When I was six years old my parents signed me up for hockey and uh, played hockey for a couple years and according to my trophies, I was a very good participant. And I don’t – I don’t get a lot about sports. I don’t get hockey fighting. That’s not a part of the game, right? Like if you were teaching somebody hockey, at what point would you be like, “All right. So try to put that puck in that net and then if you feel like it, punch that guy in the face.” That’s their job is to play hockey. That’s the only job you can have where you can just punch somebody in the middle of your shift. And they get paid enough. If you’re making millions of dollars, you shouldn’t be able to punch somebody while you’re working. Right? Like maybe if you’re working for minimum wage you could. Like, if you’re a waitress or something and you’re serving some guy and he’s complaining over the quality of the food that you clearly didn’t make. She should be able to lay a few haymakers on the clock. Some guy leaves her a nickel tip… she should just be able to punch him as many times as she can until her manager blows a whistle. And then she gets a five-minute break. That’s what should happen. My last girlfriend was a waitress. I say last, but first or only also works. And that was a tough job. Because guys would hit on her all the time when she was working. Like I’d go in and I’d visit her and I’d see these like tough, alpha male guys hitting on her and I’d sit there and I get jealous, you know. I wouldn’t try to like fight the guy or anything. I don’t want to be that kind of boyfriend. The dead kind. But I would get jealous, which is kind of irrational. Right? Like she chose me. That means I’m her type. I shouldn’t worry about her meeting a tough guy at a bar. I should worry about her meeting a lesbian at a Comic-Con. That’s the real competition: someone with more Yu-Gi-Oh cards who knows how to touch a woman.