It’s fucking unbelievable is what it is. I live Mazda. I fucking breeeeathe Mazda. 1998-2009, I was KING. Fucking King. No one could touch me– those punks down at Matheson Subaru ate charbroiled dicktips off of my dress shoes every time I came around. Zoom Zoom, motherfuckers.
But now, all anyone wants to see is Zig. Zig the Car-Selling Zebra.
“Oh, look how charming! Oh, what a beautiful story! He used to live in a zoo!” I used to live in a two bedroom condo I called the Raw Dog Palace. At least I did, until I got foreclosed on because all my sales got jacked by that bitch-ass wild horse. I lost everything.
Glass-bottomed pool table with aquarium underneath it? Gone.
Waterbed I used as an aquarium? Gone.
Extra fish I would throw into toilets just so peeps had something cool to look at before they did their business? Those sons of bitches got ate.
Zig’s got these customers wrapped around his little hoof, and any time I try to bring it up, people say I’m racist. Because he’s from Africa, so I must have a problem with Africans, not ZEBRAS DOING HUMAN JOBS. But Zig? He’s always so relatable. “Oh, your family was slaughtered by a pride of bloodthirsty lions? My sister stopped speaking to me after I couldn’t make my nephew’s first communion. Let’s make a deal!”
To say nothing of him shitting all over the floor. Last week he was literally shitting on the showroom floor as he’s closed on a 4-door caravan with seating for seven. And the ass-rogues he sold it to used it as an opportunity to teach their two ass-rogue kids about digestion. Are you fucking me? This family of four is having a Zoo Books moment with this black and white shit machine while I’m slipping in a pool of zebra diarrhea while explaining the benefits of a hatchback to an elderly divorcee.
That’s how I got Ebola, I think.
I guess it doesn’t matter now–the zebra won. Black fluid is oozing out of most of my orifices, and my line about how, “I may be leaking but our 5-year/100,000 mile warranty guarantees your new Miata won’t!” isn’t working. I’m dying, and the only thing I have to my name is a broken down CX-5 and an instruction manual for an aquarium water filter I use to mop up my Ebola pus and tears. Nowadays, it’s hard to tell which is which.
You might think that this story about a zebra stealing my job is a metaphor about immigration. It isn’t. A zebra stole my job. And now I’m dying from a disease I got from his feces.
Zoom zoom, motherfuckers.
Brad Einstein is a comedian living in Chicago, Illinois. No, he is not related.