Ali Wong: Baby Cobra (2016) | Transcript

Ali Wong's stand up special delves into her sexual adventures, hoarding, the rocky road to pregnancy, and why feminism is terrible
Ali Wong: Baby Cobra (2016)

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage: Ali Wong!

Hi. Hello! Welcome! Thank you! Thank you for coming. Hello! Hello. We are gonna have to get this shit over with, ’cause I have to pee in, like, ten minutes. But thank you, everybody, so much for coming.

Um… It’s a very exciting day for me. It’s been a very exciting year for me. I turned 33 this year. Yes! Thank you, five people. I appreciate that. Uh, I can tell that I’m getting older, because, now, when I see an 18-year-old girl, my automatic thought… is “Fuck you.” “Fuck you. I don’t even know you, but fuck you!” ‘Cause I’m straight up jealous. I’m jealous, first and foremost, of their metabolism. Because 18-year-old girls, they could just eat like shit, and then they take a shit and have a six-pack, right? They got that-that beautiful inner thigh clearance where they put their feet together and there’s that huge gap here with the light of potential just radiating through.

And then, when they go to sleep, they just go to sleep. Right? They don’t have insomnia yet. They don’t know what it’s like to have to take a Ambien or download a Meditation Oasis podcast to calm the chatter of regret and resentment towards your family just cluttering your mind. They have their whole lives ahead of them. They don’t have HPV yet. They just go to sleep in peace at night. Everybody has HPV, OK? Everybody has it. It’s OK. Come out already. Everybody has it. If you don’t have it yet, you go and get it. You go and get it. It’s coming. You don’t have HPV yet, you’re a fucking loser, all right? That’s what that says about you. A lot of men don’t know that they have HPV, because it’s undetectable in men. It’s really fucked up. HPV is a ghost that lives inside men’s bodies and says, “Boo!” in women’s bodies. My doctor told me that I have one of two strains of HPV. Either I have the kind that’s gonna turn into cervical cancer… …or I have the kind where my body will heal itself. Very helpful, this doctor, right? So, basically, either I’m gonna die… or you’re in the presence of Wolverine, bitches. We’ll find out.

Um, I can also tell that I’m getting older, because my Kindle is turning into a self-help library. I’m not interested in books like Fifty Shades of Grey, OK? I’m interested in The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Yes. Yes, that’s right, how to declutter my home to achieve inner peace and my optimum level of success. That’s what your 30s is all about. How can I turn this shit around? I’m a horrible person, I’m not happy with where I am, how can I turn this shit around? Help me, Tony Robbins, help me!
I have a hoarding problem, which I’m hoping is the center of all of my other problems. I’m hoping that if the hoarding goes away, the HPV will also disappear. I have a hoarding problem because my mom is from a third world country and she taught me that you can never throw away anything, because you never know when a dictator’s gonna overtake the country and snatch all your wealth. So, you better hold onto that retainer from the third grade, ’cause it might come in handy as a shovel when you’re busy stuffing gold up your butt and running away from the Communists.
The last time I was at home in San Francisco, I was trying to help her get rid of shit. Don’t ever do that with your mom. It was like the worst experience of my life. It was so emotional. We were screaming and fighting and yelling and it all came to a climax when she refused to let go of a Texas Instruments TI-82… manual. The manual. She don’t even know… where the calculator is. Those of you under 25 probably don’t know what that calculator is. It was this calculator that bamboozled my generation. We were all required to buy it when we were in eight grade. It cost like $200. And everybody thought it was like this Judy Jetson’s laptop from the future. All because what? It could graph. It was like the Tesla of my time. And my mom got so emotional about the manual and she was like, “You never know when you might need this.” And I was like, “But… I do know… that I’m gonna have to clean all this shit up when you die.” “And I’m not trying to be a procrastinator anymore. Because according to Deepak-Oprah, that’s not the way for me to achieve my optimum level of success.”

