While I don’t like to think of myself as a comedian, that’s what I am.  I like to think as myself as an actor first and foremost, but, just as I spent years straightening my hair, until I finally gave up and surrendered myself to the curls, I have come to accept comedy as my true milieu.

There is a stigma about women being funny.  I have dated guys (yes, it was a Millennium ago, but at one time, I did, indeed Date) who were put off by my sense of humor; they found it intimidating, felt like I was trying to outshine them.  Oh, come on, get over it.  I like making people laugh, who doesn’t?  It just so happens that I can’t pole vault, or make a perfect Yorkshire pudding or invent (or even use correctly) the internet, or balance the country’s budget, but I can make jokes.  Everybody has something, that’s my thing.  My thing is not a threat to your thing.  (TWSS) (that stands for “That’s what she said, BTW)  (BTW stand for, oh hell, you know.)

I have also heard people say women aren’t as funny as men.  I call bullshit.  I know plenty of extremely funny men and women; having a penis does not make you funnier than having a vagina.  Though (as a personal preference) I find dick jokes funnier than pussy jokes.  But I digress. . . .

I wish this were not my talent.  I wish I had been born with the talent of, oh, say, Industrial Espionage, or something; something you could actually make a living from, so my retirement plan wouldn’t have to be dying in ten years, because I won’t be able to afford to be alive.  And, I’m guessing, if done correctly, Industrial Espionage wouldn’t get you in trouble, like making jokes does.  A lot.  If there is a joke out there, I will make it and worry about the consequences later, which I usually end up doing.  A lot.  I had a brief (and horrible) career in sales and I lost many a sale by making a joke when I should have been lying and sucking up and flirting and practicing all those Sound Sales Techniques you’re supposed to use. I tend to be Overly Honest, as well.  Comedy + Honesty = Unemployment. 

But, as I enter the Moving Sidewalk of my Twilight Years (not the cheesy, vampire, teenage-ansgt-ridden Twilight, the slobbering, incontinent, senile Twilight--wait, are they the same thing?  Discuss.  But finish reading this first.), I less and less give a shit what people think and find myself embracing Marlo Thomas, or at least her philosophy of  Free to Be You and Me. (Which rather sounds like a license to be schizophrenic, though I don’t think that’s what it’s supposed to mean.) I’m funny, damnit, and fucking proud of it. 

Now, go figure out that Twilight thing.  Because there are some issues that are more important than the old broad with curly hair making a dick joke.