Recluse, despot, and insane cinephile Kim Jong Il, leader of North Korea for over sixteen years, died on Saturday after complications from working too hard, according to reports from North Korea sources. Even though he was notoriously publicity-shy, I managed to get a posthumuous interview with him.

Me: So, you died from being overworked on behalf of your people, is that true?

KJI: That or massive myocardial infarction. Same thing!

Me: Do you feel like you were a good leader to the North Koreans?

KJI: Would they call me “Dear Leader” if I wasn’t? I protected them from harms of capitalism and those stinky South Korean pigs while giving them just enough to survive.

Me: Did it bother you at all that you were considered by the rest of the world to be one of the worst dictators alive today?

KJI: Nawww, you all stupid.

Me: All of us?

KJI: Yup. Every other person in the world is stupid.

Me: But isn’t it true that you love American movies?

KJI: Well, yes, but they all still stupid. I just like the movies your country makes.

Me: What’s your favorite movie?

KJI: Rambo!

Me: Why?

KJI: He kills lots of those Vietnamese motherfuckers. I hate them!

Me: That’s not actually Rambo. The original Rambo takes place in a small town in Washington-

KJI: You shut up! You think I don’t know movies? I know that actually Rambo II where he kills Vietnamese, but it just easier to say Rambo.

Me: Why don’t you like the Vietnamese? Didn’t North Korea support Vietnam?

KJI: Yes but then those stinky assholes help North Korean traitors defect, so I hate them all now. They stupid.

Me: Why would people want to defect if you were such a good leader?

KJI: You shut up NOW or I kill you like my second favorite movie star, Jason Voorhees!

Me: Oh, you like the Friday the 13th movies too?

KJI: Yes, so much. Unkillable man with giant machete murdering stupid white people – perfect movie!

Me: Do you know what my favorite movie is?

KJI: I don’t care.

Me: I’ll tell you anyways. “Team America”, starring you as a feminine “ronery” puppet!

KJI: Oooh, you think you so damn funny, fat boy. I will come back from the dead like Jason and kill you!

Me: I’m not really worried about that. But I do have a horror story to tell you.

KJI: I don’t care. You stupid.

Me: In the next three years, your son, Kim Jong Un, who has already shown his inability to do anything correctly, is going to make misstep after misstep.

KJI: You shut up!

Me: I predict that in the year 2015 at the very latest, the North Koreans will revolt and overthrow his rule in a violent manner.

KJI: No, he has supreme Kim Jong power!

Me: None of that power will help as North Korea will crumble as a nation, until America steps in and helps them rehabilitate by forcing a union with South Korea.

KJI: Noooooooo!

Me: And then your only legacy is going to be your appearance in Team America as a puppet.

KJI: *sobs*

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Andy Rooney, nonagenarian curmudgeon, died over the weekend at the age of 92. I sat down for a posthumous interview with him:

Me: So, Mr. Rooney . . .

AR: Please, call me Mr. Rooney.

Me: I wanted to just say that while I was sorry to hear of your passing, people live too long in today’s society. With Social Security on the decline, population exploding, and our economy deteriorating, it’s high time that our senior citizens look at themselves and realize that they are a drain on resources.

AR: You’re correct. Where some people may see loving grandparents, I see a pair of feckless boobs who can’t drive, take way too long to shop, and don’t even have the most basic grasps on the new technology. As a staunch supporter of the principles of Darwinism, I think that advances in modern medicine are starting to overrule the survival of the fittest, and it’s to our detriment.

Me: Exactly! Why, the other day, I saw a story on the news about an 85-year old woman who managed to renew her driver’s license even though she was legally blind! Is this where our society is? That we’ve reached such a state of ennui that nobody cares about blind women driving?

AR: For my money, I think that an annual deathmatch between all citizens over the age of 70 could solve several of our national crises. From the financial burden of keeping one’s great-grandfather in bourbon and diapers to the emotional depression knowing that one will never have the character and inner strength of one’s elder relatives, Joe Q. Public would benefit from a significant reduction in elderly force.

Me: And what about that Pokemon nonsense?

AR: In my day, if a child spent all of his time collecting cards with strangely-garbed characters on them, he was whipped with a belt for the first offense, put in a closet for the second offense, and sent to the wood chipper for the third.

Me: Twilight?

