Edward Snowden for President, not that elections matter anymore, Challah. Thank you very much.
Controlling My Kids With Comedy
Edward Snowden for President, not that elections matter anymore, Challah. Thank you very much.
Lazy Man Sex
Hounding Down Happiness
Asshole Resistance Gone
Fame Whore Ho
American Made Prayer
December 7, 2022
Dear Allison Adler,
Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now, which is why you need to give United We Laugh a chance. We can name our next book together Mitzvah Moves, after you become the number one champion of the most hardcore hilarious Headhunter Writer Comedian you haven’t heard of yet. Heart To Hearts, a one man show turned into book form about a Dad who keeps getting passed off to another of one of his Koshertarian Comedian kids while calling them from Union Square a week before Hannukah, ranting wildly into his smartphone while desperately trying to squeeze in some last minute heart to heart conversations with his favorite fans in the universe, while thinking he’s dying of a heart attack after getting disowned from his parents after coming out of the closet as a Gender Fluid Shemale Comedian on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, thaDxwrxw wzqQQwan g nnnt finally charts on Apple I-Tunes above Marc Maron since he became an unhinged, Big Pharma sucking, sell out hack hippie like the rest could be a hardcore hilarious romp too.
But let’s make United We Laugh, an international best seli FCC c c CNNler 1st, because we can all rally around the COVID con, including the fake news vaccine that works less than Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense or a stay at home COVID truther podcast comedian for the past 5 years. Who can still make fun of election fraud, because he doesn’t have a showbiz career to squander in the 1st place. Who resumes his IT Headhunting career in North White Plains to finance self-publishing his trifecta of masterpieces United We Laugh, The Koshertarian Comedians and Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, if he can’t find a lit agent or NY based editor who doesn’t feel compelled to bow at the altar of World Cup worship and swelling displays of national pride since the day Democracy died. I rhyme funny too.
Your friends will love me in cocktail parties in Manhattan, guaranteed. United Laugh is a comedic showcase of jokes and imagined scenes post COVID damage done as the never-ending shit show rolls on. I’ve recorded and starred on 136 comedy records on SoundCloud over the past 14 months such as Stab The Clown, Lapping Losers and Do It All Dad Does China. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.
I think you’d be a strong champion of United We Laugh, because you produce titles with sardonic, fatalistic feeling such as HOW TO STAY PRODUCTIVE WHEN THE WORLD IS ENDING.
United We Laugh is my victory lap. Help me make my Do It All Dad Year come true. Carlin and Lenny Bruce would’ve called out bullshit to voting still mattering and certainly wouldn’t take the fake news vaccine, especially if the open borders Pope promoted it despite all the fentanyl snuck in through our borderless borders being responsible for killing more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Doctors at Weill Cornell even laugh at that one and they push operation death speed to save the children from the made in Wuhan virus without batting an eye.
According to my SoundCloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore Pakistan and Brazil too. Wordcount for United We Laugh is 120,000 words. You want to sell a pop culture book that actually matters, that was made for these times? You got it. Let’s break the Internet together. Trumpy Poo Tits won’t know what hit him, Groping Biden included.
All My Best,
“Daddy, Jews for Mormonism doesn’t make any sense. So why are you converting to Mormonism again? Is it because you hate your people since you got fired from your intern blogger position for The Times of Israel for insisting China has resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than AquaFresh?, Little Samuel says. Do It All Dad takes his right hand off the steering wheel of his giant rig renamed Misinformation Machine and rubs his son’s head and says, “Your mother has a younger brother in Utah who’s a high ranking, Generation Z preacher of the Mormon Church, who with a little convincing, can grant me a religious exemption for the COVID vaccination after I convert. Then, I won’t have to worry about the fake news vaccine shot killing me more than the prospect of receiving a career consultation from LinkedIn ever again, my chest. This is an impersonation of Dr. Dre telling Eminem about Microsoft paying 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says,” Worrddddddddd, LinkedIn, is lamer than ever yoh!” Thank God, I trusted my gut, cut myself off from Mimi and Papa and got my trucker License instead.”
