I remember when I first started comedy and someone told me “Women dig guys who are onstage.” This may be true for singers, musicians, hell – even beat poets and auctioneers, but not comedians. Onstage, I talk about every flaw I have; excess drinking, poor life decisions, my abundance of ass hair, and every personality hiccup. Chicks usually shun comics like Muslims shun a woman’s ankle. Not the best analogy, but whatever. I do know, though, that fat drunk dudes love me more than George Lopez loves to raise his eyebrows and stare at the crowd. “Can choo beleaf that?” RAISE EYEBROWS AND STARE! I could look like Brad Pitt and women would hate my guts – I can deal with that, but enough with the drunk guys. “Hey man, my buddies say I’m hilarious. Here’s why…” 15 minutes and five lost T shirt sales later, he finally goes into the parking lot to smoke weed. Trust me, I’m an attention whore, but I don’t want to talk to Jim and his weave belted jorts for an hour after the show about the intricacies of his inner thoughts and why he should quit his job at the foundry to tell 80’s trucker jokes in his town of 3000 citizens. Hey, there’s something shiny! (Run to my car)