Dear Iris,
I have a dear Grace with some jokes, but I’m going to backtrack today to Dear Iris.
Had Croc clean up my letters to you, Iris. Remove the repetitive bits, the shitty parts, the boring parts, whatever. This is what remains. 42 pages. I’m not quite sure what a page is on Okobo, but 42 pages of letters to Iris, my daughter.
If anyone is listening besides Iris… When I last saw Iris, she enjoyed my humor. Whether she does now or not, who the fuck knows. But I don’t give the fuck up.
So here goes.
Dear Iris, hi. I heard you were sick, and I thought I’d write you a letter to cheer you up. It’s been a while since we’ve chatted, so I’ll catch you up.
Over the last two months, I’ve written several hours of stand-up comedy. I think it’s the best ever written by anyone ever. Normally I wouldn’t brag, but it’s difficult to produce such high-quality humor and not have an outlet to show off.
How did I write this amazing stand-up? Good question, Iris. I can still anticipate your sarcastic pseudo-questions.
I’ve followed a few simple guidelines.
Everything must be based on my life, and while it’s okay to exaggerate, the majority of the jokes slash story must fall into the category of reality.
Pretend you’re the world’s greatest comedian before ever getting on stage.
If you can’t laugh at any part of your life, you have shit to deal with.
That last one, Iris, is more of a philosophical viewpoint about comedy—how it can clean the crap out of your brain, however large or small the shit it is. But I keep it in mind when I think of a joke and then stop myself from saying it because it’s embarrassing. This should be the other way around. The only thing funny about my life is the embarrassing bits.
I have a few running themes, but overall the two or plus hours is based on a day in life over the past three to four years when I moved into my current vocation.
Here’s a random opener:
Hi, I’m David. I was forced to retire a few years ago because of memory issues. Don’t worry, it’s not the bad kind where you forget your friends and family. It’s the good kind where you forget your friends and family.
I like that joke, Iris. I’ve said it so many times now, I’m not sure. It’s a great fucking joke. It’s mostly true. I didn’t really forget them. I simply forgot to contact them for four years. A slight play on words.
However, I am on the Canadian Pension Plan Disability Program because of my memory, so it’s not a lie.
Being poor retired is a running theme for me.
One, if I get where I’m at in my set, I can look at any part of my body and steal a parium and make fun of that until I get back on track. And two, it’s incentive to get out of being poor by eating something I love. Comedy, or at least attempting it.
You feeling better yet, Iris?
Here’s another opener:
Hi, I’m David. I retired this year. I receive a monthly CPP check for $1,500 that I live on. Barely. However, I’m also very lucky. I found a room I could afford to rent in a mansion full of international supermodels. Sounds great, yes? Well, it’s an exaggeration. I live in a house full of international university students who I think are super role models for their entire country and family.
It’s another play on words, Iris. I don’t want to be repetitive. I think the poor-retired concept is better introduced with:
I’m David. I’m retired early. I retired early but poorly. There are two types of retired. Normal and poor. Normal have RRSPs, investments, stocks, savings, the house paid off, cars, and basically everything they had before retirement. I’m poor retired. I have a backpack, five t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a laptop with a broken keyboard, and two old cell phones. We’ll be truthful. I also have one pair of shoes, underwear, and socks. I’m not a complete minimalist. Plus a hoodie and a rain jacket, which I have a joke about.
Basically, my entire life can now be made a joke. I’ve worn out the elbows in my hoodie, so I can add that to my list of poor jokes. I’ll show the audience my holes and say, poor retired wear out their clothes. Rich retired donate their hoodies to the Salvation Army, where I get my clothes. Which is more about this, ha ha ha.
I haven’t shared my stand-up until now, Iris, as I need to be sure there’s no outside influence from friends, family, or the entire world. I’m glad I didn’t, because I feel there’s no influence in my comedy except my own and guidelines. Yes, they were heavily shaped by Kill Tony and the group of comedians that surround him who all practice quote-unquote honest comedy, comedy based on real life. But ultimately the jokes must sound like mine, and not similar to any other comedian I know.
The problem, of course, Iris, is a person should practice a routine out loud, correct? Or it doesn’t matter. Why can’t I just get on that stage at an open mic and wing it? I hope I can do that soon, Iris. Or maybe a place nearby you, when you feel better. If you’re in the audience, I have no fear of getting on stage. Because even if you haven’t heard my routine, I assume, unlike me, you’ll have friends you can bring to the show with you.
