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- You may be seated.

You know,

when some comedians
start off their set,

they will say something like,

"Let me tell you
a little bit about me."

Well, this...

is my version...

of that.

My mother had me
when she was 42.

Because before that age,
she was...

- busy.

See, my mother
made the money in our house.

She was 12 years older
than my father

and refused...

to legally marry him.

What does being a woman
mean to me?

It means being a man.

In our house,
when Mother kissed us goodnight,

- she kissed us twice.

Once for the evening and...

once to make up for not
being there the next day.

But don’t fret on me,
Los Angeles, no.

See, I was raised
by my real mom.

Mi madre real.

Gloria Lopez Cabrera.

- That's right, she taught me
everything that I know.

She is the reason why
when I burn my hand,

instead of saying, "Ow!"

I say, (hisses) "Ay!"

But let's go back even further.

The year was 1995,

and Mommy and Daddy
wanted a boy.

So genetic engineers
sorted through my father's...

- genetic material...

and eliminated
all of the sperm

with the XX

"female" chromosomes.

All but one.

Nine months later,
Mama's little boy arrived a girl

as a reminder to my parents

that if they
wanted to play god,

they'd have to deal
with the devil herself.

So that's why
when people ask me

if it's tough being
a female comedian

so outnumbered by men,
I just tell them,

"Baby, this ain't
my first fuckin' rodeo."

- Let's begin.

Anybody ever done DMT?

Alright...

For those of you who don't know,

DMT is a psychedelic chemical

released in all of our brains...

- when we die.

Say what you will about the guy,

nice of God to sprinkle
that in there, huh?

He was like, "Yeah,
you know, unfortunately,

human beings,
you guys do, eventually..."

"...have to die. But, uh..."

"...right before you do...

"you're gonna fucking

- live."

Me, I don't do
drugs much anymore

because I smoked
Los Angeles chronic marijuana

four-plus times a day

- during vital stages
of my brain’s development.

So I am what scientists

and doctors have referred to

in several articles
and medical journals as...

"ruined." And my friends,

they try to get me
to do mushrooms

and acid with them.

They say...

that it will expand my mind.

Okay, one time
I saw a spider’s web

with drops of rainwater
caught in it,

and I stared at it so long,

I was one hour
and 45 minutes late to work.

- My boss said, "Hannah,
this is unacceptable.

I expect more from you."

I said, "Miss Valdez...

"who told you to do that?

"We work at a coffee shop
in the epicenter

"of West Hollywood
elitist douchebaggery.

"I serve one purpose
in this establishment.

"I boost the morale

-"of the other baristas.

"I’m comic relief, baby.

"Nothin' more, nothin' less.

"So do you want me
to be on time,

"Or do you want me
to prevent Victoria

from murdering the third lead
on a CW show?"

And second of all...

and most importantly...

the spider’s web is more

than just a habitat
for the spider.

It is designed by nature
as a mechanism for death,

designed to kill,
but what finds itself trapped

in the spider's web but water,

the essence of life?

I looked up from
the spider's web

and saw the sun shining through
a leaf on a tree,

causing it to wither
and fall to the earth dead,

where, ironically,
the tree couldn't have grown

in the first place were it not
for the very same sun

responsible for
the leaf's death.

If I do acid,
I will never come back.

When I die, and I plan to,

I am going to donate
my body to science,

so they can study the effects
drug use has had on my brain.

But mostly, if I'm being honest,

‘cause I think those nerds
deserve to see a 10

- naked in the flesh
for once, am I right?

I smoked all that weed
to take the edge off of

the 40 milligrams
of Adderall I took

every day for six years.

And I'm pretty excited.

The neurodivergentissance
is upon us, folks!

- ADHD is hot right now, y'all.

Woo, ADHD Army, baby!

- Worst army ever.

Everybody's setting their alarm
for p.m. instead of a.m.,

- they missed the damn battle!

The sergeant's like, "Maggots!

- What was I just talkin' about?"

Here's what I think.

I think
the gross overprescription

of amphetamine-based stimulants

to increase productivity
under capitalism

has tricked people into thinking
that everyone has ADHD,

when really,
most people just hate their jobs

- and need to be
high on drugs to do them.

