Guys, I’m about to take a giant ship. Thank you so much! Thank you. Thank you so much… for being here. So… first up on the agenda is… I got engaged. Thank you. I appreciate that enthusiasm. I appreciate the applause because I live in Los Angeles and when you tell people in L.A. that you got engaged, they don’t applaud. You tell people in L.A. you got engaged, they’re, like, “Good for you. Good for…” So you tell people you got engaged, next obligatory thing out of their mouth is, like, “How did you guys meet? How did you meet?” I don’t like to tell people how we met. I don’t like to tell people how we met. It’s not bad. It’s not embarrassing. It’s just not cool. Like, we met on a dating app. Right, like all of you. Yeah. We met on a dating app, which is… less of a product of my lack of creativity and more a result of my generation. I’m a millennial. That’s how we meet each other, okay? Yeah. A dating app, at a bar, or it’s, like, “I got her pregnant. Well, Skylar will make a good mom.” That’s it. Some of you were so quiet when I said I was a millennial. Fuck you, okay? I am… 35. Which means I was born in 1983, which means I am… right at the cutoff. Okay, so I am a millennial, but I am an elder! Elder millennial! Wizened. Sage. Yes, gather ’round the Snapchat, children. I’ll tell you the tale… of the landline. Hello, goodbye. When I was a young girl… I once sent a text message from a Sidekick. I remember when Skechers were invented. They were ugly then. And they’re ugly now. In high school… we danced to a band called Sugar Ray.
How did you guys meet? You ask a girl, “How did you guys meet?” We want to tell you. We want to tell you… everything. We want to give you personal information, background story, ancillary information, anything information. Just say, “How did you meet?” Are you sitting down? Chapter One. In seventh grade, I showed an aptitude for the clarinet. We take it… back! We want you to know so much.
You ask a guy, “How did you guys meet?” Men don’t volunteer personal information as readily. Seldom will you meet a guy where you’re, like, “How did you guys meet?” And he’s, like, “So, I’m a Pisces, so I love faces.” A man’s objective is often to let you know not so much how they met, but to let you know that, like, “I could still fuck if I wanted to. ‘Cause I’m a fuck man. That’s how I do. I’m not gonna fuck you, cause I’m fucking her, but… I come from a long line of fuck men, all right? My daddy was a fuck man, my granddaddy was a fuck man. I fuck. I pack up this dick, on to the next town. Yeah. Fire in the hole. Fuck Man Terry, that’s what they call me.” Down at the Walgreens, whatever.
How did you guys meet? I say this next part as a woman that champions other women, as a woman who chose to be single for a very long time. I always feel, when single women ask me, “So, how did you guys meet?” It’s less about a genuine personal inquiry for me, and it’s more like they’re looking for clues, like, “Where did you find a suitor? Tell us your ways.” Like, you walk in… to a Trader Joe’s on a Sunday night. That’s when hot girls go grocery shopping. Like, I’m buying flowers for me, right? You walk into a Trader Joe’s with a ring on your left hand, single women can feel the vibrations of the ring. Like, “The ring! It mocks us!” And they… They come out of the frozen yogurt aisle… Lululemon, highlighted hair, like, “Tell us your ways, we wish to be betrothed as well. Secrets. Tell us. Be a girl’s girl.” There’s no secret, just so we’re clear. Don’t buy the books. Don’t buy the hype. Don’t listen… There’s no secret, okay?
I’m going to be 35 when I get married. And if there was a secret, I would have fucking used it. There’s no… secret. There’s no special magic to it. I’m never going to be, like, “Gather round, ladies. Off the 405 lies a toadhole… You must go to it.” No secret. Plus, chances are, if you are single and you are not enjoying that time in your life, you’re probably doing everything in your power to not be single. I don’t know a single girl out there that’s, like, “I hate being single. I don’t get it. I wash with ham and cat hair. Where is he? Where is he?”
Women have no problem letting people know that they are looking for a relationship. We shout it from the mountaintops. We take a seminar. We take a class, we ask around. Are you single Do you have a sister? I will take anything at this point. We let people know… We get license plates made like “LOOKIN4U.” Like, we let you know. I feel like men are more laissez-faire when it comes to relationships. I guess I fell into her, now we got four kids. It’s kind of… It’s less deliberate. Women are, like, “This way.” “I guess I’ll just go that way.” It just becomes. Their stories are less deliberate. I’ve asked a lot of guys, “How did you meet your girl?” I’ve noticed that about 80% of the stories sound very similar. 80% of the time it’s, like, “How did we meet? All right, well… I was out with my buddies. And you know me, I wasn’t looking for anybody. And then I saw her.” And that lie becomes… A big part of our narrative as women, this hope that we will go out and a man is going to see us, save us, rescue us. It’s this hope that we’re going to be seen and that’s going to happen for us. And we all have this sort of shared fantasy where you walk into a… a club or a bar with five of your girlfriends who look exactly like you. And you walk in and a man picks you out of the crowd, sees you for the beautiful soul that you are, like, decides… like, there’s some DJ up there and he looks out and he’s, like… “Her.” And you’re, like, “Me?” And then your life begins, right?
This is not our fault for expecting this or thinking this will happen. We have been taught this message since we were little girls. Princesses get saved. Snow White got saved by the prince. It was really the seven dwarves and she was, like, lost in a forest. But, like… seven men. Who is she? Right. Sleeping Beauty was saved when the prince kissed her while she was sleeping. Terrible moral. What do we take away from that? Generations of men, like, “No, you kiss ’em when they’re sleeping, they’re forever grateful. Officer.” So naturally we go out hoping to be discovered. There’s this weird thing where a lot of girls, when we’re single, we don’t want to admit that we’re going out hoping a man notices us. Of course you are, but we don’t want to seem desperate. I’m just going out with my girlfriends, in full makeup, with padded everything. This is just for fun. I’m just going out. It’s normal to want to be noticed by someone that you find attractive. That’s the caveat, okay? It’s normal… to want attention. Even in a relationship, you still have a beating heart. You still want people to let you know you’re attractive. If you’re with your guy, you’re holding his hand and you’re walking, and you see some hot guy, like, “You like that?” He’s like, “I like that.” Okay. No harm, no foul.
