comedy, Gender, Indignant, Media, My favorites

Why Are There No Funny Men?

I’ve tried for such a long time to keep an open mind to all comedy – to respect that all people, regardless of gender, can be funny. I can’t do it any more. Men just aren’t as funny as women.

Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. If we are going to have an open and honest discussion about the true gender divide in comedy, we have to all start at the same obvious conclusion.

I understand that this seems like a broad generalization, and it is. I don’t mean to imply that no men are funny, there are funny men, but for the most part they utilize gross exaggerations of the male ego for comedic effect or rely on jokes that point out feminine qualities (jokes that wouldn’t get laughs if a woman were to do say them). All male comedians that are decent fall into one of these two categories – they are overly masculine or feigning femininity in order to co-opt comedy. When Dane Cook or Daniel Tosh yell loudly about they’re penis or their erection, they are simply attempting to copy the women who have achieved comedy success through jokes about their menstrual blood and vaginas. Alternately, comedians like Michael Cera or Andy Dick enjoy humor-fame only because they fully commit themselves to femininity – awkwardly avoiding confrontation, refusing to take sexual agency: what’s more feminine than that?

Also Jews. Jewish males are allowed to be funny, but they are only funny because Jewish humor is inherently feminine.

Of course I’m no fan of the fact that when I go to comedy shows it seems as though there is some unwritten rule that you always have to have a male stand up performing about how his ex-wife is a cunt or how much pussy he can get or how big/small his penis is, but why I bring up this inherent comedic division by sex is because I see it permeating our day to day life. The average man just isn’t funny.

Obviously, there are far more terrible male comedians than terrible female comedians, but also I’ve begun to notice that the average male is drastically less funny than the average female. I can’t help but think that this has something to do with some sort of trickle down effect of comedy. Without funny comedian idols to look up to, how would any man become funny?

As a man interested in comedy, this troubles me. Is it impossible for me to be funny because the templates for humor contain curves and sensitive nipples? Does my hairy chest and flat ass prevent me from being able to provide laughter? No. I believe there is hope.

I believe that I can be both a man and be funny. I believe I can provide comedy without castrating myself. I just refuse to believe that comedy can only flow through fallopian tubes. I refuse to concede that testosterone is the biological antonym to humor.

So, please, give me hope. I ask each of you to look for a male comedian who will inspire me – who will not conform to the comedy of yesteryear- comedians equal, in any way, to their comedienne counterparts.

When will we have male comedians that stand up to the powerhouses of comedy like Phyllis Diller, Sarah Silverman, Joan Rivers, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Lucille Ball, Wanda Sykes, Kristen Schall, or Gilda Ratner? I pray for that day.

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Depressed, Lazy, My favorites, Pathetic

Future-Past

Yesterday I got fed up with the fact that my computer sounds like two tractors doin’ the dirty. By “doin’ the dirty” I do not mean hauling mud and gravel places, I mean fucking. Why does it sound like this? Because my computer’s fan must always stay on in order to maintain a heat level that is below hell temperatures and that fan that is constantly on has something stuck in it that makes it buzz like a drill being dropped in a hornets’ nest. I decided I was going to fix this once and for all.

The reason I decided this needed to be fixed yesterday was partially that the sound has gotten exponentially more intense over the last week. Mostly though it was because of “future-past.” For those of you who haven’t spoken with me for longer than an hour and therefore aren’t familiar with the concept of “future-past,” it is the idea of living your life not in the past, present, or future but rather living your life so that in the future you may tell tales of your past. I decided to fix my computer because I figured the adventure into the wonders beneath the metal scraps that enclose my life (aka: my computer) would be both an adventure without much movement and still an adventure.

Boy was I wrong!

Putting exclamation marks after depressing statements makes it look like you are able to make light of your depressing failures. This is the “future-past.”

I’m going to stop putting quotes around future-past because in order for it to become coined as a real phrase it needs to be treated as such.

