Truth. Blazer. Microphone.

I hate math.
Not normal hate. Deep emotional trauma hate.
Math gives me anxiety, especially in casinos. Because if you sit at a blackjack table long enough, someone eventually whispers the two most stressful words in the English language:
“Count cards.”
Now I’m sitting there pretending I know what I’m doing… secretly counting under the table like a third grader taking a math test.
Meanwhile everyone else at the table looks confident. The dealer is firing cards like a Vegas robot and I’m down there whispering numbers to myself like Rain Man with a gambling problem.
This is why I prefer roulette.
Roulette is a beautiful game because nobody expects you to be smart. You just pick a number and pray like a normal person.
No math.
No strategy.
Just vibes.
If you’ve ever sat at a blackjack table pretending you understand probability… this one’s for you.

just figured out the loophole to everything in life… micro-identifying.
Like if things get hard, I just micro-identify as something else.
Need to get on a plane for free?
Boom. Service animal.
Need a job?
Suddenly I have a very specific disability that qualifies for three diversity boxes.
I’m not lying… I’m just micro-identifying.

I feel bad for kids today.
They will NEVER experience the thrill of buying drugs in the 1990s.
Kids today order everything like it’s Amazon Prime.
Back then you had to know a guy.
Not a good friend.
Not a reliable guy.
Just… a guy.
And that guy knew another guy.
Next thing you know you’re standing in a dark parking lot waiting for a 1997 Honda Civic that sounds like it’s fighting for its life.
The guy inside always worked at Applebee’s.
Not a manager.
Never a manager.
Just a guy who works like… Tuesday lunch shifts.
You text him from a flip phone like it’s a CIA operation.
“You here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“In the lot.”
Buddy… it’s a Walmart parking lot. There are 400 cars.
Then you finally find him and he rolls the window down two inches like he’s Pablo Escobar.
You hand him $40 in crumpled bills.
He hands you something wrapped in an Applebee’s napkin.
No receipt.
No confirmation email.
No customer service.
Just vibes.
Kids today will never understand that level of suspense.
If you grew up in the 90s… you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Dispensaries today feel less like buying weed and more like walking into an Apple Store. Everything’s bright, clean, and there’s a “genius” behind the counter explaining the newest strain like it’s the latest iPhone. Meanwhile I’m just standing there thinking, “Buddy, I used to buy this from a guy named Kyle in a Honda Civic.” This clip is a stand-up bit about how weed went from shady parking lots to retail luxury, and how none of us really know how to behave in a dispensary that looks like it sells laptops. #JackWildComedy