Jo Koy: Live from Seattle Page #3

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I didn't leave the house till I was 28.

"I ain't leaving. My mom can cook."

And I'm ready for that.

Now, if I had a daughter,

I wouldn't put a dime away.

Not a penny. Not a cent. Why?

Because girls mature quicker,

they grow up faster,

and they get the f*** out of the house!

"Don't talk to me like that, Mom!

That's bullshit! I'm a f***ing woman!

Don't touch me, Dad."

Girls at 18 don't give a sh*t.

They're ready for the world.

And you know what I'm talking about.

Don't act like you don't.

There's women in here that left at 18.

And the reason why I know

is because I have two sisters...

Gemma and Rowena.

Both of them left at 18,

and neither one of them came back.

That's some gangster sh*t.

My sister Rowena was the first one to go.

Had a full-time job at Wendy's.

Swear to God. Shift supervisor.

She thought she was a f***ing millionaire!

Showed me her paychecks every week.

"Look at this sh*t. I'm rich."

And she was ready. Got into the last fight

with my mom in the living room.

She had it. "Whatever, Mom. I'm going.

I'm getting the f*** out of here.

I'm sick of these f***ing rules.

I'm old enough to take care of myself.

And you know what? Me and Brian,

we've been looking for a place,

and when we find it,

I'm f***ing out of here!"

And my mom just looked at her

and goes, "Are you f***ing crazy?

Get the f*** out of here right now."

And my sister didn't even flinch.

"Fine! F*** it! I'm out of here!"

And she left. My sister left at 18

and never came back.

That's some gangster sh*t.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.

She was in the garage,

loading the trunk of her car

with all her sh*t,

and I was upstairs in my room.

And then my sister yelled up to my room,

"I love you so much, Joe!"

And I started crying.

And I looked at my mom.

I go, "She's gonna die!

She's gonna die, Mom!"

And my mom looked at me and goes,

"Well, then let her die.

You want to die with her, Joseph?"

"I don't want to die!"

And she left, and she never came back.

Then my other sister, Gemma, 18... left.

She never came back.

My sisters are the sh*t. The sh*t!

Because I didn't leave till I was 28.

Twenty-eight! And even then

I wasn't sure I was ready to go.

I swear to God.

I remember standing at the doorway

with a garbage bag full of my clothes,

and I looked at my mom. I go,

"Mom, are you sure you want me to leave?"

And my mom goes, "Yes, Joseph. It's time.

It's time for you to be a man now, Joseph.

Now move to the garage."

And I moved to the garage

like a f***ing man.

Twenty-eight.

And then I moved back in at 29.

It was cold in that garage.

I go, "Mom, there's no insulation

in the garage."

And my mom let me back in.

"Come back in here, Joseph."

That's what she always does.

I always had second, third chances.

"Come back in here, Joseph.

I was just joking.

I thought you were the comedian."

And I moved back in at 29.

And then I moved out again at 32.

But f*** it. That's what boys do.

Sh*t. My sisters never got

a second chance.

Once they were gone, that was it.

She didn't give a sh*t.

"Bye.

Don't even call me.

You think you can do it?

Oh, go. Do it.

It's cold out there, huh?"

My sisters would get into epic fights

with my mom.

Like, some of the sh*t they would say...

unbelievable.

I remember watching those fights

when I was a kid.

My sister Rowena, especially.

Holy sh*t. Every weekend.

"Mom, I'm going out with my friend.

Why do you always question me

every time I go out with my friend?"

"Yeah. Because every weekend,

it's a different guy."

"Yeah, Mom, it's called dating.

I'm dating people. I'm allowed to do that.

I don't go to school anymore.

I make my own money.

I want to go out and date and have fun.

Is that a big deal?"

"Yeah, but you go out every weekend,

just gallivanting with different people

all the time."

"They're not different people!

They're my friends!"

"Sure, they're you're friends.

They're just people out there.

You're giving your pekpek away

to everybody!

You don't even know them.

Who wants pekpek? You want pekpek?

That's a pekpek for you.

You want it? There! It's for free!"

"Pekpek" is "p*ssy."

There's some people that got it,

but then there's some, like,

"Is she giving chickens away?

Every weekend, she has a chicken

and she gives it away?

That's expensive."

But now they made up.

Now they're friends. Best of friends.

Seeing my mom and sister make up:

Funniest sh*t ever.

Just seeing my mom cry.

"I just want you to know that...

I didn't think you gave your pekpek away

to everybody."

"Well, I didn't, Mom. It's right here.

It's the same one you gave me."

Man, I get it, Mom.

God bless you. That sh*t is hard.

My son's 13, and it just keeps getting

harder and harder.

It's so hard.

My son is in the seventh grade.

God damn it.

I want all you new parents

to know this right now.

When you were in the seventh grade

and you weren't smart,

you're definitely not gonna be smart

when your kid gets to the seventh grade.

It's harder.

My son and I are failing Math.

It's so hard.

Now he's getting a C-minus in Math.

C-minus in Math.

In private school, that's not good.

That's failing Math.

So, of course, she brings me in

for a parent-teacher meeting.

Private school. That's what they do.

They sit you down

because they're concerned.

"Hi. [chuckles] Mr. Koy.

Mr. Koy, please sit down.

I don't want to startle you.

I want to nip this in the bud.

Just want you to know, Mr. Koy,

that your son has a C-minus in Math.

Uh-oh.

Uh-oh.

That's not good.

What are we gonna do

to solve that, Mr. Koy?

You need to help me help him.

I can do whatever I can

over here at school,

but when he gets home,

you need to crack open that book

and start working on those questions

with your son.

Let's bring that grade back up.

Let's do this as a team, Mr. Koy.

Come on!"

And I was, like,

"You know I'm a comedian, right?

And I hired you to teach my son math.

Uh-oh.

Uh-oh.

What are we gonna do to fix that?

Sounds like you owe me money."

If you have kids,

take them to public school.

That's the only...

Public school, please.

I'm paying college tuition

for my son's seventh-grade education.

And then I get a call from the principal.

"Mr. Koy, you forgot to pay your milk fee.

You forgot to pay your milk fee, Mr. Koy."

I go, "I paid the tuition.

I thought it was included in the tuition."

"No, Mr. Koy, that's separate."

I got so mad.

I was filling out that paperwork,

and I just looked at my son. I go,

"I can't believe I'm filling out paperwork

to pay for milk."

He goes,

"What are you talking about, Dad?"

I go, "When I filled out paperwork,

it was so I can get free milk.

We were poor, Joe.

We couldn't afford milk,

so my mom filled out paperwork

so we could get a free milk.

I couldn't wait to get to school

so I could actually taste calcium.

And it's delicious when it's free."

He didn't know what a free milk was,

so I had to explain to him

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