- And--

And when you have ADD and ADHD,

everyone in your life

will tell you that
you should...

- meditate.

In an attempt to gain

some sense of mental control.

But, because I have ADHD,

every time I try to meditate,

the inside of my brain

sounds like this.

♪ Here we go ♪

♪ Let the bodies hit the floor,
let the bodies hit the... ♪

♪ Floor! ♪

- So I don’t do it.

Last week, after 15 years
of seeing my therapist,

she suggested
that I try hypnosis.

Okay, not really landing
with the crowd. No problem.

It’s all good.
I’m gonna go ahead.

- I’m gonna rephrase it for ya.

I have the power to do that.

I’ll go right ahead.
Here we go.

Okay, so last week...

...after 15...

- years...

of seeing...

a medical professional...

she suggested...

that I see...
a magician!

So that she could cast
a spell on me!

Let’s be clear.
It should not cost

US dollars to be hypnotized.

It should cost
an eccentric favor.

Like I should go to pay for it

and the hypnotist
should be like,

"Oh no, my child.

"For it is not money
that I seek.

"You must carry a pig
to the top of a mountainside

"and let it drink from
the stream there every day

"at sunset until the full moon!

- Or CashApp.
It was a long year."

I’m like, "Great, what's
your CashApp?" She's like,

"Oh, it’s just my name."
I'm like, "Okay, well,
what’s your name?"

She's like,
"Oh, it's actually..."

But enough about me.

Let's talk about you!

By round of applause,

how many of you here tonight

genuinely believe
that you are...

a good person.

Okay, seems a bit high, um--

Listen, I'm with the folks
who didn't clap.

I, uh, I know
for a fact that I'm not...

a good person.

I'm really only
a good person on paper.

You know, like, um,
like I’m a vegan,

I drive a Prius,
voted for Bernie Sanders.

Thrice.

But I didn’t do
any of those things

out of the goodness of my heart,
you know?

I mean, what,
you think I’m a vegan

because I care about
the lives of innocent,

voiceless animals
slaughtered every day? No!

No, I’m a vegan

because I wanted
to reduce my risk

of getting cancer,
but didn't wanna give up

huffing paint.

You think I drive a Prius

because I care
about the environment?

45 bucks for the whole tank,
my guy!

- Money!

You think I voted for Bernie

because he'd been
on the right side of history

since the beginning
of his political career

and that a Sanders presidency
would uplift the most neglected

and deserving Americans
on the dollar of the 1%

- and evil corporations? No!

I voted for him
because he had the best body.

- Bernie Sanders,
I love that crazy guy.

He emails me!
Signed up for the blast.

And, uh, those subject lines
are out of fucking pocket.

Bernie emailed me last week, and
the subject line was literally,

"Hannah, it's not good!"
I was like,

yeah, we know.

In 1949, a man
named Alfred Steferud

wrote an article in
the USDA Journal of Agriculture,

and in it, he recommended
that city and urban planners

only plant trees
of the male variety

because he said,
"Trees of the female variety

"littered cumbersome
seeds and fruit

that made
the streets unbecoming."

So, of course, in America
in 1949, they were like,

"Ew! We don't want
these bitch trees..."

"...to get their periods
on the sidewalk!"

"Gross!"

And so, it was done.
If you can believe it,

in 1949, in cities
across this country,

almost exclusively
male trees were planted,

where the number of people
with seasonal allergies

at the time was 15 million.

That number today
is upwards of 230 million,

and no one...

has them worse...

than me. I am allergic

to pollen, dust, gluten, dairy,

all animals with fur, feathers,
grass, stone fruit,

medical contrast, amoxicillin,
red dye number 40,

and, according to my ex,

- the touch of a man. Now...

We all know that trees filter
toxic chemicals in the air

through pores in their leaves

and rerelease cleaner air.

But what I've gathered
everyone tonight to discuss...

...is where the chemicals

that the trees absorb end up.

- Well...

if we had planted girl trees,

who don't...

produce pollen...

at all...

And a hush fell over the crowd.
Yeah!

The chemicals would've been
transferred to the seeds

that fall off the trees
and roll down into the gutter,

but since we had to plant

- these fuck-ass boy trees!

Guess where the chemicals

that the trees absorb end up?

In the pollen.

