Tell Your Dumb Wife To Shut Up

I know at least one or two of you out there have been wondering why I’ve posted so infrequently this year, and why I went completely AWOL from social media. Since the truth is bound to trickle out very soon, I thought I’d break the news here, where it can be shared with the most readers. Guess what friends:

💑 💒 💕 💘 ❣ I GOT MARRIED!!! 💑 💒 💕 💘 ❣

For a while now, I’ve been secretly canoodling with a lovely lady who teaches at Emory here in Atlanta. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise until everything was nice and legal, so I waited until after we officially tied the knot in a private ceremony at her parents’ estate on Easter Sunday. My new bride requested that, to avoid any potential problems, I invite only my immediate family as guests, and that I refrain from drawing any cartoons about the wedding. I haven’t drawn anything for months now, and I have no friends anyway, so none of this was a problem. Anything to please the new Mrs. Anderson!

[Actually, she’s keeping her last name, so that she won’t have to order new business cards. A small price to pay for wedded bliss!]

Now, while I introduce the world to my freshly-minted significant other, I need to warn you about a few things. Let’s get this out of the way first: her name is Karen. I know, I know, the jokes write themselves, but she’s very sensitive about the negative colloquial usage of her Christian name, so I have to kinda draw a line in the sand here. (Hey, what do you know- I’m drawing again!)

I’m not gonna tolerate any humor at my new wife’s expense. If I find out someone is goofing on her, I’ll have to come down very hard on that person. No kidding; I’ll post the names, addresses, and phone numbers of anyone who makes sport of my wife right here, on this site. If I have to enact proper “social justice”, I will not hesitate to do so. No one is allowed to poke fun at my lady love, unless they enjoy having their door kicked in by armed SWAT cops. Understand?

Now for some not-so-good news; as the saying goes, opposites attract, and it won’t surprise you that Karen and I do not share the same tastes and politics (to put it mildly). When we met, she was blissfully unaware of any of my previous work, as are most American females, and once I exposed her to it, she had a bit of a “breakdown” thinking I was some kind of monstrous vulgarian seeking to corrupt minors. Lo and behold; we had our first “breakup”! Only after I made some promises to change my ways did she agree to take me back. Whatever it takes to keep this blessed union strong.

You see, Karen’s parents are devout Biden supporters, and although this confounds me, it clearly has worked out well for them as they are among the wealthiest property owners within the perimeter. I won’t tell you where they live, but I will tell you that it’s a huge mansion high on a hill, and the entire front yard is decorated with colorful signs reading HATE HAS NO HOME HERE, REGULATE GUNS NOT WOMEN, and REFUGEES WELCOME (so far no takers on that last one, the huge gate gets in the way). Even though it’s long since “election season”, there are still many bright blue signs urging passersby to vote for Stacey Abrams and Raphael Warnock. I’ve lived in Atlanta long enough to know that it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie with the “Vote Blue No Matter Who!” crowd, and besides, I wouldn’t dare queer the deal with my betrothed. I’m too old to continue grasping at the intransigent ideals of my misspent youth, and I prefer not to die alone if I can avoid it.

Since Karen’s folks have always made generous donations to Democratic causes and organizations, they’re currently enjoying a month-long vacation around the world, visiting places I’ve never seen like China and Ukraine. Karen and I are using this as an opportunity to move myself and my business into her spacious Grant Park duplex. Because I will be living under her roof, I have to follow her rules. To start with, I gave away my hamster and all its paraphernalia to a neighbor at my old apartment in Clarkston, because my new wife does not tolerate rodents. I think, again, we can all agree; this is a small price to pay, and it would have died in like a year or so anyhow. Whereas a marriage lasts a lifetime!

The real hard part, and one my fan will assuredly rankle over, is that I promised my dear Karen I would do a “bigotry cleansing” of this site in the weeks following the wedding (if I’d done it already, the surprise would be ruined, and I’d receive fewer “ESG” credits if I did it without everyone watching). Even though Karen and her folks are Caucasian like myself, they’ve seen countless incidents where POC’s had to pay for things that they should’ve been given for free, like rent and utility bills. As such, Karen and I will be thoroughly scouring this website of anything that can potentially offend any living thing. I’ll go ahead and tell you that something like 140 Bands I Useta Like comic strips will probably get the chop. I’m also (as per the pre-nup I signed) not permitted to say anything positive about Donald Trump, unless it’s labeled “misinformation” and hidden behind a “trigger warning”. Aside from white heterosexual males, criticism of any person, race, or sexual orientation is strictly verboten. (I’m pushing my luck by using a word in German, it being the native language of the you-know-whatzis.)

