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See this picture? See that smile? See that goofy silliness? This is what I do whenever anyone unfollows me on Twitter. I move furniture out of the way to give myself room and then I just prance around my apartment like a little kid on his birthday! I can’t believe no one’s called the cops on me.
This is from a comedy show I hosted a little while ago. The show is called—as you can see—“Frolic!” Whenever I do this show, I (especially when I’m the host) insist on (at some point or points during the show) frolicking. Why, I simply must do it. You might wonder why I do that. It’s not up to me, man. The exclamation point on the end of the word dictates it. That’s a command! And a rather infectious one, if you ask me. And guess how many people on the show frolicked that night. Out of like eight performers, take a Wild on E! guess as to how many of them got their prancing pants on, stepped in time and frolicked like our Founding Fathers intended. One! Me! Look at that guy in that picture! Look at his stupid face! I treat these shows like the movie Speed: I’m not allowed to drop below a certain level of velocity or I will blow up. In front of the entire audience.
But back to the picture: Looks like I got the winning lottery ticket in my pocket. And what the hell’s going on with my left leg? I guess I got my wallet and my cell phone in there? I sure got a lot of shit in my pants, I’ll tell you that. It looks like I’ve got either a mini aluminum can crusher in my pocket or maybe even possibly an iron. It kinda does look like an iron. Like, the whole middle of my leg up to my thigh is a giant iron. If I ever were to replace any of my bones with titanium and had to gimp through life, I can only hope that I will have this frolicking smile on my face.
Also, if you didn’t already know the show was called “Frolic!”, you might look at the picture below and wonder: “What’s that say behind him? ‘Alcoholic!’? What kind if show is this?”

I remain
Champagne