The List of Things I’m Too Old to Do:
Learn to have sex with multiple partners; attend an orgy.
Scandalize my family by blowing the president. (My comedy is scandal enough).
Cartwheel and 178 other physical activities, including have children (NOTHING will grow in here. I’ve had it razed to the ground in an aggressive military maneuver. Hostile coup style).
Party for longer than 24 consecutive hours. I just get tired.
Pretend to give a fuck about your superstitions/astrological sign/crop circle fetish.
Blow Republicans. If I accidentally fellatiate a Trump supporter, it’s over. I’m half-Mexican. They’ll kick me out of the club. We’re not allowed to fuck anyone backing Trump.
I mean, you can build a wall, but it begins outside my vagina. And, I’m taking Selma Hayek, Antonio Banderas, and Taco Tuesday with me. What are you guys going to do without Margaritas? You haven’t thought this out…
Much like me and my comedy...
One of my biggest pet peeves is that HRC isn’t going to be indicted by the FBI. Now, I know we don’t usually get political, but it really bothers me that she’s proud of that. But, I guess if you’re Clinton, lack of indictment and clean STD screenings are the kinds of things that make you proud.
And, I’ve brought home dubious honors before:
Guess who didn’t get arrested for that nude public intox? This gal!
I found that shoe I left at the bar last night?!
I finally paid off that tattoo!
But, I’m not running for president. Which, may be the problem. Because, I would like to see a female in the oval office for something more than fellatio-related meetings, and all my debauchery is widely recorded, typically, by me.
And, I do have some new ideas.
I’m not saying they’re any good, but they are new.
Because, I feel like we’ve been trying to make this Puritanical Christian thing work for almost 250 years, and I think it’s pretty safe to say… it’s not going well. I think we bit off more than we can chew, morally.
Like, how is the ‘no sex out of wedlock’ thing working for you guys?
‘Cause we’re making laws based on this being a principle for actual human behavior in 2016. If you don’t believe me, look at abstinence-only education and current contraceptive laws, which I think is problematic, since no one is living this Pleasantville-Molded-Plastic-Genitalia life.
We’d also see advancement of quite a bit of modern medicine, too.
Especially as exorcism of the devil doesn’t really seem to be working on genetic disorders, so if we could go ahead and use my eggs to fight my disease, I’d really appreciate it.
(ASIDE: It’s like I’m packing a toolbox that will totally fix the problem, but I’m not allowed to access it, or use any of the tools to save my own life, because your God said (NOT EVEN EXPLICITLY) that it was wrong. You think your God might be against it, so I’m just supposed to die slowly about it, because stem cells are an uncomfortable conversation?! That’s kinda’ bullshit. Christian MY ASS. How does that make God happy?)
So, instead of trying to make laws for the way we think people should behave, via the Christian Puritans, let’s try some Science-based Hedonism.
Just for a minute. Just the tip, see if we like the way it feels…
So, my idea is really two-fold:
Step one: We end hunger.
I think this is really a manageable stage. We’ll call it ‘everyone gets a sandwich.’
This seems to inspire a lot of questions, like, ‘What kind of sandwich?’ And, ‘Who makes and pays for the sandwiches.’ So, hypothetically, we’re going to say; dealer’s choice on the sandwich, and you won’t have to make them, or pay for them. This is the first of two new social programs that are going to bring about a better culture to live in.
I think that fewer hungry people equals fewer HANGRY people, and that’s progress.
If we can take down the asshole count by even one person, that’s a victory.
Besides, children are much cuter when they’re not starving to death.
Step Two: We promote peace.
We’re calling it the ‘Everyone Gets Head’ initiative.
This is the harder step, because what I’m proposing is that people between the ages of 18 and 65 get head. People between the ages of 25 and 45 will just pair off, like Tinder app, and then… Here’s the sticky bit…
We’re going to legalize prostitution to do it.
Now, I heard that emotional kick, and I can assure you that it’s just your fundamentalist upbringing, just power through. Because, I think it would actually be good for us.
Let’s be honest. It’s the world’s oldest profession. FOR A REASON. (There’ll be whores as long as there are johns, and there’ll be johns as long as there are men…) So, let’s give these women access to legal protection and medical care, and put them to work for the good of our country.
