I talk to everyone. Absolutely, positively everyone. It’s a part of being a Son of Stan Pearlman—a requirement to make goofy-yet-well-intentioned comments.

So here I am, sitting in Starbucks, researching the next book, losing my mind beneath a pile of boredom. The woman next to me (SEE PICTURE), mid-20s, is eating sushi from what I can only assume to be a nearby market. I, meanwhile, am eating an egg salad sandwich from a carton. I say to her, “Man, life isn’t fair. You’ve got sushi, I’ve got a 17-week old egg salad sandwich.” Does she laugh? No. Nod? No. Cringe? No. She fucking ignores me, as if I’m some dweeb trying to hit on her—as opposed to some dweeb with a loving wife and two kids who merely feels the need to crack corny jokes/lame comments to everyone.

This offends me. Without people like myself (and my father), how would we know what’s actually funny in this world? Just like we need .200 hitters to have .350 hitters, we need tremendously unfunny people like myself to set the stage for Chris Rock, Dane Cook, etc. I am, in a sense, providing a service. The next time you tell a joke that falls flat, say, “Well, at least it wasn’t as lame as Jeff Pearlman’s egg salad comment.”

Man, f-ing egg salad.