Tag: Comedy

Tammy Loves Trump (But Not as Much as She Loves Walmart)

Tammy Loves Trump (But Not as Much as She Loves Walmart)

A comedy satire by Epicdelusion.

Tammy, the 800 lb trailer park princess, loves Trump. I mean, she really loves Trump.  “He’s the greatest dang president we ever done had!” she remorselessly declared. “He gonna build that wall. He gonna get all them MS 13 gang bangers and them terrorists outta here. You’ll see. He much better than that damn Obama. He watn’t even ‘merican.”

Tammy also loves Walmart. “I do love Walmart though, they roll back them prices, make ya feel good, and they just great. We’s been going there for years and years. Hell, that’s where my husband proposed to me, God love him.”

When Tammy heard that someone was selling ‘Impeach Trump’ T-shirts on Walmart’s online marketplace, she was torn.

“I didn’t know what to do really” she said as she started sobbing a bit. “I felt like it was two dang family members fighting or sumpin’.”

“All my friends they in an uproar” she told us. “they’s talkin’ about boycotting the whole dang store. Now how you gonna boycott a whole dang store?”

With tremendous reluctance Tammy decided that she wasn’t going to be swept up in all of the anti-Walmart hype. The fond memories she had of Walmart could not so easily be superseded by one T-Shirt. “I mean, the T-Shirt is treasonous; saying anything bad about our President is treason, ya know? So I’m hoping they gon’ take it down.”

Tammy felt a bit self-conscious as she got into her scooter cart and began perusing the aisles at the local Walmart. “I felt like, ya know, one of my friends might’ve seen me up in there and been madder than hell at me.” She confessed.  “But I don’t know where else to go. I sure as hell aint goin’ to Target. I done boycotted them years ago.”


There’s No Such Thing as a Free Handjob

There’s No Such thing as a Free Handjob.

A comedy satire by Epicdelusion.

Sven, Tyler and Buddy are roommates living off campus while attending a small, prestigious liberal arts college.

Buddy is an economics major with a 4.3 GPA, and a bit of a provocateur. Attempting to showcase the inevitable failures of socialism in contrast to free market capitalism, he decided he would use handjobs as an analogy in his dissertation.

Six whiskey shots and a few bong rips into the night, Buddy loudly proclaimed to his roommates (who were partaking in the intoxicating festivities as well)

“There’s no such thing as a free handjob!”

Sven chuckled, taking careful precaution not to choke on his bong rip, and replied “I guess you’ve never met Tyler’s mom”.

Tyler laughed and fired back: “or Sven’s little sister.”

“Seriously, you dumb asses.” Buddy said as he fought to bring about a level of momentary seriousness, “listen to this.”

“The average first date costs roughly $80 according to Cosmopolitan magazine.”

Sven interrupted. “Dude, why are you reading Cosmo-fucking-politan?”

“Shut the fuck up Sven.” Buddy continued…

“Not to perpetuate misogynistic gender roles here, but the man usually pays this $80. He does so in order to increase his minuscule chances at performing the reproductive act. We typically refer to this act as sexual intercourse. ”

Buddy’s words were slightly slurred and he had a tendency to over articulate during what he called ‘the golden level of intoxication.’ His roommates found his verbose ramblings to be a mild source of entertainment and allowed him to continue uninterrupted.

“Understanding that the possibility of coitus for him is highly unlikely, he’ll begin to negotiate with himself and settle for a ‘first date handjob’.  At this point his odds are at 13%.”

“In an effort to increase his odds he attempts to demonstrate clout by tipping the waitress 42.3% of the tab. Unfortunately for him, his date was distracted by a barrage of incoming texts from her concerned girlfriends, and was oblivious to his flashy generosity. He winds up jacking off into a sock after she declines his invitation to come over to watch a movie.”

“Graciously, she agrees to go on another date with him. He finally gets the handjob he was seeking. The total monetary cost to him was $266.  2 dinners, 2 movies, drinks, tips, gasoline for his car, and a half-dozen of roses. A lot of people profited off of his desire to get a limp-wristed handjob. ”

“In the Bronx you can get a decent handjob and a shot of Courvosier, which is included for some reason, for $75. This shows us a few different things. Mainly, that while it’s more economically stimulating to earn a handjob from your date, it’s cheaper to buy one from a prostitute. More importantly, however, it shows us that there’s no such thing as a free handjob. Somebody, somehow, always pays.”

Tyler, at this point, is laughing his ass off and finally gets himself together enough to ask Buddy a question.

“Can’t you just give yourself a handjob? Or maybe be like commies and just get in a big circle jerk?” Tyler asks.

