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

by Bo Burnham

How, may I ask, did you get so you, you beautiful true-to-you doer? I’ve met many today but can honestly say that I’ve never met anyone you-er.

You’re incomparable like a… Shit. Like a…

Flower sex! Flower sex! Flex those sexy flower pecs. Good old April shower sex that lasts for half an hour sex. Yeah! Flower power her! Devour her! Don’t cower, sir! Put the petal to the medal and powerfully deflower her!

I’ve hit rock bottom. What’s a guy to do? I certainly can’t head upward, so I’ll try digging through!

I’ll love you until I’m dead on the outside. I’ll give you every one of my mortal seconds. I’ll never leave your side. I’ll die holding your hand. But after that, I want some “me time.”

I’m not looking in every nook and cranny for it. I’ll do the nooks. No way I left my keys in some fucking cranny.

I will have sex with you if you ask politely. Or ask. Or if you politely consent to it. Or consent to it. I would like to have sex with you. Call me back.

Lou followed his dreams. Lou followed those things into studios and boxing rings, into clown schools and swimming pools, into plucking little fiddle strings. Lou followed his dreams. Now he’s dirt-poor. He doesn’t have a pillow or bed anymore. So three cheers for Lou, the follower who followed his dreams all the way to the floor!

When I die, I hope I don’t see a bright light. Those give me headaches. After a long life, I don’t want to stare into the sun. I want a calm blackness— the same shade that coats the back of my eyelids.

If you were perfect, I’d tattoo this on my chest. If you were beautiful, I’d carve this into a tree trunk. If you were nice, I’d write this in a letter. But you’re none of those—

We pollinated all night long and when the sunlight came, my lover was gone.

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

She could light up a room with her smile. And she could really light one up with her flamethrower.

WHO IS THIS GUY?! HOW DOES HE KNOW SO MUCH?!?! (I’m afraid I might die alone.)

I said, “You can’t judge me. Only Jesus can!” He said, “Well I can ’cause I’m a judge and ’cause you just killed a man.”

Perfect 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.

I like that thing you do with your tongue. What do you call it? Speaking? Yeah, I dig it.

I pood and wiped, the wipe was clean, ’twas the closest to happy I’ve ever been.

Hello, my old friend! You silly old clown! How’s that mountain of life you’ve been tumbling down?

How’s that worn path of safety? Has it led you astray? What’s that? How am I? Oh, I’m okay.

What a perfect day to be gone and forgotten. What a wonderful day to be dead. Six feet above me, the world’s gone rotten while I’m rottin’ in a coffin instead. You’ll die one day and that day could be any one of the thousands ahead, but I can guarantee that that day will be a wonderful day to be dead.

You’re nothing, Special.