June 2018 – East Hollywood Blues

I have found the worst comic to have ever been glared at wide eyed and mouth agape on any East Hollywood stage and/or in the history of Western Civilization. And that says a lot when you factor in all of the furiously unfunny vulgarians they had to find to open for Andrew Dice Clay.

In this case of brain rot run amok, said 34 year old comic with nerd glasses and long, aesthetic curly brownish blonde hair pulled back into a Man Bun, declared the placement of Jackie O’s eyes in her skull made her look fish like and then wished he could have been fucked up the ass by John Wilkes Booth. But he didn’t say it quite that way. He wanted to be witty. I believe the phrase was “John Wilkes Booth could come up behind me anytime.”

This puts me in the mind of Rodney Dangerfield. I now understand why he snorted his foot powder.

#schmuck

The latest Hip Hop tune came blaring over the box so loudly Jack the Albino almost spilled my Tito’s Immaculate Conception.

”Jesus, not another one of these fucking songs,” he said.

”Bitch. Ho. Cunt. Bitch. Ho. Cunt,” I said eating one of the Green Pitted olives from the pick before dropping the other two back into the vodka.

”Wait. What was that I I heard about the Jews,” Jack said.

I tilted my head to listen. “Did he say Kill the Jews,” I asked.

”It sounds like it,” Jack said, laughing.

”So now it’s Bitch. Ho. Cunt. Kill the Jews,” I said.

“What did you say,” the skinny Hipster with a ginger beard and open plum patterned shirt revealing the edges of a Superman S tattoo asked threateningly.

”So now it’s Bitch. Ho. Cunt. Kill the Jews,”

“You can’t say that,” he said.

“Would your prefer if I said Kill those who commit deicide, B word. H word. C word,” I asked. Jack fell against the back bar laughing.

He unbuttoned his sleeve and revealed a forearm full of tattoos. He pointed to a Star of David neatly inked onto his arm in the middle of what looked to be a jungle scene and a grouping of Marijuana plants. I pulled out my reading glasses, held his arm up daintily from the tip of his middle finger. “So, you are a Jew with tattoos.”

“Yes,” he said proudly.

“Do you understand how wrong that is,” I asked.

“Every Jew I know has tattoos like this.”

“So you’re all in the Aryan Brotherhood then,” I asked.

His paisley summer dress wearing girlfriend, who bore a weirdly striking resemblance to Raggedy Ann if she had been brought up wearing patchouli in Bel Air, decided now was the time to step in and end this charade. “Baby let the Nazi be a hater. Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not a Nazi. I”m a Jew. Unless you think I’m a disciple of Jabotinsky,” I said.

“Do you know how many Poles killed Jews in Dachau in the 1960’s,” he screamed.

“You stop winding him up! You are an evil Jew hater! Baby let’s go,” she said. With that, they stumbled out into the East Hollywood night.

Jack slammed down two shot glasses. “Kill those who commit deicide, B word. H word. C word,” he asked.

“What can I say, I’m a PC Jew hater,” I replied.