Some people are still on the fence, and yeah, there might be a moral issue. But, let’s just try it. And, some people are like ‘is there an order? I can’t eat before I swim, much less this…’
There are bugs. It’s a new program. No worries. We’ll get the kinks worked out…
If you don’t think we’d get more done if everyone had a sandwich and a blow job, that’s fine.
But, I think I can prove you wrong. And, I’d like the chance to try.
The Sandwich and Blowjob Platform can happen! We can Make America Great, for the First Time, ever!
My name is Jane Malone, and I’m running for president.
This is a true story:
I met this guy on Craigslist. Not the sexy side, I was in the market for a removable hard-drive, and he had one for sale. That’s totally not a euphemism, but I did see his dick later.
So… I was fooling around with this guy for a couple months, and – whoops! – I got pregnant. And, I guess that’s why we were in a relationship. It’s not the best reason, but it’s not a new reason.
At about five months into the pregnancy, his best friend gets married. Roger is the Best Man, so we drive to Denver to attend the wedding. It’s awesome, ‘cause they’re stoners, so I called it the ‘weeding.’ But, that’s because I’m an unrelenting dork.
Now, I was pregnant, so our weeding experiences were very different. The night before the weeding, I ordered room service, had a bit of a smoke, a bath, watched Investigation Discovery and went to bed around elevensies.
The limo from the bachelor party dropped him off at 3:40am.
He got to our room, completely effing bombed out of his mind. But, he made it to the room, disrobed, and got into bed.
At 4:30, I was awoken by a blood-curdling scream in the hallway. I shot straight up, my heart racing, just freaked out. It’s completely dark, so I turn on the light, and I’m alone. Roger is gone.
I can hear yelling in the hallway, so I open the door, and there’s Roger; completely naked and covered in vomit. Vomit in his beard, all over his chest, just dripping onto the hallway carpet. He’s got four copies of USA Today under his arm, and a fifth copy is in his hands, bowled out, also collecting vomit.
He is not drunk. He is past drunk, and into blacked-out, vomit-staggering, caveman. It’s awful.
He’d woken up, opened the hallway door thinking it was the bathroom, and staggered out into the hallway, while the door had shut behind him. At some point he started collecting newspapers from the neighbors. The scream I heard came from the neighbor who had caught him puking, naked, bent over onto one of the stolen papers.
I got him into the room before security showed up.
The weeding was in 14 hours.
He threw up 11 times that morning. Then had to stand in the sun for the weeding photos, it was brutal. The groomsmen were obviously on the edge of drunk and hungover, all of them totally worse for the wear.
And, that was the best day of my pregnancy.
The first time I got high – wasn’t funny. It just felt like cool, sweet, lemonade was erupting out of every pore of my body. So, memorable, but not necessarily funny.
The second time, though…
My friend Tony and I were in our friend Jeff’s apartment, and we smoked this gorgeous blunt between the three of us. I was truly fucked up.
I was 19.
I’d never been this high.
I was trying to play it cool – but, it felt like my face was melting off, and I was floating away. I was concentrating so hard on not falling out of my chair. And, these guys were older, like 28, and hot.
Well, not really hot, but like NM hot.
Like, Tony was missing teeth. No joke.
He was missing teeth, and STILL considered hot in NM circa 2000.
Do you guys remember double-ought? Ah, what a year… The Bloodhound Gang was in full bloom… It was a magical time.
And, 19 – year-old Jane Malone was getting stoned for the second time.
I’m fully blazed sitting there, but I’m trying to be cool.
So, I nonchalantly light a cigarette, and I’m trying to hold onto the table for stability. But, in a not-too-obvious kind of way. I’m just barely hanging on when Jeff turns to me and says, “You’re on fire.”
I grin, because his words had no meaning. They were just sounds. I was that high.
“You’re on fire.” He said, again.
I don’t know why he wasn’t yelling, or more excited about it. He was just kinda’ saying it. I looked down, and the carpet under my chair was on fire. It’s obviously smoking, and has been for quite a moment, without my THC riddled grey matter registering any threat at all.
So, instead of putting out the fire, we laughed at the fire for like three minutes. I almost pissed myself.
I had lit that cigarette twice without realizing it. The first one fell to the carpet, and so I lit another. But, I was high. So, I don’t remember anything.
