This is my 9-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again. Enough daddy, mama got your point mid breath. Holla, thank you very much.
My wife is pushing me to see a therapist for my anger management issues. I suggested primal scream therapy. Wife says, “Don’t you do that on your podcast already?” I say, “How would you know? You’re only 460 episodes behind babe. Never mind your complete lack of interest in the 7 books I’ve written since our lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.” Holla, thank you very much.
Wife insists our 3 child Samuel, gets bored whenever he spends too much with her. I always knew he was a quick learner.
My son Samuel was bound to woo. He stops traffic at the Stop and Shop even after the prime rib sample station has closed. Random Italian grandmas consistently bum rush the kid and say, “You’re gorgeous. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” I’ll reply, “If James Woods had this face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”
All my fights with my wife revolve around me not making money off my comedy yet. Since I got kicked off Twitter, I can’t even write off a joke about the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh as a charitable donation anymore. Holla, thank you very much.
Imagine John Lennon resenting Paul McCartney for shaming him into becoming a stay-at-home dad against his will. Paul McCartney did write Hey Jude in honor of John Lennon’s neglected son Julian, who Lennon didn’t spend much time with during the rise of Beatlemania. 2 seconds into a leisurely baby stroll through Central Park West with his 2nd kid Sean, John Lennon yells up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking Cucumber Scone Paul. Playing the role of stay-at-home dad, is no walk in the park mate. Even primal scream therapy has its limitations, like trying to snuggle off bad acid with Yoko whenever Dr. Leary drops by with more CIA made ACID again.” Holla, Thank you very much.
The Left says there is a rise in anti-Semitism and Islamophobia. Arabs chanting “Hitler was right” and “Allah is great” while beating up pushover Jews in the streets of New York, London, and Los Angeles, with the blunt ends of Palestinian flag poles while the cops do shit to protect them, doesn’t mirror the act of extending an olive branch in the hopes of giving peace another chance either. I don’t see these sparks of divinity inspiring observant Jews to skip Shabbat dinner at home in favor of going to a new oxygen bar opening in Astoria once the mask mandate is cleared in NY either.
Palestinians attacking Jews in the subway, asking random New Yorkers who’s Jewish, so they could beat the shit of them with the ends of Palestinian flag poles doesn’t inspire me to try out that authentic shawarma stand in Astoria, despite the elite Yelper claiming, “It’s worth getting your skull cap crushed into your cranium for it.” The elite yelper throws in a warning advisory label in her review to and says, “Just don’t call random Palestinians attacking Jews in broad daylight, Islamic supremacists, that’s a big no go zone area in Allah’s book. Bill Maher would concur. Because he knows Israel will never achieve a 2-state solution with Palestine if Hamas keeps fucking.” Holla, thank you very much.
I’m afraid to reveal the totality of my Mezuzah necklace on the subways in NY these days. That doesn’t make me Islamophobic. It just means I’m scared of getting pushed on to the subway track and having my white man’s disease preventing me from jumping back up to the subway platform in a NY minute in the nick of time. I can’t even do one legitimate pull up if my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk was riding on it. But I’m supposed to be overly confident in adrenaline alone to catapult me high enough to grab on to the subway platform before pulling myself up to safety like the Jewish Stallone in Cliffhanger? Yeah, and Rashida Talib is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
Imagine being surrounded by a bunch of crazed Palestinian nationalists on the subway, demanding for you to tell them if you’re Jewish, without having to prove it by whipping out your business card from Goldman Sachs 1st.
Equity research analyst David Rosenbluth from Short Hills, New Jersey tenses immediately and says, “Jewish, no, of course not. Look, under my arm, I still read the New York Times. I don’t even know how many zeros are in a trillion. I count with my fingers for simple arithmetic, which your people invented from what I’ve read in the Atlantic, Mazel Tov. Oh vey! Please don’t kill me. I’ll block Mark Ruffalo on Twitter. Israel is guilty of genocide, not Mao, Stalin or Pol Pot. I voted for Obama twice. I think Farsi is the most beautiful sound in the universe to. And Obama loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Gassing all his nuke deal critics would be a gas. Palestinian nationalist says, “You’re too funny for a WASP. Samir, chop his fucking head off. So we can jump for joy like it’s 9/11 again already. And I thought David Lee Roth was a long-winded Jew.”
