Speaking of decent crackers, our next performer puts the sore in 15 items or less.
Ladies and gentlemen, the checkout girl!
So, the other day I was on Twitter, which is where I do a little bit of my comedy.
And I asked, I gave the choice of two stories and asked which one I should tell tonight.
The poll was pretty close and so I'm going to tell a paired down version of each.
And they're kind of intertwined in that eventually after meeting me everybody asks the same thing, which is what is wrong with you.
You should know that I will choose one of these stories and tell it every time because it illustrates it beautifully.
Tin Ruth!
Rusted.
The blonde girl from the B-52 is wailed on the car radio and we wailed right along with her.
Giggling at what we thought was a reference to being knocked up.
That phrase later turned out to mean nothing but at that moment it meant everything.
It was the summer of 1989 and I just graduated from high school.
Unbelievable I know.
In San Diego, California.
I had two months until I had to cross the country to my all girls college and I wasn't just killing time.
I was fucking murdering it.
I spent my days running the streets with a girl named Candy.
She was slightly less attractive than I and a full 10 pounds heavier automatically making her my best friend.
But you didn't know that's how these things are settled?
Well it is. Best friends and bridesmaids.
This day we were in rare form.
We decided to head to the beach to meet some friends so we wore high waisted pants and bikini tops just like the fly girls from the living color.
We rode in Candy's car an old Dotson Tudor that had been through her two older brothers and had the stains on the seats to prove it.
No matter. It went fast and had a sunroof.
The sunroof was essential for maximum skin brownification and really boosted the orgining power of the sun and weed sprayed in our hair.
As it whipped around our faces darting in and out of our mouths leaving the taste of lemon juice and carcinogens.
We were on super high alert because just the week before we had a celebrity encounter on the same stretch of freeway.
Specifically we were passed by weird Al Yankovic.
He drove a VW Beetle with a license plate that said weird Al.
Plus there's kind of no mistaking weird Al because he's unique.
Like a curly haired unicorn that maybe you shouldn't let babies sit in your kids.
I mean not for any particular reason just sort of as a general rule.
So the radio wailed and we wailed and life was a fucking highway you know.
As we sped down the road we couldn't have been more hair free.
We looked good and we felt good and this was what being young was about man.
Nothing was going to stop us.
So I wasn't terribly surprised when Candy Shriek looking out her driver's side window.
Oh my god that man is jacking off.
Of course he was. We were so hot.
I giggled as I leaned forward just clearing her profile and saw a man push back in the driver's seat the next car over.
Arching his back so we could clearly see his erect penis which he was stroking with one hand and driving with the other.
He waggled his eyebrows while licking his lips and he was my father's brother.
There it was. The dick that poked my lovely Christian aunt.
The cock that had created two children of the corn perfect cousins.
The willy that sat just inside the pants and had given me knee jiggle horsey rides until I was entirely too old for such a thing.
I will never forget the panic on his face as he saw my peak around the corner horrified.
I screamed at the very moment Candy said wait isn't that your uncle?
He cut in front of us across three lanes of traffic to exit as we laughed so hard and Candy threatened to pee her pants and I got a bad case of the hiccups.
Candy swore to hide my shame forever but blabbed about 15 minutes later when we met our friends at the beach.
But I wasn't mad. I knew if she hadn't I would have.
But like everything else in my crazy family it was never spoken of until now.
Who needs an inheritance anyway?
I think stories are true by the way. This is really my life.
When I was in elementary school I was consistently the best speller in my class.
I've always had a knack for hearing something and being able to visualize the letters it takes to make that sound happen.
Someday they'll find some kind of tumor growing at the base of my brain and it'll explain spelling genius and what is clearly a non-genius person.
But when I was a kid it was the one thing that had made me unique and in fourth grade this anomaly took me to the school spelling bee.
Four contestants from each grade sat on the stage of the auditorium slash cafeteria in front of the whole student body.
They were psyched because they were getting out of class but not psyched at all to be watching a damp spelling bee.
As my competitors got fewer and fewer I was thrilled to have a bigger audience to myself.
I was trying to figure out how to work a song and dance number from Annie into my next turn at the mic.
As Eminem says, you only got one shot. Do not miss your chance to blow.
So I was trying not to miss my chance to blow and was considering ways to shine like the top of the Chrysler building when I heard my name called.
At the same time I realized I really had to pee.
Or more accurately I was starting to pee. All over myself.
I approached the microphone as I felt my pants soak through with urine. When I finally arrived at my destination I realized I wouldn't be the star of the show after all and the only song I'd be singing was the blues.
I stood and finished what couldn't be undone and was given my word.
Ironically it was aquarium and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how it was spelled even though I'd studied it.
My mistake was not having studied it while standing in a puddle of what was only a few hours ago two cartons of chocolate milk.
I was called out and made to sit back in my seat because I wasn't really out until the next person spelled their word right.
I prayed that they did and that they didn't notice the small golden pond of piss in which they were standing.
Or the strong smell of hobo emanating from me.
Thankfully the next girl an absolutely perfect prepubescent version of Farrah Foss. It spelled her word correctly and I made a fake sad face while simultaneously being thankful that the whole thing was over.
But it wasn't.
As we were called to the microphone to receive our awards little Farrah slipped just slightly and looked down.
She said to the principal the stage is wet and made a big motion of jumping back.
Meanwhile Mr. Third Place and I looked at each other and shrugged.
Maybe it was the panic in my eyes. Maybe it was my ridiculously exaggerated shrug.
But he looked down at my lap and breathed.
You peed.
What?
No.
No.
No.
No.
You're crazy.
She peed.
He yelled to Farrah in the principal.
I was escorted off stage by a well-meaning teacher while a big production was made of cleaning up the mess in front of the entire school.
I was sent home in sweatpants from the lost and found so small they must have fallen out of a kindergarteners backpack.
They rolled down under my chubby belly and came only halfway down my calves and created a case of camel toe that I will never surmount no matter how hard I try.
I waited in the nurses office for my mom to come pick me up holding my shoes in a zip lock bag.
My family moved a year later giving me a chance to start over without the legend of the worst thing ever following me around.
But it didn't matter because pee pants is still what I'm followed by my relatives to this day.
You guys, it's really hard being a genius.
Thank you.
Thank you.