My first failure was my failure to not have to move much. Obviously I don’t own a small screwdriver. I don’t know why I thought I did, but I really, really thought I did. I scoured my apartment like Gollum looking for the ring, then made lazy similes based on cultural references that everyone will think is personal despite the fact that I don’t really like the Lord of the Rings books.

Then I walked to the pharmacy. I hate the pharmacy near me. I love where I live, and I even love my tiny 4 bedroom apartment with walls the thickness of construction tissue. I like the bars closeby and the restaurants a little further away. But the necessities (bodega, pizza, pharmacy, grocery store) that have to be within a block according to Brooklyn cultural law in my area suck. My bodega’s cat is mean, the beer selection sucks, the juice selections sucks even more, and they constantly run out of crumb donuts. The grocery store is cold and disorganized, closes too early, and has really slow cashiers. I’m pretty sure the pizza place just closed down because of the latest health inspection.

The pharmacy has the worst employees. And not nearly enough toys. My perception of pharmacies is that they need to include basic medicinal needs and lots of useless toys. Maybe this comes from lollipops at doctors’ offices.

I found the mini-screwdriver and headed home. I unscrewed the back panel of my laptop. I unscrewed the metal container around the fan. I brushed out enough lint to make a cotton candy prop in an early talkie. That wasn’t what was making the noise though. I kept unscrewing. Even my newfound virginity (that’s a joke with the word “unscrewing”) couldn’t get my fan to stop sounding like a meat grinder being attacked by a jackhammer. It was the fan itself. It needed to be dealt with.

I followed the wires that plugged the fan in. They seemed unpluggable. They were unpluggable. I unplugged them. There were five wires that I unplugged. Pink, orange, and white all went to the fan. The two black wires travels around the fan and attached to a ball of something hidden by black electrical tape and attached to a copper tube that created a diagonal across my computer. With the black wires unplugged the copper diagonal rose in heat. A lot. I quickly plugged the wires back in. The dogs chewing on metal rods with motors continued. Maybe I could clip just the three wires that connected to the fan. I pulled a knife from my set of kitchen knives that I bought drunk off the internet. I mean that both in that I was drunk and buying things on the internet and that I was drunk on internet surfing. I cut three wires in my computer.

This may be one of the stupidest things I’ve done. But, y’know: future-past!

The computer won’t turn on. It knows that the fan isn’t connected and doesn’t want to ruin itself. I can trick it. I hold the wires together as the computer turns on and then let go once windows has started up. This way the computer doesn’t have a chance to save itself. It overheats and shuts down.

I have fixed my computer and am typing on it now. There are three small pieces of duct tape inside my computer making sure it works, the tractor orgy is still loudly happening, and there are screws missing from the inside of my laptop because, c’mon I was supposed to keep track of those tiny pieces of metal. Also, I’m worried that the duct-tape holding the electronics of my computer (aka: my life) is going to melt soon, so I haven’t screwed the back of my laptop back on and instead attached it with duct-tape.

So, what has the future-past done for me?

I have a computer held together by gluey strands and a constant fear of losing my life’s work. … !

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comedy, Indignant, My favorites

Dear Jizzy Grey

I agree: Humor books are pretty stupid. I want to say that they shouldn’t exist, and I’d be right, but a thing not needed is not a thing that is at fault. Fault and unneed are barely even correlated.

Here are a list of things and their correlation:¹

Finding the problems in our world, exploring them angrily and destroying the self-esteem of the problems is very important. And good. It’s really hard to start projects because if you start a project you might not finish it and uncompleted things are necessarily failures unless some unforseen event left them unable to finish. Something like death.²