You wanna talk to me

about toxic masculinity?

You guys are breathing
in a tide pod

every time you walk out
the front door!

And I’m not the type of person

to bring up a problem
without proposing a solution.

And I think it’s pretty clear
in this case.

- Goodnight!
No, can you imagine?

We gotta kill all those trees.
Listen!

I’m not talkin' about

the trees in
the wild, baby! No!

I'm not talking about them.
They operate under a system

so intricate, I do not have
the time to get into it.

"No, Hannah,
please get into it!" Okay!

Trees in the wild operate under
essentially botanical communism.

They distribute nutrients
through their roots

based on which tree needs what.

Trees here will warn trees miles
and miles away of predators,

so that those trees
can emit a substance

that makes
their bark taste weird.

That's right.
They're sending messages.

Messages underground.
Trees have access to language.

And you guys are just
sleeping at night? I'm up!

Trees in the wild
are intricate societies,

all helmed upon the power
of the feminine mother trees,

and we must protect them.

- But these city fuck boys?

What could they possibly
be talking about down there?

- They're all men.

It probably sounds
like an episode

of "The Joe Rogan Experience."

- Kill them!

And the bees
are working overtime!

I saw a bee pollinating
a flower 11:45 at night.

- I said, "Clock out, king,
you're working too hard!"

Oh, my God!
Bees are pathetic!

"Gotta work, gotta work,
gotta work for the queen,
gotta work for the queen."

- She doesn't think
about you at all!

Save the bees? Yeah,

from a polyamorous
monarchical tyrant!

Fifteen more minutes of this?

No, but we do. We do have
to save the bees, you guys.

In all seriousness.
No bees?

No crops.

No crops?

No food.

No food?

Skinny!

- No! No!

- No!

No.

No, we gotta save them.
We gotta save them.

Um, and they are being--
They are being killed,

and really, mostly, it's climate
change killing the bees, folks.

I hate to-- I hate to say it,
but it's the truth.

Climate change is here.

It's not happening soon.
It's happening now.

- Tonight, tonight, tonight.

Everything must go.

And humanity is,

aside from everyone
in this room...

Humanity is a toxic...

abusive...

- husband.

And climate change

is just Planet Earth...

recognizing...

her worth

and filing for a divorce.

And you wanna know what I think?
As a friend.

- Good for her! Good for her.

- I imagine Planet Earth

on the 11th story
of a New York City
apartment building,

throwing humanity's
shit out of the window

onto the sidewalk
like Marisa Tomei

- in "My Cousin Vinny."

Just goin'...

"4.5 billion years
I put into this!

"And what? You think
you could just pollute me

without protection, and then
move on to another planet?"

"G'head! G'head!

"You wanna go to Mars?
Go to Mars!

"Frack that bitch for all
she's fuckin' worth!

"Which, by the way,
is fuckin' nothing!

"She can't give you
half of what I gave you!

"She doesn't even have water.
Me? I'm 71%

"and fuckin' rising,
thanks to you,

you fuckin' bastard!"

-"I cook for you.

"I clean for you.

"I put a roof over your head,
and what have you given me, huh?

"Couple of ex-cons doin'
a beach day clean-up

"from 11 to 3 on Saturdays?
Fuck you!"

Don't worry, guys, it's just me.

That...

That was the Earth.

Now, this...

...is the sun.

That was the Earth.

This...

- is the sun. Here we go.

Don't look at me!

- Okay, so that was the sun.

Now...

this...

is the moon.

Hello...

Oh!

Did you just notice me?

I’ve been watching you.

I’ve been here since 3 p.m.

Tell me.

How does it feel

to be warmed by
the glow of the sun?

I’m so cold.

Now, bleed! Bleed!

I don’t know, I just get
that vibe from her.

Would you believe it,
that reminded me

of something
totally unrelated?

I’d like to share with you now

a recently resurfaced
repressed memory of mine.

The year was 2009.

My day started the way
it always did.

I was 15 years old.

I woke up with
a slamming migraine.

I took my Adderall with coffee
to make it subside.

I drove to school,

where I smoked weed
in the parking lot with a kid

whose legal government name

was Legend Waters.

And I came to

while sitting in
my 7th period English class.

When, suddenly...

