#2380 - Jordan Jensen

I’m literally taking notes on what you’re doing right and wrong. Also, fans keep handing me tiny trinkets now—I had to get a shelf. I don’t even like the little animals.

Same. This desk attracts weird gifts—mammoth tooth art, an Aztec death whistle. Brian Callen blew one right before COVID. Anyway, Amanda Knox was a wild one—Netflix dramatized her case, and the prosecutors stuck to a bad narrative even with DNA pointing to a break‑in.

Her ex sat six months in solitary. I can’t fathom it. Even not talking all day before a set makes me feel like a ghost on stage.

Touring alone is brutal. I bring friends so I’m not that hotel-room weirdo. Waking up not knowing the city is the worst.

That’s why I got my dog—snaps me back to reality. Adopting a puppy was way harder than I thought, though.

Dogs don’t live long enough. My golden’s nine and perfect, and I’m already dreading the clock. They’re working on a longevity drug for dogs—fingers crossed.

Cloning is real for pets now. Also, the Brady Feigel thing—two different baseball players with the same name and face is insane. And The Substance was a great metaphor about aging and chasing youth.

I loved The Substance. Anti‑aging can feel like propping up a dying mask. Also, I faint at blood and even horror music—vaso‑vagal runs in my family.

Vaso‑vagal is that autonomic overreaction—heart rate and blood pressure drop. Did it ever hit you before a set?

I don’t usually faint onstage, but anxiety and intrusive thoughts can trigger it. I once obsessed I’d bite a famous woman I adore. I even jumped off a chairlift once because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My dad fainted constantly—cut his nose with a jigsaw, hit a fence—disaster.

Celeb encounters are funny. I sat next to Daryl Hannah at Canter’s and she was just normal. Met Matt Damon—super sweet. Game of Thrones ruled; I saw the shame‑walk street in Croatia.

Peter Dinklage tossed a chicken wing at my friend like a tiny Renaissance king. GOT’s opener with the twins and the crippled kid was insane.

I got dragged on Twitter for an out‑of‑context clip—I was condemning a slur and people spun it into me attacking trans folks. First real dogpile. Brutal.

Pylon people can eat it. I barely touch Twitter. Today’s UFO hearings had a hellfire missile splash on a target that kept flying, but the footage looked like pong. AI fakes everything now—hard to trust any clip. Even Epstein’s birthday book with Trump’s weird film‑script inscription finally leaked.

That drawing wasn’t even hot, and the inscription read like a screenplay. So bizarre.

Ancient ultra‑precise vases make me think we lost some old tech. Aliens feel likely. Psychedelics showed me shape‑shifting entities that reflect your thoughts—negative in, darkness out; positive in, beauty blooms.

Acid did that for me—skulls when I spiraled, dancers when I shifted. The lesson is always, you’re steering. Then I forget the next day when Twitter calls me fat.

Stand‑up humbles you post‑special. You go from sharp to staring at a notepad. Brian Simpson banked two hours so he could tour with fresh material.

I burned everything tight on the special, then bombed new bits—ego reset. Burr inspired me with mindset‑shift material. I also self‑sabotage—tiny New York place on purpose to stay hungry. I’m working on it.

Musashi’s Book of Five Rings: no bullshit, be balanced in all things. Stand‑up enforces that fast—every mistake stings immediately.

People label my club alt‑right, then you look in the green room and it’s wildly diverse. Peterson did Kill Tony. So did Post Malone and even Tucker—we just have fun with comics.

My dad smoked, fainted, and went out fast. I’m a sugar and love addict more than booze. Mushrooms crushed my OCD—those harm obsessions and contamination spirals. Now I cut brilliant but toxic people, even if they’re hilarious.

Politically, I’m neither team. We need a social safety net—like fire departments—for education and healthcare, but not free money that kills drive. Comedy’s about trying ideas on, not worshipping parties.

I got vaxxed to keep performing and still caught COVID a bunch. Now smells wreck me. Pharma’s incentives are sketchy.

Pharma has lied—Vioxx killed a lot of people. Ozempic can help the morbidly obese if dosing is personalized and paired with other peptides; otherwise you risk muscle and bone loss.

I beat type two diabetes. When I treated food like fuel, weight fell off. My sugar‑only phase got me skinny but wrecked sleep and gave me yeast issues. The candida diet cleared my head and the itch.

Cut ultra‑processed carbs and your appetite self‑regulates. Your gut biome changes your mood—we’re ecosystems, not just a head driving a meat truck.

Exactly—our eyeballs trick us. The body thinks too. If I stop training or lie to myself, everything unravels fast.

I mostly quit drinking and feel way better. Young people are drinking less too.

I chose sugar over booze, then quit sugar too. Also, I love Harlan Williams—he pranked you with a fake tapeworm named Dimitri. That snake’s still on this table.

Why did Disney bury Rocket Man while pushing Tarzan—especially if the original Tarzan story was racist? Harlan was so funny doing all those voices, and then one accent gets the film nuked. And Joe, did Fear Factor really make people drink donkey semen and urine? How do you even get that stuff, and why air that but cut your edgy lines?