I grew up a lot this past year. Uh, this past year I also got married. Yeah. To a man who now has HPV. Very lucky guy. He gave me something. I gave him something. That will also last forever. No, really. I’m the lucky girl, because before him, I dated a lot of losers. Lots of losers. A lot of skaters. You wanna be a grown-ass woman, stop dating skaters. Stop dating skaters unless you wanna wake up on a mattress in a kitchen. They’re sexy on the outside, malt liquor on the inside. Horrible. But my husband, I first met him at this wedding and, uh, he’s– he’s much better looking than me, he’s way out of my league, and I saw him and I was like, “Oh, my God, who is that?” And the first thing I learned about him was that, at the time, he was attending Harvard Business School. And I was like, “Oh, my God, I’m gonna trap his ass.” “Going to trap his ass!” And I trapped his ass initially by not kissing him until the fifth date, which is a very unusual move on my part. But I did it on purpose, because I knew that he was a catch. So I was like, “All right, Ali, you gotta make this dude believe that your body is a secret garden.” When, really, it’s a public park… …that has hosted many reggae fests… …and has even accidentally let… two homeless people inside. I thought they were hipsters, OK? That store Urban Outfitters has made things very confusing… for my generation. You homeless or you a hipster? Is that beard for fashion or for warmth? It happened to… It happened in San Francisco, when I was living there, and I saw this guy in broad daylight and we had, like, we had… We had so much chemistry. He was like, “Hey, wassup?” I was like, “Wassup?” And we– The next thing I knew, we were getting busy in the back of my Volvo. And then after we were done, he was like, “Hey, can you drop me off?” I was like, “Where?” He was like, “At the park.” And I dropped him off at Golden Gate Park and watched him run into the middle with all his other homeless friends, and I was like, “Oh, no!” “I just fucked a homeless dude! Again!”

My husband is Asian. Which a lot of people are shocked by, because, usually, Asian-American women who, like, you know, wear these kinda glasses and have a lot of opinions, they like to date white dudes. You go to any hipster neighborhood in a major city in America and that shit is turning into a Yoko Ono factory. It’s… too much. I don’t know what’s wrong with these bitches. I get it, you know, because being with a white dude you feel very… You feel very picturesque when you’re with a white dude, you know. You feel like you’re in a Wes Anderson movie or something. And you know, white dudes, they teach you about a lot of cool stuff like voting and recycling, and disturbing documentaries. They introduce you to cool stuff like that and it’s very, you know, it’s hot hookin’ up with a white dude. I mean, nothing makes me feel more powerful than when a white dude eats my pussy. Oh, my God. I just feel like I’m absorbing all of that privilege and all of that entitlement… …you know, just right there, through the money hole and just… And then also, he’s so vulnerable down there. I’m, like, “I could just crush your head at any moment, white man! I could just kill you right now! Crush those brains! Colonize the colonizer!” You know?

But I think that for marriage, it can be nice to be with somebody of your own race. The advantage is that you get to go home… and be racist together. You get to say whatever you like! You don’t gotta explain shit. My husband, half-Filipino, half-Japanese. I’m half-Chinese and half-Vietnamese. And we spend 100 percent of our time shitting on Korean people. It’s… amazing. It’s what love is built on, you know?

My last boyfriend was Cuban and his family would shit on Mexican people all the time. And I was like, “Hold it. You guys aren’t Mexican?” Asian-American men are very underrated. I don’t know why people don’t go for them. They’re the sexiest. Asian men are the sexiest. They got no body hair from the neck down. It’s like making love to a dolphin. Oh, my God. It’s so smooth, just like a slip and slide. Just black fish, Tilikum, all up in my bed every night, you know? Ooh-wee. You mess with a Jewish dude and your body is all fucked up afterwards. It’s all red and inflamed and you’re like, “I did not ask to be exfoliated today.” “This is the last time I go on J-date, more like loofah date. Thanks for the rug burn, Avi.” And then Asian men, no body odor. None. They just smell like responsibility. That’s where the umami flavor comes from.

I think my husband and I have a huge unspoken understanding, uh, between each other, because he’s half-Filipino and half-Japanese and I’m half-Chinese and half-Vietnamese. So, we’re both half-fancy Asian… …and half-jungle Asian. Yeah! You guys know the difference. The fancy Asians are the Chinese, the Japanese. They get to do fancy things like host Olympics. Jungle Asians host diseases. It’s… It’s different. But he grew up on the East Coast, going to private school, playing lacrosse, uh, you know, learning Latin and playing chess and rugby. He grew up like Filipino Carlton, OK? So, he didn’t know anything about Vietnamese people until he met me. And on one of our first dates, he took me to this restaurant on the west side of Los Angeles called Pho Show. He was like, “It’s authentic Vietnamese. I read about it on Yelp!” I was like, “It’s not authentic, OK?” You can tell, first and foremost, by the name, ’cause it don’t got a number in it. Second of all, you can tell by the bathroom. If it was legit, the bathroom would double as a supply closet. When I pee, I need to see ten gallons of bleach, an ATM machine and a grandma with glaucoma napping in the corner. And the wait staff here is too nice. We need to leave this restaurant deaf and emotionally abused.

