by Bridget Callahan
Hi! How’s everyone doing tonight?
I’m good, I’m good. I’m so happy to be here tonight with you sexy folks. Give it up for the eight other guy comics on the show tonight! And give it up for your host who brought me up here by slightly intimating a speculative consent scenario with my ass!
You know, my parents hate me for not marrying rich, but that’s nothing new.
My mom’s all like “How are you supposed to take care of us in our old age on just your Circle K salary? What did you go to college for?”
And I’m all like, “Look, I’m sorry I can’t buy into the colonial narrative of being possessed by some rich white guy who secretly collects live butterflies in boxes and gets his rocks off watching them knock themselves out against the lid, but that’s a fairy tale for girls who can afford pedicures. And anyway why don’t you take care of yourself with all that money you made destroying our generation with bank fees and corporate tax loopholes? College is a goddamn lie.”
Did you know you don’t have to love your parents?
I’d like to get paid as much as the guys I work with, but the guys, they don’t think that’s fair, because everyone knows the only reason I still have a job is I smile and am nice to customers. And you know, they would smile and be nice to customers too, but if they did that, who would get the actual work of scowling and complaining about shit done?
Anyway, it’s hard to smile when their massive amounts of talent and intelligence are clearly being wasted in this job no self-respecting man should be forced to do. So really, they’re working harder just keeping it together against the indignity of it all. Whereas everyone knows I actually like being nice to people ‘cause it’s natural for me. Why should I get paid as much for something that’s easier for me? If anyone deserves a raise, it’s them.
Every time I light my own cigarette, I think about becoming an arsonist.
I do smoke weed. Who here smokes weed?
I think weed should be legal.
For girls, not for guys.
Cause girls, when they get high, do cool things: like write stuff, go to clean water rallies, pet our animals a lot, listen to music without borrowing judgmental attitudes from the 90s.
But guys get high and just play video games, in-between screaming about super-hero movies and arguing that Twitter represents the whole world, and therefore the Democratic Socialists of America are going to win every house seat next year.
Isn’t abortion great? I love abortion. If it weren’t for abortion, I’d probably be stuck in Piedmont, Ohio, married to some roofing salesman I don’t know, and writing a mommy blog about making my own almond milk.
But thanks to abortion, I can choose to follow my dreams, even if those dreams mean being a penniless wanna-be artist who spends her life going on a series of ever escalating and terrifying tinder dates with divorced roofing salesmen.
I bet the Republicans would be all about abortion if we made it legal for credit cards to give out “You’ve Been Pre-Approved!” letters in the waiting room right after. Feeling a little down because you just went through an out-patient procedure that cost you a shitload of money and you don’t know how you’re going to pay rent? Here, have a $500 limit. Go get one of those craft cocktails we know you love so much because we convinced you to feel Instagram shame.
I also love adderall. I have no idea how I would live up to the complex expectations of The Woman who Has an Amazing Career But is Also a Perfect Girlfriend with a Perfect House and Yoga Thighs and a Creative Non-Fiction Essay in the Atlantic without adderall.
But man, the first shit you take after being on adderall is sooo hard. Like, rock hard. I imagine it’s like giving birth to a baby, only the baby’s name is Well, Actually, and it’s made of glass ceiling bits. It’s almost erotic, trying to push it out, and you think man, maybe I should have listened to Kyle, had another five drinks, and tried anal. That’s Kyle over there. Hi, Kyle!
Kyle is going to get up here and tell a joke about Hillary being raped in prison by al-Queda operatives. It’s what we at the club here like to call “time to have a cigarette and pretend for twelve minutes that cigarettes don’t kill you and America isn’t a dying pro-lapsed shithole of toxic masculinity.”
Recently, people have been asking if feminism really belongs in stand-up. I’ll make you guys a deal- I’ll stop talking about what it’s like to be an angry middle-aged woman, if y’all each get up here and cut your dicks off.
Alright, there’s the light. You all have a great night! Use condoms!