Mostly Sex Stuff Stand Up, Comг©di... — Amy Schumer:

The neon sign for "The Laugh Factory" flickered, casting a sickly pink glow over Amy as she paced the green room. She wasn't nervous about the jokes—she’d lived them—but she was wondering if the front row was ready for a play-by-play of her last gynecological exam. "Five minutes, Amy," a bored stagehand muttered.

She leaned heavily into the "Mostly Sex Stuff" promise, detailing the bizarre internal monologue of a woman during a one-night stand ("Did I leave the oven on? No, I don't cook. Is that a mole on his shoulder? I should tell him to see a specialist.") Amy Schumer: Mostly Sex Stuff Stand Up, ComГ©di...

She strutted to the mic, squinting against the spotlight. "Hi guys. Wow. You all look great. I look like a thumb that someone tried to dress up for prom, but we’re making it work." The neon sign for "The Laugh Factory" flickered,