We all try this bullshit, like, “I’m not even trying.” Really? Then put a feed bag over your head. Carry an onion. You’re trying, okay? You don’t have to try that hard, but you’re going out. It’s nice to be noticed. So we all do it. Put on the makeup. Force our chub into some pants. You shove your coyote paws into some heels and we go out. You don’t even hunt. What do you do, girls? You just stand in a pack of six other women. Six other coyotes. Getting annoyed that no guy’s hitting on you? Yeah, there’s six of you. He’s terrified. We get annoyed so quickly when a guy doesn’t notice all the effort. So what do you say? Like, “This sucks, let’s take a lap.” So you just move… in a perfume cloud around the perimeter of the bar. Maybe they’re more progressive ten feet from here.
So this begs the question, as women, as feminists… Maybe some… one or two lazy guys might pause at the question. “How come the guy’s got to hit on the girl? You’re an independent woman. Why can’t a girl hit on a guy? Why can’t the girl hit on the guy?” God’s honest answer? ‘Cause we did all this. You fucking do something, Scott. That’s the answer. It’s a lot. Okay. A lot. I haven’t had bread in five months. It’s a lot, okay?
A big part of the reason women don’t hit on men is that women aren’t seen as equal to men. Therefore, when we step out of a traditional feminine role, and do something alpha and hit on a guy and he rejects us, it hurts that much more. And on a biological level, you know, at your core, he’s not rejecting you based on your shoes or your outfit. He’s rejecting… your eggs. You get up nerve to talk to a guy, like, “Excuse me, would you like my eggs?” “I don’t want those fucking eggs.” Please! I only have but a few.
Women aren’t seen as equal to men, so it’s uncomfortable to hit on men. There’s a lot more at risk for us. Maybe one day… in a utopia where men and women are considered equal, maybe one day we can hit on men unencumbered by self-esteem issues. But as it stands now, that’s not something we can do. Our grandmothers didn’t hit on men. Our mothers didn’t hit on men. Maybe one day. Maybe my generation changes it. It’s too late. But… maybe my generation, with the hashtags and the tweets, maybe we’ll change it so that our great-granddaughters can hit on men. Yes, that’s the dream, that we do the work now so that our great-granddaughters will know the thrill of hitting on a half-in-the-bag Guido outside a taco truck at 2 a.m. ‘Tis but a dream.
Another big part of the reason that women don’t hit on men is that men are better at dealing with rejection. Sexually. Women are not used to dealing… with rejection… when it comes to sex. We’re used to dealing with rejection when it comes to… governing our own bodies, having our own thoughts, getting paid the same as a man, but… when it comes… When it comes to sexual rejection, men deal with it more than women because they have more at bats. They hit on women more. Ask the guy next to you, “When was the last time you were sexually rejected?” He’ll be, like, “You mean in the Uber on the way here Like, behind that plane while you were in the bathroom? Be specific.” ‘Cause every guy knows… it’s about the at bats. It’s about how many times can you hit on a girl. ‘Cause you know eventually one’s going to say yes. When men first start going out, it’s about quantity over quality, like, “Hey, sweetheart! You’re ugly anyway. How about you?” You keep going through it. Every guy knows you got to kiss a lot of frogs if you’re gonna what, guys? Fuck a frog, that’s right. So… ‘Cause he knows. They’re not going to admit it to you, every guy knows If he hits on, like, 20 women in a night, one’s gotta say yes. Like, one gross-out’s gotta be, like… “Yeah, all right.” 2 a.m. It’s his Hail Mary, at the buzzer pass, the lights are coming on, he’s like, “How about you?” Some girl will turn around and be, like, “Okay. Can we wash my hump before we make love? Just kidding. It’s an egg.
So… By that same token, men aren’t allowed to have feelings in our society, which isn’t fair. You’re expected to move past it, work through it. Get over it. Women don’t get over… anything. No, we don’t get over it. Instead, we hold onto it. We hold onto that rejection. We hold onto it. We pluck it out of space-time and we examine it from hindsight. We put it in different scenarios. We bring in experts, like, “Stacy, get over here! Remember that guy, took me to Coachella, never called again? Shall we drive to his house?” And sometimes… we hold onto the pain of our rejection so tight… that they become part… of the makeup of our personalities. And then we get to use the pain of that past rejection, ladies, as an excuse for why we are the weird brand of fucked-up that we are, now! ‘Cause he broke up with me over breakfast, so now I don’t drink milk, and I’m annoying. Like, it’s always… something. Every girl in here remembers almost every time she was rejected. Because, for women, it doesn’t happen as much as for men. And every human remembers the first time they were rejected. I’ll go first. Fourth grade. So… We were going to sit down for circle time. I went and sat by a boy that I thought was cute. And he told me to go away. Now, he’s dead. Now I don’t sit in circles any more.
But we cherish our rejections. They give us texture, personality. We take each one and we label it. We label each issue, each past grievance, in its own Mason jar. It’s very rustic. Pin it. And we put it… into our sack of emotional baggage. Each one. He broke up with me because I slept with his brother. They’re twins. They should have worn different color hats or something. I was set up. And we put it… into our baggage, and we throw that baggage over our shoulder and what do we do, girls? We then walk it into the new relationship. Yes. And the best part is, the new boyfriend… has no idea… what you’re hauling. And he welcomes you. Yes, he welcomes you to the new union. Come on in. You seem pretty cool and well-adjusted. And you’re, like, “Oh, I am! Yes, this seems like a safe place for me to… unpack my shit!”
