u/Expensive_Pie_831

I am doing some short crowd warm up and will try to be a little topical. Would below work as a one time joke?

Have you all seen Love on the Spectrum?

It’s a really beautiful show.

It’s about people on the autism spectrum trying to date and navigate relationships.

And you really find yourself rooting for them.

“Please, let this go well.”

And speaking of people who struggle to navigate emotions, relationships, and social signals…

have you seen Love is Blind?

It’s basically the same core problem.

Just with more tequila.

The difference is that in Love on the Spectrum, you’re really rooting for the participants.

In Love is Blind, you’re more like:

“Can someone please hit THAT guy with a beer bottle?”

They are two completely different viewing experiences.

In Love on the Spectrum, you think:

“Everyone deserves love.”

In Love is Blind, you think:

“Nope.”

I’ve been thinking about the difference between doctors and veterinarians.

You go to a health clinic and the doctor barely wants to shake your hand.

Last time I went to the doctor, I basically had to force a hug out of him before he examined my prostate.

And even then, it felt like only one of those things was medically necessary.

But you go to the vet, and they’re down on the floor like:

“Who’s a brave little boy?”

“Who’s doing so well?”

A vet will cuddle you, praise you, scratch you behind the ear...

and then five minutes later go:

“Should we put him down?”

That is a terrifying emotional range.

Because at a hospital, they’ll do everything to keep you alive.

Whatever it takes.

At the vet, the threshold is shockingly low.

The animal doesn’t even have to be that sick.

It’s basically up to the owner.

“Fido is perfectly healthy...

but I’ve started playing a lot of pickleball this fall, and honestly, the calendar is getting tricky.”

That’s the kind of power most doctors can only dream of.

Imagine if human doctors had that.

“John is doing fine...

but his wife has started yoga on Tuesdays…”

But it would cut down on the waiting lists.

The Two Types of Bathroom Visit

When you have small children, there are only two types of bathroom visits.

There is no middle ground.

The first is when you’re alone with the kids.

Then the door is wide open.

It’s a tactical emergency.

No privacy.

You’re sitting there trying to do your business, while using one foot to stop a one-year-old from licking the toilet brush.

But then there’s the second kind.

The holy kind.

When your partner is also home.

That’s when you ask questions you never had to ask before becoming a parent:

“Is it okay if I go to the bathroom now?”

And suddenly my biology completely changes.

The exact same bathroom visit takes 45 minutes.

Not because my stomach is upset.

Because it’s the only alone time I have.

The bathroom becomes a spa.

I lock the door.

Sit down.

Take out my phone.

And finish an entire season of a show.

The difficult part is the acting when you come out.

You can’t come out looking refreshed.

You have to come out holding your stomach, sighing, and saying to your partner:

“I don’t know… something’s not right with my stomach.”

I know the below premise is so old and overused, and I probably do not bring any new perspective to it. But maybe there are parts that has something that could be extracted or worked on.

Public restrooms

Some people call me germophobic.

Personally, I’m more of a hygienic ninja.

Because when you go into a public restroom, you become hyper-aware of every single surface you touch.

It’s like a form of mental parkour.

It starts already at the door:

“Should I touch the handle?”

“Or should I wait until someone comes out and then just slide in?”

Once you’re inside, it continues.

Elbow on the doors.

Foot on the flush button.

Turn the tap on with paper.

I feel like I’m trying to defuse a bomb using only my knees.

And then the mental game begins:

“Okay… someone might have washed their hands before touching the flush button.”

But then you get to the tap and realize:

“No. No human being in world history has ever washed their hands before touching the tap.”

“That’s the whole point of a tap.”

So you just stand there, staring at it.

“If I turn this tap on… am I dirtier than I was before?”

And then comes the soap dispenser.

You think:

“What if no soap comes out?”

“Then I’ve pressed the disgusting soap dispenser for absolutely no reason.”

Eventually, you still manage to wash your hands for 45 seconds, turn off the tap with your forearm, and now you have to dry your hands.

And that’s when someone has decided that hand dryers are more hygienic.

Those machines that sound like a jet engine.

So you have to choose:

Dry hands…

or tinnitus.

And a public restroom is also one of the last places where I want recycled air blown into my face.

And they don’t even dry your hands.

They just push the water uncomfortably up your arms.

So now your hands aren’t wet anymore.

Your inner elbows are.

Have you seen the modern hand dryers with LED lights and stuff?

The ones that look like something from Star Trek, where you put your hands down into them and air blows from both sides?

The problem is that the air pushes your hands against one side or the other.

For a germophobe, that’s basically a trap from Saw.

And then you have to get out.

Now, with hopefully clean hands, you have to touch the lock and the door handle.

The ultimate test.

“Should I use my sleeve?” But then I need to remember to not use that sleeve for the rest of the day close to my face.

“My elbow?” Less risk of accidentally touching my face.

The whole thing is like one giant escape room.

Get out alive.

Without attracting hepatitis.

I would appreciate feedback on below if there is something here. It is a bit unstructured, the recognition might be too vague. And the punch-lines are a bit weak.

