Never Mind the One-Liners
Neal, it’s almost Christmas and you’ve given me the best gift I could possibly ask for. You never come over anymore.
Seriously though, folks, every night I get into bed, I take off my clothes and I read one of Neal’s books and I laugh myself hysterical. Last night, I got into bed with my clothes on and somehow Neal’s books weren’t funny anymore.
Hey, but look at all the famous people that came out for Neal tonight.
Milton Berle. Miltie, it’s wonderful to see you. Milt can’t stay long. The Texaco team is coming by tomorrow to do his hair.
Phyllis Diller’s here tonight. She thinks we’re having an intervention.
Neal’s really a great guy. His motto is “Love Thy Neighbor.” His neighbor is an 18-year-old Russian hooker.
Ha, ha. I kid.
Neal, Neal, Neal. You have a nice personality, but not for a human being.
What I like best about you, Neal, is that you have a ready wit. Tell me when it’s ready.
The more I think of you, the less I think of you.
“Greatest living writer?” That’s pretty bold of Neal, calling himself “living.”
Neal, your schtick is over. I haven’t seen something this stale since my nightclub act.
I read your Anthology. You owe me 15 bucks and twenty-six minutes of my life back.
I picked up Never Mind the Pollocks in the bookstore, and I asked the clerk, “How much for the book?” He said “12 dollars.” I said, “How about six?” He said, “I’ll pay it!”
Neal does everything: he writes books, he plays music, he runs a blog. It’s so hard to say what kind of work he’s out of.
But seriously, I miss Neal Pollack’s blog—as often as I can.
Look at you, Neal. You look like a talent scout for a cemetery. Where did you get your haircut, the pet shop?
I kid, I kid.
Heh? What? What do you mean I’m dead? I can’t be dead—Oh. Oh, I am dead. Shit. That’s really a drag. I was just starting to have a good time tonight.
Take my life. Please.
Ha, ha, what? Nothing?
If I had blood, I’d blush.
Wow, tough crowd.
Well, good night, folks. Looks like I’ve got to return to Hell. Pollack, I’ll save you a seat.