The Jerk Store Called
The Jerk Store called, and they’re running out of you. They said you’d know what that meant. Did I get a number to call them back at? No. What? It’s 2017—just search them on Google if you don’t know. I’m really not comfortable with you getting your calls forwarded here anymore.
The Jerk Store called, and they said jerks of a below average size are 50% off today only. Do you mind if we drive down there real quick, just to check them out? We don’t have to buy any.
The Jerk Store called, and weirdly enough they don’t actually have any copies of The Jerk starring Steve Martin left.
The Jerk Store called, and your shift started an hour ago, you dunce! I put my reputation on the line to get you a job there, and you repay me by sitting around in your underwear wearing a stupid army helmet and screaming at 11-year-olds on Halo instead of going to your job? You’re unbelievable.
The Jerk Store called, and they just wanted to see what was up, or if you wanted to see a movie or something. Look—I’m not going to tell you that you have to date the Jerk Store if you’re not feeling that spark; you don’t. But the least you could do is be upfront about it with them. They deserve that at least.
The Jerk Store called, because you’re a Senator who’s in support of the AHCA, which would take healthcare away from 23 million individuals. Have you no heart, sir? No decency? They’re calling to demand that you hold yourself accountable to your constituents and oppose this ghoulish and frankly downright wicked bill. Oh, and also they’re running out of you.
The Jerk Store called, and the baying of a hound can be heard on the other line. Did you leave The Viscountess there again? You know how much she hates intermingling with the lower classes and the plebeians.
The Jerk Store called, and wanted to know if you remembered the name of that song they had stuck in their head earlier. They said it had this totally sick double kick drum in it, and the bridge went like “braaaaaaah, bree braw bom bow bree braw fricka-fricka whoa.” Does that sound familiar?
The Jerk Store called, and they’re running out of you. Which is crazy because there…hasn’t been a Jerk Store in this part of the country since 1947.
The Jerk Store called, and asked how to get to Carnegie Hall. I hung up on them, because I’m not in the habit of indulging their need for old Jack Benny jokes.
The Jerk Store called, and asked if they should expect you at improv rehearsal tonight. What should I tell them?
The Jerk Store called, and reminded me that former Cleveland Cavaliers guard Delonte West was arrested in 2009 after Maryland police pulled him over for speeding on his motorcycle and—get this—transporting two handguns and a shotgun inside a guitar case. Yeah, a guitar case. Like he was in Desperado or something. Christ.
The Jerk Store called, but they were just passing along a message from the Asshole Depot. Apparently the Asshole Depot is running out of you, but they had an old number so they couldn’t get in contact.
The Jerk Store called, and they said if this is the way you’re going to act all the time, we’re not allowed to shop there anymore. This is the third time this month, my friend. We’re running out of Jerk Stores.