Dear Reader (Including those who wish to be included but heretofore felt left out of this oppressive Dear Reader gag),

As the owner of the strip club said to the manager when one of his favorite dancers kept showing up late for happy hour, “Let’s talk about Bubbles.”

Okay, maybe that was a little obscure. You see, in the joke the stripper’s name is “Bubbles,” which is the kind of name you give your kid if you want to guarantee that they become a pole dancer (not the sort of Pole dancer of the polka variety, mind you). If an evil scientist—who also happened to share my self-indulgent obsession with dad-joke wordplay and was a big fan of Don Ho—met Bubbles, he would use his miniaturization ray on her and throw her in a vat of effervescent fermented alcohol just so he could say, “Tiny Bubbles in the wine, make me feel fine.” 

Why would he do that? Maybe because he was mad at Bubbles for refusing to play a game of “Cuomo and the junior staffer,” I don’t know. I’m severely sleep-deprived. Work with me here.