Have you ever noticed how most stand-up comics aren’t really that funny? There’s a reason: their jokes have to be written to appeal to a diverse audience. Fuck that. I’ve decided that when I become a stand-up comedian, I’m going to write my routine for a much more select group, a market yet untapped: the filthy rich.

So, I walk out on stage and immediately get a laugh because the clothing I’m wearing is obviously from the Gap. I’m not even wearing designer underwear. Crazy. Then, while they’re still chuckling, I go into my routine:

Hey there. Hope you’re having a good evening. So last week I had to take the Lamborghini into the shop. Again. (pause for laugh) Yeah, I know. Those darn things are so unreliable, aren’t they? I’m thinking about hiring a guy to follow me around in one of my Porsches, just in case the Lambi breaks down. (pause for laugh) Yeah.

Hey, is it just me, or has caviar really been sucking lately? I don’t know where they’re getting this crap, but I think it’s coming out of a different hole, if you know what I mean. (pause for laugh) Yeah.

So, last night I got in this argument with my chef. The fucker refused to make me some waffles. I mean, sure it was 2 a.m., but what the fuck do I pay him for? I’ll tell you what I pay him for: to make me some goddamn waffles when I want them! (pause for applause) Yeah!

Hey, you know how you always drive in the carpool lane, even if you don’t have a passenger? I mean, if you get caught, it’ll only cost you what, $451? Fuck it. (pause for applause) (point to someone in front row). This guy knows what I mean.

But, really, it’s important to occasionally remember those less fortunate than us. Then we can go right back to forgetting about them. (point to same guy) Yeah, he knows what I mean. OK, that’s it for me. I gotta get home and wake up my chef. I’m really in the mood for some eggs benedict. Not really. I’m just in the mood to watch him prepare it for me. (pause for laughter) Thank you! Have a good night!

I don’t have a lot of time here, so I’m gonna make this quick. Almost a month ago, I was abducted by the Swiss mafia. Why they wanted me, I’m not quite sure. But for the past few weeks, I’ve been forced into slave labor at a well-known watch factory, sustaining myself on nothing but chocolate.

Aside from the strict diet, they’ve been pretty good to me here. Sure, I’ve received a couple beatings, but I can’t say they weren’t deserved.

The first pummeling I received was when I requested a plate of those delicious meatballs like they serve at Ikea. Apparently, those aren’t Swiss. They’re Swedish. How the fuck was I supposed to know?

But I received the biggest bruises last week. There I was, carefully jamming tiny springs into another overpriced watch, when I turned to my supervisor and casually asked why a neutral country advertises their army so much. I mean, you’ve got your Swiss Army watches, the nail files, the wallets. What the fuck? Anyhow, he apparently didn’t appreciate my query and proceeded to beat me within an inch (or 2.54 centimeters) of my life. Not too coincidentally, it was with a Swiss Army backpack stuffed with 20 pounds (or 9.0718474 kilograms) of chocolate.

Since then, I’ve learned to keep my questions and comments to myself, and they’ve been treating me a lot better. In fact, I had a slight cough a couple days ago, but they gave me a couple of those Riccola lozenges and I was better in no time.

Some of you may be wondering how I could be held captive and still manage to post a new blog entry every week. Well, let me tell you, it’s total bullshit. I wrote that stuff months ago. They found my archive of stories and post them regularly to make it look like I’m still living in California. Pretty clever.

In reality, I’m far away from home, nowhere near a computer. . . Well, I have managed to slip into the office to send this message to you while one of the guards is out using the can. Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be in there for hours. This all-chocolate diet they’ve got us on wreaks havoc on the colon. Apparently, you really can have too much of a good thing. Believe me, I know. Man, I know.

In any case, I better get back to work. If you could, please send help. I’m not expecting some kind of elaborate rescue or anything. I’d be happy if you could just mail me a care package with some Rye Vita crackers in it. Hell, anything with some fiber would be great.

What’s that? My address? Fuck. I guess I should have thought of that before I started writing this. I mean, the only reason I know I’m in Switzerland is because I can look out this window and see the majestic Matterhorn off in the distance: the tiny track running around it, carrying packs of screaming tourists down to its base where . . . Wait a minute. This isn’t Switzerland! MotherFUCKER! I’ve been punked!

