These days, my budget’s tighter than my toga after a second helping of lasagna. And why the lasagna needed help in the first place is beyond me.
To supplement my income—which, let’s be honest, is more like an outcome—I’m offering you a new kind of contract. I tell jokes, and you pay me in a new currency I’m calling jokens. That’s right: welcome to the thrilling world of pay-per-joke. PPJ for short—also short for petite pajamas.
If you’re anything like me, your pajama bottoms are shrinking faster than your retirement account. One day they’re cozy flannel; the next, they’re auditioning for the role of high-fashion waders. Is it the dryer? Possibly. Is it because I rode the dryer like a mechanical bull while reenacting a rodeo scene from a lasagna western? We may never know.
But that’s where jokens come in—I’ve already cracked a few jokes, so by my calculations, that should cover pajama expenses. Even if they were slightly pre-worn by a banana with questionable taste in patterns.
Okay… maybe I’m not that desperate. I barely sleep anymore, anyway. I’m too stressed about bills. (And yes, by bills, I do mean the ducks I feed at the park. It’s a running joke now. Those freeloaders love artisanal bread—and they’ve already set up a Venmo account to extort me. It’s called @QuackCash, and yes, they send reminders.)
Now, I understand if jokens aren’t your jam—but it’s not a PP&J sandwich without them. And PP&J is about all I can afford—preferably with the crusts already cut off to save on operating expenses. And by operating expenses, I’m referring to coins for the dryer down at the laundromat since mine is now mysteriously broken. The machines there don’t take jokens. Believe me—I tried.
Think of this as my version of pay-per-view, only with fewer boxing matches and way more peanut butter in regrettable places.
Still not convinced? I’m offering a 30-day risk-free trial. It can’t be any riskier than bull-riding the dryer or stepping into the ring with a Banana in Pajamas after insulting plaid.
