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Tom Papa: What A Day! (2022) | Transcript

Follows Papa as he shares about parenting, his reliance on modern technology, rescuing his pet pug, and how his marriage has evolved over time.
Tom Papa: What A Day!

Premiered on December 13, 2022

Ladies and gentlemen! Give it up for Tom Papa!

Thank you very much. Look at you. Look at you, still alive. Good job. I’m proud of you. Oh, thank you so much for that. This is so nice to be here. We’re gonna have a good time, I hope. They say these are very exciting times. They are. Some people say scary times. I disagree. I think these are very exciting times. When they’re changing all the rules, we can do anything we want now. I say, let’s kidnap some billionaires. Why not? We got a lot of problems. Five guys have all the money. Let’s go get them. Who’s gonna stop us? I’m all for you being a billionaire. Good job. You worked hard, you changed the world. You get to be a billionaire for 24 hours. You don’t start giving that money away to poor people by morning, we’re coming to get you. Could you imagine a billion dollars? I don’t even dream like that, do you? One person, a billion dollars.

No, I used to be bothered by big dreams and high expectations. Not anymore. This is it, guys. This is it. We’re already doing it. You did it. Good job. This is it. Really. For me, a good day is any day I don’t have to retrieve a username and password. Oh. Oh. What a great day. Nothing worse on the planet, when you’re about to have some fun and you’re cock-blocked by the username and password. There’s nothing worse. I mean, I know there’s wars going on, and things are on fire, but for us, for us… there’s nothing worse. It’s not like in the olden times and fairy tales and storybooks, when you need a magical password, go on an adventure, you get something amazing for it. You need the password to get in the gate, go into the dark forest, and become friends with a talking crow, fight a demon with a willow stick, and you get the password. And the doors open up, and a unicorn gives you a ride to a magical wizard who gives you gold coins and sexual favors. We don’t get any of that after pouring our heart and souls into our devices for three straight hours, giving away all our family secrets, our mom’s maiden name, and who she had sex with in high school… and then we play that “squarey” game like we’re in nursery school. Is there a stoplight in the square? Is there a dump truck in the square? Was that my dead grandma in the square? They send a bunch of codes to other emails you don’t have the password for, either. Then finally you get the password. Do we get sexual favors from wizards? No. What do we get? What do we get? We get to order on the Pizza Hut app. Yay. Yay. If only I had the courage to call someone on the phone three hours ago… and place this order. But I’m scared of people now. I don’t know what that 16-year-old manager at Pizza Hut is gonna ask me, but it’s gonna be scary. No way around it.

We’re all being changed, dragged into the metaverse, turned into robots as we speak. Remember you before these devices as a different person? You get a glimpse of it when you go out into the world without your phone. You ever do that, leave your phone behind? By mistake, of course. You wouldn’t do it intentionally. But just go out about the day without your phone? Oh! What a great day. Once you get past the crying and the dry heaving and… tugging on strangers’ pant legs, asking for help. Once you get through all of that, it’s a magical day. You just walk around with your own thoughts, just thinking about stuff. Wow, this must be what Benjamin Franklin felt like… just walking around, thinking about kites and candies and syphilis.

There’s no getting around it. The world is too easy with it. Could you imagine traveling without your phone? Leaving tomorrow, going to the airport, getting on a plane and leaving for three days without your phone? Terrifying idea. How did you even get to the airport? That’s a good question. How did you get to the airport? Is Uber responding to smoke signals now? What happens once you’re at the airport and they change your flight or gate? How are you gonna know? You’re not. You’re not gonna know. You’re just gonna wander the halls of the airport until you die. You’re going to die at the airport on the floor outside of a Hudson News… that’s filled with things that could save you if only you had Apple Pay. That’d be a good ending to the story. Or would it? What happens if you die, and you go up to Heaven, and they’re like, “We weren’t gonna let you in, but you did your best.” “You get in. Welcome to Heaven. Congratulations.” “What’s your username and password?” I don’t have it, I don’t have it.

Remember two years ago, when they told us we couldn’t see our families? Remember that? Yeah. Don’t do it. Don’t go home. You’re gonna kill your family with your face. No. No holidays for you, not this year. You stay home. You’re gonna kill your mom with your breath. Two years, no family. Oh, my God. Those were the good old days. We all had the same excuse, we all had the same excuse. I would love to come home, but they won’t let me. I’m gonna have to spend Thanksgiving with my friends and have fun this year.