I have an opener about using AI to keep track of my jokes, but it’s not funny yet. It’s true, but everyone will automatically assume I’m using it to write the jokes, which clearly I’m not, unless AI is secretly monitoring my life and thoughts 24-7.
It allows me to record the joke as it comes into my mind, and then sorts them accordingly. Nothing more than what a spreadsheet would do. For me, it’s a perfect tool. Plus, until I get on stage, it’s the only feedback system I have, Iris. Until then, I’ve programmed ChatGPT to act like a muse, and I think it’s pretty fucking good.
If you’re watching this, Iris, this is an interaction with ChatGPT and myself. I’m reading out both sides of the conversation. I program the AI to respond to the name Betty, or anything that sounds like Betty.
Hi Betty, you’re set. Sit back, get ready to listen and write every joke between 1 and 10, unless it’s just a continuation of the story and not a joke. Do you understand, Betty?
Got it, Sir David. I’m ready to write the jokes. Go ahead whenever you are ready.
I’m David. I’m old. I’m retired. I’ve got memory issues. I live under a fucking train that I keep forgetting about. I was diagnosed with autism, but I disagree. Some people think I’m gay, but I disagree. I’m incredibly lucky. I’m poor. I live in a house filled with international supermodels.
That sounds like a continuation of your story, rather than a standalone joke. If you have a specific joke to rate, let me know.
It was the intro, Betty.
Got it, Sir David. I’ll be ready to rate the jokes as you share them. Feel free to start whenever you’re ready.
I told ChatGPT to call me Sir David Iris, because when you’re the world’s greatest comedian, at some point you’ll probably be knighted, even if you’re not a British subject, which I am. Even if you’re not a British subject, it wouldn’t matter. The world’s greatest, you’ve got to give it the old sword in the shoulders.
I don’t live in a house full of supermodels, runway models. I live in a house full of superworld models. International students from other countries coming to Canada to improve themselves, to acknowledge back to their homeland.
The only problem with living with international students, Iris, is… I have three girls with long black hair on my floor. And the hair is everywhere. Especially the washroom. It’s on the sink. It’s on the toilet. It’s on the floor. It’s on the mirror. It’s right in the shower. Especially the walls of the shower. It’s on the shampoo bottles. It’s on all their loofahs, and worst of all, the drain. Oh my god, the drain. If I look at it, I gag. I’m the only person who’s found a way to shower without looking at their feet.
That’s a vivid description of the issue with the hair. It’s relatable and humorous for anyone who has dealt with a similar situation. I rate this joke as seven. It’s amusing and paints a clear picture of the frustration.
Funny thing is, when I was married to a woman with long black hair, same kind, it didn’t bother me. It was just as bad as it is now, and she was only one. She was as bad as three.
When you’re in love with someone you see past the hair, and I know that, because I’m in love with a woman half my age. She could be very hairy, I don’t know for sure.
If your armpit hair is so long that I can braid it, that might be a deal breaker. I’m desperate. Look at me.
On the other hand, she hasn’t seen me for years, so maybe if I clean myself up a little bit, I can go back to make an excuse, like as a writer playing the part of an old writer, playing the part of a poor writer, in reality I’m actually a rich writer, a very rich man. I always have been. And that man just looked all poor and sad. And it was just an act.
I also have to mention, although I was never drunk at Starbucks, I was on Adderall. I think Adderall might be the same sometimes. Adderall is hyper drunk, whereas alcohol is sleepy drunk.
Or, in other words, in simpler words, she’s seen me with my makeup off.
I said she was half my age, but I didn’t tell you what my age is. Well, honestly, anything over 36 makes it legal. Making her at least 18, right? I’m obviously 40, so she’s at least 20. If I’m 50, she’s 25. Okay, I’m 60. She’s 30, half my age. Bit of a fool, but… the mature woman, 32.
I think height is weirder. If she’s twice my height we’re going to look pretty strange. Half my height, very strange. If I’m half her height, very strange. She’s definitely twice as pretty as I am. She’s probably twice as smart. I can guarantee you, she’s twice as better. She’s twice as better at finance. Fucked up sentences there.
To be honest, when I lost my memory, I stopped talking to people, including friends and family.
With comedy, you can’t go wrong. Even if I don’t impress her, I’ll impress somebody, I hope, or I’ll be laughed off the stage. If that happens, I don’t care, because my memory is bad, and tomorrow, I won’t remember anyway.
