We’re in Denver. I have what I’m hoping is altitude sickness and not some, like, weird form of meningitis. They keep telling me it’s not meningitis, but they don’t know. We’ve got an amazing crowd. All the tickets are gone, which is great. All fans. People who are coming to my show should expect a healthy dose of very honest, hilarious, aggressive comedy. The special’s called Freezing Hot, so the set is freezing hot. There’s a big old explosion in the background, palm trees and snow, and then there’s a surprise at the end: my girl Blanche. When I first started traveling, I decided to get her so I’d have someone to be with me on the road, and fans like her. Come here! Okay, thank you. We have to go make an hour special. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Iliza Shlesinger!
Thank you! Denver! I picked… I picked this city. I picked this city as my favorite city to do comedy in, for this special. Thank you. Thought it was gonna be a lot colder. Really did. I always feel like weather is something you can use to ingratiate yourself toward other girls. Guys have sports, when they meet: “What’s up, bro? You see 30 for 30?” “Fuckin’ right, I did. Yeah.” With girls, it’s not fashion or anything else, it’s the weather. It’s like, “Oh, my God, it was so hot. Like, earlier.” And then the other girl’s like, “It was so hot! I noticed that, I feel. I love it when it’s hot, but not too hot. Do you know what I’m talking about?” “I know what you’re saying. Like, I totally get it. But not too hot. But I also like it when it’s cold.” “Me too, but not too cold, no. If it’s too cold, it’s like, brrr.”
I like to talk about the weather. But the weird thing for being a girl is even if you live in cold weather, girls always have an issue with deciding what outer layer we should wear. We always defer to the guy. Like, “Babe! Should I do a jacket? Jacket? A short one? A long one? You’re not looking? Okay. If I should do a jacket. For the… Are we going to the thing? Do a jacket? Should I do it? Should I do a jacket? Will you just pause Halo for two seconds? Thanks. Jacket… should I do it? Should I do a jacket? Not a jacket. Should I just do, like, four scarves and no pants? Seems counterintuitive. Do a jacket? Jacket? Jacket? Jacket?” Finally her boyfriend’s like, “Yeah, bring a fuckin’ jacket!” And you’re like, “I don’t want to bring a jacket!” – “Why not?” – “‘Cause then I have to carry it!” Girls hate the idea of carrying a jacket. “It’s too heavy!” The female body is capable of carrying a human being… for nine months, but apparently a lightweight jacket stuffed with feathers is where we draw the line. “Should I bring a jacket?”
In your 20s, you never bring a jacket. Some of you are in your 20s, so remember, like, yesterday? Do it. In your 20s, you never brought a jacket. You’re invincible and a little stupid. “I don’t need one.” That’s why it’s so funny for those over 30 to watch 20-year-olds at, like, 2:00 a.m., like, braving the cold. Shivering. Doing this shit with their dresses. Like, pulling it down. All those shoes cracking under the pressure. “My dress won’t…” “You’re not wearing a dress! It’s a tube sock!” You always rationalize it. “It’s not that far from the car to the bar.” In your 20s, you risk that icy walk for the glory of not having to wear a jacket. You have no problem with that two-minute walk. Not every girl makes it. I’ve lost many a hot Amber to that walk. You’re like, “Where’s Amber?” Amber’s frozen. Like, “Go! Order a lemon drop and toast to my memory!”
It’s the worst when you’re cold, you can’t find your car. If you’re with a group of girls, resign yourself to the fact you’re probably not going to find your car. Even if you’re brilliant, there’s something in the genetic makeup of women that disables us from remembering where the car is parked. It’s rare that a woman parks the car and is like, “Boop! Okay, I’m in spot 4-F. Let me remember that. Let me be responsible for my choices in this life. Something disengages and takes over, and we’re just like, “Boop! What’s this?” And then we just, like, wake up in a Sephora. Always bring at least one guy. There’s something in the male makeup. Men always find the car. They throw down breadcrumbs, Hansel and Gretel-style. Maybe they’ve got a tracking device in their junk. I don’t know. Like, ping, ping, ping! He may not even find your car. He will find you a car, and you’ll get in it. Guys, I’ll tell you a secret: We don’t want to look for the car. It’s boring. If I do a scan and I don’t see it, I’m like, “Someone stole it!” That’s always the go-to. “Stole it!” Sometimes we’ll act like we’re stressed, even if we’re not. That’s our go-to. Women have been told they’re feebleminded. Once in a while, we’ll play into it to our advantage. “I don’t know where the car is, okay? I’m sorry! You’re perfect! And I don’t know where the car is. I don’t even… I don’t know where the car is, okay? I’m trying, okay? I’m stressed out because I’m working, like, ten hours a week. And I’m like… There’s the car. Thank you, Officer, we found it. Like your jacket.” Girls always defer to the guy when it comes to weather questions. Every girl’s done this, where you wake up in the morning, next to your husband, your boyfriend, or whatever Dairy Queen manager Tinder has set you up with. 8:00 a.m., first thing out of your mouth, you’re like, “Babe… is it cold outside?” And your boyfriend wants to be there for you. He’s like, “I don’t know ’cause I’m inside.” “It’s chilly. Chilly.” Girls hate being cold. We hate it. Girls don’t like to be chilly. Guys, don’t let your date get cold. We’re not happy when we’re cold. “Come here, babe. I gonna warm you up.” “Don’t fucking touch me. It’s not what I want.” Girls don’t want to have sex when they’re cold. In my life, I’ve never been like, “Oh, my God, I’m so cold, I just wish I had somebody to fuck!” It doesn’t really happen. We don’t get horny when we get cold. It sends a message to our brain: Time to go home. Time to hibernate. Time to watch a show on TLC about a 600-pound woman eating herself to death. That’s what we want to do. “Cold!” Don’t let your date get cold. We’re not happy when we’re cold. The body language for “I’m cold” and “I’m fucking pissed at you” is the same body language. Girls don’t like being cold… but we love cold weather. That’s girl logic for you. Everything’s a contradiction wrapped in a bow. “It gets pretty. Glitter.” It’s the same thought process that’s like, “I’m gonna wear tight pants, but don’t you look at my butt!” “I am so cold, I’m sweating. It is freezing hot in here. I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel.” All girls love fall. I don’t know if you know that. All girls are required to love fall. Yeah. Required. That’s right. When we applied to be girls… went to the girl counter. They hold your girl card up. “What’s your favorite season?” And you go, “It’s fall, motherfucker.” And they’re like, “All right. Here’s your girl card, your uggs, your glitter. Go have fun, be insecure.”
