Ali Wong: Don Wong (2022) | Transcript

Ali Wong discusses her deepest fantasies, the challenges of monogamy, and her feelings about single people.
Ali Wong: Don Wong (2022)

Ladies, gentlemen, and everybody, put your hands together. Please welcome to the stage Ali Wong!

Hi, everybody! We love you, Ali! Thank you. You know, I’m very jealous and bitter that when a man finds any ounce of mainstream success in comedy, they get to date models, actresses, and pop singers. One of my dear friends is arguably one of the top stand-up comics in the world. And for the past year and a half, she’s been dating a magician. I was like, “Okay, you know, no judgment, girl, but is he at least, like, a good magician?” “Is he, like, the best magician like how you are one of the best stand-up comedians?” I looked that dude up on Yelp, he got two stars. That’s what being one of the best female stand-up comics will achieve you. A “ain’t shit” magician.

See, because when you are a woman with money, power, and respect, your romantic options do not expand. They decline! Now, I am told it’s because men are threatened by women with money, power, and respect. What do you think is going to happen to you, huh? You think your dick is gonna get acquired in a hostile takeover? I bet most men in this theater have never, ever had your dick sucked by a woman that makes a lot more money than you. And let me tell you something. It is spectacular, okay? It is. It is. Why wouldn’t it be? If she got the skills to earn money, power, and respect, you don’t think she got good pattern recognition? Those skills transfer. You should feel so lucky, so flattered, so blessed and highly favored, if you ever had the opportunity to get your dick sucked by a woman that makes a lot more money than you. Because out of all the things this important woman could be doing with her valuable time… Yeah. All of her responsibilities, all the interesting opportunities and deals knocking at her door, but no. She chose to get on her knees and stick your $40,000-a-year dick in her mouth… in your Toyota Yaris.

But no. None of you, not a single man in here knows what it’s like to cum on the face of a millionaire. Sure, you’ve gotten head. But have you ejaculated onto a great American mind? Has your sperm swam in the eyes of an icon? Have you been deep-throated by a voice of a generation? I don’t think so! It’s highly unlikely that any man in here… Well, any straight man in here, knows what it’s like to cum on the face of a millionaire. First of all, how many female, self-made millionaires are there to begin with? And then out of that pool, how many of them gonna let you cum on their face? There’s three of us, okay? Yeah, I don’t even know who the other two are. You think Ellen gonna let you cum on her face? You think Oprah gonna let you go to Montecito and stomp on all her vegetables?

I love to get cummed on, on the face. I do. Because it’s so nasty and is so easy. It is so easy, especially when you compare it to sucking dick, which is so physically taxing. The choking, the eyes watering. And if you really want to keep it 100, you got to add the pepper grinding. A lot, you know? Whenever I get a deep tissue massage, the masseuse is always like, “Do you sit and work at a computer all day?” I’m like, “No, I sucked dick last night.” “Now I can’t look to the left.”

So in addition to all of that labor, when you suck dick, there is all of this performing and pretending involved. You have to tell all of these lies. “This is the biggest dick I’ve ever had in my mouth.” “I love sucking your cock. It makes my pussy so wet.” “Yummy!” But you have to tell the lies to make the man cum faster. The lies will set you free! But then when you get cummed on on the face, your only job as the woman is to make an enthusiastic expression. And then your other assignment is to not laugh… while this grown-ass man is straddling your rib cage, he looking down at you, you looking up at him, and you see him from this very unflattering angle where he got that Jabba the Hutt double chin, you know? He all possessed by the Holy Spirit. “Look at me, Mommy, watch me, pay attention, look at me!”

Young men in particular, they don’t like women with money, power, and respect, because they know you can’t tell that kind of woman what to do. Young men want a woman that’s chill. That’s a quality in a partner that they seek out and brag about. “Bro, I’m dating this new chick.” “She’s so chill.” “She doesn’t give a fuck about what I do ’cause she’s chill.” “She lets me do whatever I want ’cause she’s dead inside.” “She’s chill.” “She’s like a corpse with tits. It’s awesome.” “She’s chill.”

