When I was six, I wanted to be a comedian. That was it. I thought I was so fucking funny with my little six-year-old jokes and I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to earn my keep by making people laugh.
The jokes? Yeah, I’m pretty sure people only laughed because I was absolutely adorable. The jokes weren’t that funny. For example, take this gem, a favorite of my six-year-old self:
One day a little boy was talking to God. He asked how long a minute was for God. God replied, “A minute for me, is one million years.” The little boy thought about this one for a minute. Then he asked, “God, how much is a penny worth for you?” God answered, “A penny is worth one million dollars for me.” The boy thought about this for a minute then asked, “God, can I have a penny?” God replied, “In a minute.”
Yeah. See? Not that funny.
Of course, being a devious little six-year-old, I did have a whole assortment of totally inappropriate jokes I would tell the kindergarteners. You remember the ones? They were all full of sexual innuendo and mentioned daddy parking his car in mommy’s garage? No? Oh well.
And yet somehow I mostly stayed out of trouble. Sure, I got in trouble in Kindergarten when I put my backpack on my head and wandered around talking and walking like a robot just so I could make some cute boy named Shawn laugh (All the cuties in grade school were named Shawn or Justin. ALL of them). But, really? That’s not so bad is it?
What where the aspirations of your six-year-old self?