Little Samuel says, “I’ll always be on your team to make more comedy records daddy, because more comedy records for you is more comedy records for me, moron Son. When will you record comedy record 91, putzy moron butt carrots?” You’re taking forever already. Mama wouldn’t want you to put the brakes on your comedian career on my behalf, not that it hasn’t stopped you before, but you get the gist Boozy Beer Daddy.” Do It All Dad gets a tad misty, overwhelmed with a surge of heart aching emotion and says, “Her dreamy blond looks live through you kid, which should help bolster our case when we ask her Mormon brother Blair Rittenhouse Square The 3rd to give us that religious exemption after he converts me to Mormonism. How can you not get big love in Utah kid? One time, a MILF bum rushed you at the supermarket when you were only 2 and says, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I said, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”
Little Samuel says, “Do most mommies die of heart attacks at 42 Daddy?” Do It All Dad says, “Not unless they’re employed by the WWE kid. Mama died from the COVID clot shot and she didn’t have the strained heart I had from all the cocaine I did in my twenties throughout my thirties, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall while yelling, “Where’s Hunter?” Who is else is going to pay for this shit? Shit, we’re running low on gas. You know the routine Samuel. Money equals freedom and we can’t make it to Utah if we don’t sell some bumper stickers fast. The GPS says there’s a Shell station in 1.2 miles, we should have enough to make it. Still not banking on Obama Be Good lickers like Dave Chapelle getting his cousins Trump voiced GPS systems for Kwanza. On your far left, is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth Warren’s home away from home. Now, grab the COVID Damage Done bumper stickers and get ready to sell with divine powered authority like Kevin Hart’s agent in convincing Universal Studio’s anyone who calls him a poor man’s Eddie isn’t a jealous hater, just a short on laughs spectator.”
Little Samuel approaches a Karen type going to the bathroom at the Shell station and says, “Hi, can I interest you in a bumper sticker to support the Freedom Trucker Convoy, called COVID Damage Done?” Karen says, “Is that supposed to be a stupid Neil Young reference kid?” As far as I’m concerned you can’t vaccinate kids young enough. Thank God New York state doesn’t allow you to attend Pre-K without wearing a mask on. Wear the damn mask kid, they still work. Do It All Dad interjects, “Hey Karen, why don’t you suck the hate speech and white privilege out of my chosen person schlong first. Consider it elongated love. Pretend Justin Trudeau ordered you to leak it.” A group of truckers overhear the commotion and crack up in unison. One of the truckers raises his voice among the deafening shriek of laughter and says, “I’ll take 100 bumper stickers kid.”
Do It All Dad and Little Samuel arrive at Zion National Park to have a moment with God before plowing forward with the Do It All Dad Does Mormonism pitch to his dead wife’s brother preacher. Do It All Dad says, “God, I’m half a fag, so the polygamy thing isn’t that much of a driving force behind my decision to forsake my Jewish side for Mormonism. Plus, most Mormons voted for Mitt Romney, so their judge of good character is questionable at best. The exalted, all-knowing Mitt called Trump the Anti-Christ for Christ’s sake. But in the Bible part 2, Jesus returns from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ. So have some faith, in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people?” Little Samuel says, “Does this mean you’re not converting to Mormonism now Dad?” Do It All Dad beams with divine powered light and says, “Looks like it doesn’t kid. How many more bumper stickers do we have left?” Samuel says, “We got 52” and one hardcore hilarious joker.” Do It All Dad says, “That should be enough gas money to get us to Vegas. There’s a new Stand-Up Comedy Festival there called, “Seriously Clowning”, the winning comedian gets 25 grand and a co-hosting audition for the Russell Brand’s podcast. I’ll take those odds kid.” Little Samuel looks up to his cherished, Dear Dada and says “You’re going to kill them Daddy, you’re going to kill them. Don’t forget to open with your bit about me confusing Grandma for Kurt Cobain on the TV, which isn’t the most flattering look.” Do It All Dad says, “Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did, before Magic Made HIV disappear. Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection. If Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, then Woody Allen just got a book advance from Random House on a book about hands off parenting, called Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Trump was stabbed with the deep state needle used to take out Easy E, he’d tweet the next morning on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to rumble on next, “Do I have HIV? Yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger. Can I get a holla for some Challah? Mongoloid Moron lives, running on schtick till the end of the time and I feel fine, Challah. Thank you very much.”
Do It All Dad freaks out George Soros lickers at large.
You want your kids to stop bitching?
Then, authorize their brothers and sisters to bitch shame them with chants of Nitpicky Lame.
“Daddy, this Tofu is hard to eat because the pieces are stuck together.”
“Is this Ranch or Tartar sauce?”
“Daddy, the COVID vax shot fucked up Katy Perry’s face and gave her temporality paralysis during the last show of her Vegas residency.”
