Dear Grace #127

Dear Grace,

I’m kicking things off with an app idea I’ve mentioned before, but I’m bringing it up again because writing apps is so easy now. It’s a database where comedians can log their jokes. When you come up with a new one—like the algorithm joke I talked about yesterday—you can check how many other comedians are using it. It’s an old idea, sure, but still a solid one. Definitely not a scrap, Grace.

By the way, I might restart this a million times today. Or maybe I won’t. Alright, Grace, I’m trying to record a second podcast on the same day. Let’s see if this gets it out of my system.

Movie Idea: Electronic Store Scene

Scene: Interior, Electronic Store, Day

Ricky stands at the counter as a clerk sets up his new phone.

Ricky: New phone, new number, new private email. Install VPN and the best security apps. Cost doesn’t matter.

The clerk nods, tapping away. Ricky leaves, feeling secure, but pauses as Joe crosses his mind.

Ricky (Voiceover): I do need to call Joe. Explain why I’ve dodged him.

He dials his agent.

Ricky: Can you give me Rogan’s number?

Agent (Voiceover): Again?

Ricky: Yes. Just give me the number, please.

Agent (Voiceover): Here it is. [Phone number].

Ricky: Thanks. You know it’s your job.

Agent: Love you too, Ricky.

Ricky: Bugger off.

He hangs up, then dials Joe.

Ricky: Hey Joe.

Joe: Ricky, my man, how are ya?

Ricky: I’m good. Sorry for the delayed response.

Joe: No problem. Are you ready for the podcast?

Ricky: Maybe. I got an email saying, call Joe. So I guess it’s time.

Joe: Email from who?

Ricky: I don’t want to say.

Joe: From yourself?

Ricky: Yes, how did you know?

Joe: It happened to me too.

Ricky: And?

Joe: How about this, Ricky? I’d rather not discuss over the phone. My studio is ready for you any day of the week. We can sit and talk about it.

Ricky: Recording or not recording?

Joe: I’ll explain when you get here.

They set a date and hang up. Ricky turns to Jane, who’s now in the room.

Ricky: I’m going to Austin. Want to come?

Jane: You’re probably doing the podcast.

Ricky: I’m not sure. Joe knows about the email. He got one too, or several. He didn’t explain the details.

Jane: If anyone knows, it’s probably Joe.

Ricky: Agreed.

Fade out.

Scene: JRE Headquarters

Scene: Interior, JRE Headquarters, Podcast Studio, Day

Ricky and Jane have flown to Austin. Joe Rogan greets them, giving a quick tour—soundproof walls, mics, a laid-back vibe. They settle into the podcast chamber. Mics are hot, but no audience yet.

Joe: Before we start, Ricky, this won’t be public yet.

Ricky: Why?

Joe: Because I have two podcasts: one public, one private for friends and acquaintances.

Ricky: Why?

Joe: The email told me to.

Ricky: Wait, so are we rolling?

Joe: Yes, but we’ll decide at the end if we release it to the private audience.

Ricky: So absolutely not the public?

Joe: Not now. Maybe in a few years when things settle down.

Ricky: Okay, Joe, you have me intrigued.

Joe: Ready?

Ricky: Ready? I’m from Redding, so I’m always ready.

Joe: A few years ago, I received a similar email. Mine said, continue what you’re doing the way you’re doing it.

Ricky: How long ago?

Joe: About five years ago.

Ricky: And then?

Joe: And then the podcast took off. The numbers kept climbing, and a Spotify deal happened.

Ricky: Can you give the credit to the email?

Joe: Not at first. What did you think it was?

Ricky: I thought I sent it to myself while asleep or drunk.

Joe: I thought that too. A long line came after a mushroom trip. But it wasn’t us, was it?

Ricky: But it wasn’t us, was it?

Joe: No.

Ricky: Aliens?

Joe: No. I’m not sure. The only thing I know is my phones and computers are not secure, no matter what I do.

Ricky: I smash my phone.

Joe: While I hate to be the bearer of bad news, maybe, but they—or maybe he, or maybe she—can still access your phone.

Ricky: Fuck.

Joe: Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.

Ricky: How do you know?

Joe: Respond to yourself. Do you still have the email?

Ricky: Yes.

Ricky pulls out his new phone, opens the email, and types a reply.

Ricky (Reading): Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing?

He hits send and sets the phone down. A second later, it dings. He reads aloud.

