O! A douche parade has scarce been seen like the tide that surged down Pine Street Sunday night to worship at the altar of Joe Rogan and his comedic "Real Men." A female drunkard in a Seahawks jersey stood outside the Paramount, shrieking about menthol ultralights and vodka. Backward-capped bros yelled "Charlie Murphy!" and high-fived. My companion and I speculated on what their names might be. Deuce? Chazzy? Meatball? Seriously brah, there had to be like at least a hundred Brads there.

We took our seats and watched the rape of all that is good and precious in comedy. First came the hacky-joke train from Early90stan: Jäger bomb, road rage, nagging wife. "You need to make the stories fuckin' shorter. Seriously, ladies." Duly noted. Listen, man-comics, we get it: You wish you had a mute "robot fuck doll" who also cooked. We should crop-dust the Middle East with "chronic smoke." Gays are faggy and gross. You wish you could take pills to make your penis the size of a canoe. Headliner Joe Rogan—the only comic of the night within a giant dick's length of funny—said "robot fuck doll" at least four times.

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But the most depressing set of the night easily belonged to Charlie Murphy. It broke down as follows: 1. Ten minutes on the fact that he loves when people scream "Charlie Murphy." 2. Three minutes laughing at own joke. 3. Fifteen minutes on Michael Jackson's craaazy face. 4. Two hundred and seventy-nine thousand minutes on airport security, which somehow involved "ancient Chinaman," "dynamite titty-milk," and "I want to see you, airline security, beating up an A-Rab in the corner."

I never thought I'd be yearning to hear more about Joe Rogan's ejaculate.