I feel like I don’t know you any more.
“I have always behaved this way. You just weren’t paying attention to me before.”
Sure. Is that your special face-washing bandana?
“Yes.”
Who?
“Tom Ford.”
Gucci?
“No. Tom Ford made it for me with his hands.”
Wow.
“It’s cashmeerkat.”
Is it comfortable?
“No. Very hot. And you can’t get sweat on it.”
Probably why they’re usually made from cotton.
“Egyptian cotton?”
American motherfucking cotton, Josh.
“Don’t call me that.”
Don’t be so wrong about bandanas.
“Dude, you wanna come at me on bandanas? I got a bandana blog, bro.”
What would there possibly be to blog about? They’re scraps of fabric. Bandanas are the slushees of the garment world: you buy them at gas stations, and you should always go with red. You buy a new one along with a new pair of sunglasses at the beginning of a road trip. That is all there is to know about bandanas.
“Well, you don’t have a collector’s eye.”
…
Wait.
“What?”
This is a trick. You’re deliberately goading me into putting Kim Jong-Un on the line, or whatever I nonsense I think up. What’s up your sleeve?
“My tattoo sleeve? We’ve never really discussed it in depth. Everything means stuff.”
No. I was just using a metaphor.
“Is ‘up your sleeve’ a metaphor? More of a cliche.”
…
Stop it, Meyers. You’re making me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.
“Who’s on the phone? Is it the same joke, just slightly reworded?”
Stop it.
“Another procrastination?”
Don’t.
…
“Why haven’t you written a book?”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Ow! That hurt, man.”
That hurt? Aw. Pick up the phone.
“I don’t deserve this.”
You deserve worse, and should thank me for not providing it. I could shunt you into an alternate trimension where time is made out of knives. I don’t do that.
…
cell phone noise
“Your sarcasm is not endearing.”
Wasn’t meant to be. Pick up the phone.
“Ugh. You’re boring. Whatever, fine.”
…
“Yeah, hello?”
“John? This is Donald Trump and OJ Simpson. We’re here from 1993 and we’re downstairs in your house.”
“Hey, buddy! It’s the Juice!”
“We brought friends. I have the best friends, many of who are black.”
“It’s a party!”
“Hold, please.”
…
“This is not right.”
What?
“Tasteless.”
Which one?
“Both, either, whatever.”
SHWMIZZZZMSWHAWOOMP, THERE IT IS!
WHOOMP THERE IT IS!
“Is that my stereo?”
“Hey, Josh: where do you keep the cocaine?”
“I don’t have any cocaine, OJ Simpson who is in my fucking house!”
…
“This is not okay.”
You should go down there. You’re being a terrible host.
“Please get Donald Trump and OJ out of my home.”
But it’s funny.
“My home! Where my groupies play with my balls.”
RED PHONE NOISE
“Oh, what fresh hell is this?”
It’s the Red Phone.
“I don’t have a Red Phone. Only the President of the United States and the Premier of the Soviet Union had Red Phones, and they weren’t actually red. Or phones.”
Nevertheless.
“I think I would know if I had a Red Phone.”
RED PHONE NOISE
“Oh, there it is.”
Must be important.
…
“Comrade Khrushchev?”
“Please hold for the president.”
“Grumble grumble.”
Grumble grumble? What the fuck was that?
“Well, I wanted to sigh in exasperation. Convey that through dialogue, please.”
Don’t be a dick.
“Your chosen format has inherent flaws.”
You bring all of these things on yourself.
“What the hell are you two idiots talking about? America is threatened, John. And whoever you’re talking to. Who are you talking to?
“Nobody.”
Nobody.
“I don’t care, so I’ll take both of your words for it. I have become glorious, John. I now have a worthy foe, and shall be remembered as a War President.”
“What?”
“We’ve been invaded by the year 1993.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: yeah, I know. In fact, the main invasion force is in my kitchen.”
“Is OJ there?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him I say hi.”
“No.”
“This is great news, John.”
“It totally isn’t.”
“No, it is. I have your address already. Makes aiming the cruise missiles much easier.”
“Don’t do that, please. Lemme just get rid of them.”
“You can’t ask the past to leave politely, John. You’ve got to kill it. They’re here for ill purpose, John! OJ is here to blow up the World Trade Center unsuccessfully.”
“This whole post has left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“How many people are in your house, John?”
“Hold on.”
…
“Couple dozen.”
“Oh, they’ll burn good.”
“What?”
“Nothing, John. Oh. You most likely have the mantavirus now.”
“The hantavurus.”
“No, the mantavirus. It’s like the hantavirus, but graceful.”
“Katy–”
“Lord High Commander Katherine I, Scourge of the Past, and Defender of the Chronogates.”
“–don’t shoot cruise missiles at me.”
“I would never do that! But I am shooting cruise missiles at your house which you are in.”
“Let’s not argue semantics. Can you give me one hour before you incinerate the neighborhood?”
“Best I can do is sixty minutes.”
“I’ll take it. I’ll call you back.”
…
“Motherfucker.”
CELL PHONE DIALING NOISE.
…
“Well, well, well. Look who is.”
“Dammit.”
…
“Hey, Kim Jong-Un. Whatcha doing?”
“Nooooooothing. What you do?”
“I actually, uh, I kinda need…shit…I need a favor.”
…
“Iiiiiiiinteresting.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Whaaaaaat? What I do?”
“This is why we don’t hang out.”
“This is how you come for favor? With insult?”
“Sorry. You’re right, sorry.”
“Father invent insult.”
“Okay.”
“And favor.”
“Sure.”
“1993 has declared war on us and breached the timestream via my house. The invasion force is led by Donald Trump and OJ Simpson. I need you to repel the attackers, return reality to normal, kill or kidnap or whatever those two psychopaths in my living room, and also I need you to do it in the next hour or my entire block is going to explode because President Katy Perry has launched Tomahawk missiles at it.”
“Yeah, okay. I help.”
…
“Just like that?”
“You my bro.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I probably blow up house, too. On my way!”
“Wait! No blowing up anythi–”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE
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