Clair on Unsolicited Internet Advice

Okay, so as you guys may or may not know, Clair has had strep throat all week which has made her all the more insufferable. I asked her how she got it and she responded with her usual crazy ass, arcane prattling – something like, “I did a buncha real bad shit this weekend and I guess the goddesses didn’t cosign on this bitch cuz I woke up and it was like I’d swallowed a duffel bag of Mexican switchblades.” As always, I genuinely had no idea wtf she was getting at – but with Clair, sometimes I know better than to press on about questions I don’t want answers to.

So, then she tells me about a random Facebook message she got and launched into this whole thing about how she “can’t understand how these megalomaniacal, chatty-ass mongoloid civilians who don’t have the nuts to make anything themselves SRSLY never fail to flap their malignant traps at artists everywhere” (as you might recall, Clair is a standup comic). I mean, obviously Clair is maj insane, but when she very earnestly and self-referentially used the word “artists”, I laughed and heaved with my whole chest and torso, I didn’t give a shit if it made her mad. Cuz ew, it’s so assholey when people refer to themselves as artists with complete and unsmiling solemnity, right. That’s like calling your self hot or very smart. I mean I know standup is art or whatever but really how many dick jokes can come out of a white, monosyllabically named woman? And then Clair texted me this screen shot with the accompanied rant:


Clair: “A random civilian banker whom I don’t even know just sent me that.”

Me (Blair): “HAHA, YOU DO ‘SKITS’ LOSER!!!!!!!!!!!”

Clair: “Ya, see the guy calls standup ‘skits”. WTF is he trynna give me “tips”. It’s like go back to your cubicle and cap rates and bottle service, bro. You’ve never even done standup, where the shit are you getting this undeserved confidence from?”

Clair: “Don’t you find it very peculiar, Blair? How people can simply acquire that Jersey Shore Cast Member type of confidence and just message someone they don’t even know with ‘notes’?

Me: “Maybe he’s just trying to dispense some MUCH NEEDED erudite feedback.”

Clair: “STFU, BLAIR. You’re sucha H8tER!”

Me: “Just sayin’, shitbrick, maybe you wouldn’t have to eat dollar pizza every day if you weren’t such a shrew to every guy in a dif tax bracket than you.”

Clair: “Bitch, I like dollar pizza!!!! Also, I’m supa nice to dudes.”

Me: “Ya sure…and why aren’t you telling this guy to shut up like you so casually do to everyone else???? You love cyberbullying people, it’s like your favorite thing! So really I think you have no right to get mad at such a politely offered ‘suggestion’.”

Clair: “Wrong! I only cyberbully my friends!!! I would never choose to acknowledge someone I hate or message someone I don’t know, that would be insane!! koo koo kachoo!”

Clair: “…If I may switch gears and be vulnerable for a second with you, Blair…”

Me: “Oh Christ, here we go.”

Clair: “Well, I just put so much of myself into this you know…I draw my material from the depths of my solar plexus, I extract it…”

Me: “Clair, you talk about dicks 70% of the time.”


Me: “UR A PU$$Y! GTG wash my hair, k BYEEEEEEEEEE.”

Clair on Prince, also a Weird Face Tattoo Encounter

Okay, first off, Clair texted me three times to make sure that I wish Prince a happy birthday on this blog today. He is her favorite artist and as she constantly reminds everyone, his music “makes her clothes fall off EVERY TIME!”. So, on behalf of Clair, happy birthday, Prince! You look gayer than ever and we’ve never loved you more.


Next I will tell you about the latest looney tunes shit that Clair pulled.

We were at brunch yesterday and she’s going on about how essential truffle oil is to a “not sucky brunch” and why she’s trying to give up hollandaise sauce to decrease the size of her ass but feels “it’s risky business” because she’s sure every guy thinks it’s “rip roaringly sexy when girls eat hollandaise, like get-a-rap-song-written-about-you-sexy”. And I’m just sitting there downing mimosas in order to numb the pain of Clair’s ceaseless food talk when in walks this guy.