This is Mark Ruffalo apologizing to Jon Stewart about accusing Israel of genocide. Mark Ruffalo calls. “Hey, Jon, it’s Mark. Sorry about accusing Israel of genocide despite them giving Hamas plenty of advance warning to get their kids the fuck out of dodge before they strike back again and again. Normally, genocidal maniacs like Mao prefer to starve millions to death. And Jews don’t like to blow through money if they can avoid it.” Jon Stewart says, “Don’t sweat it, Mark. I don’t care if you repeat old school Farrakhan talking points like the mulatto version of Public Enemy. Nor do I care if Palestinians get green with envy about the Jews controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. I let Trever Noah reveal what partisan hacks my Emmy winning writers have become by siding with ANTIFA and BLM to silence any form of speech that paints them or their enablers in the White House and establishment media as the fascist, racist terrorist enablers that they are, regardless of how much CNN orders Kamal Bell to pontificate otherwise like a schlumpy, unfunny Paul Mooney for hire. I also didn’t press Obama on my show to do a better job of selling his time out deal with Iran, which had less legs than Lieutenant Dan. So, what difference does it make?” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.
Lasagna, I don’t care who makes it, is normally a soupy saucy, droopy, ricotta plopped, dumpy looking mess. For a native New Yorker like myself, I always saw Lasagna as a tourist trap order like peep shows in Times Square in the seventies or apartment rebates in Manhattan today, offering zero deposit and the 1st 2 months free, since the greatest city in the world turned into an office space ghost town. Also, if I have to hear one more story about some NY transplant renting out a million-dollar mansion in South Carolina to conduct Zoom meetings in splendid, far more spacious isolation, I’m going to drive our family SUV off the cliffs of chained, middle class fixed insanity.
Lasagna isn’t the most versatile dish to serve after winter either. I’d rather blow my calorie intake on hop forward pilsners and 4 sipper watermelon beers from 21st Amendment from San Fran during the heat of the night this coming summer than get weighed down by a dish full of heavy melted cheese best suited for a shittier Godfather remake in the making. And how exciting is the standard ground meat stuffing offered in most Lasagnas? If I weren’t eating Kosher now, I’d prefer a bomb meatball parm hero from Carmines off Broadway, over their ground meat crumbled lasagna any day of the week because you’re getting far heartier, tastier, meatier loving bites. I also write a gay food blog for closeted married men with kids called, “Meatier, The Better.”
My wife made lasagna in the past with tofu stuffing inside, which is as arousing as it sounds. Tofu has no place in Lasagna. It’s more out of place than a Guido with a tan line in South Beach on Spring Break, holla, thank you very much. Outside of dumping on the totality of what this fabled, old school Italian dinnertime dish classic has to offer, I’m going to spotlight a superior alternative that I learned to make from the domesticated goddess of home hearth enhancement Martha Stewart, The White Privilege Mexican Lasagna.
You know your White Privilege Mexican Lasagna is a hit, when even your normally snooty, compliment free mother-in-law feels compelled to compliment it 2 bites in, uttering, “This is very good. You’re making my daughter look like a slacker lazy brain in the kitchen. She’d thrown in the towel 50 rolled perogies in for our next Uki church bake sale guaranteed.”
I’ve futzed with the Martha Stewart recipe over the years, yet my strongest batch of White Privilege Mexican Lasagna used white corn tortillas versus the standard corn tortillas, which tend to lean more toward the grating side in comparison like COVID Loonies who insist on wearing their masks in the car versus others willing to pull it down on the elevator alone to suck their thumb for added comfort.
You sauté the black beans, red onions, and jalapenos in vegetable oil 1st, before spreading them into the casserole dish with layered mini flying saucers of white corn tortillas, layered, with shredded pepper jack cheese and Monterey in addition to homemade salsa made from cherry tomatoes, 4 jalapenos at least, cilantro, red onion, and plenty of lime. I’d buy two batches of cherry tomatoes for the salsa topping to maximize maximum spreadage like Katy Perry hoisting up her pushup bra equipped with multiple party screamer kazoos attached on the tips. Also, use 2 rectangles of Monterey and Pepper Jack from the Cabot cheese company or else it will taste like a cheeseless White Privilege Mexican Lasagna. You might well add some tofu inside and commit an Asian on white priveledge Mexican Lasagna hate crime in the process.