Lying is important. It isn’t good. It is that outlier on the first graph. The most important and worst kind is the self-kind. The only way to change is to admit a self imposed lie, and admitting you’ve done something so important and bad is hard because it forces the results to be monumental or wasted.
Change is, of course, both the most important and most good thing, but inspiring it in others is near impossible. Beyond the challenges of demanding the recognition of a self-lie, being heard as you try to get people to acknowledge the mistakes they are making demands being heard. People don’t like listening to those that aren’t talking to them.
There’s a kid playing little league in front of me named Lucian. He has long hair that has at some point been a rat-tail. I’ve never met a Lucian unwilling to try a rat-tail.
Humor books are stupid and they serve no purpose. Liking them makes you a dumb person and probably bad. But humor books and humor authors did not choose their role. They did not choose to be liked. They only distract in a boring way – force a lack of thinking because society demanded a thing that lacked thought – that distracted from fun. Humor books are a sign of society giving up, not a collaborator in  the destruction of effort. Quitting before finding that problem is just being a part of the norm of society.
1. I wanted to provide a hyperlink to the wikipedia entry on r², but I felt it was an overexplanation. If you got it, you got it, and if you didn’t, a quick read on basic statsistics and a n understanding of the creation of a correlation coefficient isn’t going to help you get anything from this entry.
2. This is a reference to DFW’s unfinished book. It will be the only reference to that annoying author.
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Death, Lonely, My favorites

My Hour in Union Square – Diversity; Happiness; Misuse of Punctuation?

First there was the man who looked like he could play my father in a movie. He didn’t look like my dad, but if I were in a movie they would cast this white haired jewfroed hippie with the sensible sneakers and the monochromatic windbreaker on as my dad. Next to him was the hardcore Irishman. Tattoos were on his knuckles, but if it were possible, I’m sure tattoos would be on his heart. Two brothers sat next to him. They cared for each other ~ They would die for each other -: I’m pretty sure one was mentally handicapped. They were hugging now, but you could tell they have a history of fighting when times get tough. But when times aren’t tough, they love each other better than other people do. Next bench down, communicating off and on with the larger group were two broskies – one black, one white: handshaking and laughing at how they were so awesome. Everyone enjoyed their presence too. Every once in a while this group of joyous public park patrons was visited by a middle aged black woman getting off her job that involved a bag that was close to being a briefcase and an unstable 35 year old conspiracy theorist.

The one thing that brought them together on this would-be-dreary day:

Heroin.

Mostly their conversation consisted of comparing track marks.

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Lazy, Lonely, My favorites

I Work In an Office

I don’t know how I feel about being in an office again.

The last one I worked at was populated by four people named John, Mike, Greg, and John and I still maintain that that was the best joke I never wrote. Two and a half hours after I started working I finished working and I exited into the joy that is the first beautiful day of the year. I love that day where it first gets warm and people go out and smile as they enjoy weather and life. I went to a dark movie theater and sat alone as I watched Battle: Los Angeles while eating my leftover vegan sampler that I snuck in via a plastic bag I got from a bodega.

It was the second day in a row that I worked in an office. This time my day had extended to four hours. I hadn’t eaten lunch, but having just found out that my bank account was significantly in the red, I attempted to postpone what my stomach was growling at me to not postpone. It was raining and I had to pee. Ready to continue the being a part of the warm weather, I had worn a light shirt with no hat or umbrella, so I ducked out of the rain and into a bar. There I could use the bathroom. Two birds, one stone. The bartender grumpily told me where I could urinate. There were two people at the bar: A woman doing her taxes while she was in a suit and a man with an eyepatch. It was very silly.

Battle: Los Angeles was very silly. I just wanted a safe place to eat my constantly cooling quinoa and kale. I wanted a safe place to make up alliterations about leftovers that only quite make sense. A movie about how important military spending is was not the safe place for me to do the “elitist” things that the Right wants me to feel self conscious about.

The bathroom didn’t lock, barely even closed. Then I looked around me and was confused as to how this bathroom should be used. Despite no sink, there were three toilets. Two were urinals. There was no stall around the sit down toilet and the room was far too small to share with a shitter. As I tried to choose a urinal, I loud hammering began three feet above my head and chards of ceiling started falling into the urinal.

When I had entered the movie theater I was greeted by a man who wanted to see some other movie. I would tell you the movie, but I couldn’t understand what he said when he drunkenly yell-mumbled his intentions at me.

The hammering continued. I think there was a man in the ceiling banging on a metal pipe with a metal pipe.

It’s more interesting outside the office.