He’s about 5’10 and he’s a portly dude. But the muscle-y type of heavy like a motorcycle rider instead of a cake enthusiast, ya know. His head is completely shaved head down to the scalp, totally bald, and he’s wearing a plain black baseball hat. Tattoos everywhere, my eyes are immediately drawn to the black ink tear drops underneath his scary eyes. A MURDERER WAS IN OUR PRESENCE. I was befuddled by the fact that this particular murderer also enjoys a nice Sunday brunch and was wondering about the logistics and humanity of it all until I suddenly became acutely aware of Clair and how this situation was probably about to go terribly wrong.

Clair was staring as if she’d seen an Ewok, or Snookie, the now perpetually pregnant formerly wild reality TV star. Her eyes were locked in on him like she was the lioness and he was an entire pack of gazelles. My heart started beating faster, waiting for the moment in which he would catch her laser eyes burning a hole in his meaty body. Then, he turned around and before I could look at Clair looking at him, I saw it. The man had a face tattoo that took up the entire left side of his face. From above his eye all the way down to his jaw – in haunting gangster lettering – it read “VEGAN”.

At this point, I didn’t know what to believe. The man was against animal cruelty but was cool whacking humans (maybe because he didn’t eat them?)? Or maybe the tear drops were for arugula plants that he had personally slaughtered and eaten from his yard? What an overwhelmingly wide spectrum of possible horrors! Regardless, I was deeply afraid of what Clair would do next as we all know there’s nothing that Clair hates more than vegans. She heartily practices a sort of blind, maniacal vegan racism and regularly verbally crusades against them in a barrage of hate speech while she blows through a rack of baby back ribs. WHAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN!? I WAS SO AFRAID YOU GUYS. I wanted to take a picture for proof of this walking lunacy but I was worried he might shank me with some sort of organic bamboo knife and I wasn’t sure my life was worth the minor victory of a digi snap.

So, like clockwork, Clair gets up to confront him, “No, Blair, this is bullshit, I have to say something,” and she dramatically pushes her chair out into the aisle, making a scene and instantly capturing the attention of all onlookers. And I’m like, “Clair, what the fuck, have some impulse control. SIT DOWN! There are old people in here trying to have brunch! You’re going to get everyone killed!”

And just as she’s marching up behind him, the cashier hands him a huge plate with a cheeseburger on it with his little number stand thing. He turns around to walk back to his table, but his path is blocked by psycho Clair.  Standing in his way like a heroic traffic cop who takes her job too seriously, Clair proceeds to ask him in this deranged and sinister tone, “EXCUSE ME, BUT IS THAT YOUR CHEESEBURGER?!”

And then he just goes, “Yes,” and walks by her all annoyed and gently bumps her shoulder. And oh man, you guys, the relief I felt. It was like the entire restaurant collectively sighed with relief as if a bomb had just been miraculously deactivated seconds before detonation. Clair’s the worst.

But, dear readers, if I take any solace away from this near disaster, it’s that people can change and life is complicated. Murderers can like brunch. People who make permanent, visual statements on their face can change their minds. And I can be best friends with someone I hate.

Clair on Food and Dating

Okay, so last night I was home minding my own business on my couch when out of nowhere, my buzzer rings, and drunk Clair is suddenly at my door. It was 11 pm, you guys. I was tired. I did not feel like talking, I wanted to go to bed. But, as you know by now, Clair is my best friend (and mortal enemy, but don’t tell her I said that) and so I obvi had to listen to her recap her date even though she ambushed me late night.

