Dear Journal,

When I was first booked in Louisville, Kentucky, I thought, “Hey, that’s cool, but I hope it’s not the same week as the Kentucky Derby.” You see, Journal, I don’t want to be the entertainment option for people who hate horses and/or oval racetracks.

It wasn’t until I tried to book a hotel in Louisville that I discovered that, yes indeed, my show takes place during Derby week. I finally got a room at the Cracker Barrel on Rte. 18. I’ll be staying in the “men’s” room, whatever that means.  

It’s a really tough week to play Louisville. In a way it’s like I’m racing against the Kentucky Derby. And I’m the only jockey who weighs more than 126 pounds, and I don’t have a horse—I think I may be allergic—and also I’m afraid of horses.

To be honest, Journal, I actually don’t know a lot about the Kentucky Derby. So I looked it up online, here’s what I found out:

At the Kentucky Derby, horses race one and a quarter miles in just two minutes.

When I’m at the gym, I cover one and a quarter miles in 34 minutes on the elliptical machine, which simulates running, but is a lot easier on the knees. Hey, maybe they should have elliptical machines for horses, that way they could live longer. Nah, let’s just shoot them and get younger horses.

At the Kentucky Derby, people drink mint juleps as the day gets sunnier.
At my shows, people drink Long Island Iced Teas until I get funnier.

At the Kentucky Derby, there’s a lot of betting on horses with crazy names like Afternoon Delight and Devil’s Haircut.
At my shows, I’m the only one with the crazy name, and I’m a 20 to 1 shot to fall off the stage.

The Kentucky Derby is sponsored by Yum Brands, the company that operates Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell, and Pizza Hut.

Before every show I eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Wendy’s and Arby’s. Those last two aren’t sponsors, but I sure do love a good roast beef sandwich.

Then I found out that the Kentucky Derby race is actually the weekend after my show, so I was relieved.

You know, the more I thought about it, Journal, the more I realized the people of Kentucky don’t have to choose between some horses and me for their entertainment. I can’t gallop 45 miles an hour with a tiny person on my back, but you know, horses can’t make people laugh, unless, of course, they’re riding on horse-elliptical machines, which I invented earlier in this Journal entry.

And that concludes this week’s entry in my Secret Public Journal.

Dear Journal,

This week I inadvertently became a member of a secret organization called the "cell phone police."

I was at the gym. Now I know you'll have to suspend disbelief that I was at the gym, because while I’m not overweight I am the guy who could really put the brakes on an orgy. Everyone would be like, “Was he invited? Why is he eating a stuffed crust pizza?"

I was about to get on the lateral pull down machine and there was a guy on the machine not using the machine but sitting down at it talking on his cell phone. He was this kind of small, muscle-y, effeminate gay fellow and the reason I tell you that is in case it turns out that I murder him, it won't be documented as a "hate crime." My only hate is for people on the lateral pull down machine who are choosing to use their phone instead of laterally pulling. He could be laterally pulling down 7 guys and a goat and I wouldn't object as long as he wasn't text messaging.

Now I usually don’t make an issue of these kinds of cell phone scenarios. Last month I was at a movie and the guy next to me answered his phone during the movie and he answered it by saying, "Who dis?" So not only was he willing to talk to someone during the movie, he was willing to talk to anyone during the movie. I could understand if he picked it up and said, "It's what type of cancer? It’s dat type of cancer?" Incidentally, cancer is now the go-to excuse for using your cell phone in public.

So I’m at the gym and I want to use this machine, so I walk up to this guy and signal that I want to use the machine and he looks at me like I’ve committed a great foul by interrupting his call. And he walks away in a huff. And as I’m leaving the machine, he returns and points out that I could have returned the machine to his weight setting as a courtesy and that's the moment when I decided to join a secret American organization called the "cell phone police." I said, "I’m sorry to bring this up, but I wasn't sure you were even using the machine or whether you thought this was a phone booth, which would be strange since this is a quote unquote ‘cell phone free zone.’” Then he put his headphones on and said, "I'm sorry I can't hear you." Real nice guy.

So the next day I’m at the gym and he's there again AND he's on the phone AGAIN.

And I don't say anything, I just glare at him briefly, in a non-sexual way, but he gets off the phone then he comes up to me. I’m assuming he's going to pick a fight, but he doesn't. He actually apologizes. He says, "I just want to apologize for my behavior. Because yesterday when I was on the phone, I was talking to my mother; she has cancer."

I think he was lying, and I think if you lie about your mother having cancer as an excuse to use your cell phone, there should be a very serious penalty. Growing up, it was always, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” That doesn’t even make sense. I propose a new saying: Lie about your mom having cancer and she’ll actually get cancer.”

So I didn’t believe him, and I wanted to say, “Oh, do you think she got cancer from talking on the cell phone too much?” or, “Oh, does she have that type of cancer that helps you come up with witty comebacks 24 hours later, cause I think you might have that type of cancer.”

But it was only my second day on the force of the cell phone police, so I held my weapon and called him a douchebag in my head. Just another day on the beat for cell phone cop like me.

That concludes this week's entry in my secret public journal.

Dear Journal,

Over St. Patrick's Day weekend I performed in my hometown of Boston and I decided to go on one of those historic orange and green trolley rides. So I walk up to the booth in front of the trolley and fork over $39 for the ticket and then I hand my ticket to the driver and he says, "This ticket’s not for this trolley. It’s for that trolley.” Then he points to this old beat up silver trolley with plastic windows. I felt tricked, but I didn’t know who to blame. I wanted to go up to the ticket booth and say, “Excuse me but I didn’t realize you were selling tickets to the sucky trolley.” But I figured that if I went back, the booth itself might stand up and run away like in the cartoons.

So I sat on the sucky trolley and the whole time when everyone was asking the tour guide questions about Bunker Hill and Sam Adams all I wanted to ask was where to buy tickets for the good trolley.

That night at my show a bunch of my childhood friends showed up. They’re always quick to point out that I’m “the least funny kid they grew up with.” And I’m the first to admit that I was never the class clown in school. The class clown was always the mean guy who walked into the room and said, “You’re fat! You’re gay I’m outta here!” I was always a little fat and a little gay.

They’re also quick to bring up the most embarrassing story of my life. It’s called The Old Mill Pond story. When I was in the eighth grade, my friends invited me to jump out of a tree into Old Mill Pond. So I’m standing in a tree 30 feet above the ground with my three friends and they’re like, “Jump, dude!” And I look down at the water, which was so far away and I said, “That doesn’t seem like a good plan.” And they said, “Dude, we already jumped, it’s no biggie.” I looked down and then I looked at them and I said, “Well, I feel like I know myself pretty well, and this activity doesn’t play to my specific skills,” which, by the way, include making English muffin pizzas and dipping them in hot chocolate. They were like, “Dude, what’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s just water.”

There were many things wrong with that statement. The first is that many bad things can happen with water…shark attacks, drowning, bad sex. For me it was the way I landed—because two things occurred simultaneously. The first was that my back was angled in such a way that its impact on the water created a clapping noise that sounded like a gunshot. It also felt like a gunshot. The second thing that happened was that my butt was angled in such a way that the water rushed so far up my ass it came out of my mouth. It was like an extremely comprehensive colonoscopy administered by Dr. Old Mill.

I don’t know if I’ve ever questioned friendships the way I did that day. But we’re still friends today. Maybe when people see you violated by a pond, they feel like they owe you something. I may not have been the class clown, but I took 7 gallons of water through the wrong hole. In the long run, that kinda stuff wins you points, but not enough points for the good trolley.

And that concludes this week’s entry in my secret public journal.