instructs Dragon Lungs to blow a fire ball that nearly hits Footlong The Giant’s head. Footlong The Giant looks down and finally notices Hardcore Hunga and his trusted, always-reliable companion, Dragon Lungs.
Hardcore Hunga starts pitching. “Footlong The Giant, I’m Hardcore Hunga. I came all the way from Bushwick to interview a living heromaker legend.” Footlong The Giant laughs hard and long, blowing Hardcore Hunga Hobbit off his feet, yet Dragon Lungs puts on the brakes to make sure he doesn’t get blown away into the wilderness, by wrapping his leash around Hard Hunga in mid-flight before slamming him to the ground and wrapping him up as if he were roping a calf at a Texas rodeo.
Footlong The Giant feels bad and invites Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and his pet dragon, Iron Lungs, into his store; yet totally forgets about never blowing out his row of forty candles. Hardcore Hunga was smarter than your average bear, so he realizes almost immediately that he’s just crashed Footlong The Giant’s lonelyheart birthday celebration (if you want to call it that).
Hardcore Hunga Hobbit does his best to cheer up the sad-hearted giant and says, “Happy birthday, Footlong The Giant. This looks like your greatest hero creation yet. You really are a living legend; for a good reason.”
As Hardcore Hunga examines the scrumptious cheesesteak hero, which is bursting with over-the-top dynamite flavor, draped in glistening creamy white provolone that’s hugging onto the sesame-loaded Italian loaf from one end to the other for dear life, and counts forty candles in total, in the process, his hobbit heart is filled with extreme sadness, knowing that forty is normally a death sentence for all giants who hail from Humungous Falls.
Hardcore Hunga encourages Footlong The Giant to blow out his candles and make a wish, already, and says, “Make a wish and blow out the candles, Footlong The Giant. Wait a minute—one of the candles went out already. Dragon Lungs, do you mind?”
Dragon lungs blasts a stream of fire, which lights the unlit candle on the end with laser-sharp precision, which puts a big smile on Footlong The Giant’s face. Footlong The Giant wants to return the good, favored cheer from his kind, loving guests and give them a birthday surprise to remember.
Footlong The Giant turns his bum toward the forty-foot hero, lifts up his right leg, and rips a humungous fart, which blows a gusty jet steam of sweaty, leg-flapping, foul mist which blows out all forty candles in one swoop. Hardcore Hunga and Dragon Lungs fall down, this time from laughing uncontrollably while holding their noses in the process. Footlong The Giant shoots off a smile that could light up a youth hostel with no wi-fi during the next Chinese rat-planted plague.
Footlong The Giant turns on the light in his deli and says, “Let’s eat.” Footlong The Giant cuts off a four-foot-two hero and serves it to his new friend Hardcore Hunga, who conducts a lengthy interview ’till they all finish the forty-foot hero together, Dragon Lungs included.
After the story about Footlong The Giant was published in the Bushwick Post, New York State declared the Footlong The Giant Deli a cherished historical site (especially now that all his lumberjack clientele dropped dead the next day, after turning forty themselves).
Footlong The Giant no longer felt like a waste of height since his glorious friendship with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit began. Hunga made him feel like the biggest star in the universe.
After all the lumberjack giants drooped dead throughout Humungous Falls, Footlong The Giant moved to Bushwick with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and opened a local deli (specializing in much smaller portions, of course, when they weren’t building snow cones as big as skyscrapers every year for Hardcore Hunga’s birthday in February, the day before Valentine’s Day, which the entire village of hobbits licked up ’till they all became mostly brain-freeze dead, proving how the biggest hearts come in all sizes and packages).