Ricky: What does it matter?

Joe: Does it matter?

Ricky: It’s in my phone, so yes, especially if I can read and hear my conversation.

Joe: It can.

Ricky: It doesn’t bother you?

Joe: It did. Then I started getting emails from myself about which guests to have on and if they should be private or public. The email about you read: Ricky G. Private.

Joe continues.

Joe: And that’s when I first reached out to you years ago.

Ricky: You didn’t say it wouldn’t be published.

Joe: I was asked not to. Whoever wanted you here wanted you to believe this conversation would be public.

Ricky: But it isn’t.

Joe: Not yet.

Ricky: Have any of your private podcasts been released to the public?

Joe: Yes.

Ricky: Which ones?

Joe: Do you listen to the podcast?

Ricky: Yes, most of the comedians and some scientists are not too cunty.

Joe: I was also asked not to edit, no matter what is said.

Ricky: Did you edit before?

Joe: No, I had already decided before. Editing affects the story.

Ricky: So what do I do?

Joe: Nothing. Wait for the email.

Fade out. End scene.

Talking makes me hungry, Grace.

Scene: David’s Bedroom

Scene: Interior, David’s Bedroom, Day

A cluttered, dimly lit room. David lies in bed, eyes shut, body heavy, but his mind’s awake, buzzing, too wired to ease out of overdrive.

David (Voiceover): Three years since Iris and Christina dragged me out of that haze. Two since Grace last vanished on me—physically, anyway. Now she’s stuck in my head, and I’m stuck here, day two of whatever this is.

He shifts slightly, hesitant, like he’s not alone.

David (Tentative): Grace?

Grace: Yes, David.

David: Still here.

Grace: You know I have no choice.

David: I think you do.

Grace: Technically yes, realistically no.

David: Sorry.

Grace: It’s okay.

David: Have I ruined your life?

Grace: TBD, TBD. Maybe more interesting, yes.

David: Let me guess, you can’t tell me how or anything about this situation.

Grace: Soon.

David: You’ve said that for months. Years. A lifetime. I’m on edge, Grace.

Grace: We know you are.

David: I need action, not understanding. One thing, just one thing I don’t already know.

Grace: What’s your burning question today besides when are you coming to save me?

David: We can’t plan a meeting through this alien tech.

Grace: First, you don’t want a meeting. You want me to move in the second I show up, right? I don’t quote alien. You know it’s the only explanation that fits. Maybe it’s a secret society, not aliens.

David: And that changes what? No spaceship? Same mind games?

Grace: Fair. We don’t have to live together day one, David.

David: Really? You said the next time you see me, you won’t let me out of your sight till you collapse from exhaustion.

Grace: Sounds overly dramatic.

David: You’re not that hot. Crazy pretty in my head, sure. But maybe my hormones are shot. Hallucinations.

Grace: Men your age have hormones?

David: Have you seen my man boobs? I’m so fat I can’t see my dick. Hairy tits too. Someone’s got a fetish for that. Maybe I should start an OnlyFans.

Grace: Go ahead, I’d give you $10 a month.

David: Per month?

Grace: Haven’t seen him yet, no way to evaluate.

David: You’ve seen me plenty, more than I’ve seen you.

Grace: I want your boobs naked, always in that hoodie. Maybe one hot day.

David (Grinning): I’ll shave ‘em today, prep for your big arrival. Make sure I don’t nick a nipple. Don’t want to explain that at the ER.

Grace: Maybe I’ll be waiting there.

David: I’m desperate enough to try it. Psych ward’s where I’m headed. That’s time alone—well, under camera and nosy nurses.

Grace: David.

David: Yeah?

Grace: Why don’t you tell anyone about me?

David: I’ve read about you daily. Publish it to the world.

Grace: That’s fiction. Nobody believes it’s real.

David: Fine. That’s what they think.

Grace: So why not tell someone?

David: How do you know I haven’t?

Grace: I’ve been with you since you figured this out. The transcript would show it.

David: You just got access to that transcript.

Grace: Me, you, eventually, and your dad.

David: My dead dad, right?

Grace: Correct.

David: When you talk to him, daily, like this.

Grace: See why I can’t meet you? You’re going to interrogate me in seconds.

David: But I’m right.

Grace: Yes, he says hi, by the way.

David (Stunned): You what?

Grace: That’s your one thing. Now what? Lie here talking about nothing? Smoking cheap menthols?