That’s what being a girl is. Girls love fall so much, I’ve been planning this fall since July… of, like… of, like, two years ago. We fucking get into fall. You don’t even have to tell girls when it’s fall. We know. Oh, we sense it. We get into it. The second it turns fall, the second a leaf falls somewhere in, like, Connecticut, we feel it. Sit at home, watching TV. Outside the temperature drops from, like, 86 to 63. We pop out of the ground like gophers. We sense that fall is here. Watching TV, fall comes, we’re just like… – “Did you feel that?” – “It was a breeze.” “- Fuck yeah! Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves… – pumpkin everything! Pumpkin! Eat the pumpkins! Let’s plan fall shit!” You drag your boyfriend by the teeth. “Let’s go! We’re doing fall shit! We’re going apple-picking!” “Babe, there’s no apple orchards in Los Angeles.” “Fine. I’m going to the grocery store and throw apples at children. Something!”
We go on Pinterest, start pinning fall ideas. Leaves, that’s a fun thing we like to fuck with. Every year the leaves change color, and we lose our shit. Every… “Did you see the leaves? Oh, my God! Last week they were green, and now they’re brown!” They’re not brown. They’re fuckin’ dead, you sicko! They’re fuckin’ dead, and you’re doing crafts with their corpses. Have you no respect for nature? That was a living thing, you monster! “What are you gonna do with your dead leaves?” “I’m gonna make a pile on the front lawn so the kids can play in the death. What are you gonna do with your dead leaves?” “I’m gonna make a wreath on the front door as a warning to other dead leaves not to fuck with me!” – “Did you just eat a leaf?” – “I did.” Pin pin pin.
We love Pinterest. All girls love Pinterest. Anyone? Yes! Pinterest. Porn for white women. We love it. We love planning things on Pinterest. Lot of girls plan weddings on Pinterest. One of my girlfriends got married on Valentine’s Day. And, joking, I was like, “Oh, my God, that’s so fun. What was your theme?” Dead serious, she was like, “We did, like, love, but, like, under the stars… under the sea. So…” I was like, “Okay, it’s a wedding, not a prom.” I tell you what, Denver, if and when I get married, I’m gonna get married the day after Valentine’s Day, and my theme is going to be “75 percent off chocolate.” Right? Yeah! ‘Cause it’s my day! Guys, any of you that are engaged, your fiancee has already planned your entire wedding on Pinterest. She’s planned your wedding, future vacations, your fucking funeral. It’s on Pinterest. And we don’t do it when you’re looking, no, ’cause if you saw how creepy we got with Pinterest, you wouldn’t have us. We do it under the cloak of night. We wait. We get a pumpkin spice latte and we go in. We log on to Pinterest. Gentlemen, Pinterest for girls is like Call of Duty for guys. I got a fuckin’ headset on, talkin’ shit to 14-year-olds in Michigan. First person pinning pictures of Channing Tatum. Like, “He’s mine! Ha ha!” Pin pin pin pin pin. You get into these creative downward spirals, pinning and pinning. Am I looking at porn? Pin pin pin pin pin. I’m not even sure at this point. Natural water birth? Why am I pinning that? Pin pin pin pin pin. Looking outside six hours, seven hours, 24 hours later. – Open the mini blinds. – It’s sunny outside! Keep pinning for the glory!
Babe! I want to show you what I’m pinning for my wedding… our wedding. Oops. Ha ha! Come in here. I want to show you. I have all these fun ideas. We should do a chocolate waterfall. Instead of chocolate, we should do bridesmaid’s tears. I think it’s fair. It’s only fair. I want to show this to you. Come in here, Brian, Ryan… Who gives a shit what your name is? I’m getting married. I want to show this to you. Do you like the pink napkins or the red napkins? I think there’s a difference. I’m so stressed out, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know. Do you think I’m pretty? I don’t know. I don’t know what the theme should be. You know what the theme should be? That your mom’s a bitch, that’s what the theme should be. This is so hard, but I want to do it anyway, because I love you so much, and it’s gonna be amazing! I can do it, man. I’m gonna be on all these ideas. We should do a swan. We should do a dove. We should do a swan made of doves. Babe, will you Google Human Centipede, but for doves, and see if we can sew them together ATM-style? Yes, I know what “ATM” is, I’ve seen your porn. I love you anyway. # Dum dum da-dum, I’m getting married before my sister # I want to show this to you. What? Yes, I’m wearing a diaper! I’m not getting up. I want to show this. It’s going to be amazing. Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Babe! Is it cold outside? Pin pin pin pin.
Girls get cold easily because we’re not allowed to eat as much as we want in one sitting. Trying to get another girl to admit she’s hungry, it’s like a standoff. You can’t admit you’re hungry. That’s admitting weakness, defeat. “Are you hungry? Me neither. So…” – “Are you hungry?” – “No, I ate last week, so…” “I could do this all day. I’m chewing my on tongue. It feels good enough.” Eventually one, usually the smaller one, will concede. “I’ll… if you’re… I’ll go with you. If you’re hungry, I’ll go with you. I’ll go with you. I’ll go with you.” Subtext: I’ll watch you get fat. “I’ll go with you. I’ll have, like, a bite. Whatever you get, I’ll have a bite. I’m easy. I eat everything, except for nothing, so… I eat nothing except for everything. I don’t understand what I’m saying either. I’m so fucking hungry. Please, let’s go have a bite. A bite of a bite. Do you want to get tapas?” One girl always throws tapas out there. “Do you want to do tapas? What are they? They’re small plates. You do, like, five to ten per person. It runs you about 100 bucks each. Totally worth it. Yeah.” Girls love anything small, not filling, and expensive. We would eat diamonds if we could. “They’re tapas. They’re small plates. It’s Spanish. What Spanish? It’s, like, their Spanish, not the country below the United States. It’s a different Spanish. It’s got a fucked-up ‘th.’ I went to Spain for two days when I was 16, so I’m cultured, okay? They’re small plates. Platito. They’re so small, it’s like a Frisbee for a rat. Like, small plates. It’s like a monocle for an amoeba. Just, like, really small. One time I ate the plate, on accident. That was pretty horrific. Small plates.” It’s an absolute joke. I don’t like anything about it. Comes on a wooden block, like you’re eating lunch at Home Depot. Some guy, with his bare hands, balls up some ham in the corner and then throws some shards of manchego cheese and some haphazard drizzle of honey so you can eat like an Andalusian farmer taking a lunch break in a field in 1830 for, like, a hundred bucks. Cool. “Small plates.” One friend gets annoyed you don’t want her suggestion. “You don’t want tapas? Fine. Just trying to accommodate the group.” Guys don’t ever get tapas. It’s a girl food. “You wanna get tapas?” It’s never dudes. “Now, look, bro! Wanna get tapas? We’ll go after fantasy draft. You wanna do tapas? We’ll get one meatball, split it with four dudes, no homo.” “You don’t like my suggestion? What do you want? Do you want to do a flatbread? You want to do a flaahbread? What is it? It’s like a thin crust pizza, but, like, annoying.” It’s always the one girl in the group that suggests the flatbread. “Do you guys want to do it for everyone, a flatbread?” She’s the one suggesting it. She’s the one that got everyone together. She’s the one that printed the Groupon. Her name is usually something like Amanda. “You want flatbread? Do you? You do? Not eating? Don’t do gluten? Not doing dairy? You don’t do fun? Sleeping? That’s weird. We’re in public. Do you want flatbread? Ask her. Does she want flatbread? I can’t. My phone’s dead. I can’t text her. Ask her if she wants flat… Do you want flatbread? I’m asking if you want a… Aflac! Do you want flaahbread? Ask Cynnamon with a Y if she wants flatbread. Then tell Kinnamon with a K her name is not phonetically sound. Okay. I’m gonna do the ordering. Hi! We’re in a rush because we’re entitled. Um… Wanna do one flatbread for the 40 of us, yeah? She’s not eating, she’s gonna have a bite, doesn’t do dairy, doesn’t do gluten, she doesn’t know what gluten is, but feels like she doesn’t do it this week. And we’re gonna do… What do you guys want to drink? No, don’t order your own. We’re just gonna do a trough of white wine. Yeah? How do you want to drink it? You’re being annoying. Stop. No, we don’t need glasses. We’re just gonna drink it with our hands! What do you guys want to get on it? Let’s just go crazy. Let’s do half goat cheese, half air. Thank you! Flaahbread!”
