Several years ago I was at an Erasure concert in Southern California. After the opening act, a painfully unfunny set by comedienne Margaret Cho which mainly consisted of mocking her immigrant mother’s English¹, I headed to the bathroom before Erasure took the stage.
Unusual for a guy’s restroom, the toilets were abuzz with conversation. The topic was Margaret Cho.
“I didn’t think she was very funny,” somebody said.
“Give her a break,” somebody else said. “She was all right.”
Then one guy asked, “Didn’t she used to have a really big crystal meth problem?”
To which a disembodied voice replied from the depths of one of the stalls, “Oh, honey–didn’t we all?”