Weekend At Bert’s!

What would a weekend at Bert Kreischer’s house be like we wondered. So we dug out a ouija board and asked it.

Weekend At Bert’s House

“Come on Sommer!” Bert said pleadingly “Let me wrestle your new friends.”

Sommer looked mortified. Her step-dad was shirtless in the living room and wanting to wrestle her study group. ¬†Their eyes locked for just a second before Sommer found her escape route, she didn’t need any help from this piece of shit.

He didn’t seem like he knew anything about homework, she had seen his comedy. A lazy mishmash of hackney jokes punctuated by the belief that being shirtless is substitute for a punch line.

“I’m out of here old man!” Sommer screamed at Bert.

“Sommer, I don’t get it. I bought you and your friends wine coolers and cigars! I’m a cool step-dad!” Bert said demandingly.

This threw Sommer off balance, ‘a cool step-dad?’ Her shoulders sagged and she heaved in a long held breath, finally releasing her animosity with her step-father and admitting how much she really hated him. She hoped for a more amicable departure but she really let him have it.

Sommer slammed her textbooks down on the countertop as they circled each other threateningly, she grabbed for his face in retaliation but he took evasive action around her hands, arms warding out as if batting back an annoying insect. This made her mad. She grabbed a folding chair and hit him on the shoulders.

He crashed to the ground. He was drunk as fuck and it knocked him off balance. He started laughing. He was loving it. He always wanted to be in the WWE, he thought to himself as the concussion set in.

“Dude,” Bert laughed, clutching at his face, blood pouring between his fingers, “You’re gonna kill me Sommer. You are going to fucking kill me, but I am proud.”

“Shut up old man!” Sommer shouted him down.

Bert trying to impress the group one last time went to his comedy routine.

“Hey, guys, guys, guys guys, guys! Don’t you hate it when you’re looking for your car keys and you can’t find them and they’re over at your friend Joe Rogan’s house? I can call him!” Bert said.

The group was moderately impressed. They had heard of this old man Joe Rogan, even Bert had mentioned him often enough. Before they knew it Bert was phoning Joe to come over.

“He’ll be here in a sec, here let me tell you another joke. Don’t you hate it when you’re on a zoom and you’re shirtless with Adam Sandler?” Bert said.

“Woah! You know Adam Sandler?” one of her friends asked.

“Well, I saw him once for a show I was doing. I even got to talk to him!” Bert said hoping that’d impress them.

They looked annoyed.

“I can make nachos. I could go for some nachos, and maybe another beer.” Bert said as he wandered into the kitchen bleeding all over.

An hour later the doorbell rang, Joe came up the stairs into Bert’s house.

“JOE ROGAN! MY GOOD FRIEND JOE ROGAN IS HERE EVERYONE!” Bert ran through the house sideways skipping until he fell and tripped over the coffee table. Bert was busy picking himself off the floor when the group began talking to Joe.

“Aren’t you the guy that made people eat bugs in the 70s?” one of them asked.

Joe laughed to hide his insecurity regarding aging. “Yeah but it wasn’t THAT long ago. What do I look like Dom Irerra? THAT GUY IS A KILL-ER. ABSOLUTE MUR-DER-ER.”

The group screamed, they were afraid of murderers.

“No, I mean he’s good at jokes.” Joe said in defense of him scaring them.

“Why the hell didn’t you say that?” Sommer asked embarrassed of her dad’s friend.

Bert was busy, he was on his back rolling around like a turtle trying to drink the spilled beer off the carpet.

Suddenly Joe Rogan realized his entire persona was a lie, and to honor Bill Hicks he withdrew a hunting uzi he kept on him. He shouted to the group, “I am a puppet, I am a pawn, a tool for the establishment, I’ll do anything for a dollar, you have no idea the things I’ve done to get ahead! NO IDEA!”

Then he pulled the trigger spraying his brains all over the room. The bloody brain matter spelled on the wall: THE END.


Bert or Burger King Iggy Pop?