Hey, Josh. Whatcha doing?

“Entertaining my millions of fans on Instagram.”

Millions?

“Yes. I have a lot of celebrities watching, and they each count for 50,000 RG’s.”

What’s an RG?

“Revenue Generator. It’s my cute name for my fans.”

That’s not so cute. Question?

“Is it about why a man in his mid-40’s can’t grow hair on his cheeks?”

Yes.

“Fuck off, man. It’s just genetics.”

Maybe. Or it could be punishment for your sins.

“It’s probably not.”

I said “could be.” I was judicious in my statement.

“It’s not.”

This really must affecting your dating life.

“I’m playing Whack-A-Mole six times a day.”

You didn’t need to call it that.

“I wanted to.”

Uh-huh.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Douche. Is this Kim Jong-Un again?”

Better. Or worse. Probably worse.

“Goddammit.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Whatchoo wearin’, sweetcheeks? Anythin’ under them slacks?”

“Oh, please don’t be who I think it is.”

“It’s your next husband, Joe Exotic.”

“It’s who I thought it was.”

“Me an’ you gonna watch some big-johnson pornographies and smoke on some meth together. We gonna have us an Oklahoma Party.”

“What the hell is an Oklahoma Party?”

“It’s when no one wants t’be there, and y’can’t identify the smell.”

“Pass.”

“You gonna! You my li’l Chicken Nugget now!”

“Don’t call me that. First of all: not gay. Second of all: if I were gay, you wouldn’t be by type. Third: coronavirus.”

“I cured that shit in a day or two.”

“You cured the coronavirus?”

“Uh-huh.”

“With?”

“Meth and tigers.”

“Pass.”

“Fine, Mr. Man! You wanna buy a lynx?”

“I do not wanna buy a lynx.”

“How about a marmoset with a bad attitude?”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Excuse me?”

Me?

“Yeah. I can’t believe I’m sayin this, but: I’d rather talk to Kim Jong-Un.”

Joe Exotic is now part of the universe.

“Goddammit.”