I grew up going to private school, too. Him and I are both total, like, private school Asians. We both are big hippies, too. We like to backpack through Southeast Asia. We like to do yoga. We do ayahuasca ceremonies. We do silent meditation retreats. That’s right, we pay $800 to shut up for a weekend. We do shit like that. Uh, we eat gluten-free, which means we eat all that bread that tastes like free-range Chewbacca. We eat that lesbian bread that’s like… …a thousand percent of your daily fiber… and 20 percent spoken word poetry. When you eat it, you queef a shitty poem about… …supporting Caitlyn Jenner or whatever. And so, it’s funny, right, because he’s Asian, too. But sometimes, all of this hippy-dippy shit we do… makes me feel like we are white people doing an impression of Asian people. Like, we have these Chinese scrolls up on the wall… and neither of us know what the fuck they mean. We’re like, “Oh, that seems to go very well with our Buddha piggy bank from Pier 1 Imports. That seems to be providing some good feng shui for the house.

Him and I had been dating for four years and I– I just had this sneaking suspicion that he was gonna propose… because… I had been pressuring him to do it. So, you know, I just had this wacky women’s intuition. That’s how proposals really work, OK? A woman has to incept the idea into the man’s head. First passively and then if he doesn’t get the message, extremely aggressively. You gotta threaten to leave without ever actually leaving, because you know that you’re too old and it’s too late to go back out there and find a new man and start the whole manipulation cycle all over again. So, you’re like, “I’m just gonna stick with this dude, focus on trapping this dude, and just nag the shit outta him until he becomes weak and caves in and gets fed up and is like, “Shut the fuck up! Fine, will you marry me?” And then afterwards, the woman is always, like, “Oh, my God! He proposed!” “It came outta nowhere. And look, he got me the exact ring I wanted. How did he know? Maybe he saw it on my Pinterest page or something… that I sent to my best friend, that I told her to send to him every day.” Let me tell you something. If a man has a Pinterest page… he’s probably Pinterested in men. We got engaged on a Saturday. I bought my wedding dress the following Tuesday… because I had tried it on in 2012. I was ready. I was ripe. I was rotten. I need to be made into banana bread. That’s how rotten I was.

People are always very surprised at how, off-stage, with my husband, I’m a completely different person. You– Like, you would not recognize my personality at all with him. With him, I’m very soft, and, like, very nurturing and very domestic. We’ve been together now for five years, and for five years, I’ve packed his lunch every single day. Yeah. Yes. Yes. Yes. I did that so that he’d become dependent on me. ‘Cause he graduated from Harvard Business School, and I don’t wanna work anymore. I don’t. I straight up don’t wanna work anymore. I don’t feed him out of the goodness of my heart. I do it as an investment in my financial future. ‘Cause I don’t wanna work anymore. I’ve been reading that book by Sheryl Sandberg, she’s the C.O.O. of Facebook, and she wrote that book that got women all riled up about our careers. Talking about how we as women should challenge ourselves to sit at the table and rise to the top. And her book is called Lean In. Well, I don’t wanna lean in, OK? I wanna lie down. I want to lie the fuck down. I think feminism is the worst thing that ever happened to women. Our job used to be no job. We had it so good. We could have done the smart thing, which would have been to continue playing dumb for the next century and be like, “We’re dumb women. We don’t know how to do anything. So, I guess we better just stay at home all day and eat snacks and watch Ellen.” “‘Cause we’re too stupid to have any real responsibility.” And then, all these women had to show off and be like, “We could do it! We could do anything.” “Bitch, shut up!” “Don’t tell them the secret.” They ruined it for us, and now we’re expected to work. When I hear the phrase, “Double-income household,” I wanna throw up. A lot of women get very upset with me about those comments. And they’re like, “But, Ali, we have so many more options now.” Oh, you don’t think we had a lot of options when our day was free? Unscheduled, unsupervised, and most importantly, sponsored? Do you know how much shittier food tastes when you know you have to earn it?

