Guess what, Martin Luther King? I had a (expletive) dream, too.
I don't want to be a facilitator for other funny people. It doesn't seem smart for me to be in a comedy and not be funny. My spirit can't take it.
When you're a comic, it's like being born gay. It's what you want to do every night when your other friends are out at night going to parties.
I do love poop. I can't help it. The heart wants what it wants. I enjoy being clever and pithy and political, but nothing's going to get me like dumb stuff.
And then before going back for my sophomore year, I decided to change my major to arts and sciences, and my dad cut a deal with me: He said if I'd quit school he'd pay my rent for the next three years, as if I were in school.
Someone on Twitter sent me a page from a textbook. It had a picture of a football player next to a picture of me. The juxtaposition was meant to illustrate two meanings of "offensive." Seriously. It broke my heart. It's that accepted what I do is offensive?
I looked up and saw the shape of a heart made by the silhouette of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon kissing.
The good news is hopeful doesn't mean dumb. The bad news is cynical doesn't mean smart.
All comics want to be musicians. There's a part of me that wants to be a serious musician. I love songs about heartache and heartbreak.
I like my life alone. I mean, I love being with friends, and I love kissing and loving someone to pieces. But it's hard to find someone who doesn't ultimately start judging you and your choices.
Drew Friedman isn't just a brilliant artist. He takes you to a place. He takes you back in time. He makes you smell the stale cigarettes and cold brisket and you say, thank you for the pleasure.