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♪♪
Emcee: And now, everybody, put your hands together
and give a warm welcome to Phoebe Robinso-o-o-o-n!
[ Cheers and applause ]
♪♪
Y'all ever be Black
and date a white person from England,
so basically they're OG white?
Like, "powder wigs and stockings" white?
Like, they have that tattoo across their stomach
Tupac-style?
But instead of saying "thug life,"
it just says "Wallace and Gromit"?
Y'all ever be Black and date someone like that
and then watch a civil-rights movie together?
No?
Just me?
Don't recommend it, y'all.
I don't.
My boyfriend and I watched "Amistad."
Mm-hmm.
And by the end, I was staring at him
like he was the captain of the ship, okay?
Y'all, I swear, if it wasn't for that one shot
of Djimon Hounsou's dick,
my whole night would've been ruined, okay?
It's hard out there for interracial couples like mine.
It is.
'Cause we only get two kinds of programming,
either Black and white people
making hot Lisa Bonet babies named Quinoa...
...or sad-ass movies about evil white men
stealing jump ropes so Black people can't Double Dutch.
There's no in between.
It's just extremes, okay?
Like, it's either Olivia Pope and President Fitz
fucking in a broom closet...
[ Cheers and applause ]
...or it's just...
♪ Mm-hmm, mm-hmm-hmm ♪
And then it's just Viola Davis ugly crying
and snot flying out of her nose.
That's it. That's the whole movie.
Just 90 minutes of the Mucinex guy
just Silver Surfer-ing out her nostrils.
It's too much, y'all, 'cause whenever bae and I
are done watching these sad-ass civil-rights movies,
he's filled with white guilt, you know?
He starts trying to give me free iPhones and shit.
I'm like, "Man, I already have an iPhone.
You on my family plan."
Meanwhile, I'm so mad at him
about what Harriet Tubman went through
that my pussy just turns into Gandalf
from "Lord of the Rings."
Just like, "You shall not pass!"
It's too much.
All bae and I want is to watch something
with Black and white people in it
that isn't racism 101 or artisanal Pornhub.
That's what I call that Halle Berry movie, "Monster's Ball."
That is artisanal Pornhub.
And, look, I get the purpose of these movies about race.
I do.
We got to keep telling these stories, right,
so we don't forget the people who fought for our freedom.
I appreciate that.
I'm grateful for it.
But I can't do it anymore, y'all.
Watching civil-rights movies is a young person's game.
For real.
Like, when I saw the movie "Selma,"
that audience was nothing but young white people
in Patagonias
and young Black people who don't need arch support, okay?
They haven't marched.
They have feet like Misty Copeland, just perfect.
But when I saw "Paddington 2,"
that movie about the teddy bear in a raincoat,
it was wall-to-wall old-ass Evelyns and Walters, okay?
That theater smelled like butterscotch and disappointment
over Aunt Sylvia's mac and cheese.
It was old as fuck.
And I get it. I do.
They've lived too long. They've seen too much.
All they can handle is a teddy bear in a raincoat.
But I'm 36, and I can barely finish
a civil-rights movie anymore.
Like, if I'm gonna watch a civil-rights movie,
I got to warm up first, okay?
'Cause if I don't, by the end of that movie,
I'm starring in my own off-Broadway show,
"Guess I'm Cussing Out White People at Trader Joe's Today."
[ Cheers and applause ]
Got good reviews in "The Times," you know?
That's why I think we have to train
in order to watch civil-rights movies, you know?
We got to train the way runners do, right?
Like, if you want to become a runner,
you do a Couch to 5K program.
We should do that for watching civil-rights movies, you know?
Like, the first week, all we're watching --
"Space Jam."
That's it.
Just seeing what the Tune Squad is up to.
The next week, "Bring It On."
Okay, okay, okay.
Okay.
We're just dealing with stolen dance moves?
I can handle that.
And then the next week, "Save the Last Dance."
Alright, alright.
Okay.
We're gonna pretend this white lady
got into Juilliard with these wack-ass dance moves.
Heavy on my heart.
I'm like, "No!"
Ooh, remember when she did that tiny jump?
It was just like...
That's a mess!
But they keep making those civil rights
and slavery movies, right, don't they?