Oh, man. Families are a blessing. It is a blessing if you have your family, but it doesn’t make ’em any less annoying. I just saw my parents. Oh, my God. They’re getting goofy. My father bought my mother one of those weapons-grade jackhammer massage guns. Have you seen these things? These new torture devices they’re just selling to old people to try on each other? No background check, no licensing, no training of any kind. My father just aimed it at my mother’s shoulder and hit the trigger. Wasn’t good. Wasn’t good. It just gathered up her skin like pancake batter. She couldn’t get away. He couldn’t turn it off. She looked like a Shar Pei stuck in a car wash. Yeah, it got the knot out. It also got her collarbone out and her shoulder blade. And all her insides are on the outside now.

I love them to death. I do. But what are we doing with our old people? We should be protecting our old people. Why are we telling our old people they can do more things the older they get? That’s not how it works. You don’t add things to your bucket list after 70. Anything you don’t do by 70, you don’t have to do. My mother watches TV, she gets these ideas, seeing all these active old people, she comes back, “Your father and I are gonna start to travel.” “Your dad and I are gonna hit the road.” “Time to start traveling.” No. You’re scared of stairs. This isn’t the time to backpack through Europe. Your ankles are made of Popsicle sticks. It takes Dad three tries to get up the ramp at Starbucks, just gaining momentum till he eventually bursts through the door and forgets where he is. Starts cursing out the barista because his car’s not ready.

“You don’t know. Your father and I like activities.” “We rent the tandem bike.” “We go to the hotel. We rent a tandem bike.” Don’t. A tandem bike after 70 should be called a double suicide. Two people who don’t get along and don’t know where they’re going, turning in opposite directions, should not be on a tandem bike. You should be in a wagon. You should be in a wagon, and we’ll tug you around, you can feed the ducks. We’ll have you home by 4:00, in time for your programs.

And then they get angry. They get angry if I try and help them, and give them advice, and protect them, they get all defensive. “Don’t tell us what to do. We’re your parents. We made you.” All right. Thank you for inventing me. That was very nice. But things have changed. Things have changed. My brain’s still intact. I didn’t put sponges in the toaster this morning.

I’m looking forward to the time when my kids help me out. I have two teenage daughters. They help me out now. I’m grateful for the assistance. I don’t do things right a lot. They don’t have to know it’s because I’m drunk and high. But I am confused sometimes. “Dad, should the stove still be on?” “No.” “No, I made dinner an hour ago.” “That pot’s going to have to soak for a while.” “Fill it with bubbles. We’ll deal with it on Wednesday.” “Dad, that was a stop sign.” “Good thing we’re speeding.” “Hold my weed. I’m gonna make a U-turn.” “Don’t tell your mom.”

They could be nicer about it, though. Nothing meaner than a teenage girl when she comes after you. Nothing meaner on the planet, ’cause they’re smart, they’re cunning, and they just laser on your weaknesses. It’s very unsettling. My daughter came into the kitchen she said, “Dad, we’re trying to watch a movie in the other room, and we can hear you breathing.” “Okay, I’ll just stop that.” “I’ll just stop breathing and living here, and living all together. How about that?” And she just high-fived her sister and went back to watching The Avengers.

My other daughter, 16, was just staring me down at breakfast. Very scary. She hasn’t made eye contact with me since she was six. “I don’t like the way you chew your granola.” “Why you chewing your granola like that?” What the hell does that even mean? It’s granola. It’s big and it’s crunchy. I have to make it smaller. Or it’s gonna rip apart my trachea. How do you eat your granola? You just swallow it whole, like a snake? Devil child?

This is the same daughter, by the way, who without my permission or my knowledge, during the Troubles, went out and adopted a rescue pug. A pug! Did all the paperwork herself and just showed up with a pug. If you don’t know what a pug is, they advertise it as a dog. It is not. It has a fat, round, hairy, turkey-like body, four spindly legs that look like it couldn’t support that fat body. Dogs have paws. Pugs have long, lady fingers with fancy press on nails. Some have four, some have three, some two. Like a chicken foot. And the face of an arthritic 80-year-old man. Eyes that look like it belongs on a different animal altogether. It looks like God was making it, ran out of pug eyes and said, “Let’s give it cow eyes. See how that goes.” It doesn’t go. This poor guy’s got these two bulbous things hanging out of his skull. The lids can’t even get up and over the ball. He hasn’t had his eyes shut in the time I’ve had him. He just struggles and snores 24 hours a day. “Is he asleep right now? We’re on a walk.”

Fun fact. Fun fact. If a pug falls in the pool, it sinks immediately. Turns out if your head’s made of a concrete block, you’re gonna face plant in the deep end. Still snoring, still snoring. Bubbles coming up on either side. I don’t think he even knows he’s in the pool. Think he thinks he wandered into a weird part of the yard and his glaucoma’s flaring up.

Best part about him, his name is Frank. Which is hilarious, because any time you yell at him, it’s like you’re in a movie with Sinatra. “Come on, Frank. Why are you acting that way?” “You’ve changed, Frank. You’ve changed.”