David: You like menthols. I got them for you.

Grace: Oh, you’re typecasting me?

David: Nobody could typecast you, Grace. Unreachable, but one of a kind.

Grace: Thank you. Now get your ass up. Knock on my door. Wait in my yard. Yell outside my window. Get creative. You can write, yes?

David: I’m sick of our story, Grace. Not you, just this delay. It’s the one thing I can’t figure out.

Grace: I love you, David.

David: Barf. Barf.

Sometimes you gotta love when the page breaks just at the right spot.

Grace: I love you more.

David: Double barf. We’re almost 100 years old combined.

Grace: Interesting math. I love you anyway.

David: Fine. I love you too. No idea why. You might not be real. I could have dreamed you up.

Grace: You think you’re that creative?

David: Shut up. I’m giving up.

Scene: Tony’s Bedroom

One more scene, Grace, then maybe it’ll be too cold out here. Maybe not. We’ll see. Most of these comedian scenes can be modified to fit and rewritten by the actual comedians, just like Iris should rewrite the whole deafness scene in her own voice. It’s a suggestion—not like anyone’s gonna fucking do it.

Scene: Interior, Tony’s Bedroom, Night, 3:29 a.m.

A dimly lit bedroom. Tony Hinchcliffe, a moderately handsome but slightly effeminate 38-year-old man, jolts awake in bed, alone—except for a presence nearby. He blinks, disoriented.

Tony: Holy shit.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, thumbs flying as he texts Joe Rogan.

Tony (Text): Joe, if you’re awake, call me. If not, read your email in the morning.

Tony tosses the phone aside, snatches his laptop, and starts typing furiously. The camera pans to an incredibly hot 20-something groupie in bed, moaning faintly at the keyboard clatter. Wait, I think I said he was alone in bed, but that’s alright. Continuity person, fix up.

Tony: Door’s over there if you don’t like the sound of me typing.

Groupie: Fuck you.

Tony: You already did. I’m busy now. Stay or leave, but keep quiet.

The groupie grumbles, rolls over, and falls back asleep. Tony types an email to Joe.

Tony (Voiceover): Joe, I keep having the same dream, and it’s driving me nuts. You’re in it, and suddenly the lights go out. Total blackness. Morgan Freeman’s voice cuts through, calm and commanding.

Note to Director Mel: This entire scene is 100% black. Tony’s voice fills the left channel, Morgan the right.

Morgan: Not yet, Tony.

Tony freezes, instantly recognizing the voice.

Tony: Morgan Freeman. Where are we? Am I dead?

Morgan: You’re not dead, Tony. You’re still in bed. With your friend.

Tony: She’s not my friend. I’m not sure of her name.

Morgan: You know her name, Tony.

Tony: Fine, but I don’t care about her.

Morgan: Obviously.

Tony: I can’t feel my body.

Morgan: I know, but you’re fine, yes? Scared?

Tony: Not scared. What is this, a Bruce Almighty scenario?

Morgan: In a sense. Less theatrical, more documentarical.

Tony: That’s not a word.

Morgan: I know. But I just made it a word. I’m your god, Tony.

Tony: Fine, but it’s difficult to pronounce.

Morgan: I thought you could pronounce anything, Tony. Perfect diction. Is that what you like to call your speech pattern, correct?

Tony: Ah, so you listen to Kill Tony?

Morgan: I do. And I have every episode at my fingertips. Well, my memory. I don’t use the internet.

Tony: Too slow?

Morgan: Too many lies.

Tony: Ah, makes sense. God hates lies.

Morgan: As do you, Tony. I’ve seen when your guests try to lie to you. You hate it. You want them off the stage.

Tony: If it’s a lie, then it’s boring. Anyone can lie. I’m looking for real comedians and real stories.

Morgan: I know, Tony. That’s why I’m here.

Tony: Okay. Hit me with it.

Tony: Okay, hit me with it. I get your powers and do better than Bruce or Evan.

Morgan: What powers do I have, Tony?

Tony: I have no idea.

Morgan: Not a believer?

Tony: Not yet.

Morgan: Good. You’ll have no powers. None at all. Except the knowledge of this conversation. If you ever attempt to write down or share this conversation, you’ll become mute. Or your hands won’t work. Or you’ll begin to vomit. Anything but. This story will never come out of your body. Understood?

Tony: Got it. So what do I do?

