Norm Macdonald
I don’t like me, they don’t like me
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- Nov 3, 2024
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For context, this is supposed to be a comedy book heavily based on Norm Macdonald’s style of comedy - very absurdist, deadpan, and over the top.
I would really appreciate it if you take, or took, the time to read this
Tell me if anything needs tweaking, or removing. Or if it’s just not funny at all
I would really appreciate it if you take, or took, the time to read this
Tell me if anything needs tweaking, or removing. Or if it’s just not funny at all
Not too shabby of a week – a memoir of sorts
DRAFT
Day 1 - Sunday
I awake from my deep slumber to the chirping of songbirds, the barking of dogs, the trash guys who collect your trash or whatever they’re called. Anyway, it’s 10 o’clock on a Sunday night so I don’t know why any of this of fucking happening, but I digress.
I prepare my body in various ways to a high degree of meticulous care. I shave with a fine razor, the finest of razors you can find on the market. A disposable plastic shaver one can only find in their nearest corner store. I shave my pits, my chest hair, leg hair, and even the darkest pits of my tight little asshole. Shaving your asshole hurts but nothing in life comes easy, so don’t expect to live life on cruise control because boy oh boy, life sure isn’t easy.
I head downstairs to my kitchen to prepare breakfast fit only for a king. And as such, a king eats the finest food because kings deserve fine food, or so I’m told. I swing open my pantry door with the fury of a thousand waves crashing into a small fishing boat manned by two Portuguese men. One named Raul, the other I forget. They both die - but I digress.
(I’ll digress many times in this story, so you’ll have to deal with it ok?)
Ok yeah, pantry. I rummage through the pantry like a tiger in the jungle hunting for his next prey and notice how I referred to the tiger as a male because they’re badass and usually associated with tough guys. Perhaps I also rummaged like a rapist hunting for a vulnerable target, preferably disabled and non-verbal, that way they can’t blabber their dumb retard mouths to the police because rapists prefer to not be caught. Rape victims don’t even have to be retarded and non-verbal. I’m putting myself into the mind of rapist fella and I’m sure these people already have a target in mind. Some retarded, some they know, some out of sheer impulse. I wouldn’t know really, I’m not one to rape. I’ll
I digressed once again but, lo and behold, I find an unopened multipack of KitKat bars. There were 10 individual packs. I eat 2 individual packs equating to 4 bars (if you’re unfamiliar with KitKats, they come as 2 bars but must be broken in half) in total and finish my breakfast. Somewhere along the way I drink milk straight from the bottle. Who even fucking cares about anything anymore. No one does, that’s who. No one cares so why should I be disallowed to drink a fine milk straight from the bottle.
Well since breakfast was finally out of the way, I thought I should meet up with a good buddy of mine. He’s not just any buddy of mine, he’s my father, so I call him on my 2nd phone. “Hey cool cat, it’s me. Your son, what’s the dig? We jivin’ and shuckin’?” I say with the style and swagger of a black man from the 80s.
“Say that again please.” he says with genuine plea.
My father is not a man with the skill for English unlike me; thus, I hang up the phone in a fit of rage because of his defective knowledge of the English language. He’s not a big shot like I am, no one is, so I walk from the kitchen to the living room where he’s sat watching the old boob tube. Some crappy reruns of an old Filipino action movie.
“Come, father. “Let’s take the ‘ole bike for a spin. Catcall lonesome women on the road, but let’s not rape them. I’m not one to rape and neither are you.”
My father turns off the TV
DRAFT
Day 1 - Sunday
I awake from my deep slumber to the chirping of songbirds, the barking of dogs, the trash guys who collect your trash or whatever they’re called. Anyway, it’s 10 o’clock on a Sunday night so I don’t know why any of this of fucking happening, but I digress.
I prepare my body in various ways to a high degree of meticulous care. I shave with a fine razor, the finest of razors you can find on the market. A disposable plastic shaver one can only find in their nearest corner store. I shave my pits, my chest hair, leg hair, and even the darkest pits of my tight little asshole. Shaving your asshole hurts but nothing in life comes easy, so don’t expect to live life on cruise control because boy oh boy, life sure isn’t easy.
I head downstairs to my kitchen to prepare breakfast fit only for a king. And as such, a king eats the finest food because kings deserve fine food, or so I’m told. I swing open my pantry door with the fury of a thousand waves crashing into a small fishing boat manned by two Portuguese men. One named Raul, the other I forget. They both die - but I digress.
(I’ll digress many times in this story, so you’ll have to deal with it ok?)
Ok yeah, pantry. I rummage through the pantry like a tiger in the jungle hunting for his next prey and notice how I referred to the tiger as a male because they’re badass and usually associated with tough guys. Perhaps I also rummaged like a rapist hunting for a vulnerable target, preferably disabled and non-verbal, that way they can’t blabber their dumb retard mouths to the police because rapists prefer to not be caught. Rape victims don’t even have to be retarded and non-verbal. I’m putting myself into the mind of rapist fella and I’m sure these people already have a target in mind. Some retarded, some they know, some out of sheer impulse. I wouldn’t know really, I’m not one to rape. I’ll
I digressed once again but, lo and behold, I find an unopened multipack of KitKat bars. There were 10 individual packs. I eat 2 individual packs equating to 4 bars (if you’re unfamiliar with KitKats, they come as 2 bars but must be broken in half) in total and finish my breakfast. Somewhere along the way I drink milk straight from the bottle. Who even fucking cares about anything anymore. No one does, that’s who. No one cares so why should I be disallowed to drink a fine milk straight from the bottle.
Well since breakfast was finally out of the way, I thought I should meet up with a good buddy of mine. He’s not just any buddy of mine, he’s my father, so I call him on my 2nd phone. “Hey cool cat, it’s me. Your son, what’s the dig? We jivin’ and shuckin’?” I say with the style and swagger of a black man from the 80s.
“Say that again please.” he says with genuine plea.
My father is not a man with the skill for English unlike me; thus, I hang up the phone in a fit of rage because of his defective knowledge of the English language. He’s not a big shot like I am, no one is, so I walk from the kitchen to the living room where he’s sat watching the old boob tube. Some crappy reruns of an old Filipino action movie.
“Come, father. “Let’s take the ‘ole bike for a spin. Catcall lonesome women on the road, but let’s not rape them. I’m not one to rape and neither are you.”
My father turns off the TV
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