A Routine

So I did some real stand-up last night, and it just made me realize I don't love the stand-up. I love the standing on stage and talking and telling stories and sharing insights and generally trying to make you laugh ... I don't love the rhythm and the schtick of the precise genre of stand-up. It was a good epiphany, and made me cherish all those downtown shows I get to do wherein I can just ramble and riff and shpritz and not tell "jokes," so to speak. So I'm just posting my "notes" here, to get it all out of my system. Remember, as always, it's just a routine. I don't have any STDs for real and I'm madly in love with my boyfriend so all the dating stuff is just a facade. Meh. Hopefully, if I were saying this to you, you'd find it at least mildly amusing (and the performative version would be much more casual; this is slightly stilted in written form).

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I have a very, very important question. And the question is this: what happened to all the embedded journalists? There were so many of them for so long and they were all up in the shiznit and then all of a sudden, did they all go home? They were so in on the action and it was so exciting – when we were winning, remember that? But now there are no embedded journalists on the news anymore. In fact, there are very few journalists on the news anymore.

In fact – there’s no news on the news anymore! I guess it’s because we’re all on cnn.com every two hours so we know what’s going on in the world. Or at least in the parts of the world that matter enough to be on Cnn.com. So then it’s 11 o’clock and you turn on the news and your newsfriends come on, and there’s nothing new to tell you, so they’re just like, “Boo, Chinese food gives you cancer and that lipstick you’re wearing is going to kill your babies.” The evening news is “Be afraid, be afraid, be afraid, worry, worry, worry, the world is a horrible place and we’re all going to die.” And that is not news. That is a phone call from my mother.

But then, do I really want to watch real news? The lead story of every night is that gas prices are at an all-time high and they’re not showing any signs of going down. Speaking of going down, So I was giving this guy head on the highway – road head – and I finished and he was like, wow, that was a 50 dollar blowjob. And I was like, why, because it was five times as good as a blowjob from a ten-dollar hooker? And he said no, because it took fifteen minutes and we drove 30 miles and that’s 50 bucks worth of gas. … Fucking Hummer! Those goddamn SUVs cost like 100 bucks to fill up and you’re up so high that none of the other cars can see you sucking someone’s wiener! Poop on that! Why do it if no one else can see you and be jealous?

What else is on the news … the weather. Oh, how I love watching the weather. “It’s very hot.” No fucking shit. Did you guys all survive the heat wave? Oh, clearly, you survived, and if you didn’t survive, and you’re still sitting here, then you must be a zombie and you want to eat my brain, so let me warn you that it’s been ravaged – RAVAGED – by syphilis, and it’s just like swiss cheese and it would not make good zombie food. Syphilis – the best way to keep the zombies away. It’s also a really good shoo-out on a bad date – a shoo-out is the opposite of a shoo-in. If you’re on a date, a shoo-in would be, “I really love giving head and watching sports,” and a shoo-out is, “Just so you know, I have a raging case of the syphilis.”

The clap is a fantastic way to end a date. Sometimes I have trouble getting out of really boring dates. Usually I just start doing shots so I get really drunk really fast and then just go home and have sex with the dude, just so that date is officially over and I can be home in time for Letterman. Wham bam thank you, Sam! None of that post-coital cuddling shit, yo. Cuddling is for pussies.

Speaking of pussies, it was so hot this weekend and my roomie and I were so overwhelmed by the heat and all the hair that we decided there was nothing left to do but shave our pussies in the bathtub. So we did, with my roommate’s beard-trimmers, and they squirmed a lot, but now we have sheared cats, and they have the cutest little buzzcuts, just like little feline marines. So they fit in well in the neighborhood -- we live in Chelsea, which I like to call Homo Depot, which is awesome for me because I’m so much more than a fag hag or a fruit fly, I’m a total ho for the mos. They’re homos and I’m a mo-ho, it works out fabulously, and I have lots of gay boyfriends who tell me when my tits look good and it’s just swell.

But when I’m not with my gay boyfriends, I tend to date older guys. You ever have that weird moment when you’re having sex and you’re like – whoa, you’re so much older than me that you could be my dad? I mean, figuratively you’re old enough to be my dad, not like you’re someone who literally fucked my mom 26 years ago. I hope.

And the older guys love the Viagra and the cialis and the gigantipenis – we all know what that stuff does, right? It makes you able to throw the football through the tire swing or have sex in an antique bathtub whilst watching the sunset? I think viagra’s awesome but I’m worried that it might be addictive – my friend Bill says he has to take four pills just to get up in the morning.