They're just cranking them out.
Underground railroad -- bang.
Being the only Black kid at a spelling bee -- bang.
Like, they have the budget to make all of these movies,
all these sad-ass Black movies, but whenever we're like,
"What about our reparations, though?"
They're like, "No phone. Who dis?"
Like, just give us the cash!
We want our reparations.
We want unmarked bills in a duffel bag.
It's 2021, and we're still waiting on that.
Now, there are obvious reasons for that, you know --
racism, the government, folks don't want to acknowledge
that enslaved people helped build this country.
You know? -Mm-hmm.
Mm-hmm.
That is the Bat-Signal for Viola.
She was like, "You need me?"
But also, you know, we as Black people have not come
to a group consensus about what we want,
and that's understandable.
It's a big deal, you know?
Like, have you guys ever tried to plan a lunch
for eight people?
You turn into a hostage negotiator, you know?
You're like, "Ma'am, ma'am,
I'm gonna need you to step away from the Grubhub.
sweetgreens is on its way. Ma'am."
So if something as simple as ordering lunch is tough to do,
then of course it makes sense that not all
Black people are on the same page
about what we want our reparations to be.
You know?
Like, some people want holidays.
Some people want the cash.
And then there are those people I hate --
those militant Black dudes on the street
who are like,
"The white man hasn't repaid us for what he stole.
I want my 40 acres and a mule."
And I'm like, "Shut up!
Shut the fuck up!"
I don't want 40 acres and a mule.
That is too much work.
I can't do Summer Fridays when I have 40 acres and a mule.
These militant Black dudes, they are ruining everything
'cause they're so loud.
They're gonna screw it all up for all of us.
Like, we got to stop them from blabbing their mouths, okay?
Like, the next time we see one on the street,
just talking about their 40 acres and a mule,
we got to just chloroform the shit out that motherfucker.
"Swipe. Sleep.
Sleep. Sleep."
Now, that was just a directive
for the Black people in the room.
Just an FYI.
I don't want no white people out here
with a chloroform rag in their hand...
...unless they just use it on themselves.
Just knock yourself out so I can walk by,
take your bus pass and $30.
Thank you.
But for real, I don't want 40 acres and a mule.
We got to update these reparations
to stuff that's gonna benefit my life.
Like, I want free Beyoncé concert tickets...
[ Cheers and applause ]
...and a Toyota Corolla with a fish tank in the back
like this is "Pimp My Ride," okay?
Xzibit hasn't worked since that show went off the air,
so this is not only a reboot but job creation.
I'm a politician now, okay?
Brooklyn, make some no-o-o-o-o-o-o-ise.
[ Cheers and applause ]
It feels so good to be out!
♪ And away from my boyfriend ♪
'Cause I can't talk to him no more, you guys!
I love him, but we quarantined for 15 months.
Just day in, day out, constant exposure.
Don't nobody want to live
the Martin Scorsese cut of a relationship.
We need to speed this up.
And, look, I get it.
No one was thriving during quarantine, okay?
Like, if you live by yourself,
I'm sure there were moments where you're like,
"You know, it'd be nice to kick it with someone."
That's real.
I acknowledge that.
But what's also real is that
if you quarantine with another person,
sometimes you just wanted them to shut the fuck up!
Hell, I wanted me to shut the fuck up, okay?
I don't have 15 months' worth of things to say.
At best, I have three weeks,
and half of that is just me going,
"Why hasn't Michael B. Jordan gotten me pregnant yet?"
I'm still trying to fill out these A-cup bras.
But when you're one-on-one for 15 months,
there's nowhere to hide, right?
All eyes are on you to help fill time with good conversation,
and it made me wish I could talk to my boyfriend
the way that I wrote my high-school term papers.
'Cause when I had a paper due and nothing to say,
I just highlighted everything in my Microsoft Word doc,
blew that up to Helvetica size 24,
and met the page requirement, right?
But you can't do that in real life.
In real life, all conversation
is Times New Roman size 11 single-spaced.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I love my boyfriend. I do.
He's my soul mate, my best friend.
But during quarantine, he was giving me major,
"Do you have a moment to talk about the environment?"
You know those guys on the street with vests,
holding clipboards, just getting in your way,
asking you questions?