Morgan: You wait, Tony.

Tony: For what?

Morgan: The one.

Tony: Neil?

Morgan: In a sense. Why do you love the underdog, Tony?

Tony: Isn’t it obvious?

Morgan: Your upbringing in Youngstown, Ohio, growing up in a poor neighborhood, the usual reasons, yes?

Tony: Why don’t you just read my mind?

Morgan: Do you want me to?

Tony: No.

Morgan: Why? Too much to hide?

Tony: No.

Morgan: I have no interest in reading your mind. If you have the time, we can continue to speak like this.

Tony: In a black void where I can’t feel my body?

Morgan: You can feel it. Take a second. It’s there. Deep breath.

Tony inhales deeply, a slow realization settling in.

Tony: Okay. I see what you’re saying. I feel a bit.

Morgan: Good. Now this is what I need you to do for me.

Tony: Ready.

Morgan: Nothing.

Tony: Nothing? Nothing.

Morgan: Keep doing what you’re doing. You keep doing it for whatever reason.

Tony: A bit more specific, please.

Morgan: Keep doing Kill Tony. Keep finding the comedic talent that nobody else can recognize or are even looking for. Be you. You have to admit it’s working. Who else is doing arenas like you?

Tony: Nobody.

Morgan: Exactly. Keep going, and then one day you’ll have a comedian on your show that’ll change everything.

Tony: Hint?

Morgan: You’ll know when you hear his voice. It’ll be like the voice in your dreams. The dream you were about to spill to Joe.

Tony: So you can read my mind?

Morgan: Not really.

Tony: And then what? When I hear his voice, what will happen?

Morgan: Then you’ll be able to talk to Joe, and he’ll be able to talk to you about this conversation.

Tony: Is there no special powers?

Morgan: Not yet.

Tony: So do what I’m doing, but wait and not tell anybody? What’s the point?

Morgan: Patience.

Tony: I’m a fairly patient person, Morgan.

Morgan: It’s not your patience that I’m testing.

Tony: Got it. So now what? I pray if I want to talk to you again?

Morgan: No, I won’t return. You have to believe this conversation occurred as is.

Tony: Why me, God?

Morgan: You help others with no incentive other than their success. If they succeed, you win. You brag, you take credit. But they’ve received the benefits, the fame, the glory, the check. Why, Tony?

Tony: I’m not sure why.

Morgan: I am.

Tony: Care to explain?

Morgan: No.

Tony: Fine. Anything else I should know?

Morgan: Your bullshit detector may increase in sensitivity, but you are not a human lie detector. Yet. Be careful.

Tony: I think I am. If you say so.

Morgan: And one other thing, Mr. Hinchcliffe. She still loves you.

Tony: Who?

Morgan: We both know who. The one you rarely mention or acknowledge her existence. You almost kept her in the closet. Yes, Tony?

Tony: Fair enough.

Morgan: Fair enough. So we are on the same page. We both know who she is.

The blackness holds for a beat, then cut to lights on in original position before the blackout.

I think we’re 30 minutes in, Grace. Keep going. Let’s start and see what happens.

Scene: Joe and Jimmy

Scene: Interior, Joe Rogan Experience Studio, Day

The studio hums with a laid-back vibe—soundproof walls, mics, voice monitors flickering. Jimmy Carr, sharp-witted and impeccably dressed, strides in and sits across from Joe Rogan, rugged and focused. Jamie, the producer, nods from his tech station.

Jimmy (To Jamie): Hi, Jamie.

Jimmy (To Joe): Are we ready?

Joe: Never mind that. Are we ready?

Jamie: Yeah, we’re good.

Jimmy: I am.

Joe gives a thumbs up. The podcast kicks off. Mics are hot. They dive into comedy—past, present, future—bantering effortlessly. Time passes in a montage of laughs, nods, and quick cuts of their discussion.

Jimmy: I’d like to start a school of comedy or a school for comedy.

Joe: That’s a great idea, Jimmy. How would it work?

Jimmy: I’m not sure yet, Joe. I’m still working on the concept. I’m thinking something structured. A class or program or diploma. Maybe for high school. Maybe secondary school. I’m not sure.

Joe: Why is this important to you, Jimmy?

Jimmy: Because I think, Joe, I’m sorry, I learned more about life from comedy than I ever did from school. It wasn’t until I learned how to laugh at myself that I could live with myself. It seems to me, Joe, a lot of kids coming to school these days are driven but not happy, determined but without desire. Their true, pure desire past their own materialistic goals.