Like I said, he’s a purebred… A purebred rescue dog. He was found on the mean streets of Downey, California. If you don’t know where Downey is, it’s like here, but a little more stabby. Why was Frank just wandering the mean streets of Downey, California? There’s either something wrong with him, or he’s wanted by the law. There’s something wrong with Frank. Something very wrong with Frank. Frank pees everywhere he goes, inside or out, wherever the hell he wants, Frank pees. I found this out because I got a blacklight on Amazon. Yes. Well, I never caught him in the act. I’d always see him walking down the hall with his fancy lady feet and a suspicious look in his fat eye. I never caught him, but I got that blacklight, and I went through my house. He has devastated my home. Ruined it. My office in particular, wrecked it. First I didn’t say anything. I was like, “What if it’s me?” After careful analysis, it’s Frank. It’s very low. So what do you do? I got angry at first. “How do I handle this?” Maybe leave the back door open and see if he wants to go for a swim? Then I checked myself. “No, let’s get him checked out.” Maybe there’s something really wrong with Frank, like a bladder problem. I don’t know what goes on inside pugs other than prizes. Maybe there is a urinary tract infection. I took him in, he’s a healthy son of a pug. Everything checks out. There’s nothing wrong with his urinary tract. No infections. What’s wrong, according to the vet, in medical terms, is Frank is an asshole. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s gonna continue doing it while he’s looking me right in the face. So I went back to Amazon, where all our answers lie, and they make diapers for pugs. They make diapers for pugs. You can get ’em on Amazon. I know it’s pathetic. It doesn’t even look like a diaper. Looks like those Velcro back braces the UPS guy wears his last year on the job. Just kind of hanging off his ass. Doesn’t look like it does much, but his sciatica is really bothering him. We don’t call them diapers out of respect for Sinatra. We call them pants. “Come on, Frank. We got company over. Put on some pants, will you?” “For crying out loud.”

I’ll admit it felt weird putting pants on a dog. Didn’t feel right, didn’t feel natural. But then I thought about what dogs have done in our short years. When I was a child, a dog was a dog. It lived outside in the yard, tied to a tree. If you went somewhere, the dog waited for your return. It could be an hour, a day, a year. The dog waited for you to come home. You’d never say to your father, “Can we bring the dog on vacation?” They would have tied you to the other tree. And look what they’ve accomplished now, these dogs, I see them everywhere. I see them checking into hotels by themselves. I see them in fancy restaurants, drinking martinis, boarding flights to Hawaii. Well, I don’t know how you did it, dogs, but you did it. You’re part of the human world. You did it. Congratulations. Now that you’re here, take your tongue out of your ass and take a look around. And you’ll notice we’re all wearing pants, ’cause we know what our junk looks like and it should be covered up.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pug’s penis, sir. You look like you’ve seen some shit in your day. Maybe you did some time. I don’t know how you live. If you haven’t seen it, Google it after the show. All of you, Google it after the show. Private browser, private browser. Wait till you see it. It’s weird, it’s misshapen, it’s covered in weird, multicolored horse hairs. It follows you around the room when you walk by. It looks like something the devil would tickle you with. Put on some pants.

But, as disgusting as pugs are, and they are, we’re worse. Human beings are worse. I thought we were gonna be better after all we went through. I thought we’d be more germ conscious, a little more mannerly. Nope! Just as disgusting as before. We are. We’re horrible. Coughing’s back. Coughing’s back. Walking through the airport, all these people acting like sea lions. No one covers their mouths. Spraying whole rows of people. I saw a guy on the plane clipping his nails. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. Why? Why is a nail clipper in your pocket in the first place? What’s in your other pocket? Used dental floss and toilet paper? What’s wrong with you? They’re back to spitting everywhere, those big man-spits right on the sidewalk where you’re walking. Those big, disgusting, from the small intestine, windup spits. It was six inches from going out the other way. And this guy says, “No, I’m bringing it up top.” “People are gonna wanna see this.” And it just lands on the sidewalk like an alien afterbirth. It’s got eyes and a heartbeat and feelings. Skitters into the sewer and replicates itself. And that’s where COVID came from. I’m not really kidding. That’s where it came from.

All these examples are things that men do. Men do these things. I never saw a woman blow her nose in the air without a tissue in all my days. These are things that men do. And I know we’re trying to figure it out. Was it a bat? Was it a kangaroo? Was it a lab? I don’t know. I know one thing’s for sure. Men were involved. You know. You know, you know some guy dared another guy to do something weird to a bat for $10. And they went out to an alley next to a lab, and a bunch of other guys got in a circle and cheered him on. And now we’re gonna be wearing masks to the end of time.

