Do you ever wander through the depths of your computer, checking out old forgotten directories and exploring files you forgot ever existed? It’s something I find exciting to do from time to time, and suggest you see what you can find if you haven’t done it in a while. Unearth those old ham recipes you thought you’d try for Christmas dinner in ’04, and find that embarrassing birthday photo where you accidentally photobombed your cousin Joey with your plumber’s crack as you bent to pick up a fallen Skittle.
I’ve owned dozens of computers over the past 10-15 years. Right now, there are three on my desk as I write this, and another laptop out in the living room keeping a TV tray warm. One consistency among my machines is the Documents folder. With each new machine, I transfer my old Docs folder to the new one. As such, I have an unreasonable labyrinth of text files dating back to high school English papers about things I didn’t study or care much about BECAUSE I WAS A COOL GUY AND CHAUCER IS LAMEJUICE. Yeah.
Last night I found this untitled, undated monologue. The file was created in early 2008. I have no idea why it was written and don’t remember doing it. But I enjoyed it, and thought you might too:
Sit down on this bench. The street is full of idiots, buddy. Monty Python will tell you that anything can be funny in the right light. So will Jerry Seinfeld. So will Ellen, if you’re a middle-aged lesbian. And so will George Carlin if you’re a 70-year-old man obsessed with farts, death and scabs.
Even funerals can be funny. It’s an opportunity for you to pinch the cheeks of all the old ladies and say “you’re next” just like they used to do to you at weddings when they saw how big you’d become.
Watching someone get hurt is funny, we all know that. Destruction can be funny too. It’s all about context.
Need proof? Let me tell you a story.
One day I was sitting on a bench on this very block, eating a ham sandwich, when I see people protesting outside a shop that sells fur coats. Extreme animal rights people. They all had buckets of red paint to mimic the blood given by animals who get turned into garments, which they were splashing around as they picketed and made noise. Around the corner comes a woman with a fur coat minding her own business. The whole crowd ambushes her like she’s the last plane out of Saigon and a nutso protester girl dumps a bucket of red paint all over her, destroying everything she has on.
The woman with the coat flips out, screaming, “It’s a fake fur coat you dumb bitch!”
All the girl had to say was “That’s okay, it’s fake blood.” She walked away without any regard for the fact she just needlessly destroyed a woman’s coat and humiliated her in public.
I shouted out “This is a real ham sandwich,” holding it up in the air like a picket sign.
((Laughter)) Well it made me happy, anyway.
Funny, at the time I forgot I was wearing a leather coat. Hands started grabbing my neck, and I heard “Don’t you know a cow was murdered for that coat?”
That’s how they put it.
My quick reply: “I didn’t know there were any witnesses. Now you’ll have to be next.” Then I stabbed him. With all that red paint around nobody even noticed.
No, I didn’t.
Alright, so maybe that wasn’t a great story. I never said I was F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’m not even Forrest Gump.
I like to sit on this bench because people are fantastic sources of comedy. Think about how dumb the average person is. If they’re average, half of everyone is dumber than that! Good stuff, huh? I’m not sure what to do about it, that’s just how it is. I think we should take the safety labels off of everything and let the problem work itself out.
But they’re not just dumb, they’re crazy too. Everyone has a little psycho inside.
All I’m saying is who knows what kind of whacknut might be sitting right next to you. Just look around. I bet someone right around here has thought about strapping a plastic grocery bag over someone’s head and holding on tight.
And I don’t mean in that hasty anger “I’m going to kill you!” kind of way, like when you stub your toe or get cut off at a red light. I mean in that hasty anger “I’m going to kill you!” kind of way, like when you kill a guy and spend nine hours giving your garbage disposal the ride of its life.
But being paranoid about it is no way to live life. The crazies and the dumbasses are out there. Nothing’s going to change that.
Cautious optimism, that’s what I say. That’s how to do it. Like, I’m pretty sure the sun will rise tomorrow and I will be alive. But the possibility is there that someone is going to try and screw me. Or screw you. Or screw us all. So I suggest you wear sunglasses and a butt plug and learn to stay on guard. You never know who is full of shit.
For example, last time the Bishop came to town for a speech, he was an impostor. He never once moved diagonally. I thought that was the rules.
((Laughter)) Just remember – nothing is too serious that it can’t be laughed at. Just sit back and enjoy the characters that are everywhere around you. I like this street, but pick any one you want. The people will be the same, ready to entertain. Laugh away. Others are laughing at you, you can laugh back.
Life is all about interpretation, and it is what you make it out to be.
If you need proof, just remember that capitalization makes the difference between the phrase “I had to help my uncle jack off a horse” and “I had to help my uncle Jack off a horse.”
Now get out of here.