I have never, ever wanted to date a man that was chill. ‘Cause chill don’t pay the bills. My nephew is 25 years old, and he is dating this architect. My goodness, she is so smart and interesting, successful, and charismatic, and we all hope that he marries her one day. But he called me up earlier this week and he was like, “You know, Auntie Ali, I think I’mma break up with her.” “Yeah, because she’s a boss at work, and so she thinks it’s okay to come home and boss me around.” I was like, “Oh.” “Well, that shit’s gonna happen to you no matter what.” “Whether she a boss, whether she employed or unemployed, once you get married and have kids, your wife gonna boss you around.” “And you would know that if you watched House Hunters.”

House Hunters is a show on HGTV where a couple pretends that there’s a decision to be made together. And they go on this fake-ass journey looking at three different houses, and the audience is meant to be left in suspense. “Which house are they gonna choose?” It’s whichever one Barbara wanted in the first place, okay? And Barbara, who lives in Boise, Idaho, or wherever the fuck these HGTV shows are filmed where houses cost $5,000 an acre… Barbara, she don’t got money, power, or respect. But Barbara is a woman, and all women are very good at being extremely unpleasant… and holding your happiness and self-esteem hostage until we get what we fucking deserve, okay? Yes. That is a superpower that we evolved to compensate for our lack of earning potential. You can’t tell any woman what to do, so you might as well pick the bitch that will give you health insurance, okay?

I know exactly why there’s a disproportionate amount of men that do stand-up. It’s all because of fan pussy. We call them chuckle fuckers. These poor, naïve women who get dickmatized when they laugh. And fan pussy is so motivating because fan pussy is young and sexy and exciting. Fan pussy is a great reward for doing stand-up comedy. And fan dick is frightening. Any man watching me, listening to what I have to say, and thinking to themselves, “I want to fuck her…” is a raging psychopath. And has extremely good taste. Fan dick is not interested in showing me a good time. Fan dick wants to trim my pubes and sew them into wigs for his antique doll collection. That’s why I don’t see more women doing stand-up. There is no reward, only danger and punishment. Lot of my male stand-up comic friends be hooking up with women, beautiful, gorgeous women, through the DMs. Direct messaging. I never check my DMs. And when I do, it’s only to see if Sanrio, the owners of Hello Kitty, have finally contacted me to offer sponsorship. Yeah. Come on! I think I’d be a great fit, and I want all of that shit. I want the Gudetama pajamas. I want the erasers that smell like the gum. And I want the gum that tastes like the erasers. I want all of that shit. But no. My DMs are full of these Silence of the Lambs motherfuckers. It’s these dudes who always have zero followers. Do you know anybody who doesn’t know anybody? They don’t even offer to take me out to dinner or lick my pussy. They just threaten to decapitate me if I don’t let them smell my feet.

And it’s a shame, you know? It’s very disturbing, this disparity in quality between fan pussy and fan dick. It is so upsetting to a person like me. Because I think about cheating on my husband… every five minutes. I haven’t done it yet. Not because I’m a good person, only because no worthy opportunity has presented itself.

