I got into comedy to meet a husband. My rationale was this: most comedians are men. I am a woman. Done and done! So I started hanging around filthy, rat-infested stand-up clubs at all hours of the night, writing jokes in a notebook with my right hand and flashing my diamond-less left hand for every drunken Tom, Dick, and Shecky to see. Eventually, I began memorizing these jokes and then saying them aloud onstage, in between puppet and magic show acts. It was so emotionally fulfilling that I expanded my humor repertoire to writing stories and/or making videos for such sites as Wonkette, Comedy Central Indecision, The Frisky, Jezebel, NewNowNext, XOJane, Vice, and your own Huffington Post. I was silly on a few disreputable television programs. I even wrote a funny book! And through it all, my one and only goal was to land me a man and a ring.
Well, folks, it's 2012. I'm still unwed. So I've decided it's time to give up this whole funny business and devote myself to an entirely new male-dominated pursuit: garbage.
That's right, garbage.
More specifically, the collection of garbage.
My new great dream is to obtain a coveted position riding on the back of a municipal waste truck, preferably one that is funded in part or in whole by an Italian organized crime syndicate. In my fetching uniform with my name embroidered in pretty cursive over the front pocket, my long auburn hair tied beneath an American (or Confederate!) flag bandana, my dirty work gloves smeared with the effluvia of countless New Yorkers, I'll look way lovelier and more fecund than I do when standing on a stage or typing away at my computer.
"Look at that gorgeous, highly marriage-able dame," various garbage professionals will say, admiring the ease with which I toss a mixture of recyclables and toxic waste into the back of my rig. "How is it that she's still single?"
A fascinating question, indeed.
And so I bid you farewell, various stages upon which I have plied my craft. Goodbye, websites for which I have written marginally amusing things about politicians and pop culture icons. See you never, foolish TV networks who have allowed me to goof around onscreen. It is no exaggeration to say that I am totes over you.
Now I look to the future, excited for my new career in waste management, which cannot possibly smell any worse than a Times Square comedy club bathroom after midnight on a Saturday. Most thrilling of all? The chance get hitched to a fellow who has actual health insurance. Bring it on, sexy HMO-enabled garbage man! Our love may be stinky, but my Prozac will be covered. I love you already.
"Agorafabulous!: Dispatches From My Bedroom" (William Morrow/HarperCollins) is available on Barnes and Noble as we speak. And on Amazon. And on Indiebound. It's my memoir. This is my signature. If you enjoyed this, imagine it being 3,000 times longer! That's pretty much the book.