There are two pretty good reasons to look at this coverage of the Women And Humor panel at the LA Times’ Festival of Books this weekend:

1. I look powerful and compelling in the accompanying photo. In real life, Ann and Issa were just looking at me as one does during the part of a conversation where one is being silent, but in the picture they appear to be gazing upon me with love and approval, as if to say, “Here at last is a woman whom no one can criticize; here at last is a woman for the ages, whose carapace we will fashion with gold and with lapis lazuli, and who we will patiently let describe episodes of Futurama to us over the breakfast table, even though we have heard her describe these selfsame episodes before.”

2. This is a pretty sick burn, I look forward to hearing about widespread male unemployment among the ranks of late-night joke writers and everyone at Funny or Die as a result of this burn: “It’s just a tough question … because one of the things male humorists never have to do is define what is men’s humor. Are men funny? Which, I would argue, they often aren’t, but that does not stop them from getting jobs in comedy writing.”