– No, I fell–
back in December, I fell. I fell real bad as I was, uh– I was at home.
I fell in the shower. I was drunk.
I was drinking in the shower. I drink in my shower. I drink in my shower, not like I need to drink so much
that it carries over. I wait for the shower. I choose to drink in the shower because everybody deserves
a spa day in this world, and– [crowd cheers] I’m glad you agree with me. Why is it perfectly acceptable, oh, drive out somewhere
and go to a spa, and if you lay down
in their establishment with rose petals and champagne,
that’s fine? But I do it vertically
in my own home with a six-pack on the back
of the toilet for easy reaching, I’m some sort of scumbag
all of a sudden? It’s the one room
you can be alone and naked and have a cocktail in. Every other room in your house
has a drink appointed to it. What are you–
are you on the porch? Have a mint julep
on the porch. Oh, what,
are you in your living room? Have a sophisticated scotch
or a snifter of brandy. What, are you in the garage, tinkering around
with your motorcycle? Have a beer in the garage. But, oh, I’m gonna have
something in the bathroom, like, you should probably go
to meetings. No, man, I don’t need to go. I set it up.
I have an event for myself. I have the drinks
on the back of the toilet. Don’t bring them in there
with you. You don’t need them that close. I have a waterproof Bluetooth
speaker for the shower shelf. I put the iPod on shuffle
in the other room, and I let Steve Jobs DJ my mood
from beyond the grave. And he gets it right! All right, DJ Steve. That’s the 160-gig model,
35,000 songs. I got about nine ex-roommates’
libraries on there. What can you do for me? Five Motorhead tunes,
then three Lionel Richie jams. Shit.