Another big reason women don’t hit on men is because men… typically don’t find strong women attractive. They don’t. Your date’s going to look at you, like, “No way, babe. I love a strong woman.” Bullshit, Chad, okay? They love vulnerability. It’s very attractive when a woman is vulnerable. Why is that? Men are very physical creatures. Women are very verbal. Men are very physical. When a woman is vulnerable, hypothetically, it would mean… that she needs physical help. When a man feels he can be of help, physically, then he feels needed, and that makes him feel good and attractive. When a man feels he can insert himself. No pun intended. Fuck it. We’re making a comedy show. Pun intended, okay? You got to give him something to do. We, as women, a lot of times fault men for not communicating the way we do. Women speak more words on average than men. It’s not that one’s better or dumber than the other, it’s the way we are. We talk at you. “I wanna be communicative about being communicative. You’re not saying anything. Why? You’re being uncommunicative. And I want to talk about how much I hate Stacy. When you meet her, you’re gonna.” We have to have… He’s just sitting there, like, “Mongo, no.” Like, it’s scary. If you have any doubt a guy likes you, don’t always look for the words, look for the actions. They will show you. I wish someone had told this to me when I was in my 20s. When you’re younger, you’re, like, “He’s not texting back. He’s busy. He’s at work. His family died.” There’s no bullshit like that. When a guy likes you, he shows up. If you have any doubt the guy likes you, give him something to do. If a guy likes you, he’ll do anything. Will you carry this glittery brick of cat shit? He’s, like, “No problem.” When a guy likes you, carrying your purse isn’t an issue. They’ll carry your bags if they’re heavy. They’ll put gas in the car if you don’t want to deal. They’ll check under the hood for the… thing, I don’t know. But they’ll do that.
It’s very attractive when a woman is vulnerable and needs help. And that’s historically always been that way. I didn’t make that up. That’s why the term is… “damsel in distress”. Not “overly opinionated dyke who needs a fucking hand, man!” That’s why. If a woman can do it herself, it’s not as attractive. Put it this way. If we’re all animals, okay? And men are… lions. And women are, like, gazelles. What’s a lion, if he’s hungry, more likely to go after? The gazelle, running at 90, unencumbered by a self-esteem issue? Like, I own my home and have a Ph.D. I enjoy witty banter, I just put a down payment on a boat, and I don’t hate my daddy. Onward! Or… remember he’s hungry. Or… the gazelle with the broken hoof, like, “Help, how does basketball work?” Like, what? An easier meal. Side note. I am aware that it’s the lioness not the lion that does the hunting. Let’s pretend that lion was a bachelor and hadn’t met his wife yet. Okay, so… We got the zoologist questions out of the way.
So… I will stand up here, and perhaps women in your life you consider strong will stand before you and tell you, “Be strong, do it your way, be tough.” It’s one thing to say that, and for a lot of women it’s very difficult to live that when everything that we’re taught tells us the opposite. Every movie we’ve seen since we were little girls has an opposite message. In movies, it’s not the strong girl, the funny girl, the brave girl, the smart girl, the loud girl, the opinionated girl who gets the hot guy. No, girls like me get, like, fucking Steve Zahn and Jonah Hill. Like, that’s what… She is funny, he looks funny, then they’ll fuck funny and appreciate each other. And it’s always… it’s always the quiet girl. Right, the new girl that gets, like, Channing Tatum. It’s always the girl that doesn’t realize how beautiful she is. The girl that isn’t funny, isn’t opinionated. The subtext of that message is, “That’s right. That’s right, girls. Men don’t like a lippy woman, so zip it, honey.” It’s always the girl that doesn’t know she’s hot. Which, by the way, that Hollywood archetype? Bullshit. Okay? It’s bullshit. Because you fucking know when you’re hot. No one’s walking around, like, “What do I do with these giant tits and thin legs?” How did I get on this Victoria’s Secret catwalk? I’m choking on my silky hair.” Like, you know. We keep seeing the same story over and over. It’s about the girl that’s unsure of herself, and a guy sees through it, and she realizes how beautiful she is when she takes off her glasses… it’s the same thing. Always the girl, like, “I don’t know if I should go out.” The girls that are outgoing that maybe enjoy their bodies, are confident, like, “Let’s go out!” “I don’t know. I should stay home. I’ve never left the house before.” We’re taking you out. Let’s go drink, let’s go dance– I should stay in. Stay in and study. We’re 35. What are you fucking talking about? Let’s go! Walk into the nightclub, all the girls that are confident are dancing, they’re having fun. Like, “Hey, Channing Tatum!” He’s, like, “Later, hookers. I want her!” All the girls– “Uh-uh. Her.” Cut to our hero, she’s just sitting there in a corner, just… maybe she wore, like, board shorts to the club. She has no idea. She’s reading a book. Maybe she has brown hair. Whatever. Before you get all offended at that, look at all of our eyebrows. We all have brown hair, okay. Maybe not you, I don’t know. I don’t see any pure Norwegians here, okay?
This joke isn’t about shaming that type of woman. This joke is not about that. Whatever kind of woman you are, quiet, fat, small, big or tall, loud, you don’t know much, you got a gill, whatever kind of woman you are… you are right. That’s it. Whatever you’ve chosen to be… whatever you want to be… you are correct in being that as long as you’re happy. My point to you, is if you are the shy type, if you are the wallflower, if you are the shrinking violet, if you are another… floral metaphor that has to do… with being an introvert, my point to you is that you don’t want the guy who wants you because of that energy. A man who wants a woman because she looks scared… is a sexual predator. Okay? All these girls that he could hit on, he picks the one that’s shivering like a wet chihuahua. Like a nervous street urchin just in a corner putting out all kinds of “no” vibes. You don’t want the guy that walks up, like, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice you look terrified. Wanna see my dick?”
