I look at you and I see a guy in a bar wearing a black, worn out 1980s leather jacket over a denim, collared button shirt that is pathetically darker than the tapered, stonewashed, almost-white flood jeans, but it isn't 1987. No one can figure out why or even how you smell so intensely of Life Savers. You don't really talk to anyone in the bar; people try to say things to you, but you respond by shrugging your shoulders, raising your eyebrows, and contorting your lips into a weird sort of frowning duck thing that screams, "It doesn't matter what you think because I always get what I want out of life." Some people think that it also conveys your self-perceived martyrdom, but smart people know that it's really just the classic this-guy-is-an-ass-clown face. Your wife married you for money; you think that this is the way it should be. She married you for money and you've given her more than she ever could have imagined she would have, but she still hates being married to you. The people who watch your show are the same people who voted for Scott Brown and who would vote for Sarah Palin. You are a company man, a yes man -- a stuffed suit who is the host of the Tonight Show because you are exactly like those pricks in the boardroom. If I was in the same bar as you, I would wait until I got really drunk and then approach you in my stupor; I would shake your hand, put my arm around you, and generally charm the living hell out of you because you are an ignoramus and I would be able to do that. I would ask you for an autographed photo, and you would make your wife go out to your 1939 idiot-mobile and get one out of the trunk, because you always carry head shots of yourself in your trunk. She would bring you the picture and you wouldn't notice the hint of mascara running down her cheeks, and you would write "A guy walks into a bar" on the photo and then sign your name and give it to me. But I would ask for your pen so that I could sign it, too, which confuses you, but which you assent to do. I would write "Talentless corporate ass-clown hack" on the picture, and then I would sign my full name in big John Hancock cursive. I'd give the photo to you, grinning, and I would say, "Keep it, ass-clown," because one of the main things I would be trying to do would be driving the point home to you that you are a major ass-clown. Then I'd pat you on the back and say "See you later, ass-clown," as I walked away, still grinning. You'd throw the photo on the floor, laughing and thinking to yourself that millions of people watch your show every night, but I, being the smarter of the two of us, would know you would thinking this and so would think to mysef that millions of people also watch that show Two and A Half Men, so that basically cancels your theory out. Then I would grab the microphone in the bar and would tell everyone that they should really cut it out with all the Jay-Leno-raped-and-murdered-a-girl-in-1990 talk. You like Charlie Sheen; you think he is a great guy, and you wonder why people are all over his gullet sometimes. Charlie Sheen thinks you are hilarious. You once played basketball with the kids down the block just so that for the rest of your life you would be able to tell people that you play basketball with the kids down the block. Your concept of the American Dream includes a grill, a lawn, and never acknowledging the fact that everyone in your family hates each other. You associate the word "America" with driving a truck. If you were a state, you would be Indiana. Like I said, Charlie Sheen thinks you are hilarious. Secretly, you are a little bit racist; you rationalize this by saying, "It's true, though." You are a close personal friend of Arsenio Hall's. You have Terry Bradshaw on your show, but that's actually true. You eat like a goddamn squirrel, chewing quickly and with your mouth open, making a smacking sound with your tongue with each chew; your wife has given serious consideration to suicide based on this issue alone. You bring a newspaper into the bathroom with you, and you make it through an entire section in there. When you are finished, you put the newspaper back on the table for other people to read. People make jokes about you raping and murdering a girl in 1990. "All that hooey" is a part of your verbal arsenal. People can't help but think of powder blue suits and collared shirts with ruffles when they get a load of that goddamn ridiculous mug of yours. Seriously, what is with that fucking chin. I am not comfortable living in a world in which your ridiculous chin is a socially acceptable topic of converstaion. I long for the day when Letterman just chops that thing off with a meat cleaver; then it might be worth talking about. You've never consummated any of your relationships, which enrages you. You are filled with rage. You tell stories about the seventies, even though every one thought you were a jerk-off back then, too. Jokes about you are funny because they are true. You once agreed with Rush Limbaugh. You've never figured out that you are mentally retarded and that no one has ever told you. You don't understand that there is no such thing as NBC or The Tonight Show; we just made them up to get you off of our goddamn backs. Your mother named you Jay because she hates you. Your name is Jay. Your brother thinks you are a prick. You don't like art. Your favorite Beatle is Paul. You really like Detroit. For some God-forsaken reason, your psychological make-up has provided you with the ability to take pride in being what you refer to as a "Hanes man".