Howie Mandel

We love the sparkling, speckless, spotless, spic-n-span, sanitary.

It sucks that no one gets you, Howie. They just don't comprehend

that they carry so many—too many—estranged anti-

bodies. How don't they see that the finger-

prints on a glass are chancy, too chancy, that those swirly

smudges from their own damn hands get so close—too

close—to uniting with your lips as you drink your

perfectly purified Fuji water. They are so naïve, so ignorant,

and they don't see that you spray your bed with Lysol everyday

because when they sit on your bed, their ass

germs are rankling where you sleep. You'd understand

if I said that I can't lend you a pencil because if your hand—

which just touched that desk that you share with sloppy

society—held my pencil, that pencil would contact

all my other pencils in my specific Ticonderoga pencil

case and ruin me? They don't see that it's not so

funny, that we're not always

comedians. You understand why I can't offer

you a handshake or walk within a nine and

three-sevenths-inch radius of you, Howie. Right?