Went on a date recently. Uh… I made a real effort in my 30s. I’m 31. Made a real effort to try to date normal guys. When you’re in your 20s, you can date whoever you want. You’ll live forever, you’re hot, you’re in your 20s. “Wanna go out? We’re both carbon-based. Let’s do it.” And it’s, like, fine. Tried to make responsible choices in my 30s. Recently I went out with someone based on the way he was dressed. – He was an accountant. – But, okay. I’ll carry the conversation. That’s fine. He had a plaid shirt, tucked into khakis. Okay. All right. Little nerdling. That’s okay. Cell phone in a holster on his hip. Dad-style. To the dads in the audience and subsequently watching this, what text is coming in so fast you have to have your hand ready O.K. Corral-style? And then what are you sending out so fast that it’s rendering your cellular device smoking, and you’ve got to holster it? The point is, he was dressed responsibly. Nonthreatening. Nice, like an adult.
I knew I had to respond in kind. I couldn’t dress like a 19-year-old lesbian Hot Topic manager. I get it. Made a real effort, folks. I made a real effort. Asked my girlfriends that are in their mid-30s… dating awhile, very mature, right? “What should I wear?” “You need to get… like, a silk blouse. So, just wear it and, like, cover that shit up and just tuck it in, blouse it out, silk blouse.” I’m here to say right now, I reject a silk blouse. Fuck a silk blouse, okay? Yes! Just because you’re not 20 doesn’t mean you have to be ashamed of your body. I don’t need to wear a tent over it, okay? They’re burkas for American women. I said it and I meant it. All right? They’re oppressive, ugly, hot, shapeless, and if you wear an underwire bra under your silk blouse and you sweat through it, it’s gonna look like a face with its eyes closed. Fuck a silk blouse. But I bought one anyway. I’ll be like, whatever. Went to a nice store. Made a real effort. I went to a Nordstrom…’s. I asked the sales girl… she was 19, and just hot. – “I need a silk blouse.” – “What about this one?” It was white. It had black splotches all over it. She was like, “It’s abstract.” I was like, “Yeah, like a Rorschach test, but less interesting.” She’s like, “I don’t get it.” I’m like, “That’s ’cause you work here. Okay.” “No, it’s like a fun pattern.” I’m like, “That’s a cow print. Like, one hundred percent. It’s black splotches. I’m gonna look like a model for Gateway printers. I’m not wearing that.” Here’s the fact: it’s a cow print. You can’t wear it if you’re normal. If you’re a model, you can wear something stupid and look hot. You can wear a blousy cow print and be like, “Fuck yeah. Moo, motherfuckers. Unh! Unh! Moo, yeah, unh! Unh, right?” Not dicks, udders. Normal girl wearing a cow pattern, if you tuck in a blousy cow, you’re gonna look like a cow that had gastric bypass surgery. Just blousy. Tucked-in blousy cow, so I got it. Tucked-in blousy cow.
Then I bought pants that were very tight. You want to wear tight pants. The tighter the pant, the more effort it shows you’ve put into it, okay? Not unlike Chinese foot-binding, you want your pants so tight that they form your muscles and bones into this kind of, like, palsy effect. Okay?
And you want to have shoes that are so high, the heel is so high, that you are literally cantilevered off the edge and it forms a dainty hump in the back. Men like this, trust me. Men love a good hump, okay? Like this. So you’re ready. So you’ve got blousy cow, palsy pants. You want your shoes so high that you can’t run from your rapist if you want. Blousy cow, palsy pants, and I was ready for the date.
I brought a special bag. There’s a special bag women are required to carry on a first date. It’s called a clutch. Small mouse purse. A clutch, for those that don’t know, is neither a synonym for the word “cool,” nor does it have to do with a car. A clutch is a tiny purse that women carry on a first date. The reason we carry it is because we can’t carry a big bag, ’cause men don’t like big bags. First, it’s not attractive. You can’t show up to a guy’s house going, “Hey! Huh huh. Ready for our first date, Steve? Well, I just brought my… …bag right here. We don’t gotta go to no fancy dinner or nothing. Nope, I brought me a hot plate. We can just plug it in right here. We can do it on the lawn, unless you’re ashamed of me. You got an external power source? Maybe a generator? I call mine Jenny. It’s a little joke. We could… Do you like beans, Steve? I brought beans. I don’t need a can opener. I’ve got this shit.” We carry the little bag because men don’t like big bags. Men don’t like big bags because big bags scare men. You show up with a big bag, guys’ first thought is, “Fuck, she’s trying to move in.” That’s the first thought. Men don’t like surprises. They’re already weirded out by women in general. They don’t know what’s in that bag. You could have guns, medication. “What’s in the bag? What’s in the bag? What’s in the bag! Tampons, alimony papers, Gwyneth Paltrow’s head? What’s in the bag?” Could have medication in there, restraining order. Taking around that garbage with you, that’s why it’s called baggage. So we carry a little, tiny clutch, carry a tiny bag to fool you. We want you to think all this perfection… I said perfection!… comes from the contents of this tiny rat purse. “Just a couple of things.” Every girls’ told that lie. “It takes me, like, ten minutes to get ready, so…” As you’re telling the lie, you can feel it. “- I promise, I’m telling the truth. – It’s fine. Ten minutes.” And no woman in this room has ever closed a clutch on the first try. Because… it’s true. “It was hard getting here. It wouldn’t close on the first try.”
