There are a few reasons I’d like to write for Ology, and every single one of them involves not wearing pants. I’ve never been a fan of pants; they’re just not for me. In high school, when everyone had been commanded by our leaders to figure out just what the hell we wanted to do for the rest of our lives, I only had one real criterion: no goddamn pants. Predictably, in all the worthless career counseling we were forced to go through, not one single person provided me with a list of jobs that didn’t require pants.
Obviously, I could figure out a few of those jobs on my own. Porn star, for one. That seemed like an occupation where the workers were rarely encumbered by bothersome pants. I wasn’t really sure how to get into that field, though. There was a remarkable paucity of brochures lying around the job fairs for that one.
Radio broadcaster seemed like a viable option. Why on earth would those folks have to wear pants? I actually went so far as to get an internship at a local radio station, which did what all internships everywhere are designed to do: it crushed my fucking dreams. Not only did those people wear pants, but they seemed quite put off by the fact that I showed up without any.
I also considered video game designer. It seemed like that job would be easy to do from any number of windowless rooms that contained computers. The only two problems with that career path were my crippling inability to understand computers, and the fact that I played video games at the retarded-chimp level.
So that left writer. Not the kind of writer where I’d have to go into some office and sit at a desk all day, either. No, the only kind of writer I want to be is the crazy recluse: sitting around the house in my underwear, pounding furiously at the keyboard, drinking Jägermeister until I puke in the cat’s litter box, and writing incoherent emails to all my detractors.
I’ve always loved writing, but I also love comedy. I realized awhile ago that I could probably write my own material and try my hand at stand-up. However, I ran into that pesky pants issue again. Comedians seem more or less required to wear them. Also, once fully costumed in ridiculous trousers, they tend to leave the house with startling regularity. They have to go to comedy clubs and actually perform in front of ill-behaved crowds, which sounds like a whole lot of effort. Then, if they’re any good, they actually have to travel to other cities. On airplanes. While air travel has gotten so repugnantly fascist that they’ll occasionally ask you to remove your pants in the airport, they do insist you put them back on before boarding the plane. This is bullshit. They wanted my pants off in the first place, and I was only too happy to comply. But if they want ‘em back on me, it’s gonna take four or five of those beefy TSA guys, a can of WD-40, and a shitload of hurt feelings.
Instead of stand-up, I decided to just write comedy. I didn’t want to write for someone else, like The Daily Show, or 30 Rock, because there’s no recognition there. The talking heads who spout your stuff get all the glory. Also, the pants thing again.
Once I started writing comedy for myself, I realized, not only did I enjoy it, but I was good at it. I was better at being funny on paper than Tucker Max, with the added benefit of not being a colossal douchebag whose entire body of work is dedicated to championing the frat-boy lifestyle. I do require the use of words like fart and dick pretty often, but that’s the price you pay to write comedy at this level. Nobody ever shot beer out of their nose reading Mark Twain.
I’d also like to write for Ology because I want to stop waiting tables as my primary source of income. There are far too many reasons to list why waiting tables sucks, so let’s just do three: pants, of course; severe restrictions on one’s casual cursing; and being at the beck and call of an endless parade of half-witted, mean-spirited, condescending fuckbags. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that in the years I’ve been waiting tables, I’ve acquired enough material to write about for the rest of my life.
Not that I only write about what I observe in other people. It’s much too easy to just sit in front of the computer and fill space with observations about idiots and various half-truths exaggerated to make them funnier. Certainly, I enjoy that; it’s my bread and butter. But nothing is sacred here, nothing at all. I will happily make fun of anything and everything, including what I love and hold dear. I’m not above myself.
So welcome to The Dumbfounder on Ology. It’s gonna be a bumpier ride than herpes, but at least you’ll have a smile on your face.