I felt the concave seat

of my desk chair

fill to the brim

- with a mystery liquid.

I ran through the list of what
it could be. Number one...

- number one.

But no, it couldn't be that.

I would've understood
that that needed to happen.

Well, the only other liquid

that had been
produced by my body

up until this point
in time was...

tears, but I was on such

a high dose of Adderall,
that sort of emotional range

would not have been
possible at the time.

Finally,

I looked down,

and I saw...

- blood.

- I thought, dear God.

This could only be one thing.

- My liver is failing!

Yeah, I thought
my liver was failing

because I was really into
the hospital drama "House"

- at the time.

That's always what that means

on that show.

But, no. This was it.

In a room full of people,

I was alone.

I couldn't use my cell phone

to text a friend

because I didn't have
a cell phone,

- and I didn't have friends.

So I sat there,

in a pool of my own blood,

not moving a muscle,

not making a sound

for an hour and 45 minutes,

until it was safe.

The bell rang.
Mrs. Deaver said,

"Ah, ah, ah! Class is not over
when the bell rings.

Class is over
when I dismiss you."

What a cunt.

- What?

The bell rang.

Finally, she let the class go.

All the students rushed out,

aside from one who stayed behind
to ask Mrs. Deaver a question,

and she approached
her desk to do it,

blocking me from sight.
This was my out.

I slid outta there
like butter on hot toast.

- I slid outta there

like a 110-pound teenage girl

covered in blood.

But I was now faced
with a new problem.

I was out in the world,
naked and afraid,

like a newly hatched iguana
on a beach

filled with predatory snakes
blocking my voyage to the ocean,

and thus my freedom.
Vulnerable. And, once again,

- alone. Until...

Rod Shayan approached me.

"Hey, dude," he said.
"What's up?"

I said, "Nothing.
What's up with you?"

He said, "What are you hiding?"
I said, "What are you hiding?"

He turned me around,

and he saw... everything.

He began to laugh.
I began to laugh...

- slash cry.

I said, "Rod,
you have to help me!"

So he stopped laughing,

he took off his hoodie,

he tied it around my waist,

and he walked me
to the principal's office,

helped me call my mom,

and when her car pulled up,
he put me inside.

And just before we drove away,

he bent down next to
the passenger's side window,

and he went like this...

- I rolled it down.

Nah, I'm just kidding.

He said, "Don't worry about it,
dude, I got four sisters.

Definitely stock up
on some chocolate.
I'll see ya tomorrow!"

- And then he tapped
the back of the car?!

Like we were a shipping
container full of goods?

Once a month,

at a time that is random...

and never the same,

I get a pang in my uterus,

I lock eyes with the moon,

and I shed my human skin

and become a beast.

Am I right, ladies?

And there's this thing
in the zeitgeist,

in film and television,

where a woman's being insane,
and a man says,

"Are you on your period?"

And she kicks him
through a glass window.

- And that's her right.

But speaking for myself,

always,

once a month,

I am on the verge
of assassinating

an elected official,

- murder-suicide style.

And then, someone in my life

comes to me, out of the goodness
of their heart,

and they say, "Hey, Hannah!

-"How you doing?

"Totally. So, we just--

"A couple--
We've just been worried.

"We're talking.
We're worried about you.

"Um, we just wanna know
what's up, what's going on

"because we just--
Yeah, we've been
listening to some of the,

"um, just the--
It's not a problem.

"Just some of the stuff
you're doing and saying

"is, is, is frightening.

"So, we just-- And by the way,
this is a dialogue, right?

"We wanna hear from you!

-"But, uh...

"is there any, uh, chance
that you are, um--

"Just 'cause I know
there's, like, um, like a cycle,

there's, like, several,
like, several, um, phases--

"And by the way, by the way,
it's like, I wanna be wrong.

"You know what I'm sayin'?
I want to.

Um, I'm hoping I--
Whoa! Hey now.

"I just wanted to clarify,

"are you, um,

"are you, uh, (exhales)...

a-are you on your period?"

Now, you gotta understand
the entire time

this person is talking to me,
I am feral. I'm fucking--

I'm like Benedict Cumberbatch

doing motion capture
for "The Hobbit."

They're like, "Are you on
your period?" I'm like...