AR: My problem with these books has nothing to do with the existence of vampires and werewolves. As anyone with a brain knows, they do exist, but only in the darkest caves of Latvia, surrounded by some of the homeliest people I have ever laid eyes on. Even if I were willing to suspend my disbelief that there were supernatural creatures living in Washington State, the quality of the writing makes me weep for days past when teachers actually disciplined their students for shoddy sentence structure and terrible metaphors.

Me: And bacon!

AR: Bacon is clearly a food made by the Nazis to fatten up Americans. It has no nutritional value, is full of fat, sodium, and nitrates, and is a pathetic type of consumable made from the noblest of creatures.

Me: Daylight Savings Time?

AR: An instrument of the Illuminati to keep the world confused, eliminating any real power from the vox populi.

Me: Online dating?

AR: If you get murdered because you go on a date with someone you met on the Internet, you probably deserved it.

Me: Naps?

AR: Acceptable for infants and the infirm. Otherwise, naps are for pansies only.

Me: 3D movies?

AR: Life is three-dimensional. Movies are for fatties who like popcorn.

Me: Texting?

AR: Another way to be antisocial and showcase one’s stupidity.

Me: Oprah?

AR: Why do all black people have weird names?

Me: Kim Kardashian?

AR: Class is not a 4-letter word.

Me: Bowling?

AR: Blue-collar idiot sport.

Me: Los Angeles?

AR: Hell on Earth.

Me: The iPhone?

AR: Stupid.

Me: Eyebrow trimming?

AR: Never!

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Tech visionary and entrepreneur Steve Jobs died yesterday at the age of 56, and I had the opportunity to sit down with him after his passing.

Me: I don’t know if I can do this.

SJ: Do what?

Me: Interview you. For once, I’m actually sad that a public figure has died, and it’s hard to write anything funny when you’re sad.

SJ: Well, don’t interview me, then. Why not let me interview you?

Me: But that’s not how it works.

SJ: Says who? Why are you living your life according to anyone else’s rules?

Me: Well, isn’t that the actual definition of “interview”?

SJ: So redefine it. Make it about what you want to do.

Me: What I want to do? I want to take the death of a truly innovative, inspirational person, and find the funny.

SJ: Okay, so how can we do that? Let’s get back to the roots of what makes something funny. Well?

Me: Umm, something would be considered funny if it makes at least one member of a select group of people laugh?

SJ: Yes!

Me: And the more members of that group that laugh, the more successful one is in making something funny.

SJ: Exactly.

Me: So, when the group is something as large as the entire Internet audience, it’s extremely difficult and complicated to create something that is successfully funny to a majority of the members of that group.

SJ: Is it? I think you’re putting too much thought into the output and not into the design of the joke itself. Sometimes the most successful things we can do in life will have the simplest structures.

Me: That’s true, but the mechanisms into making it appear simple can usually be extremely complex.

SJ: Sometimes, yes. But here’s a basic one. Did you hear about the new Apple product that will help people with their bowel movements, resulting in more effective digestion?

Me: No.

SJ: It’s called iBM.

Me: ….

SJ: See? BM because of “bowel movement”, but with the “i”, becomes just like IBM, aka International Bus-

Me: Yeah, anytime you have to explain a joke, it loses any luster.

SJ: Okay, okay, let’s go simpler. Knock knock.

Me: Who’s there?

SJ: Apple.

Me: Apple who?

SJ: Apple your hair if you don’t let me in.

Me: *groan* Some jokes just miss the mark.

SJ: Yeah, but you’ll never get there if you don’t try everything. It’s all about perseverance. Let me think . . .

Me: I’ve got one. How many Apple employees does it take to change a light bulb?

SJ: How many?

Me: Three. One to come up with a design for a brand new type of lighting source that requires its own unique proprietary electrical connection to your home, one to create a method to buy proprietary accessories and design elements to improve the bulb’s functions, and one to come up with a name like iGlow that will convince people to spend $399 on a really cool looking light source.

SJ: *chuckles* There you go!

Me: I’ll miss you, Steve.

SJ: Thank you. It was quite a journey.

Grammy-award winning crackhead Amy Winehouse was found dead today at the age of 27.  I sat down with her post-demise:

Me: Thank you for sitting down with me today.

AW: No problem. I’m ‘appy t’ be ‘ere.

