Hot Josh vs. the HOA

It all started with a letter. Not a bill, not a fan note—just a plain white envelope from the Homeowners Association. I open it and read:

Dear Resident, your mailbox does not conform to neighborhood standards. Please repaint it beige within seven days to avoid fines.

Beige.
The color of defeat. The color of boredom. The color of “I give up.”

I look at my black mailbox with its bold chrome lettering—JOSHUA JOHNSON, gleaming like a declaration of independence—and I say out loud, “Not today, tyranny.”

The next morning, I show up to the HOA office in a suit sharp enough to file its own restraining order. The board is mid-meeting. I walk in without knocking.

“Let’s talk about standards,” I begin. “Because it seems the only thing beige around here is your imagination.”

A board member stammers, “Sir, this isn’t on the agenda.”

“It is now,” I reply. “If you can demand uniform mailboxes, I can demand emotional support for my aesthetic expression.”

They try to remind me of the rules. I remind them that rules without reason are just beige in written form. I pull out a presentation I made overnight—PowerPoint slides titled Freedom of Hue: A Citizen’s Right to Shine.

By slide six, they’re exhausted. By slide ten, they’re questioning their life choices. By slide twelve, they agree to “review the policy.”

That evening, I repaint my mailbox metallic blue and post a photo online captioned:

‘HOA: 0, Hot Josh: 1. Liberty rings at the mailbox.’

Now half the neighborhood’s mailboxes are purple, red, or glittery silver. The HOA’s latest memo calls it “a community-wide act of rebellion.”

I call it “Tuesday.”

Because when Hot Josh gets a letter, the only thing getting repainted is history.

I Deserve a Discount for Being Me

It all started when I walked into a high-end home goods store to buy a candle. Not just any candle—this one was labeled “Hand-poured with artisanal intention.” It cost $48. For wax.

Now, a lesser man might have paid quietly. But I, Hot Josh, am not lesser.

I take the candle to the counter and say, “This doesn’t feel like a $48 candle.”

The cashier smiles politely. “It’s made with sustainable ingredients.”

“So am I,” I say. “And no one’s paying me to exist.”

She blinks, unsure if I’m joking. I’m not. “Look,” I continue, “I’m not asking for charity—just a recognition of value. You wouldn’t charge Michelangelo full price for marble, would you?”

Her confused silence encourages me. I start explaining that I’ve been a loyal browser of this store for years, which, in my mind, qualifies me for a loyalty discount—despite never having bought anything. I even mention that I’ve influenced at least three people to think about maybe shopping here someday.

Finally, she says, “We don’t have a discount program.”

“Then create one,” I reply.

A manager appears, trying to defuse the situation. I sense weakness. “Okay, how about this,” I say, leaning in conspiratorially. “You give me 20% off, and I promise to post about it online. Exposure for you, enlightenment for my followers.”

The manager sighs and offers me a 10% courtesy discount just to move me along. I take it triumphantly, as if I’ve just brokered peace in the Middle East.

As I leave, I raise the candle high and say to the stunned line behind me, “Remember—price tags are just suggestions.”

Because when Hot Josh walks into a store, he’s not just a customer. He’s a movement.

The Hotel Pool Belongs to Me

The hotel pool was full—kids splashing, couples sipping cocktails, retirees floating on inflatable noodles. Then I arrived.

I dropped my towel across two lounge chairs, blew my whistle, and announced, “Pool’s closed unless you’re on my guest list.”

The lifeguard froze. Parents looked confused. Guests started whispering. But nobody challenged me. Because I looked like I belonged in charge.

A family tried to ignore me and jumped in anyway. I strolled over and said, “Ma’am, this isn’t a free-for-all. Pool time is now by reservation only, and I manage the list.”

Within 15 minutes, half the pool cleared out because they weren’t sure if I actually worked there. I sipped my mojito, stretched out like a king, and declared happy hour officially extended.

By the time staff caught on, I was sunbathing like royalty, three drinks deep, wearing sunglasses and absolute confidence.

Because Hot Josh doesn’t just swim in the hotel pool—he owns it.

Front Row Seats, No Ticket Required

The stadium is packed, the show’s been sold out for months, and everyone is lined up with overpriced tickets clutched in hand. Not me. I march right to the front gate.