So… “I was out with my buddies. I wasn’t looking for anyone. And I saw her.” The idea… that in a nightlife setting… that the man would ever see the woman… before the woman saw the man. No. Women are astute, but moreover, women are the ones with the biological clocks. Women are the ones with the socially predetermined shelf life. Women are the ones who are cantilevered off the edge of high heels. We’ve got five hours before we take them off and walk through a lobby flat-foot, okay. Women are the ones whose skin and foundation is dehydrating with every alcoholic beverage imbibed. We are the ones on a time crunch, on a schedule, okay? You saw me first? Bullshit, motherfucker. I clocked you! Like, the second you walked in. Dudes walk in in a pack, unaware, like, “I’d better fill out this bracket, or I’ll turn into a pumpkin at midnight.” You’re not even… You walked in, I was already hunting with five other women. He walked in and I was, like, “Hold!” And then we stalked around you. Encircled you, sussed you out, like a German shepherd sniffing out an IED in the sand, motherfucker. Like, we…
A lot of times, men pride themselves on being very observant, right? Ever date a guy that, you go to a restaurant, can’t sit with his back to the door? “I gotta sit with my back to the wall so I can assess all entrance and exit points. I gotta make sure that–” Okay, while you’re checking out the people eating at Denny’s, I checked your fucking credit score, okay? While you were doing counter-surveillance, I looked you up and down, I gave you a pre-cancer mole check. It’s benign, move on. I looked at everything. “I’m an alpha. I gotta look at the door.” If you ever date a man that says he’s an alpha… he’s a beta. So… A lion doesn’t tell you he’s a lion. He just lets the girl hunt for him.
Okay, so… So, we look at everything. You think men judge women harshly? They do. But, gentlemen, you have no idea what we’re looking at. We’re judging your hair, your shoes, we scan you, like Predator. Every atom, every molecule of your DNA, we go through it like… “Scanning for physical abnormalities. Is he balding Is that a goatee Is his shirt unbuttoned too low for his ethnicity? Is he wearing embroidered jeans? If so, is he a European male or just someone from Arizona?” Like, we go through it. We go through it. We aren’t looking to see if you’re the hottest guy ever. Nay. We are merely assessing if you’re 50% attractive enough that we want to put the effort into putting ourselves in your orbit. So that, in an hour, after a drink or two, you, gentlemen, have the luxury of turning around and being, like, “Oh, excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice.” Then we turn around, like… Really? That’s it. Just set it up for you to knock it down.
A lot of times it’s not that easy. We see a guy we think is cute… and he doesn’t notice us, so we have to make you… notice us. A lot of times, we get our girlfriend to help us. Every girl’s done this. There’s a boy over there you think is cute, you’re, like, “Come here. Do you see that guy, over there? Over there. Over there. Do you see him Are you looking? Don’t look! Do you see him Is he looking He’s looking? Start dancing. Come here, keep talking. Say something funny so I don’t look like a loser.” You’re trying to put out… this vibe that you’re so carefree. ‘Cause you, and don’t lie about this, you want him to look over and be, like, “There will never be another, there has never been another. She is the one.” You want him to be so taken. “She looks like she doesn’t need a man, so carefree.” I’m so carefree, I don’t use condoms! So effortless. If he was close, he wouldn’t be hearing it. From afar, you want him to hear… Sports. If he were close, what he’d actually hear is your– Like, you’re trying so hard. Please! He’s going to find you, he’ll see you at some point. There’s only so many places in a bar, a club, that your eyes can fall. He’s going to see you. This is the important part girls, okay? You’re out there, it’s a competitive situation. There’s a lot of girls, there’s a lot of bars. He’s gonna look at you, that’s your chance, okay? That’s your chance. You’ve only got one shot. It’s like 8 Mile, but with flirting. Hopefully there’s no vomit on your shirt. Maybe it’s a good thing. He’d be, like, “She parties!” I don’t know. He’s going to look over, the lights are going to reflect and refract, and they’ll hit you both and he’s gonna see you, and that’s your chance, ladies, to fucking stick it, and pose, like a peacock in heat that you are. Just… Don’t dance like that.
Little bit of insight to stand-up comedy, and the risk and reward with choosing certain jokes. That joke is a risk because I realize not every one here knows… what a peacock sounds like. But for, like, the 12 of you that knew, it was so worth it for me. And for the rest of you, the good news is you don’t ever have to hear a peacock, ’cause that was, like, top ten peacock impressions you’re going to hear… tonight. I hate it. I hate the noise. I’m allowed to make fun of peacocks, ’cause I grew up with them. What I find so unsettling, if I might divert from the stand-up to a TED Talk about ornithology for two seconds, the… it’s the dip in the mating call that gives me… It’s just not… We, as avian enthusiasts, which is why you’ve come to my comedy show… enjoy consistency in a mating call. Like, a crow or a raven is like… It just goes. Right? And a dove and its low-rent cousin, the pigeon, that’s just… Right? The dove and the bird it loans money to, just… Right? And we all know a warbler goes like… “I’m a warbler.” I don’t know. And then… and the bald eagle is, like, “Fucking freedom!” Okay, so… we know. To me, the peacock sounds like a tired hooker. Like he’s just standing on the corner, like, “You want a fuck or what? I already paid for the room.” Another side note, I realize the peacock is the male. They’re the ones with the plumage. The female peacock is a peahen. Their colors are muted. So really it’s a feminist joke ’cause it’s about a male prostitute.
Mmm, okay, so… So you peacock and he sees you, and he walks up. “I couldn’t help but notice…” And you start talking, maybe you have some drinks, maybe you dance, maybe you exchange numbers, maybe you start to date. Now, I happen to think the very beginning of a new relationship is the most exciting part of the relationship. Granted, I’m not married yet, so, technically, I’ve only had beginnings of relationships. I don’t know. I can’t say empirically how fun being married is. I’ll tell you on the next comedy special what that’s all about. But I don’t know. The beginning of a relationship is exciting because it’s brand new. You’re both on your best behavior, it’s still electric, you’re not totally sure about the history of mental illness in each family. It’s fun. And the most nerve-wracking part of a new relationship when you’re younger, is the first time a boy comes over to your apartment. ‘Cause it’s ostensibly like your girlfriend audition time. You want him to come in and be, like, “It’s so homey. I’d like to stay forever.” Yes, come closer. Like, that’s what you want. You try so hard in your 20s, right? Because you’re young, and it’s fun. That’s your 20s. In your 30s… In your 30s, homeboy knocks on the door, you open it, you’re in combat boots, nothing else, and a garbage can on fire, you’re, like, “Welcome to Fuckdome, Scott.” Ticket? Okay, so… But it’s interesting, in your 20s, it’s a weird mental game. Boy’s coming over for the first time, you’re trying to reconcile the beautiful home that your mother kept that you lived in growing up, with the beautiful home that, like, Pinterest says you’re supposed to have. And the fact that you have no fucking money, so… Should I buy a rug or eat dinner? I don’t know. It’s so hard.
