Jo Koy: Live from Seattle Page #2

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If you have a Filipino mom, that is not

the career choice you're supposed to have.

Filipino moms predetermine what their kids

are supposed to be when they grow up.

And you know I'm not making this sh*t up.

There's a lot of Filipinos in here,

right now,

that are nurses.

Today is a good day to get injured

at a show...

because there will be

a nurse in here, like...

[in Filipino accent] "Oh, my God.

Put a cold compress on the head.

Elebate the peet! Elebate...

Elebate the peet."

"What the f*** is 'elebate'?"

"Just lipt! Lipt the pucking peet!

Are you stupid?"

And I'm not... I'm not shitting on you

for being a nurse.

That's a great job, great benefits,

good money.

I'm just saying, it wasn't your dream.

That was your Filipino mom's dream.

My mom wanted me to be a nurse.

Are you f***ing kidding me?

Filipino moms sh*t on their kids' dreams.

And you know I'm not lying.

You know I'm not lying.

You can't have a dream.

"What are you talking about... dream?"

I told my mom I wanted to be a comedian.

She cried. "Why?

Why do you want to be a comedian, Joseph?

All your aunties are nurses,

your cousins are nurses.

Do you see any clowns in this family?

I don't. Do you?"

Sh*t on my dream right there.

Just looked at me and went like this:

"Joseph, who told you you were funny?

It wasn't me."

That's f***ed up.

I'm just saying...

you're a nurse, God bless you.

But you know

there are some nurses out there

that didn't follow their dreams.

There are some nurses working

at the hospital

that wish they were a Jabbawockee.

You know exactly what I'm talking about.

"Hey, follow me to the X-ray."

"I'll follow you..."

"Goddamn, that nurse can dance."

"It was always my dream.

My mother did not believe in me."

Oh, f***.

It's either nurse or mailman.

Mailman's another strong option.

Oh, sh*t. My mom cried

and even suggested,

"Joseph, be a mailman.

Your uncles are mailmen.

Your cousins, they're mailmen."

My stepdad, he's white.

He's a f***ing mailman!

I swear to God. I asked him,

"Fred, why'd you become a mailman?"

He's, like, "Your mama told me

to become a mailman.

She sh*t on my dreams."

I came home from school,

and my mom had my uncle come over

and talk to me

about getting into the post office.

That's how... Right? It's f***ed up, right?

Come home from school,

and here's my uncle.

By the way, my uncle is one of

those Filipinos that hide their accent.

He's got a thick accent,

but he likes to hide the accent

because he doesn't want anyone to think

that he has an accent.

And it just ends up sounding

like a worse accent.

He sounds like a Filipino Elvis.

And I came home, I came through the door.

He got up, he's, like...

[deep voice, thick accent]

"Joseph, let me talk to you for a second.

So, I hear you want to be a comedian?"

Like, what the f*** did you just say?

Filipino moms,

stop turning into Filipino moms.

I can guarantee you right now...

There's a ton of Filipinos in here,

but I can tell you,

I don't know any of you,

but if you met my mom,

I guarantee she looks just like your mom.

Identical f***ing twins.

Just...

They're just cut from the same cloth.

I don't know what it is

about Filipino women.

They're beautiful at the age of 20,

but right when they hit 69,

they all morph

into the same Filipino woman.

Short hair, glasses.

Louis Vuitton purse.

"Where are we? Seattle? Moore Theatre?"

[chuckling]

Break that mold, man.

I told my son. I told him.

I'm breaking that mold.

I looked at my son right in the eyes,

and I go, "Joe, look, if you have a dream

and you think you want to do it

and you believe in it,

then chase that dream. It'll happen."

That's what I said.

[cheers and applause]

"As long as you continue

to follow that dream,

your dad's got your back.

I got you, bro, 100 percent."

He goes, "Oh, my God. Thanks, Dad."

I go, "What do you want to be

when you grow up?"

He goes, "I want to be an architect."

And I go, "Joe...

I've seen you draw.

You got another dream?

What the f*** are you talking about?

You ever think about nursing?

Get the f*** out of here."

I love my kid, but I understand

where my mom's coming from,

because he's at that age.

Right when he turned 12, that's when

he just stopped taking care of himself.

And that's when I stopped

taking care of him.

Because that's what you're supposed to do

when you're a parent.

Twelve? "You should know how

to brush your teeth now.

You know what to do, Joe."

But now that I ignore the fact

that he doesn't brush his teeth,

I have to f***ing deal with the breath.

The breath, it comes in hot.

Hot. And he's breathy when he talks.

[breathy voice]

"Dad.

Dad.

Dad."

I'm, like, "Joe, what did I tell you to do

when you talk to me?"

"Face the wall."

"Face the wall and write it down.

Let me read what the f***

you're trying to say to me."

Armpits. God damn it.

Armpits smell like chopped onions.

And I always get mad. I'm, like,

"Joe, why do I smell it first?

I'm over here.

You're right f***ing here."

I grab the deodorant every time.

"Joe, this is all you gotta do.

Just rub it under this armpit like that.

That's all you gotta do.

Now, listen to me.

Here's the important part.

When you go to the other armpit,

I want you to go across your mouth."

Just dirty. My son is dirty. He loves it.

He thinks it's the funniest thing.

Still doesn't know how

to sneeze correctly.

Are you kidding me?

My friend had a daughter

the same time I had my son.

She's been cute her whole life.

When she would sneeze, she'd announce it.

"I gotta sneeze, Mommy.

I need a napkin."

Her mom would run over with a napkin.

"Here you go, baby.

Put your nose in the napkin."

"I gotta sneeze, Mom.

I gotta sneeze."

[soft sneeze]

It's f***ing beautiful.

Glitter.

When my son sneezes, no announcement.

His face just explodes, mid-conversation.

It always happens at the restaurant.

He's, like, "Dad,

did you see how many points..."

[splat]

And then I still help him.

I grab a napkin.

"Here, wipe your face, Joe."

Because I'm a good dad.

Let me do that with my mom

when I was a kid.

Sh*t. At the dinner table.

"Mom, can you pass a..."

[splat]

"Are you f***ing kidding me?

Are your hands broken when you sneeze?

When you sneeze,

you can't use your f***ing hands?

You could not go like that?

Now there's boogers on the chicken.

You're eating all the booger chicken,

Joseph.

All of that is yours.

Enjoy boogers and chicken.

Delicious, huh?"

The whole week, I gotta eat

booger chicken sandwiches at school.

And she'd make fun of me.

"How was your sandwich?

Salty, huh?

Cover your mouth."

I'm ready for my son,

and I'm financially prepared

to take care of him for the next 15 years.

I know that. As a man, as a dad,

I know I have to take care of my son

for the next 15 years.

Why? Because he's a boy.

Boys don't leave the f***ing house.

They don't leave.

How do I know that?

Because I didn't leave the house.

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