Richie Rich, The Bran-Man, the original Virgin,

I know it’s been a while since I last saw you but I hope you’ll forgive me for skipping the pleasantries and going straight to the heart of the matter.

You can’t cry in space. I learned that in Mr Frye’s science class (during Space Week) when I was ten. I was doodling a sweet little picture of Uranus and next to me, Donny was asking stupid questions because that’s all Donny ever did. “Mr Frye, how big is space?…Mr Frye, is heaven on another planet?…If it is, does that mean Nana Hannah is on Mars?…Mr Frye, Mr Frye, my dad said the moon landing was faked…Mr Frye, how old do you have to be to go into space?…Mr Frye, can you cry in space?”

I had squirreled that fact away in some dusty old corner of my mind and had completely forgotten about it until this morning. Diane dumped me one year and two weeks ago. She was my everything. She was the anchor that held my ship safely at the dock when the seas were stormy. I guess sometimes a ship needs to go sail the seas but that other women had nothing to do with my love for her.

Do you know how much pussy gets thrown at even your most average bog standard (male) comedian? Doesn’t matter how buggy your eyes are or if you’re the same height as Owen Meany, you can have double the amount of teeth as any other human being or a belly bigger than Santa, you got it good as long as you can get up on stage and make ’em laugh. And, as you know, I’m far from an average comedian. I’m a bigger star than Eta Carinae A. Diane wasn’t just any mere mortal of a woman, she was a twelve. I hate when people say 110%. It’s shitty math but I’m telling you Diane was a 12/10. You know, I’m literally the last person on earth to be hyperbolic but that woman defied the laws of mathematics.

Am I a devil for doing the dirty while my wife was pregnant? Look man, we all make mistakes. I’ve got a crazy high sex drive, and it gets pretty exhausting turning beautiful women down day after day. It takes a toll on the psyche, I’m not shitting you. It’s biology, human nature. I’m meant to be planting my seed in every moist patch of soil I can find. Right? You know. It’s just the way we’re wired. I loved Diane enough that I tried to act against my very nature. I tried harder than she’ll ever know and she doesn’t appreciate all the times I didn’t cheat. I deserve a fucking medal for all the women I didn’t sleep with. Truly I do. I was good to her. I provided everything a woman could ever want and we were happy. We still would be happy if that woman had minded her own business, if she wasn’t so intent on tearing a family apart, screenshotting every dumb message I sent like the snitch she is. Who’s the real devil here? If the press want to tear me down then who’s next? They wanna run an op-ed on how low down and nasty lions are for killing zebras? It’s like Niemöller said, “first they came for the comedians, and I did not speak out because I was not a comedian”. Well they may be coming for the entrepreneurs next.

Do I wish I could go back in time and take it all back? Of course I do Richie Rich, of course I do. But you haven’t sorted out time travel tourism yet have you? Maybe you should get on that, before that crazy son of a bitch Elon Musk beats you to the punch.

We were meant to go to Paris for my birthday this year. You think I give a fuck about Paris? Nope. She wanted to see the Mona Lisa, eat foie gras and baguettes, walk by the Seine, swoon over the Eiffel goddamn fucking tower, pretend she was in some fancy movie. Instead I spent my 39th birthday in a hotel room in Indianapolis, crying into silky scented tissues. I’m done with crying. I’m tired of this shit. 379 mornings I’ve woken up with eyes red and sore from crying the night before. I want to go somewhere I can’t cry anymore, I want to go to space Richard.  Save a space for me on your big space plane. I’m hemorrhaging money on child support but think of all the times I’ve put you on the list for my shows, you can afford to comp me. You know where to reach me, I’ve got my bags packed already.



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