A lot of my friends, when we walk around together, they’ll get very judgmental about housewives that we’ll see on the street. And they’ll be like, “Look at that fucking housewife. Not doing anything. Look at that housewife, just walking around all day, getting massages in her Lululemon pants.” I’m like, “That bitch is a genius.” “She’s not a housewife, she’s retired.”

I do write for Fresh Off the Boat on ABC. Yeah. Which is… It’s a great show. I love it a lot. I love my co-workers. It’s a great writing staff and in terms of day jobs, it’s probably one of the best you could ask for, but I still gotta work at a office every day. Which means I gotta shit in a office every day. Housewives, they don’t gotta shit in a office. Housewives get to shit in their house. Skin to seat. They don’t gotta use that horrible toilet paper cover. They don’t gotta… …ten times a day, every day… like you’re about to eat a sad-ass meal. They don’t gotta do that. They don’t gotta use that one-ply toilet paper, that office toilet paper, that they purposely make difficult to pull out. They try to ration me with their communist toilet paper that’s not even effective. It basically just dehydrates your butt hole. It’s basically like wiping your butt with the desert. I literally spat on my toilet paper two days ago, to try to make a MacGyver baby wipe, to moisten it, and then it backfired ’cause my fingers broke through and digitally stimulated more doo doo to come out, and then I had to start all over again. And you can never finish wiping at work because you always feel rushed ’cause you’re paranoid that your co-worker’s gonna recognize your shoes underneath the stall. And you’re like, “Oh, no! Courtney’s listening. She’s waiting. She’s timing me.” And then you hurry, hurry, hurry, and then you never finish wiping and then your butt hole feels caked in doo doo all day long. And then if you dare scratch yourself, your underwear at the end of the day looks like it’s been run over by the Goonies. Housewives, they don’t gotta muffle their shit, too. They don’t gotta worry about the velocity with which their doo doo comes out. They don’t gotta try to, you know, squeeze the butt cheeks together to make sure that the doo doo comes out at a slow and steady pace, so that no unpredictable noise suddenly escapes and brings you deep, deep shame. Housewives are free to just blow ass into the toilet and let it echo and reverberate to the ends of their hallways while watching as much Netflix on their iPad as they want. They don’t gotta take these boring, repressed shits. They can listen to podcasts. Planet Money. They can do whatever they want.

You know, it’s– it’s very distracting for me when I hear my co-workers blow ass into the toilet. I lose respect for them. Nothing they say to me anymore holds any sort of credence. I heard one of my co-workers blow ass into the toilet the other day. This bitch had the nerve to come up to me and say, “You need to get to work on time.” I was like, “You need to eat bananas.” “I saw those green ballet flats. I know that shit was you. Don’t try to tell me to get my shit together when I heard you not have your shit together.”

My father-in-law had this huge sit-down with me and my husband recently. Um, and he was like, “Hey, I wanna talk to you guys about money. You guys need to make a lot more money if you wanna provide your children with the same kind of privileged childhood that you guys had.” I was like, “Why you telling me this shit? I should not be a part of this conversation. You tell you son that. Don’t your understand that I trapped your son for his earning potential? Why else would I choose to fuck one person for the rest of my life? I chose to marry him on the promise of early retirement, and when I said, ‘I do,’ what I really meant was, ‘Oh, I’m done.'” I’m done. I don’t wanna work anymore and I’m not dieting anymore. Since I got married last year, I’ve been eating fried chicken skin every day since. That’s right. And just fulfilling my destiny. Which is to turn into a circle with eyelashes. Like Mrs. Pacman, just… Let’s redecorate.

I gave up a lot of myself when I got married. I’m a– I’m a disgusting pervert. I’m a pervert. I’m a gross filthy animal. And I think it’s because I started watching porn at a very young age. And what happens when you start watching porn at a young age is that… y-you get sicker, and sicker, and sicker. The images you crave get sicker, and sicker, and sicker, but it’s OK, because the Internet will always catch up to you.