Welcome to another episode of . . . Ultra-Suspense . . . Theater!

Today’s story starts innocently enough with a small girl running through a forest. She’s wearing a backpack and seems to be afraid of something. But what? Why does she keep looking back? What is she running from? Is someone chasing her? Or is it something?

“Mommy!” the child screams. She must be lost. Poor little girl, all alone, running from who knows what. Then again, maybe she’s running towards something. Did you ever think of that? Maybe there’s a cotton-candy stand just a half mile ahead and she’s dying for some sugar. Why do you always have to assume that it’s something bad? Maybe she’s racing towards the cotton-candy stand and she’s yelling back at her mother to get a move on. After all, Mom’s the one with the cash: no Mommy, no cotton candy.

On the other hand, what the fuck would a cotton-candy stand be doing out in the middle of nowhere? That’s absurd. Why did you even let me go on with such an inane theory? Do you take pleasure in watching people fail? Is that your thing? Just how long were you going to let me continue with that stupid idea? Three paragraphs? Four? Five? You make me sick.

Anyhow, it turns out, the child is actually running away from something: a herd (or pack or whatever it is) of wild boars. Why? That backpack she’s wearing is filled with about a pound and a half of truffles. Yeah, those boars sure do love them truffles.

And where is Mom during all this excitement? Hanging out in the air conditioned Range Rover, of course. You think she’s going to scuff up her new hiking boots to dig up some disgusting fungi out of the ground? Besides, kids love that kind of shit. Just give them a plastic pail and a shovel and they’re good to go.

Mom glances at her diamond-encrusted watch: It’s almost 2:30. Where the fuck is that stupid kid? If she doesn’t get a move on, they’re going to be late. There are people waiting for those damn truffles! Mom decides the best thing to do is just drive off and teach her daughter a lesson. She starts the car and revs the engine. But just as she’s about to leave, something catches her eye: a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere! And they have both the pink and blue kind!

Mom turns the car off and makes a beeline for the cotton-candy stand. The man making the cotton candy can’t believe his luck. Two customers! That’s more than he gets all week. Heck, all month! His entire family thought he was insane for opening a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere. But he ignored their warnings and spent his entire life savings on a power generator and all the other cotton-candy making supplies. And now look who’s laughing now! Well, his family is still laughing, of course. I mean, it’s just one woman and her daughter. How much cotton candy could they possibly eat? Yes, he was basically fucked. Which brings us to the moral of our story: Never open a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere. You’re much better off selling something like churros.

Hey, are you sick of seeing things for what they are? Or maybe you’re just tired of everyone asking you to read road signs for them. Well, say goodbye to perfect vision and say hello to fucked-up eyes! Yes, with this amazing breakthrough surgery, you can go from 20/20 to 60/40. In a matter of hours! Imagine waking up to a dream world where a pile of clothes becomes a magic mountain polka-dotted with gum drops, a chair becomes a throne, and a lamp becomes a blurry lamp. It could all be yours. It’s a simple outpatient procedure that you’re too stupid to understand, so we’re not going to waste our time explaining it to you. But if you’re interested, give us a call. If not, don’t be such an asshole.

No doubt, you’ve heard of a play called The Vagina Monologues, where women of various ages express how they feel about their womanhood. But you’re probably not familiar with its male-casted equivalent, an off-broadway production that never quite caught on: The Penis Monologues:

The curtain rises. Four men sit on metal folding chairs on a dimly lit stage. The oldest is MAURICE, an African American, 65. He wears a three-piece suit and a beret. The youngest is WILLIAM, a muscular caucasian, 29. He wears a white T-shirt, one size too small for him, and baggy sweat pants. There is also TOMMY, 35, an hispanic man. He’s wearing a dirty jumpsuit with the word “Janitor” stenciled on it. And, finally, there is RICHARD, a timid looking man whose race is hard to pinpoint, but he’s probably white. He wears some pleated slacks, a short-sleeved dress shirt, a tie and unattractive eyeglass frames that really don’t compliment the shape of his face.

William stands.

WILLAM: My penis is like a mighty fist, rising in the crowd.

MAURICE: Bullllll SHIT!

WILLAM: Huh?

MAURICE: Your penis ain’t like no goddamn fist rising in the crowd. Man, your penis probably no bigger than my thumb!