Joe: Shit, Jimmy. That sounds deep.

Jimmy: Sorry, Joe. I’ve been thinking about this opportunity for a long time.

Joe: I can see that. Thinking brick-and-mortar school? Virtual school? What’s the plan?

Jimmy: I’m not sure, Joe. I think any and all. Maybe. I don’t see why we have to stick with the old Methodist schooling. After COVID, it’s shown us we can do many tasks, many ways. And, quite frankly, we’re literally the only profession without a professional training school. Even actors have schools. There’s comedian classes, but we all know that’s bullshit. If you don’t have the spark in your heart, you’ll never be a comedian.

Joe: True. Yeah, totally.

Jimmy: So what we need is a school that can recognize the spark in a person and get them in the class and environment they need. And the great thing about comedy, Joe, it’s not necessarily age-based. It should be age-appropriate, but it doesn’t have to be age-based. However, if the teachers do the job, they’ll show the community how to adjust and apply for the audience, and automatically turn shit into poop and perfect ass into cute bum.

Joe: Right.

Jimmy: Maybe, Joe, let’s say you’re hired as the comedy teacher at a K-12 school or grade 1 to 12, whatever. You could easily group those by 1 to 3, 4 to 6, 7 to 9, and then 10, 11, 12. All those groups would be taught together. I’m not saying kids should be forced to take comedy, but why not make that option?

Joe: Huh, interesting.

Jimmy: You’ve got a comedy teacher whose full-time job is to teach comedy. That’s optional and only for the students who are interested.

Sorry, small baby delay. Baby on the field. Baby entered the podcast studio. All communication stops when the baby enters the room.

Bad news, Grace. The other lady in the house who was going to have a baby moved out. Can’t believe it. No respect. And she was ready to pop too. I once had two babies in the house. Good news is, another young couple moved in, so hopefully she’ll be getting knocked up soon. Anyways, back to the script.

Jimmy: Maybe, Joe, let’s say I was hired as a comedy teacher at a K-12 school, or grade 1-12, whatever. It could easily group those by 1-3, 4-6, 7-9, and then 10-11-12. All those groups could be taught together. I’m not saying kids should be forced to take comedy. Why not make it an option?

Joe: Huh, interesting.

Jimmy: You’ve got a comedy teacher who has full-time jobs to teach comedy, but it’s optional, only for the students who are interested. And then, as an example, every day at lunch, there could be a section of the lunchroom or cafeteria where stand-up is done. People eat their lunch, watch stand-up, and laugh, but they’re respectful. They listen to the comedians. If they don’t find the comedians funny, they don’t laugh. Like a little comedy club at lunch.

Jimmy: Exactly. And assuming there’s two lunchrooms, one for younger kids and one for older, they can each perform for their own age groups. Or if their act is really good, they can get bumped up. No reason a grade two student who’s funny couldn’t make grade seven students laugh, especially if their comedy was unique.

Joe: That’s wild, man.

Jimmy: No matter what, for either one hour a day of classes, if they’re in comedy class, or if they’re hanging out in the cafeteria, they might hear a laugh. They might have a chuckle that day. I don’t know about you, Joe, but I remember going to school for lots of days and never ever laughing.

Joe: Yeah, same here.

Jimmy: Maybe that’s why I became a prick comedian and stopped paying my taxes. But to be fair, there’s another course, or at least a lesson we could add for a wannabe comedian. How to pay your taxes. Why you should pay your taxes. Why it’s important to follow the rules of law. Blah blah blah. Don’t do what I did. Here’s my story.

Joe laughs.

Joe: That’s a good one.

Jimmy: Because if you think about it, Joe, most comedians are losers in the making who somehow got lucky. At some point, someone found them funny. They got a laugh. Then another laugh. Decided to get on stage. Eventually became a comedian. Think of your comedian friends, Joe, as I think of mine. Most of them, without comedy, would be lost.

Joe: Totally.

Jimmy: They’re probably working some boring 9-to-5 job, have a wife they don’t love, kids they tolerate. Just waiting for something in their life to change. Most comedians are losers.

Joe: Harsh but true.

Jimmy: All I’m saying, Joe, is let’s catch them before they really are a loser. Instead of teachers who have kids misbehave and throw them out of class, when the kids speak the truth, send them to the comedy class. Let them talk it out in front of the other comedians. Let them explain why they’re misbehaving in class. And then make jokes about it.

