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Colin delivers the best response to Jim's terrible 'Uber Eats' story

RobertMewler

RobertMewler

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You've still got it, Col.


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"But let’s get to the other fellow traveler on the Iraq journey, one James “Mommy, why does that man have a cascading neck?” Norton.

It was my tour, and like a magnanimous Sunni chieftain I was kind enough to bring Jim along. He came cheap. His dressing room rider included: wood chips instead of a rug, a giant wheel for exercise, and pellet food.

The first few shows went off without a hitch. Then we hit New Year’s Eve. We’re in the tent getting ready for the big show at one of Saddam’s palaces, when the USO representative, Tracy, informs us that, due to possible danger from incoming insurgent fire, the show might have to be canceled.

Of course, I took this news with the grace and low-key humility that I’ve worked tirelessly to display. So everything is fine. Laurie is cool. Ellen is cool. Tracy is cool. I’m cool. But then suddenly I hear a quiet buzzing in the tent.

At first I thought it was one of the giant flying insects that have been flying around this part of the world since the Old Testament. I looked around for a newspaper to put a stop to it, when suddenly we all looked and realized it wasn’t an insect—at least not in the conventional sense. No, it was Jim muttering to himself and walking spastically around the room in circles waiting for someone to notice him and ask what was the problem. Tracy or Ellen inquired and Jim, with a look of sullen reproach on his idiotic baby face, blurts out, “I’ve been doing comedy for twelve years, and I’ve never missed a New Year’s show.” He sulks dramatically; the rest of us stand in stunned silence.

Let me state the situation one more time. We were in Iraq. In a war zone. There are boys and girls putting their young bodies in harm’s way every day to defend our barely defensible way of life here in the United States. They’re not getting a lot of high-profile celebrity visits. (I know that you knew that from the fact that we were there.) But the celebrities that do visit at least give these brave youngsters the reassurance that people appreciate the sacrificial nature of what they are trying to do.

In the midst of that, this incubated hatchling is strutting around, quacking, feathers ruffling, because people don’t realize that this trip is not about giving brief respite to the nineteen-year-olds seeing the frontline horrors and depravities that will never leave their minds. No, no, no, no, no. That’s important, sure. But more pressing is keeping the torch lit on the unnoticed and immaterial New Year’s record of this ludicrous goblin.

I bet our troops would have doubled their valor and courage if they knew that they were protecting the right of a drone to live in a movie within his own mind—a movie in which twelve December 31s in various New Jersey townships drinking a post-show glass of cream soda while being treated to a perfunctory suck-off by a bewildered blubber bunny trying not to smear her hair glitter matter at all, to anyone.

That’s why we could never win in Iraq, because we’re all under the impression that our way of life is precious. Even a guy like Jim Norton is clinging to his one empty tradition like anyone gives a care. My prayers for his death, as always, went unanswered."

I just love Col.
 
Naked_Militiaman

Naked_Militiaman

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guest said:
"But let’s get to the other fellow traveler on the Iraq journey, one James “Mommy, why does that man have a cascading neck?” Norton.

It was my tour, and like a magnanimous Sunni chieftain I was kind enough to bring Jim along. He came cheap. His dressing room rider included: wood chips instead of a rug, a giant wheel for exercise, and pellet food.

The first few shows went off without a hitch. Then we hit New Year’s Eve. We’re in the tent getting ready for the big show at one of Saddam’s palaces, when the USO representative, Tracy, informs us that, due to possible danger from incoming insurgent fire, the show might have to be canceled.

Of course, I took this news with the grace and low-key humility that I’ve worked tirelessly to display. So everything is fine. Laurie is cool. Ellen is cool. Tracy is cool. I’m cool. But then suddenly I hear a quiet buzzing in the tent.

At first I thought it was one of the giant flying insects that have been flying around this part of the world since the Old Testament. I looked around for a newspaper to put a stop to it, when suddenly we all looked and realized it wasn’t an insect—at least not in the conventional sense. No, it was Jim muttering to himself and walking spastically around the room in circles waiting for someone to notice him and ask what was the problem. Tracy or Ellen inquired and Jim, with a look of sullen reproach on his idiotic baby face, blurts out, “I’ve been doing comedy for twelve years, and I’ve never missed a New Year’s show.” He sulks dramatically; the rest of us stand in stunned silence.

Let me state the situation one more time. We were in Iraq. In a war zone. There are boys and girls putting their young bodies in harm’s way every day to defend our barely defensible way of life here in the United States. They’re not getting a lot of high-profile celebrity visits. (I know that you knew that from the fact that we were there.) But the celebrities that do visit at least give these brave youngsters the reassurance that people appreciate the sacrificial nature of what they are trying to do.

In the midst of that, this incubated hatchling is strutting around, quacking, feathers ruffling, because people don’t realize that this trip is not about giving brief respite to the nineteen-year-olds seeing the frontline horrors and depravities that will never leave their minds. No, no, no, no, no. That’s important, sure. But more pressing is keeping the torch lit on the unnoticed and immaterial New Year’s record of this ludicrous goblin.

I bet our troops would have doubled their valor and courage if they knew that they were protecting the right of a drone to live in a movie within his own mind—a movie in which twelve December 31s in various New Jersey townships drinking a post-show glass of cream soda while being treated to a perfunctory suck-off by a bewildered blubber bunny trying not to smear her hair glitter matter at all, to anyone.

That’s why we could never win in Iraq, because we’re all under the impression that our way of life is precious. Even a guy like Jim Norton is clinging to his one empty tradition like anyone gives a care. My prayers for his death, as always, went unanswered."

I just love Col.
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what an absolute classic. i'm gonna try to make a tradition of re-reading this once a year like "the night before christmas" until jim dies.
 
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