That was my boyfriend.
He was just tracking all over the apartment, okay?
He was like, "Are you hungry?
Want to order out?
Do you want to watch a movie or play checkers?
Hey, I'm just checking in. I want to see how your day is."
And I was like, "Man, you have an uncut livestream feed
of how my day is going."
"Three farts, two poops.
This is the most regular I have been in my life."
But for real, I couldn't have gotten through quarantine
without him,
and it was mostly chill until the very end,
when he got COVID.
I know. When we got --
Did that sound disingenuous?
I'm working on my intention behind my words.
No, but, no, I was very stressed out.
You know, when we got the official diagnosis,
like 95% of me was like, "Oh, my God, no,"
but that 5% was like, "Ye-e-e-e-e-s!
Alone ti-i-i-i-me!"
So he had custody of the bedroom,
and I slept on the living-room couch for three weeks.
Y'all, when I packed to live in the living room...
...I packed like I was going on vacation
to Tulum, okay?
I hit up some of my girlfriends
who were also isolating from their partners,
and I was just like, "Girl, what you wearing?"
"Are we going out, or are we going out-out?
'Cause if we're only going out,
I'm just bringing yoga pants and a Brené Brown book."
But when Bae had COVID,
it taught us a lot about ourselves.
Like, I learned that I am a terrible caregiver.
And I was shocked, okay?
I was -- I swore, by the end of those three weeks,
he was gonna write a letter to "The Kelly Clarkson Show"
about my bravery,
and as a reward,
she was gonna give me a brand-new Kia Sorento.
But that's not what had happened, y'all.
And I tried. I really did.
Like, in the beginning, I delivered his meals with,
like, a spoken-word poem about how much I love him.
I was just like, "Back when we met."
But by the end of those three weeks, y'all,
I was like a waitress in a diner at rush hour.
I was just like, "No substitutions!"
"I'm busy!"
Y'all, he was my only customer,
and I couldn't handle it.
And I was shocked to learn that about myself,
because I didn't think I was gonna learn anything
in this relationship.
I didn't.
When I got into this relationship,
I thought I was just gonna point out all his flaws,
break him down as a person,
and build him back up into the man of my dreams.
But sometimes he pulls out a mirror and holds it up to me,
and I'm like, "Where did you get this mirror from?"
"Is Wayfair having a sale or something?
What's up?"
So I'm in therapy.
I am the first Black person in my Black-ass family
to go to therapy.
Now, I'm not expecting to be put on a Black History Month stamp
because of it,
but I feel like this achievement deserves something.
You know what I mean?
-Yeah. -Yeah.
Like, my portrait on a commemorative plate,
a McDonald's scholarship fund named in my honor,
Howard University dedicating a step routine to me.
They're just like,
♪ "Phoebe is conquering her ♪
Seasonal affective disorder!"
I love therapy. I do.
It's making me a better person.
I have someone to talk to when I'm stressed out,
which is great.
I feel like my dad could use some therapy.
Just so he has someone to talk to about his anxieties.
You know what I mean?
And if he doesn't want to do ther-ther, fine.
That's "therapy."
Um...
He could at least write in a journal.
You know what I mean?
Jot down all his thoughts.
Keep them to himself.
But he doesn't do that.
Instead, he sends group e-mails to the whole family,
so now his thoughts are everybody's problems.
Like, he loves sending us msn.com slide shows
where you have to click through,
like, 20 Activia yogurt ads
before you can see the next slide, you know?
It's just like, "Click, click, click, click,
click, click, click.
Oh.
Hilary Swank is one of the top-10 celebrities
who uses coupons."
I'm like... They just come in.
I get the notifications all the time.
It's annoying.
It's like, "Bing -- first it was toilet paper.
Now we're running out of refrigerators."
Bing -- "Here's the real reason why 'Entourage' star
Adrian Grenier left Hollywood."
Bing -- "Is it just me?"
Yes, motherfucker, it's just you!
The e-mail is coming from inside the house.
It's you.
Leave me alone, man.
And I get that he means well
and wants to have an open dialogue
about any and everything,
and I'm grateful to have a dad who likes to talk
because not all dads are like that,
but it's getting out of control,
because the other morning, he put the entire family
and my boyfriend on a group e-mail.