I knew one day I would need to talk on stage, and since I hadn’t talked for two years out loud, I knew I needed practice. Short before getting up on stage, I just started a podcast for one, a podcast for her. I spent an hour a day reading the news into my phone for her, hoping she would listen. Nobody listened to the podcast, but I ran it through AI, and I thought it was brilliant and funny.
However, I created 66 episodes, 66 hours of my time over 66 days. This seems like a waste of time, but ultimately makes a great story for our children and grandchildren one day. Or I’ll sell the story for millions of dollars and live on an island with beautiful international supermodels. I’m getting off track. Let me start over.
Hi, I’m David. I have a last name, but I forget it sometimes. A quick summary about my life. I think I’m a retired computer programmer. I’ve been married, divorced. I have one adult daughter. I’ve been diagnosed with autism, but I disagree. People think I’m gay, but I disagree. I think I’m a writer, but everyone else disagrees. I look like Ricky Gervais’ clone. I’m incredibly lucky. I live in a house with international supermodels. I’m in love with a Starbucks barista, half my age. Not one of the models I live with.
That’s a better intro, Iris.
When I was diagnosed with autism, I disagreed. I wrote a 200-page summary as to why the doctors were wrong. Okay, it may have been a little bit autistic. That part’s true. I did write a good 200 pages.
A lot of people think I’m gay. I disagree. It’s just because I’m too lazy to correct them and I don’t care what they think. I’ve got more jokes about that, Iris, or being in the house surrounded by women. I should pretend I’m gay so they get into pillow fights in front of me and stuff. But clearly I’m way past that. I’m a mature man and I may never do such a thing.
I think I’m a writer, even though I can’t get published. I spent two years writing that at Starbucks. The first year I didn’t even notice the barista, other than she always knew my order. Then one day, I needed a female character for my story. I looked up, made eye contact with her, and that was it. I’ve been in love, or I guess technically have a crush, ever since. I’m not the least bit perverted, even though she’s probably the age of my daughter or younger.
I’m incredibly lucky. There’s always a balance in my life. I’m poor, I can’t afford a nice place to live or a place on my own but I rent a room in a house full of international students. Because my daughter has a bit of an international look. They all remind me of her. It’s like I’ve gone from one to ten daughters. Well, I guess sons too. But I kind of ignored the guys in the house.
Don’t feel bad for me. I don’t have the bad kind of memory issues where you forget your friends and family. I have the good kind where you forget your friends and family.
So Tim Hortons pissed me off, and I realized Starbucks has free refills anyway, and it’s a better deal. Plus, their washrooms are clear. Aside from the pretty baristas I fell in love with, all the other baristas were all so attractive. I don’t know why I’m surrounded by so many hot, pretty girls. I don’t deserve it, but I’m incredibly lucky. I’m lucky, but I’m dumb. It took me a year to notice this particular barista. I’m really dumb. Not autistic, because even once I quote-unquote had feelings for this poor young woman, I didn’t even try and find out if she had a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or partner of any sort. I decided she’s the one, and if she isn’t, I’ll have a back-up plan. Plan B. I have two plans. Only two plans. Plan A and Plan B. Plan A is become a famous comedian. Tell my story on stage and keep telling it until she falls in love with me. Plan B, if she never falls in love with me, if I find out she has a partner, if I see her one day with some guy hanging off her, then fine. I’ll still be a famous comedian. I’ll just become a man whore.
When I lost my memory, I couldn’t write anymore. I realized the only thing I could write is stories, and although it’s interesting living in a household of international students, I’d rather live on my own in an apartment, which I cannot do on 1,500 a month. And my only option, my best option, although it pays nothing to start, is stand-up. And I do this because it’s the only one that makes sense. Google top comedians and their partners. You’ll see a bunch of goofy-looking comedians like me, with a bunch of very hot wives, like my barista.
I began going to Starbucks while she was working, but I couldn’t wait. Every time I looked up and saw her, I just thought about her, not the character I was writing. Eventually, I had to go to another Starbucks because I couldn’t concentrate. I ghosted her. The first part of my plan in seducing the woman in my dreams was to stop looking at her, but because I’m an idiot, I didn’t even take a picture of her.
