Errrr.....can I ask a question?

It's my blog, of course I can. I could ask six questions if I want. You couldn't stop me or anything.

How come mostly only men comment on my blog?

If I were to do the math (and I won't; I think guessing is really much better for the brain. And the soul. And possibly the kidneys), I would say that 95% of my comments are from men.

It's not that I mind, by the way. I like men ok. They're just like me, really, except with mostly better luck at peeing outside.

If this were a sex blog or a video game blog or a peeing outside really well blog, I think it would make more sense that mostly men read. But this is a comedy blog. And women like comedy too, I think.

Of course, maybe the women are all reading but not commenting. Or blogger is censoring my comments. Or the women are writing under pseudonyms so they will be taken more seriously much like George Eliot.

But I don't THINK that my comedy would be more appealing to men than it is to women. And if so, I'd like to know that. So do tell. And if you're a woman and you read but you don't comment, could you just this once? So I'll know.

And really if I am only funny to men? Well, perhaps I shall practice peeing outside more.

You know, so I can relate.

And yes, this was my way of procrastinating writing a real post.

HOW I USED TO CHANGE A LIGHTBULB

1) Carry giant, cushy chair so it is strategically placed under the lighting device

2) Stand on said chair

3a) On tippytoe

3) Realize still am numerous miles away from reaching lighting device

4) Place fairly unsturdy box on aforementioned cushy chair

5) Stand on top of unsturdy box on top of cushy chair

5a) On tippytoe

6) Realize, though am much closer, still cannot reach lighting device

7) Jump, just a little to see if that will help in reaching lighting device

8) Fall

8a) Also bleed

9) Wait several weeks until someone tall happens to come over to visit and then con them into changing my lightbulb


HOW I CURRENTLY CHANGE A LIGHTBULB

1) Place handy-dandy stepstool under lighting device.

2) Climb up on handy-dandy stepstool

3) Change lightbulb

4) Don't bleed even a little bit

5) Cartwheels of joy

Yes yes. I bought a stepstool today. Sparkle hands and happiness for me. So the answer to the never-asked-but-surely-much-speculated-about-question is this:

One. It takes one Jill Twiss to change a lightbulb, thank you very much.

There was a man stopped at the Los Angeles Airport for having pygmy monkeys in his underwear.

I swear to God, that's not a metaphor for anything.

This is not a situation where a terrible, terrible man cheats on his girlfriend and she proceeds to, over drinks with her sympathetic girlfriends, say things like, "Seriously girls, he was so small it was like he had pygmy monkeys in his underwear" whilst giggling knowingly.

That's not what I mean.

Nor is it a situation, where a doctor has said to an uncomfortable man, "Have you experienced any burning or itching?" and he replies, "Oh yeah Doc! It feels like there are pygmy monkeys in my underwear!"

It's not like that either.

No, he really had pygmy monkeys in his underwear.

I just can't get over this.

Police in Britain have a new plan to curb late-night noise outside of pubs---they’re giving lollipops to drinkers when they leave. The hope is that, with the lollipop in their mouths, the drunkards will stop speaking loudly and incoherently and causing disturbances.

Upon hearing this, CNN's Headline News producers purchased thousands of lollipops to be given to Nancy Grace.

Does British Scrabble have lots more "u"s than American Scrabble?

Because, I just think that after spelling "colour" and "flavour" and suchlike, there would be no "u"s left to go with the "q"s.

I find the concept rather stressful.

People often ask me how I got into stand-up comedy

That, and "How do you make your hair look so great?" are the two questions I am asked the most, really. Well the hair thing is a trade secret, but today is, I think, the right day to tell you all why I started doing comedy.

I was always funny--giggles and guffaws would follow me around like an annoying twelve-year old sister. I liked to make people laugh. And many times I would say something humorous at a party, family function, and/or tollbooth, and someone would walk up to me and say, "You know Jill, you should do stand-up comedy."

And I would laugh at them.

You see, here's the thing about me: I never wanted to do stand-up comedy. In fact, I wanted very much NOT to do stand-up comedy. I found the entire idea of standing up in front of people and telling them jokes terrifying. I mean, I was already an actor. I could get up in front of people. But get up and say things that I wrote? And expect people to laugh? And have the audience actually tell me if they didn't think I was funny? Loudly? And possibly with fruit? I don't think so.

So if there was anything I was sure about in the world, it was that I would never do stand-up comedy.

Then September 11th happened.

I was living in Manhattan at the time that the Towers were hit. I had moved from South Dakota to New York City a few months before that. I hadn't even been mugged yet.

I was still innocent.

I didn't know what humans were capable of.

I write funny things, mostly. I don't know a lot of serious words. So I don't have the words to convey how that day felt for me. And I don't have the imagination to understand how it felt for all those who it affected so much more than it did me.

But I do know this: everyone I know did something a little crazy after September 11th. My voice teacher promptly went out and bought $500 worth of groceries. My roommate slept with his shoes on for two months. I had countless friends that quit smoking, and started smoking, and started drinking, and quit drinking.

And me?

On September 12, 2001, I performed stand-up comedy for the first time.

Happy Comedy-versary.

(Speaking of comedy, this post is brought to you by New York hair transplants. You should get one. Yes you.)

Errrr....I won this.

I'm not exactly sure what it is, precisely.

But I won it.

And, frankly, I'm a huge fan of anyone who tells me I won something. You could probably say, "Jill, you just won the Racist Nazi Crack Whore Of The Year award," and I would be just as happy as anything, really."

Yay.

(This post was sponsored by a Schenectady plastic surgeon. I don't know him or anything, but I think he'd be glad in his innermost heart that I won this award.)

According to scores on the 2006 ACT college entrance exam, only 21 percent of students applying to four-year institutions are ready for college-level work in all the tested areas.

This is a huge concern since these students will soon be entering the workforce and, at this rate, the only job in America that they'll be qualified for is the Presidency.

(This blog entry is brought to you by prom dresses 2007. Yes, I find that ironic too, given the topic, thank you for asking.)