Sven looks at Tyler and sarcastically shrugs and then looks back over at Buddy, awaiting his reply.

Buddy pauses and looks back and forth at both of them and in a frustrated eruption declares :

“You can’t give yourself a fucking handjob!”

My Butler is a Condescending Prick


A Comedy Satire by Epicdelusion

Sup, name’s Chet. I left my iphone in my Lambo the other day and didn’t feel like walking outside to get it, so I went into my dad’s den to use his computer.

By the way, that’s the V12 Lamborghini Veneno… you remember that neon yellow blur that zipped past you on the interstate while you were putting along in your Honda Civic? Yeah, that was me.

Anyway, I just needed to get on Facebook messenger real quick to let my buddy know it was cool to swing by. Beer thirty, ya know?

So I got on the computer, and my Dad’s Facebook was still up.

I couldn’t help but notice that he made a comment on our Butler’s post… yeah, you heard me correctly, the Butler’s post.  I was instantly aghast and thought ‘what the fuck is my dad doing?’

The post was actually something he shared from 7 years ago; a picture of his degree from The International Butler Academy. Yeah, I didn’t know there was a Butler Academy either. I thought this guy was just a homeless dude my dad found at the bus stop and felt sorry for.

My dad wrote: “It’s been a pleasure having you Jeffery, we are truly blessed!”

Seriously Dad? Like, what the fuck? “Blessed?”

I walked out of the room and saw Jeffery talking to one of the maids. I’m not sure why, but his face just filled me with utter disgust. Just knowing that he was proud of his “accomplishment” was enough to make me feel sickened by his presence. How dare he summon the audacity to think he could ever be friends with my family?

So, naturally, I had to fuck with him.

“Say there Jeffery, I’m wondering if you could help me with something?” I humbly implored.

Conjuring a phony smile on his face, he walked over and asked how he could be of assistance.

“Well, Jeffery” I said forthrightly, “I’m a 23-year-old college drop out with no fancy degree… what can I do to stop being such a pathetic loser?”

Fidgeting with his cuff he appeared to become very nervous and cumbersome; a noticeable difference from the snobbish demeanor he proudly showcased moments before.

“Well Sir, if you want to get your degree I would, perhaps, consider talking to your father about going back to school?” he politely suggested.

Wrong fucking answer Jeffery, I thought to myself, wrong fucking answer.

You see, you condescending prick, you just agreed that I am a pathetic loser. This is fucked up because you have no idea how hard it is being me and living my life. You don’t know shit Jeffery.

“Thanks” I said to him as I dropped my keys into his hand. “Why don’t you go get my phone out of my car for me?”

I told my Father that it would be in the best interest of the estate to fire Jeffery, but my dad is a spineless coward. “Let’s give him another chance” he practically begged me to let him stay.

What an imbecile he was to fraternize with the butler. A butler who is a condescending prick who needs to look into a mirror and check himself before he wrecks himself.

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Order now and you’ll receive a complimentary copy of our number one best-selling cookbook: ‘How to freakin’ make dinner without burning it’.

Disclaimer: This is intended to be satire, do not actually lock your wife in a cage you sick bastard. 😉

Why I Wouldn’t Marry Meghan Trainor

Meghan Trainor is a pop sensation with a number of hit songs. One of her hit songs entitled ‘Dear Future Husband‘ describes a list of prerequisites for being her future husband.

To be fair, Meghan Trainor doesn’t have a bad voice and as far as pop music goes, she’s actually not the worst out there. The lyrics in her ‘Future Husband’ song, however, are all I needed to hear to know that I would never propose marriage to her.

Let’s break it down.  Here’s verse 1:

“Take me on a date
I deserve it, babe
And don’t forget the flowers every anniversary
‘Cause if you’ll treat me right
I’ll be the perfect wife
Buying groceries
Buy-buying what you need”

I think I could remember some flowers and to take her on a date once in a great while in exchange for her buying groceries and being a perfect wife. At this point, it doesn’t seem like it would be too horrible to be married to her. Let’s continue:

“You got that 9 to 5
But, baby, so do I
So don’t be thinking I’ll be home and baking apple pies
I never learned to cook
But I can write a hook”

Alright, you’re losing me here Meghan. I’m a man that understands the importance and absolute necessity of fresh baked goods in order to keep a happy relationship going. I understand it’s the modern age and women aren’t wearing high heels and cooking all day (what a shame) but come on, would it kill you to bake an apple pie once in a while?

