John Mulaney: Baby J

The past couple years, I've done a lot of work on myself.

And I've realized that I'll be fine as long as I get constant attention.

I do. I love attention.

I always wanted attention.

When I was a little kid, I didn't get enough attention.

I was the third of four kids.

I have an older brother and an older sister.

When I was three years old, they pulled me aside

and they told me that I was adopted.

And that my real mother had been murdered...

...by Miss America.

They said, "If you ask our mom about it, she'll get really upset.

So don't ask her if it's true unless you want to upset her."

And they said, "If you ask our dad about it, he'll say that we're lying."

"But he's lying."

They thought of every angle.

And to compound the stress that I was under,

when I was three years old,

I thought that Miss America was the Statue of Liberty.

And that summer was 1986.

In '86 that summer on the Fourth of July, Reagan was president then,

and he gave a speech in front of the Statue of Liberty.

He was wearing a white shirt, the wind was blowing,

and he goes... "This lady is a great lady."

And I was sitting at home like, "Oh, my God."

"This goes all the way to the top."

"I'm never gonna get justice for my mother."

I always wanted attention in school,

like to a sick degree.

I really... I mean, I don't know if you guys ever had this feeling,

but do you remember when you were in elementary school, grammar school,

and a kid in your class would come to school one day

and you'd find out their grandparent had died.

And they would get, like, so much attention.

You know, the teacher would be like, "Aaron's grandpa passed away,"

- and he'd be like... - "That's right."

And we'd be like, "Aw, Aaron."

And he'd be, like, VIP for the day.

He'd be like, "Can I sit in the beanbag chair during reading time?"

We're like, "Of course, you poor fuck. You sit there."

Forget the fact that there's a laminated construction paper list

of whose day it is to sit in the beanbag chair,

and we've all been patient waiting for our day.

And let's even forget that the beanbag is there to teach us patience.

You just jumped the line.

Did you ever look at how much attention that dead-grandparent kid was getting?

And did you ever,

like me...

...hope?

Or maybe even...

...pray.

"Please kill one of my grandparents so I can get attention too."

I did. I did do that.

And some of you did, too.

And I know you did because you started laughing

from the very beginning of the joke.

If you did, don't feel too bad, okay?

Yes, it's a super dark memory.

But you were a little kid.

Also, you were a little kid,

so you probably still had, like, four grandparents.

This is a lot of grandparents.

Is this too many?

I'm... I am... I don't know, I'm asking.

Look, God damn it! I'm not saying

you pray to kill one of the important ones.

You don't want to kill your mom's mom, too special of a relationship.

And you don't want to kill your dad's dad because then your dad gets all weird.

Kids, you think your dad's weird now?

Wait for his dad to die.

Then he goes on a whole quest.

He'll wanna take more family pictures, but be angrier during them.

"Can we get one photo where we all look nice?"

We're like, "I don't think this motherfucker's doing that well."

So you don't want to kill one of the important ones.

But you could kill...

one of the unimportant ones.

You know who.

You...

You could kill your dad's mom.

Who even knew your dad had a mom?

It doesn't seem like she did a very good job.

Ask your mom if she thinks

that your dad's mom did a good job

and deserves to live.

Of course not.

She is an unpleasant older lady.

She's never done nothing for no one.

But she could now.

She could die,

between September and May.

Real talk, Boston.

When I was in elementary school, my grandma died over the summer!

It was useless.

You can't be walking into school on Labor Day,

talking about "We lost our Grandma July 17th."

"You should be over it by now. Get out of the beanbag chair!"

Well, I apologize for beginning the show on such a... dark note.

But I didn't want to start way too upbeat, you know.

I've had a weird couple years.

You've had a weird couple years.

I didn't wanna come out all phony, you know.

You're like... "Hey, Boston! It's time to laugh!"

So we can't start that way.

All right, thanks. I wrote that song.

Before I begin...

Uh, young man in the third row up there.

Uh, what's your name?

- Henry. - Henry? Okay, Henry.

- How old are we? - Uh, 11.

Eleven. Okay, ha-ha, wonderful.

You won't at all...

be distracting me throughout the entire performance.

Henry...

Oh, man.

Henry, do you... I don't mean this

in a like, "Do you know who I am?" kind of way,

but like, do you know, like who I am,

or did, like a babysitter cancel, and suddenly you were like, in a van?

You know who I am? Okay. Have you seen me do stand-up before?

Okay. All right.

Well, I appreciate you coming. So, um...

So...

...the things that I talk about...

...tonight,

that I did recently...

...I never say this, Henry. It's not...

I don't say this explicitly, but don't.

All right?

Don't.

You're in the sixth grade?

Fifth?

All right.

Well, Henry, if you've seen me do stand-up before,

I have kind of a different vibe now.

When I was a younger man, I'd come out on stage and be like, "Hey!"

And I wonder what caused that.

Well, those days are over.

That's it. That's over.

Okay.

Here's what happened.

December 18th, 2020.

Henry, you were about to go on Christmas break...

...from the third grade.

I, meanwhile, was loose in New York City,

not doing well.

Feral.

That night, December 18th 2020,

I was invited over to my friend's apartment for dinner.

Exciting, right?

No.

When I got there, it was a trick.

There was no dinner.

It was an intervention.

For me.

Interventions for me,

are my least favorite kind of intervention.

When I walked into my intervention,

I knew immediately that it was an intervention.

Do you know how bad of a drug problem you have to have,

if when you open a door, and see people gathered,

your first and immediate thought is,

"It's probably an intervention about my drug problem"?

"There's no other reason people would be behind a door."

This was my thought process, walking into my intervention that night.

"Going to dinner with a friend from college!"

"Going to dinner with a friend from college!"

"Going to dinner with a friend from college!"

"What's Seth Meyers doing here?"

"Fuck!"

Also, I was two hours late for my intervention.

Well, I didn't know people were waiting on me.

I wish I had.

I would have been a million hours late.

I was two hours late, so when I got there,

everyone was mad-der at me.

They were like, "And you're late."

I was like, "Hey, if you wanted me here on time,

you could have texted me, 'John, we have cocaine.'"

I would have been a half hour early to help set up chairs.

I was two hours late, 'cause I was running two very important errands.

First errand, I went to my drug dealer's apartment.

I'm ashamed to tell you all

I was there to buy drugs.

And I had to pay my dealer in cash, and I had to give him a bunch of cash

for some drugs I bought a couple nights before

because my Venmo was maxed out.

Did you know? Did you know you can do that?

You can max your Venmo out, on a weekly basis.

By the way, while I have you all here,

allow me to say something about Venmo

on behalf of the drug addict community.

Venmo is for drug deals.

That's what it was for.

None of us in the drug world have any clue

what all of you civilians...

...are doing on our app...

...with your public fucking transactions.

What are you, in ye olde marketplace, 1555?

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"