Hubris, Hamartia or HELL YEAH?

We’re all gathered at the Colosseum today to talk about the unsettling allegations against people in my position. And you know that position: dick out.

I’m a producer — I mean, a comedian. Oh, wait, I’m an actor, director…err…politician? Probably a member of the Senate (the one in the 8th century BCE, not 2019. Although, what’s the difference — am I right?) or a FUCKING GOD.

Doesn’t matter — I’m a man’s man and probably white (or I’d be in prison — privilege, lol!). But, at our cores, we’re all men on our own personal Odysseys, right? I don’t know — that kind of existential thought is Plato’s field — not mine. I’m too busy MAKING history instead of THINKING.

But you know who I am — obviously. How couldn’t you? I’m basically a stand-in for you, the everyday man just trying to get his Sisyphean rocks off. And you know we powerful-but-“disgraced” men have been out of the limelight for a bit: recalibrating, recharging, reinvigorating, reoffending, other ‘R’-‘E’ words that don’t include rectal, rebranding, or remorse.

And, honestly, I’m sick of this witch hunt — Circe lives on AEAEA, by the way, idiots — going on in government and Hollywood and the New York comedy scene or anywhere I tend to whip out my dick indiscriminately — I mean, the bathhouse? Or wherever I clamber on top of women without permission. Or grab their pussies? I mean, I can’t remember exactly what I did — male revisionist here! — but I know it was inappropriate (to those ungrateful hags — I’m looking at you, Daphne) and sexually gratifying for the one person who matters: ME.

Everyone keeps telling me if I continue with this behavior, something bad will happen, but I know that’s bullshit since this isn’t an epic poem written by Homer — it’s just MY LIFE and its EPICNESS is downright fucking POETIC. And the only “Homer” involved is the home-fucking-run that is every day I WAKE UP. Plus, I know a family member will cover for me a la Artemis and Apollo (again, FUCK YOU, Daphne).

I don’t need an oracle at Delphi to predict how my life is going to go — what do women know about prognostication anyway? They didn’t predict the 9/11 or the rise of Isis. See? Useless outside of being vessels for my amazing art, err, policies — I mean, jokes? Which, really, are a form of art. Have you seen the curve of my forearm when I do the squeeze and release motion? Have you seen the words I ejaculate onto a page which are then presented to the Senate (they’re a joke, too)? Or the airwaves? Or the Comedy Cellar? They’re basically a Polykleitos sculpture: violent and weirdly sexual — or just misunderstood?

And that’s the big problem with all of these all women diviners — they’re too busy being bothered by what MIGHT happen instead of listening to ME tell them what ACTUALLY has happened. If they misunderstood my greatness this badly, how do they expect to correctly predict the future? How can they be diviners if they aren’t even DIVINE, a.k.a. DUDES?

Not to get too scientific with you all (I know you have issues keeping up with me), but how can any woman hope to predict the future when the very Proto-Indo-European root of the word “divine” is “Dyeus” which literally means Dude God a.k.a. ME? They don’t even have dicks — except for the ones who do. But that doesn’t make them better than me. Checkmate, lady prophets.

We’ll see how this epic plays out, but if you’re not holding your breath for anything to change, I can honestly say: me too.