The ticket scanner asks, “Sir, can I see your ticket?”

I grin. “You’re looking at it.”

She stares. “What do you mean?”

“I mean me. My presence is the ticket. The band should be thanking me for showing up. If anything, I should be charging them for boosting the crowd’s energy.”

Security gets involved. They tell me the show is at capacity. I tell them capacity is a myth—when Hot Josh arrives, the universe makes room. Sure enough, after ten minutes of arguing, they shove me through just to get me out of the way.

Now I’m in the front row, holding a drink I didn’t pay for, waving like the star I was always meant to be.

Because when Hot Josh wants a seat, the world rearranges itself.

The Gym Owes Me Results

So I finally walk into the gym I’ve been “meaning to use” for the past nine months. I flash my membership card like a VIP badge, as if the desk staff should salute me for gracing them with my presence.

I spend ten minutes wandering around pretending to evaluate equipment. Then I hop on the treadmill, set it to “brisk walk,” and check my phone every thirty seconds. After about four minutes, I’m exhausted—so I head straight to the smoothie bar.

“Excuse me,” I tell the worker, “I’ve been a member here for months. Where’s my six-pack?”

She stares at me, blender in hand. “You mean… abs?”

“Yes. That’s why people join gyms, right? Results. I’ve put in the financial commitment, so I expect the physical outcome. That’s how memberships work.”

She tries not to laugh, but I double down. “Do you see how Netflix gives you shows immediately after subscribing? Same logic. You’ve had my money long enough—time to deliver the product.”

The manager overhears, comes over, and says, “Sir, it doesn’t quite work that way.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” I reply, sipping my smoothie. “Because I’m pretty sure the customer is always right. And my abs are currently always wrong.”

In the end, they offered me a free personal training session, probably just to shut me up. I skipped it, of course. But I did post a scathing review online: ‘Gym refuses to honor membership perks of instant fitness.’

Because when Hot Josh pays, he expects to see the gains—whether or not he picks up a dumbbell.

This Week’s Entitlement Story Is Dedicated to Charlie Kirk

Normally, this space is reserved for outrageous tales of Hot Josh and his over-the-top entitlement adventures. But this week, the story pauses.

Instead, we dedicate this week’s edition to Charlie Kirk.

No satire. No entitlement. Just acknowledgment. His life, his voice, and his influence left a mark—whether through agreement, disagreement, or debate. It is only right that we pause the comedy to reflect on the reality that every story, every legacy, and every voice leaves something behind.

This week’s story is not about Hot Josh demanding special treatment. It’s about giving space to remember and to honor. Next week, the satire will return. But this week belongs to Charlie Kirk.

This isn’t about politics. We are not a politically motivated company. This is about a human being exercising his First Amendment rights and being assassinated for it. We should be able to unite on this as being beyond wrong, no matter your beliefs.

I Don’t Wait for Reservations—Reservations Wait for Me

It’s Friday night, and I’m hungry. Not just hungry—deserving. The kind of hungry where any establishment should be honored to feed me. So I walk into a trendy restaurant downtown, the type with a six-week waitlist and plates the size of coasters.

The host greets me with the usual fake smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Of course,” I say confidently. “I reserved the right to eat wherever I want.”

She blinks. “Sir, we’re fully booked until next month.”

I lean in. “Let me rephrase that. You may think you’re booked. But when I walked in, the universe cleared a table. So technically, someone else is about to cancel. Go ahead, check.”

She checks, humoring me. Shockingly, no table has magically appeared. She starts to tell me again about being full. That’s when I raise a hand dramatically:

“Ma’am, please. Don’t embarrass yourself. Do you see me? Do I look like the kind of man who waits outside while lesser men eat inside?”

By now, other diners are watching. One couple whispers. A waiter stifles a laugh. The manager strolls over. “What seems to be the problem?”

I tell him calmly, “The problem is you’ve confused capacity with priority. And I am priority.”

The manager sighs, clearly wanting me gone. “Sir, if you’d like, we can set you up at the bar.”

I smirk. “Fine. But make sure everyone knows the bar just became the VIP lounge.”

Five minutes later, I’m sipping overpriced wine at the bar, spreading out like I own the place, and waiters keep slipping me free breadsticks to keep me quiet. I call that a win.

Because when Hot Josh shows up, the reservation isn’t for a table. The reservation is for attention.