WILLIAM: Yeah? Well, I guess you’ve probably seen a lot of penises.

MAURICE: What’s that supposed to mean? You calling me some kind of homo?

WILLIAM: Hey, if the penis fits.

MAURICE: I’ll shove my fucking mighty fist up your ass, you honky motherfucker!

Maurice moves to attack William, but Tommy steps in, separating them.

TOMMY: Hey, hey! Dudes! Dudes! Be cool! Be cool!

Finally, Maurice and William sit down, leaving Tommy standing.

TOMMY: My penis is like a slippery snake, wrapped around a tree.

All the guys laugh.

TOMMY: What!

MAURICE: Man, sit your snake-wrapped-tree ass down.

Tommy sits down, reluctanty. Richard stands up.

RICHARD: Uh, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Some guy told me this was supposed to be an open discussion. I’m here to talk about molecular biology.

TOMMY: You mean like what’s in your pants?

The other guys laugh. William high-fives Tommy.

RICHARD: What’s that supposed to mean?

TOMMY: What do you think it means?

RICHARD: It sounded like a quip about my manhood. I don’t take kindly to disparaging comments about my penis.

MAURICE: Quip? Disparaging? Man, where the fuck you learn to talk?

RICHARD: From the dictionary.

TOMMY: (mocking) From the dictionary.

TOMMY and WILLAM chuckle.

RICHARD: Oh, real mature.

MAURICE: Hey, if you ain’t gonna talk about your dick, sit your quippy ass down . . . Wait a minute. What the fuck is “quippy ass” supposed to mean? Who wrote this shit?

TOMMY: Yeah, and while we’re at it, how come the Mexican guy is wearing the janitor costume? I’m gonna kick that motherfucker’s ass. Turn on the fucking house lights.

The house lights go up. Maurice pulls off his beret.

MAURICE: Yeah, and fuck this Samuel L. Jackson bullshit. Why does the black guy have to wear the beret? I never wear a fucking beret. And I never say “ain’t” either. Show yourself, motherfucker. Stand up!

Nobody stands. William gets up.

WILLIAM: Hey, at least you have something nice to wear. Look at what they’ve got me wearing. I can hardly breathe in this fucking T-shirt. I think it’s cutting off my circulation. Am I supposed to be the gay one or what?

TOMMY: (points to Richard) I think he’s the gay one.

RICHARD: Hey, I don’t appreciate that. I am not gay.

TOMMY: Yeah, sure you’re not.

RICHARD: And if I was, what would be wrong with that? Why are you such a homophobe?

TOMMY: Because I ain’t gay.

Richard lunges for Tommy. Maurice moves in to hold them apart.

RICHARD: I’ll fucking kill you!

TOMMY: Yeah, c’mon and try it!

MAURICE: Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please! Let’s try to get along.

Eventually, they calm down. Maurice lets go of them and they just look at each other in silence for two minutes. Finally, William stands up.

WILLIAM: My penis is like a majestic oak –

MAURICE, TOMMY, RICHARD: Shut up!

The curtain drops. The audience sits there stunned, then starts booing and begins throwing their shoes at the stage. Then, realizing the stupidity of discarding their shoes, they rush the stage to collect them back.

Yesterday, I turned on my TV and discovered that Tivo had recorded The Tonight Show with Jay Leno for me. This was a bit unusual, since I’m more of a Letterman fan. But Tivo doesn’t record things on a whim. There must’ve been a reason. And there was: I clicked through to find that Jay’s guest that night had been the lovely and talented Nicole Kidman. Thank you, Tivo.

Of course, I could’ve fast forwarded past the opening monologue and gone straight to the ravishing Nicole. But I didn’t. I decided it was time to give ol’ Jay a chance. I simply pressed the Play button and prepared to be entertained.

Within minutes I discovered something amazing about Jay. He has a certain quality about him. A certain pathetic quality. What’s pathetic? Take your pick. It could be how overly excited the audience is when Jay comes out. They stand near the stage, reaching out to him, desperate to have their hand slapped by the God of Late Night. Or maybe it’s the jerky way the camera zooms in and out like a bad home movie. But, personally, I think it’s the monologue.