But here’s the fun part. Karen and I will be performing this “cleansing” in the form of a hilarious livestream! Her mother owns a “green” vegan coffee house on the Emory campus, and every Friday starting May 5th, we’ll be there performing live edits on my website and comic strips. Before anyone gets any bright ideas about trolling in-person or causing trouble, rest assured the festivities will be overseen by my new father-in-law’s ex-cop bodyguard, who will stand ready to bodily eject anyone Karen doesn’t like. “Crush” is also instructed to remove me from the premises if I speak out of turn, or remove my N95 mask for any reason. The famous “dancing nurses” from Tik Tok will be there as well to provide the latest vaccinations and boosters, so that everyone in attendance can stay safe and WEF-compliant!

If you’re wondering whether our upcoming livestream will differ from my previous solo efforts, you’ll be pleased to know the answer is a resounding yes! These shows will be much better, as you’ll be hearing more of Karen’s voice than my own dull jabbering, and I won’t bore you with any art lessons, jokes or drawing. Although Karen is a tenured professor, she tends to speak informally with a lot of “up-talking” and “vocal fry”, so if those things tend to bother you, feel free to die mad about it. If you can’t accept the random woman I chose to marry barging into my life’s work and career, then you’re a dumb piece of shit and you never understood me anyway. Karen is now my entire world and if you can’t be a part of that world, then fuck off.

Come on folks. I’m joking. This is a joke. Karen does not exist, nor is she even remotely based on anyone I know or have ever known. I used the name “Karen” because I knew my friends would instantly smell bullshit. (Yes, I actually have a couple friends. Really!)

I’m kidding. I WAS KIDDING! Jesus Christ; the part where I abandoned my beloved hamster Gomez was a dead giveaway! Can you imagine? I almost shed a tear calling him an “it”! Thank God he can’t read or browse the internet as far as I’m aware! I was literally petting him while writing this, when he wasn’t sitting on my shoulder! Anyone with even a passing knowledge of my output would know that I’d sooner stab myself in the balls than even upset a hamster!!!

I’ve been alone for going on fifteen years. I hate Democrats so violently I can’t even speak to them. I was married- from 1992 to 1995. You’d read about me undergoing a sex change before you ever heard about me ditching my beliefs to appease some woman, her family, or anybody. My attitude towards anyone I offend is the famous cop-out DIE MAD ABOUT IT. Holy shit; I live to offend. If I could get away with it, I’d offend people to death.

If you enjoy my work, you need never worry about me doing a 180 or becoming a different person. I respect our connection too much for that. Pulling this joke eleven days after April Fool’s was a real strain, because I knew how it would disappoint some people on first sight. I knew how some people would feel betrayed.

That’s how I feel, when it isn’t a joke. And in the entertainment world, it never is.

The lack of new material coming from yours truly is due to a number of factors, but the primary cause is that I resorted to a construction job earlier this year out of desperation for rent money. Working this job briefly cost me the use of my arms not long ago, and yet I had to keep going, because under Faggot-In-Chief Biden, I literally cannot make enough money to live. Neither can my friend and roommate, whom I have had to watch slowly kill himself doing said job. Yesterday I had my third psychotic break at work, and today, sensing the onset of a brain aneurysm, I walked off and quit.

I couldn’t even manage six weeks of a job that’s been killing my friend for years. Eight-hour days, moving heavy equipment and materials, dealing with workers who can’t be bothered to learn English or even common courtesy and respect. Hours in brutal Atlanta traffic, penned in by eighteen-wheelers belching black smoke while tiny women in electric cars drink too much coffee and cause ten-car pile-ups by zipping in and out of lanes bordered by solid white lines. Thankless, shit-eating, endless labor, all for currency that’s a week or so away from worthless.

The kind of torture that leaves you dying just for the brief release of a single decent laugh.

And after all that, when you turn to the source of humor that you’ve relied on for that precious sweet release, you’re instead subjected to a nasal-voiced guilt trip from some bitch who happened to marry a comedian that you’d never realized was an absolutely shameful pussy.

Yeah. I’m talking about Bill Burr.

I used to think he was smart. I used to think he was one of the funniest living comedians, with a raw, unmistakably working-class edge that’s all too absent in today’s humor.

Well, he was. Then he got married.

Morons will tell you that my negative opinion of Mrs. Burr (of course she didn’t take his name, but I forgave this due to the unfortunate way “Nia Burr” sounds when spoken) stems from the fact that she’s black. My problem is that she’s not a comedian. Truthfully, she shouldn’t be a part of Burr’s podcast or public life at all. Why?

Because whether intentionally or not, Burr made his wife the scapegoat for any perceived decrease in his funniness by his fans and the public. That’s why.

If you love a woman, you don’t subject her to that treatment. Case closed. You don’t grab someone who hasn’t paid the dues that you’ve paid and make her part of the act, unless you want to destroy her mentally. It’s cruel. It’s sadistic.