My mom doesn’t understand, she can’t relate to these feelings of wanting to fool around outside of your marriage, because she’s an immigrant woman who was born in 1940. Her world is a lot smaller than mine. The only men my mother has ever had an actual conversation with are my brother and my dad. That’s it. I, on the other hand, have met the entire cast of The Avengers. And I want all of them to cum on my face. I think I’m going through a mid-life crisis. Having two C-sections and being the breadwinner of my family has turned me into a 50-year-old man. I had a colonoscopy a couple years ago. That is some 50-year-old man shit right there. What had happened was I, all of a sudden, got extremely bloated over a very short period of time. And it was so extreme to the point where I thought I was pregnant again. And I took a test, and it was negative. And then my OBGYN became very concerned that I was showing symptoms of ovarian cancer, because it runs in my family. And so then she ordered a CT scan, and the results came back. And she said to me, “Okay, Ali.” “Well, you know, the good news is that you don’t have ovarian cancer, okay? And then…” “The bad news is that, Ali, you are full of shit.” “Stop giggling, Ali, stop it. This is serious, okay?” On the report, the radiologist wrote, “The results are remarkable.” Which, to me, seems like the radiologist gave me an A++. She was like, “No, that’s bad.” When the radiologist writes “The results are remarkable,” what that translates to is, “Oh my goodness, I don’t understand how this tiny Vietnamese mom fit this football field of doo-doo inside of her body.” “I have never seen this in my 30 years as a radiologist, and I cannot wait to text screenshots of this to all my radiologist friends.” So then a GI specialist was called in, and I saw her look at the results, and she went like this. And then she turns to me and says, “Miss Wong, I am so sorry that I gasped in front of your face.” “That was so unprofessional of me.” “I know exactly who you are.” “Please do not talk about how I just did that on stage.” “But, you know, I have to admit that I’m clearly alarmed by what I see here.” “You are backed up well into your small intestine, and I’m almost certain that there is some sort of mass, and most likely a tumor that’s causing all of this blockage.” “So we’re going to have to perform a colonoscopy to see what’s going on in there.” I was like, “Why? You guys just did a CT scan.” And she was like, “Yes, it is true that the whole point of a CT scan is to see inside of your body, but the lasers couldn’t penetrate the Great Wall of Shit that’s inside you.” “And they just ricocheted and bounced back into the machine, and now the machine is shook, so… we’re going to have to stick a camera up your ass.” And I was so nervous. But what I didn’t know was that right before the procedure, they give you propofol. And I have to say that as a working mother of two… getting to take a drug-induced nap for an hour… was well worth having a news crew up my butt. It was luxurious. When I woke up from the colonoscopy, I was like, “I want another colonoscopy.” And then it turned out that my colon was perfectly healthy, and I figured out that what caused that huge traffic jam was the summer before, I was shooting this movie called Always Be My Maybe. Oh, thank you. Yeah, it was a big-ass deal because it was the first movie I had ever co-written and starred in as the lead. And I worked on it for 12 hours a day, every day for six weeks straight, and I was so busy that I forgot to take a shit… for six weeks. The movie shot in Vancouver and in San Francisco, and I have no recollection of shitting in Vancouver or in San Francisco. I just straight up forgot. Something like that would never happen to a man. Men, you never forget to take a shit ever. Ever. How could you, when you sit on the toilet and have your sacred ritual every morning to summon the shit? You sit there from 8:00 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. You sit there with all of your reading materials, your iPad battery just burning up the sperm in your balls. You sit there at the most crucial time of the day, when your wife and kids need you and the bathroom the most. You sit there to avoid reality and all of your responsibility in life. You’re too scared to ask your wife for alone time, so instead you just passively-aggressively take it by chasing your wife and kids out of the bathroom with the stank of your selfish-ass shit! Women, we don’t do that, okay? We have too much guilt and shame to sit there every morning at the same time to summon the shit. Instead, the shit comes to us at the most inconvenient time of the day. When we’re in the middle of a meeting, or onstage taping our third Netflix special. But when you feel that first turtle head peek out, you gotta squeeze your butt cheeks in, suck the poo-poo back up into your generous, loving, self-sacrificing soul. But then at some point, you gots to go, and then it’s an emergency. It’s always an emergency when a woman finally takes a shit, and that’s why every woman’s public restroom looks like a post-apocalyptic zombie nightmare, where there is blood on the walls and pizza on the record player. My life has changed dramatically in the past seven years. Seven years ago, I pressured the shit out of my then-boyfriend to propose to me. Every day, I was in his ear… “When you going to ask me to marry you?” “I’m not gonna wait forever!” “Everybody wants this pussy.” Nobody else wanted this pussy, but I had to make up these fairy tales to add pizzazz to the ultimatum, you know? It was crazy, but my wish came true. He proposed, we got married. We bought a house, had two kids. Fast-forward to seven years later, present day, I’m like, “I don’t know why I did that.” I think that what happened was at the time, my future in comedy was looking very uncertain, you know? I was really struggling. Like, I was eating cough drops for dessert. It was so sad. And I panicked. I was like, “I don’t know if I can make it in this world on my own.” “So I better trap this dude who graduated from Harvard Business School so that I don’t end up homeless.” But now, I know that I can make it on my own. So I kind of want to just be on my own. Only other married people with kids can empathize with the deep envy I feel towards you single people, okay? You don’t know how free you are. You can eat an edible at 2:00 p.m., go to the aquarium and watch the jellyfish go back and forth. You don’t gotta bring a giant bag with little Ziploc baggies of Goldfish, and toy cellphones. You can just go with what’s in your pockets. You single people, you don’t know what it’s like to eat a cold quesadilla that your toddler threw on the floor, because it’s easier to put it in your mouth than travel to the trash, while you repeat to yourself over and over that child abuse is illegal! You single people, if you’re romantically involved with somebody, and then all of a sudden, that somebody reveals a personality trait that you don’t like, you could just leave. Move to another city and never see their stupid face again. Because you didn’t make a promise in front of your grandma and all your coworkers and ask your friends to buy you an Instant Pot. You didn’t fuse your DNA to create human life that will forever ask you, “Where’s Daddy?” You single people, you don’t have to go on a playdate, which is basically a blind date that your toddler sets you up on… with some bitch you have zero chemistry with. You single people, you don’t have to be nice to your mother because you need her for babysitting. You don’t have to smile and listen to all of this unsolicited parenting advice from this woman who neglected the shit out of you… because you want time to yourself to binge Bridgerton to feel alive again. Like you single people, I, too, was once free, okay? And then like an idiot, I asked this dude to ask me to go to prison. And now I’m in monogamy jail, and I don’t know how to get out. Monogamy made sense when we lived until we were 40 years old. Yeah, I’m 39 right now, so if you told me that I had to do this shit for another year, I’d be like, “Yeah, I could do that.” “I can rub it out to Aquaman for another year, it’s fine.” “It’s no big deal.” But as an Asian woman, I’m gonna live until I’m 95 years old. That’s not even a joke, okay? that is statistically probable. My husband and I are the same age. He’ll most likely die when he’s 85. So between 85 and 95 is when I’m morally allowed to fuck other people again. It’s too late. ‘Cause at the age of 75 is when Asian women finally turn into an owl. You know what I’m talking about. Their tattooed eyebrows turn green and shit. They go bald, and then the few strands that are left, they perm the shit out of to make it more Jhirmack “bounce back.” And then they become obsessed with dried jujubes and just walk around in down jackets all day like this. I want to fuck other people now… before I metamorphosize into a nut sack with a visor. You