Boy’s coming over, you are cleaning like you’ve never cleaned before, and it’s hard because women secretly are… filthy. No one wants to laugh about it. “Not me!” And no guy wants to imagine, like, “No way, my girlfriend’s so hot.” Yeah Check the center console of her car. She’s owned that car for a decade. Every year, the shit just piles up. You open it, like, “I didn’t know an Acura came with a time capsule!” You shut it. You open it again. You just hear, “Help!” There’s something in there. It’s our little filthy secret stockpile, right? It’s a Now That’s What I Call Music CD. “In case they come back!” Yeah. It’s one of those cables that plugs from the tape player into the CD player. It’s spilled nail polish, it’s a little bit of weed dust. It’s a… Calgon body spray, ’cause you’d rather smell like a stripper than weed. It’s that… It’s a Lip Smacker, Dr Pepper flavor, that’s just… lying there with a gash in the wax neck, like, “Tell my children I died well.” Like it’s… it’s an iPhone 4 charger. It’s some McDonald’s napkins. It’s a French fry. Times that center console by a million… in her apartment. You are just cleaning with Swiffer and Brawny. It’s like a winter wonderland of paper towels. You’re just shoving shit under the rugs. You didn’t build a shelf, I dunno how that fucking works. You’re just moving everything, you take everything– You put your coats in the oven. Burn ’em! I live in L.A. Take everything. Put your cat in a hamper for now, Marbles. We don’t know how he feels about cats. Taking everything, you’re cleaning. You’re discovering new rooms in your apartment. How come the water heater gets its own closet? Fuck it! You beg your gross-out roommate, “Please, just stay in your room. You’re so fucking disgusting.” She’s there, on a throne of Wendy’s wrappers, like, “Okay! You text me dick pics.” Hello. Shut the door. Cleaning. Lighting Glade candles like it’s a fucking Catholic mass. Smells like ham in here! You’re just trying to make it nice. He opens the door. You’re, like, “Hi!” He walks in. He’s, like, “Oh, place is cool.” You’re, like, “Fuck you.”
And there’s an art, by the way, to the outfit you wear the first time a boy comes over to your place at night. You don’t want to wear… what you wore during the day. Don’t want work clothes. You don’t want to wear your daytime clothes, ’cause… ’cause it’s nighttime. What if that was the end of my show? I hit my head. You don’t want to wear your civilian clothes, okay. ‘Cause you had a whole day. Maybe you sweat in them, they’re gross. However, at the other end of the sartorial spectrum, you don’t want to go, like, super hardcore sexy the first time a guy’s coming over. Just relax. You don’t want to wear nipple tassels. Now… some women are, like, “Wait a minute.” I am the woman that has stood here before and will stand here before you again and let you know you can wear whatever you want. It doesn’t give a man the right to put his hands on you. No always means no. That’s like a boiler-plated given. No means no. Kindergarteners get it. I don’t know why we forget that as adult males, but… no means no. This is less about that, and more about just being mentally kind to the other person. You show up in that, he’ll be, like, “Oh, my god!” The blood’s gonna go from here to his dick, he’s gonna impale himself, he’s gonna sue you, and you ain’t got no money. So… just be kind, because, mentally, it’s like, “Maybe she wants me. I don’t know. Oh, my god.” It’s frustrating. You know, girls, it’d be like if you have the worst day, you came home to your boyfriend, like… “I had the worst day. I got fired, and… I cried in front of everyone and… I ate that French fry from my car. It was just such a hard day.” Your boyfriend’s like, “Aw, babe. You want to talk about it?” You’re, like, “Yeah.” He’s, like, “Just kidding. Psych.” That’s what it would be like.
So the question is, if I can’t wear work clothes, I can’t wear nipple tassels, what’s a girl to do? There’s an entire, sort of intermediary, post-dinner, pre-bedtime apparel world. There’s a whole category of clothing that you, as women, have mastered without even realizing it. The category is called athleisure wear. This is an entire clothing category. It’s a multi-billion-dollar clothing category predicated on the idea that, as a woman, sometimes you don’t have time to change when you’re going from the boardroom to Pilates. There’s no fucking way. You gotta be ready. Sometimes you’re going right from spin to open-heart surgery, and you’ve got to look good. That’s– Spin to open-heart surgery What are you fucking talking about? So what is athleisure wear? It’s athletic apparel you wouldn’t really work out in. Right? So it’s… yoga pants with, like, a racing stripe. You just… race to your snacks. Sometimes it’s like a complicated tank top. It’s, like, not quite supportive. They’re, like, “It’s backless.” What do you do? “You don’t wear a bra.” I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say? I don’t wear a bra? So if the athletic part comes into play, and I have to run, it’s gonna be… No! My whole life… they’ve been pitching to me, “It’s a tank top, there’s a shelf built in.” It’s a… Go fuck your shelf, okay? I want a bra. I want a bra! We do that. Sometimes we’ll do, like, a push-up bra under the tank. Show the strap off. It’s got to be a cute strap. Not beige. No one goes, “Ooh, beige.” Like magenta. ‘Cause that’s not as sexy as red. Magenta’s like, “Maybe we’ll fuck.” Red’s like, “We’re gonna fuck!” Push-up bra. That’s what we do for you, gentlemen. You have no idea… of the sacrifices. Not a woman here wears a push-up bra when she’s at home with the flu. No one walking around, like, “I just like it when my nipples are near my tongue.” It’s just safer that way. He gets to be comfortable. You’re all bundled up, sitting there in a push-up bra on your couch, drinking with this dude you’re having a date with. He’s got his shoes off, shirt off. You’re suffocating under your own tits, watching House Hunters. Crown molding.