The subject heading was in all caps, and it read,
"SHOULD I TAKE TYLENOL, ADVIL, OR ASPIRIN?"
Nothing in the body of the e-mail.
I was like, "I don't know, dawg.
If you don't know, I don't know.
You are 61 years old and still worried about this?
Go to therapy, man.
Talk to a profesh."
The therapy's been good for me.
I feel like I've become a better partner,
making my relationship with my boyfriend stronger.
Like, Bae and I just celebrated our four-year anniversary.
You know I just got this hair
'cause I'm just like, "Look. Look."
Yeah, we celebrated our four-year anniversary.
It ain't the honeymoon phase anymore, y'all.
Like, we're not staying up till 5:00
in the morning, sharing feelings.
At four years in, it's like "Orange Is the New Black."
I'm just like, "Lights out, inmates!"
"I'll see you tomorrow at commissary."
"Leave me alone.
Good night."
I remember when he and I talked about moving in together.
We were long-distance at the time,
and when we had the conversation,
I didn't really know what was happening.
'Cause he has a smooth accent, so I just got caught up
and didn't realize what I was agreeing to, okay?
We were on FaceTime one night, and he goes,
"You know, I travel all the time for work,
so I think I'm just gonna save my money
and give up my apartment,"
and I was like, "Suze Orman would love this decision!"
And he was like, "Yeah, I'm just gonna give away all my stuff,"
and I was like, "Oh, he's philanthropic, too?"
And then he goes, "Yeah, and when
I'm not on the road working, I'll be here with you."
And I was like, "Oh, my God.
My boyfriend loves me so much
that he wants to spend all his free time with me."
And my friends were like, "You idiot.
He just Jedi-mind-tricked you into moving into your place."
And I was like, "Ohhhhhh."
"Is that how colonialism started?
No-o-o-o-o!"
That's how Jamaica got caught up, y'all.
So I've been colonized...
by bad teeth and foreskin.
-Ohh! -Ohh!
"Ohhh!"
You can't judge me.
I'm standing in my truth, okay?
Now, I know this isn't a life that Maya Angelou
would've envisioned for me, okay?
But still I rise.
Keeping my head up.
Now, this is my first experience with an uncircumcised peen,
and I love it.
It's great, you guys.
I know it's not common here in America,
so people tend to freak out a little bit.
Like, when I first started dating him,
and I told some of my friends about it.
I was like, "Oh, I'm dating this British guy.
It's new, but I think it could be something special."
And some of them were just like,
"Girl, you need to do a Google Image search..."
"...to see what you're about to get yourself into."
And I was like, "I'm not wasting my LTE on this.
It's fine."
Like, who's uncircumcised here?
I'm just collecting data for my census report
to give to the Biden administration.
Really, no one? Just my boyfriend?
My boyfriend is the only one with a dick
that looks like Steve Jobs pulling on a turtleneck?
Okay.
Great PowerPoint presentations.
That's all I'm saying.
For real, though, an uncircumcised peen,
it's not that big of a deal.
All it is, is an unexpected houseguest, okay?
You're throwing a party, you invite a friend,
and they bring someone that you didn't know about.
And at first you're kind of annoyed,
but then you see that person has Stacy's Pita Chips,
so you're like, "Alright, come right on in."
I'm not turning down Stacy's.
That's a quality chip.
But dating bae for this long has me thinking
that we have to stop circumcising baby boys, okay?
It's just a very aggressive thing to do
to a baby that's coming into the world,
and I believe they should be able to make their own choices
about what they want to do with their bodies.
You know what I mean?
Like, I remember when my dad told me, he was like,
"When you were a baby,
your grandma wanted to pierce your ears,
and I put my foot down.
I said, 'No.
I'm raising my daughter to be a feminist,
and she's not gonna get anything pierced
unless she wants it pierced.
She has control over her own body.'"
I mean, that's dope.
I love that he said that.
However, when my brother was born,
just fresh out the oven, he was like,
"Ugh, cut that shit off!"
So that's okay, but taking me to Claire's is a bridge too far.
Is that...?