want to cheat with me? You want to fuck around with me? You better give me two weeks’ notice, okay? ‘Cause you gotta give me time to go shopping for new underwear. I’ve been with the same dude for the last 10 years. So all my underwear looks like it’s been snacked on by rats. Just looks like wardrobe from Les Miserables, okay? Like a tattered sail of a pirate ship. The elastic? Gone. So the crotch area hangs about five inches below my actual pussy, like a Indiana Jones suspension bridge, like a hammock in the Blue Bayou, okay? You want to fuck around with me? Let me know, so I got time to go to Target and get that sweet five-for-20 Xhilaration panty deal. Merona, whatever’s on sale. In our society, there is no word for a male mistress. That’s how taboo it is for women to cheat on their husbands. The only word I’ve ever heard is sancho, yes, because Mexican women cheat on their husbands, because their culture is mucho más mejor. Es la verdad, okay? It is. I’ve been saying this about Mexican people and Mexican culture for a long time. I’m like the Little Mermaid. I want to be part of your Telemundo, okay? Yes. Si se puede, con permiso, let me in. Come on. I like Fabuloso, okay? I like storing my pots and pans in the oven. Yeah. I like squeezing lime juice on everything. I like hickeys. I love hickeys. Generally, our society is very unforgiving of women who cheat on their husbands, and at the same time, it’s so forgiving of men who cheat on their wives. Somehow money, power, and respect will earn a man the right to cheat. People will come to his defense and say, “Oh, how could he be expected to resist all of that fan pussy?” “He is so awesome, he deserves to cheat.” For women, no matter how much money, power, or respect you earn, you are never allowed to behave badly and get away with it. But that’s all I want to do. I want to have it all. I want to have a family, a career, and a side piece. The greatest trick women ever played on ourselves was making us believe that having it all was limited to having a family and a career. I got both of those things. Newsflash, it’s not enough. Necesito más. I don’t just want equal pay, I want equal pleasure. But it would be very threatening if all women wanted and felt like they deserved that, because then a bunch of women wouldn’t be available to helping their husbands make their lives as easy as possible. Do you know how much more successful I would be if I had a wife? Some loving, devoted woman by my side who bought a bunch of fruit besides bananas? And put the duvet cover on the duvet? People don’t like it when women cheat, you know, and they’ll really turn on you because they feel betrayed, especially if you’re a mom. It’s too contrary to your wholesome, loving image. And that’s why I’m trying to let all of you know now… that I’m a real piece of shit, okay? I want you to really listen to me and understand this and believe me, so that you’re not shocked or surprised, so that you don’t abandon me when you see the TMZ video of my face getting fire-hosed by Michael B. Jordan… while I chant, “Wakanda forever!” I think another reason why a lot of women are hesitant to cheat is because it’s too high stakes to put your family, your reputation, your life as you know it on the line, all for the probability that you most likely will not have an orgasm. Very difficult to make a woman, especially a new woman, cum. It’s so annoying. It’s a design flaw. There’s too many factors. There’s too much shit that has to align. The lighting, the temperature, the news. You can’t be all up in your head about the global supply chain being backed up. I don’t deserve to cum when the Dow Jones is down 500 points and I still don’t understand what cryptocurrency is. Who can cum in times like these? So in order for a woman to cum, all this shit has to align, right? And then on top of that, the dude got to have skills. He gotta have great timing. He gotta know how to come in real slow and soft and romantic and tenderoni in the beginning… and then get real rapey by the end. In, like, a consensual way, of course. But a lot of dudes, they fuck that timing up, right? They come out the gates guns blazing, like Braveheart coming over the hill, just… “Mortal Kombat!” And you’re like, “Okay, I’m bleeding and… think you rubbed my clit off onto the floor, and now it’s lost with the dust bunnies.” And then some dudes, they do the opposite, right? They maintain this whole, like, candlelit, walk-on-the-beach energy… Close your eyes Make a wish …throughout the entire course of the sex, and it’s like, “Nah, dude. In the last 30 seconds, I need you to put me in a headlock and say racist shit to me. Okay?” “Yeah.” “Yeah, I want my eyebrows to fly off my face, and I want you to degrade me until I go deaf and mute at the same time.” “You gotta shape-shift, bro.” Nothing more satisfying to a woman then when a man goes through a sudden and extreme transformation that she is responsible for. You know, would be such a shame to go through all that trouble of cheating to end up having to fake an orgasm. In fact, I don’t think any of us women should be faking orgasms anymore. Yeah. No more faking orgasms. I mean, you really think about it, that is some nutty-ass shit that we women do. That’s a skill that you taught yourself. That wasn’t passed down to you from your mother. You taught yourself to do that shit out of survival. And it is wildly indicative of how terrified we women are of offending a man, that we would rather fake an orgasm than simply say… “Hey, I just want to go home.” “This is so not awesome.” “And I feel like I’ve really tried to tell you where to put it, where not to put it, how fast, how slow, and you straight up just don’t listen, you know, so… I’d really like to just go back to my house and fold clothes.” Men are so much more incentivized to cheat because you’re going to cum no matter what. It’s so easy for a man to cum. All you need is a wet hole. You don’t even need that! Men love to jerk off in front of women all the time. I’ve seen, like, 70 men jack off in my lifetime. Men love to show you their masturbation practice. But for me, you know, if a man is not performing at the caliber I need him to perform at, I’m not all of a sudden going to leap onto his neck and start fingering myself over his face, you know? Like, “Oh, you have erectile dysfunction?” “No problem. I got it.” “Let me just dangle my pubes, my long-ass pandemic pubes over your forehead and squirt into your nose hole. You don’t like it?” “Who cares? Who’s gonna believe you, you young, powerless boy?” I’d be like, “What the fuck am I doing?” So if you haven’t seen the movie, it’s a romantic comedy… where I play a celebrity chef who falls back in love with her childhood friend. And in the movie, my character hooks up with three different, very good-looking, very iconic, very sexy Asian American men. I know, it’s like, who wrote this thing, right? Like… Whose idea was this? And while shooting, all of my girlfriends kept on asking me, “Okay, Ali, on the DL, you gonna hook up with one of your costars?” You know, I came this close… to fucking the food consultant. It was this 29-year-old Persian dude who had tattoos all over his arms and his chest, and when the wind blew, oh my God, he was so ripped, you could see everything. You could see the King’s Hawaiian, you could see the cum gutters pointing you straight to the kingdom of heaven. You could see it all, you know? And we spent one Sunday morning butchering 18 raw chickens. That shit was like the “Unchained Melody” scene from Ghost… but with salmonella. He had his arms wrapped around me, and I almost sliced my hand off, because I could feel his 29-year old dick getting hard up against my spine. Yeah. See, the pussy can fake a orgasm, but the dick don’t lie. I felt that biology and that truth right up against my back. I did not feel violated. I felt victorious. I did. As, like, a 39-year-old woman with two C-section scars, I was like, “Oh my God, I am so powerful.” “I changed density, motherfucker, what!” “I am a wizard! I’m a blood bender! I could be in Avatar.” “Let’s go, Appa. Let’s go find Zuko and make out! Let’s go!” And I went back to my hotel that afternoon and I pull down my pants, and my underwear… looked like the bottom of a bird cage. It’s a mystery to me why Hello Kitty hasn’t contacted me yet, you know? It’s like, come on, what’s up? When I saw that in my underwear, when I saw those loogies, I was like, “Oh my God, I still got it!” There is still supply, given that there is fresh demand, okay? If you don’t understand the supply and demand metaphor, what I’m trying to tell you is my body still produces pussy juice, people. Okay? And it was good pussy juice too. It was sparkly and glistening. Viscous but not too pasty. Pungent but not too dank, it was… It was. I took a little fun dip in there, that shit tasted like LaCroix Pamplemousse. It was quality. It could’ve sealed up all the holes in my underwear like Gorilla Glue, it was…

