Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

Martha was ugly like a shaven baboon, so she wrapped herself up in a curtain cocoon. After a week, she finally emerged and she smelled like shit. What a psycho!

Coupons! Sales! Deals! Bargains! Free stuff! Steals! Buy five marked up, get one half price! Buy two of one thing and get one thing twice! Earn customer points when you shop at our store! Redeem customer points to shop here some more!

Who needs those same old, same old fakes? Today, that same old, lame mold breaks. I’m me! I’m me! Meet me and see what a difference difference makes!

Father Time is fucking Mother Nature. He’s fucking her good. And he’s lasting a long time. She’s loving the shit out of it. He’s doing that thing that makes girls’ heads spin. She’s been spinning for years! I heard that one day, in the future, he’s gonna fuck her right into the sun. He’s done it to chicks before.

Mid-October, with leaves spilled like colored pencil shavings— the streets dicing our town into neat, unfair portions— and me, eatin’ that pussy.

They say adults have no imagination. Not true. Just instead of dinosaurs and spaceships, they imagine silence and the new babysitter bent over the coffee table.

Our Father

Socrates

I love you just the way you are but you don’t see you like I do. You shouldn’t try so hard to be perfect. Trust me, perfect should try to be you.