Text a picture of a Hannukah mug your son created using oil pastels that could be sold in the MOMA gift shop easy. And you either A) Don’t acknowledge the creative genius at work B) Pretend you didn’t know the mini masterpiece came from your creatively jacked son or C) Act as if you never received the text afterwards because you’re not getting texts from Android devices allegedly or D) Fail to suck of the totality of its awesomeness after you acknowledge how the second follow text went through or E) Only muster a blandish, all your kids are special reply after hounding for a reply of any kind prior. It means, you passed the Godless Cunt test with flying colors.
Brother says to my son, “All those guys in the photo are my friends.” I say, “That’s why Uncle Jon blanks on my birthday because he has so many birthdays to remember. Assuming he swore off posting selfies of himself driving on Facebook. A Plus Narcissist lives matter most. Back surgeries from bending over backwards to kiss our own assholes is the family tradition. Who else would birth the expression 100 percent happy than an A plus narcissist like Uncle Jon who makes Hunter Biden look like a slacker underachiever in comparison?” Brother says, “I’m not an A Plus Narcissist.” I say, “You broke off an incoming marriage the weekend before the wedding date, before wrecking another one in a little over a year while somehow managing a way to frame your ex-lovers as the druggy degenerate slave drivers of the relationship, when neither of them did nose candy or heroin pills prior Sir Snort a Lot. Plus, you still think it’s a good look posting driving selfies on Instagram with the asshole filter permanently disabled. So, no offense A plus narcissist, but the point of objective return has passed you by bro. Just regift my Nintendo wedding gift for your 2 nephews in addition to the Pro Wrestling game I got you to overcompensate for you failing to acknowledge their birthdays ever outside of you offering me blow on my son’s birthday 7 years ago and I’ll rebrand you a C plus narcissist, which is very generous on my part. Arthur was born on New Year’s Day. Next year he turns 9, so you’ll still be in a fortunate position to be the 1st person to wish him a happy birthday in the morning because you only hear last call from the bathroom stall. Lighting some fireworks for the kids this past 4th Of July doesn’t compare to the blasts of angelic light they emit from smiling alone, which could light up a youth hostel with no Wi Fi during the next Chinese planted plague, but it’s a soul stirring start. Just stop acting like the poor unfortunate son when mom still breaks out in canker sores on your behalf. So much for being burnt out on last licks, far from fading, Challah. Thank you very much.
Remember when a reporter threw a shoe at W? The only way to one up the funny is to watch Biden on a live Facebook stream ducking behind a moat made of out of Fierce Blue Gatorade bottles after his Secret Service agents warn him of a fake news bombing campaign from Russia in the form of holograms with pictures of Drago on the missle tips on April’s Fools Day. Just so the female Secret Service agents can enact revenge on Mr. Groper for skinny dipping in their presence while boasting, “Told you, I was bigger than the boogie boarder from Kenya.” For once, The Icky Shuffle can’t shuffle away with his back turned toward the American people like a lost in time Tourist hick in Times Square. Because he’s drowning in a sea of shit while crouching into the fetal position, yelling, “Jill, Putin’s bombing Delaware. Why not bomb a Vineyard Vines store in Martha’s Vineyard 1st? Old money isn’t as money. Dress for new success. That’s why I wear dated Polo shirts instead. Where’s Hunter? Doing more blow again, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall? While his buds from the Sons of Anarchy yell, Where’s Hunter? Who else is going to pay for this shit? Do you think Zelensky likes me Jill? I financed World War 3 on his behalf. At the very least, you’d think he could spring for a new shirt already, that looks more played out than your fishnet stockings Jill. You think Jackie O would be caught dead looking like a small town ho, posing for Scarecrow Weekly? How do my hair plugs look better than your highlights from hell Jill? How does your hair look more brittle than Hunter on Election Day? When he leaned in to hug me like I just pardoned him from serving 30 years in a Turkish prison after being busted for trying to smuggle kilos of hash on Jet Blue? Like he couldn’t have dialed up Cat Stevens in LA if he was in a jam. Wasn’t he Obama’s best man at his wedding to Michael? When Obama described Farsi as the most beautiful .
. sound in the universe, who do you think he was referencing, Yassir Arafat, Jill? No, Obama Ears was talking about Islam’s answer to James Taylor. I’m being followed by Drago’s shadow.” Jill says, “Those bombs are holograms dear. Fucking Christ, the neverending shit show never ends with you Joe. Where’s Joe the Plumber when you need him?”
Crappier number 2 shits on, Challah. Thank you very much.
I’ll suck Michelle’s dick if my master pushes me in that direction.
I’ll pretend that his butt boy Trudeau ordered me to leak it.
Haunting hacks, Challah.
Thank you very much.
I don’t like Jets fans working for Startups. They yuck up the whole ecosystem. The 2 just clash like Mike Francesa doing a podcast, Jill Biden brushing her hair for a change or John Podesta becoming a photojournalist for Teenbeat in the eighties during the height of Menudo.
Biden begging for oil again.
You want Florida? No that’s not enough? Saudi Disney has a nice ring to it. No lines for Saudi royals, unless Hunter’s willing to share.
My daughter wasn’t scared from her 1st ride on the Dragoncoaster. After the ride, she says, “Daddy, the Dragoncoaster was sturdy, you rickety bitch.
I’m loving my monogamous relationship with sobriety. Straying from sobriety will only make me feel like a dirtier Jew than usual like going to the massage parlor on occasion, regardless of my conscious feeling squeaky clean soon afterwards, knowing how my grizzled Reflexology Therapist wasn’t yanked off the boat yesterday.
If I go to an AA meeting in the future, I’m going to introduce myself as a Scumbag Strayer Slayer, which sounds less defeatist depressing than, “Hi, my name is Michael Kornbluth and I’m a degenerate Jew alcoholic who has to use his fingers to figure out simple arithmetic. Daughter says, “Daddy, how many zeros are in a billion? Daddy, did you really have to ask Alexa for that? Doesn’t this disqualify me from getting Bat Mitzvahed? Are you financially illiterate daddy? I’m wondering if your Hebrew name, Money Bags Mordecai is under Judicial Review.”
Is Bob Seger guilty of pedo punctuated lyricism on his album Night Moves, when he sings, “Come see your papa if you need a pacifier? Then, he 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, you ungrateful bitch. Where’s your friend Jenny? 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 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.
Bob Seger only comes across as a harmless peeping tom loser in the song Main Street though. Who doesn’t even get his courage up to enter the strip club, let alone offer to tip the DJ a 20 spot if he plays 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. Should’ve been called Blue Balls on Main Street. Weird Al on a highway to hell lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Son climbs a tree 40 stories high. Random mom after camp says, “I’ve never seen anybody that high.” I say, “That’s what Hunter Biden’s dealer said. They don’t call him Sir Snort A Lot for nothing. On Hunter’s birthday when Jill said, “Blow”, he snorted the cake. Before he gave up blow for blow painting, no longer hearing last call from the bathroom stall. While his former biker buds from the Sons Of Anarchy yell, “Where’s Hunter? Who else is going to pay for this shit?”
Can I get a holla, for repurposing older than yiddish cocaine jokes about my brother in Hunter’s honor? Challah, sky high again. Thank you very much.
Stay At Home Comedian tops his personal best. #ComedyRecord110HeavenlyToppers
This is a text widget, which allows you to add text or HTML to your sidebar. You can use them to display text, links, images, HTML, or a combination of these. Edit them in the Widget section of the Customizer.