I was 13 years old and hanging out at my friend Matt’s house one night when this comedy special came on HBO. It was some old guy with white hair and a ponytail dressed all in black, but the audience seemed to like him, so I gave him a shot. Five minutes in, I’d laughed so hard I couldn’t see the screen anymore. All I could make out was this guy’s rough, raspy, angry yet child-like voice, saying things that I knew I shouldn’t be hearing, which just made them all the more funny.
When I made my brief, ill-advised foray into stand-up comedy (I believe the stench from most of my “act” can still be seen hanging like a dark green cloud over New Brunswick), I tried desperately to be like him. It was literally the only thing I had in common with every other comedian on the planet. We all want to be like him.
Well, not now, of course. The goddamn guy is dead.
Keep killing ‘em, George. 
