8 minutes

So being the new guy, they say I only can have 8-minutes of your time. Which is slightly depressing. But then again, if I was a rodeo rider and I rode that bull for 8-minutes I would be the SHIT…So I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

Speaking of cowboys, how crazy are cars? Think about it. Just think about it….(mental note: work on your set-up and transitions and oh-god-I-wish-I-had-some-blow-right-now-so-I-could-have-the-energy-to-spend-hours-drinking-myself-stupid-tonight-to-forget-this-tranwreck-of-a-bit-you-slowly-but-surely-self-destructing-piece-of-shit)….Because that’s what they say, don’t you know, that stand-up comedians are fucked up. But then again, they also say that men walked on the moon, so I don’t know what to believe…..Hey, I’ve tilted my high-power telescope from my neighbor’s bedroom window to the skies….you show me that American flag on the moon. You show me that flag….Ha-ha….patriotism. It’s funny because it’s true….

Actually, mostly at home I just mess around with the personal computer. And what I do on it is none of your business…..Ok, I do a little tweeting and twittering. Anyone here on Twitter? Cool. You should follow me…because I have a great ass…..My Twitter U-R-L is hhhh-tuuuhhh ppppppppp one dot above another dot, crooked line, another crooked line, w-w-w-, another dot, T-W-I-T-T-E-R dot c-o-m, crooked line whogivesafuckaboutsocialnetworking…..Seriously, what’s so social about sitting in the dark in your Strawberry Shortcake jammies refreshing your screen every 30-seconds to see if someone has commented yet on the pic of your new puppy….or your totally crazy Hawaiian shirt with an interesting backstory involving alcohol…or your anal polyps…..And you know, no one ever comments. No one ever comments…..

Any-who, I just run my first marathon a few months ago. It’s true. And hey, you know what’s funny about listening to someone else’s personal achievements? Nothing…..My kids were proud of me though. Anyone else have kids out there? (mental note: better with the transitions...when you fall, Patrick, you get up again!) Oh, you heard that? Get out of my head! Get out of my head, you bastards!.....Well, now you know that on the inside I’m no different than you. Like you, I get all of my soulful inspirations from the band Chumbawumba…

Anyway, I was talking about my kids. They are so cute and say the darndest things. And the older one had the cutest poop the other day….Seriously, fuck off, parents. No one cares about your kids…..Other parents say to me, “oh, do you have a playgroup you go to?” actually they say, “you are not welcome back in this playgroup ever, ever, again.”….All because I always brought pop-tarts…which are a “sometimes” food, not a “help me stave off depression” food…

Who the hell wants to be in a playgroup with a bunch of people you don’t know, just because they have kids and you have kids. Screw that. We’re not part of some club. We’re not teammates. I’m not accepting the outlet pass from you while you make a break for the basket and I impossibly, through two defenders, thread the needle with my pinpoint pass, arcing the ball with a perfect trajectory, and you’re just able to reel it in right as your jumping above the rim, then throwing it down through the hoop with thunderous power!

And then after the game, they’ll interview me first and the reporters will ask, “You made a pretty pass to end the game, tell me about that. And I would say, “Well, I made the pass with the ball and thankfully that pass made it work out for us today.” And the stunned nation would have revelatory orgasms at my eloquence and passion.

And then the reporters would interview you and say, “Tell me about that fantastic finishing dunk” and you would say, “How the fuck did I get on a basketball court? I came here tonight to get drunk and listen to comedy. What the hell is going on?”…

And then you would proceed to have a total mind-fuck about the journey you have just taken in only 8-minutes.

Speaking of which, those minutes are up! Thanks a lot! You guys have been ok-ish!