You know, as much as I would love to cheat on my husband, I cannot afford to get a divorce. I can’t, you know? The reality is, I need my husband way more than he needs me. It is ten times harder to find a decent husband than it is to find a great wife. It’s so fucking annoying, you know? I’m almost 40, so I have all these, like, acquaintances getting divorced right now. All these women, they keep coming up to me… “Ali, it is so difficult dating out there for a divorced woman.” “None of these men can handle me, a strong woman.” “None of these men want a strong woman.” I’m like, “You’re an annoying woman, but…” I do believe that it’s slim pickings out there, you know?

And then these women, they keep telling me about their battle and how ugly it is, how they’re fighting for full custody of their kids. I’m like, “Why?” Even half custody sounds like American Horror Story. I can’t let go of my husband, you know? He’s very handsome, he’s very sexy, he’s very much my type. I have a very specific type. I like dudes who look as close to Keanu Reeves as possible. Yeah. And that’s my husband, straight up. He’s so good-looking, he’s so interesting. He speaks three different languages. He introduced me to mushrooms and ayahuasca, changed my life. So in addition to being my husband, he’s also my drug dealer. I can’t lose that Shaman connect, you know? My husband’s so smart. He went to Carnegie Mellon, Harvard Business School. He’s a Fulbright scholar. He was smart enough to choose me, to invest in me, when I was 20 pounds heavier, had chronic acne and no money. He bought low. And if we get divorced, he going to sell high. I can’t let him get away with that!