My 7-year-old son asked for 3rds, which was unprecedented like George Lopez doing 5 minutes of straight of stand up without spicing his set with some Spanish in between to keep it cornier yet earthier real Holmes. White Privilege Mexican Lasagna won’t stop Asian hate yet the more we embrace culturally rich cuisines outside of our preconceived prejudices, the less clannish will act at home and out. Last, beating up on Chinese Grandma isn’t a good look thug lives matter. JR Smith doesn’t even find the act cute. But at least JR Smith has an NBA ring and earned the right to party topless in Vegas for 3 days straight. At the same time, nobody thinks picking on Asian granny requires courage of any kind and nobody is ever confusing your disgraced nuts as Thinking Balls to devise your new 5-year masked mugger plan with. You’re offended? Good, go woke yourself to. That’s the way the Fortune Cookie crumbles.
Finally getting my wisdom teeth taken out, which is a relief knowing I can’t blame their excavation on toothbrush neglect caused by premature passing out on the couch from excessive IPA intake, again and again. I’m exaggerating. I actually gave up drinking beer this summer because it was embarrassing spending so much time hung over, recycling, empty reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by, holla, thank you very much.
Kids are home from school now after I lose my facial virginity from getting gang banged pricked in my mouth with one Novocain shot after another and my beams of sparkly, good hued light, that being my 3 kids, best home team ever, don’t even recognize their depleted daddy mushed into the couch watching a Bee Gee’s doc at 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, who’s acting more low energy, barely staying alive than Jeb Bush after receiving unsolicited debate stump talking points from Karl Rove on Fox News. Then, my wife who works as a nurse in the NICU gives me a drug cocktail consisting of Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Amoxicillin, insisting I don’t need my prescribed pain killers, which she isn’t ecstatic about schlepping back to the Pleasantville pharmacy to pick up, because if this drug cocktail concoction is good enough for a mom who just had c section at her hospital, then, I’m in no position to run my bitchy, flappy, tore up mouth. Then, I decide to do something about my sad sack, immobile state because I don’t need to see my kids look at me like I’m lounging out on my premature death bed again. So I semi pound a leftover Captain Lawrence Powder Dreams, a hazy, New England Style IPA which put me at immediate ease before I blast Motley Crew’s Too Fast For Love in my room as I resume editing a previous chapter post for upcoming, future bestselling Koshetarian Comedian in no time, like a man possessed to never allow fear mongering imposed by others, influence my self-reliant streak of self-imposed, willed in happiness, without the overreliance and constantly let down disgust stemming from more dashed expectations involving any hopeful expectation of those supposed to help when you need them the most, to only come up, short, because they really don’t give a shit again, holla, thank you very much.
The laughing gas, mixed with oxygen was nice yet still prompted me to start heckling the Oral Surgeon when I said, “Doc, give me funnier, laughing gas,” because I wasn’t laughing, yet doc was long time, thank you very much. Then, I add, “Hey doc, the fake news laughing gas you’re giving me reminds me of the time I took my daughter to her 1st Grateful Dead parking scene, literally days after her 2nd Birthday up in Bethel Woods, sight of the original Woodstock. I take her for a stroll, feeling such an evolved, liberal cool Dad for a brief fleeting moment, who suddenly questions his alleged, all knowing, wise ways, once I start spotting some dinged up looking hippies sucking down nitrous balloons by the woods like their last working stuck in time, stilted brain cell could barely hang on until feeling nothing but vacant space like lower Manhattan these days, only for my daughter to point at the Nitrous balloons and, ask, “Birthday Daddy?” And I say, “No Matilda, Burnout Day”, holla, thank you very much.”
Now it’s 5PM and I notice how my wife has no preparation for our Ravioli dinner, which I wasn’t planning on assuming ownership of after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, knowing my mom was in town to “help out” despite her crashing later that night at a hard 7:30 like the fucking Amish kid from Witness, who normally goes to sleep early because either A) He has to wake early to milk a farm full of cows for B) Is burnout on reading the Bible by candlelight again into midnight hour, when his love comes beaming around because it loses its dramatic oomph when you’ve already read it 5000 times before your 8th birthday.