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Lazy, My favorites, Pathetic

I Always Hated Having to Pee

When I was little I used to get these pains in my side every couple of months to a year. I would be thinking at the time; “Man, I really have to pee.” And my kidneys would feel like they seized up and my body would turn a paler shade of white and my mouth would start salivating large balls of drool for my body to deal with swallowing. I would pee, then find a place to lay down and within an hour or two I’d be fine. The doctors never found out what was wrong with me. They speculated that possibly I had “kidney pebbles.” “Kidney Pebbles” was the cute, tongue-in-cheek, name that they came up with for my distress.

It’s Saturday night in Brooklyn. It’s about five minutes ago. The sounds of people excited for the weekend surround and infiltrate my space because the walls separating my space from their’s only obstruct the visions of what are on the other side and not the sounds. I work most on the weekends. I closed shop today and will open shop tomorrow. I party on Tuesdays.

Every bus ride was scary for me. Every bus ride meant that I would have to hold my bladder closed for a very long time. Nobody takes bus-rides for short amounts of time. On multiple occasions I had made the entire bus pull over on the side of the highway so that I could pee in the bush on the side of the road. They always told me that what they were doing was “very unsafe.” We were in Maine. In Maine there are barely any cars on the highway. There is never enough traffic for pulling over to be “very unsafe.” We were very safe. And we didn’t have pee sloshing around on the floor of the school bus, so that’s good too.

My roommate was in the shower. I hadn’t thought of it at the time, but now I realized I had to pee. I realzed that because I had opened my window and was on the verge of opening my fly. There is a padlock, a gate and a window to get through before I can crawl out onto my fire escape. I did all the tasks, shaking wildly below the waste because now the pee wants to come out.

I had to pee so badly, but I was embarrassed. People would hate me if I admitted I had drank liquids earlier that day, right? I sat down on the bench of the mini-golf course and could hold my embarrassment any longer. I peed, left to change clothes, and did not acknowledge that the first had happened. Obviously I had saved myself from embarrassment.

With toes dangling off the edge of the fire-escape, I let fly a golden stream of my extended manhood unraveling its way all the way down three stories of a building to the ground. I felt relief in a way I hadn’t thought possible since the last time I peed. Fear of pain had led to a fear of embarrassment, had led to shame. None of those emotions are fun, so I won’t have them. I will have relief instead – this involves peeing all the time, anywhere.

My friend once pushed me against the wall when I tried to pee on the library because it was the closest building.

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Attention Whoring, comedy, My favorites, Selfish

I Am Archetype

There’s a reason I want to be on TV.

My favorite game is to play is what fictional character in a specific fictional world are my friends. Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, and Winnie the Pooh are the best three stories to play this game with.

The reason I want to be on TV is so that people can compare themselves to me. They can say: “I’m the Nisse of this group” or “You’re the Nisse of this group of friends.” That would be awesome!

I’ve been working on a webseries. Finally people will be able to say “I’m the Nisse of this group.” But they’ll just be explaining why their life is an utter failure.

I’m okay with that.

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comedy, Gender, Horny, Indignant, My favorites

Fuckin’ Adorable or Adorable Fuckin’

I told a story recently and am going to tell it again tonight about how I was very bad at attempting to have sex. You should go to the show to see me tell it. I was REALLY bad at trying to have sex.

The story is specifically about a girl I was desperately in love with despite knowing her for two weeks before I came to this conclusion. I was 18 and a virgin and she shared some interests with me so that meant we were meant for each other. If you want to hear the story, you’ll have to come to the show tonight, but the important part that I will tell now is that we don’t wind up together.

It’s an adorable story of me being as pathetic as possible and still not getting the girl. I love telling these stories. I love telling these stories because I think it’s important that people hear the romantic comedy archetypical plot from the supposed hero of these stories and realize that it is not a life that should be aspired toward.