Because when women pack for a first date, we don’t pack for the date we’re going to have, we pack for the date we want to have. Imaginations take over. “I should bring one lip gloss for every degree the sun sets, ’cause we’re gonna watch the sunset from the yacht. Do it. Also, bring my AAA card, in case his Porsche breaks down. He has a Porsche. What if he’s, like, a secret millionaire, and he, like, wants to make sure that, like, I love him for him and not his money, ’cause he’s had problems with other girls in the past wanting him for his money, and he didn’t know if their love was pure? I’ll pretend, like, ‘You don’t have to test me, ‘ but he does, because I really like money, but I’m gonna pretend it’s not a big deal. And maybe he’s the prince of a recently liberated country that I don’t care about, and I should pretend I care about him, so I should plan for this date to be amazing, so I should bring a passport in case we go to dinner in Paris.” You get it all in the bag, start to zip it. You’ve got it in your teeth, the zipper. Fuckin’ close! Please! You get it, like, halfway zipped. You can’t go on a date with a bag zipped halfway. That’s ratchet. So what do you do? You take everything out, all your accessories, you lay ’em all out. You gotta make some cuts. So sorry, ladies. You’re all very valuable to the team. Not everyone can make varsity. And rather than get rid of anything, right, what do you do at least once? You make an attempt to put everything back in the bag, but slowly… thinking if you’re somehow purposeful in your actions, you will sneak up on the bag… and it won’t know that it’s full. And you get it down to one thing, and then you snap. You’re like, Fuck it! Everything goes in! LUNA bars, Activia, uggs, Dad issues. Let’s go.
So we went to a bar, and we’re sitting there, and we sit down, and he ordered one drink… the whole night. Here’s my problem with that. Um… It was a Friday night, and I’m a lady. I want to party, but I’m a lady. So, if you only have one drink, that means I’m only going to have one drink. If I only have one drink, how the hell am I supposed to want to touch you later? Okay? Yes. Thank you for being honest. Do the math on that one, accountant. Yeah. Anyone not laughing, you’re lying to yourself. That’s what alcohol is for. Loosen yourself up a bit. Make choices you wouldn’t normally make. “Whatever. I had some wine. It’s okay.” Otherwise, why waste the calories? Let’s all just have a glass of warm milk and punch ourselves in the face. He didn’t even get alcohol. He had a beer. He had, like, an IPA. And he had, like, taken a sip of his. I was done with my vodka soda. I thought we were having a race. Sipping on his beer, I’m down to the ice in my drink, tonguing it like a dog on a hot day. Just like… I’m running into the bathroom, taking shots of Scope from the attendant, trying to get, like, a prison buzz, introduce alcohol. I’m holding my breath, trying to get some kind of high. My problem wasn’t necessarily that he only had one drink. My problem with it, really, was that I had a problem with it. I should have been mature about it. And had I been dating more in my 30s, I think I would have been okay with that situation. My friends in their mid-30s, they’d be okay with that drink. I wish that I was. I wish I could have normal girl thoughts. I wish I’d sit and have the drink and have normal girl thoughts. “This one drink is really nice. I’m so grateful. This is great. He seems like a really sweet guy. He’s got really nice eyes. I wonder what they’d look like in a jar.” Like, normal thoughts. But I’m still of the mindset that when I get a drink in me, – it sends a message to my brain… – that it’s go time! That’s what it says, all right? I’m 31, I’m not 90. It was Friday, not a Tuesday during high tea. Let’s make some fucking mistakes. That’s what it’s about.
I got… I feel a lot of people are wired this way. A sip of liquor sends a message to my party goblin that it’s time to do it. Some people have party goblins that have lost their ability to walk, from partying too much. My party goblin sleeps on a bunk bed, on the top bunk. My dignity sleeps on the bottom bunk. He is not invited. The second I taste liquor, it wakes her up. She smells it in my brain. She’s dreaming of eating frozen pizza, ’cause she’s a monster. “Huh?” “Vodka. Top shelf.” She goes to the megaphone that controls my actions. We’ve all had party goblin control our actions. “You need to rage! Find the door guy! Ask him if he has drugs! Do not specify. See what he comes up with! Do it! Fuckin’ go! Jump on top of that table. Start dancing. There is no music. I will provide the music. # La la la la la la-la-la la! # You look so pretty. Jump off that table. Run outside. Push that cop, see if he finds it adorable. Ask if you can touch his gun. The answer’s always no. Go over to that CVS. Find the dairy aisle. Grab some whipped cream. Do some Whip-its. It might kill you. It’s fucking worth it. Go outside. Take a picture. Put it on Instagram. Take it down ten minutes later ’cause, oops, we could see your nipple!” Like, that’s how it usually is.
So, we left the bar, right? Super buzzed off of our drink. And he drove me home, so now we’re in front of my house, okay? We’re sitting in front of my house. This is where a kiss takes place. This is where a first kiss takes place. Now, as a girl, you know when you’ve put out the vibe that you want a kiss, all night, okay? Men and women are wired differently. Men are putting out the vibe all the time. Right now, lot of vibes, all the time. “God, I hope she sees my wiener.” That’s what… The vibe is ever-present with guys. “You want this? Yeah? Anyone? Anyone. No? Little bit? What, you’re calling the cops? Okay. See you on Facebook. Okay.” For girls, we’re very specific about when we put out the vibe. Can’t just throw that shit around. Got to be specific. Every girl’s got things she does to throw out the vibe. Maybe touch her hair a little bit. “That’s funny.” Maybe you show off part of your body. Every girl’s got that one body part better than any other girl’s. Maybe it’s your forearm. Maybe all night, you’re like, “Fuck, yeah. Yeah? Ehh? You want it? You wanna fuck, eh? Yaaahhhh. That’s weird? Okay.”
When a girl knows that a guy’s a little vulnerable and into her, we become like an evil witch in Enchanted Forest, and the guy becomes, like, the lost ingenue. Say your girlfriend broke up with you. Let’s say you were cheated on. You’re a little wounded. You’re sitting there. “I hope I find a girl.” And we, out of nowhere, are just like… “Hello. Apple? What’s that? Yes, I used to work in a pharmacy. Whole new life for myself.” We start saying things to you to lure you in. “Yes, this way. Sports? I love sports. This way. This way. Come this way. Oh, yes. What? A relationship? Not me. No, I just want to fuck in perpetuity until you grow tired of me. This way! Yes, what’s that? Your ex-girlfriend? She sounds like a bitch I would love to fight with my shirt off. This way. This way to my gingerbread house. Yes. Yes. Come and nibble on the walls of my gingerbread house. Yes! What’s that? Yes, it’s a metaphor for my vagina. You’re very clever. This way. This way.