Jeff did not get his damage deposit back.
I have made a lot of mistakes in this life, but I have never gotten a tattoo in a kitchen.
Please, don’t do that.
It’s a mistake, and there’s nothing more depressing than wearing shitty art on your body for years. I wore the Metallica Load Star, (Yeah, I know it’s their worst album), for 15 years on my chest. So, you can trust me about shitty art. (Aside: Don’t tell Lars that I’m talking about Metallica on stage. I don’t want to get sued…).
If you’re ever on a diet, and you can’t kill your appetite, do yourself a favor and google “home tattoo infections.” It’s raunchy.
And, I practice what I preach.
I made a deal with my kids that if they keep their skin blank – no kitchen bullshit – then, when they turn 18, I’ll buy them a nice piece of art, from a great artist. They pick the subject and style, and I’ll help find them someone good. Sounds great, right?
My daughter is 17 and a half. So…
I’m going to have to ante up.
Have ever made a stupid deal with your child?
I made it all the way to 18, and now I’m going to fuck it up. Because, she really does want this effing tattoo, and I’ve got no argument that will hold water. I’m covered in ink. But, she’s my kid, and she doesn’t have degrees and art education and experience to reference. There’s a probability that this may not be a good decision for her. I’m her mother. Tattooed or not, I worry about her decisions.
I don’t usually root against my kids… usually….
I’m a good mom, everyone survives bath-time, I’ve never placed the cadaver of my child in my trunk. You classic ‘good mom’ moves.
But—I’m kinda’ hoping she won’t be able to sit for it? And, I’ll get off on a technicality…
Does that make me the worst woman ever?
Definitely not a ‘good mommy’ moment.
But, kids are like that. They take your ‘bottom low’ behavior moment, nad somehow force you to double down.
I’ve never eaten so many questionably moist leftovers in my life. It doesn’t matter if they’ve touched it or not, the minute it hits the kid plate, the food gets wet…
I’ve wiped another person’s shit-covered ass with my bare hand before. (Out of necessity, obviously. This isn’t Germany).
I’ve even seen my friend turn around in the passenger seat and catch fresh vomit from her daughter in her hand—as we were going 75mph down I-5. She’s full a Ninja Level 10 Parent.
I never aspire to rank that highly.
But, I bet I have to buy that kid a tattoo...
I’ve kinda’ got a beef with men these days. It’s not really their fault, actually.
I guess I’m just annoyed about the prevalence of porn on the internet. Really, though, is there anything as lazy as an American man with access to PornHub? Jesus.
It’s making everyone far less desperate. And, I rely on a certain amount of desperation to get laid.
I know what you’re thinking, “But, Jane, you’re a woman! You can get laid anytime you want!”
Yeah. That’s true.
It’s much like I imagine it is for men. Men can always get laid, just sometimes, it requires a cash transaction.
I can always get laid, but sometimes it requires the homeless.
And, I’m just getting too old for this nonsense. I’m developing this allergy to unwashed balls. They just make me really sad. (Dog whine).
Also, I’m not having sex in a car anymore. This isn’t eighth-grade, and it was never comfortable to begin with.
And, the alley is out, too. At least take me to a park. This whole freaking state is a park, you lazy bastards.
My daughter is one of the oddest people I know, and I rank number one, so we get along pretty well. I had her in high school, so we grew up together, really. We're pretty close, so it’s odd to me that the only fight we’ve really ever had was about her being a bisexual woman.
Last year, she was dating a girl named Odessa, and they were very happy, and in love. Which was gross, and it wasn’t because they were same sex, it was gross because they’re young, and they kiss like people who have NO kissing skills. (Pantomime Teen Kissing Skills, stick out tongue, waggle head around spastically).
So, Odessa was going to spend the night at our place, and my daughter wanted her to sleep in her room, in her bed. And, I wasn’t having it.
“But, Mooooom.” She said, drippingly condescending, with the parenthetical ‘(asshole)’ floating in the sky above her head. I swear, the word balloon above her head literally read, “Mom, you asshole!”
“Mooooom, (you asshole), it’s not like we’re going to get pregnant.” And, I knew that was a dig, ‘cause I had her as a teenager, and she knows that’s always been a fear of mine. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t in.
