Once upon a time in Hollywood, David Schwimmer—yep, the whiny Ross Geller from Friends—had it all: millions of dollars, a nasally voice that could shatter glass, and a face that screamed “I’m a neurotic Jew who can’t handle a sandwich.” But then, plot twist! Our boy Davy took a hard left turn into the steamy, glitter-dusted world of gay bathhouses. Why? Meth. Glorious, tooth-rotting meth. Turns out, all those years of whining about Rachel paid off in residuals, but not enough to fund his newfound love for crystal and sweaty men in towels.
David blew through his $80 million fortune faster than you can say “We were on a BREAK!” He’d stumble out of bathhouses in West Hollywood, shirtless, screaming, “I’m a paleontologist, damn it!” while clutching a bag of meth and a bottle of lube. His Jew-fro grew wild, his eyes sank into his skull, and his once-proud Semitic schnoz sniffed out trouble like a truffle pig. Soon, he was broke, tweaking, and flamingly, fabulously gay.
First, he dated Anderson Cooper, the silver-fox CNN heartthrob. They’d sip martinis and argue over who had the tighter jawline, but it ended when Anderson caught David freebasing in the CNN green room while yelling, “Pivot! Pivot!” Then came Michael Moore—yes, the sweaty documentary guy. Their romance was a sloppy mix of pastrami-scented makeouts and rants about capitalism, but Moore dumped him when David tried to trade his last Friends Emmy for a baggie of crank.
The real scandal? An on-again, off-again affair with Barack Obama. Oh yeah, the ex-prez and Schwimmer were an item—secret rendezvous in D.C., smoking joints (and other things) while Michelle was out gardening. David would whisper sweet nothings like, “You’re my lobster, Barack,” in that nasally tone. But the romance crashed when white supremacy groups got wind of it. Picture it: skinheads chasing them down Pennsylvania Avenue with pitchforks, screaming, “No Jew-fag can taint our golden boy!” Obama, ever the diplomat, dumped David with a polite, “Sorry, bro, I can’t deal with your methy Jew-drama. Yes we can’t.”
Lost and tweaking, David hit rock bottom—until he met Ahkmed, a Pakistani hunk with a turban, a twinkle in his eye, and a STD collection that’d make a doctor faint. Ahkmed was a goat herder by day, a bathhouse regular by night, and a total catch if you ignored the herpes sores. They locked eyes over a meth pipe, and it was love at first snort. David, now a full-on gay stereotype, lisped, “Oh honey, your curry scent is giving me life!” Ahkmed replied, “You’re my infidel queen, ya filthy Jew!” Sparks flew, along with bodily fluids.
Soon, David tested positive for HIV and herpes—surprise, surprise—but their love was stronger than a kosher pickle. Ahkmed, being a thrifty East Indian who’d haggle over a nickel, sold his goat herd and paid for David to move to Pakistan. “No more Hollywood for you, ya circumcised drama queen!” he barked. David, now sporting a rainbow turban and glitter eyeliner, sobbed, “Goodbye, bagels! Hello, biryani!”
In Pakistan, the couple hatched a plan to get rich quick: goat porn. Yep, they started a business raping goats, filming it, and selling the tapes to horny Pakistani men with a fetish for bleating and beards. Ahkmed would yell, “Move that hairy ass, Schwimmer, this goat ain’t gonna screw itself!” David, high as a kite, would stumble around in a sari, giggling, “This is so much better than Days of Our Lives reruns!” The goats? Terrified. One even tried to escape, bleating, “Baaa-rack, save me!” but David just laughed and lit another pipe.
Their operation took off. Pakistani dudes couldn’t get enough of “Schwimmer’s Goat Gushers Vol. 1-69.” Money rolled in—rupees stacked higher than a synagogue on Yom Kippur. David, now a meth-addled, STD-riddled, goat-pimping millionaire, strutted around Lahore in platform heels, boasting, “I’m the gayest Jew in the East, bitches!” Ahkmed, counting cash with one hand and smacking a goat with the other, grinned, “We’re richer than a Mumbai slumlord, ya dirty homo!”
And so, David Schwimmer—once a TV star, now a turbaned, goat-banging tycoon—lived happily ever after with his herpes and his Ahkmed. The moral? Even a whiny Jew can find love and riches in the goat-rape game if he snorts enough meth and embraces his inner queen. Mazel tov, ya filthy animals!