You’re all dressed up, have a nice night. Maybe sleep together, maybe you don’t. That’s not what I’m interested in. What I want to talk about is the next morning, when he goes to leave. What I’ve always found so endearing about men… I find many things endearing about you. But… you think… we stay… that put-together… once you’re gone. You have no idea. They have no idea… what lies beneath. You have no idea… that under the hair, and the make-up, and the lashes, and the shelf, and the bras… for every woman, lies the beating heart of a hungry… exhausted… annoyed… she-dragon! And she is waiting to come out. She comes out every couple hours. Like opinions, sweat, urine. Hopefully you pee more than every couple hours, still. She’s got to. You gotta let her out, and she’s waiting. And homeboy is taking forever to leave, he’s, like, “All right, I guess I’ll give you a call later.” Your dragon’s, like, “Get out! Get out. I got to take a shit. Get out! Get rid of him. I gotta go in that bathroom I share with another grown woman and take a Jurassic thunderdump, mostly in the bowl, then send him a picture like I’m doing something hot.” Hey. “Get out!”
I feel like the boys here don’t believe me. That breaks my heart. I want you to trust me, okay? You don’t believe me that there’s a dragon inside every woman. I will prove it to you. Are you ready? There’s no zipper, okay. I’ll let you prove it to yourselves. Tomorrow, when you leave your girl, okay, and you’re saying goodbye at the door… here’s what you want to do. Look deep in her eyes. This is great, because, she’ll be, like, “Oh, my god, he’s mesmerized by me. This is amazing. I’m doing amazing.” Great, let her think that. It buys you time, gentlemen. Because what you’re looking for in her eyes is like a nictitating membrane, okay. For those who don’t know, it’s the lid under the lid that keeps the sand out. You need more Planet Earth from Netflix in your lives, okay. That’s what you’re looking for. If you want to see… the dragon come out on its own, just prolong your goodbye, ’cause that dragon’s coming out. Nothing you can do about it. Just take a little longer. All right, well, I have your number, right? Lemme make sure. Okay, great, you have my number. Bye! You’re just flying round your own studio apartment. You can’t go outside. You will get shot down. Like, this isn’t fucking King’s Landing. Like, you can’t… you’re just doing it for the cardio. Tiny pulses, ladies. We’re toning, we’re firming. You fly into your kitchen. You land on your counter. You’re hungry, right? So you take out a talon. You skewer an entire sleeve of Oreos. You toast it.
Your dragon body and your farts aren’t the only thing you’ve been holding in all night. You’ve also been holding in… your intentions. We have this really nasty habit in our society of labeling women very cruel and unfair things when they express their desire for very normal things. Monogamy, exclusivity, a relationship, a family, babies. Right? We like to call them desperate, sad, psychos, baby crazy. “We’ve been married for six years. She already wants a kid! I’m a fuck man! They can’t get me.” It’s very normal to want these things. And we like to chastise women for this. And so, as women, sometimes we don’t speak our truth. You go on a first date, and a guy says, “Do you want to have kids?” And you say no. Or I don’t know. When you do know. Because you don’t want to what? Scare them off. By the way… if you’re the kind of woman that doesn’t want kids, you’re still a woman. This joke’s not about you. Wait your turn, okay. Another “by the way.” Gentlemen… you ask a girl if she wants to have kids, and she says yes… it doesn’t necessarily mean with you. And it’s interesting… because your views about relationships or marriage or children do change the older you get. Some girls are in the crowd, in your 20s, you’re, like, “Whatever, elder millennial. I don’t care. I’m 20. I’m going to be a gypsy and make jewelry out of cat noses. Yeah. I don’t care.” I get it. That’s totally fair. I was like that at one point. Society tells you over and over, they say, “How old are you?” “I’m 23.” “Oh, my god, you have so much time.” And you do. But not much. So… It’s not about deciding now, it’s about not writing it off totally. Because I never thought about it, God’s honest truth. I wasn’t anti or for. I figured you get a boyfriend, life goes on. When I was in my 20s, I loved– still do– stand-up, traveling, working. And I figured, when you turn 30, the government issues you a house, an okay-looking husband, a baby, a plant, you’re done! I never thought about it. And it’s interesting, because my reaction to children, and I don’t know how many kids I want. I don’t want like a Duggar situation, but maybe one. One cool baby. I don’t know. I’d be in the airport in my 20s and I’d hear a baby cry. All the women would be, like, “Oh, my god, it’s a child.” I’d be, “Oh, my god, don’t sit by me. Like, that’s all. Get it away.” It’s interesting, ’cause I never thought about it. It changes slightly, the chemistry, the way you think about it.
I was in the airport the other day. There was a baby there. And the baby made a big mistake. ‘Cause that baby… let a chubby baby leg… hang from his blankie. I had to squeeze it. I was, like, “What is this feel–” I found myself moving toward the mother. And I knew… intrinsically, I knew… she would let me squeeze his leg. Because women don’t fear other women. When it comes to children, not like the corporate ladder or dating, but… she knows I’m not creepy and I mean that baby no harm. That’s something we can trade on as women. Women aren’t scary. Late at night, if a woman’s walking toward you, you don’t cross to the other side. I mean, you do if she’s, like, “Purple hippo!” When you’re in an elevator and a woman gets on, you don’t clutch your purse and back up a little. Women aren’t scary and women aren’t creepy. That’s an important thing to remember. No matter what we get faulted for, and we’ll get faulted for a lot, things like aging, things you can totally control. No matter how much weight you gain, how many wrinkles you get, no matter how opinionated you are, no matter what you become as a woman, women are welcome around public parks and children’s birthday parties. Always. I could go to an elementary school right now in a hospital gown, with a raccoon on a leash… and the children would be, like, “You have a weird dog.” Because of that inherent fact that women are not creepy. Men. All you’ve got to do is part your hair wrong. So I get up near this baby, I wipe the sweat from my brow, I calm myself and say to the woman, “Excuse me, hi. I need to squeeze your baby’s leg.” She was, like, “Absolutely! Get in there! Get in there! His name is Charlie.” She gave me his blood type, his social security number… There’s an art to squeezing a baby leg. You’re not actually squeezing. You’re taking your pincher fingers, and you’re putting it like this, and lightly oscillating… allowing the fat to rapidly undulate… so fast it looks like a fluid motion, not unlike the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings, okay. This is how I give a hand job. Baby leg! Any pressure you would apply to said leg, you divert up to your back molar, and you grind it. When you feel enamel starting to break down, that’s how you know you gotta get out of there, okay. You know you’re at maximum capacity for cuteness when you start making thinly veiled threats to the child. I’m going to eat that leg. I’m gonna bite that nose! The mom was into it! She was, like, “Eat his fucking leg!” I’m gonna eat that leg. “Bite his fucking nose!” I’m gonna eat that nose! Everyone’s into it, except the kid who’s being the adult. He’s, like, “What the fuck is this?” Baby leg.