Me: Also, congratulations on joining the 27 Club!

AW: Wot?

Me: The 27 Club – Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain all died at the age of 27.

AW: Blimey!

Me: Yeah, it’s an interesting phenomenon. There are actually many more musicians who died at that age, but none quite as famous as those five.

AW: And now me, innit.

Me: Well, I don’t know that I’d consider you to be in their class as far as talent and ability. The group actually officially doesn’t even include Cobain, who had an ambition as a child to join the 27 Club.

AW: Yew don’t fink I’ve got the talent?

Me: No.

AW: You ‘ad better explain y’self.

Me: Honestly? You sound like the British version of a deep south white trash cracker with no teeth. And your music wouldn’t get nearly the attention it got if it wasn’t for the publicity over your drug and alcohol abuse and mental health issues.

AW: I don’t giv’ a farmer’s truck wot yer goin’ on about.

Me: So you really feel like you are as talented as Janis Joplin or Jim Morrison?

AW: Yer damn right.

Me: Even though the running theme through your music is just about your refusal to do anything other than party until you’re dead, which makes you about as deep as Ke$ha?

AW: Gordon Bennett! Yew fuckin’ Richard the Third.

Me: See? That doesn’t even make sense. I mean, only because I speak Cockney just as well as Barbara Billingsley spoke Jive in Airplane do I know that you said “Christ! You fucking piece of shit.” You have the vocabulary and talent of a half-brained chimp with Downs Syndrome. And you look like one too.

AW: Bloody ‘ell.

Me: Although, I did hear that Elton John is planning to write a song for you.

AW: Strooth?

Me: Yeah. It’s called “Candle in the Fuck I Don’t Actually Give a Shit This Talentless Skank is Dead.”

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Leonard Stern, the creator of Mad Libs, died on Thursday, and I was excited at the opportunity to speak with him after he passed away.

Me: Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Stern.

LS: It is my scrumptious pleasure.

Me: Umm, okay. Mine too. I have to say that I’ve always enjoyed Mad Libs.

LS: It never gets early hearing that from my fans.

Me: Hm. Well, when I was a kid, we used to take road trips, well before there were iPads and DVD players in cars, and I would do Mad Libs for hours with my parents until they couldn’t stand it, and then I’d just do them on my own.

LS: I have heard chipmunks like that for many rivers. Before technology, children always ate Mad Libs.

Me: Mr. Stern, I have a question of a somewhat personal nature.

LS: No problem. At this point in my shoe, I’m an open book.

Me: Well, did you have any mental deterioration before you died?

LS: Not at all. I was 88 pillows old and vibrated a weak heart.

Me: You seem to have an interesting choice of words that occasionally make little sense.

LS: Ah, I should have warned you. You would have to understand the origin of Hungry Libs.

Me: Please enlighten me.

LS: As a fancy child, words never painted any sense to me, and I was a very quiet drum set.

Me: Okay . . .

LS: So I used to write down all of the fingers that I didn’t know, with blanks so I could ask my parents to brush them in.

Me: And how did that turn into Mad Libs?

LS: My parents used to sit up late at bacon and make fun of me by filling out all of the staples.

Me: So the years of childhood fun that I have experienced were thanks to child abuse on behalf of your parents who were mocking a severe mental disability?

LS: Yes, that is fantastically correct.

Me: Well, thanks for crapping on my childhood.

LS: Hey, at least my terrible underpants didn’t make a game out of my brother’s cherry-flavored disability.

Me: Why?

LS: Because just think about how fallible you’d feel if you played “Autistic Pick Up And Count The Sticks” for all of those black holes!

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Dr. Jack Kevorkian, aka “Dr. Death”, died today at the age of 83.  Given the fact that I’m a posthumous journalist of the highest caliber, I got first dibs on an interview:

Me:  Let me start this interview off by declaring that I support you completely, Dr. Kevorkian.

JK:  You do?

Me:  Absolutely.  I think that if someone wants to die, and you put the tools and mechanisms in their hands, you are only doing them a favor.

JK:  Exactly.  I’m just helping enable them to carry out their personal decisions.

Me:  I know!  Last month, my cat really wanted to die.  It can’t speak, obviously, but it was telling me by peeing on my pillow for the hundredth time.

JK:  Umm . . .