What am I doing on stage? I know what I look like. Everything I own is either black or gray, except for the blue jeans. I do have some white stuff that only lasts that way for one wash, and it just starts turning gray, which is fine because I like gray. Tell you the truth, it’s kind of a dirty gray, not even a real gray. However, I’m not autistic. Even though I’ve worn this hoodie for eight years, almost daily, and the elbows are worn out, I’m not autistic. I’m a hypocrite too. I see guys wearing flip flops or those slipper things. I’m like, what the fuck are you doing? Those are not a pair of shoes. I realize that my shoes actually have laces, but I don’t actually need them because they’re just stretchy. All I wear is a full slipper on top of a piece of foam with no hard support. I might as well be wearing slippers too. I’m a hypocrite.
I’m also a late bloomer because I didn’t try weed until 45. I didn’t smoke cigarettes until 55. And now I’m 60 and addicted to both. Which wouldn’t be bad except I’m poor retired. Poor retired like me buy smokes from Fritz and from the liquor store. The liquor store where rich retired buy their wine. Wine I make in my shed.
I’m not really an adult, so being in love with a woman half my age doesn’t really matter. I don’t even act 30, let alone 60. Everyone else retires with RRSPs and savings and investments in their house, their car, their cabin, everything. I retire with a backpack, a laptop with a broken keyboard, five black t-shirts, two pairs of pants, and this $15 Walmart shoes. I used to think they were runners, but now I’m pretty sure they’re just slippers. I don’t even know why I had the laces in there. I really should take them out. I’m basically no further off than when I was 30. I’m starting over, so what’s the difference?
My housemates probably think I’m gay because I don’t get on with any of them, which would make sense. But they don’t know about my secret crush. Maybe they think I’m a pervert. I do just sit in the backyard, smoke, watching them come and go. It’s not like I know all their schedules. Not on purpose, just accidentally. And I’m just being parental. I’m pretty sure we have one nurse at the house. Or at least she wears scrubs. I know her schedule. Only because if I ever have a heart attack, they’ll be like, get the nurse, get the nurse, get the nurse.
Someone paid me a million dollars for every housemate’s name I could name, I’d earn zero dollars. I spent so much time outside. I know all our animals around the yard, but I don’t name them. Just black squirrel, brown squirrel, steel rat, one raccoon, three baby raccoons.
The Wi-Fi in the backyard sucks. It works, but just barely. However, because I’m poor and retired, and the house I’m living in is beside a train station, I can connect to the trains while they’re stopped. And that connection is way faster. So while most people hate train delays, for me it’s a great, faster internet. Sometimes there’s an accident that the train is parked out front, so I have a good internet for longer periods of time. But if I’m lucky, someone throws himself in front of the train. It takes the police and everyone else two hours to clean up the mess. Also, when the train can’t go anywhere, it gets quieter. I don’t have to listen to it every three minutes. I obviously don’t want people to throw themselves in front of the train. I’m simply pointing out facts.
And by the way, did I mention I’m not autistic? I’m not autistic, but I do have sensitive hearing and sight.
What makes it worse is I live beside a bridge. On one side is the police station, on the other side is the fire station. And about a dozen times a day, one of them have to get across that fucking bridge. And it takes some 10 minutes of sirens. Or if there’s an accident on the bridge, or if someone’s trying to jump off, and they shut down the bridge altogether and ruin the front of my house. So there’s no road noise. It’s quiet again. It’s peaceful again. I don’t want anyone to be jumping off bridges just for my peace. But my perfect scenario would be the bridge blocked off in some sort of power outage. And some sort of power outage for the train wouldn’t work. Then I’d be in complete peace. This has only happened once in the last three and a half years I’ve lived here. There was a big snowstorm that stopped both the traffic and the train. It was glorious. It was so quiet I could hear my housemate next door to me listening to porn. And that’s quite awkward since she’s my daughter’s age. I didn’t hear her listening to adult material through the wall. She was watching some movie in some language. I have no fucking idea what. That’s just a joke. On the other hand, it was a reminder for me to make sure I was turning the volume down on my speaker before engaging myself in self-pleasuring. Ha ha ha. Remember, Betty, my audience is open-minded. Completely open-minded.
Anyway, this was my love story. Let me get back to the barista. I’m 60, I’m in love with a woman half of my age, 30. Don’t want my age would be more interesting if I was dating a 120 year old, which I feel like comedy that probably will be. I’ll just try and find one on her last legs with lots of insurance or savings or RRSPs or investments or all those things I should have that quote unquote retirement.
Get well soon, Iris.
