>>936782167
Lemme tell you somethin’, cocksucka—last Friday, I’m doin' a late spot at The Laugh Lounge, 11:45 p.m., place is packed, right? Good crowd. Good vibe. Then this... this thing rolls in. Not a man. Not a woman. Just... J-Tard.
I’m talkin’ pale, leaky, sittin’ in a chair that smelled like an old mop bucket in a bus terminal. Brother... he had a fuckin’ racecar steerin' wheel in his lap. No car. Just the wheel. Lookin’ around like he’s in Monaco or some shit.
He’s wearin’ a Ric Flair wig that looked like it got chewed up by a ferret and spit out at a pawn shop. And he’s spinnin' in circles in the back of the room goin’ ‘NEEEEOWWWWMMMM’ like a five-year-old who drank NyQuil and gasoline.
I’m tryna do a bit about bein' in prison, and this mutant’s yellin' ‘REAL MEN WATCH FORMULA ONE!’ at full volume like he’s callin' a fuckin' horse race.
THEN—AND I SWEAR ON UNCLE JUNIOR’S GHOST—he whips out a butt plug mid-show, and this thing's covered in shit. He starts braggin’ about his ‘Herman Miller lumbar support’ while his infected dick's leakin’ onto the carpet like a busted bag of soup. Club owner comes out with a mop and a look in his eye like he just saw God fart.
You don’t understand. The smell hit me like a Vietnam flashback. I had to stop my set. I said ‘Get him outta here before he fuses to the fuckin’ floor.’ Security didn’t even touch him. They just put a trail of season one Drake and Josh DVDs out the front door like bait.
He left spinnin'. Like a haunted desk chair on rollerblades. Screaming somethin' about how men with chins are ‘part of the Deep State.’ I said, ‘Bro, your mother should’ve swallowed you and saved us all a dry cleaning bill.
