The notebook. Yes, as you know Garofalo’s a little forgetful. Has to bring her notebook. Between the Nutrasweet and the Fen-phen, I don’t know whether to shit or wind my watch at this point.
Until as women we all say, “No! We are not going to starve ourselves”, nothing is going to change. We’re our own worse enemies sometimes but I still blame men.
They have these runway shows and then they have a commentator going, “A return to glamor this season. A pretty face is your best asset this season.” As opposed to last season. When ugly girls had a free ride. When back fat was all the rage.
My hell is going to be the stairmaster wing of Dante’s inferno, where they’re gonna tape my feet to the pedals and the only music I get is Michael Bolton karaoke style.
I got mugged. And they got my knapsack with my comedy notebook in it. So if anybody see two cholos bombing at the Funny Bone chain, that would be them. Just give me a jingle.
There’s been times when I have actually had sex indoors. And then you kind of sober up a little when it’s over. I become like a bartender at 2 AM. “OK, people, let’s move it out! Yeah, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”