A blog post that posits that the existence of Dave Chappelle is subjective

August 30, 2013

If someone were to make a Venn diagram with one circle representing people who think it’s perfectly acceptable to yell out “I’m Rick James, bitch” at a Dave Chappelle show and the other representing people who are excited over the prospect of McDonald’s selling chicken wings, there would just be one circle. A total solar eclipse of stupidity. And there would be Pink Floyd music playing, of course, but it would be one of their shitty songs like “Not Now John.”

Dave Chappelle casually drops the microphone onto the dusty floor and it makes no sound. It begins to melt like butter in a frying pan. Chappelle is a 747, and a fat kid in an Avenged Sevenfold has pointed a laser pointer into the cockpit of his brain. With one faint glance back at the front row, he winks out of existence.

A white hole opens up over Nashville and spews forth one (1) pair of vocal cords. They streak magnificently across the sky, down to the town, wrap around a few light poles, and they never stop vibrating the words “I’m Rick James, bitch,” although around lunch time they switch over to Latin. Eventually they burrow into the rich soil in the backyard of the [REDACTED] family.

The mood is a somber one at this household. They had planned to watch the Major Sporting Event on the high-definition television set, but Dad [REDACTED], on his way back home from his journey to McDonald’s(R) to procure a great quantity of McDonald’s(R) Mighty Wings(TM), collided his sport utility vehicle into a protruding woolly mammoth tusk that had somehow gone unnoticed for the last few millennia or so. He would have survived if he had been able to delay his gratification, but the meticulously calculated aroma wafting from the bag in the passenger seat proved to be too much… well, long story short, he has a McDonald’s(R) Mighty Wing(TM) firmly lodged in his not-so-mighty cerebral cortex. Ba-da ba ba baaa… sorry, kids.

New flowers burst forth from the ground, ugly pink ones, spraying violent truths such as “CHARLES IS NO LONGER IN CHARGE” and “JOANIE DESPISES CHACHI.” The earth is shriveling like a prune, but nobody cares. They’re all holding greasy hands and singing “I’m Rick James, bitch.” The Moron Tabernacle Choir. The microphone is charred and bubbling like tar. Smoke is in the eyes of the beholders.

Dad [REDACTED] is in Heaven, urinating rainbows on an ivory cloud and muttering “so what?” to himself over and over. That stupid chicken wing is still sticking out of his left eye, and some smartass gave it its own little halo.

Hi, this is Jeff from IT. Looks like you’re having a little issue with your reality here. If you’ll just hang on a quick sec, I’m gonna go ahead and merge this reality with the previous one. You saved your work, right? Okay, just one… second… there… we…. g

Backstage at the Wilco concert. Can’t breathe. You seem like a nice fella. Nice teeth. Can you help me hide in this utility closet? Please, I’m… oh, and could you give this message to my wife? It’s so important… Please… come a little closer… tell her…