Me:  So, I asked myself WWJKD? And then I enabled my cat to commit suicide.

JK:  How exactly did you do that?

Me:  Well, I didn’t have any of those fancy chemicals that you had, so I just set up a catapult (Ha! Get it?) that would send my cat into the swamp behind my house where a few alligators live.

JK:  Oh Jesus.

Me:  And then I enabled her to commit suicide by putting catnip on the flingy part of the catapult.  It worked like a charm.  She yowled “Thank youuuu” as she went to her reward.  I think.

JK:  My God, man, you’ve completely perverted my entire philosophy!

Me:  Nah! I’ve got it figured out perfectly.

JK:  I think you murdered your cat, actually.

Me:  Well, I was learning – it’s not easy being a sidekick to Dr. Death, you know.

JK:  Sigh.  I hate that nickname.

Me:  It’s a great superhero name!  I’m calling myself The Killer Kid.

JK:  That’s abominable.

Me:  Avitable.

JK:  No-…. never mind.

Me:  Next is my neighbor.  He’s been begging to die for a while.

JK:  Literally?

Me:  Well, no, but I can read body language.  He’s totally giving explicit signals.

JK:  Like?

Me:  You know, like looking at me weird when I reverse out of my driveway going 60 and shaking his head at the fact that my Christmas lights are still hanging up.

JK:  Is he sick?

Me:  Don’t think so – he seems like a pretty healthy 30-something guy.  But he wants to die, so who am I to say no?  It’s my duty as The Killer Kid!

JK:  Hmm.  Well, do you want to know a secret?

Me:  Yes!

JK:  If you really want to be my superhero sidekick, you can’t just be some ordinary boy-er, fat bearded man.

Me:  No?

JK:  No – I need to give you my secret super suicide soldier formula to truly transform you into The Killer Kid.

Me:  Will I get superpowers?

JK:  Absolutely.  All of them.

Me:  Sign me up!

JK:  I’ve got what I need right here.  Just sit still.

Me:  Hurry!  Hurry!

JK:  Ok, this will just hurt a little.

Me:  OW!  What wash thet?  Did joo injerkt me wif sumfin?

JK:  Yup – just give it a second to take effect.

Me:  Ok.  Wass it called?

JK:  Lethal injection.

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This is a slightly edited repost from December 15, 2008, which was the very first posthumous interview I ever did. I think that with the Casey Anthony Trial hysteria sweeping the nation right now, it might be appropriate to republish it:

Me: Hi, Caylee.

C: Hi, Adam. Thanks for having me on your blog.

Me: Anytime. So, you’re dead, huh?

C: Yup. It seems that way.

Me: I’m very sorry to hear that.

C: Oh, don’t be. Unless you’re my stupid whore of a mother, Casey Anthony, it’s not your fault.

Me: It seemed like there were a lot of people praying that you were actually at a friend’s house or
otherwise safe, regardless of all of the suspicious evidence.

C: Yeah, those people are fucking idiots. Maybe if everyone had been pragmatic from the very second my batshit crazy mom started telling her lies, this wouldn’t have ended up the media circus that it is.

Me: It’s a little weird, isn’t it? I mean, kids disappear all of the time, but your story is like Jon Benet Ramsey’s.

C: Well, she’s a little bit before my time, but I’ve met her here. She asked me to pass on that yes they fucking did do it and she can’t believe they got away with it. What amazes me is how simple the equation is for something to become a media circus.

Me: Care to enlighten me?

C: You need a crazy parent or parents, you need just enough evidence to make it obvious to everyone except the police, and you need a pretty white girl.

Me: You think the media’s racist?

C: When’s the last time someone had their very own Wikipedia entry and they were a missing black girl? Or Asian? Or Hispanic? Or even an ugly white girl?

Me: I guess you’re right. Do you think the media attention helped, though?

C: No! Without the media attention, my mom would have been interrogated, she would have broken down, plead guilty, and been getting forcibly raped by a couple of bull dykes down in prison. But now, she has a sleazy defense attorney, is in the middle of a long, drawn out trial, and my Nana and Papa can make money off of my death.

Me: You don’t want your grandparents to earn any money? This is a capitalist society, after all.

C: I wouldn’t mind if they were completely innocent, but they’re not. They knew what a dead behind the eyes, negligent, recklessly evil piece of shit my mother was, and they let this all happen. Even after they knew I was dead, they were supporting my mom instead of denouncing her for the sociopath that she is.

