There are many reasons I am a comedian and not a singer, but the main two are:
My shitty singing voice
My inability to carry a tune
Years ago, I had a joke in my set about Islamic Martyrs: “They get 72 virgins in Heaven,” I would say in a confused voice. “How is that Heaven? Virgins are awkward and untalented and don’t know what they’re doing. Wouldn’t men want 72 whores? Professionals, women that know what they’re doing, have tricks in their arsenal and aren’t afraid to take control of a situation and really give it to you? It’s why you never see female martyrs; no woman wants a man that’s going to blow his load during foreplay.”
One of my best friends, Mr. Brian Jones, came to visit me when I lived in Los Angeles. Well, to be fair, he traveled to LA for business, then stayed a couple extra days to hang out with me.
It was his first time in Hollywood, and as I took him to his hotel, we got stuck on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills.
“Think I’ll see any celebrities?” Brian asked.
I looked over at him and plainly noted, “Well, Michael Rapaport is in the car next to us.”
At 3½ weeks old, my daughter Hillary made the big-step transfer from a bassinet in the master bedroom, to the crib in her own nursery. Lydia said the move needed to be made, but I was having none of it. I asked if one of us should sleep in the spare bed we put in the nursery, just for the first few seventy-some nights. Lydia thought me silly and started climbing into our bed, and was genuinely surprised when I started heading over to the tiny, nursery-room bed.