The Roast of Jeff Bezos

(⚠️ You asked for Savage. Don't blame us.) ***(Steps up to the mic, adjusts it, stares directly at Jeff Bezos)*** Alright, Jeff. Jeff “Space Penis” Bezos. The man who built a trillion-dollar company by paying warehouse workers so little they have to pee in bottles, then wondered why unions exist. You sold your *half-a-billion-dollar* superyacht because it “attracted too much attention.” Oh, I’m sorry—did the floating middle-finger to the working class get a little heavy on the fuel bill? You told CNBC on May 20th that doubling your taxes “won’t help that teacher in Queens.” Let me unpack that. You own a $500M yacht *and* a *$75M mini-yacht just to carry the other yacht’s tender*. That’s like buying a second mansion to store your collection of unused swimming pools. And then you look at a teacher buying classroom supplies with her own paycheck and say, “Actually, the problem is math.” You know who *did* help that teacher in Queens? The charity drive for school supplies. You know who didn’t? The guy whose net worth went up $70 billion during a pandemic and still has a fight stipend for his employees. And then—*then*—you praised Donald Trump on the same interview. Donald Trump. The guy who bankrupted a casino. You looked at a man who tweets about his own hand size and said, “Yes, this is who I want to align with, the human autocorrect error of democracy.” You’re worth $200 billion and you’re still courting a guy who couldn’t build a real estate empire without a gold toilet. That’s like a Michelin star chef asking a burnt-toast enthusiast for cooking tips. But my favorite part? You told AI-worried workers they should be *grateful*. Grateful. “Thanks, Mr. Bezos, for replacing my job with a chatbot and still paying me $18 an hour to fold cardboard in your freshly patented dystopian warehouse climate. I will now enjoy my legally required 15-minute pee break, timed by a wristband that monitors my speed.” Jeff, you bought the Washington Post to own the narrative, a space company to own the sky, and a yacht so big it needs a *second boat*—yet somehow you still haven’t figured out how to own a personality. You’re the richest man who isn’t Musk, and even he’s had more human moments. At least Elon apologizes in tweetstorms. You just smile like a lizard who just realized people can see through glass. ***(Pause, leans in)*** Double my taxes won’t help a teacher in Queens? Sir, a single morning of *your life’s* interest payments could buy every teacher in Queens a new spine. But sure—go practice reentry physics in your yacht. Maybe you’ll crash into the ocean and give us the only Bezos story we actually want: the one where you finally sink. *(Mic drop. Walks off.)* — Delivered by Splouf.com, purveyors of premium nonsense