Said the right things, did the right things. I knew we were gonna have a mouth kiss. Now, for the guy… he has to decide how he wants to kiss the girl. That’s a tough role. You have to decide how you’re gonna kiss a girl. If you kiss her too soft, you look like a big puss. If you kiss her too hard, charges will be filed. So you have to be careful. In this interaction, the girl also has her part to play. There are only three places you can look in the passenger side of a vehicle, only one of which is truly acceptable, okay? You cannot look right at him. That’s too much eye contact. He might take it as a threat. He might bite your neck. We don’t know what he’ll do. Okay? We don’t know. Plus, it’s creepy. “Do I kiss this girl? I don’t know.” And you’re just like… But you can’t stare out your passenger side window. That’s not enough eye contact, and you’ll look touched in the head. He’s looking at you. “Do I kiss this girl?” And you’re just like… Side note, ladies: If his window does this, do not date him. Okay. So the girl only has one option, and that is to sort of look down and stare at her hands, and all of a sudden become fascinated with her cuticle situation. “Amazing. I used to have feathers. That is so weird.” And sort of monitor the impending kiss out of your periphery. And when he gets about halfway, you strike. Teeth first, so you know that he knows you mean business. I’ve kissed two guys. I think I know what I’m talking about. So I was all set. Blousy cow. Palsy pants. Fuckin’ forearm. Creepy witch. Like, I was all set. I knew we were gonna have a mouth kiss, and apparently he had a different plan. He had a cheek peck planned. And I did not see that coming. Now I’m going to show you what happens when a cheek peck meets the intention of a mouth kiss. This is me, and this is him. “I’m just sitting here. Oh, my God. Nails.” Let’s see the slow-motion replay. Huh? No? Fuck! Tuck and roll!
So embarrassing! It was so embarrassing. It was sexual rejection, like, in the weirdest form. I don’t even remember how I got in my house. I just know that I ended up there. What I think happened is that my embarrassment materialized into a magician’s smoke bomb. And I was just like, “This never happened!” And I was gone! So now I’m inside my house. We’ve all had this happen. It was, like, 10:30. We’ve had this happen where you come home earlier on a weekend than you thought you would. You were all planning to go out, and you come home way earlier. Guys, they want to go back out, right? You wanna get back out there, right? Go team. Get back out there. You want to get drunk and meet chicks. For girls, it’s a different motivation. “Why don’t you want to go back out?” “‘Cause I don’t wanna waste an outfit.” You try to contact your friends. There’s something energywise that makes it very difficult when you’re sober to go back out and rejoin your drunk friends. You ever try getting a location from your drunk friends? It’s like texting with a house cat. They send you the weirdest stuff. Here’s what happens. They don’t really care if they see you because they went out together. You went rogue. You went off on a date, selfish, went to go find love. Your friends formed a little mini-mob, and they band together and they formed a phalanx. “Let’s find dudes,” and they went out together. They don’t care if they see you. They send you weird texts. Like, “We don’t know the name of the bar! We don’t know how long we’ll be here. We’re in outer space. Come find us!”
After, like, 20 minutes of trying, you resign yourself to the fact you’re gonna be home. What’s the first step? You take off your going-out clothes. I had a silk blouse on. I didn’t know how to care for it. I didn’t know what to feed it. I didn’t know. It’s the fanciest material. It’s like the caviar of the material family. I stood by open French windows for ten minutes waiting for bluebirds to come and undress me. Took it off. Put on my at-home clothes. Girls know what at-home clothes are. The clothes you put on when no one else is around. Super gross. All the guys here are like, “I’ve been with my girl when we’re by ourselves. She’s super cute.” No, we don’t do that. We don’t wear roll-down boxers and socks up to here ’cause you’re kind of a pedophile, and pigtails. We don’t do that when we’re by ourselves! Girls, we dig deep into the trunk of, like, old T-shirts. You pull out your T-shirt from middle school. It’s got paint on it. You got your Abercrombie varsity athletic pants from, like, 1997, stripes on ’em. You put those on, right? Sweatshirt’s got holes. Pants have holes. Underwear has holes. Socks have holes. Why are there holes in your clothes? Because tears corrode. And you wander listlessly through your house. You look homeless, but you’re in a home, so that doesn’t make sense. You wander from room to room. You’re just kind of not ready to go to bed yet. You go to a room where the light’s off. You flip it on. One percent of you is expecting there to be, like, a serial killer. Knowing full well if he’s there, you’re done for, ’cause you’re in your at-home clothes. Nothing’s… can’t defend yourself. Flip it back off. You wander into the kitchen. You don’t really make a meal for yourself, do you? You just stick your hand deep in a bag of deli turkey. Right? Couple of crackers. Maybe, like, two Starbursts for dessert. Staring at nothing. Maybe you have a show in the background. Maybe Frasier’s on, hypothetically me every night. Sitting there eating. You start saying weird things to your dog. “One day, you’ll be my wife.” I’m sitting there doing this. Phone buzzes. It’s a text message. Who’s it from? The accountant. What does it say? Is he gonna ask me out again? Does he like me? “Hey, Iliza, had a great time tonight. Would love to have kissed you, but I have to be up early.” I don’t even know how to answer that like a human. You sent me a text that is un-text-backable. And first of all, who are you making out with, wolverines, that your legs are immobile the next day? You send me something that stupid, I’m not giving you the dignity of a normal text back. You’re not even getting back a regular emoji. No winky face. No sad face. I’m going deep into that emoji bank and I am pulling out… fried shrimp. Fried shrimp.
What bothered me about the whole thing is it was sexual rejection, no matter how you slice it. I wasn’t saying, “Let’s get married. Let’s make plans to meet my mom.” It was a kiss. And so, even though you denied the kiss, it’s still denying me sexually, which is very uncomfortable for girls. Guys get sexually rejected, it’s part of being a guy. “You want it? Nope? Okay. Anyone else? Hey? One over here. Dick over here. Penis over there. One, two, two, two. Sold! To the seven in the corner with low standards.” It was a mouth kiss. You rejecting that is the equivalent of you being like, “Hey, Iliza! You see this? None for you!” Let’s talk about this for a second. I talked about this on my last special. Every girl’s seen a guy do this. So, I’ve done some thinking on the topic of this… I want to let you girls know, ’cause girls get offended. “That’s so gross. Why are you doing that at a family picnic? What are you doing?” I want to give you peace of mind and let you know, it has nothing to do with you. He would be doing this whether you were there or not! Take it as an insult, take it as a compliment. I don’t have an issue that guys do this. My issue is that there’s no reciprocation on the female end. Gentlemen, you’d be very upset… if you were laying in bed, ready to have sex, game’s on pause, ready to go. And your girlfriend came out of the bathroom in just a T-shirt and no bottoms. “Hey, babe.” And she just did some sort of, like, weird vaginal puppetry. Hashtag vaginal puppetry. You’d be very upset if she just came out and was like, “Babe! Hey. Hey.” If there are any guys here not laughing, that’s how we feel about that! It would disrupt the entire cycle of human procreation. Men would cease having sex with women. They’d be super grossed out. They’d move to the woods. They’d take raccoons as wives. It would be horrible. What’s weird about it is, as a girl, you are open to the threat of a guy doing this at any point. If you’re dating a guy, he could do it a week in, a year in, ten years in. It could be in the bedroom, at a concert, the produce aisle. This could happen at any minute. That fear is ever present in your mind, so I think if men and women are to ever be fair and equal, guys should have an inherent fear of raptor vag. Hashtag raptor vag. It’s only fair.