The only time a woman is ever truly adept at comedy is by accident. I love women, despite what you might think, and I’m telling you the truth; they aren’t funny. The funnier they tell you they are, the more the opposite is true. Women are adept at caring and nurturing other human beings and living things. You can count the women who are truly adept at comedy or politics on one hand. It has nothing to do with “oppression”, “patriarchy”, or “sexism”. It’s because by nature, women are nurturers. Comedy and politics are mean, hurtful and cruel by nature. That is why by and large, women stink at both.

When you’re born with a vagina, it’s like a guarantee that you will always be sought after, and never have to seek. Because a vagina cannot be allowed to become unhygienic without fatal repercussions, women are taught at a young age to be clean and to eschew unsafe environments. If they aren’t, they become drug addicts and disease spreaders. God damn, I can’t believe that the world has become so bug-fucking stupid that I have to spell all of this out.

And here’s the kicker- when you’re born with a vagina, it is considered socially abhorrent simply to be rude to you.

When you’re born with a penis, not only can you spend your entire existence alone and unloved, but you are absolutely guaranteed to be violently assaulted. It’s not a question or “if”; it’s when. You will be beaten. By other boys, girls, men, women, even your own parents. I myself have almost been beaten to death. Ten years ago I whupped another man with a bat, and even though I went to jail for over a month, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. By nature, women will never understand this. If they could, they wouldn’t be women.

Becoming a man gives you a choice; you can either fight, possibly resulting in your own premature death or someone else’s, or you can develop an alternative to fighting. The number one alternative is humor. No woman has to try and crack a joke to keep from getting their head split open. Again- it’s shameful and illegal to even speak angrily to a woman.

Did you grow up with brothers and sisters? Was there a different way physical fights were handled with either? Unless you had a fucked-up family, of course there was. Go ahead; punch your sister like you would your brother. Drop me a line from your new foster home afterward, you creep.

Women aren’t funny because under no circumstances are they conditioned to be funny. They pretend to be funny on stage as comediennes sorry, “comedians” because they crave the adoration they’ve seen funny men enjoy. It doesn’t come from a place of relieving pain; it comes from coveting. From envy. And this is only true of 21st century women; just three decades ago we had real women who knew how to make people laugh. They weren’t behind a microphone or in front of a camera because some scumwad progressive used them to “fill a quota”, or because their dumb celebrity husband dragged them screaming into the limelight. They were there because they had real talent, really cared, and chose to meet life’s adversities with laughter. They didn’t cry about some oppressive patriarchy, they challenged it by truly being funny.

If you’re still reading, and you’re choosing to be pissed off at me, try this.

Ask ten women and ten men what their favorite comedy podcast is.

Most if not all of the men will name a podcast hosted by a brutally honest male comedian or personality who holds very little back, isn’t mainstream, and pushes the envelope, hard. Someone to whom they can relate as a man. If there’s a female present on the show, she is unseen or heard very little, and the guys joke about how shitty their overall conduct is because they’re afraid of scaring her off. Much humor is made about how ill-suited the males are in the presence of a nice girl. The guys laughingly backstab each other to get into the girl’s good graces. If the woman is visibly appealing, then the men start goofing on the creepy comments that invariably pop up in the chat.

All ten women you ask will give you a variation of “I’m not really into comedy”, before telling you about a female-hosted show they never miss that’s about true crime and murder. Women would literally rather listen to other women tut-tutting over bloody slayings and kidnappings of innocent children than humor that might possibly challenge their ethical boundaries. Hearing about how some unfortunate young lass was chopped into hamburger with a hatchet and fed to pigs, safely emanating from the latest iPhone, is apparently vastly preferable to men making off-color jokes.

Men who kill themselves ten hours every day working the shittiest jobs in the world don’t want to hear timid gasps and pearls being clutched over some lurid crime scene from eighty years ago. They don’t want to hear some holier-than-thou broad guilt-tripping their favorite funnyman into self-censorship, or second-guessing his comebacks. And they goddamn sure don’t want to be reminded of all their buddies who were even funnier, until they got married.

All they want is a fucking laugh, so that for a few brief moments, they can forget about how they’re killing themselves for a living.

That’s all. Maybe some women understand that. Based upon the evidence of my eyes and ears, none of them do. If I’m wrong, they sure are quiet about it. All I ever see is “she gets whatever she wants or he gets nothing”. Modern women either get to have their cake and eat it too, or nobody gets any cake. Ever. Cake is destroyed forever, to “teach everyone a lesson”.

So I’m begging you. In the only way I know how.

Tell your dumb wife to shut up.

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Filed under Bad Influences, Girls of BIUL, Great Hamsters I Have Known, Podcastery, Unfairly Maligned, Worst Of All