A note about Clair: she never shuts the shit up about food. I’ve had conversations with her about it before where I’m like, “Yes, people generally do like food, Clair, but you can’t monopolize 95% of conversation by only talking about this one thing. It’s not healthy! Mix it up a little bit, girl! Getta clue, gal.” And then she always gets mad at me, and is just like, “Blair, you never understand. You’re a very impatient person and you also just don’t understand sensual people like me who have a deep appreciation for life’s earthly pleasures.” And then I’m all, “Whatever, Clair, go choke on a hot dog” (just kidding, I didn’t say that last one but I darn well wanted to you guys).


Anyways, this was our conversation:

Clair: “I dunno, Blair, I just feel like these guys just don’t really get me sometimes. I’m feeling discouraged.”

Me (Blair): “What happened?”

Clair: “So, we were at this fly ass Mexican restaurant, and all the sudden he starts hitting me with these interview style like questions and you know I don’t do well with those, I freeze up every time. It’s like “chill bro, it’s the first date bitch!’… I think I’m for sure done with Chads by the way.”

Me: “What did he ask you?”

Clair: “He asked me what ‘I truly wanted out of life’ and then I thought about it for a second and I was like, I’m just gonna shoot from the hip on this one and tell him the first thing that comes to mind, just like real talk you know.”

Me: “What was your answer?”

Clair: “I told the truth. It’s always best to speak your truth, Blair. So I said- ‘After thinking about it, I think all I truly want out of life is to be very fat without anyone noticing. I wanna eat without repercussion in society. I wanna eat like an underweight high school football player. I wanna eat like the mangey lost boys in Hook when Peter Pan shows up to feed them.”

Me: “Clair, oh my God.”

Clair: “And he didn’t even say anything. He didn’t even pretend to smile or empathize with my selfless offer of childlike vulnerability. I was uncomfortable after blurting that out so I accidentally started attacking my carne asada burrito and then he finally stopped being stunned and silent and then gave me this disgusted look as if I started eating a baby!”

Me: “Well, he sounds like a good listener at least?”

Clair: “YOU’RE NEVER ON MY SIDE, BLAIR! Okay, so after that point, everything just kept getting worse and worse and I was slamming margaritas and then I started rambling and I couldn’t stop. I really couldn’t, I just started talking at him. But who cares? I mean his name’s fucking Chad.”

So I was like: “I feel a deep emotional connection to food, ya know? Do you feel that, Chad? Like are you ever in the middle of eating and out of nowhere, BAM! you’re overcome with loss cuz you know it’s about to be over. You are seconds away from being robbed by the completion of the meal! Soon, you won’t be eating any more, Chad! The apex of pleasure for the next three hours is about to be over and there’s sadness in that, Chad.

And the guy is so dumb that he just very curtly says, “No, I don’t feel that way”, like a total asshole, but there was no stopping me. I really couldn’t stop talking.

So I was all: Do you ever feel that some invisible force is presenting you with a food filled obstacle course? Like when you need to get food for your 6-hour JetBlue flight and so you go and buy your burrito ahead but then you have 40 minutes until you board, and you’re just like, “oh shit, I’m really in for it now’ cuz that melty Mexican prize is burning a hole in your lap and you damn well know you’re not tough enough to get through this unscathed. SO YOU EAT IT, but then it feels like you lost the state championship?

And Chad says, “But that doesn’t make any sense, it’s totally illogical, what would you eat on the plane then? If you have discipline on the outset then you won’t have to suffer later on.” Blair, I hated him so much in that moment. The universe could not have picked a more opposite or deplorable person to have me interface with. And then he dropped the real bomb. Total bullshit machisimo. I almost hit him but then I was like I don’t need any assault charges right now.

He said: It’s so dumb when girls say that food is better than sex. Nobody can actually believe that.

So I was all: Umm, yes they can, Chad. Everyone knows that food is better than sex. AND the best thing about it is that when you finish eating nothing sprays you in the face.

And then asshole Chad suddenly threw cash down on the table, put his hands in the air, and just said, “I’m sorry, but I think I’m done here” and then walked out of the restaurant.