Still, feeling good about my post, New England IPA buzz on an empty stomach, knowing I’ve removed all fear from my kids prior, by being the high energy dad they love as I keep heckling Alexa to play Slip Of The Lip and Dance, Dance, Dance, by the kings of slithering Sunset Strip metal sleaze Ratt. Although along the way, my surging levels of happiness were flat lined to death when I had to endure annoying lines from my wife such as, “You can’t drink after taking Tylenol, it will wreck your liver.” I say, “If 3 days in Mardi Gras sophomore year in college, in addition to my lushastic, hound dog driven twenties in LA or my poor man’s William Faulkner, bourbon swirling impersonation in my 30’s back in Brooklyn and Queens, didn’t kill off my liver, nothing will babe, holla, thank you very much.”
So, after realizing that the 2 alleged most important adult woman in my life, that being my mother and wife of 10 years, fail to take care of dinner preparation for my 3 kids after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, I assume ownership of the situation and command the room, the way only a seasoned, all star Koshetarian Comedian can. Granted, when you’re not making Ravioli by freaking hand, or even from a pasta making machine, it’s not a drawn out, colossal time suck either. Still, when you take pride in being a yummy dance producer maestro, who’s accustomed to hearing from any of his 3 kids, “More, more”, “This is delicious Daddy” or “You haven’t made a batch this solid in months Daddy ”, you put in the extra effort to make an A Plus marinara sauce from scratch which steals the show, assuming you use your kids like open mikes in the kitchen prior enough to recognize your last 2 batches of bomb Ravioli made from scratch by some old world Italian Grandma, most likely in the same room since the Godfather was released in the boogie down Bronx, were a tad 2 al dente around the edges, to be called a complete resounding success.
Mario Batali gave me the idea of always using red onions and carrots as a standard solid base every time you make any marinara from scratch, which I did here, having a Chopomatic at my disposal, after breaking the past 2 from being too rough with it, helped me resent my mom’s and wife’s complete lack of interest in any making life fuss free for a change a tad less in the end. At the same time, I knew mama wouldn’t make this favorite meal for my 3 biggest fans in the universe “with love”, so it was my pleasure to fulfill the glaring Do It All Mom void in the room. After I use the reliable, semi-sturdy Chopomatic to cut some red onion, I grate some shaved carrots before bathing them in a generous pouring of olive oil, flush with peeled off bits of garlic, and chili pepper flakes, for added spicy variety, which adds more titillating lift to our days, before throwing in the chucky yet crushed, San Marzano can of tomato sauce from nearby grocery chain legend, Stew Leonard’s, a reason to live in CT alone or Northern Westchester, really.
I was also hell bent on eye fucking the shit out of the 2 boxes of Ravioli to ensure all those pillowy squares of perfection floated to the top like they were sitting top of the fucking Red Sea, before they were devoured with plenty of mmm, mmm, yumtastic, inhalatory glee, for back-to-back, licked clean servings later. Bonding through noshing with our kids from incorporating them into the creation of better than boobie dishes while using them as open mikes for real time feedback, can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids, 99% of the time, are living proof of it. Thank you sweet Lord, very much.
Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail. Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died. But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.
Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.
I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.
Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”
So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo,.can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.
Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.
Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”
So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.
Once upon a time there was a high energy, constantly red in the face, yet easily excitable IT agency recruiter in his early twenties from Long Island, Patrick Dublin, who worked for a small staffing agency above Madison Square Garden called Unicorn Staffers. Unicorn Staffers specialized in recruiting and placing Unicorn UX Designers, who also did the nitty gritty, back and front-end coding, who made billion-dollar apps and various new age tech startups come to life, blessed with visionary founders brilliant enough to avoid sexual harassment charges at work, by creating in-office innovations such as designing a panic free, jerk off safe space bathroom. So, security never had to escort you from the building, legs first from the bathroom stall, only to knock your head against the mildew lined walls one more time, before hearing the Security Guard croon in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.”
