The Boeing Peachy part is fucking long tonight.

Ladies and gentlemen, Greg Brookes.

Greg Ragh.

Once again, the smartest man in the world,

Brookes House, takes to the ether.

Here from the salubriest confines

of Illinois's most prestigious comedy club,

high atop second city here in the old town dusted of Chirac.

Once again, we find ourselves at the Ep Comedy Club.

Greg.

It's a beautiful spring here in Chicago.

Very, very moist, reddling spring,

raining down mildew,

and every type of precipitation on us,

and the gusting winds that blow up one's pants leg

and for sure internal organs to congeal

in a giant horrible pizza of discomforture

in the center of your body while your gonads wish they could break free

and run down the street, sinking warmth in a saloon named Maguire's.

But inside our hearts are full of silver,

spinning, fucking ever-lasting contrails

that jet across the sky and explode

...