Jim Gaffigan and Not Giving a Fuck

Here’s the thing. I really am a believer in not giving a fuck. Because when you don’t give a fuck, amazing things happen. You can’t not give a fuck about anything – unless your sociopath, of course – but you certainly not give a fuck about societal norms, people who think what you do with great thought and consideration is crazy, and the weird looks you might get while trying to find a way to stalk a celebrity. For example…

It’s the night of the Jim Gaffigan show. My sisters and I get all dressed because it’s fun – no fucks for the fact that likely everyone else will be in jeans and t-shirts, including Jim Gaffigan. (I’m in the blue top with hat).


We order a ton of junk food, because, well, come on! It’s Jim Gaffigan!


The show starts and we’re cheering and laughing like a bunch of mother fuckers. We’re the real deal. Jim can say nothing wrong, really. Well, he can say nothing wrong as long he follows any wrongness up with a joke about his white privilege. 😜 Which we cheer wholeheartedly because Purdums are all about male self-awareness. 

Anyways, the show ends and the audience doesn’t even attempt an encore – sons of bitches. I thought we had all become friends?!?!

We head out and stop at the bathroom. My older sister, B and I are out pretty quick and decide to grab a few shots of my killer tattoo while we wait for H. 


Nailed it. 

So we’re waiting…waiting…security tried to rush us out but we explain that we’re still waiting for our sister who is oddly still in the bathroom. They allow us to stay while placing one of their team in front of the door to monitor things. God, that junk food really did its thing. 

She finally comes out and the inside of the venue is empty. We walk out the door and I enthusiastically suggest “let’s go around back and see if we can catch him on his way out! Come on, let’s be crazy!” 

This is crazy for me. That’s what suburbia does to you. 

They moan and bitch a little – it’s too late, we don’t know where to go, blah, blah,blah. But B suggests we just start walking around the building. 

So we do. We come across a couple semi-truck containers and I yell jokingly “hey, maybe he’s in one of those!” 

B accuses me of calling him fat. Well played. 

Ironically, as we keep walking, right next to the semi trucks a garage door opens where a nice white dad-mobile sits. A few people get in and B yells “he’s in there! I see him!” I’m thinking there’s no way but she insists. 

A security guard comes out and announces in a gruff voice, “you all need to move the other side of the road.”

Three mature, quiet girls are clearly a crowd-sourcing threat. 

We moved to the other side of the road and readied our arms to wave and scream voraciously. 

Then the vehicle began to turn wide. Could it be true? Would Jim grace us with his presence? Would our lives finally feel complete?

The car pulled up in front of us and Jim Gaffigan rolled down his window to say hi. We complimented his show and chatted, but of course that wasn’t enough for me. 

I asked for a picture. 


He’s such an awesome, nice, congenial guy! I’m sure he was anxious to get home but he was there for his fans! 

And three cheers for the effects of junk food – without which, our no fucks given timing would have been way off. 

Jim asked how we all knew each other and we said we were sisters. He then asked if one of was a nurse and… We think it was supposed to be a joke but we totally didn’t get it. 

In fact, we spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out the meaning of that joke. Eventually we gave in and instagrammed him this:


Not giving a fuck? It works. 

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Jim Gaffigan and Not Giving a Fuck

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s