“You’re the one who is bisexual, and thus, Odessa is no different that if she were Oscar, and I wouldn’t let a boy do that. It’s crazy-pants to think I’d endorse underage sex. I’m still your mother. “
“Moooooom! You’re so not cool.” She said.
Me? Me, not cool? Oh My God.
I was in French Club in high school. I was on the chess team. I watched Clarissa Explains It All. I had glasses, braces, and a perm in my Mexican hair. I was 320lbs. the year we graduated. I’ve never, once in this life, been cool.
But… At least I’m not a virgin.
As you know, I’ve been doing the online dating mating dance, lately. It’s mainly because I can’t stand relationships. I like the first three dates, before he tells you that ‘he really feels a connection.’ ‘Cause unless it’s a fleshy connection, I’m just not interested.
I’m just not emotionally equipped to deal with the inevitable sobbing confession that he was molested as a kid. I’m really just here to see your penis, sir…
I’d rather have no sex than bullshit sex, too.
I’m contented with my own company, so to speak. That’s how ladies say that they own a vibrator.
Men ‘jerk off.’ I’m ‘contented with my own company.’
And, dating these days is getting rougher out there than I’m comfortable with, anyway.
I was actually followed by a man in his car, coming out of the bar, last week by a man that I had politely rejected. I had told him straight out, “I’m sapiosexual, which means I’m sexually attracted to intellect.”
To which he responded, “I’m in construction!”
So, I feel as though he doesn’t speak English. And, I’m totally not bagging on someone who is bilingual, either. It’s not like Spanish was his primary language, and there was a barrier.
This man spoke zero languages. No languages.
Because I had told him, in beautiful English, “I’m sapiosexual, which means I’m sexually attracted to intellect.” And, he still gave it a whirl. So, points for balls…
But, his most learned kernel of knowledge, the piece of his brain he chose to share with me, in the one chance he might ever have to Einstein his way into my hot panties, he chose, at this moment, to say, the ever-popular, “I’m in construction.”
No one wants to suck your illiterate cock, sir. Put your stupid penis away.
Pick up a book. Two books, actually.
We should all be reading a book right now.
I’m a comic, but I’m not going to kill myself.
I mean, I am looking forward to the sweet release of death, but I’m not going to do the dirty work myself.
I’m going to staff that shit out.
I’ve decided that autoerotic asphyxia is the way to go. I’m going to hire that
Portland model, I think his name is Tattooed Hipster ManBun. He’s hot, but I think he’s in the STD ads, too. Not that THAT matters!
I’m going to sign a waiver, and then get him to choke fuck me to death. Like one last big bang, and then the great nothing. It’ll look like we accidentally went too far… Whoopsie!
I’ll leave him some cash for the trouble. I’m even kinda’ looking forward to it.
Of course, you’re going to have to tell my kids that I slipped and fell on the tiled stairs in church. IN CHURCH.
The only thing is, I think I’m going to require that he shave his balls. Then he has the option to leave before the cops get there, and, also, I think it’ll be funny to watch him drag his taint across the carpet for the next week, from beyond the grave.
That’s a haunting.
My mom isn’t racist. I want to start there.
She left this message on my voicemail this week:
“Hey, honey! I didn’t want anything, I’m just checking to see how you’re feeling. I’m so sorry you’re Mexican. Bye!”
I’m so sorry you’re Mexican. Bye!
I have a genetic disorder that came down on my father’s side. My father is Mexican, and my mother is not. She’s a little white girl, 5’ tall, maybe a hundred pounds. Their divorce was bloody, and my mother has a long memory. So, she’s not Building a Wall, she’s bashing my cheating father.
What she means is:
I was sorry to hear you were ill, I know you’ve got a genetic disorder from your fathers’ side. Isn’t he a dick?!
What she said was:
I’m so sorry you’re Mexican. Bye!
And, this makes me fear for her safety. Because I know my mother. There’s no way she’s leaving me this message in the privacy of her own home. She’s not subtle enough for that. She’s at Walmart, or the grocery store, or the fucking post office saying this loudly into her phone.
She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
She’s going to get fucking stabbed.
Because no one who hears that is going to understand that she’s not racist, she’s just dad-bashing.
I'm Jane Malone.