So… back to our original narrative. You’re a dragon in your kitchen. And those maternal, we don’t have to restrict it to just women. Paternal, parental. Those maternal urges start to bubble up. Because they’re unrealized. You did not verbalize last night on your date that you might, one day, possibly, with the right person, want kids. It’s bubbling up, you’re sitting there, eating your Oreos, like… Baby. I want a child. Family. Baby. Who’s the baby? You look over and who do 100% of us take out our parental urges on? Our pets. Who’s the baby? Your dog is sitting there, like, “Oh, fuck, it’s me!” And you, scoop him up, you don’t give him a chance to run. You sweep all four legs, Daniel-san, just… And you throw him on his back! The dog’s, like, “This is not natural!” And then you start to rock it. Now you’re a psychopath. Who’s the baby? And the dog’s, like, “Please, I’m nauseous!” You’re an angel. Who wants kisses, who wants kisses? The dog doesn’t know they’re kisses. All the dog sees are your canine incisors coming at his face. This tooth right here is what lets him know that you’re a fucking carnivore. Human beings don’t get this close to other human beings’ faces unless it’s like a UFC weigh-in, like, “I’m gonna eat you, motherfucker!” That’s exactly… Who’s the baby? The dog’s, like, “Please put me down!” Who wants belly kisses? “Please don’t bite my dick!” It doesn’t even occur to you that he might be terrified. You’re, like, “Oh, he loves his mama.” He loves– He loves you? Next time, notice the Cirque du Soleil stunt your dog is willing to pull… to get away from your love. He’s, like, “I died well!” Dog looks up at you. Closes his blouse. Goes and hides under something he deems impenetrable, like a kitchen chair. “Yes, from behind these four legs, I will lead the war.”
What’s really fucked-up… is that ten minutes later… the dog has forgotten. He’s forgotten the broad strokes… of the abuse. Here’s what he knows. He knows something bad… happened. He knows… something bad will happen again. And again, and again. He also knows… that he loves you. But he’s conflicted. Because he knows that the person he loves… is the one who’s going to make the bad thing happen. It’s like Stockholm syndrome meets Groundhog Day. Here’s what’s even more fucked-up. Ten minutes later… you need another hit. You’re just coming down off your high, you’re, like, “I gotta go to the grocery store. I’ve got a callback–” Who’s the baby? This time he doesn’t remember. He’s, like, “I don’t know! I don’t know. Why don’t I remember?” You’re getting closer. Who’s the baby? “I don’t know.” The dog’s having very blurry flashbacks of teeth, and kisses, and belly rubs. It’s like Westworld for dogs. Who’s the baby? “I don’t know! Leave me alone!” Who’s the baby? “I don’t know! I don’t know who the–” He looks down at his arm and there’s a tattoo that just says… “You’re the baby.” You’re the baby.
So, I’m getting married. One of the lovely things about the man that I’m marrying is that he has never asked me to change anything about myself. This is a very weird job. We’re on a ship. I’m telling jokes. Those things don’t go together. He’s always been respectful of my job, he’s never asked that I not go, not go to work, that I not take a gig. The only thing he’s ever asked that I not do was a couple of weeks ago, we were getting ready for bed, and I came out, dressed, and he looked at me and went, “Babe. Love you. Can you not wear men’s basketball shorts to bed?” And I was, like, “Interesting request. Proceed.” He goes, “Uh… Love you. Think you’re beautiful. It’s just that… I’m not as attracted to you and I don’t really want to have sex with you… when you’re in men’s basketball shorts.” I was, like, “Oh… that’s the idea! Thanks for the ring, fucker!” He’s sitting in the back, like, “We fuck. I mean…”
My dad’s also here so that was a weird take, so… A big part of getting married is you have to buy a wedding dress. And this is just one more milestone in our lives as women where other women don’t clue us in on how terrible it actually is. We say we’re girls’ girls and feminists, but none of us, like, give the truth about girl things. We act like it’s sugar and spice, I keep my cereals in canisters like a psycho, I’m doing it, yoga. Okay. Everything, every big thing in a woman’s life. Oh, you had your period? Welcome to being a woman. There’s no homegirl, like, “You’re gonna wanna rip out your ovaries, and hate your body, and you’re gonna cry. You’re gonna want a lot of chocolate. Probably not even go to school. Your skin’s gonna break out. Welcome to womanhood. Get in the game.” They don’t say that, okay? You’re having a baby? Oh, it’s so beautiful. “Come here. You’re gonna shit yourself. Then society’s gonna judge you ’cause you didn’t get your body back like that.” “You’re getting a wedding dress? Oh, it’s so magical. So magical. You show up. It’s so magical. You show up. Your mother is there. She doesn’t tell you you look tired. You’ve lost so much weight, every dress just cascades off of you. A modeling coach walks by and says, ‘She’s too beautiful for the runway.’ You stand there. Your best friends are there, and they… And none of them are jealous. And a dove brings you the perfect silken… and it just…” No. It’s you standing there at a dress shop in West Hollywood with your mom on FaceTime asking you how FaceTime works. Just use the button! Ask somebody near you! There’s some Russian seamstress at the bottom, like, “Your hips are too wide for this cut. You should not try it on.” Then you go eat Chick-fil-A. Like, that’s buying a wedding dress. So, I was trying on wedding dresses, and I figured I should go with a big princess dress, because that’s the chance to wear it, so I put it on, and I come out… and I realize, if that’s the kind of dress you wear, if you extrapolate your wedding dress from the actual day… you’re dressed like a lunatic. For, like, deeply disturbing psychological reasons. You’re, like, “I’m a pretty princess. I’m a pr–” No, you’re Gaby, and you work in HR. You are not a pr– “No, I’m a pretty princess.” And all of your maids have to agree with you, like, “Yes, fairest of all.” “I’m a pr– I’m a ballerina princess! ‘Cause I’ve got Arena shoes. ‘Cause I’m Daddy’s ballerina. I’m a pretty princess. Bring me Snow White’s heart on a platter.” So I’m trying all different dresses, and there’s this weird phenomenon with women, when you try on more than three articles of clothing. There is no fourth. You just start crying. There’s something about incandescent lighting hitting your fat cells that actually makes them multiply on the spot. You get angry. Do you ever do this move where you hit your fat, hoping to pop it? It doesn’t. It just leaves a bruise, then you can’t wear shorts.
