Gal Talk

The year was bullshit and I don't care about how your specific year went. My own year wasn't even that bad, all things considered, and yet I can confidently assert that 2025 was dogshit. If you had a kid this year, if you blessed the world with a new vessel for our great collective consciousness, then I got some bad news for that little stinker: every year from now on will be 2025. Doesn't sound so forgivable now, does it? Sure, in a couple days we'll all be saying "2026", but deep down we'll know that it's really 2025 still. We're stuck here, destined to live out the same year over and over again. Remembering history as a series of false years that were building to the final 2025.

Imagine being one of the best living comedians of your generation that even young women in 2017 knew who you were and laughed at your comedy. And then you get a little too big for your britches and start blocking doors with your small penis at the exact time when people were using twitter as a tell-all confessional for traumatizing experiences. Bye-bye bitch. No more money for you, you fat red-headed mexican. Except wait, you're actually so goddamn good at standup that it only takes maybe two years before you're selling out Madison Square Garden again. Wow what a comeback. Maybe comedy still has a chance at not sucking absolute fucking ass... oh what's that? He accepted blood money to perform for slave owning princes in the shittiest example of a vaguely post-Wahhabist monarchist society with one of the most dogshit track records in modern history? Oh... well, was Bill Burr there?

Check your stockings, folks. There's a fresh pot of AI gumbo chili that I've ladled into each stocking because you've been a BAD little boy. Instead of coal or amazon gift cards everyone is getting an AI generated picture of my gaping butthole, and all of our grandparents will be confused and think it's real and then vote for Adolf Hitler in 2028.

Oh, I'm so sad. Are you sad? Did you miss us last week? Were you sitting around with your bullshit family, wishing you could just go home and listen to podcasts? Looking across the room at your stupid aunt, watching the way people somehow never stop talking but also never once say a single goddamn thing. You take a big helping of stuffing and mac&cheese that tastes like America: land of the brave, home of the fat r-word. Christmas is coming and it increasingly doesn't matter. All your gifts are on credit cards. Here we go...

How old are you? Now be honest with yourself, don't fudge the number to make yourself feel good. Are you... halfway through life? Be honest. If you're 25... do you really think 50 is in the cards for you? Look down at yourself. Is there pizza currently sitting in a box outside of the fridge? Is your silverware drawer filled with Taco Bell hot sauce packets? 50? Are you sure? The same person, same habits, same general disposition in life, and that guy doubles his current age? Come on. Don't be an asshole. If you had an album in you it would've been made by now. Maybe start with your taste, start with your preferences, and grow an understanding of life beyond yourself, beyond all the current bullshit distractions. Get really into birding. Stop tweeting about whether or not you liked a movie. Your life, your's specifically, is very short. Don't waste it.

We even said at the top of the show, hey, let's not spend too much time on this. There isn't much to rehash that hasn't already been heavily outlined in every podcast since 2015. But if the president insists on being a big fat pedophile, then we have no choice but to do our due diligence and discuss, once more, the implications of a world run by elite pedophilia that for some goddamn reason never gets seriously reported on in mainstream media. You know how shitty your world has become when the chicken finger fat fucks over at Qanon are sometimes actually right about the way things work? No one takes pride in admitting that the stinky bean bag people have a legitimate point, least of all me: a man who has had sex MORE THAN ONCE (i swear)

Whales are better than humans. Full stop, no further explanation, I don't want to hear arguments against it. Think of a moment in your life when you did something genuinely kind for someone else, okay? Ready? On that day there was a sperm whale that was 100times better than your shitty little moment. What did you do, anway? Make your mom a disgusting pancake breakfast before punching your sister in the face on Mother's Day, when your mom is so tired and depressed that all she wants is to take a nap and not hear violence in the house. By the way, she never forgave you. Your childhood continues to haunt her, you fucking non-whale piece of shit

Pessimism rules, and also fuck you. If you wanted to listen to something upbeat and fun you can click your way over to Hank and John's lame shitty podcast about like... I bet 90% of the show is them talking about bugs and bacteria, which hey, look, I don't mind that, but grow some adulthood charisma. I mean Jesus Christ with these old men making youtube vidoes where they talk like they're 16 and explain how cancer cells grow or how actually Mary Oliver is the best poet ever. Get some hatred in your balls for once and get mad about things that matter.

Sometimes the mind is a beautiful thing, and allows you to think like, what if I was the exact same person in every single way BUT I was a chinese. Isn't that fun? Same old guy, walking around, going to work, meal prepping my fucking tilapia bullshut, but then I look in the mirror and I'm a perfect chinese version of who I was when I was Mr. Whiteguy. Hey, how about instead of saying "no more Mr. Nice Guy" you say "no more Mr. White Guy"? Same context for why you'd say it, but you've been pushed too far by someone that it causes you to replace your skin tone. Is that good? Do you like that? Maybe it's time to go to therapy.

Also ICE? More like fucking... Not Nice, huh? I'm coming for you Mark Normand, you lazy hack. Two can play the boring dumb guy with no internal monologue. All I gotta do is get a fake degree from a college that only exists on Facebook, make up a bunch of shit about aliens and trans people, and then snivel my way onto Rogan's show. After that you can't touch me. Watch my meteoric rise in the worst comedy scene that's ever existed. I can't wait to sell my soul to the next stinky fat president I convince hundreds of drooling orangutans to vote for. That's when I know I'll have made it.