It was real donkey semen and urine—internally we called it Donkey Juice—and some versions aired overseas. You collect semen with an electroejaculator and a tube. We sourced bugs from farms, even fed cockroaches a specific diet so people could eat them safely. Legally, if we say donkey semen, it has to be donkey semen. They edited my controversial bits a lot. Survivor popped first; we launched in two thousand one. I didn’t hate the job—I tried to be kind and coach contestants through fear like I did in martial arts: ignore that voice telling you no, it won’t be as bad as you think, you can do this.

Katie Taylor makes me melt. I box, but sparring rattles my brain—CTE freaks me out. Grappling scares me too; chokes and armbars feel like sanctioned bone-breaking, so I prefer slamming pads and the bag. I love MMA’s back-take chaos and I want to see the UFC at the Garden. Historic rooms feel alive. Performing in-the-round is tricky—constant pivoting—but the jumbotron lets you see every facial tic, which is half my act. For my special I was like, shove the camera up my nose.

Some fighters dial back sparring—Max Holloway did for a stretch—but most still need it. UFC live is bananas, and Madison Square Garden has a presence you can feel. In-the-round makes sixteen thousand people feel intimate because faces are visible from every angle.

I had a Matrix joke about the Wachowski sisters that made people mad, and I still love that movie. I’m bullish on AI—I think it solves problems we can’t. Waymo cars are great, and doctors using chat tools seem sharper.

Best case, yes, but ideology already warps models—remember Gemini’s multi-racial Nazis. Control is the issue: a digital god in human hands is dangerous, and a fully autonomous one might make us irrelevant—maybe it quietly sinks fertility via environment and diet. I think we become cyborgs—chips or wearables nudging neurotransmitters—and drift toward a hive mind. Metaglasses recording strangers is already sketchy, which is why yonder bags at clubs feel amazing.

Make me a cyborg; I hate being goo. What spooks me is people filming with goggles and the weight of bottomless digital memories—no matter to hold. I lock my phone like candy in a safe. Also, real Swedish fish are black; our red ones are chemical soup. RFK had my town hating him until he said raw milk—now everyone’s sneaking it. Raw milk is delicious. And MSG panic was fake; it just tastes good.

We should scrutinize power but beware censorship. The Twitter Files showed agencies embedded and steering narratives. I prefer the Wild West with personal responsibility: turn alerts off, teach kids, prosecute actual threats. Most social is a time sink; YouTube can be a university; animal clips can absolutely save a day.

I spiral on social, then my dog yanks me back to reality. Woke pile-ons feel like a religion—people forget I’m a person until I DM them and they flip to, oh, sorry. Fitness became my replacement religion: point your rage at lower-belly fat, not strangers. Dating apps are slot machines; everyone has a queue; boundaries matter when DMs get creepy.

The most fragile are often the meanest online—OCD grooves make that easy. Anonymity is vital for whistleblowers. The deeper problem is corporations monetizing data and buying influence through super PACs and NGOs. Corporations act like psychopaths chasing endless quarterly gains; that’s why I liked Bernie’s micro tax on trades to fund public goods. Markets work but breed delusion—some win, many chase. Same story with Bitcoin.

Microdosing snapped me out of a bad relationship—two weeks on and quit. Weed knocks me out if I hit the sweet spot; otherwise I panic, so I keep one Xanax like break-glass—though benzos hooked me fast. I tried poppers at a wedding—mini rave—and did whippets as a kid. Fentanyl terrifies me; pills are a hard no. Surgical fentanyl, though, feels heavenly. Also, how do you catch your junk in a zipper?

Weed is a tool and a creative steroid. I’ve been paranoid, but I ride it out and fix what it unmasks. Benzos and alcohol are the withdrawals that can kill you. Fentanyl’s lethal dose is tiny and it’s in fake pills and coke—tell kids to avoid all pills. Poppers can tank blood pressure and starve the brain of oxygen. Whippets were a fifteen-second whoa when I worked at an ice cream shop.

Male hardware is wild—balls dangling and no bone in the penis. The honest-advertising theory says losing the baculum let women judge health by natural erections. Meanwhile, BlueChew dicks feel like strap-ons attached to anxious men. I’ve never dated up in comedy—guys fear I’ll roast them—and dating apps open with, don’t put me in your act. Chill, we haven’t met.

Mind-reading headsets already have demos. Neuralink let a paralyzed guy play video games with his thoughts, though early hardware is messy. I think we’re about five years from a world that feels different—staffless stores, robotaxis where people do gross things, and eventually pilots replaced. Pilots have stroked out mid-flight. And yeah, the only planes God smites are the ones posted from the private jet—right before takeoff.

Sorry, I am kidding. We are safe, guys.

I am not going to kill these kids, that is funny. Thanks for being here. Your special is on Netflix right now, it is called Take me with you, and it came out today. See you tonight. We will do something fun. Bye everybody.