So… I started to get upset and I did the mistake that all women do. I started to get angry about something on my body I couldn’t control. Every girl’s got a thing that she hates about herself that’s impossible to change. For me, I don’t like how tall I am. That makes it sound like I’m tall. I wish I were taller. So tall. To you, like, “She’s so tall.” ‘Cause I’m this big on your TV. But I am 5’5″. And it kills me. It’s not short enough that– “Do you shop at Gap Kids? You’re so petite!” No. And it’s not tall enough that people assume I’m a natural athlete. I’m just this average… 5’5″… member of the proletariat marching to pick a size 7 shoe. Like, it’s just… Anytime you tell another woman what you don’t like about yourself, they never let you say it. Oh, I’d kill to have your hair. I’d kill to have your beak, I love your feathers. It’s like… So, I’m sitting there, getting ready to pick out a dress for my wedding, and I was angry. That’s not an emotion you want to attach… to your wedding. I started to feel sad, and, for me, when I get upset about something, I attach it to literally everything else in my life. And it spirals. It’s not about the dress, it’s about how I feel about the dress, it’s how I feel about me, I’ll marry my dog, we’ll live in the woods! Like, it just goes, like that. Started to get real angry about my body ’cause it wasn’t fitting perfectly into the right dress that I wanted. I stopped and was, like, “If I’m feeling this way right now, there’s gotta be other women who feel this way.”
So I’m going to say this ’cause I wish I’d given myself this pep talk that day. Here’s the truth. Girls, your bodies are perfect… and normal… and functional… and beautiful. There’s always one girl in back with a horn. “What about me?” No. Not you! Shave it. Quit following me. But we’ve been brainwashed into trying to live up to this Instagram Photoshop example of what beauty is. And some girls do look like that. Fuck them. No, some girls do. There’s always something you don’t like. We have to stop faulting ourselves for things that are very normal. “I’ve got cellulite. What if he doesn’t want to have sex with me ’cause I have cellulite?” Well, 100% of women have some form of cellulite. If he doesn’t want to fuck you ’cause you got cellulite, he’d better start fucking dudes, ’cause… there’s no other option till the robots take over. Moreover, he doesn’t want to have that conversation. A guy doesn’t find it attractive when you verbalize over and over how much you hate something. “But my cellulite? I showed it to you.” Look at that. I’ll make a face out of it.” He doesn’t… The conversation he wants to have is the following. “Let me ask you a question. Are you going to continue to breathe during intercourse?” You’re, like, “Yeah, I was planning on it.” He’s, like, “Then we’re cool. That holds up in court… I found out.” But I’ve got this, and chub, and I don’t like my arms. And I have stretch marks, from growing from an infant! And I don’t want to be this hand-holding, like, “Every woman is perfect.” Look, you might not be perfect, okay. I’m not here to judge that, if you’re not, if you are. What I say is it’s up to you to decide how much you love your body. Fuck everybody else. Don’t fuck them– Not literally. But… if it makes you feel good! It probably won’t. It’s up for you to decide, because we get so upset, and you know what? The guy you like probably isn’t even going to notice the thing you hate. Most people won’t. Men won’t. Most of the things, a guy is not going to notice. They’re not that observant. 40% of men can only see three colors. 40% of the men here don’t know that that’s red. Notice it’s a hollow laugh. 40% of the men are, like, “Hah! Oh, fuck. Siri, what is red?”
And, again, you might have a perfect body. You might not have a great body. I don’t know what you got under that tarp. You could have… blown out the whole region with a bad wax strip, I don’t know. But I do know is this. Whatever you have as a woman, whatever your body looks like, girls. However bad you think it is pales in comparison to the look of 100% of… scrotums! What is that? What the fuck is that? Why is this not the topic of every State of the Union address? Why is this– how come– my thighs can’t touch, but you have two dead baby birds, hanging. Sir, bat-like. Hanging. Sometimes so low, they’re in the toilet water. Hanging. Every guy here is laughing, smiling, or not making eye contact with me. Because it’s never occurred to men to question their bodies. Every guy is, like, “Why wouldn’t you want this on your face for free?” If we are to move forward as women, as feminists, we need to decide we won’t be shamed for what our bodies look naturally either. And just so you know, gentlemen. It’s something that we tolerate. But it’s not something that we fantasize about. It’s just the way it is, so we never really question it. But no woman growing up was, like, “This is my Backstreet Boys poster. This is NSYNC. And this is a nut sack!” Like, none of us! It’s hideous and, I’ll tell you something else, it’s a little traumatizing. ‘Cause we put effort into the way we look. And we’re sitting in bed, waiting for you to come out, just like you have every night, and you come out the bathroom naked. You look at us, and we look at you, like, “Oh, god, there it is.” Who’s the baby? Thank you so much for coming out tonight to have a good time. Thank you.