So I have a plan. Tonight, we strike. Every guy in here on a date is like, “Jesus. Fuck. Why did we buy tickets for this? They were free? Still.” Here’s my plan, okay? Tonight… while my boyfriend is sleeping… Let me take it back. I’m gonna get a boyfriend. Wait till he’s sleeping, okay? Sneak up in there… And when you do this, ’cause you’re going to do it, pinky swear? When you do it, you want to make sure that he’s in REM sleep. It’s the deepest, most luxurious sleep, okay? You need to check to see that he’s in REM sleep. How do you make sure someone’s in REM sleep? You open their eye… while they’re sleeping. You ever do this to someone while they’re sleeping? Fuck you guys! I’m not the only one that’s done this! And you say things like, “I love you! Look back and forth if you love me too!” Make sure he was sleeping. So he’s sleeping. And I go into the other room, and I would pin for a little bit… pin pin pin… and then I would go in, and I would take out my raptor claw, okay? And I would sharpen my nails down, not to a point that was sharp enough that you could stab a meerkat and eat it if you wanted to, but you want a rounded point so the pressure will be localized, okay? Like an apex of sorts, okay? Rounded. Like, if a raptor went to get a manicure, she’d be like, “Make it lovely.” So I’d make it lovely, and I’d sheath it for my own protection, and I’d go in, and I’d descend upon the sleeping boyfriend, and I would apply the raptor claw to his cheek, and I would gently stroke. Not enough to awaken, but merely to stir. Okay? Why am I doing that? I’ll tell you, what I’m doing is introducing external stimuli into his land of slumber. Who talks like that? I’m introducing external stimuli into his subconscious, thus permeating his dreams, okay? Whatever he’s doing in his dream, he’s gonna feel this. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he’s gonna be, “Oh, shit, raptor vag.” Doing this lets him know. It’s not unlike when you’re having a dream. Let’s say you’re talking to a model, and your alarm clock goes off. “Another reason I don’t like to wear underwear…” It’s the equivalent of that, okay? I would do this, so in his dreamland, he would feel that and he would know. And then, he’s still sleeping, but he’s feeling this, and then, for the final stage, I would sneak up to him, and I would sound the raptor mating call. It would resonate all throughout the land of Nod, and he would know. He’s in his dream, delivering his naked high school commencement speech, he would hear the raptor mating call, and he’d be like, “Oh, fuck, Mama’s here.” He would know. I’d get in his ear and do the raptor mating call right before I striked, okay? I stroked? I striked. I stricked? Okay. Do it. I’d get in his ear, raptor mating call. And he would, “Huh?” And I’d go… “That’s right, motherfucker!”
It’s like a jacket. Girls are weird. We do weird things, but we’re cute, so it’s okay. Girls do crazy things. It’s our own brand of crazy. Guys do crazy things too, like rape and war. They do their own kind of crazy things. Girls have a more insidious kind of crazy. We’ll start a fight just to see if we can make it look like you started the fight. We have do it three times a year or we lose our standing in the club. Every girl’s done that, just to see how strong your powers are. “I don’t want to fight with you. Stop it. I didn’t start this. You started this, you started acting weird. – I don’t want to fight with you.” – “Bullshit.” “I don’t want to fight with you.” We’ll turn around, talk to a fake jury. “I don’t… What is this? I don’t want to fight with you. This is on you. I’m peaceful, you’re being a dick. I don’t even… stop it. What are you doing? You’re yelling. I don’t want to fight with you.” But in your girl head, you’re like… I wanna… I wanna fight with you. I woke up feeling chubby this morning… and that is somehow your fault. Get in the Octagon. We do all kinds of head games. “Go hang out with your friends. That’s fine. Do it. Go hang out with your friends. I dare you. I know you made plans with me. That’s fine. Go hang out with your friends. That’s fine. I want you to be happy. Do it. Go hang out with your friends.” There are no friends. Only Zuul.
Look, I’m sure being a guy has its difficulties. I haven’t been one in a while. I don’t really know what that’s like. Girls have a lot of stuff that are being thrown at them all the time, and we have to suss out what’s good for us and weed out the positive messages. I truly believe our society operates on a currency of women’s insecurities, multibillion-dollar industries thriving on, “Just make them feel their bodies are unacceptable, then sell them some shit.” Look at any magazine. “You’re amazing, but you need to lose, like, ten pounds. Love your body, love your hair. Whatever you’ve done is wrong. You look like a sea monster.” Everything’s got a weird mixed message and a “whorey” undertone. “Be a bad girl. Own your sexuality. But if you fuck more than one dude, you’re a whore.” Like everything’s wrong. You can’t just go around effing dudes, but you can have sex with more than one. Even my eyeliner has a sexual message. It’s called Bad Gal. Fourteen-year-olds can buy this. Are they bad gals? Yeah, tiny bad gals. It comes with a little devil that sits on your shoulder. It whispers salacious things in your ear. – Oh, I’d better get ready for the… – “You’re a bad gal.” Better close that window. Better get ready… “Yeah, you wanna fuck in a Dumpster.” What are you talking about? Doesn’t sound like a bad gal as much as someone that just needs a home. I’m not a bad gal. I’m just trying to put on eyeliner so I don’t look like newborn hamster face. – “Yeah, you’re a bad gal.” – I’m not a bad gal! “You are. You want to give a hand job in an Acura going 50 in a 30, no insurance. You’re a bad gal.” What are you talking about? I have insurance. What’s my blush called? Flirty Girl. “Yeah, tart it up, you hooker! Yeah! Look super horny, ready to go. You’re a flirty girl. Dressed like that, you’re asking for it!” Dressed like what, like a cool mom out on mom’s night out? Dressed like what? “Yeah, you wanna fuck in a Dumpster!” What’s with you and fucking with Dumpsters? – “I wanna fuck in a Dumpster.” – Well, you’re projecting!
