My Goal

This is very rough.  The delivery is shoddy, and I have been having a hard time remembering certain points, so I wrote it down.  It's very, very rough.  But, these are a few jokes I'd like to use in my first stand-up routine.  The last is a new addition, and needs work.  There is also one about the cells in your eyes being vampires that I don't have written down.  I'd like to talk about attracting lesbians to myself as well, but I don't think I have enough material to discuss it.  Anyway, like I said, this is the first time I've written anything like this down, and it's very, very shoddy.  Ellipses indicate the segway between jokes. 

My inner child, I have discovered, is a twelve-year-old gay boy.  Yes, I have learned that I am a gay man.  Not a queen gay man or a butch gay man.  I am the slob gay man.  The gay man you think is straight, who dresses okay but is a bit of a mess and one day you see through the “wash me” handwritten note on his back bumper a rainbow flag sticker and you realize, “oh, he’s gay!”  That’s the kind of gay man my inner child is.  He likes to play football and climb trees and swim in creeks and poke dead animals on the side of the road.  Yeah.  And then he goes home, cleans himself up, puts on mommy’s makeup and practices kissing boys on his wrist.  He’s the boy that hangs out with all the other boys at the skate park and secretly flirts with them.  That’s right, he’s flirting, but they don’t know it, because they are twelve year old boys!  He’s the type of boy who will kiss you on the cheek and then take a punch to the gut.  He will kick your ass too.  Even if he loses miserably, he won in here (point to heart).

That’s my inner child.

You have to think, when you’re talking about inner children, what they must be thinking about sex.  They have to be like, “eew!”  “Don’t touch me like that!”  (whispered:) “The counselors at school told me if anyone touched me there I should tell.”  They have to think that’s gross!

I think that’s the true difference between sex and making love.  In sex, your inner child is grossed out, and that little bit of you is distracted.  He’s saying, hurry up and orgasm, let’s get out of here!  You can’t really make a connection, ‘cause he’s standing right there watching!  But making love, that’s a deep, emotional thing isn’t it?  I think it’s deep and emotional because my inner child and your inner child have run off together to play in the sand box.  They teamed up and went to go poke an opossum.  That’s my inner child.  Hey, kid, let’s go poke dead things while they touch each other.  And then me and my boyfriend can have this connection, this moment.  It’s beautiful.

A booty call, though, is devoid of emotion.  That’s because booty calls happen in the middle of the night, don’t they?  Our inner children are sleeping.  You’re free to be as freaky as you want; little Billy is dreaming.  He’s not paying attention!  Go ahead, get crazy.  Just don’t wake the boy.

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Oklahoma is like a completely separate entity from the rest of the world isn’t it?  I tell people here that my inner child is a little gay boy and they think that’s truly strange.  My friends get it.  My friends in Chicago get it.  “Oh, your inner child is a gay boy? Yeah, yeah, you’re a gay boy.  You’re totally a gay boy.”  They get it!  But, in Oklahoma, they do not.

I don’t think people own televisions in Oklahoma.  Or, they own them, but they don’t really watch what is happening.  They are hearing, but they aren’t listening.  I used to work at a Starbucks, and people in Oklahoma would walk in, look at the menu, look at me, look back at the menu and say, “can I get a grandy carmel machiati?”  And I look at the menu, and look at them, and say, “A grande caramel macchiato? Can you read?”

Seriously.They act like they have never seen the word grande before.  Like it isn’t on the menu at Taco Bell; I know they’ve seen it!  And macchiato just scares the living crap out of them, doesn’t it?  It’s Italian.  Italian is scary.  I-talian, not Italian.  I-talian, it’s hard.

There is a city in Oklahoma called Miam-a, but it’s spelt Miami.  Miami, and they pronounce it Miama.  Miami.  It’s Cuban.  No it’s not.  I’m pretty sure it’s native American or something.

My friend used to work in a shoe shop, and she told me that people used to pronounce the word Nik-ee as nike, which just furthers my belief that Oklahomans don’t own televisions and haven’t since the dawn of time.  Nik-ee.  And pue-ma.  Pue-ma.  It’s puma!  It’s French for cat.  No it’s not.  It’s French for big cat.  No it’s not.  It’s French for really big ass killer cat that lives in the jungle.  I don’t think it’s French.  I think it’s Portuguese.   For shoe.

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Oklahoma is pretty bad, I think, but I don’t know that it’s as bad as some places.  I lived in Chicago for a while, and I heard some pretty poor grammar while I was there.  English is a different language up there.   I actually heard the word “therre” used in a sentence.  I didn’t know that was actually a word.  I thought Nelly’d made it up.  I heard it.  There was a woman on a bus I took once who apparently was talking on the phone to every member of her family, and every other word was “shit,” or “titties,” or “motherfucker.”  She actually said the word therre, and then she did something truly appalling.  She told her niece, whom I assume couldn’t have been that old, that she needed to stop being such a shit because this woman had raised her since she came “outta her mama’s pussy.”

I didn’t come out of my mama’s pussy.  I am from Bixby, Oklahoma.  I was born of my mother’s womb.  I was brought into this world by the hand of God Almighty and am a blessing unto this earth.  There was no “coming outta a pussy” for me.

Accents, dialects, diction is all different depending on where you are in the country.  For instance, my friend Allison is from Pittsburg.  She was birthed from her mother’s vagina.  That’s the difference! 

No pussy for us.