Sometimes I Feel Bad Just Being Me
Tonight, for example, I did a show at Iowa State, which is located in the lovely town of Ames, Iowa. Great crowd, lovely manners, but then I found myself standing on stage talking about how it would be so great if we could cum hot fudge sauce and thinking to myself, "What am I doing? These people don't want to hear about ejaculating ice cream toppings. They want to hear illuminating, yet humorous insights into the human condition."
John Oliver is going to be here on Friday, and he is no doubt going to provide just that, and not, as I did, demonstrate what my asshole looked like after eating at the Taco Palace. I'm a middle-aged man. Shouldn't there come a time in my life when such things are beneath me? Sadly, no. No, I have pantomimed my asshole opening and closing for hundreds of audiences and probably will do again hundreds more times before I finally give it up.
But then I listen to somebody like Jim Gaffigan, who is appealing to all people with his jokes about birthday presents and pancakes. Why can't I be more like him? And by "more like him," I don't mean pale and balding, but rather accessible to broad swaths of the American public. He's figured out how to be funny without talking about any orifices more offensive than the mouth. Good for him. Jim is a friend of mine and I admire him greatly. If I could figure out a way to combine his family-friendly humor with my incredible good looks, I could really have something.