You Can Make It Up: Joe Rogan Records A Hug-E-Gram

Valentine’s Day was coming up fast, and Joe Rogan wanted this year to be special. Last year he had taken a stripper to an Outback Steakhouse and gotten her hospital drunk on mango Long Island Iced Teas, and that had been pretty special, but this year he wanted it to be really special. Like, Matt Hughes vs. B.J. Penn special. Like, getting a hand job from Ed Hardy himself on the back of an ATV special.

Joe Rogan had recently gone on two dates with this chick he met at a GNC, and they had been getting along great. They both loved to skip dinner and just have protein shakes while watching Spike TV, and the day they met, she challenged him to a push up contest in the Jamba Juice parking lot. He thought “there’s something special about this one, Joe, don’t fuck it up.” He was careful with his heart, of course, ever since he’d dated three years dating Cherish, only to learn that she was a man. But he liked this new girl, and he wanted to show her how much he liked her on this, the most sacred day of love in the world.

Joe Rogan adjusted his hog and dialed 1-877-LUVHUGS.

An automated menu prompted Joe Rogan to record his personalized Hug-E-Gram message, and he suddenly drew a blank. Strange. That wasn’t like him. Usually, all he had to do was open his mouth and an endless stream of fascinating, hilarious, and wonderful things would come flowing from him like poetry. Joe Rogan placed his hand over the receiver, as if the automated menu would laugh at him if it could hear what he was about to say, and said “get a grip, Joe Rogan. You are a fucking boss.” But his words of self-encouragement were having little effect. He realized that this must be how the contestants on Fear Factor had felt when they were laid down in a plexiglass coffin and covered in buckets of hissing cockroaches. Man, that show was the best, Joe Rogan thought. Television history, and there I was, Joe Rogan. Put up a goddamn statue, America.

“To listen to your recording, press star. If you are satisfied with your recording, press pound. If you would like to rerecord, please press five,” the automated menu said.

“Hey fuck you, bro, slow the fuck down,” Joe Rogan shouted into the phone, at the Hug-E-Gram automated menu system. He pressed five, but then he drew a blank again. Held onto his hog, that always helped him think. He really wanted to impress this chick, and obviously, a Hug-E-Gram was the way to do it, but he wanted it to have, like, just a super fucking special romantic message and shit.

“Hey, Frangelica, it’s, uh, it’s Rogan. I just wanted to wish you a–FUCK.”

Joe Rogan pressed five.

“Frangelica, this is Joe Rogan, from Fear Factor and–MOTHERFU–“

Joe Rogan pressed five.

“Yo, Frangelica, love is a lot like ultimate fighting–you’ve got my heart in a triangle lo–no, stupid. Jesus, Joe.”

Joe Rogan pressed five.

“Frangelica, I just wanted you to know that if hugs were money…you would be…a millionaire, because I want to, like, give you a million fuuuuuuuuuu–”

Joe Rogan pressed five.

“Sup Frangelica, Rogan here, if love was a platform suspended over the ocean and my heart was a hundred flags, you would have captured all of them in record time fuck it happy Valentine’s Day I can’t wait to do it with you again how do I fucking turn this thi–“

Joe Rogan pressed pound and threw his phone in the toilet. He knew that love wasn’t about being perfect. And if Frangelica was the kind of girl that Joe Rogan thought she was, he knew she was going to love it.