I broke up with my last boyfriend because he refused to put it in the back. I was like, “Uh, you’re a idiot, dude. Do you realize that if I went on Craigslist… and posted ‘Tiny Asian female seeking anal…’ the Internet would crash.” “And all the Jewish male heads in the universe would simultaneously explode.” They would explode. A lot of women get really, you know… freaked out about anal. And they’re like, “Oh, I don’t wanna do that. I’m scared of– of the pain.” You ain’t scared of the pain. Women, they wax their eyebrows, they do all sorts of crazy shit. You’re not scared of the pain. What you’re really scared of is doo doo on the dick. You’re scared that he’s gonna see that and that’s gonna be all of your shame, your inner evil, all your secrets and lies. Sephora can’t help you now. But don’t worry, ’cause when he puts it in the butt, all he’s thinking about is, “I just put it in her butt.” “I gotta go call my mom, my dad, Dave, my grandma.” You’re– If you’re married, you’re gonna have to do anal eventually, OK? You have to, because you gotta change it up. You gotta change it up, so that you don’t cheat on each other. You gotta keep it interesting. If you put it in different holes, maybe you’ll feel like you’re fucking different people. I was very sexually active in my 20s, and as a result, I’m a little bit… …stretched out down there, OK? So, when I finally did anal, I just felt like I got a second chance at life, you know? I was, like, “Oh, my God! It’s like I’m going back in time!”

♪ A whole new world ♪

It was magical.

A big fantasy of mine before I got married was to help as many men as possible discover their prostate. Yeah, like a conqueror. I just wanted to… Now, if you haven’t done it before, ladies, go home and treat yourself. Do it tonight. You only live once. YOLO. Just sneak your– Just give your man a little– a little push-push in the tush-tush. Just give him a little Atari, you know, and you’ll get a lot of resistance from the man at first. You’ll get a lot of “No! No! No! No, please! No, really, I don’t– No! I don’t! I don’t! No!” They get all squirmy wormy because… they’re scared. They’re scared that if you stick your thumb up there and succeed, and they like it, that then, it might mean that they’re gay. And I like that fear. That shit turns me on, you know? Especially when that fear metamorphosizes into pleasure. Oh, my God! And you just see the look in the man’s eye like he’s discovered nirvana. And it’s like you’re the first lady to show him that he had a magical clit in his butt hole. And then, you as the woman, in his eyes, just become the Lord of the Rim, you know?

My husband is unfortunately just not as freaky as me. When– When I’ve asked him to spank me, this is what he does. “Hey. Hey, are you OK? Are you all right? You know I respect you, right?” I’m, like, “Yes, I know you respect me and that’s why you need to abuse me. OK?” ‘Cause it’s the most strong-headed, loud-mouthed women who like to be abused the most in bed. Women who are C.E.O.s, they just wanna be roughed around. They just want their– Glasses always means the woman wants some– It’s because we’re so in control all the time, that we just wanna experience some risk and be out of control, you know? Like, “I don’t wanna die! Don’t kill me! I don’t wanna die!” But I also don’t want to be sure that I’m gonna live. You know? I just wanna be out of control for once. Just– Just choke me enough so that I can’t talk. ‘Cause if I can talk, I’m gonna tell you what to do. And I’m tired of being the boss. I’m the boss all the time, so, in the bedroom, you be the boss. Yes. Because I’m the real boss. And I told you so, motherfucker, so do it.

Sheryl Sandberg, that woman who wrote Lean In, has had such a big impact that now, because of her, there is a ban on the word “bossy” in elementary schools, because according to her, it’s sexist to use the word “bossy,” because boys are never called bossy. So, now, instead of saying, “You’re bossy,” you’re supposed to say, “You have executive leadership skills.” Which is a very roundabout way of saying: “You’re a little cunt.”

I’m just waiting for the right moment to, like, become a housewife, financially, you know? I want my husband to get us to, like, a certain point financially. I wanna get to the point as a couple where I can comfortably afford sliced mango. Know what I’m talking about? I’m talking about that Whole Foods mango. That $10-a-box Whole Foods mango that was sliced by white people. That’s the kind of income bracket I’m striving for. That’s when you know you’ve made it, when you’re eating mango that was sliced by a dude named Noah. I want Noah mango… …Rebecca kiwi, Danielle pineapple. You know what else I want? I wanna be able to take a stroll on a sidewalk, see a quarter, and just keep on walking. Like a princess.

I have some useful advice for all my Asian-American brothers and sisters. Yeah! Never go paintballing with a Vietnam veteran.