The Bachelorette With Clair’s Mom

I was talking to Clair yesterday and then naturally The Bachelorette came up because we’re two young girls and we don’t have our heads in the clouds like dumb idiots. Anyways, weirdo Clair then proceeded to tell me all about her conversation with her mom. I didn’t even ask her about it you guys. And she just relayed the entire thing to me anyways, against my will! Some people have zero self awareness, I swear.


Clair’s Text Conversation with her Mom (Bolly) re: The Bachelorette

Clair: “Yo, you watchin’ the Bachelor?”

Clair: “Oops I mean the Bachelorette”

Mom: “Nah not on yet. I will prob turn on for some. Is it one hr?” (Editor’s note: Clair’s mom, Bolly, lives in California)

Clair: “No it’s like 7 hours long”

Clair: “I’m not really liking this season”

Clair: “Not like I like any of the seasons I’m just a prisoner at this point”

Clair: “But my favorite guy on the show is sooooo cute and cool and funny and the best guy out of all of ’em and apparently he died after filming so they did this memorial montage on the first episode and now I’m falling in love with this guy who I know is dead.”

Mom: “Ugg. Oh gosh now I remember that story. Terrible. How did he bite dust again?”

Clair: “Hang gliding I think”

Mom: “Yes. Hang gliding very dangerous. That woman must have been devastated.”

Clair: “I’m devastated”

Mom: “Is ex pro baseball player nice?”

Clair: “I’m not attracted to baseball players”

Clair: “They’re all meatbally and too shaved and tan and love going to clubs and drinking vodka redbull”

Mom: “I didn’t ask if you were attracted to them. I was just asking if the guy was nice on the show.”

Clair: “Oops you are right, my bad”

Clair: “Do you like Andi? She’s got a dope ass rig tho.”

Mom: “I think so. Only watched a little bit. Show is boring, I have things to do.”

Clair is annoying, right. Can you believe she made me sit through that an entire thing, I srsly thought I was gonna die. I truly don’t even know why I’m friends with her. Also, someone plz tell her to brush her hair (srsly).

Caroline’s! Cool!

I had so much fun opening for Danny Palmer at Caroline’s this past Tuesday. Congrats to Danny on killing it and doing 45 min.


“Periods, AMIRITE GUYS?”


Benny D’s tank top and Josh bringing me up!

Thanks Danny and Caroline’s! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

An Update on Clair

There is a girl that walks these streets with unruly hair and a shrill, shrill voice.

Her name is Clair and she is a 27-year-old woman who enjoys cyber bullying her friends on the internet and any tomato based recipe. At 25, she decided to quit being a commercial real estate broker because her soul was dying and she got sick of trying to remember which colleges all her clients’ kids were applying to. Then, she met a guy and fell in love and had her heart shattered into a billion pieces with such velocity that the only historically comparable event in history is most definitely the “Big Bang”. That guy was a comedian. She never wanted to be a comedian, she just wanted to write jokes behind the scenes but not be in front of people ever. But after she had her heart ripped out of her chest, she randomly woke up one day and thought, “hmm, I will do this now”. So she does this at night time now and often eats pizza on her way home. If the pizza place she chooses to frequent does not have ranch dressing for some reason, she immediately morphs into a rage-filled animal and usually physically assaults whichever employee is unlucky enough to deliver her the bad news.

indexWhen Clair was still masquerading as a commercial real estate broker, rotting each day under the florescent lights, she used to daydream about what she would do if she didn’t have to live each day in her grey jail cell cubicle. She decided she would be a fiction writer. This was before she had done much fiction writing and knew that it requires insane discipline, self structure, and an ability to tolerate hours of solitary confinement without dicking your day away on the internet. But naive as she was, she decided to apply to a bunch of grad schools for her MFA, fully confident that she would never be admitted to any of them. Then, one day, she got a call that she had gotten into The New School in New York City. This was her chance to escape Irvine, California! She was so in shock that she started crying and impulsively left some people voice mails mid-sob. These people continue to remind her that they have saved these embarrassing voice mails for the future- so what I am saying is-  Clair really, really understands how Donald Sterling feels.