Since the era of #METO began, Unicorn Staffing would have to conduct more rigorous background checks with ex-girlfriends for Unicorn star studs they represented, who couldn’t control their urges to whip it out during a Zoom Call, despite the Head of Application Development from South Wales, Australia trying to manage an unwanted sexual harassment claims at work in a post virtual meeting COVID controlled universe gone cagy nuts, by addressing his team of developers and designers with, “Welcome all. Now if everyone is going to feel safe during this Zoom meeting, let’s raise all our hands high, where I can see them. Please, don’t be such a knee jerk reactionary cunt about it, you Jefferey Toobin wannabes at the New Yorker, thanks.” Sexual harassment was a dirty secret infesting the tech startup world today, even among, the biggest tech company in the world Google, despite most of the employees being too busy banging out to code, to actually hit on girls at work while sporting their yenta noise cancelation headphones in the 1st place. Plus, your typical software command script at Google or elsewhere, wasn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”
Now, Patrick, the IT Recruiter is conducting a background check with a 25-year-old, chesty Digital Marketing Manager Lisa, based on her LinkedIn Profile picture, who used to date his star candidate awaiting a verbal offer of 145K for a new permanent Creative Technologist Director position with a cannabis lifestyle startup Budranker.com, from Oakland, CA, looking to expand its online digital magazine division here in NYC, targeted toward working, functional pothead millennial mousketeers. Patrick, takes a deep breath, loosens his tie a tad and gets ready to call, Lisa, the Digital Marketing Manager for Hip Hops, a new multi-level old-school hip hop gastropub club in the East Village about the extent of her past relationship with his star candidate, which he’s very proud of connecting with, after LinkedIn banned him from the site for sending too many failed connection requests, before enrolling in a Spam A Lot Less Sales Seminar, offered by a former power ballad songwriter for hire turned Life Career Coach, Michael Rocker. Patrick calls and says, “Hi Lisa, this is Patrick Dublin. I’m an IT Recruiter for Unicorn Staffers, calling you about Max Diesel, whose being considered for a top Creative Technologist Director position for a cannabis startup, Budranker.com. Can I ask you a couple of quick questions about your relationship with Max in the past?”
Lisa says, “Yeah, we only hooked up once after meeting at the Windows Expo in downtown LA. it was right around the time Microsoft and had bought LinkedIn. I was working as a bartender hostess at the event, before I met the CEO of Sierra Nevada at same event, before becoming their Digital Marketing Manager after I started riffing while making some drinks, insisting, Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA blows all other IPA’s out of the water. Then, I crafted their sentimental laced campaign for the 30-year anniversary of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, calling it the pale ale that get’s stale. I conceptualized the guerilla marketing campaign for printing a bunch of bar napkins with love poems on them in honor of 1st loves, my personal favorite being, “I fell in love with you from the start. You’re my favorite valentine etched on my heart. You made love spill out of me like overflowing treasure. The idea of pounding you again, gives me non-stop pleasure. You were my 1st love, when I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew is that were heaven sent. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, You Never Got Over US Did You. So, Max starts flirting with me after I snagged the business card for the CEO of Sierra Nevada and says, “This is my impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem after Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn, “Hey slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Worrdddddddddd. Linked in lamer than ever yoh.” Personally, Max had me at Hey Slim, because he dropped his voice low enough to pull off a semi-decent Dr. impersonation. Hey, did you know Hitler’s birthday is on 420? Puffing the bong to more Tuff Gong never felt so wrong. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” So, to answer your question, I hooked up with Max on the dance floor sky bar in West Hollywood later that night on the dance floor, but then, Frans Drescher from the Nanny, caught his interest and I never heard from him again. He left me a busines card and said, we should stay in touch through LinkedIn, which I’ve never got over completely, especially knowing how I got interested in hooking up with Max only after he dumped on LinkedIn in the 1st place.”
Patrick finally interrupts Lisa, trying to be diplomatic as possible, afraid of blowing his potential 9 grand commission rip in the making and says, “Well, Max thought enough you to list you as reference for ex-girlfriends to a conduct a background check to assess his sexual harassment factor risk at Budranker.com. Did Max ever touch you on the dance floor too aggressively at the Sky Bar?