I'm just saying, we got to stop circumcising baby boys,
and I tell some of my friends this,
and a couple of them said, "Well, you know, Phoebe,
part of the reason why we circumcise guys here
is that it's just easier to clean a penis that way,"
and I was like, "What?"
Who hasn't been cleaning their dicks?"
Is the bar so low for American men
that they can't be trusted to clean their own penises?
It's not like a Brita filter
that we all have in our fridge and never swap out.
It's your dick. It's attached to you.
This is my TED Talk. It's called "Clean Your Dick."
What are we doing?
All you got to do is dip the tip
in a bottle of Dr. Bronner's and keep it moving.
Seriously, it's not that difficult
to clean an uncircumcised penis,
and I know this because my boyfriend and I,
we take showers together sometimes.
And I got to tell ya, he's nailing it.
Okay, he is a Hall of Famer at this point, alright?
My boyfriend cleans his dick
like he is polishing a family heirloom.
Okay?
He has the white gloves on, the jeweler magnifying glass,
an appraiser from "Antiques Roadshow"
is just off to the side, giving a thumbs-up.
Like I said, bae and I,
we're constantly learning about each other,
and another thing I learned about him
is he's a sweaty dude, which is fine.
I'm a sweaty gal.
We found love in a hopeless place.
Thank you, Rihanna.
And he's always trying to find ways to be comfortable,
and I don't want to judge his process,
but I think it's getting out of hand
because I caught him in the bathroom one time
after taking a shower like this.
And what he was doing
is he had a bottle of Gold Bond powder in his hand,
and he was dumping it all over his crotch
so that, throughout the day,
the powder would absorb the sweat,
and he'd be comfortable, alright?
So he saw me and was like, "Oh, hey,"
and he went right back to it.
And I was like, "Uh...we need to unpack this.
What is going on?"
And he goes, "Oh, everyone does this,"
and he goes right back to it.
And I was like, "Mm,
I don't think this has swept the nashe."
You know what I mean?
This isn't "Despacito."
I don't think...
everyone is just furiously powdering their balls.
But all I could think as he was going to town was,
"Why don't you season your food..."
"...the way you season your dick?"
Like, weren't your people
involved in a spice trade or something?
Didn't pick up any paprika along the way?
No?
But, y'all, this is my soul mate,
and he uses so much powder that he gets it all over the floor,
and then he steps in it,
so we have Gold Bond ball-powder footprints
all over the apartment.
It's like living with a "Home Alone" villain, y'all.
I don't get it, but I don't want to say anything to him.
We try not to nag each other.
We want our apartment to be very boho and chill, you know?
Like, for instance, we like to sit on our furniture naked.
We paid for it. It's ours.
Cool. Right?
Except you can't sit on the furniture naked
if you've just powdered your balls!
Y'all, it's like every chair he gets up from,
he had, like, five seconds left to garnish a gingerbread house.
I'm like, "Is Mary Berry in the closet, waiting to judge this?
Who is this for?"
I know I make a lot of jokes about my boyfriend --
'cause it pays the bills, heh-heh --
but he's amazing, okay?
He's so smart and funny and wonderful,
and we have a really great sex life.
But all of that is him.
None of it's me, okay?
I am trash in bed.
I am.
And it's not gonna change, okay?
I retired.
My jersey's hanging in the rafters.
I had a good run.
But for real, my sex game, it needs a lot of work.
Basically, my sex game is like --
Have you guys seen those workout videos
where there's always that chick in the background
who does the modified version...
...of every exercise?
That's me in the bedroom, okay?
My name is Carol, and I'm giving a solid 37%.
Like, my favorite position is missionary, okay?
I am tired!
I need the lumbar support at my age.
I just want to lie down and be like, "Tell me a tale.
That's it."
And bae, he just, um --
he wants me to, uh, participate.
Um...
And I'm like, "Great note.
I'm gonna file that away for later."
But whenever he says that, I'm just like,
"Hon, I am the Rosa Parks of the bedroom, okay?
I'm not getting up for any white man."
"I don't know what you want me to do, babe."
Now, I know that's bad team-player energy, right,
'cause all he wants is for me to get on top.
That's it, make that one subtle change.
But I'm a nightmare on top.
Like, whatever Megan Thee Stallion
can do, I can't do.
I'm just like, "Is this it?
