Stagelight Serenader

Jesus.

“What?”

Don’t sing to men.

“That’s awfully homophobic of you.”

Dude, if you want to blow Andy Cohen, blow Andy Cohen. I’ll cheer you on and wipe the slobber out of your butt-chin. Fist him. I don’t care. Fist him again, like you did last summer. Fisting time is here. Go nuts on his nuts, and I’ll say, “Good for you.” But don’t sing to another man.

“You are a deeply uptight man in a lot of weird ways.”

You’re just figuring this out?

“Go away. I’m celebrating my friend’s 50th birthday.”

Andy’s 50?

“Yup.”

And yet he looks younger than you.

…

“He doesn’t.”

Just in the face. And probably with his clothes off.

“You can’t bother me. I’m rich and famous and have rich, famous friends and millions of Instagram followers and clothes from all over the world.”

Under you chin is getting saggy.

“WHERE? MIRROR!”

…

“You need to leave me alone.”

We’re buddies.

“We’re not. I hang out with millionaires and designers and Dave Chapelle. I banged Bebe Rexha the other night.”

How do you pronounce that?

“Y’know what? I have no idea. Just called her ‘Tushycakes’ the entire night.”

Nice work. Who else you been sticking it in lately? You’re quiet in the gossip columns.

“Both Darlenes.”

What?

“From Roseanne. Both Darlenes.”

Wow. That’s impressive.

“At once.”

WOW.

“Right? It’s like getting Eiffel Towered by both Darrens from Bewitched.”

You’re living the dream, Meyers.

“Mayer.”

Stop singing to men.

“No.”

Steal Andy’s brown shoes and tell him it’s for his own good.

“Why would I do that?”

For his own good. Brown shoes are for guys who manage malls in Ohio.

“I’m just gonna stop talking to you.”

Sure.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I hate you.”

You have every reason.

…

“Johnny M. speaking.”

“Are you serenadin’ homos, Jew Boy?”

“Dammit.”

“Ah can see ev’rything with mah super-peepers. Ah’m like Hillbilly Heimdall.”

“I’m singing my friend a song.”

“Degeneracy reigns in California! Hot darn, you sissyboys out there set mah mustache to quiverin’.”

“I have several products that could take care of that.”

“Ah am a Christian, sir, and Ah take mah ablutions via scour.”

“Scour?”

“There’s a Little League field by mah house. Ah go out there at night and rub mahself against first base f’r a while.”

“Not recommended.”

“It’s in the Bible.”

“I don’t think the Bible mentions Little League.”

“How would you know ’bout the Holy Bible, Delicatessen Breath?”

“For the ninth or tenth time: I’m not Jewish.”

“Ah c’n smell the usury all over you, boy.”

“Wow.”

“Why aren’t you singin’ the National Anthem?”

“For a bunch of reasons.”

“One bein’ that you hate America. Another ungrateful millionaire who burns down VFW halls in his spare time.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You’re disinvited t’ the White House!”

“I wasn’t invited in the first place.”

“Well, you ain’t comin’ now, and black unemployment is down.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Andy Ah like his shoes.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“I want you to cease all contact with me.”

Get your lawyer, Delicatessen Breath.