Customer Service Exists to Serve Me

I call my internet provider because my Wi-Fi dropped for 14 minutes. That’s right—fourteen. Barely long enough to microwave dinner, but I consider it an outrage.

A rep finally answers, cheerful as ever: “Thank you for calling, how may I help you today?”

“How may you help me?” I snap back. “By reimbursing me for emotional distress, for starters.”

She pauses. “Sir, your connection looks fine now.”

“That’s irrelevant,” I say. “The trauma has already occurred. Do you understand what it’s like to be mid-streaming a show, waiting for the cliffhanger reveal, and then—BOOM—buffering wheel of death? That’s not service. That’s sabotage.”

She apologizes. I interrupt. “Sorry doesn’t bring back the time I spent staring at a frozen screen. Do you know how much my time is worth? Hundreds of dollars an hour. I want a credit applied immediately.”

She puts me on hold. Big mistake. When she returns, she says, “Sir, we can offer you $5 off your next bill.”

“$5?” I exclaim. “That doesn’t even cover my latte habit, let alone the psychological toll of watching pixels collapse in real-time. If you won’t give me a full month free, then at least rename the Wi-Fi network in my honor. Something like: HotJosh_DeservesBetter.”

There’s silence on the line. Finally, she says, “One moment.”

Five minutes later, my internet is back, my account has a $10 credit (double what they offered), and yes—they actually renamed my router.

Because when you know your worth, even customer service scripts bend the knee.

Free Samples Mean Free Meals

I walk into the grocery store on a Saturday afternoon. You know the drill: the smell of popcorn from the machine by the door, the loudspeaker announcing specials on rotisserie chickens, and best of all—the holy grail—sample tables everywhere.

Now, most people politely take one toothpick-sized bite of cheese or a tiny paper cup of juice. Not me. I’ve elevated the art.

First stop: the sausage station. I grab one. Tasty. Grab another. The sample lady gives me a look. I smile and say, “Don’t worry, I’m conducting market research.” She’s too confused to stop me from grabbing a third.

Next up: granola bites. I fill both hands. Someone mutters, “That’s for everyone.” I counter, “So is democracy, but look how that turned out.”

By the time I hit the frozen foods aisle, I’ve assembled a full plate: sausages, granola, half a bagel, two mini tacos, and a sample-sized smoothie shot. I even snagged napkins.

An older guy in line whispers, “Are you allowed to do that?”

“Allowed?” I reply, incredulous. “Sir, this is a membership perk. I don’t just shop here, I support the ecosystem.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m at a café table in the corner of the store, eating what could only be described as a “sample buffet.” People keep staring, but none of them stop me. The staff knows the rules are unwritten, and I’ve simply mastered the loopholes.

I toss my napkins, clap my hands together, and declare: “Dinner’s on the house tonight.”

Because in my world, samples aren’t bites—they’re opportunities.

I Shouldn’t Have to Wait in Line—Because I Am the Line

Saturday afternoon. The grocery store is packed. Every aisle looks like a parade route, carts bumper-to-bumper, toddlers screaming, someone arguing with self-checkout.

I roll up with my cart—three items: almond milk, protein bars, and a bottle of wine I plan to finish before remembering I hate wine. The shortest line? Fifteen people long.

Nope. Not happening.

So I walk to the front, stand directly beside the conveyor belt of the busiest cashier, and declare, “Excuse me, I’m just going to start a new line right here.”

The woman ahead of me turns around and says, “You can’t just cut.”

“Cut?” I reply, offended. “Ma’am, this isn’t cutting. This is innovation. Why wait in an outdated system when I can create a new one? It’s called efficiency. You should thank me.”

Now the cashier looks flustered. “Sir, you’ll have to get to the back like everyone else.”

I shake my head. “No, no. I am the line. Once I’m checked out, others can follow my example. It’s called progress. Ever heard of Henry Ford? He made assembly lines. I’m making checkout lines.”

Some people grumble. One guy claps. Another mutters something about calling the manager.

Ten minutes later, after enough sighs and rolled eyes to power a wind turbine, the cashier just rings me up to make me leave. I swipe my card, grab my bag, and as I walk out, I shout to the crowd:

“You’re welcome!”

Because sometimes, entitlement is just leadership in disguise.