“You gotta know how to treat me like a lady
Even when I’m acting crazy
Tell me everything’s alright”

Wait, what? I’m thinking if she put this line in the song, then perhaps her acting crazy is something that happens rather frequently. Of course, that’s pretty much all women. (sorry gals, you know it’s true.)  I suppose the best way to handle a crazy person is to treat them with extra special care and attention then lie to them and tell them that everything is okay until the syringe full of thorazine is ready.

“Dear future husband,
Here’s a few things you’ll need to know if you wanna be
My one and only all my life
Dear future husband,
If you wanna get that special lovin’
Tell me I’m beautiful each and every night”

So all it takes to get “special lovin'” from Meghan Trainor is to tell her she’s beautiful every night? I wonder if such an agreement can be arranged for one night? Because that’s about the most time that I would want to spend with her.

“After every fight
Just apologize
And maybe then I’ll let you try and rock my body right (right)
Even if I was wrong
[Laugh] You know I’m never wrong
Why disagree?
Why, why disagree?”

I’m sure the first piece of advice that a marriage counselor would offer to a struggling couple would be for the husband to just admit he was wrong and apologize, no matter what. Never mind healthy, adult discussion and actually working on issues and compromising. Just put that tail between your legs boy and sit your ass in the corner with some sad “I’m sorry” puppy dog eyes and wait until she’s ready to scratch behind your ears.

“I’ll be sleeping on the left side of the bed (hey)
Open doors for me and you might get some kisses
Don’t have a dirty mind
Just be a classy guy
Buy me a ring
Buy-buy me a ring (babe)”

Ok, be classy, open up doors for you, buy you a ring… this all sounds pretty manageable, except you’re forgetting one thing; that contradicts your feministic stance of not cooking pies and working 9 to 5.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, right? I guess you can if you’re Meghan Trainor.

I’m sure there are plenty of ball-less men out there who wouldn’t mind being Meghan Trainor’s lap dog. As a man who has a pair of testicles, however, as well as some god damn dignity for myself, I don’t see myself ever kneeling down in front of her.

Below I’ve posted the song. It’s okay to go ahead and click play and watch the video and give it a listen… and if you like the song, don’t worry, we wont tell anyone. 😉


Everyone Hates Your Baby Posts

Now just wait a damn minute! Did this guy just say that everyone hates the photos that I post up of my precious little baby? Yes, that is correct. Everyone hates the photos that you post of your baby.

They didn’t hate it the first time that you posted up the pictures of your new bundle of joy. In fact, I would assume that if these people you’re sharing your life with online are actually your friends, then they probably liked the first few photos you posted.

The initial photos you posted, welcoming your child into the world, was likely met with resplendence, joy and happiness. As well as it should. Children are our future. You should be proud. There’s nothing wrong with posting pictures like that…

Until about the 50th post that looks only slightly different than all the other photos you posted of your baby.

Each one of the photos you post may be unique and especially magnificent to you, but it’s the same picture to everyone else.

We get it. You have a baby. That’s fantastic. Seriously, we wish you and your child and your family all the best. The plain and somewhat heart-breaking truth you must accept, however, is that nobody wants to see that many pictures of your kid.

And I know there’s going to be some people that will say “oh no, no, I LOVE to see my friend’s pictures of her baby. She can post however many she wants and I l will love every single one of them and you should shut the hell up!”

You’re only lying to yourself. It’s just as annoying to you as it is to everyone else but you don’t have the courage or honesty to admit it.

You know damn well that the last time you clicked ‘like’ on one of your friend’s baby pictures that she posts every day that you were thinking in the back of your mind ‘okay, this is the last time I like one of her god damn baby posts’.

There, now doesn’t it feel better to tell the truth? Doesn’t it feel good to just admit that you, like everyone else, hate the relentless baby photos that you see on Facebook? Of course it does. 😉

Alex Jones Turned my Freaking Frog Gay

Stew was an ordinary pet frog; he enjoyed getting high, looking at dirty magazines and watching 90’s comedy movies.

One day, however, when I came home from working at the gas station, I noticed something rather unusual. My computer was on… and someone had left an Infowars page up.

Brushing weird shit off was a specialty of mine, and this occasion would be no different. I closed the computer down, shrugged, drank a beer and went to sleep.

A few days later I stopped at the pet store and grabbed some crickets and grasshoppers for Stew. I felt like our friendship was starting to wane a bit so I wanted to get him something nice, just to show him that I care, ya know?

I couldn’t help noticing that there was an AK 47 laying on the coffee table when I walked through the door.

“Stew” I asked nervously, “is this yours?”

“Nah man, not mine” Stew replied nonchalantly as he returned his attention to a worn out scroll he was reading.

“What’re you reading?” I inquired cautiously.