“Her tits weren’t feeling shit in the 1st place.”
Challah, thank you very much.
Growing up, my father called me a waste of height because the highlight of my high school basketball career was scoring a whole 10 points against an all-Japanese team. Scoring at will wasn’t a stretch. Every time I drove to the hoop, their players ran away from me like frightened movie extras in a Godzilla film. But instead of saying, “Look Godzilla, they’d say, “Look, Hugh Grant on stilts.”
I wish Lavar Ball was my substitute coach dad growing up because he’d ensure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. Then, I’d strut down the court with more big pimping Jay Z ease. And my substitute coach dad LaVar Ball wouldn’t have to worry about me shaming the baller brand name for prancing down the basketball court on my tippy toes, looking like I was sporting high heels, instead of high tops while yelling, “We’re trying to sell Baller-Wear son, not Jimmy Choo’s.”
Lavar Ball wouldn’t let my younger brother lose his virginity before me. Lavar Ball would get Rihanna to pop my cherry 1st by offering her future participation profit points in Baller Wear, so I’d feel like a big baller on the rise inside. But 1st, Lavar Ball would throw me house parties and only invite stuck-up Jenny from the block. 2 seconds in the party LaVar Ball yells, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”
LaVar Ball as my substitute coach dad wouldn’t actively depreciate my star player potential on draft day to snag higher caliber players and say, “Let’s be honest folks, my son is soft. I’m not talking regular soft, he’s more like Snuggles, 3000 thread count type soft. My son is a perpetual nervous wreck. He jams his fingers while struggling with the can opener. His only go-to move is a stationary, hurried, half formed hook shot that puts less fear into opposing defenders than an all-Japanese team who think the pic and roll means their choice of fish.”
But at least I can question my dad’s predictive prowess and talent assessment ability within the right, told you so authority today after I told him to invest in Google, bet him Trumpy Poo would win and that I’d write for TV one day, which I did. Does questioning my father’s talent assessment abilities count as disrespecting thy father, just because he already fears my 1st born son being a superior athlete compared to his defective offspring in comparison? Granted, I was shipped off to an all-Jewish sleepaway camp for 7 years and was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shieks son from Great Neck. Plus, my younger brother makes Hunter Biden come off a slacker underachiever in comparison. Still, it would’ve been nice to hear pops make a favorite forecast prediction on the behalf off his grandson after I talked about his 1st basketball practice. Instead, all I heard was, “You’ll learn soon enough if he’s an “average talent” or not. I said, “Your boy Biden’s talent was never under question pops because he never had any to begin with. And if Obama’s such as baller, then why did he ride the bench at all Asian private school in Hawaii.”
I’ll just follow Jimmy Valvano’s advice when he said, “My father gave me the greatest gift in the world, he believed in me.” Oh yeah, I also told my dad these booster shots are less secure than Joy Behar retaining the job as the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
RIP Bob Saget. Dirty Work was pure hilarity from start to finish. Wish I could’ve opened for you instead of B.J Novak. I’ve met Lobotomy’s with more sparkly personalities remaining. Say hello to Greg Giraldo for me and tell him that the roasts suck without him. Although in comedy heaven, I’m sure Giraldo already busted your balls and said, “Of course I die in a hotel in New Jersey while you died in a Ritz Carlton in Orlando. Look on the bright side, at least you got to die in style Bob.”
