Rest in peace.
I'm a stand-up comic trying my best in Brooklyn.
Rest in peace.
Life outside the city with a buncha fuckin weirdos and a full goddamn supermoon over a lake and a house built in the 1840s and a warehouse projection of fuckin Beyonce is self-explanatory.
I’ve got a new monthly stand-up show and it’s called Boy’s Club.
It’s free and open to anyone who can be there and the lineup is really just wonderful. The first of many is this Sunday, August 3rd at 8pm at the Pine Box Rock Shop. There will be pizza.
Bonding with my sister’s baby.
Hello from California, where tiny espressos come with big boy spoons.
The US didn’t win the World Cup, but if we stay there for another 10 years and support our troops I really think we can turn this loss into a victory.
For the past month, numerous people have asked if I got in a fight. “You look like you got punched in the face.” Guys, it’s a cyst. It’s disgusting. When my dermatologist said, “Yep, it’s a cyst”, his assistant… well, she made a face that… um… the only comparison I’ve got is that of a galaxy getting sucked into a black hole. I mouthed “I’m sorry” to her, despite the fact that the three of us were in a very quiet room together. The doctor took out a surgical knife. I said, “Sorry, I know this is gross.” He laughed and said, “What I’m about to do… Joey, this is my favorite thing I get to do at work.” It’s his FAVORITE THING he gets to do at work! I have a giant red thing on my face still, and it’ll take time to go away, but no, I didn’t get in a fight. BUT. But. I made a dermatologist feel like the surgeon he always wanted to be. Really I’m just your every day philanthropist, supporting dermatologists whenever I can. And the cyst? Let’s just call it a philanthrocyst. Ha! See that? Philanthrocyst. If you don’t like the pun, I don’t care. I’ll be as percystent as I gotta be to make the puns work. If you don’t like it, feel free to send a cease and decyst. Anyway, the point is: yes, there’s a big ugly thing on my face. I am very. well. aware. All I want is for us all to look past it, be friends, and do our best to coexcyst.
The following is a status I posted to Facebook this morning:
Nothing says “I remembered your birthday and I truly care about you” like buying someone a Starbucks gift card after Facebook reminds you it’s their birthday. And by “their birthday” I mean “your friend’s birthday” because obviously this website reflects real life in its entirety and every one of you on here is a friend. Wait, sorry. I let Mark Zuckerberg write the beginning of this status. When was the last time you called a friend on their birthday? When was the last time you called ANYONE because you wanted to hear their voice because you need them in your life? “I hate talking on the phone!” says the the majority of my generation. If you don’t like talking on the phone, if that’s “too annoying” for you, then maybe don’t post that stupid picture of your goddamn brunch. We get it, you’re the same as everyone else. Fun fact: that stupid joke you posted that got 100 likes? It’s pointless. It’s on a conveyer belt to nowhere and you’re wasting your time if you think this matters. Some people want a dislike button, as if another emotionless button is going to do anything besides make this spiral into nothingness even more unimportant. Let’s get rid of the like button entirely. Let’s see how cool we all are when this absurd alternate reality isn’t just a popularity contest. A thousand “happy birthdays” posted on someone’s timeline is what we need for validation, nowadays. My parents still call me on my birthday. They’re better than most of you. And they don’t even believe I should be allowed the right to get married.
While buying cigarettes at a bodega in Chelsea, a Crazy Man walked up to me and said, “I just got out of prison. Give me a fucking cigarette.” And I said, “No.” He left, and on his way out he said, “Fuckin’ homo.” Not once have I ever been on the receiving end of homophobia. Ha. Get it? Receiving end? Anyway, no one’s ever been mean to me because of my sexuality. I’ve been called many names, like “idiot” and “moron” and “rockstar in bed” but never “faggot” or “fuckin’ homo” or whatever homegrown word you may have for guys who like the D. I couldn’t believe it. I felt an inkling of pride in my own weird, probably narcissistic way. I left the bodega and noticed Crazy Man had spit a little too close to a couple of Long Island bros in cargo shorts and flip-flops. One of them yelled, “You wanna fight, asshole?” Crazy Man shouted back, “I will fuck your mom, you FUCKIN’ HOMOS.” Okay, wait. It’s one thing to call me a fuckin’ homo. It’s another thing to call me a fuckin’ homo and then say the same thing to a couple guys who are obviously not fuckin’ homos (see: flip-flops, wanting to fight). Crazy Man had it right the first time, but then lost all credibility, and I’m back to having this hard life filled with tolerance and good friends.
I don’t know any cats that can afford $1,300 a month in rent.