Stew became quickly agitated, slammed down the paper and before storming off exclaimed “It’s called the fucking Constitution, maybe you should read it sometime asshole!”

I was immediately heartbroken. I laid the crickets and grasshoppers next to his terrarium and sat on the floor.

My weak sobbing was interrupted when I noticed a soft glow from the other room. My computer was on again.  It was that damn Infowars and that bad influence Alex Jones who was undoubtedly corrupting my best friend! (who happens to be a frog but I’m okay with that.)

Stew and I eventually made up, and he informed me that the rifle was to protect us both from an invasion of lizard people who were already secretly controlling every aspect of our lives and would ultimately seek to destroy us.

The following day when I came home Stew had some company; another male frog. They were snuggling and watching ‘Zeitgeist: the Movie’ on Netflix.

“Stew, what the hell man?” I thoughtlessly blurted out.

Stew was utterly disgusted by the shock in my voice and declared that I was a homophobic monster.

“I’m cool with it, Stew” I reassured him. “I was just taken by surprise because you’re always looking at dirty magazines with female frogs.”

“First of all” Stew informed me, “you know nothing of the sexuality of frogs nor the chemtrails that are being emitted into the ionosphere via aircraft by communists in an effort to brainwash you into thinking you’re something that you are not.”

“This is all from that Alex Jones guy, isn’t it?” I said with obvious concern.

“Alex Jones is my hero” Stew confessed. “His undeniable truth speaking was an epiphany to me. He showed me who I really am. He showed me that all we have been taught is a lie to keep us oppressed by the invisible government.”

I raised my eyebrow and spoke softly… “but Alex Jones is a nut case.”

Stew’s eyes widened, viciously offended he grabbed his AK 47 and pointed it at me.

“I think it’s time for you to leave you Illuminati whore.”

Those were the last words Stew ever spoke to me.

Sometimes, late at night, as I lay curled up on the sofa at my mother’s house, I wonder how in the hell I allowed my gay pet frog to kick me out of my apartment. Life is hard, but I’m learning.

Disclaimer: This is satirical comedy and not based on actual events.

The Resurrection of Comedy

Is comedy dead?

Theatrical comedy was recognized by the Athenian state in 486 BC, thus canonizing its official birth. (Although I’m sure prehistoric humanoids had a sense of humor as well.)

Who would have thought that comedy would have survived and flourished for two and a half millennia and then, without much of a fight, abruptly be sent to the altar of sacrifice in the 21st Century?

Comedy endured the ‘Librorum Prohibitorum’, The Crusades, The Catholic Inquisitions, and the age of superstition, but according to Mel Brooks and Jerry Seinfeld, was successfully rendered obsolete by a humorless minority of campus ‘finger-waggers’.

Ah yes, “political correctness“. Isn’t that what killed comedy?

The term is subsequently thrown around; often and without critical analysis to what is actually being entailed and who is authorizing it.

According to judicial analysis of rulings administered by the Supreme Court, the limitations of the First Amendment to the Constitution have only become more liberalized in the 21st Century; that is, it has only expanded what is deemed acceptable free expression.

This isn’t to say there haven’t been infractions of people’s rights by law enforcement and local government, as we have seen with cases like Lenny Bruce, who was arrested and convicted after an 8-month long trial for ‘public obscenity’. Only that the constitution has stated that these rights are not to be infringed; the Lenny Bruce conviction was overturned by the Illinois Supreme court in 1964.

Modern political correctness hasn’t yet interfered with constitutionally protected rights, so how was it successful in claiming such a boisterous ‘victory’ as the death of comedy?

The uncomfortable truth is that political correctness in itself is not responsible for the death of comedy, but rather fear and guilt is.

Social ostracizing, political backlash, the not-so-glamorous internet fame of trending gossip–that is truly how comedy succumbed to a quick but painful death.

It was our collective electronic hyper-connectivity and the emergence of a new ability for the voiceless to be heard via social media that has generated panic in the artistic community.

In the hey day of Rodney Dangerfield the only thing to fear was a bad review from a lower-budget media outlet or a smug film critic. Technology simply had not reached the point to garner a mass feedback flow.  Now, there’s millions of people weighing in across the world when an artist has become the center of controversy.

So that leaves us, if we’re honest in our observations, one conclusion that would spell the resurrection of comedy; to eliminate the fear and guilt associated with negative criticism.

Comedy is boundless and knows no limitations, but in order to keep the fire roaring it cannot be suffocated willingly by those who keep the flames alight.

A resurrection of comedy draws nigh. The pool no longer acknowledges the timid foot testing its water. It’s time to jump in.

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