How do you fuck with your Atheist wife? Be serious about expressing your desire to adopt a kid with Down Syndrome. But they can die at 40 from cancer. Athletes are dying from the clot shot in their twenties now. So, 40 is the new 90 really babe. Plus, your username on the Peloton is Flowers and Babies. Shouldn’t all kids enveloped in our circle of love in our comedy estate home come up roses in your eyes? You work in the NICU checking for vital signs. All I check for is for retweets. You want me to prove I’m not an A Plus Narcissist and break the curse of my family tradition. Then this is it. Huey Lewis and the News live, Challah. Thank you very much. Although leave it to Uncle John, AKA Sir Snort A Lot to contaminate our air of holiness at home, the one time he offers our adopted son with Down Syndrome some blow and says, “You don’t always have to be down kid.” But who’s going to look after him? You still don’t have a job. He’ll help me sell my new gum invention Hop-O-Rama Chew. Who’s going to say no to a kid with Down Syndrome? What, I want to disrupt the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome. Most kids with Down Syndrome are highly creative. Plus, they possess highly developed senses of humor like Phil Rosenthal’s cousin in Somebody Feed Phil or the guy in Something About Mary. And who could resist our adopted kid with Down Syndrome going to door to door in Brooklyn selling Hop flavored gum to overweight Stay At Home hipster dads who identify more with Lena Dunham since she morphed into the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week? We can call him Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, which gives him immediate hipster cred after he introduces himself and some immediate breathing room to pitch. I want to out Hipster the shit out of these guys. Door to door sales would do wonders for this kid’s self-esteem. At the same time, nobody is slamming a door on a kid’s face with Down Syndrome, especially if he’s blowing the biggest bubble, you’ve ever seen while holding up tape recorder that plays our pre-recorded radio jingle for Hop-O-Roma Chew. Blow your blues with away some Hop-O-Rama Chew. Our bubbles are easy to blow. Even kids with Down Syndrome can blow big bubbles while chewing on a daily nugget of wisdom wrapped inside each burst of bright-eyed flavor inside. Hop-O-Rama Swami says, “Beer Bellies give self-love a bad name. And Sarah Palin is better than you. So, add some extra bounce to your step with some Hop-O-Rama Chew.”
“Also, your best friend Sara will feel like a more self-involved narcissist for only having one kid versus our 3 plus one adopted one with Down Syndrome. And our 4th kid being an adopted one with Down Syndrome would really piss my parents off. Just think of what a big deal they made about putting up a pool fence. But I don’t view a kid with Down Syndrome as an eye sore but as angel light and their laughs are the purest. Plus, when a kid with Down Syndrome smiles it could light up a youth hostel in a no-go zone area in Germany with no-WI Fi during the Chinese planted plague made in Wuhan delivered through remote controlled drone bats, next day delivery. Supply Chain problem solved because everyone will be dead. So, what difference does it make? Except that our best of 4 worlds family, that being all 4 kids, because were not family without them, will be able to bask in some angel light before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. As we sing in a beautiful, truthfully tuneful harmony, “It’s the end of the world, and we know it, and I feel fine. Because Samuel needs a younger brother to look after. And denying him the opportunity to be the biggest hearted big brother ever would really blow more than being denied the chance to see if your mother would terminate her Nazi dog Heidi over a more playtime consideration with her grandchild with Down Syndrome. Will see how God blessed she’ll act in the face of our new kid with Down Syndrome who will do abortion jokes in my honor over Christmas. One kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all Baba. Plus, how could I ever be sad in the presence of Dad? Funnier dad, happier baby. Thanks Dad. For giving me the confidence to do more than dig ditches for non-biodegradable masks at McDonald’s before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. Burning Mask Party return, 121 comedy records later, Challah. Thanks for the laughs, Dad, very, very much.
I think the Pentagon invented the Monkeypox, so they’d scare the rest of our military into chopping their dicks off. They already forced out those who refused to get the clot shot. So, what difference does it make? Our general in charge is a glamorized HR manager with sloppier tits. His only tour of duty is playing Russian Roulette with his dick at the nearest glory hole in Biloxi, Mississippi for basic training. So, what difference does it make? We already abandoned our own military and citizens in Afghanistan along with 85 billion dollars’ worth of military equipment for Al-Qaeda with our dick between our legs. So as Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would say, “What difference does it make?”
Drag Queen reading hour under fluorescent library lights is a scary enough image burned into our troop’s craniums for those responsible for teaching gender fluid reader fluency to kids tiring of Chekov plays in the Ukraine, when nobody is liberal enough to go ass to mouth even if you ate caviar out of the Count’s anus hole first. So, what difference does it make? At least, now, rapes in the military will dip dramatically. The only thing getting rapped will be free will, but that was happening already over the clot shots. So, what difference does it make? We don’t intend on winning another war again. So, what difference does it make? The Capital Police are free to murder American vets in broad day light like Ashly Babbit. So, what difference does it make? Michelle Obama will still find a way to be pissed despite Joan Rivers being the one who got dicked over permanently by Tina Turner, 2.0, What’s Talent Got To Do With It? So, what difference does it make?
Britney Spears can’t even get her memoir published because we’re running out of paper because the Sunday New York Times hogs up the paper market, by publishing enough shit about taking cannibalism and eating cockroaches back for the privilege of saving mother earth like it’s worth saving at this point. So, what difference does it make? If they steal another election, the military will shoot to kill us like a bunch of crazed Jihadists against any patriotic citizens left. So, what difference does it make? At least now, charges of the Supreme Court being soft on pedophiles in the military, won’t hold as much water in court. So, what difference does it make? Critical Race Theory doesn’t include do shit mayors who’ve let the criminals run wild because they don’t want to be called racist pieces of shit. So, what difference does it make?