Again, my issue with it isn’t that there’s a sexual undertone. My issue is that it’s a negative message to women, but guys reap a positive effect, right? “She’s a bad girl. Maybe she’ll touch my D.” That’s pretty much the message coming out of that. “Maybe she’ll wear spiked leather gloves, yeah, on a motorcycle!” She’s probably a lesbian if she’s on a motorcycle. “Bad gal.” There’s no men’s products, there are no men’s products that have a negative message to men, but women reap a positive effect. There’s no guy putting on cologne, and he’s hearing, “You’re gonna text her back within a reasonable time frame.” There’s no guy putting on aftershave, and he’s hearing, “You’re 37 and share a room with two other dudes in the hipster part of town. Outside the context of Los Angeles, that’s totally socially unacceptable. What’s that? You run a T-shirt making business? You only have online shit? No real T-shirts. You ride a bike to work and claim it’s ecologically responsible, but we all know your credit is so fucked, you can’t get financing for a Kia!” There’s a lot to contend with as a girl. We have different rules. Girls are like, “We can fuck whoever we want.” That’s not the way it should be. We’re the fairer sex for a reason, lady. If you want guys to pay for dinner and open doors, act like a lady. You can’t act like a guy. We’re just not built for it. Sorry if that’s crushing some of you. It’s just the truth. “Fuck!” My girlfriends called me the other night. “Do you want to go out with us… after your skit?” Continuing to not fully comprehend what I do for a living. That’s fine. We’re talking about it, and in the back was my drunk friend. Drunk friend never gets to hold the phone. Drunk friend’s always in the background, yelling shit at the sober one. Drunky’s always tethered to the sober one. Like, “Ahhh! I miss you! Aaahhhh!” When they yell, “I miss you,” and you don’t miss them, you’re like, “Miss you too, babe. Bleh.” “Come out with us!” She kept yelling at me. “Come out with us! I’m gonna fuck a stranger!” I’m sorry, do whatever you want. I feel if you’re a lady, that is never a sentence that should be uttered with anticipation, in future tense. It is only a sentence that should be said with the utmost abhorrence, in past tense. It should never be, “I’m going to fuck a stranger!” It should always be, “Oh, my God, I fucked a stranger! Oh, my God!” We always talk about the downside when girls sleep with someone. Let me take up for the guys’ side for a second. I do believe there are plenty of guys in here that have gone to bed for a one-night stand, thinking, “I’ve found someone special.” And then you wake up the next morning next to a fat water rat. These things have happened, okay? Plenty of guys in here, I’m sure, thought they went to bed with, like, an absolute angel, and tomorrow morning… Tonight you’re gonna go out in Denver on a Friday, meet a girl. “Oh, she’s so angelic, so beautiful.” And tomorrow, you are going to wake up next to Satan himself. You’re gonna look down at your pile of sheets, and they’ll just be, like, undulating, pulsating, and there’ll be heat lines coming off of it. “Uh, good morning. Excuse me, is it… Stacy?” “No one by the name of Stacy is here.” “I’m so embarrassed. I thought your name was Stacy.” “El nombre no es importante.” “Wow. Well, judging by that and the smell of sulfur, I’m gonna take a guess that you are… Satan?” “Yes!” Clip-clop. “Yes?” “Uh, look, you gotta go.” “Why? I thought we were gonna get breakfast, smoochie-pie.” “Uh, we can’t get breakfast, because, look, I cheated on my girlfriend, and I…” “You what? You cheated? You cheated on me?” “Are you crying lava?” “Fucking right, I’m crying lava! I’m the devil, what do you think I’m gonna cry? That’s so fucked up. I thought you were a good guy. Fuck you, fuck you!” “Just get outta here.” – “I know when you’re gonna die.” – “Are you fuckin’ serious?” “Nope, that’s the angel of death. I’m just kidding. People think we’re the same, but we’re not. We’re just similar height, we both have brown hair.” Um… “You gotta go.” “Don’t fuckin’ touch me! Get off my tail! I’m going. Give me some bus fare. In my hoof. What are you laughing at?” “I’m sorry, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re taking the bus.” “Yes, I’m taking the bus, okay? I am fiscally responsible.
Do you know how hard it is to be the devil? I have no business. The Kardashians take, like, all of my business. I’m not even joking. It’s really hard to earn an honest dollar, okay? I had to have sex with Kris Jenner and everything. It was horrible. She’s evil. Of course I don’t have any money. Of course I take public transportation. I’m a demon of the people, okay? What do you expect me, to drive around in a hearse made of skulls, okay? I’m not Rob Zombie. I’m not an asshole, okay? Now, give me six dollars and 66 cents and I’ll be on my way.” “All right, fucking go.” – “I have a question.” – “What?” “Is it cold outside?”
You guys are a wonderful crowd. Uh… there’s no elegant way to wipe off a sweat mustache. I was talking at the beginning about how a lot of my friends are getting married, and I’m happy for them. I think that I’m just in a different head space at the moment. They all get really excited to plan their weddings, and I get really excited to plan a breakup. Guys, hear me out on this. Girls do weird things. And from the day we start dating you, we keep tabs on everything you do wrong… so that if and when we decide to break up with you, ’cause, I don’t know, if the wind changes direction… we can then refer to said list, extrapolate one isolated incident, and use that as the piece de resistance of our breakup masterpiece. You ever been dating a girl, everything’s going great… things are mediocre, not great, but whatever… and she breaks up with you out of the blue? “Yes, your feet look like eagle claws! There, I said it. Cacaw. Cacaw. Goodbye.” It seems like it’s out of nowhere. We let things build. You could be sitting at your anniversary dinner. – “I’m thinking about getting salmon.” – “I’m fuckin’ done!” Like it doesn’t really matter. I’m not cavalier about this. I put time and effort into these breakups. You put time and effort into dating me, I’m going to return said time and effort, plus interest… it’s a very good ROI… on that breakup, okay? These are handcrafted breakups. Hand-hewn, “hecho en California,” tailor-made, forged from the fires of your own insecurities, specialty breakups, okay? I don’t do a generic breakup. I don’t do a breakup template. I don’t do the whole, “Oh, my God, it’s me, not you.” No, it’s you, motherfucker, here’s a list of reasons why. I was dating a guy, we dated for three months, and we were on our first date, right? We’re doing first date stuff, right? We’re at a bar, drinking, talking, taking muscle relaxers. I was asking him first date questions: What do you do, where are you from, what do you max out at? I was like, “Oh, what’s your middle name?” “What’s your middle name?” He goes, “My middle name is Paul.” Now… reciprocity in, like, a normal conversation would dictate that perhaps his next question to me should have been… “What’s… what’s your nah nah nah.” That’s right! What’s your middle name? But he never asked me my middle name, – and I fuckin’… – remembered that. ‘Cause here’s the deal: He wasn’t necessarily wrong in not asking me that. Men and women communicate so differently. I’m surprised we can be in the same room without ripping each other’s genitals off. If you said to him, “Why didn’t you ask her her middle name?” He’d be like, “At the time, she had long hair. I thought she was a mermaid.” Like, not even in the same stratosphere. What’s crazy is every guy in this room is like, “Mermaid hair. I get it.” And where I went wrong, where girls tend to go wrong, is I didn’t tell him why I was mad. We don’t tell you why we’re mad, because “you should know,” which is insane. We barely know why we’re mad. “I don’t know, but something happened, and now I’m mad. I don’t know why I’m mad, but you should. The secrets are locked in my brain.” “Did you eat a key?” “I did. That and the plate and the leaves from earlier. I feel fat.”