So my husband, he’s all of these wonderful things, right? But most importantly, he gives me permission to be myself. Which perhaps, for a wild, untamable spirit, is the most important quality to find in a man. But people think it’s so difficult for my husband to do something so simple as giving me permission to be myself. They always ask him, “Oh my God, how do you feel about your wife Ali going up on stage in front of all of these strangers, talking about how much she wants to cheat on you?” You know, right now while we’re all here, my husband is at home in the house that I bought… telling time on the Rolex I got him for Father’s Day… jacking off to porn that he streams on the high-speed internet I pay for every month. So, he always tells me… “Yeah, you go ahead, you know you…” He doesn’t give a shit about what I say on stage because he’s too busy living the life I wanted for myself. I’m the one leaning in while he is lying down. And now that I’m the clear breadwinner, he don’t choke me like he used to. It’s too high stakes if I die. I’ll be like, “Harder, come on, harder!” And he’ll be like, “But I really want a PS5.” “It’s all sold out, and the waitlists and the ports are all full.” People like to assume that because my husband is very spiritual and because he’s Asian American, that he’s some kind of softy, when the truth is he got this backbone made of pure, solid steel. He is a motherfucker. And whenever we get into an argument and I raise my voice, he’ll look me in the eye and say to me, “Oh, you don’t talk to me like that.” And then I’ll be like… “I’mma suck your dick.” “You put me in my place again.” “And then you give me permission to be myself, and then you tell me what to do, and then you celebrate me.” And that, single people, is what a healthy marriage looks like, okay?

I’ve been Ali Wong, have a good night, everybody. Thank you!

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