So, I don’t know if you guys can tell, but I am seven and a half months pregnant. Yeah. It’s very rare and unusual to see a female comic perform pregnant, because female comics… don’t get pregnant. Just try to think of one. I dare you. There’s– None of them. Once they do get pregnant, they generally disappear. That’s not the case with male comics. Once they have a baby, they’ll get up on stage a week afterwards and they’ll be like, “Guys, I just had this fucking baby. That baby’s a little piece of shit. It’s so annoying and boring.” And all these other shitty dads in the audience are, like, “That’s hilarious. I identify.” And their fame just swells because they become this relatable family funny man all of a sudden. Meanwhile, the mom is at home, chapping her nipples, feeding the fucking baby, and wearing a frozen diaper ’cause her pussy needs to heal from the baby’s head shredding it up. She’s busy. So, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me. You know, a lot of my female stand-up comic friends who are a lot more successful and famous than me discouraged me from having a kid. And they were like, “Ali, why are you gonna have a kid? You just gonna become– You’re gonna disappear, and you’re gonna become some lame stay-at-home mom.” I was like, “Yeah, that’s the dream.” That’s the point. This is the ultimate trap. I won, you know?

Another thing a lot of my friends said to me when they were discouraging me from having a kid, they were like, “Why are you gonna have a kid? Why don’t you just travel the world with your husband and just do whatever you want for the rest of your lives with no kid attached.” I was like, “Yeah, that’s cool… until my husband dies.” Which he’s definitely gonna before me. Because I’m a Asian woman, and therefore, guaranteed to live until I’m a billion. I’m guaranteed, like a turtle from the Galapagos, OK? We all know the phrase “black don’t crack.” Well, Asian don’t die. We don’t die. Especially the women, we live forever. And you know why we’re such bad drivers? Because we’re trying to die. We’re like, “Yeah! Let me see how invincible I really am!” “Imma make this left hand turn signal and ignore this red light completely.” “I’m gonna make a right turn– I changed my mind, it’s a U-turn!” “I changed my mind again. It’s a O-turn!” Every time I get into a car accident… …I’m like, “Oh, my God, not again!” I need to hide my face so that everybody doesn’t see that it’s what everybody thought it was gonna be. So embarrassing. My Toyota Corolla is a mess. There’s this huge bear claw scratch on the side from this aggressive brick wall that came out of nowhere. And then, on the hood, there’s multiple hand prints from pedestrians who have had to alert me of their existence. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m still here, you know?

I need to have children to keep me company when I get older. It’s lonely. My mom is 80, going through a full blown mid-life crisis. ‘Cause she knows that she’s got a century more to go. And she is so lonely. All of her white friends, dead. Her Mexican friends, dead. Black friends, dead. I’m just kidding. She doesn’t have any black friends. Life is not Rush Hour, the movie, OK? I need children to be there for me when I’m older, when I get as old as her. And when I say be there for me, I mean pay for me when my husband isn’t around to support me anymore. I’m not trying to be one of those old Chinese ladies who recycles for a living. That’s not my destiny, OK? Old Chinese ladies, they don’t give a fuck. They got no shame. They’re like, “I’m just gonna recycle… go bald… go to the park, do this shit.” They do that ’cause it’s a free activity. For them. They do it in their– their big-ass V. Stiviano visor, their Darth Vader-Tomb Raider- Boba Fett helmet. They wear that to protect themselves from their arch-nemesis, the sun. Their in a contest to see who’s gonna burn out first. Old Asian ladies and the sun are like the Tupac and Biggie of longevity.

I also decided to have a kid because uh, I’m only 33, which, I know, is not technically high-risk, but my body was starting to show signs of change. And it– And it scared me. Like, I’m only 33 and… …my pussy is not as wet as it used to be. It’s very demoralizing, OK? Do you remember when you were 18 years old, and your pussy was just sopping wet all the time? All the time, you just took it for granted that you could just reach your hand down your pants at any given moment, you throw up the peace sign afterwards, and there would be that snail-trail in between your fingers. Oh, my God, it was so juicy. You could just blow a bubble wand with it, just… “I slime you, I slime you. Ghostbusters!”