We can’t help it. Men. We’re horrible. Men are horrible. We’re horrible. We’re disgusting. Every guy in here pees in his own yard. Pees in his… Right? Yes, yes, yes. “No, Tom, not my guy.” Yeah, your guy. I guarantee it, when you’re not looking, behind the lounge chair, behind the grill. In the grill, if it’s on. Yeah, because that’s a fun noise. Think about it, any inconvenience you have out in the world is because men were there before, did something horrible and they had to change the rules. Why can’t you just walk into a bathroom at a gas station? Why do they have to give a key attached to a chain attached to a truck tire? And we have to drag it around the building like an Egyptian slave. Why? Because men were in there. Horrible men doing horrible things. Playing in the toilet like a bird bath. Putting their penis in the hand dryer. Yes. You think when the Dyson came out, that’s not what they were doing? That’s what they’re doing. I know, the lady’s room is no treat either. That’s not because of anything you do in there. That’s ’cause men sneak in there when you’re not looking and use your hand dryer too. But, as disgusting as we are, and no man will dispute that fact, we’re good for you. Men are good for you. We make you stronger. Yes, we’re immunity boosters. You think this whole thing was bad? It would’ve been twice as bad if men weren’t fiddling their nuts and grabbing every door handle in town. So you’re welcome. The other thing that men have, and I don’t understand why women don’t have it, this seems backwards to me, is this incredible amount of self-esteem and self-confidence built on absolutely nothing. As awful as we are, every guy also thinks everyone wants him all the time. A guy will pee in his backyard, walk out the front door and think, “She wants me.” And yet women are the most magical, beautiful creatures on this planet, just gliding around the globe like cotton candy goddesses, just filled with life and love and beauty and self-doubt. “Do I look fat? Do I look old? I hate my hair. I hate my eyes. I hate my ass.” And meanwhile, you’re walking around with a pet orangutan. Who doesn’t even look in the mirror.

The epitome of male vanity is in the summer. In the summer, in any town, you will see a man, an 80-year-old man, walking down the street in a tank top, or worse, no shirt at all. Just strutting down the sidewalk like an expired rotisserie chicken. No muscle mass left, just two bony chicken wings. Licorice nipples swaying in the wind. Gold chains tangled in his spooky cobweb body hair. With the nerve to hit on young women. God, I don’t know how you women let us climb all over you. I really don’t. I would be a lesbian for sure. Both of my daughters are straight. I’m like, “Focus, we have time.” “You don’t have to do this.” I am not a lesbian.

I am a straight, married man. I’ve been married now to the same woman for 22 years. Thank you. You don’t know what I’m going through. No, she’s great, of course. 22 years. She’s the best. I love her to death. I’m not gonna be up here attacking marriage. I believe in marriage, really do. It’s a hard life to get through. If you find someone else, partner up through it all, it’s good. It can make your life a lot better. If you find the right person, and lower your expectations of what you’re gonna get out of it, you’ll be very happily married. I don’t mean to demean it when I say lower your expectations. I think that’s why people get divorced. Too high of an expectation of what they’re gonna get out of this one relationship. It’s not that much. Don’t put so much pressure on it. Keep your eyes open going into it. Don’t be dumb about it. Gotta be smart. I have a friend that’s thinking about getting married. He’s so dumb. The way he’s talking, he’s a moron. He’s been with the girl for five years, the things he talks about, “She’s nice, you know, her family’s pretty cool.” “She’s smart, but I don’t know if she’s hot enough.” “Don’t know, we’re talking about getting married. She hot enough?” Are you high? Hot enough?! You’re talking about getting married for the rest of your life. You don’t care about hot, you don’t marry hot. You marry strong. You don’t want a supermodel. You want someone who can pick up the other end of the couch. Without taking the cigarette out of her mouth. That’s who you marry.