Anyway, Clair moved to New York and went to school for two years where she wrote a collection of stories about weird, racy shit that is so nutso she can never show it to her family. Then, the time came where she finally finished her goddamn thesis, and that’s why she now has time to return to this dumb fucking blog!!!! Clair would probably say that I shouldn’t curse on here in case her mom or dad or a conservative future employer read it, but she didn’t come this far to be a pussy okay.

So, that’s the update on Clair. She graduates on Thursday and is wondering what the hell she is supposed to do now. Check back if you want, she’ll be writing on here about random shit in case you’re so bored that you can’t find anything else on the fucking planet to do. K thx bye.

I Took A Greyhound Bus To New Jersey

I took a greyhound bus to New Jersey the other day. This is because I live in New York and don’t have a car.

And also because I’ve made poor choices and am not a rapper or trophy wife or professional wrestler like I should be and therefore do not have any money.

Artists take greyhound buses. See, I am one. All you have to do is say it, nobody can take away a self declaration you guys.


It was on a nice Wednesday that Christina (character of best friend extraordinaire) and I boarded our multi-wheeled chariot in pursuit of a wild 4th of July on the Jersey Shore (***this was not our first bus trip, just simply the most notable as of late). We had the excitement and adventure of that Sex In The City episode where Carrie wrangles Samantha into a cross country train trip to her book party in LA. Except we were only going three hours away.

Everything started off smooth. Before it became not smooth.

We had traveled for a mere thirty minutes, barely entering the state of  New Jersey when the skies started rumbling with anger. Within a few seconds, we were in the middle of a flash flood on the turnpike. Ordinarily, this would just make for a slower ride. But not on this day, dear readers.


It was discovered by our surly bus driver, that the windshield wipers on our beloved perambulator were in fact busted. And this was only observed after the homeless man sitting in the seat directly behind us started screaming that the roof was caving in. Since he’d been yelling for most of the ride, it took the whole bus about four minutes before we realized that he was actually telling the truth about the onslaught of water on his head. There was literally a waterfall leak pouring in from the roof everywhere.

I’m 75-years-old man! Gimme another seat, it’s rainin’ on my goddamn head, GODDAMN-IT-IS-RAININ-ON-MY-HEAD! What is an old man sposed to do. IT RAININ ON MY HEEADDDDDD!

But he didn’t look 75. I just want to tell you guys that. He looked more like a strong 50. So he got up and ran to the front of the bus and sat next to the driver. This was a relief for us. Because we were very close to him and his yelling.

Then our bus driver started yelling at us that we had to sit on the side of the road until another bus came to pick us up because he refused to lose his job “just to get us to our destination on time”. EVEN THOUGH IT ONLY RAINED FOR A TOTAL OF TEN MINUTES and we actually didn’t need windshield wipers any more. The man really channeled his anger towards his passengers.

So while we waited for our rescue bus for two hours on the side of the road with our phone batteries dangerously approaching dead, we were then treated to our old homeless friend’s philosophical musings. He commandeered the front of the bus, taking it hostage as his stage, while we all sat listening as his (literal) captive audience:

You guys are lucky I’m here fo yo entertainment. You guys hungry? I got crab salad and egg salad in my backpack for you. You don’t have to pay nothin for it. I also got a bottle of sneaky sneaky. Don’t tell nobody but I got the Hennessy in there if ya’ll want some.

Nothing like some unrefrigerated crab salad/egg salad washed down with some Henny.

But this ride was all very good for Christina and me because it made us feel way less white and suburban and inexperienced.

Greyhound buses rule, you just have to not care about getting anywhere on time ya know.  You just have to not care if you get rained on inside the bus or if your driver yells at you.