Is this it?
Is this it?"
And he's like, "None of that is it."
And, y'all, even getting into position
is a complete shitshow, okay?
We are never set up for success.
Like, whenever I go, "Alright, fine,
I'll get on top,"
my boyfriend get so excited that he lies down on the bed,
spread-eagle like this,
and I'm like, "Close your legs!"
"This is not 'American Ninja Warrior.'"
"Why are you creating obstacles when I'm trying to have sex
with you, you idiot?"
So I have to, like, shove his legs closed,
and then by the time I'm done dealing with his bullshit
and I get on top,
I'm immediately resting against the headboard.
I'm just like, "Wo-o-o-o-w,
the air up here is thi-i-i-i-n."
I just start breathing heavy
'cause I'm exhausted from the summit,
and I didn't pack trail mix or a Clif Bar to get me through it.
So, like, "Uhh! Uhh!"
And at this point, I've wasted so much time
that my legs start shaking.
So now he has to take over, slide me down and up his dick,
just down and up.
I'm officially the heaviest Fleshlight on the market.
And then when we're done, I just roll over
'cause I need a Gatorade and an ice bath.
It is...
I'm just wrapping my knees
like I'm Patrick Ewing from the '90s.
Just like, "We'll get them next time, Coach."
Let me tell y'all about the best night of my life.
[ Light applause ]
[ Laughs ]
Y'all need to get your shit together.
The best night of my life --
it's all because of the greatest first lady of all time.
[ Cheers and applause ]
Y'all don't know who I'm gonna say.
What if I said Melania?
What would y'all have done then?
"Lady Bird" Johnson? No?
No, it's Michelle Obama. Of course, it's Michelle Obama.
[ Cheers and applause ]
She asked me to moderate on her "Becoming" book tour,
and -- yeah, thank you.
[ Cheers and applause ]
And I couldn't believe it.
Like, her asking me to moderate on her book tour
is kind of like if Black History Month
tried to get me pregnant on Kwanzaa.
You know, just...
Feels so pretty.
I was so excited, okay?
Actually, I was very thirsty.
I was so desperate for her to like me, you know?
Like, my energy around her was that of a single auntie
at a cookout looking for fresh peen, okay?
I was just like, "Do you like potato salad?
Come with me!
Ha-ha!"
But even though I was thirsty, I still wanted to be profesh.
I read her book forwards and backwards,
wrote all my questions, studied her life for a week,
picked out the perfect outfit to wear, and, most importantly,
I picked out the perfect wig to wear for this occasion,
because Michelle is one
of the most-photographed people on the planet, right,
and I can't stand next to her on stage
wearing a busted-ass wig,
looking like a low-budget Kerry Washington.
I got to bring it for Meesh, okay?
So I picked out the right wig to wear,
and when I did that, it made me realize
I don't always bring it for my boyfriend
when it comes to my hair, you know?
Sometimes it's looking cute.
And other times, it's just, "Mm, well, this is all you got."
Like, sometimes I'll just be rocking, like, raggedy cornrows
for, like, eight weeks at a time.
They start looking like that abandoned crop field
in M Night Shyamalan's "Signs."
Other times, I'm just wearing a floppy-ass sleeping cap
and looking like the chef from "Ratatouille."
But when I put that sleeping cap on,
I like doing it because it lets bae know
this is closed for business.
Like, it's the perfect way to get out of sex.
You know, I'm just like, "Oh, babe,
I don't want to sweat my hair out."
Sleeping cap on. Night-night.
You know?
And it got me thinking, what do white women do
when they want to get out of sex, you know?
Like, what's their go-to symbol, right?
Like, they can't blame it on their hair
'cause white women's hair is built like a ShamWow, you know?
It's made to get wet and keep it moving, right?
Like, I've seen many a damp ponytail
just bopping around city,
getting lattes, okay?
So what do white women do when they want to get out of sex?
Are they just like, "Hon, I wish I could have sex with you,
but I spent all day practicing the 'Cups' song."
"Sports injury, babe."
Now, I've never been a white woman...
...but I'm pretty sure that theory checks out.
Anyway, I have my wig together,
and I ended up doing five shows with Michelle.
It was amazing.