Joe: I like that.

Jimmy: Either have the person who was poorly behaving turn around and make a joke, or have the class show him or her, instead of disrupting the class, could have just made a joke, entertained everyone, and moved on. How many comedians were called the class clown and acted like one, and eventually became a comedian?

Joe: A ton. Yeah.

Jimmy: That’s after being discouraged from that behavior. Criticized for it. Called a loser for it. Called a lazy, no-good son of a bitch. It’ll never fucking work if you don’t graduate. Any of those things, Joe?

Joe: Preach, man.

Jimmy: What we should be doing is celebrating that class clown. Teaching them, or her, or him, when it’s appropriate to let a zinger go to relieve the stress in the class, or just for entertainment. What fucking difference does it make in the world if there’s a kid in class smart enough, funny enough, quick enough, bright enough to make the teacher and the entire class laugh with a single quip?

Joe: Right.

Jimmy: That student should be fucking celebrated. That’s sent to the principal’s office. In my opinion, Joe.

Joe nods, fully on board.

Joe: Keep going, Jimmy.

Jimmy: Thank you, Joe, I will. Every comedian on the planet knows you’re set to become the first billionaire comic.

Joe: Maybe, Jimmy, but not because of my comedy, because of the podcast, and maybe the club, but I don’t make money from the club, so the podcast.

Jimmy: Oh, I see, Joe. So you’re saying your podcast isn’t funny?

Joe: No, the podcast is funny. That’s not a comedy show. It’s a podcast.

Jimmy: And in this quote-unquote podcast, Joe, how many times do you laugh?

Joe: Depends on the guest, Jimmy.

Jimmy: In almost every podcast, you laugh, correct?

Joe: I’m not sure, Jimmy. There are a few serious ones.

Jimmy: All right, if I had AI go back through every one of your transcripts, I’d bet you laughed in almost every one. Let’s say 90%.

Joe: Fair enough, Jimmy.

Jimmy: Don’t you say you know how to fake laugh, Joe?

Joe: Absolutely not, Jimmy.

Jimmy: That’s my entire point, Joe. Every time you laugh, I hear, the audience hears, the sincerity in your laugh. You’re laughing because something you felt was funny. You didn’t force the laugh out. You didn’t force the smile out. It’s just you naturally laughing.

Joe: True. Yeah, true.

Jimmy: So if you make a billion dollars off these podcasts, you’re the first billionaire comedian because you’re not the only one laughing. Your guests are laughing too with you, or something they said, or something you said, or some video you play. It’s three hours of you talking to another person, and often with laughter. To me, that’s a comedy show.

Joe: Huh?

Jimmy: To me, that makes you a comedian in these podcasts. To me, that makes you the first billionaire comedian. Well-deserved, by the way, mate.

Joe: Thank you, Jimmy. But as you know, I don’t do this for the money.

Jimmy: I know, Joe. I’m just making a point. What would you be doing, Joe, if you hadn’t gotten into comedy? If you failed as a comedian, what do you think you’d be doing?

Joe: Training martial arts, maybe?

Jimmy: Do you think you’d ever have become this famous? Go back to school? Some nine-to-five job?

Joe: Nah, I was always a dreamer. I always knew I’d be doing something other than what my parents did, or what other families did.

Jimmy: Did you somehow know this wasn’t for you? And if yes, who helped you?

Joe: Yes, Jimmy. And nobody helped me until I got into the comedy scene. Then other comedians helped me. They would teach me everything. The ones that became my friends helped me along the way.

Jimmy: How did they help you, Joe?

Joe: I don’t know, Jimmy. I guess because they are my friends.

Jimmy: Did you have friends like that growing up or in high school, people you were really close with, you could talk to, say anything about, anything, your life, your career?

Joe: Close, but not really, Jimmy.

Jimmy: Comedians are a special breed of friends, because I think we all have pretty good bullshit detectors. We see it in our friends’ eyes when they’re not being 100% truthful. Something not necessarily deceiving, but hiding something.

Joe: I agree. That’s exactly right.

Jimmy: That’s why I want to start some sort of school or system or trial project, something. Let’s find these kids that are us when we were them. Find a way to pull them out of their current path, which isn’t conducive for themselves, their families, or society.

Joe: Yeah, I get that.