I watch Chuck on Hulu every week. It is the worst show for television because it lauds this nerdy guy as some sort of backwards sex symbol who should both aspire to and succeed in getting the super hot girl who has not similar interests to him. This is not the only show that does this. Every movie with Topher Grace or Michael Cera or Jay Baruchel or Insert Scrawny White Guy Here is about how this guy who couldn’t get laid has a heart of gold and if he just tries hard enough than a girl should respect that and start laying him. The problem with this being, of course, that women should have agency and just because a man tried really hard does not mean that a woman should have sex with him. He might be annoying, ugly, or share no interests with her. In fact that is usually the case. If you base a whole romance on one shallow trait being shared or one band as a common interest then conversations will run dry very quickly. Yet we keep making these movies and tv shows under the assumption that because the man is nerdy he is an underdog and therefore can be rooted for and you are still being subversive.

Quickly put: the oversexualization of scrawny white guys who stammer when they get nervous and get nervous when they’re near hot girls has been made more destructive because people are able to trick themselves into thinking that they are going against the status quo, when in fact they are simply living out some lonely mans fantasy where he re-writes his past and gets to hook up with a girl he created in his mind.

So, I tell stories where I lead you on a journey that you’ve been led on before. Scrawny awkward white guy likes girl. Girl is too hot for him and doesn’t want to have sex with him. He tries really hard though! But then instead of the girl finally succumbing to his patriarchy and sleeping with him – I fail in some interesting way that continues to defy the status quo. In the video that I hope you clicked on above I make out with a man in a closet.

As I began this post: I told a story that followed this formula a couple weeks ago. I was then approached by two women. They were attractive women and they wanted to talk to me. Because I had accidentally oversexualized myself by presenting myself as the hero of their teen-movie fantasy. More interestingly though, was that after listening to my story that ended with me and protagonist female not together, the women asked if the girl I was sitting with was protagonist female. The girl I was with was a friend. A good friend, but far from the girl I had devoted a year of my life creeply obsessing about and wanting to sleep with. But they couldn’t wrap their mind around the idea that that girl was no longer a part of my life.

Me and protagonist female are still friends but not sexual/romantic. We talk on the phone sometimes, but she lives in another state. But that’s not how the story is supposed to end. I had put so much effort into trying to fuck her that if she wasn’t fucking me now she must be a bitch. But she’s not. She just didn’t want to fuck me. And that is her right as a person to not want to fuck me. She deserves that right. All people deserve the right to not want to fuck me. Not believing this is the same as believing in rape. It’s stripping away sexual agency from women in favor of whatever a man wants.

It’s funny. These two girls came up to me so blinded by hearing the beginning of a story they had heard before that they forgot to listen to the end. And even if they did listen they refused to hear it because it didn’t fit their fantasy dreamworld where me and protagonist female end up together with babies and happiness. They didn’t think she had the right to not want to fuck me. She must now be that girl that I am sitting with.

I think anger and hunger have forced this incoherence. The important thing to take away from it is that you should come hear me tell a story tonight at The Fifth Estate and then NOT try to have sex with me because of it. I won’t respect you.

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Lazy, My favorites, Poop

PoopKarma

It started when I found an extra $20 in the ATM. What was I going to do with this newfound wealth. Considering this amount of money was just over 1/6th of what was in my bank account that I had just drawn from, this was exciting!

But I’m white and was raised moderately wealthy and haven’t struggled that hard and have a job and buy unnecessary glasses of beer and don’t live in darfur and feel lots of guilt all the time so instead of saving it or splurging on an expensive items I said “drinks are on me!” to the table I was sitting with, then quickly amended my statement by saying “one drink is on me for each of you” to the two people who I was sitting with. $20 doesn’t buy you a lot.

But that was nice, right?

I felt the right thing to do when life gives you good stuff – give it those around you. Doesn’t karma then repay you? How does karma work? Why didn’t I listen more when we were studying Buddhism in High School? How come when I type questions into a box that is yet to be published on the internet no one answers me?

I don’t think karma works.

I got on the subway at nearly 11pm and I could see that each car of the F-train that passed by was standing room only. This is rare at this time at night and I felt like my luck had run up for the night until the train stopped and in front of me stood a nearly empty car. Not only were there seats available, but nearly every end seat (the best seats because you can rest your head) was also available.

