An Exclusive Interview With Comedian Jill Twiss

So let's talk about that giant bruise on your thigh.

Errr....do we have to talk about that, Bob? I'd rather not talk about that.

Doesn't the public have a right to know?

I guess.

It's really more on your butt than your thigh.

Yes.

And it's GIANT. If your butt were a map of the world, that bruise would be Africa.

Shut up, Bob.

Well?

Ok, fine. I'll talk.

Good.

Can I start out by saying that it's perfectly FINE to put your feet on your desk? Healthy, really. Good for mankind.

Ok.

Sneezing is also fine. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, "Sneezing: It's like a surprise party in your nose." If anyone in the sneezing industry wants to use that as their new national slogan, I'll give them a good rate on it.

I think you're getting off topic.

Shut up, Bob. You talk too much.

Anyway, as I was saying, it's the COMBINATION of sneezing and foot-desk-putting that's truly dangerous. Because sometimes the force of a sneeze can propel one's feet forward. And when those feet encounter something solid like, say, a desk....well those feet will press against it in a forceful way. And possibly push backward. And if one happens to be sitting on a not-so-stable chair, one can be propelled quickly-and-efficiently right to the ground. And one might fall right on top of a poky object that happens on be on your floor. And one might get a bruise-the-size-of-Africa precisely in the shape of that poky object.

Are you saying that's what happened to you?

Oh no. I'm just saying, IF I had gotten a bruise, this is how I would have done it. Have you learned nothing from O.J. Simpson's career?

I see. Of the colors your bruise has turned so far, which one is your favorite?

Green, Bob. I'd have to say green.

One last question: Is it true that you've been taking photographs on your new digital camera of said bruise on aforementioned butt so as to document its color, size, and shape?

[looks down at the floor]

I have no comment, Bob.

In America, we buy our children toy guns.

I, for one, think it's weird.

I wonder if the eighteenth-century French version of Fisher-Price ever made a Baby's First Guillotine.

Dear "Comedian,"

It's not that I can't see your point of view.

I can.

You thought it was a good idea. You thought it was "edgy." You thought, "I am the next Andy Kaufman and tonight is the night that everyone will recognize my genius."

I can respect that.

I mean, hey, I'm sure at some point someone said to Gallagher, "Watermelons? Sledgehammers? You'll never get anywhere with that gig." So I hate to be a naysayer.

The thing is.....well, if I could just share a thought:

It's possible that your fascinating plan of walking through the audience whilst saying in a low and throaty voice, "Do you think about me at night? Because I will rape you" about two-hundred times might NOT be the next "You know you're a redneck when....."

I mean, I'm sort of new at comedy. Only been doing it a few years. So I could be wrong.

It's just that, well, maybe if you only said it one-hundred-ninety-nine times, then possibly there might be one or two audience members that don't leave during your set. And, well, that would be one or two audience members who might be left to watch other comedians' sets.

Just a thought.

Respectfully yours,

The Comedian Who Had To Go On After You

Let's see what it's like to write a blog entry 47 minutes after having taken Tylenol PM.

A good experiment, I think, where nothing can possibly go wrong.

The first thing I can say definitively is this:

Writing a blog entry whilst on Tylenol PM is really an awful lot like writing a blog entry whilst not on Tylenol PM except with more bunnies.

Wait.

Did I say bunnies?

Oh dear.

I feel eighty-six-point-four percent sure that I didn't mean to say bunnies. Though a side note in my head is that, if I were in a fine restaurant, I might eat something called "Rabbit Stew" but never anything called "Bunny Stew." So there. Even if it came with free crackers, I would say no to Bunny Stew. And by crackers, I don't mean white people.

Oh dear.

Quite an experiment, I think.

The good news is, no more hurty knees (too much jogging at the gym, Jill? Yes-and-thank-you-for-asking.)

The bad news is droopy eyelids and bunny blog entries (did you mean "funny" Jill? No, I meant "bunny.")

Life is a tradeoff.

p.s. Does a computer, technically, count as heavy machinery? Only because I think it's possible that the bottle label warned me about this particular happening.

p.s.2. Bunnies.

I'm just going to say it:

I like Valentine's Day.

Stop-reading-and-punch-me-in-the-face if you must, but I do. I do like it very much. Valentine's Day is, in fact, my second favorite holiday.

(My first favorite, by-the-by, is Easter. Something about the combination of muti-colored eggs, giant bunnies, and Jesus rising from the dead just thrills me to no end.)

Yet I know it's really very uncool and untrendy to like Valentine's Day.

I know I'm supposed to say things like, "Valentine's Day is so commercial." and "Basically it was just invented by the greeting card companies." and "We should be romantic every single day. Not just on Valentine's Day. I don't need a holiday to tell people how much they mean to me."

Yes, I know I should say things like that, but here's the thing:

I like it.

I like flowers and chocolate and chalky-candy-hearts and silly valentine's cards with lollipops in them and pink and red and glitter and.....sigh.....well, I just do.

And yes, we should be romantic every day of our lives.

Agreed.

But I can plant a tree every day of my life, and that doesn't make Arbor Day any less wonderous.

(I'm really pleased with that sentence, somehow. Let's try another one.)

I can have cake and ice cream every day of my life, and that doesn't make my birthday one bit less special.

(Yeah, that one's not as good. I do not, in fact, have cake-and-ice-cream every day of my life. Or every other day. But when I am 87 years old and phrases like, "The camera adds 15 pounds, you know" are never uttered to me by cruel casting directors, I *shall* have cake every day. So there.)

In any case, I propose that we can be romantic every day of our lives and STILL like Valentine's Day. So there.

After all, if Cupid can fly around in a diaper all day, the least you can do is go out and buy some damn chocolate hearts.

Hop to it.

And have a Happy Valentine's Day.

For realsies.

p.s. Note the subtle Easter Bunny reference at the end? It's never too early to start shopping for my FIRST favorite holiday.

I'm against casual sex.

But I'm totally in favor of business-casual sex.

I guess I just have a thing for khakis.

Here are the things that I bought at the store today that are not light-bulbs:

1) Pudding (chocolate with a vanilla swirl in the middle which is the perfect combination of chocolate and not-chocolate)
2) Tape (of the scotch genome)
3) Pens (I do not need pens even a little bit. I have lots of pens. But they are an addiction. I cannot pass the pen aisle without pining. I *love* pens in such a way that if you were to say sarcastically, "Why don't you marry them?", I would reply, "Only, and I mean ONLY, because there is no way I could choose just one.")

Here are the things that I bought at the store today that ARE light-bulbs:

1) The empty set
2) Nothing
3) Naught

Here are the things that I need right-this-minutey-minute if I want to get through five seconds in my apartment without running into something and dying of an ouchy shin:

1) Light-bulbs

Sigh.....

The word misspell is difficult to spell correctly.

Is it "misspell" or "mispell" or even, perhaps, "mis-spell?"

It's a win-win situation, though.

You see, either you get to be a good speller OR you get to be ironic.

Yay.