I moved to Washington, DC, on September 10, 2001, to begin my first “showbiz” job. You now know that during college I had interned at America’s Most Wanted, the long-running show that profiled and led to the capture of some of the most dangerous people on earth. Soon after graduating, they offered me a job and I accepted.
The first day they set me up in an office that was already occupied by another guy named Tom. So the two Toms were kept together in one place. It was a lot of Tom. The other Tom knew it and referred to our space as “T squared” and “T2.” The other Tom was an on-air reporter. He would go into the field and be seen on TV talking about one of these horrific human beings we were profiling. My job was a lot shittier.
I had the fun task of being a researcher. I had to find fugitives for us to chase. Basically, I would look up who had jumped bail or who had eluded authorities and then I would get as much info on the person as possible before pitching to our story editor why we should do a segment on said fugitive. It might sound kind of cool, but what you can’t gather is just how somber and depressing it is to research felons for twelve hours a day.
One particularly epic piece of shit had been convicted of child sex crimes in Honduras and Costa Rica, but as is customary down there, he was able to bribe his way out. He was American and we wanted to send his ass back to prison in Costa Rica. That was enough info for us to pursue him, but in this asshole’s case there was also a diary. This scum of the earth detailed his stalking, seducing, and sexual exploits with children. If you ever want to feel nauseated, read a child predator’s diary.
I pitched that we should go after this guy, and we did. They sent me to Costa Rica to work as a translator for the episode, and to this day I don’t know if we got him because I left the show after that week. I had already left DC and had just started settling down in Los Angeles to pursue my showbiz dreams. While I was down in Costa Rica I had to interview several different people for the show. I had a producer, cameraman, audio guy, and a local guide with me. Our first interview was an American man who dedicated his life to saving and helping young women who had been abused. He was so committed to this cause that he moved there and never left. Costa Rica has legal prostitution, but economic inequities have led to a lot of exploitation of underage girls. This man’s life was saving these young, abused girls. Next, they had me interview a victim who had been kidnapped, assaulted, impregnated, and neglected. Her story was so extreme and stunning that as she told me what happened to her, I cried. At first it was just a little bit. My eyes welled up and I was trying to make it go away. This girl was completely composed while she talked about the brutal things she suffered; the least I could do was hold it together. I looked up, I looked down, and then I looked at her, and the tears rolled down my cheeks, one or two to start and then the stream flowed. There was a brief moment where I thought she was going to stop telling her story but she didn’t, thankfully. She kept going and she let me cry about it. Afterward my cameraman put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze, partially to comfort me, but also it had a bit of “this might not be for you.”
AMW wasn’t all bad, though. I got to spend a good deal of time at the White House, which is a thrill at that age. After 9/11 we started sending reporters to the lawn outside the West Wing. If that doesn’t make sense to you, think about it. After 9/11 who became the Most Wanted person in the world? Bin Laden. And why the White House? Well, they couldn’t stop talking about it either. On television you see White House reporters posted up in the same area on the lawn. Every network and news channel has someone standing there. I would call people and tell them where I was.
“I’m at the White House. No, literally. I’m standing fifty yards from the West Wing on the lawn.”
I would go on about how close I was to the president and his family. I’d make jokes about snipers and national security. I didn’t realize that we were being listened to outside on the lawn until a producer told me. I could not have been the only dumb young guy saying stupid shit on the White House grounds, but I sure felt like the loudest one in that moment.
A lot of it was cool, but also something was pretty clear to me. I didn’t want to do this job for the rest of my life. I love crime stories. I love reading about them and I love watching the shows about them, but I didn’t love meeting the victims. It was all too much. I can still see that girl in Costa Rica. Even with all the jokes that I make about crimes and chaos on my podcast, they can’t cover how soft I am. They can’t mask that I’ll break down crying if the person in front of me shares a tragic story about their life. I’ve made jokes about murder and plotting to kidnap someone. I’ve gone into detail about how to evade capture and what to consider when planning a homicide, but it’s not something I want to do. It’s a fantasy world.
That’s the one thing that I feel like so many comedy fans get wrong. There’s this widespread belief that any joke a comedian makes is rooted in truth, that if a comedian says anything, on a deeper level the comic must feel that way. This could not be more inaccurate. What is true is that a comedian will say anything if they think it’s funny, and sometimes, sometimes there’s truth in the joke. A lot of times there isn’t. I remember early on inviting a girl to see me do stand-up. While onstage, I had a joke about peeing on someone. I don’t remember exactly what I said or how I got there, but I do remember saying, “And then I peed on ’em.” It was a joke. Not a brilliant joke, but nevertheless a joke. It was absurd to say in the context of what I was describing. Also, it was completely made up. I didn’t actually pee on anyone. It was also an effective statement to say onstage. I know this because everybody laughed and I kept it in my act during that time. See, that’s the thing we care about most—did people laugh? If they did, then I’ll keep saying that. After the show the girl and I hung out, and she could not stop saying, “Now I know you like to pee on people… That’s your thing, huh?” etc.
At first I laughed, but then it became apparent that she really believed it, and she couldn’t stop referencing it with a knowing look in her eye, like she’d cracked the case of the Piss Stalker. I broke it down that it wasn’t true, and then she thought I was ashamed, like I was now denying my deep, dark secret that was masked in jokes. She wanted me to know that it was okay and that she was okay with my kink. She kept telling me it was okay that I was into pee. I kept saying that I wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. She was convinced that she had uncovered this secret through her elite psychological instincts, something I’ve encountered countless times during conversations with casual stand-up fans. I was so annoyed with this chick that I’m embarrassed to say I did something I’d never done before—I peed on her. And much to my surprise, I really did enjoy it. If we ever meet and you want to give me a treat, don’t offer to buy me a drink. Let me pee on you.