I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter WEE WOO WEE WOO ALERT! COMEDY GOD HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING! GET TO COVER! steps on stage Bystander: "Oh god! Don't do it! I have a family!" Comedy God: "Heh..." adjusts fedora the building is filled with fear and anticipation God and Jesus himself looks on in suspense comedy god clears throat everything is completely quiet not a single sound is heard world leaders look and wait with dread everything in the world stops nothing is happening comedy god smirks no one is prepared for what is going to happen comedy god musters all of this power he bellows out to the world "ATTACK" absolute suspense everyone is filled with overwhelming dread "HELICOPTER" all at once, absolute pandemonium commences all nuclear powers launch their nukes at once giant brawls start 43 wars are declared simultaneously a shockwave travels around the earth earth is driven into chaos humanity is regressed back to the stone age the pure funny of that joke destroyed civilization itself all the while people are laughing harder than they ever did people who aren't killed die from laughter literally the funniest joke in the world then the comedy god himself posts his creation to reddit and gets karma

Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink. "Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave. Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette. "Got a spare?" she asks. "What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles. "Conversation with me, duh." I laugh. "What's so funny?" she protests. "Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?" "You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter. "What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask. "Teaching, I think." "And if I was your student, what would I be learning?" "Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?" "Bermuda," I say. "Oh wow. That's lovely." "It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking." "What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires. "I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."