The 4th

It’s the 2nd of July, which only means one thing – we’re just a hiccup away from our good country’s independence holiday. A day in which we mongoloids celebrate raucously with bizarre pyrotechnic paraphernalia, oddly colored foods, and little clothing.

But actually, July 2nd is the day in which the Thirteen Colonies were declared independent from Great Britain by Richard Henry Lee and the Second Continental Congress, so word up Tuesday, it’s your time to shine like the ugly girl that finally got her braces off and found a pushup bra.

John Adams wrote this to his wife, Abigail, on July 2, 1776:

The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

So Big John was off by a few days, relax, nobody ever called him a psychic you unruly hounds. All I’m saying is we should focus on his most important nugget of wisdom and keep up the illuminations as instructed.


What are you guys going to do for the 4th? I’m headed to the Jersey Shore for the first time ever. I feel it’s only fitting that I get a spray tan nine shades too dark and some barbed wire bicep tattoos in order to fully integrate with the native culture. I will also be strictly drinking Jagermeister or as I like to say – “bombs”.


This will be my outfit in order to communicate to the NSA that I am not a threat.

I am a patriot and I have a god given right to wear unflattering one pieces that say – I bleed stars and stripes and love eating hotdogs at baseball stadiums.

The Day I Met Derek Hough

Every once in awhile in life, there are a few things you wish so hard for that by some twist of fate they end up coming true. A few days ago, I was sitting in my neighborhood East Village coffee shop being a cliche-writer-nerd when I looked up and saw him.

A Scandinavian viking Adonis. He breezed through the glass doors in all black Eric Northman garb and smiled at me. Motorcycle jacket, black jeans, black wayfarers, blonde hair cleanly disheveled. Except it wasn’t Skarsgaard, it was Derek Hough, TV dancing tycoon and heart-throb mirage.  


What was Derek doing in New York? I thought. Is Dancing With The Stars still a thing because I only watched the Kirstie Alley season and god, I really loved when he got mad. The passion, the fire. Maybe he’s doing a theater run, I pondered, my thoughts racing. Now when I encounter celebrities, I get all reverse too cool. I just never want to bother them, or worse, have them think me a mere mortal, an every man of the masses with the same fawning groupie impulses. So I ignore them like I’m a high school senior and they’re a sophomore boy. It’s makes for the best “almost best stories that never happened”.

Like the other night, I was at the bar sitting next to Pete Holmes after my show and he very graciously said to me and a friend (THIS IS A DIRECT QUOTE), “want some of this tuna roll, I already had one” and all I said was, “no, thank you” with an inappropriate amount of earnestness. THAT’S ALL I SAID – to a comedian I really like – the entire time he was sitting next to me and talking to my friend about anything and everything. I didn’t tell him about how I listen to him talk for four hours every week or how I feel like we are best friends and have the same constant push-pull views about religion, love, booze, and kale…the self loathing. I even looked away like a total weirdo every time he tried to politely make eye contact. And he was so nice and friendly! Lame. But I digress, I’ve always had a top secret attraction to Derek Hough even though he checks a lot of the boxes in the “what I’m not attracted to in a guy ever” category. Mainly it’s the spray tans, too tight v-neck t-shirts, highlights, and lycra that throw me off. Or too much concern with his body, I don’t want to feel like a guy is constantly saying, “bitch, dont eat that” with his abs, ya know. According to my friends, I am a minority on this, but I find vanity in a man to be repugnant. Lady boner-killa. BUT NOT WITH DEREK YOU GUYS. WHAT A FORCE OF SEXINESS.


Okay so anyways, my metrosexual exception strolls in and orders a black coffee. Cowboys have drank their coffee black through the ages so I’m already on board (I attribute this order to rugged sensibility instead of caloric calculation). And then as part of God’s cruel joke, the only table available in the entire place…is directly to my left. About three inches away from my own round table. He sits down and says, “Hello”. He was speaking to me directly, there was nothing I could do. “Hello, Derek”, I said with a maniacal calmness.