I don’t know what kind of mother I’m gonna be. I’m– I’m 33, and I did have to get a little bit of science involved when trying to get pregnant. And a lot of that… is most likely my fault. Because, when I was in my 20s, I ate Plan B like skittles. So, my uterus probably looked like a smoker’s lung. And I found out that my progesterone levels were alarmingly low. So, then I had to take these hormone pills that were suppositories, and Push Pop them up myself every single night. And then, at my writing job, at Fresh Off The Boat, I would be storyboarding in front of my co-workers, and then, at some point, the pill would inevitably dissolve and melt into my underwear, and I had to act like everything was OK, when everything was clearly not OK. And then, a side effect of the progesterone was that it made me extremely itchy. So, then I had to find ways to discretely scratch myself underneath the conference table, and then resist the urge to immediately smell my fingers afterwards. I want to be able to smell my fingers when I wanna smell my own goddamn fingers. Housewives, they can just scratch and sniff all day long. They just vacuum, scratch, sniff. They make a sandwich. “Uh, mmm.” They watch Property Brothers, scratch, “What’s crackin’? Mmm.” Every time you scratch yourself, all you can think about is, “When can I smell my fingers? When can I smell my fingers? When can I discretely find a way to…” “…smell my fingers?” Nature made you urgently curious to protect you, ’cause you gotta check that it’s all good in the hood. If it’s too funky, you need to see a doctor. Your fingers are your first WebMD.

When my husband and I were trying to have a kid, a lot of people were like, “Oh, my God, that’s so hot. You guys doin’ a lot of fuckin’?” No, dude. That’s– That’s shit you do in your 20s, OK? When in– When you’re in your 30s, and you’ve been trying to get pregnant for a while, it gets very clinical. You pee on these ovulation strips that tell you when the eggs are droppin’. It tells you when it’s Easter time. And I would only fuck him when it was Easter time. It was, like, only four days out of the month, and outside of that, I would be like, “We’re not fuckin’. I need you to save it. I want your sperm to be as pent-up, and as angry and rapey as possible. So that, when they come out, it’s like, ‘Release the Kraken!'” And they just come out like a bunch of angry refugees escaping a dictatorship, you know? And, um… yeah, and most of the time, like, we wouldn’t even have sex, ’cause I was so tired when I would come home, and see the smiley face on the ovulation strip, and I’d be like, “OK, it’s go time,” and I would just give my husband a hand job most of the time, and he would close his eyes immediately. I know what that means, OK? When somebody closes their eyes during sex, it’s not because they’re in such ecstasy with you that– that they need to close their eyes. When somebody closes their eyes during sex, it’s because they’re literally trying to shut the image of your face out of their head and instead project two Latina lesbians that they saw earlier that day on RedTube onto the back of their eyelids. Which is fine by me, because then he doesn’t have to see the expression on my face that says, “Please, hurry the fuck up.” And then, when he was about to finish, I could always tell because the indication is very universal when a man is about to finish. It’s when they get that… that stupid-ass look on their face… …where they look like they just got bit by a zombie, just… And then, because we’re hippies, I’d be like, “Hey, hey! Please look me in the eye and remember to come with intention, OK?” And then, I would jump on him, and hold onto his neck, and I would just twerk, twerk, twerk the shit out of him… and do some of this shit that I learned in Atlanta. And then I would turn upside down immediately afterwards… to make sure all of that Harvard nectar would just drain inside of me. That’s right. ‘Cause I don’t wanna work anymore.

I’m very grateful to be pregnant and to be… this far along, to be seven and a half months pregnant, because, last year, I had a miscarriage, which is very common. And a lot of women who are in their 20s flip out when they hear that. They’re like, “Oh, my God. That’s so dark and terrible. I can’t believe that.” I’m 33. Girl, when you’re 33, you’ll know plenty of women who have had a miscarriage. It’s super common, and I wish more women would talk about it so they wouldn’t feel so bad when they go through it. When I told my mom– She’s from a third world country, and when I told her I had one, she was like, “Uh, yeah. Where I’m from, that’s like losing a pair of shoes. It’s whatevs, OK?” And everything happens for a reason. I found out at my six-week sonogram, which is very early. And the doctor says to me, “Oh, my God, I see two sacks, which means you’re having twins.” And I was like, “No!” And then she said, “But what I don’t see is a heartbeat.” And I was like, “Yes!” “The Lord is mysterious!” Don’t feel bad, OK? They were the size of poppy seeds. I’ve picked boogers larger than the twins that I lost. And most women won’t let their husbands watch when they’re going through a miscarriage. I sat my husband down in front of me while I sat on the toilet, and I was like, “You look.” “You watch the whole thing.” And he felt so bad for me. And I used it as leverage and held that shit over his head for a month and got him to do whatever the fuck I wanted him to do for 30 days. He took me to see Beyoncé. He bought me a bike off of Craigslist. That’s my miscarriage bike, and I love it very much. For 30 days, I finally had the marriage I always wanted.