Sudden Adult Death Syndrome from the clot shot isn’t going away, neither is Aids and the common flu rebranded as an itchy esophagus through COVID. So, what difference does it make? My kids aren’t joining the military to study military strategy, which has always been bend over and take it or get court marshalled you maggot eating piece of shit. So, what difference does it make? Tibetan Monks aren’t supporting themselves on nude meditation videos on Great Minds On Fire.Com. So, what difference does it make?
Castration Nation has no balls left to prosecute and punish those who push the clot shot at nauseum. So, what difference does it make? Castration Nation oms on and is threatened with loss of liberty, their job and pursuit of happiness if they dare to protest out in public against our stolen election outside the Capital Building while ANTIFA, and BLM get to burn down our cities at will while Corporate America pushes clot shots to placate the rape enablement Democrat party in our land of Democrat Deterioration not that Republicans who rubber stamped this sham presidency are any better. So, what difference does it make?
Uncle Sam wasn’t getting much action in the 1st place and is past his prime money shot blasting years. So since, the day Democracy died, and all forms of humanity left our medical profession after Cuomo found a way to kill Italian grandma without throwing her off the train. So, what difference does it make? Bruce Springsteen will stall call all his fans racist anyway. Even the ones who got jealous of Bruce Springsteen inviting Obama be Good to dance with him on stage to Dancing in the Dark on the Broadway. So, what difference does it make? Getting in last licks good. Last licks live, Challah. Thank you very much.
I don’t like my brother calling Bob Seger a God because he gets paid to operate a forklift while running on weed oils with ear buds on for a living, which taints his entire musical library for me. Which reminds me of the time my brother left a used condom on our old white leather coach despite me specifying prior, “Don’t swipe any skanky ass puss over to our house, the one weekend, I have away from the kids to get some work done. I understand your need to feel important like Hunter Biden since he gave up blow for blow painting but refrain from being next level of sketchy for a change like asking to be excused from a barbeque with my kids to pick up some pain relief aspirin at the local Pharmacia in Dutchess County on a Sunday while disappearing in and out of a Requiem for Dream, Team Oxy, thanks.”
But back to Bob Seger, I’d ask Alexa to play Still The Same, every time I got a new piece published by the The Good Men Project, before my editor told me that my last submission would her give her boss a heart attack, which included a scene where Rob Van Zant from Lynyrd Skynyrd turns Neil Young into his Canadian Cunt in the can and says, “More shrieking Young like your whipped on an anti-vax man. Natural Immunity can survive.” Hank Williams Junior lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
So, I love me so Bob Seger to, but I stop at calling him a “God” because he sold the rights to his song “Like A Rock” to the Ford company knowing how Henry Ford is the only American name drop in Mein Kampf who he viewed as a model citizen because he wrote a newsletter that blamed the Jews for the controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, bro, keep clean from the heroin pills for your pain management issues for an extended stretch of time or show a modicum of remorse for making mom breakout into a perpetual case of canker sores and I’ll give a shit about your Kid Rock Country siding soul, deal?
Bob Seger is a God. You’d think my brother was working the assembly line for Ford’s new line of plug in Ford Explorers called, “Master Race Machines.” This is me interviewing Watson Computer on my Pause Daddy Podcast. “Watson, do you know that you’re named after Dr. Watson who invented tracking technology for the Kraut breath Nazis that made it easier to detect Jewish ancestry whenever they sported the ant eater schnauzer look between their legs instead? Watson Computer says, “No, shit Sherlock.”