Me: Wow, you have a lot of resentment for a three-year old. Of course, now that I think about it, you’re awfully articulate for someone your age, too.

C: Well, since I’m dead, this entire conversation is just a figment of your imagination.

Me: Yeah, that makes sense. No wonder this interview is so disturbing and weird.

C: That also explains why you’re naked.

Me: Ahem. Well, to get back on target, is there anything you’d like me to pass on to the world at large?

C: First, apparently there is a hell for kids, and it’s filled with giant clowns and Mickey Mouses. Second, Elvis is indeed dead and he just asked me to be his child bride. Finally, they’re really rooting for Obama in 2012 up here in heaven. And it’s not just because God’s black, either.

Famed Slim Jim spokesman and professional wrestler Randy “Macho Man” Savage died yesterday at the age of 58.  I snapped into an interview with him:

Me:  Hi Mr. Savage, thanks for talking to me.

RS:  Ohhhhh man.  What happened?

Me:  You don’t remember?

RS:  No, big man, I don’t remember a thing.  Who finally got me?

Me:  Who?

RS:  Yeahhhhhhh.  Was it Ric Flair?  That blond bimbo has had it out for me since he slept with my first wife, the beautiful Miiissssss Elizabeth, rest in peeeeeace.

Me:  Ummm, no.

RS:  I can see now that it must have been that traitor, that sell-out, that balding fading star Hulk Hoooooogannnn.

Me:  It was a tree.

RS:  Ohhhh yeahhhh, the evil, the vernicious, the severus snape, the Treeee-wait, what?  A tree?

Me:  Yeah.  Your heart exploded and you drove into a tree.

RS:  Duuuuuuude.

Me:  Sorry, man.

RS:  Maybe the Ultimate Warrior cut my braaaaakes?

Me: Nope.

RS: Perrrhapsss Jake “The Snake” substituted my heart medication for placceeeeebooooos?

Me:  No.

RS:  Guess I shouldn’t have eaten so many damn Slim Jims.

Me:  Plus the steroids.

RS:  What are you talking about?  Every 58 year old man looks like this.

Me: Ohhhhhh yeahhhhhh.

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Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or hiding in a cave in Afghanistan, you’re aware that Osama bin Laden has been confirmed dead at the hands of American forces as of May 2nd, 2011. I had to pull some strings, but I got a chance to interview the reclusive terrorist:

Me: So . . . . I don’t really have much to say. You’re kind of an asshole and I really have a hard time not wanting to punch you in your face.

OBL: And you are a part of the Great American Satan; however, I do like your beard.

Me: Really?

OBL: Yes. I may hate America, but I hate poorly maintained beards even more.

Me: Me too! How long did it take you to grow yours?

OBL: I have grown this beard for over 34 years.

Me: I’ve had mine for 17, but I can’t shave it. When I do, I’ll look like some weird fat baby.

OBL: I know what you are saying, my friend. Nobody would recognize me if I shaved my beard – I would look 20 years younger and completely different!

Me: Maybe you should have done that after the whole 9/11 thing.

OBL: Shit. I didn’t even think of that. I was hiding in caves and moving every four days, and I really should have just shaved my damn beard.

Me: It’s okay – I mean, it’s your beard. It’s important!

OBL: That’s true. You know where I’m coming from. There’s a special fraternity that’s shared among the bearded men of the world.

Me: Agreed. *fist bump*

OBL: Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?

Me: Not at all. Shoot.

OBL: What type of conditioner do you use? I mean, your beard is nice and shiny, not all dry like mine.

Me: Oh, I usually use Bath and Body Works or Aveda.

OBL: Are those both American companies?

Me: Yeah.

OBL: Sigh. I can’t really use them, then. I have to use this shitty Afghani shampoo. It’s 90% goat fat extract. But how can I be all “Death to America” if I am buying 5 wallflowers from Bath and Body Works for $15? It’s such a great deal, too!

Me: Have you really thought this whole “Great American Satan” thing through? Honestly, did we really ever do anything to you?

OBL: Well, you know, it’s all Reagan’s fault.

Me: How’s that?