No. It’s a good thing. If you’re married, and in here tonight, it’s a great night for you. You’re having a great time. There’s no pressure on you at all. You’re married. You don’t even care if your partner’s having fun right now. That’s not why you’re here. Let’s let someone else talk for an hour. It’s easy. If you’re dating, if you’re in here right now on a date, this is a difficult night for you. This is a lot of work. You actually care how this goes tonight. You want them to be happy. It’s a lot of pressure. This is why… this is the thing that bothers me about dating. If you do get in a fight on the way home tonight, maybe off of something I’m about to say, if you get in a fight tonight, the whole relationship could be over tonight. Tonight. You could end it tonight. Because you have that option. And that’s a horrible option to have. Because if you do leave, oh my God, you gotta get your laptop, and all your chargers. Get a new haircut, buy some cool clothes, go back out into the world. Lie to everybody all over again about how great you are. My wife and I could get in the same exact fight tonight, and we’re not breaking up. We are not leaving, because we don’t have that option. We could get in the worst fight in the world, we are not leaving. I’m not leaving. I get in a fight, I don’t leave. I go to the pantry. I go to the pantry and I get a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies. And I eat them one by one as I’m staring at my reflection in the toaster oven. Until I feel so disgusting that I forgive her, for whatever it is she said, because I know she’s probably right because she’s married to a monster person who just ate 24 Samoas standing up. I don’t need cool clothes, I don’t have to get a new haircut. Get a haircut when she says, “get a haircut.” And I get clothes when she gets clothes… reminds me I need clothes. That’s how married couples end up looking alike. “Be right back, going to get sneakers.” “Wait a minute.” “I need sneakers, too.” “You do? You wanna come?” “Yeah, I wanna come.” “Let’s go. Sneaker day!” And we go to Footlocker and we sit in the married section. And they bring out sneakers that aren’t made for any athletic event whatsoever. No, they’re big and they’re white and they got Velcro. They’re good for standing while we wait for each other. “You want socks, too?” “You read my mind.” “Socks, shorts, and sneakers. Don’t bag ’em up. We’re gonna wear ’em out.” Do we look good? No. We don’t look good. That wasn’t the point. The point was to make each other unfuckable to the rest of the world. We don’t need some single pervert looking at your cool shoes and making a move on you. That’ll ruin the good thing we got going.

“What about the sex, Tom? What about the sex?” Everyone asks, “One person for the rest of your life?” “What about the sex?” Grow up. Dumbass sex. You mean the cause of every dumb decision you’ve made? That sex? Sex is fun, but it’s a ride. It’s a ride. The first time I went on Space Mountain, sure, it was exciting. I didn’t know it was gonna do that. Whee! Hey! I’ve been riding Space Mountain now for 22 years. I know how it goes. It’s fun, but you end up confused, nauseous, and in need of a nap.

I was staying in New York recently, and the people in the hotel room next to me were having sex. Very loud, very rhythmic, very joyful. And it kept going, 15, 20 minutes. I was like, “I guess the pandemic’s over.” Have fun in there. Didn’t stop. Kept going. Twenty-five, 30 minutes. Nonstop. No break. Thirty straight minutes. I called my wife, I was like, “I owe you an apology.” Didn’t stop there. 35, 40 minutes. 40 minutes nonstop action. We’ve never hit 40 minutes… 40 minutes straight? No, you could add in dinner. We haven’t hit 40 minutes. I wouldn’t want to. 40 minutes? Get off me. I got stuff to do. Where’s my phone? At an hour, I just put in earplugs and cried myself to sleep. I don’t wanna know these people even exist out there. Woke up the next morning, 7:00 in the morning, still heard it, Still heard it, 7:00 in the morning! I go, wait a minute. This isn’t people. This is porn. This is porn. I was so relieved. But then I got angry, who’s in there at the ass-end of a pandemic, spraying all over like Frank? A man. A disgusting man. Awful.

Look, I’m not gonna judge you, or where you’re at in your relationship. Single or married? I don’t know. These are things are complicated, they’re difficult to navigate. It’s tricky, you hook up with somebody you don’t know, you’re gonna go the distance? That’s gonna change. You’re gonna change. You’ll both get weird hobbies, start doing weird things. You’re gonna look weird. It’s gonna change. You’re gonna find out things about your spouse you didn’t see coming. I just found out my wife doesn’t like when I read. She doesn’t like when I read! Anything! A book, a magazine, a cereal box. If my wife sees me reading, she doesn’t think, “He needs some quiet time.” No, she thinks, “He’s bored. Let me tell him a story about my sister at work.” “He’s reading a book. He must be really bored.” “Let me tell him about my mom’s new lease agreement on her apartment.” Ugh.

The other time she likes to talk is late at night. Late at night when I get into bed, put my head on the pillow, and turn out the lights. That’s when she likes to talk about cancer, child abductions, and the end of days. Whatever bad news she gathered up during the day, she’s gonna sprinkle on my side of the bed. Until she unloads and starts to snore. As soon as she turns out the light, “I spoke to your mom on the phone today.” “She sounded so old. I wonder how much more time we have with her.” “Have you pet the cat recently? He’s got a tumor on his neck.” “Carol’s cat grew a tumor. It’s so big, it looks like he’s wearing a hat.” “Did I mention I spoke to your mom on the phone today?” “Who’s older, your mother or your father?” “One of ’em’s not making it to Christmas, I can feel it.” “I can’t believe our daughters are going away to college soon.” “It’s terrible to think they’ll be out in the world with all those horrible men.” “Probably no more horrible than what they’re doing in their rooms on their phones right now, though.” “Carol’s daughters have been taking pictures of their vaginas, putting ’em on the internet.” “Do you think that’s what our daughters are doing right now?” “Twenty feet from our bed, on our family plan?” “I spoke to your mom. I spoke to your mom on the…”