Fresh mouth equals mint!

The entire dental industry has agreed: fresh mouth equals mint.

Toothpaste, mouthwash, chewing gum, all mint.

But then you go to the dentist for fluoride varnish and suddenly the hygienist goes:

“Would you like banana, bubble gum, or strawberry?”

Why?

Who decided that after a professional dental cleaning, what my mouth really needs is the flavor profile of an ice cream parlor?

I asked for mint once.

The dentist looked at me like I’d asked for a beer.

My dentist only offers banana flouride varnish.

Who decided banana was an acceptable flavor of dental freshness?

Banana never feels clean.

Nobody has ever eaten a banana and thought:

“Ah, the freshness of banana breath.”

Is there a secret deal between the Dental Association and Chiquita?

It honestly makes me question the whole appointment.

It’s like taking your car in for a full service, new oil, new filters, everything, and then the mechanic hands you the keys and says:

“All done.”

Then he opens the gas cap, squirts in some ketchup, and goes:

“That’s for the finish.”

I’ll be honest.

I’ve watched a fair amount of Japanese porn.

It’s a strange genre, because they always censor the genitals.

It’s just this big square of blurry pixels.

Like someone is trying to protect the identity of a penis.

And if you watch enough of that, something happens to your brain.

It starts associating sex with low resolution.

Eventually, I don’t even know if I’m turned on by the sex anymore...

or by the pixels.

It’s become a real problem in everyday life.

I can’t watch Crimewatch anymore.

As soon as they show blurry CCTV footage from a petrol station.

a man in a hoodie...

his face pixelated...

and the presenter says:

“Police are looking for this man...”

I just think:

“So am I.”

They say when an elderly person loses the love of their life, the heartbreak can be so intense that they die shortly after.

My grandmother passed away recently.

And my grandfather did leave us soon after.

He moved to Hawaii with a 20-something.

I’m colorblind.

It’s not a huge disability.

The thing I suffer from most is that there’s nothing to take advantage of.

It’s a terrible disability, benefits-wise.

If you have bad eyesight, you get glasses.

If you have trouble walking, you can get a cane.

If you’re blind, you can even get a dog.

I want a color dog.

A Labrador that follows me around H&M and growls when my pants don’t match my shirt.

But I get nothing.

No benefits.

No special parking permit.

At the very least, colorblind people should be allowed to run red lights without getting fined.

It’s not even a sexy disability.

You can tell because there isn’t a single fetish category for colorblind people.

Nobody is searching for:

“Man can’t tell red from green, 100% amateur.”

Have you noticed that everything the municipality builds has to be a “meeting place” now?

You can’t just build a library so people can borrow books anymore.

No.

It has to be a meeting place.

The town square is a meeting place.

The theater is a meeting place.

The health clinic is probably a meeting place too, if you don't mind getting sick.

I saw they were building a new swimming center.

But it’s not a swimming center.

I’ve read the municipal development plan.

It’s a meeting place.

Which gets weird when you’re standing at home in the evening, packing a bag, and your wife asks:

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to a meeting place.”

While putting in a pair of Speedos and one of those condom-looking swim caps.

Because apparently the men’s changing room is a meeting place now.

Full of naked pensioners who care far too little about covering themselves.

And that’s where I’m supposed to think:

“This seems like a great place to network.”

All buildings have to keep changing identity now.

Offices become activity centers.

Activity centers become meeting places.

Meeting places become innovation hubs.

Innovation hubs become empty rooms with ping-pong tables.

And old asbestos- and water-damaged buildings…

those obviously become student housing.

Because that’s where society draws the line.

You can’t run a business in there.

But a 21-year-old from the countryside?

He can live there.

“Are you studying biology?”

“Perfect.”

“There’s a shitload of black mold in the ceiling.”

I had an old coworker who was severely overweight.

But he still saw himself as a 9 out of 10.

In blood sugar.

Now he’s started taking one of those weight-loss injections.

And it’s fascinating how quickly confidence comes back when people lose weight.

He’d been skinny for like three weeks before he started taking photos of his private parts and sending them to women.

So-called Ozem-dick pics.

Unfortunately, I saw one of the photos.

It looked like a dachshund trying to escape from a sleeping bag.

The shopping cart system is kind of insane when you think about it.

Society has collectively decided that 50 cents is enough to stop people from stealing a full-sized steel vehicle.

That’s all it takes.

Not laws.
Not morality.

50 cents!

And apparently humanity just goes:

“Fair enough.”

Because a shopping cart is not a small thing.

It’s a steel construction with four wheels and a built-in child seat.

You can transport furniture in those things.

And somehow the entire system relies on people thinking:

“Well… I WOULD commit theft today…

but I do want my coin back.”

Honestly, I’m surprised we don’t find more shopping carts in canals.

Hell, I’m surprised we still have canals that AREN’T just shopping carts at this point.

And people always say:

“Yeah, but what would you even do with a shopping cart at home?”

You people lack imagination.

I have nine of them.

One is a laundry basket.

One is a balcony grill.

One is bedside storage.

And if you turn one upside down…

that’s a budget playpen.