"You know what? Probably.
Wow. Thank you.

"That was-- Wow. You really
helped me with that.

-"That...

-"You, uh...

"You threw a rope down to
the bottom of the well there,

-"didn't you? (laughs) Woo!

"Almost did somethin' bad,

"so thank you, um, for that.

"And by the way, it's like,
now we're asking questions,

"it is a dialogue for sure,
um, do you know

"if a package that is in transit

- can be stopped?

"What's that? Washington.

Let me know. (laughs)"

People come up to me
after the shows, not to brag...

and they always say
the same thing.

They say to me, "Hannah...

How come you hustle so hard?"

They say,
"It seems like with you,

the grind never stops."

I say, it's simple.

There's a reason for that.

It is as follows.

From the ages of 9 to 14,

I was an all-star
competitive cheerleader. Clap!

Now, I hope this goes
without saying,

I have respect for every member
of this audience.

I have respect for the patrons
of the El Rey.

I have respect for the citizens

of the greatest city
on this planet,

- Los Angeles, California.

But hear me when I say...

not one of you motherfuckers

would last half a day
at cheer practice,

- you understand me?!

If the conditioning
didn't break you,

the psychological warfare
surely would.

I don't think you understand.

I had a teammate, Suzanne.

She fell out of the pyramid
during a competition,

and when she got off stage,
she was so angry

that she walked over
to a concrete wall,

kicked it,
and shattered her foot.

Yeah, you know
where she works now?

The Pentagon.

Guess who’s paying
for that six-point deduction

at Nationals?

Libya, probably.

That same competition, another
girl was flying in a stunt.

She wobbled, that's a deduction.

She locked eyes with my coach
in the front row,

and she began to piss...

- in the air...

out of fear.

You wanna talk about
cheerleading's not a sport?

You're right.
It's not a sport.

It's a subsect
of the United States military.

You think I wanna be
doing this, folks?

You think I wanna be
doing stand-up comedy?

This is pathetic!

- I used to be a champion, man!

I tasted glory!

Cheerleading ruined...

my body, okay?

When I bend down,
my knees sound like

a gambling addict
juggling dice.

Oh, does that hurt to hear?
I'm 28!

I'm bisexual.

- That hasn't really been
my experience, um... Hm.

You know,

I would argue
that upwards of 90%

of all comedians get on stage,

and talk almost exclusively

about the difference

between men and women.

But how many of them

actually know?

- I am in the trenches.
I am collecting research.

- I am gathering data.
I'm risking my life!

And I'm here
to tell you, folks,

the results are in!

Men are idiots
and women are annoying!

The battle of the sexes
is a draw!

Fuck you, and fuck you!

All y'all pissing me off.

Bisexuals.
Everybody wants us,

- but no one "wants" us.

The straights
don't claim us.

The queers certainly
don't claim us.

Hey, lesbians!
What did we ever do to you

besides lead you on
and break your heart?

Why are you mad, I wonder?

How else can I say this.

Bisexuals are the Jews
of the LGBTQIA+ community.

- Is that tracking?

Everyone's like,
"Ugh, bisexuals!

"They're just shape-shifting
maniacal villains.

They're not one of us!"
Ring a bell, Jews?

Privacy is hard
to come by these days,

- wouldn't you say, folks?

Wouldn't you say?
I mean,

it's like you can’t even
sit in front of a fountain,

with your head in your hands,

rocking back and forth sobbing

without somebody coming up,

taking a picture,

and captioning it,
"current mood."

- You just can’t get
a moment alone.

And I think social media
has everything to do with this.

I heard a young woman
on the phone the other day.

I think her conversation
proves my point.

"So did I tell you
Mila uninvited me

"to her birthday brunch?

"Yeah, no, I know.
Like, fully criminal.

"It was all set up,
and then the night before,

"she calls me and goes,
sorry, Sav.

"I think I’m just
gonna go with my parents.

-"I mean, I was pissed,
but I didn’t say anything.

"Anyway, the next day, guess
who's in the background

"of Kate’s Snapchat story
at 1:27 p.m.

-"at Catch in West Hollywood.

"This bitch.

"There’s more.
Instagram, 2:00 p.m.,

"Kate uploads
a picture of the two of them
with the caption,

"‘Happy birthday to my BFF,
heart star champagne emoji.'

