Trying to write humor is like … man, it’s like inviting Gallagher over to your house for dinner, you know? And you’re making all these preparations, right? Getting out the tarps, hiding the sledgehammers, eating every piece of melon you can find … stuff like that. You think you’ve got it all covered, that there’s no way he could possibly jack up your house with his ridiculous routine. The setup is perfect. Then he gets there, and he’s not sure where you were going with everything because he’s all “That’s just what I do, that’s not who I am,” but he trusts you, he’s along for the ride. And you get to dessert, and you’re about to get to the payoff—a great dinner with Gallagher—when he tells you he ran over your dog on the way in. Boom. It all falls apart at the end. And you’re left to wonder what you were thinking in the first place.