Oh.

This was why.

Because a man who had shit all over himself was on that car. The combination of my stuffy nose and blind excitement for my karmic repayment made sure that I was sitting and the doors were closing before I realized the error of my ways. No amount of Claritin-forced nose crusties could stop that stench from penetrating the depths of my brain’s disgusting scent area. The man who had pooped himself was now singing to himself.

The train stopped at the next stop. The mass exodus of other unfortunately unaware til too late train goes began. I stayed.

I wanted my karma to be real. I wanted the seat. I had a stuffy nose just enough that I could deal with the discomfort for the comfort.

 

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Hungry, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites

Halal-Oooh-Yeah

I wrote this while digesting Halal.

 

I just wanted Halal. I was done tutoring and now I wanted Halal. I don’t love Halal – I just crave it. It’s one of those foods that I never want until I want it and then there is nothing else that I can think about/desire.

My stomach feels like a man is yawning and stretching inside it despite my stomach being far too small to hold a man.

There weren’t any Halal carts in sight when I left the apartment where I was tutoring. He didn’t need my help. By “he” I mean my student. Sure, I taught him extra info and I think my weekly visits push him in a direction academically that is positive. He loves me though. He said it. He said: “I love you.” I thought :”I want Halal from a pushcart.” He said: “Can we be roommates?” I thought: “I’m gonna get both sauces.” He said: “Can we be best friends?” I thought: “What if I could mix chicken and falafel!” He said: “I’m 14… that means I’m legal… in… Cambodia.” I thought: “I should have been listening to this conversation.”

I’ve been propositioned for sex by lots of older men. Never one younger. Never a teenager. Never one who was “Joking.”

This came after he asked if I had a girlfriend. A question I always answer with hesitation and self-disgust because I’m never quite sure how to define my relationships and that inability fills me with shame. He took my hesitation as an indication that I preferred sex with men.

My heart is trying to depart my body by burning its way through my skin. This sentence is a physical not metaphorical sensation. I just ate something out of styrofoam.

I had walked six blocks with no sign of Halal. My method of taking whatever street had green lights assuming that the fact that I was in Manhattan would be enough to mean I ran into Halal was not working out. The smells of Dunkin Donuts, Subway, and other indoor eating establishments filled with digestive tract ruining food products were tempting but could not distract me from my intended meal of day old chicken, week old lettuce, prehistoric onion and rice – yellow from stagnation – covered in sauces white and red.

I think my skin wants to melt off, but I’m not going to let it.

He told me a couple of weeks ago that all the girls in his class were “too flat” for him to date. I think he meant in the crotchal region. He doesn’t know that that was what he meant yet.

Each brightly colored street was simply a mirage of mean, rice and sauce that only provided disappointment and stomach grumbling. Until one. One street had the thing I wanted. In the form of two carts offering similar options. But different. In the form of a decision. Fuck. I hate my lfie.

My hair is greasier. I don’t know how it’s that instant, but my forehead seems slimy.

I picked the one across the street because I wanted to continue crossing streets with green lights. It took 40 seconds to make my food! How exciting! Now I had to find a subway station. It didn’t matter witch one, I just wanted to sit down and eat my new meal while it was hot. 5 blocks and 10 halal carts later that seemed less plausible. My stomach is mad at me for its lack of food filling. My brain is mad at me because I refused to use it in finding the closest halal cart to the subway. And I am mad at me for caring so much about stale rice and meat.

My brain is less functional than usual – I think filled with grease.

Then I realized the problem with my plan: Rush Hour. I crammed my self into an R-train feeling self conscious about the cumbersomeness of my styrofoam box of food product as I danced around a bike and a dog that needed to travel during rush hour.

Fuck it.

I ate it. On the subway.. The red and white sauce dripping of the ends of my mustache, my esophagus filling with discomfort, thoughts of a 14 year old closeted boy wanting to discover his sexuality stuffing my head and I was _______.

This is a mad lib and you get to fill in the emotion.

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