The monologue? But isn’t Jay a stand-up comedian? Well, that depends on your definition of stand-up comedian. Is he standing up? Yes. Is he a comedian? Well, that would imply humor and joy. And all I felt while watching this pathetic monologue was pity.

Despite how worked up the audience was when the show started, they couldn’t even feign laughter after Jay delivered his watered-down brand of comedy. What’s worse, Jay doesn’t know how to handle it when he’s bombing. Letterman or Conan can just give you that look and you start laughing. Leno? There’s no look. What’s worse, Leno’s monologue is twice as long.

My thumb inched its way towards the fast-forward button.

But wait. What’s this? A “surprise” walk-on appearance by a celebrity, right in the middle of the monologue! And its . . . who the fuck is that? Yes, it’s one of those “celebrities” that needs to be announced so you know who it is: “Why it’s . . .” Yeah, I don’t even remember who it was. Some old musician, I think. Pathetic. You see, Jay has this black-and-white Harley on the stage and he’s having all these “celebrities” sign it for him, so he can auction it off for the tsunami survivors. Well, isn’t that big of him? Uh, no. Sounds like a blatant act of self-promotion to me. Fucker. Speaking of which, Nicole Kidman was going to be on. I just had to be patient and wait.

After the commercials I was expecting to see Jay sitting at his desk, preparing to introduce the lovely Nicole. But, no. It was time for some sketch comedy: Celebrity Jeopardy. I have to admit, I really enjoyed this idea — four years ago when Saturday Night Live did it. This version was, well, uncomfortably bad. How bad? See for yourself. It’s actually featured in the highlights section of their Web site. But in case you don’t feel like downloading the clip, let me give you the gist of it: Bad impressionist in creepy makeup plays George W. Bush. Overweight actor plays Clay Aiken. And the obnoxious Gilbert Gottfried plays Sponge Bob Square Pants. Needless to say, this was excruciatingly unfunny.

Finally, after that weasel Dennis MIller does a “surprise” walk-on to promote his show on CNBC and sign the motorcycle, Jay introduces Nicole Kidman. She was as lovely as ever. But guess what. She was also fucking boring.

Jay, do us all a favor. Don’t wait until 2009 to retire. Do it now. Please.

<insert applause>

Every year we do it: We come up with these promises to make our life better, and so often we fail. Why? I don’t think it has anything to with our resolve. I just think we’re not being very realistic with our goals. So if you’d like to be more successful with your resolutions, consider one of these:

I RESOLVE TO SPEND MORE MONEY THAN I MAKE: Everyone attempts to budget or get a better job. Fuck that. It’s too hard. Just bite the bullet and rack up that debt. You’re never going to pay off that credit card anyway and you know it.

I RESOLVE TO EAT CHOCOLATE EVERY DAY: Now here’s one that shouldn’t be too difficult to keep up. Of course, if you happen to be diabetic, or allergic to chocolate (perish the thought), this could be a problem. Otherwise, dig in.

I RESOLVE TO START A BAD HABIT: Hey, instead of trying to break that habit of biting your toenails, come up something new. Picking your nose at the table is an easy one. Or what about making that clicking sound with your tongue? Be creative!

I RESOLVE TO GAIN TWENTY POUNDS: See “I RESOLVE TO EAT CHOCOLATE EVERY DAY”

I RESOLVE TO STAY AT HOME AND WATCH MOVIES ALL DAY: This one’s my favorite. But since I’ve already mastered it, I’ll have to come up with a new one this year. So if you happen to be in my neighborhood and hear a guy clicking his tongue against his teeth, be sure to wish me a happy new year. And I’ll do the same for you.

(NOTE TO SELF: I RESOLVE TO WRITE BLOG ENTRIES BETTER THAN THIS DREK)

They left the sheathed carcasses out on the sidewalk, limbs pressing against the clouded plastic, suggesting that death had not completely set in. Nobody seemed to mind. They walked around the bags as if nothing was amiss. How they got there, nobody knew for sure. But this was not an isolated incident. One nearly had to glance down the street to find other former loved ones baking in the sun. And they remained there for weeks. Like everyone, I cringed with disgust as I observed the various stages of decomposition. And each time I passed by these bags of death, the same thought came to mind: “Doesn’t anyone know how to recycle their damn Christmas trees?” Happy New Year, you lazy, selfish pukes.