[ Cheers and applause ]
And on the night of our last show,
we were walking back to our individual dressing rooms.
She goes, "You know, that was so fun.
What are you doing later?"
And I was like...
..."I don't know.
What are you doing later?"
And she goes, "Well, you know, since we're all staying
at the same hotel in this city, and I have friends in from town,
why don't we all just hang out in the lounge together?"
And I was like, "Yeah, that sounds cool!"
Like, not smooth at all, okay?
So I race back to my hotel room, I start changing,
and I'm immediately sort of psyching myself out.
I'm like, "Oh, man, I don't think I belong.
She's amazing. Her friends are gonna be amazing.
I'm gonna embarrass myself. I just shouldn't go."
And then I was like, "You can't ghost Michelle Obama."
Like, that's not a thing that happens.
So I was like, "Alright."
I show up to the lounge, and as soon as I walk in,
I see her with her friends, music's playing,
everyone's having a good time,
and, again, I'm psyching myself out.
I'm like, "Oh, I should leave.
I can't handle this," and I go and turn.
And then I see the food spread.
And I was like, "Oh, we about to be homeys."
The food spread was just two things, okay?
It was tequila...
and grilled cheese sandwiches.
[ Cheers and applause ]
I saw that, and I was like,
"This bi- i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-tch."
For eight years, she had us eating carrots and arugula.
And she's just been eating yellow cheese this whole time?!
But when I saw that, I got excited
'cause that's what I like to eat sometimes after stand-up shows,
so I was like, "Yas, yas-yas-yas."
And then I was like, "No,"
'cause I am lactose intolerant.
Yeah, I need a little bit of a heads-up
if I'm gonna have dairy, okay?
So I stood there, weighing my options.
I was like, "Okay, okay.
On one hand...
I could just eat nothing
and respect everyone's nostrils.
That's an option.
But on the other hand, how many times
is Michelle Obama gonna have grilled cheese with me, right?"
So I dove in, I grabbed a sandwich, I took a few bites,
I let it sit in my stomach for several minutes.
Nothing happened.
I was like, "Okay, okay, okay, okay."
I took a few more bites,
and I let it sit for another several minutes,
and nothing happened.
I was like, "Oh, my God.
Michelle Obama just cured my lactose intolerance!"
[ Cheers and applause ]
This is literal Black Girl Magic.
Fuck you, Harry Potter.
So I got cocky and shoved the rest of the sandwich
down my dumb face, and 10 minutes later,
my stomach started bubbling, and I thought,
"Oh, I can't fart in front of the first
Black first lady, right?"
Like, that's just disrespectful to all Black history, you know?
Jackie Robinson.
The Harlem Globetrotters.
The original Aunt Viv from "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air."
[ Cheers and applause ]
And it's not like I'm precious about passing gas.
It's a natural bodily function, okay?
But Michelle doesn't know me like that,
so I don't want the fart to make it into the highlight reel
of what she remembers about me.
But for anyone else, if I got to let her rip,
toot-toot, beep-beep, okay?
Like, I have definitely farted during sex with my boyfriend,
and not a tiny Betty Boop, "Ooh,"
where I could hide it, okay?
I'm talking a full-on game of "Duck Hunt,"
just, "Pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow!
Brrrrrrrat! Brrrrrrrrat!
Why is that dog laughing?
Bam, bam, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow, pyow!
Brrrrrrrrrat!"
Just 50 clips of farts
over my boyfriend's balls,
powder flying everywhere.
It's like LeBron James at the NBA finals.
But I can't do that to Michelle Obama.
She's too classy for that.
So I did the only thing I could do in that moment.
I just clinched my butt cheeks.
Y'all, it was like Season 6 of "Game of Thrones," okay?
I was just like, "Hold the door!
Hold the door! Hodor!
Hodo-o-o-o-o-r!"
This went on for three hours.
[ Audience groans ]
Mm-hmm.
The party ends and then I race back to my hotel room
and I go into the bathroom.
I'm just like... [imitating farting]
[ Cheers and applause ]
I just let out like a three-minute
Louis Armstrong jazz solo
into my toilet bowl,
and that's how I ended the best night of my life.
This has been the best night of my life!
Thank you guys so much!
[ Cheers and applause ]
♪♪