You were the short comic at the recent open mic whose strongest thematic material seemed to be embarrassing my two lady friends, what with your questions about their bathroom products and dissin' da Son o' God. Let's start with your outspoken sexual desire for ol' Son o' God and his holy parts. You are supposed to take out your resentments with a priest or therapist, not a comedy audience. Maybe you can prove your manhood and riff on the young brides of a certain prophet at a Tuesday-night open mic at the Hotel Islamabad. Young American women and absentee messiahs are too soft a target. Now, on to your quaint interest in my companion's choice of hygiene apparatus (at least we know what your "bag" is). Let me play your psychic sidekick: You were fired from a real job, but, lo, your misogynistic demons still drag you around by your short hairs, most embarrassingly in public. "Don't look at me like that," you barked at my younger friend as she stared at you in the most puzzled manner possible. "It's my stage," you blustered. Be careful what you ask for. Andy Kaufman in his shooting-star career also performed for his own pleasure first. He wound up failing, then fading from this realm; the disconnect here is that he was a troubled genius—you're merely troubled.
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