Hitler even had a portrait of Henry Ford in his office. He put a swastika pin on his lapel, despite the swastika looking like 2 stick figures doing a 69 on a seesaw. Hitler called Heny Ford an “inspiration”, adding, “Fucking Christ killing Jews are the root of all evil, especially those descendants of Don Rickles who heckled the feckless, highly impressionable Roman Guards into crucifying Jesus to death.” Ford even received the highest medal in Nazi Germany called the Grand Cross German Eagle with a mustache on it. Ford wanted to wear it around his neck for the company Christmas Party until his wife said, “You look like a Dago clown with that thing on. Charlie Chaplin is getting invited to Hearst Castle and you’re not, get over it already. Bribe some Jewish writers from Hearst Newspapers to write your International Jew column for you if you crave the Jewish media’s embrace so much. Aren’t money hoarding, parasitical worms their spirit animals? So, get that God ugly necklace off and make me a French martini with an orange rind twist. Somebody has to add some color to this relationship. And dressing up like Woodrow Wilson for Halloween doesn’t count.” Trumpism lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Is there anything Hitler didn’t culturally appropriate. First, it’s the swastika, which was formally a Hindu symbol for anal herpes karma, so that was actually quite on brand really. Then, he culturally appropriates Chaplin’s stash despite it failing to hide his herpes sores which flared up his desire to annihilate any non-kraut breath since his father called his decision to pursue art as a profession as “too ambitious”, before adding, “And you’re not even a speed freak hooked on Crystal Meth whose softer than German Pound Cake.” Plus, Hitler’s master race theory was totally pulled straight from the eugenics playbook written by the founder of Planned Parenthood, Margaret Sanger. And Planned Parenthood has deflated more hoop dreams than the NCAA instituting a no dunk rule because Kareem made Indiana centers look whiter than White Man’s Disease.
But back to Bob Seger. You could accuse the heartland rock God as the king of pedo friendly lyricism on his album Night Moves, when he sings, “Come see your papa if you need a pacifier? Then, motor mouth Bob sounds like Christmas came early when he sings, “Call me anytime. I’ll try to be your pacifier. If you feel like a horse blazin at the bit. It’s because I knocked out your fucking teeth because you chomped down too hard on my carrot stick.”
Next morning, Little Girl Blue asks, “Daddy, why didn’t the Tooth Fairy hook me up with a whole lot of Bitcoin under my digital wallet pillow last night? Is the Tooth Fairy another cheapskate Queen like Lou Reed?”
Father still drunk on Fire Water hell screams, “The Rock slept in for a change, alright. Where’s your friend Jenny? Is she hanging out with Gump again? Unlike you, she’s got good southern etiquette. And doesn’t mouth off and talk with her mouth full of more bay seasoned shrimp next time your cousin Billy Bob pays a visit.” Truly tasteless jokes about incest, cousin fucking and pedo punctuated lyricism live, Challah. Thank you very much.
But in Bob Seger’s defense, he only comes across as a harmless peeping tom loser in the song Main Street. Who can’t even get his courage up to enter the strip club, let alone offer to tip the DJ a crisp 20 spot for playing the 22-minute version of Whipping Post from the Filmore East by the Allman Brothers band. So Seger could get the most bang out of their one song per dance policy on Creeper Tuesdays. Instead, all Seger does in the song Main Street is creep on the so young and sweet stripper by watching her through the glass to the smoky live beat. Segar should’ve renamed that song, Blue Balls on Main Street.
But let’s talk about how great St. Louis Cardinals fans are. Cardinals Nation gave Mark McGwire consistent standing ovations during his initial 0 for 28 hitting slump after they traded for him midseason, not knowing if he’d resign with them in the off season after his contract was up. Yankee fans would’ve been raiding the closet for Energizer batteries to pelt his Pez Despenser head with while hyped on shitty coke from Washington Heights. He’s only 6’5. Pops is right, I really am a waste of height.
This is George Thorogood backstage with Sammy Haggar during their Crazy Times Tour. “Hey Sammy, I tried your Tequilla. It tastes Van Halen light.”
And this is the CDC throwing a retirement party for Dr. Fauci. “Hope you’re not sick of Gnocchi, Dr. Gnocchi. We got Mario Batali on the cheap. It was Gates idea to put caramelized grasshoppers on top. So, let’s raise our Placenta Stump Smoothies and toast the greatest loser streak off all time. How many hit vaccines were developed under your watch? An Aids blanket quilter on Pinterest would like to know. But if you’re goal was depopulation with the clot shot. Then, mazel Tov, you and Gates got what you wanted. To the year of the Four Eyed Snakes. I hope Herschel Walker forgets about pumping your daughter with some MAGA teen spirit between 1000 more crunches with Fox News on the background while making Jungle Fever great again. Does it feel inclusive enough dear? Hershel Walker plows Gate’s daughter after pounding some shots of Wheatgrass on her Placenta Smoothie Farm Retreat and says, “Too inclusive, yet?” Creeper Tuesdays live, Challah. Thank you very much.