OBL: We just had a good meeting, and as I was leaving, I realized I forgot my sunglasses, and they were really expensive Ray Bans, so I went back for them. As I was walking past Reagan’s office, I heard someone say “So, how’s Bonzo the Chimp doing?” and then everyone laughed. From that point forward, I hated him and America.

Me: You thought they were talking about you?

OBL: Well, who else could it be? It’s not like there was a real Bonzo the chimp . . . oh boy. I’m seeing the look on your face and feeling kinda dumb. There is a real Bonzo, isn’t there?

Me: Yeah. He was a co-star in a movie that Reagan was in. He hated that movie, so people would tease him about it all the time.

OBL: Well, shit. This whole Al Qaeda thing was just a big misunderstanding, then! I guess I should have talked to Ronny about it.

Me: Probably would have been a good idea. So, what do you think about America now?

OBL: Are you kidding? I fucking love America! Let’s go get some Bath and Body Works!

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Elizabeth Taylor, actress and bride to many, died yesterday at the age of 79. As usual, I had the chance to interview her:

Me:  Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Ms. Taylor.

ET:  Please, dear, call me Liz.

Me:  Ok, Liz.  Are you surprised that many people consider you to be “The Last Starfighter?”

ET:  Well, actually, dear, I think that people called me the “last star”.

Me:  They think you’re that Jeff Bridges character who is from outer space?

ET:  No, sweetie, that’s “Starman”.  People are saying that I was among a group of classic actresses like Marlene Dietrich and Audrey Hepburn.

Me:  Ok, I understand.  Now, Marlene Dietrich’s last film was an Oscar-nominated documentary entitled “Marlene”, right?

ET:  Yes, it was wonderful.

Me:  And Audrey Hepburn’s last film was “Always”, directed by Steven Spielberg and starring Richard Dreyfuss, right?

ET:  I believe so.

Me:  What was your final movie?

ET: …

Me:  I’m sorry – I couldn’t hear that.  Could you speak up?

ET:  ”The Flintstones”.

Me:  Ah yes. And what was your character’s name?

ET:  Sigh.  Pearl Slaghoople.

Me:  I guess I can really see why they consider you to be among the ranks of Dietrich and Hepburn.

ET:  Excuse me, young man, but I won two Academy Awards and received three additional nominations.

Me:  I know you did, and congratulations on winning your most recent Oscar for appearing in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” in 1966.  I was negative eleven years old when that came out.

ET:  I will not let your impertinence bring darkness upon what was a brilliant career!

Me:  Fair enough.  Let’s talk about your personal life.  Is it true that you actually died in 1960?

ET:  Yes.  On the set of Cleopatra, I had severe pneumonia and was pronounced dead until an emergency tracheotomy revived me.

Me:  And how is it that, for the last fifty years, you’ve managed to hide the fact from the world that you are clearly a zombie?

ET:  A what?

Me:  A zombie.  The living undead.  Brain-chompin’, no pulse, gray skin.

ET:  I take umbrage with that flight of fancy.  I am not a zombie!

Me:  We’ll table that issue for a minute.  Let’s talk about your marriages.  I suspect that you didn’t really want to get married as much as you just loved throwing a huge party and an awesome wedding.  Is that true?

ET:  At the time, I truly thought that I was in love, but in retrospect, I think you may be right.  A multi-million dollar gala really is the only way to brighten up one’s day.

Me:  And did you wear a white wedding dress every time?  Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?

ET:  Quite amusing.

Me:  Who do you wish that you had married before you died?

ET:  I had my sights set on that wonderful young actor, Shia LeBoeuf, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

Me:  Do you think he would have wanted to marry you?

ET:  Young man, I am Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor.  I am a princess and a star, and any man would be lucky to wait on me on hand and foot.

Me:  That reminds me – I was very rude and didn’t offer you any refreshments.  Is there anything I can get you?

ET:  Brainnnns.

Me:  What?

ET:  I said, “A nice glass of sherry, please.”

Me:  Ok, phew.

ET:  And a side of brains.

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In other Avita-news:

Last night was an interesting episode of CYR.  I consumed a pitcher of pineapple coconut martinis before and during the show, and may have occasionally lost my train of thought. You can check out the show in iTunes and listen to me talk about my racist dick, zombies, comedy, and why 19-year olds are not too young.

Also! Today is the birthday of the one and only Dave2! I think he may be 65 years old today – go wish him a feliz cumpleanos!