Trying to get toddlers to eat vegetables does something dark to you.

Every morning, my wife and I sneak around the kitchen, whispering.

“Did you grate the carrot?”

“Yes.”

“Hide the peels. He might suspect something.”

Then, when the kids are eating, we just sit there in complete silence.

Staring straight ahead.

Watching from the corner of our eyes.

“Is he eating?”

“Don’t look at him.”

“Act natural”

At some point, you stop feeling like a parent and start feeling like a murderer in an Agatha Christie novel.

And honestly, it must be easier to dissolve arsenic in tea than to hide parsnip in a bolognese sauce.

This are two parts from a longer bit I am working on about stuff we leave in the freezer:

Every freezer has that one mystery package.

Buried in the back.

Frozen to the wall.

Wrapped in three layers of aluminum foil like it’s radioactive.

Nobody knows what it is anymore.

Nobody remembers putting it there.

It could be a nice piece of meat…

or the family hamster from 2009.

We don’t know.

And we’re not opening it to find out.

As long as the foil stays on, it exists in a quantum state.

It is both dinner and biological waste at the same time.

Schrödinger’s Frozen Item.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then you’ve got those unlabeled plastic containers filled with some reddish-brown substance.

My wife said:

“Just throw it out. It’s probably old meat sauce.”

Throw it out?!

What if that’s my grandmother’s stew?

She died five years ago.

This could be the last remaining trace of her cooking.

You can’t throw that away.

What if scientists need it someday to clone her?

Imagine the year 2050.

A scientist in a lab coat walks in and says:

“We managed to extract DNA from the sauce”

“Your grandmother is alive again…”

“…although she still needs a bit more salt.”

(I realise it sounds more like that the stew is made from my grandmother)

Saving Money

I’ve been trying to save money, but the problem is that I eat out a lot.

My friend said:

“It would obviously be cheaper if you cooked the food yourself.”

So I tried to follow his advice.

But it’s hard to get a good sear on the meat when security is trying to drag you out of the McDonald’s kitchen.

Please let me know what you think.

The Sleepwalker

Sleepwalking is such a strange thing.

I had a girlfriend who used to sleepwalk, and she was very clear about one rule:

“Never wake a sleepwalker.”

“Apparently, they can lose their memory.”

Then one night, I woke up and she was sleepwalking.

She was packing her suitcase.

In her sleep.

Taking her passport.

In her sleep.

Walking out to a taxi that was waiting outside.

In her sleep.

Then I didn’t see her for months.

Until one day she appeared on my Instagram feed.

In Hawaii.

With another man.

And that’s when it hit me.

Some bastard must have woken her up and now she’s forgotten we’re together.

The New Dad

People always say kids are curious.

And it’s true.

They ask questions constantly.

“Dad, why is the sky blue?”

“Why does the cat meow, but the dog barks?”

“Why do you wear high heels when Mom isn’t home?”

Feedback appreciated. This might be something that is more common in elementary school during the nineties from where I am from than a common thing.

Elementary School Tools at Work

I miss some of the tools we had in elementary school.

For example, The teacher would say:

“You’re going to do a project about the Stone Age.”

All the kids:

“Oooooh no…”

And then one kid would ask:

“Can we present it as a play?”

And the teacher would go:

“Yes, yes, yes, sure. Start working on your mind maps.”

And I thought, why don’t we bring that into the workplace?

So I tried it at my company.

Management gave a very poor review of my production of the Q2 quarterly report.

I played the lead role:

Negative Cash Flow.

Fasting vs. Middle School

I don’t get the hype around intermittent fasting.

People talk about it like it’s some revolutionary health trend.

“I skip breakfast, and then I eat whatever I want for the rest of the day.”

Congratulations.

You’ve invented middle school.

That is exactly how every teenage boy lived.

“I’ve found a method that gives me mental clarity.”

No.

You have low blood sugar and smell like Axe body spray.

I then have some thought about adding parts what other type of lifestyle from teenage boys that could become the next health trend.

Feedback appreciated

Asexual life

I didn’t have much of a sex life at university.

The nice thing about living today is that you can give your failures better names.

If I said today at University, “I have not had sex for two years” people might say:

“Wow. That’s brave of you to come out as asexual.”

So I always had to explain:

“I’m not asexual, I am just studying physics.”

But honestly, it was nicer to pretend that I had chosen not to have sex, rather than admit that sex had chosen not to have me.

It did get hard going to parties, though, because people kept “asexualizing” me.

To them, I was nothing more than an 'asex object.'

If other people were being compared to prime cuts of meat, I was more like a gas station sausage.

At the beach, people kept dressing me with their eyes.

Hello guys!

Feedback greatly appreciated.

Looks

I’m not exactly a ten.

Scientists say beauty is symmetry.

Some people get described like:
“He looks like a Renaissance painting.”
Or:
“He looks like he was carved like a Greek statue.”

Me?

I look more like the result of a bachelorette party that went to a pottery class in the countryside after four glasses of natural wine.

Like someone started making a statue, changed their mind halfway through, and made an ashtray instead.