Double Talk

I can’t stand brunch.

Brunch is the one time I get to catch up with my dearest friends on a pancake-filled, wine-fueled weekend. 

 

I’m a victim.

I am in the highest tax bracket there is. 

 

There’s nothing better than a short stay at the beach.

The problem with coastal areas is varied. I don’t know what I hate more, the pests, the people, or the weather. I’d rather stay home and stare at the wall. 

 

I exercise four times a week in my neighborhood gym.

The secret to my trim physique is my diet. I’ve been drinking paint thinner for years and guess what? It works. 

 

Like someone you know, I am all-knowing and all seeing.

I can’t parallel park without a rear camera. 

 

There’s no point to owning a day bed. Only invalids, infants, and mental patients sleep during the day.

At this point of my life, I find myself passing out in the middle of the afternoon (and in the middle of a pile of miscellaneous filth) several times a week. 

 

I was once a known bowtie enthusiast.

But I never tied them myself. There was this lovely production assistant who would let me choose from a assortment of clip-ons. 

 

There’s no relationship more important than the one you have with your audience.

I have zero respect for the people who watch my show. A close second are those who still consider me a close, personal friend. 

 

I have integrity.

I never *had* integrity.

 

I appreciate “real” comedy.

I’m not funny. 

 

NB: To misquote the Bard and paraphrase the Freud, “sometimes a name isn’t just a name.” This is one of those times.