I’m scared about giving childbirth, though. I’m– I’m very, very scared of childbirth. That’s why I’m going to hire a doula. You know what that is? You know what a doula is? That’s a white hippie witch… …that blows quinoa into your pussy to Keyser Söze all the pain away. A lot of women tried to freak me out. They tried to freak me out about childbirth by saying, “Ali, did you know that you’re gonna poop on the table?” I was like, “Yeah, I look forward to it.” I’m all backed up from holding in my shit at work. I can’t wait to cleanse. It makes sense, like, that you– that that happens because when you’re in labor, you push, you push, you push, and your husband will be asked to assist in the labor by lifting up your leg, which subsequently turns into a soft serve lever. You just shit on the floor in front of the love of your life. And just when you think that’s enough to make him finally leave you, boom, a baby comes out, and he gotta stay. That’s the real miracle of life, right there. I can already see how a child can really take its toll on a marriage, because the baby hasn’t even come out yet and I am already so resentful towards my husband. So much resentment, especially when he asks me to do shit around the house. “Hey, can you wash the dishes?” “No!” “Can you water the plants?” “I am not doing jack shit anymore. I’m busy makin’ a eyeball, OK? Are you makin’ a foot? I didn’t think so. You change the channel.”

I can already see how there’s, like, this crazy double standard in our society of how it takes so little to be considered a great dad. And it also takes so little to be considered a shitty mom. People praise my husband for coming to all of my doctor’s appointments with me. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe he comes to all your doctor’s appointments. He is so supportive.” Guess who else has to go to those doctor appointments. Me! I’m the star of the show. There’s nothing for the camera to see if I’m not there. But he’s the hero for playing Candy Crush while I get my blood drawn. Meanwhile, if I do mushrooms seven months pregnant, I’m a bad mommy.

You know, I– I– I, like, I berate my husband on, like, a daily basis. Partially because I really am mad at him. But mostly out of survival, because if he leaves me, I’m fucked. So, I have to chip away at his self-esteem on a daily basis… to keep him down so that he doesn’t believe that he’s worthy of another woman’s affection and leaves me. I gotta keep him around by keeping him down. People don’t tell you about all this shit that goes down with your body when you get pregnant, you know? Your nipples get huge and dark. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that they get dark so that the baby can see, like, a bullseye. So that the baby can find it easier. And then, you know, they get big– they get big, like fingers. Like, “You, you. You owe me money, you.” My nipples look like Whoppers now, and naked, I look like a Minion. But I’m not gonna be one of those crazy pregnant ladies who tries to get all back in shape right after they get pregnant. No. Hopefully, if you see me in a year, I will have the kind of body where, if I do a nude scene on television, people will commend me for being courageous. For doing it.

Now that I’m seven and a half months pregnant, my pussy’s all wet again. But it’s different. It’s not like when I was 18 years old, when it was like, really hot, you know? And I was like, “Why is it different?” And I looked it up, and my pussy’s all wet again because my– my body’s secreting mucus to protect the baby from bacteria attacking it. That’s not the same. When it’s straight up soldier glue, when it’s Neosporin.

So, you know, I– I, in– previously, before I met my husband, I had dated a bunch of losers. And then, I meet this dream guy, who’s, like, way more handsome than me, out of my league, graduated from Harvard Business School. Worked hard to trap his ass. Got him to propose to me. Oh, my God, then we got married, all my dreams coming true, and then we got pregnant, and recently we bought our first home together. And, uh, two weeks into the escrow process, I discovered that my beautiful, Harvard-educated husband was $70,000 in debt. And me, with my hard-earned TV money, paid it all off. So, as it turns out, he’s the one who trapped me. How did he do it? How did he bamboozle me? Oh! Maybe because he went to Harvard Business School, the epicenter of white-collar crime. He Enron’d my ass. And now, if I don’t work, we die. Why else do you think I’m performing seven and a half months pregnant?

All right, I’ve been Ali Wong. Have a good night, everybody. Thank you.


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