Lisa says, “Hell no. I’m the one who shoved his hand up my skirt. I told him my panties were packed in my purse and we could go skinny dipping at this house in the hills, my friend was housesitting for, next to Roman Polanski’s old house, who’s a serially underrated rapist compared to Cosby in my book. I still don’t understand how they pulled the Roseanne show off the air yet have no problem showing adds for Ambien between replays of the Cosby show on syndication on Nick at Night.”
Patrick says, “You’re really funny. What are you doing wasting your time doing Digital Content Marketing for a living?” Lisa says, “I’m too sexy for stand-up Patrick. Sara Silverman and Chelsea Handler 20 years ago were never in my league of looks. Also, I don’t see myself posting endless naked pics of myself like Chelsea Handler with another book in hand to showcase my social justice warrior reading cred to downplay the world from my tit’s sagging popularity in the process either.” Patrick says, “So, if Budranker.com called you tomorrow to ask you if Max was a sexual assault liability in the making, what would your response be exactly? Lisa says, “That all depends on you Patrick. Do you like old school hip hop like most old school wigger Irish dudes from Long Island?” Patrick says, “How do you know I’m from Long Island.” Lisa says, “I already looked you up on LinkedIn. You’re cute. Why don’t we wrap this interview up at Hip Hops later tonight? I crafted the playlist, playing only old school rap myself. It’s flush with songs by Biggie, Nas, even Snoop. Who cares if Snoops brain hovers a notch below Porn Hood Hell?” My exact measurements are 36d, my pic on the LinkedIn doesn’t give my balling beauties justice.” Patrick thinks to himself, “I better learn how to code for a new tech startup because that safe space room to get my whack on can’t come soon enough.”
“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”
Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of 3 was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height already. He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him, yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be? Do It All Dad had gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and could only dunk out with a mini basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process. One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student, still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie in the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters, there, who mostly came from the boogie down Bronx, versus his more snuggle soft secure upbringing along the Tudor housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked over Hebrew National Dog from, assuming your uncontrollable putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again or you just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at increasingly rapid rate. One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad then known as simply Josh was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on the top communications schools in the country, that being Ithaca College, which he’d call Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor. It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge then, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away scared from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla. “Then, after Julio’s raise the roof, in your face, I’m the man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking out himself, saying, “Your turn Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it player.”
Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension knowing his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model instead. If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach, he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, he’d joke about his in act when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”
Now, Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline who gives an encouraging fist pump raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim. It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing fear prevented him from flying high again. Julio approaches Josh, as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, I’m such a worthless putz, deflated state and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly B.”
Now at 45, what was holding Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels? Assuming ownership of his original birth name Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua, knowing Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Heaven wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.
Do It All Dad loved his IPA’s, yet after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut, which most would say was done in extreme poor taste, he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match after the next. Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior. One quote, which always weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly. On a less psychic mumbo, jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini beer belly, which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking out glory, where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good. The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.
Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife, like at 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild. If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a man after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet he at a Seattle coffee shop.
But what would Josh do for money to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute? Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again, to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again. No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd into volleyball, all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each, so how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child supports up? Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 45 wasn’t going to get the job done either.
Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed, “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin, if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow, so I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard every time without completely coughing out a lung either. Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison in addition to becoming a star provider for my family after all, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their smiling so fucking much because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning. Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”
Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?” Josh says, “Mormon Moms, they’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US, even more than Beverly Hills. I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.” Julia says, “Look Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks, which I’m not complaining about one iota either, but let’s be honest, I’m your divorce rebound lay, nothing more, nothing less. Although sometimes, a divorce rebound lay, can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”
Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA for the back cover pic. I think I finally found a way to do it on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion national park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla, thank you very much. Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, can be sold as self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down, that being beer and a nagging ex-wife, who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer, which is bullshit all the way. This would prove her wrong and I could become the star provider for my family after all. Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything, for this part like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?” Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink free edibles for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism, because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it. I could thrown in a line how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into Heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor, who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions years, my chest.” Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big time, Peloton Instructor, maybe, I’ll fly to visit you.” Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay career revitalizing muse of sorts with steamy, inhalatory glee and says “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers from Yonkers, NY. Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition. So how about I pump up your box one more time for the road instead.” Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”
Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break? Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead? If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.
Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.
Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.
The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer. For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.
“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.
The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure? You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”
Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”
The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.
Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”
The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”
Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.