Your Children Aren’t Special

"I don't know with all the margaritas we buy we can afford a child, honey!" And I'll go you one further. And this is the one, folks. This is the idea that has made me virtually an anonymous figure in America for the last 16 years. I have watched my crowds dwindle. I am going nowhere and nowhere quick. If you have children here tonight, and I assume some of you do, I am sorry to tell you this: they are not special.

Oh, wait, wait, wait, hold on! Let's not have any- wa-wa-wait! Don't misunderstand me. I know a lot of y'all, "What? Well, I don't..." No, wait, wait. Let's be clear on this. I know you think they're special. Ha ha ha ha! I'm aware of that. I'm just trying to tell ya... they're not! Ha ha ha ha!

Did you know that every time a guy cums, he cums two hundred million sperm? Did you know that? Two hundred million sperm. And you mean to tell me you think your child... is special? Because one out of two hundred million sperm, that load... we're talking one load... connected? Gee, what are the fucking odds? Two hundred, you know what that means? I have wiped entire civilizations off of my chest... with a gray gym sock! THAT is special! Entire nations have flanked and crusted in the hair around my navel! Maybe even Gidea! THAT is special! And I want you to think about that you two egg-carrying beings out there... with that holier-than-thou "we have the gift of life"... attitude! I've tossed universes... in my underpants... while napping! Boom! A milky way shoots into my jockey shorts. Oh! What's for fucking breakfast?