And I stare at the ceiling for six straight hours just waiting for the sun to come up so I can get some coffee, and get away from this devil woman I sleep with. Shouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed anymore. Not all the time. Once in a while it’s fun. But, you know look, I hope you find love in life. I really do. I hope you’re as lucky as I have been. It doesn’t mean a life sentence of having to be in the same bed with your partner for the rest of your life. Oh my God. Look, I tell her, “Look, someone’s leaving tonight.” “Someone’s getting the pillow, kicking the other one and leaving in the middle of the night in a rage.” Why not do that at 10:00, with a peck on the cheek? “Love you. Mwah. See you in the morning. Mwah”

She won’t do it. She’s hanging on to the young version of us. And of course, starting out, you should be in the same bed. You have to be! You’re young, sexual, you’re in love. Make love three times a night. You end up asleep in a pretzel twist, foot in your face, hanging upside down. And you do sleep well that way. That’s the thing. You actually sleep a solid eight hours that way. And you wake up in the morning so refreshed and in love. You look at each other, “Let’s do it again.” “Let’s have morning sex,” you say. We don’t say that where I live. No, we’re too busy in the morning pointing at each other and blaming each other for who ruined the sleep last night. “It was you. There’s something wrong with you.” “Oh, no. You need a doctor.” “There’s something inside of you and it’s trying to get out.” And the reality is it’s probably both of us because we’re over 40. And if you’re over 40, you have a 50% chance of getting a good night’s sleep tonight. Fifty percent. Just you, alone. Fifty percent chance you’ll get a good night’s sleep. ‘Cause you’re dying. You’re slowly dying. Your body’s trying to choke you out and technology’s keeping you alive. Fifty percent chance you’ll get a good night’s sleep. And not ’cause you did something crazy, not ’cause you went on a cocaine bender. No, someone had a cookie after 6:00. “Donna had cheese at the party. Oh, no!” “She’s not going to breathe right for a week.” “Bob had three beers. Three beers. Welcome to the Fart Palace.” “Buckle up. No one’s sleeping tonight.”

My wife has a lot going on. She grinds her teeth in her sleep. She’s so angry she’s grinding her own teeth down to nubs. Rather than find out the cause of that, they don’t do that. Instead they just give her an NFL issued mouthpiece and just shove that in her mouth like a chew toy from Petco. She goes through three or four a month like an angry beaver. I wake up with bits of plastic all over my face. And it’s blue and it glows in the dark. Yeah, that’s how I know if we’re fooling around at night. If I see a blue floaty thing coming across the room… Not happening. Not tonight. She just put on her equipment. Put on her headgear and her mouthguard and her eucalyptus ointments, climbs into bed with her unshaved legs like a koala bear. Like an angry koala bear trying out for the Packers. And she gets up to pee like six, seven times a night. I didn’t know a woman could have a swollen prostate, but she does. And when she walks, her ankle pops. You can hear it! Pop, pop, pop, pop. You don’t hear it during the day when there’s leaf blowers and garbage trucks. You don’t hear it at all. Three o’clock in the morning, loudest sound you’ll ever hear. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Trying to breathe through the mouthpiece… Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. It’s like Darth Vader’s trapped in bubble wrap in my bedroom. And that’s why you should get married, too.

It’s weird being a human being, isn’t it? This is weird, what you’re going through. I know, ’cause I’m one, too. It’s weird. The reason we’re here, to connect with people. It’s our whole thing, connect with people. Befriend people, date people, marry people, make new people. But everybody that you fall in love with, connect with, you have more to worry about. Every love is a worry. It’s a weird way to live. That’s why everyone’s on drugs. First time I took my daughter into a doctor’s appointment when she was a baby, Her first doctor’s appointment I realized, “I’m never gonna sleep again.” I never loved something so much and felt so vulnerable at the same time. It’s a weird way to live. Everything was cool, but terrifying. Doctor’s like, “Everything’s great, everything’s good.” “Okay, good.” “One thing.” “Oh, shit. What is it?” Start sweating immediately. “Not a big deal, but her head is in the fifth percentile.” “What does that mean?” “It means that 95% of the heads out there are bigger than her head.” “What?” “Yes. Only 5% of the population have a head as small as your daughter.” “You don’t see them, ’cause they’re scurrying in the dark from alleyway to alleyway.” “What?” “Not a big deal. We’ll just check every six months.” “Okay.” I got her home, I took her to the playroom, started blowing in her mouth. “Come on, grow.” Panicked for two years. There’s nothing to worry. Everyone’s head grows. You never walk through the mall, see someone with a ping pong head walking down the hall, with a bottle cap for a hat. “Hello.” No, everyone’s head is fine.