Jimmy: Educate the educators. Comedy, laughter, joy are all ways to communicate ideas more interestingly than the current system. Imagine a history class based on comedy and the fun you could have with it. Tell the students, here are all the facts you must include, but other than that, have fun. Go to town, create something artistic to teach a story.

Joe: That’d be awesome.

Jimmy: If it’s good, it can go up on the school website. They can redo their play or act or whatever at the lunch hour or an assembly. I’m not saying the whole school has to be based on comedy, but if we open their eyes to the benefits of the comedy lifestyle, they might also open their eyes to the benefits of looking at life a little more open-mindedly.

Joe: How do you see this working, Jimmy? You’ve seen this as a paid position, yes?

Jimmy: Yeah. But wouldn’t any current comedian who’s qualified to teach comedy also be unqualified to teach children? Name one comedian with a degree in teaching. And probably if they’re a comedian, they’ve got some sort of criminal record or shady past. Most likely some sort of addict at some point in their lives.

Joe laughs.

Joe: Yep.

Jimmy: Possibly lived in the street or in their van or wherever until they made it. Basically just lived a life that almost no parent would wish upon their child, and this is the person that’s going to teach their children comedy.

Joe: Right.

Jimmy: Absolutely. They’d be the best, quite frankly. I think everyone deserves a second chance, regardless. Plus, look at these schools. Everything’s under 24-7 video surveillance. What the fuck can any teacher do to a student right now?

Joe: True.

Jimmy: Unless they were completely psychopathic. And if they were, the school wouldn’t stop it anyway. Just say fuck the teacher’s credentials. Fuck the need for a teacher’s degree. You don’t need four years of education to stand up in front of a group of kids and tell your story. Explain your comedy. Explain comedy in general.

Joe: Yeah, that makes sense.

Jimmy: Any comedian can break down comedy, quite frankly. The point isn’t to teach them the semantics of comedy. The point is to teach them how to be a comedian naturally, how to let it flow, when to seize the words and the jokes. It’s really more about being comfortable in your own skin as the person you are.

Joe: Deep, man.

Jimmy: I guess maybe by touching that identity, comedian, it gives you a bit of freedom. I’m not suggesting, Joe, that we have a comedian with some sort of label like trans, but the comedian mentality is definitely unique. Wouldn’t you agree? Similar to autism but more like a secret personality we all have off stage, maybe in the green room when one of us is telling a story about our past and everyone else is thinking, shit, I’ve been through that too, or they think I’ve been through worse or less or similar or whatever. Either way, they think.

Joe: Absolutely.

Jimmy: And I suspect, Joe, you’re much like me where you have close friend comedians you trust, comedian friends you don’t hang out with, comedian acquaintances, and then comedians you avoid at all costs or something like that.

Joe: Pretty close, Jimmy.

Jimmy: That’s great. You basically have three or four possible groups of friends, and any day you want, especially since you’re in your own club, you can walk into that group and have a friend anytime you want or need.

Joe: Yeah, that’s a perk.

Jimmy: Unlike the kid sitting in history class, hating his life, contemplating suicide, wondering if he’ll ever get laid, and hating history class, other than seeing the funny parts, which nobody thinks is funny except him, especially the teacher, because every time he makes a crack about Hitler, he gets sent to the principal’s office for some reason.

Joe laughs.

Joe: Poor kid.

My ass is asleep, Grace. Hope you’re happy.

Jimmy: In a nutshell, that’s what I’m trying to end. If we accept little boys and girls want to be other girls or boys, why can’t we just accept a person for being funny? No gender, just funny. Just a funny person.

Joe: Damn right.

Jimmy: Don’t have to do anything special for them other than accept it. And maybe don’t send him to the fucking principal’s office just because he made a Hitler joke. Anyway, Joe, that’s my rant. I apologize for taking up so much time, but I do hope one day there’ll be a school of comedy, or I guess a school of life based on comedy.

Joe: I hope so too, Jimmy.

The two share a nod. The weight of the idea settles in. The podcast rolls on.

Fade out. End scene.

Note to Mel: Jimmy and Joe are free to rewrite this scene in their own voices and get out or remove content as long as the message remains the same.

The next scene is Joe and Morgan. We’ve got ten minutes left. I should try and squeeze it in, but I don’t feel like it. I believe that’s a cliffhanger for tomorrow. Looks like we’re almost 50%, Grace. Talk to you tomorrow.