Did she think I wasn't
gonna see it?"

I like to think that
if the same situation

had occurred in,
say, the year...

- 1931...

it would've gone down
a little more like this.

"Hello, Maude?"
"Oh hiya, Blanche!

Say, what’s the news
fit to print?"

"Listen, Maude, you remember
that little soiree

we had planned, dontcha?"
"Oh sure!

You still wearing that
little red number? Hot dog!"

"Well, honey, Mommy and Daddy
say no can do.

Say it'd be better
just the three of us."

"Oh, that’s just fine, Blanche!
Just fine indeed."

"Well, so long!"
"So long!"

And that's it.

Those women go
their separate ways

and figure out what to do

with their very recent

right to vote.
They are busy.

Look, I don't know what it was
like being a woman in the '30s,

and I don't claim to,
but I have cried

while washing the dishes before,

and I think that's close!

I'd like to say something to you
now that we say in my culture.

It is a word that means hello.

It is a word that means peace.

It is a word that means goodbye.

The word, of course,

is shalom.

Shalom in the front.

audience:
Shalom.

- Shalom on the sides.
- audience: Shalom.

Shalom up top.

- audience: Shalom.

Everyone, please,
say it with me.

all:
Shalom.

That is all the Hebrew
that I know.

I’m a bad Jew,

and that fact dawned on me
at a very difficult moment.

I was at my grandmother's
funeral, a Jewish service,

and as it came to a close,
the rabbi signaled to us

to join her in a final prayer.

She and everyone around me
began to sing.

I panicked.

- For I did not know the prayer.

But then...

just then...

the clouds parted,

and as if God himself

shined his light of
knowledge upon me,

I began...

to sing.

But how could I possibly know
the prayer?

The melody.
Every single lyric.

I looked back to the sky.

A single tear
fell from my eye.

And then, I realized.

"Oh, this is just the last song
in 'Schindler's List.'"

And if you can believe it, that
wasn't the strangest thing

that happened that morning
at the cemetery.

Before the service started,

the hearse driver
in charge of the casket

gave my older sibling and I
a tremendous amount of trouble

when we volunteered
not only to be pallbearers,

but to carry the heaviest part
of the casket. The front.

He explained that it was a job
traditionally done by men,

and that we wouldn't be
strong enough.

Now,

I don't wanna body shame,

but this man was a pale,

frail, grim-looking man

with no hair

aside from mutton chops

and shaky, weathered hands.

He looked like if Wolverine
couldn't heal himself.

And something you should know
about my family

that provides context
to the story.

I come from a very queer family.

I am bisexual,

I have two transgender siblings,

my grandmother, who we were
laying to rest that morning,

was an out-and-proud lesbian,

and while my father is straight,

he does cry when Julie Andrews

hits the high note
in "The Sound of Music,"

so what do you call that?

I call it a man you can trust.

My grandmother came out
of the closet in 1962.

She moved from Philadelphia
to California

with two boys,
5 and 6 months old.

She did it all on her own,
and the reason she survived

and the reason she thrived
is because she advocated

for herself
every step of the way.

Her blood runs through my veins.

So I'm actually not gonna let

some Sweeney Todd cosplayer...

...tell me that
I'm not strong enough.

I go back to the guy, I said,
"Hey,

"it won't be a problem.
We're perfectly capable.

We can handle it,
we can handle the weight.

No issue here."
And he did that thing men do

when they want you to know
they don't respect you.

He avoided eye contact
and spoke to the nearest man.

He said to my dad,

"It's a job traditionally
done by men,

and they won't be
strong enough."

Hey, it was an early morning.
I'm not proud of this,

but I said,
"Hey, Ghost of Christmas Past!"

"I was captain
of the cheerleading team

"in high school.
This is hardly the first time

I've carried a lesbian
who's gone limp."

Finally, he allowed it.

And we walked,

carrying my grandmother
to her final resting place.

And as we did, I thought
about the legacy of her life,

and I wondered

if she would have been proud.

I prayed for a sign.

And we walked to her graveside,

following the hearse driver.

And as we approached
her grave...

he fell in.

Thank you, Los Angeles.
My name is Hannah Einbinder.

- Goodnight.