I am the shittiest famous person, okay? I’m a shitty famous person.
Yes, I know. I always– I can’t believe it’s still going on. I say what I mean. I dress like garbage.
Like, my sister and I… And I tried really hard. I’m like, “Okay, like, let’s do our best and tape it up and spackle it down and…” [groans]
But after I leave here, I will look like a newly homeless person very quickly. Very quickly, trust me.
My sister dresses the same, but they’ll still write about us as if we’re the Kardashians.
They’ll be like, “The Schumer sisters stepped out today. Amy opted for performance fleece… and a pleather jacket from Forever 21.”
And my favorite thing they ever wrote was, “And Kim chose to wear a bright red-and-gold beanie to add to her ensemble.” It was a Gryffindor hat. Like, look at this. It’s a fucking Gryffindor hat.
The most disappointing people ever to be photographed. Look at this. It looks like we were moving, and we ran out of bags, so we’re like, “Let’s just wear it all. We’ll just wear it all. Never a bra. Never a problem.”
Look at my sister’s shoe game. Can you check this out? Ballet flats from Payless. H&M zebra pants. What’s up? What’s up now, Internet?
They photographed me once, and this was the headline: “Schumer buys pastry so she can work out.”
Kind of mean, right? No, they hit the nail right on the fucking head. That’s what I do to work out. That’s what I do. Before I work out, I go buy a scone, and then I slowly walk around a reservoir, and I eat it.
My workouts are like a woman in hospice. Just, like, nibbling on a baked good, looking at the trees and the birds. “Mmm.”
I’m so disappointing to them as a famous person that they’ll try to make it sound sexier than it is. They’re like, “Schumer flaunting her legs in teeny-tiny shorts.” And you guys have eyes.
You understand that that is not available to me. Like, there’s no separation between church and state up here, okay? This area does not– There’s no– It’s not happening. I didn’t even know what a thigh gap was.
I was like, “Is that like the wage gap?
Do we need to rally against this?” Since I’m ten years old, I can’t wear tiny shorts. If I take one step, all the material shoots up my pussy.
I have to pull it out like a magician. A fucking dove. Just, like, “Fly!”
I have to lather deodorant in my crotch, so I don’t chafe to the point of bleeding out.
Right here is when my thighs stop touching for the first time.
Together. Apart. Together. Apart. Together. Apart.
The fucking teeny-tiny shorts. Fuck you! Fuck you.
I got photographed paddleboarding, standup paddleboarding, which– Can we all just agree to stop pretending like that’s fun? What do we– Just what?
“Would you like the sensation of being in a canoe, without the comfort of a seat or the safety of sides?” “No.”
“Have you often wondered what it’s like to work on a gondola?” “I can’t say that I have. No.”
The picture of me, I didn’t even recognize myself because, obviously, I don’t suck in anyway. It was just, like– I looked at it, and I was like, “Oh, my God, Alfred Hitchcock is alive… and loves water sports! Fuck, yeah,” you know? I was so psyched.