Better Than Bundy

Good comics kill, a little here, a little there. They’re Ted Bundys.

When I first heard of Bundy, I thought, “Peg finally made him snap.”

Great comics are like the God of the Old Testament. They spare nobody, not even your ugly baby.

Rita Hayworth’s finest hour.

Last night, at Jokers Comedy Club of Cedar Falls, TJ debuted her one-person show, The Artist Formerly Known as Trina, and slew her audience Old Testament style. She destroyed everybody, right down to the terrible bros that just happened to be drinkin’ at the club.

Not even halfway through her monologue, she had them by their droopy balls. They shouted I-love-yous and marriage proposals at her.

Not bad for a butch with no tits.

Teatless in Seattle.

Midwestern hoots and hollers thundered as TJ took her fans on a tour of their favorite topics: meth, 11 o’clock Walmart runs, and pussy. The roof blew off Joker’s once she dove into the hilarity of the state dish: casserole. Men were literally fist-pumping the air with pride, shouting, “Tay-ter-tot! Tay-ter tot!”

I don’t know where this piece of shit came from but it wasn’t Iowa. It’s got vegetables.

Fans besieged TJ after the show, inviting her to their farms to meet their livestock and indulge in a cream of mushroom dish. One woman gave her a homemade gift, porn.

The cover image has been edited for your protection.

I believe I saw the film’s star earlier, in the feminine hygiene aisle of the Waterloo Walmart.

In the morning, we celebrated TJ’s success with a blueberry pancake breakfast.

We are wholesome people.

We also enjoyed a demonstration by one of Ginger Jackie’s daughters of her birthday present, Bulimia Kitty.

She is supposed to vomit bubbles but she just hiccups, drunkenly. I’m dropping her off at rehab.

Accidentally Sistine.

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