He looked at my computer screen, “Mindy Project huh? Do you write for it?”

“No, no. Not even close! It’s just a spec script. I’m nobody!”

And then as he took a sip of his black coffee, he reached up and touched the side of my cheek, looking directly at me with those piercing White Fang eyes, “Nonsense! I can see your soul and it’s beautiful and brave. I met Mindy once. She’s just as terrific as you’d think. It takes balls to try and write her show for her!”

“I’m not trying to write her show for her! I mean I am, kinda. I mean, thank you, Derek!”

“You’re welcome, my sweet. Do you dance?”

“I used to when I was little, but my mom took me out of it because she thought it would be unhealthy for my self image given my body type…”

“What a remarkable woman. Listen, how about you pack up your equipment and come on an adventure with me.”

I looked over both of my shoulders, trying to make sure he had in fact directed the question to me and not somebody else. And then in the lull before I could think of words to say, he leaned in and kissed me. I felt my toes tingle as I worried about my coffee breath, but then told myself it was okay because he was drinking black coffee which everyone knows cancels out iced coffee with milk and splenda breath. Normally, I would be worrying about other people seeing me kiss in public, but it felt like I was having a stroke. A pleasant one, my brain stopped completely and I died a little. Then he grabbed my hand and gently pulled me out of the coffee shop on to the Manhattan street.

“I’m only here for 24 hours, I need to spend it with you!”, he said with urgency as he looked down at me with all six feet two inches of his towering dancer physique.

“Yes! I will! I want to!” and then he twirled me in the air above his head. Without falling down or suffering serious back injury. I gasped with happiness. We made out on the street corner and laughed like we were in a Justin Timberlake rom com.

What followed is not suitable content for this blog and I apologize for that but this is neither the time nor the place for erotic fan fiction.

Please just know that way up there in the sky, someone is looking out for your deepest, darkest dreams. They can come true. Mine did.

***The author would like to take this time to mention that the above story was in fact just a dream. A dream that never happened. Except for the Pete Holmes part, that is unfortunately 100% true.



Rob Delaney On Marriage

Guys, I was just goin’ about my day minding my own bizness and then I STUMBLED UPON THIS ADORABLENESS.

A little bit of Monday romance from me to you. I love you and I love love.

“I don’t mind that Kim Kardashian got married. If gay people can get married, Armenian people should be allowed to as well. I don’t mind that she did it on TV. I a little bit mind that, as a non-viewer of any of the 61 Kardashian programs, I had to see the billboards every day as I drove to work. But I could forgive that if Kim gave her marriage a real go. I’ve been married for five years. To the same woman. I’ve wanted to divorce her at times. She’s wanted to divorce me at times. But one great thing about marriage, when it’s entered by regular folks, in good faith, is that it’s hard to exit. It costs money. You have to talk to lawyers during business hours except whoops—you have a job that you need to earn money to buy food and pants—so when are you going to both take the time to do that? By the time you’d have gotten around to it, you’ve forgiven each other and maybe even reached a new appreciation for each other as you worked through whatever seemingly insurmountable problem made you hate each other for 20 minutes while you sat in your shitty car outside a CVS yelling at each other and crying. Because guess what, Kim? That’s a huge ingredient in a SUCCESSFUL marriage. Sometimes it sucks. And I don’t mean lower-case “s” sucks. I mean it SUCKS so fucking hard you’re POSITIVE you’ll give yourself stomach cancer or an embolism as you try to make your spouse explode through telekinesis. When you relax, however, and remember that you’re a bigger asshole than they are, with enough neuroses and calcified bad habits to warrant their own card catalog, you realize that they’re struggling through life’s shit storm just like you. Then you take a shower together and fuck while laughing.”

-Rob Delaney for VICE