But you shouldn’t stop loving because of the fear. You can’t. The more love, the less you actually are frightened. You keep doing it. All the closest people in your life, you don’t know what they’re up to. Everyone’s got their own secrets, lives. You’re not responsible for them. Even the people you make! Even your children! My daughter came home from college, first year of college, I was like, “You’re an adult now. Welcome home.” “Would you like some wine with dinner? You’re a grown-up now. Welcome.” “How about some wine?” “No, thanks, Dad. I don’t drink.” “Oh.” “I don’t like alcohol.” “Oh. What a good dad I am.” She said, “I only smoke weed.” “Oh? How long you been doing that?” “Since I was a freshman in high school,” she said! “Oh?” “Where?” “In my room,” she said. Four years, straight A student. High as a kite, in my house. She loved the weed. Here’s the problem. I love the weed more. And for four years I didn’t smoke it because I wanted to be a good example for the children. For four years, I ate nothing but handfuls of melatonin gummies to get some kind of buzz and eventually fall asleep. She was doing bong hits right down the hall.

My real goal, what I’ve learned having these kids is make good people. There’s a lot of bad people, there’s a lot of good people. We can’t change the bad people, apparently, but maybe we could outnumber them by making more good people. Should be easy. It’s not like bad people are making great kids. No, they make shitty kids. You see them out there, knocking things over in restaurants, falling down wells. I don’t know why we even scoop ’em out. Who’s falling down a well? Not a good kid. They’re gonna fall again. Seems like it should be easy to change bad people, doesn’t it? Should be easy. Your life will be better if you just turn it down a notch, and try and get along with the rest of us. I know you don’t care about anyone else, but your life will be better, and less stressed if you just turn it down a notch. We’re not even asking you to do anything extra. Just do less of what you’re doing now. Start small. Start small. Don’t put testicles on the back of your pickup truck. Why are you doing that? What is wrong with you? And why are you doing that? I have a minivan filled with children and old people. We don’t need you teabagging us on the freeway.

Not easy to be good, you gotta work at it. You’re good people, I can tell. People at my shows are always nice people. But you gotta work at it. You all drive cars, so I know you’re an asshole once in a while. Everyone’s merging, a nice beautiful day. You even surprise yourself. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, “Not today, you old bag. You’re not getting in front of me. No!” “I feel you’re looking at me. I’m not gonna look back.” “Not today, raisin face. Not today.” Where the hell did that come from? Got to work at it. Be nice to people in customer service. Be nice to people in customer service. You think they want to wait on you? These people waiting… No, you’re not the queen because you walked into a restaurant. They don’t want to wait on you. They just… It’s their job. They just wanna make money, pay their rent, and buy some cocaine on the way home. And from a former busboy, be nice to the busboys, those people will lick your rolls. Be nice to people in customer service on the phone. You think these kids in India want these jobs? Helping us? No, they just want their families to survive. Can you imagine them telling their friends they got these jobs? “I got a job today.” “Good for you! What are you doing?” “I’m gonna help Americans fix their computers over the phone.” “Oh, no!” “You don’t even have a computer.” “I know.” “You hardly speak English.” “I know.” “They’re gonna kill you.” “I start tomorrow.”

I’m supporting babies who cry on airplanes. Yeah. I’m team baby now. I’m always next to some businessman who’s always complaining. “Who’s gonna shut that damn kid up?” No, wait a minute. You shut up. You’re a man. You’re a man with hairy arms and a wallet. You chose to be on this flight. That baby doesn’t wanna be here. No baby wants to be at 30,000 feet with their skeleton collapsing like a Poland Spring bottle. Sitting at ass level with all you middle-aged gas bags, crop dusting them on the way to your seat. No, that kid’s in a bad spot right now. He should be crying on the airplane. We all should be crying on the airplane. He’s the only honest one on the goddamn plane. And let me be clear. I’m not even a fan of babies. I’m not. I made two and I still don’t like ’em. I don’t trust anyone who’s heart you can see beating out of the top of their head. Useless dinner roll feet, can’t stand for years. No, I don’t like them. But if a kid’s crying, they’re in a bad spot. They’re at church, restaurant or on a plane. You know, let ’em cry. You took ’em out too early. Why you gotta take them everywhere? They’re babies. Leave ’em at home. That’s a happy baby. At home, 72 degrees, naked, Cheerios stuck to their torso. Eating out of the cat dish. That’s a happy baby. You gotta go out, putting a big pink bow on her bald head so everyone stops calling her a boy. She looks like a boy. She’s not done yet. She looks like a man. She looks like a middle-aged man working at the docks. Give her a year, let her fill in, then take her for a ride. Now you wanna complain to me about toddlers who have their own seats in business class? I’ll listen to you. Because that should be illegal.

