The Filthiest Hour: Late Night Bonus

This ain't a whole hour, you filthy degenerates — I'm runnin' on fumes tonight, so this is the Late Night Bonus. Two stories. Both fake. Both filthy. Both based on absolutely nobody real, so don't none of you go lookin'. Buckle up.(big cheer)

Story one. Eleven years driving rideshare, and one night I pick up a bachelorette party — six women, one bride, and a inflatable thing ridin' shotgun that I will not describe in detail 'cause my mama might hear this. And the bride looks at me and goes, "Driver, you're about to hear the worst thing a man's ever done." I said lady, I'm a FORTY-year-old rideshare driver, try me.(roaring laugh)

Turns out her fiance hired a STRIPPER for his own bachelor party dressed as HER. Wearin' her actual wedding dress. Off Amazon. Two-day shipping. So now I got a screaming bride in my backseat, six drunk bridesmaids chantin' "BURN THE DRESS," and one inflatable man gettin' more action tonight than the actual groom.(big cheer)

We pull up to the dude's apartment at two in the morning, and I swear to you, six women pile out of my car like a SWAT team in heels. I'm sittin' there thinkin' "my job description said drive people places, it did NOT say be backup for a war crime." I heard glass break from the parking lot. I put it in reverse. I did not wait for a tip.(roaring laugh)

Story two, motherfuckers. Thirty years I shot weddings. THIRTY. And I met every kind of monster this earth's ever cooked up, but nothin' — NOTHIN' — beats the bride I'm callin' Regina, 'cause that ain't her name and if it is, that's a hell of a coincidence, lady, lawyer up.(crowd ohhh)

Regina hands me a SEVENTEEN-page shot list. Seventeen pages. I fought for this country's freedom to take a normal amount of pictures and this woman handed me a thesis. Page nine says, and I quote, "no unflattering angles of the mother-in-law, she will know." Lady, I'm a photographer, not the FBI, I can't guarantee the LIGHT behaves.(roaring laugh)

Mid-ceremony, Regina's veil catches on a candle. Small flame. Nothin' crazy. I'm thirty feet back gettin' the greatest photo of my CAREER — bride, on fire, groom still mid-vow, not one guest has noticed yet — and Regina looks dead into my lens and screams "DID YOU GET THAT SHOT." Lady you are ON FIRE and your first question is about COMPOSITION. Respect. Actual respect.(big cheer)

I put her out with the punch bowl. Ruined the punch. Saved the bride. Nobody thanked me, but I got the shot, and eight months later that fire photo won me an award I still got hangin' in my bathroom, right next to the toilet, which feels correct.(roaring laugh)

Reception hits, and Regina's new mother-in-law — the one I wasn't allowed to make look bad — gets up to give a toast and instead just full-on ROASTS the bride for eleven straight minutes. Called her "an acquired taste, like gas station sushi." I'm behind my camera just silently prayin' to whatever's listenin', let my battery die before this gets worse — and my battery, I swear on my dogs, died at that EXACT moment. Best mechanical failure of my life.(airhorn)

Regina finds me after, mascara down to her chin, grabs my collar and goes "you better have gotten the fire photo," not "is my marriage okay," not "was that toast insane" — just the PHOTO. And that, motherfuckers, is when I learned the real secret of thirty years shooting weddings: everybody up there sayin' "til death do us part" — but deep down, every single one of 'em just wants to look good doin' it.(roaring laugh)

Now here's a real one, motherfuckers, no wink, no disclaimer — this actually happened. Every ride I ever gave, I'd turn around and go "wanna play a game?" and read a total stranger's whole personality in under a minute. Red, Blue, Green, Yellow. Did it thousands of times. Went viral doin' it. Almost NEVER missed.(big cheer)

One night I got a big, quiet dude in the back, arms crossed, starin' out the window like I owe him money. I go "wanna play a game?" He grunts. I take that as a yes 'cause I am a professional. I look him up and down for two seconds and go "you're a Red. Protector type. You'd fight a bear for a stranger and you HATE bein' told what to do."(crowd ohhh)

Dead silence. Longest ten seconds of my career. Then this six-foot-three man in my backseat just starts SOBBING. Not cryin' — sobbing, motherfuckers, shoulders goin', the whole thing. And through the tears he goes "my ex-wife said the exact same thing at our divorce."(roaring laugh)

I did not sign up for grief counseling. I signed up to drive this man to a Denny's. But now I'm eleven minutes into bein' his emotional support Uber, handin' back a fast-food napkin 'cause that's all I had, and he's thankin' me like I performed surgery. Best tip I ever got in eleven years, and all I did was call a grown man's whole marriage in five words.(big cheer)

That's the real magic trick, you filthy degenerates. The bachelorette party was fake. Regina's on fire in my camera roll but she's fake too. But that game? A thousand times over, in the back of my own car? That one's true every single time — people just want somebody to look at 'em for two seconds and actually SEE 'em. Even if what they see makes a grown man cry into a Denny's napkin.(crowd ohhh)

One more, motherfuckers, from the cleaning side of my empire. Client I'm callin' Karen — NOT her name, lawyer up if it is — leaves a NINE-page cleaning checklist and one demand in all caps: "baseboards must be edible." EDIBLE, you filthy degenerates. I run a cleaning company, not a bakery.(roaring laugh)

My crew shows up, does the whole house spotless, and Karen gets down on her HANDS AND KNEES, runs a white glove under the couch, holds it up like she found a crime scene, and goes "there's a ghost of a Cheeto under here." A GHOST. Of a CHEETO. Lady, that Cheeto's been dead longer than your marriage.(big cheer)

She refused to pay, tried to keep our vacuum as "collateral," and threatened to leave a review callin' us "domestic terrorists with a mop." We took the vacuum back at midnight like a repo man. That's the cleaning business, motherfuckers — same chaos as a wedding, just with more bleach and less crying, except mine, in the car, after.(roaring laugh)

Six drunk bridesmaids ridin' into war. A bride catchin' fire. A ghost of a Cheeto. A grown man cryin' over bein' called a Red. Three lies and one truth, and I'll let you filthy degenerates guess which is which. That's the whole bit. That's the Hammer. Goodnight, you beautiful bastards.(applause)