“Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”
Renowned and brilliant comedian Hannah Gadsby steps behind the microphone at a popular New York City comedy club. Hannah begins a scathing monologue about how good men don’t exist. The teeming crowd of young people begins to hoot and holler in delight and affirmation. Then; it happens.
I know you’re out there; you’re sick and tired of political correctness stinking up your comics. Like, so sick and tired that you’re not even reading this. You’re off doing something else because you’re fed up with the never-ending guilt-trip perpetuated by the mainstream media. But I know you’re out there.
And if you were reading this, you’d know one thing.
Almost every single aspect of my personality can be explained by one simple fact: when I was a kid I ate a bouillon cube.
I was too young to know better. I had witnessed the flavor sorcery that resulted when my parents would cook with a bouillon cube. Surely, I reasoned, if it made dinner taste that good, then a whole cube of it would be a trip to flavor heaven. I even imagined it might expand into a steak or a burger, like in The Jetsons. So one evening I sneaked into the kitchen, unwrapped a beef cube, popped it in my mouth, and chewed it up. Continue reading →