I travel a lot, that’s tough to take, my friends, when I don’t get the upgrade, and I’m jammed in coach between two sumo wrestlers in track suits eating pretzels like a praying mantis for six hours. And the toddler standing naked in my seat, drinking a mimosa and giving me the finger through the curtain. Tough to take. Look, I understand why we get angry at babies, hearing them cry on a plane. Because you’re scared. That businessman’s scared. We’re all scared. It’s scary up there. Scary. It’s scary. We’re not far from the children that we were. You get scared, hear a cry for help, and get more unnerved. That was the nice thing about being home for two years, you feel safe at home. Gives you this illusion that you’ve got control over the universe. Which, of course, we don’t. But at least there you know where the toilet paper is, where all the spoons go. Then as soon as you travel, it’s uncertainty. I’ve had a great time with you tonight. This was a wonderful experience. I love all of you, but it was hell getting here. Soon as you get to security, you’re like a third grader being yelled at by the principal. As soon as you leave your house, Security’s holding up your bag. “Whose bag is this?” “Ah, shit. My bag.” “Is there water in here?” “Maybe.” “You’re a moron.” “No, I can do things.”

Then you get to the hotel, more uncertainty, right? How does the key work? How does the elevator work? How’s the remote control? How’s the thermostat work? Whose curly hair is this? How do you turn on the lamp? How do you turn on the damn lamp? Why are there so many lamps? You can never find the switch on the lamp. Is it on the base? Is it on the stem? Is it a chain? Where’s the switch? You put it on the wire, under the table? You heartless sons of bitches. I’m just a strange man in a strange town trying to survive. This is the easiest travel you could have, by the way. This is alone with a wheelie bag. Then you travel with your family. Oh. That’s hell on Earth. A family vacation? Don’t do that. Don’t do that. Look, a family is a bad organization. It barely works at home. Why would you take it on the road? And I’m always so stupid. I always think, when we get to the resort, then I’ll have fun. Travel will be hell, of course, but when we get to the resort, I’ll have my time. No, you moron. Now you’re in this weird reality show with obstacles being thrown at you you couldn’t even dream of. They come running out of nowhere. “Your wife was just stung in the vagina by a jellyfish, go!” “Your mother-in-law is trying out her Spanish on the busboy and saying slightly racist comments, go!” Lo siento, lo siento. “Your youngest child broke out in hives in the middle of the night.” “There’s not a hospital for hours. What do you do?” What do I do? I’m gonna get a dirty Benadryl out of the bottom of my backpack, take the hair off it, give it to her, put her back in bed and hope she wakes up in the morning. I’m not a doctor. I’m a drunk dad on vacation. And news flash, the kids don’t wanna be there either. No kid wants to be trapped in a hotel room with their half-naked parents. The only two people who can get them in trouble.

Your whole childhood is spent getting away from your parents. Hiding in tree houses, piles of leaves, sleeping over at your friend’s house. My friends and I used to play in a drain pipe. A drain pipe that took all the human waste from the town and dumped it in the lake. Yes, that’s where we played, in the town shit pipe. And we loved it because we knew our parents would never look for us in the shit pipe. “Tom’s been gone awhile. Do you think he’s in the pipe?” “No.” It’s scary in the shit pipe. It was! There were ghosts and that clown from It. It was scary in there. But I would much rather be in the pipe than sitting in a hotel room at the end of the bed waiting for my father to come out of the bathroom for an hour and a half. “What are those noises?” “Sounded like a bear rummaging through a dumpster filled with balloons.” He’d come out an hour later. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” “But I have to go in there. There’s nowhere else to go.” Walking through a toxic haze. “Why does it smell like an antique pet shop in here?” Standing in your socks in water. “What did he do?” That’s childhood, isn’t it? Being stuck in your socks, in some place you didn’t ask to go. It’s tough being a kid, isn’t it? It’s like a hostage situation. Eighteen years being dragged around by these two kidnappers. No money, no identification. 18 years. No decision is your own. “Get in the car.” “Where’re we going?” “I said get in the car.”

Thank you so much for coming. You guys were tremendous. Thank you so much. Sincerely, thank you so much. Take care of yourselves. Take care of yourselves and I’ll see you next time around. Thank you.

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Nikki Glaser: Someday You'll Die (2024)

Nikki Glaser: Someday You’ll Die (2024) | Transcript

Nikki Glaser explores a variety of personal topics, such as her choice not to have children, the stark realities of aging, her sexual fantasies, and her thoughts on mortality—all presented in her characteristically hilarious, unapologetic, and brutally honest style.

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