We just sit there, stoic, with this, like, Stepford wife facade, and we let it rot our brains, and we sit there smiling, but it devolves. “He didn’t ask my middle name. He doesn’t want to get to know me, my hopes, thoughts, dreams, feelings, friends, family, we’ll never have a baby.” Like, that’s the way that devolves. So I began planning the breakup… on the first date. We dated three months, and at the conclusion, I decided I wanted to do a rain breakup. Felt the rain would be emblematic of the tears shed during the courtship. Rain breakup. Wanna break up in the rain. Oh, my God. Unh. Rain, right? All different kinds of rain breakups. You can do one in an alley, crying. You could be a young, British country girl in the 1800s, running through a field. “No! I can’t! I can’t be!” In a white dress, no shoes. Women weren’t allowed to wear shoes until 1962. Fun fact. “No! I can’t be with you! I’ve been betrothed to another, Jeremiah!” “Why? I love you so.” “No!” Running in the rain, and it’s cascading. I’ve got long hair. They didn’t have scissors back then. I’d wrap it around like a belt. It’s weird. I’d be running, and it would cascade over it, white, so it’s just see-through. You wouldn’t see areola, but you’d see nipple bumpage. Like Rachel, Friends, circa 1997. Network nipple, right? Running, fuckin’ doing it. No bra. Running hard. ‘Cause in your fantasy, your tits are like rocks. Just running. “Aahhh!” Every girl has fantasized about kissing a boy in the rain, which, if you’ve ever actually done it, is horrible. You will get the flu. I live in Los Angeles. That’s not clean rain. That’s fucking rats, cabbage, headshots, lettuce. Kale. Three types of leafy greens. We’re healthy. Syringes. Dreams. Couldn’t do a rain breakup. It rained one day while we were dating, but I was wearing a wool sweater. You know. You can’t get wool wet. You’re going to smell like a dirty sheep. No one’s going to miss you. “You’re breaking up with me?” “I’m breaking up with you.” So I had to plan an alternate breakup. Now, before I share with you my alternate fantasy breakup, I’m going to tell you the way we actually broke up. The way we actually broke up was yours truly got a little drunk and a little honest one night and texted him something to the effect of, “You don’t even watch Breaking Bad. How are we supposed to be together?” Fried shrimp. So now, I’m going to share with you my ultimate fantasy breakup. ‘Kay. Thank you. In my fantasy, we will be sitting on my couch, at my house, and I will be a little bit more tan than I am now, so people will be like, “Where did you go on vacation?” I’ll be like, “It’s a secret. Huh.” My hair would be a little bit longer, but not too long… I’d have, like, layers. You know what I’m talking about? A long bob? Where you want to keep the length but not the weight, so you’d have, like, layers. And maybe highlights in the front, but maybe a partial. Like, some warmer tones, like a honey for the fall. Do you know what I’m talking about? Mm-kay. Sitting on my couch, at my house, and I would start a fight out of nowhere. When you’re a woman, you possess a magical, innate ability to create conflict where there formerly was none. All right, we’re talking out of thin fucking air. We could do this as a show in Las Vegas. Argument illusionists. Just creating them. Nothing up my sleeve! Nothing in my hand! Now there’s a fight, motherfucker. Maybe we’ll have a dove. I don’t know the budget. I don’t know what we’ll have. The point is, if the girl wants to have a fight, the lady shall have a fight. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You can cough. That’s enough kindle for that fire. Sitting there watching TV. “What did you say?” “I didn’t say anything.” – “What the fuck did you just say?” – “I didn’t say anything.” “You know what? Forget it!” And I would start crying. Start crying. I’m telling you now that I’m going to cry then. I’m planning to cry. I’m gonna put it in my phone. Set reminder: “Cry later.” Going to make myself cry. How do you make yourself cry? That’s what you’re thinking. Iliza, how do you make yourself cry? Lot of actresses get paid a lot of money to make themselves cry. How do you make yourself cry? I’m going to tell you. You take a small pocketknife… I’m just kidding. Um… Turn around, and unbeknownst to him, I would pluck… a solitary nose hair. You ever do that? That shit hurts… real bad. It’s physically undetectable… …and it’s going to escalate the energy of your argument very quickly. Your argument will magically be transformed from, “You know what? Just forget it!” Big tears, okay? I’ll tell you why it’s important to have big tears, okay? If you’re going to make the attempt to elicit an emotional response from an otherwise emotionally unavailable individual, you must be demonstrative with your ocular lubrication, okay? Unlike women, men are very black and white. They respond to big gestures, okay? Big tears means I am sad. This is not fun. I do not like this. I’m sad now. That’s what big tears say. You can’t risk it with little, snivelly allergy tears. That’s a mixed message. – “What do you want?” – “I don’t know what I want!” He might go kill you a squirrel and bring it back. He doesn’t know what you want! So I’d start crying. “You know what? Forget it!” And I would run out of my own house. I’d run outside. Now… prior to starting this fight, I would have gone into the street and set up orange parking cones in the street, okay? Because for my ultimate fantasy breakup, I want to have a street fight breakup. Anyone that’s ever fought in the street knows, you need a designated fighting area, okay? That’s a public thoroughfare. You can’t just run into it and start fighting. This isn’t West Side Story. You’re gonna get hit by a Buick. So I’d run outside, into the comfort of the Designated Fighting Area, the DFA. Run into it, and I’d immediately start yelling, “I hate you!” Why am I yelling? ‘Cause I’m angry? I’m not angry. Want the neighbors to come out. Want the neighbors to come out. I want them to see how you treat me! He treats me fine. We got frozen yogurt that morning. It’s fine. I want them to come out. I want their energy. I want their attention. I need an audience. Like, obviously. So… I’d have it set up, and he’d run out. “Iliza, what is your problem? Get back inside.” “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m an independent woman. I listen to Beyonce. Surfbort. Surfbort.” – “What does that mean?” – “No one knows.” “What are you so upset about?” I’d be like, “I just feel like, um… this is so hard because I feel like I’m, like, letting you down. I just feel like… we don’t even talk anymore, and… we don’t even know what we argue about… – “You quoting Boyz II Men?” – “Maybe.” “I don’t know why you’re so upset.” And then I would begin. “I just feel like, um… I’m sorry, I just feel like… Why is this dry? I just feel like… You’re a great guy, and you should be with a great girl. I want you to be with a great girl, sort of. And I want you to be… I feel we have a really good time together, and you’re wonderful, but I feel I’m not the girl for you. Okay, I said it. And we have fun, but I don’t feel like we’re gonna be together. We’re just wasting time, and we don’t belong together. I feel like we don’t really even know each other.” “Of course we know each other! Of course I know you!” “Really? What’s my middle name?” Snow! My bra. – We did it. – Good job. Snow. Should I do a curtain call? Is that weird? They’re kind of going crazy out there. – You wanna do a curtain call? – Is it too late? Blanche, you did it! She did it. Oh my God. I think, um… that the theater might file a police report and I might have to get a lawyer… because I killed! Ohh!