I’m Not Good at Stand Up, But Here’s My Set Anyways

Are there any bisexuals in the audience? Yes, I identify as bisexual, but I prefer to use the term “queer”, which is really the same thing, but you can feel the student loan debt attached to it. I’m a feminist ally… in the streets and a male feminist in the sheets. Which means that I can give really good head while talking about gender performance.

Someone asked me recently if I give good head. I said I give adequate head. I have a 3 star rating on yelp.

I get super racist stuff on Grindr sometimes, like this one guy messaged me and asked, “DO you work at the Chinese restaurant on Sisson Avenue?” And I was so offended, because I worked on the on George Street and I would never associate with those bastards.

My straight friend once referred to me as a gaysian, and I couldn’t come up with a good comeback, so I slept with his father.

I stopped using Grindr because it just got depressing, no one had a copy of The Third Man, and it was just useless at this point. Supposedly, 80% of men have found a long term partner on Grindr, which is impressive. Kids these days, calling 5 hook ups “long term”.

Remember that whole Rachel Dolezal thing over the summer? The white lady who was like the president of the Spokane NAACP? She says she is transracial. She said she felt black is beautiful, black is who I am. Now if I can become another race just be thinking it’s beautiful, then… That’s how I feel about white boys. White boys are beautiful, white boys is who I am… all about. I am all about those white boys. I am not out to my mother… as white. Because even though I feel white on the inside, I have yet to experience the goodness that is white privilege. That’s why I want to date a white boy, so at least I can experience it vicariously.

I want to be able to see a Rush Hour movie with friends and not have people turn to me at every joke.

But I know in my heart, like Dolezal knows in her bottle of spray on tan, that I am not a true white person. Yes, I drink Starbucks while telling the barista my order to the tune of Bon Iver’s Skinny Love; yes, I regularly buy vegan foot warmers from Williamsburg; yes, regularly arrange my issues of The New Yorker on my desk to make it look like I’ve read them (I don’t dance like I’m white, unless you count doing this in the corner of a gay club in West Hollywood as dancing); but, alas, the only time I have ever had contact with Uggs is when my mother threw her pair at me during a fight with the maid at Starbucks, I have yet to force my hairdresser to give me an undercut, and I have only ever listened to Macklremore against my will.

True, people confuse me for being white because of my name — I have had interviewees that only knew me by Kyle do this while meeting me. My only claim to whiteness is the cum in my asshole.

The reason I feel white is because I also like getting facials from guys.

The reason I feel white is because I’m adopted, but I’ve never ended up saying, “You’re not my real dad!” That’s because my dad died too early for me to get the chance.

Remember “That’s what she said?” Do people still say that? I remember that was so big. THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID. But I think we should move on to be more inclusive, because someone else could have said it! I propose: “Sounds like my last date.” “Oh, I feel really full.” “Sounds like my last date!” “Oh, these Amazon are so expensive!” “Sounds like my last date!” “I was diagnosed with narcolepsy.” “Sounds like my last date!”

If you really love white people, I suggest you take a journey to paradise, otherwise known as Provincetown, MA. It’s a super diverse place, in that there’s white people of all ages between 29 and 65, and varying economic classes like middle class and upper middle class! Provincetown is kind of like the arctic in that it’s whiteness for miles and miles. Everywhere you look, it’s blindingly white, all the gays walking their adopted babies on leashes, up to their necks in Fiji water, on their way to brunch. Brunch, by the way, I think is a Satanic ritual set up by the gays. That’s the real gay agenda: forcing brunch on everyone. They bully the fats, the femmes, the Asians, the blacks, the disabled, the… basically anyone that is not a hot white West Hollywood/Williamsburg gay… dunking their heads in toilet bowls filled with yesterday’s mimosas.

But, but, but, at a Pride parade, everyone gets a kissed, but it’s the kind of kiss you give to your rich bigoted uncle at Thanksgiving in the hopes that they’ll include you in the will.”

“Everyone gets kissed, but the kind of kiss you give to someone when you know the NSA is watching”

I have a friend in Nebraska who can’t go to Pride parades, and because it’s like she bumps into exes, and exes, and exes, and it’s sort of like a high school reunion, but with fewer surprise children.

Have you ever had sex and it was going okay and then you tell a joke and the guys watching don’t think it’s funny? Probably because there was a dick in my mouth. This was the first time I had ever cruised before, and by that I do not mean join scientology and make 5 Mission Impossible movies. That’s the one time I’ll ever feel connected to my game friends, because I was with this guy, and I was going, like, “Up, up, up, down, down, left, right, right, left, left, up, down, there we go.”

Then again, I’m not sure if it was better or worse than the guy who wanted to reenact The Human Centipede with me.

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