I emceed a show last week where there were over 10 comics on the list. Being an emcee, it was my job to open the show, then bring up each and every one of the comics. They drew numbers, as it was a contest. As I was writing the names one by one, one of guys said, “My name is Mark. Mark with a C!” I started laughing instantly. One thing to keep in mind is that not one person would see this list except me, yet it was very crucial that I spell his name correctly, lest I pronounce Marc and Mark differently, which no one on earth does. ”Mark with a K? Isn’t that pronounced Guillermo?”
Even better for me was right after getting all the names, the last comic approached and started giving me his entire intro, which was long. There’s kind of an unspoken rule, if it’s a paid show, the emcee has to do whatever the headliner wants. For an unpaid show, not so much. As he started telling me the details, I asked if he could wait until later, since there was no chance in hell I would be able to perform, bring up the entire lineup and remember it. About 15 minutes later, he sauntered up just before I was going on to start the show in front of about 150 people. He started with the bio again. I repeated myself, to which he muttered, “I know what you’re doing.” I was about to argue, then realized the fruitlessness of doing so when the desired result had been reached. Granted, I was expecting to get stabbed the rest of the night, but it would have been worth it not to hear the full bio again.
Big news, I finally got my passport today. It’s pretty cool – it has pictures of eagles, Old Glory, and American awesomeness. I can’t wait until some not American asks for my passport and I can slap him across the face with it. I need a catch phrase when I do it, like “Merica!!!” or “Taste some freedom, commie!” They’re not very good, but I think they would get the point.
I have already started planning my world tour, which makes zero sense since I haven’t even been outside Ohio in about two months. I would have to first find out if white trash exist in other countries, or there goes part of my act. I also just figured out most of my knowledge of other cultures is what or how much they drink and what type of warriors they are known for. I don’t know their systems of government, if they have souls, or if they use toilet paper or those butt jet contraptions, but give me a booze type and I came name your country. I don’t have any saki jokes, looks like you’re out Japan. I do like ninjas though…OK, sorry France, you’re out. I don’t like wine and musketeers are boring. After thinking about this more, maybe I shouldn’t leave the Midwest. Or my house.
In the age of DVR, internet TV, and 50,000 ways to watch television and movies, it has created a new and terrible monster – the spoiler. I was online about six minutes after Game of Thrones when I found out exactly what happened thanks to several posts. Not one very subtle, thus ruining the show.
As bad as the spoiler is, there is one spawn of the digital age even worse. The person who bitches about the spoiler no matter what length of time has passed. ”What? Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father? Aw, shit, I was going to watch that soon!” That came out in 1983, I think the statute of limitations has passed. That said, I am soooo close to watching Justified. Don’t ruin it for me.
One of the first tricks I learned in comedy was to ask questions to set up jokes. It gets the crowd involved, helps people get into the right mind set, etc. One of the problems is that you have to be prepared for people to answer just about any way. I do a joke asking who hates their jobs? Usually, the answer is overwhelmingly yes. Once I did that joke at an office party. I realized the bosses were all there, so I made a comment how everyone should kick each other under the table instead of answering. In other words, answers (or lack thereof) can cause some really funny or horribly awkward problems. I asked a guy that question once and he told me he just got laid off. I paused, then told him it still probably sucked. He agreed.
The worst, however, is the person who answer every single question like the comic is conducting an interview. I had a show Friday and there was a very drunk or very dumb middle aged lady that decided to answer each and every question in full, then add commentary. My pal Bob mentioned marriage, then asked in passing who was married. This lady yelled out, “Marriage is an institution, who wants to be stuck in an institution? That’s why I got divorced!” She was actually louder than Bob, who had a microphone. He asked her if she was so smart, why’d she get married in the first place? She didn’t hear because she was still talking.
Right on through Bob’s set, into Darrell’s set, then at mine she was petering out. The shrill voice was probably getting to her own brain, which was probably shutting down motor functions, much like the poor bastard she used to be married to. After all the interruptions, the insults hurled at her from the stage and a few from the crowd, she finally shut the hell up. I was glad, because I was considering honoring the Ultimate Warrior and doing an overhead press to close my set out. Actually, she was so annoying, I was disappointed.
I like beer. I usually drink Busch Light because it’s the first beer I drank and I stick with what works. Then again, looking at my record, maybe I should have switched. I realize that occasionally I need to branch out. In the end, it’s beer, so I still win whether it’s Beast Ice or a $10 IPA.
There is a pretty cool growler store near my house. They have 60 beers on tap. That’s good. The bad thing is that there is some ridiculous shit in there, thus their sample policy. I asked for lagers and was handed a smoke screened lager. It was beer, chased with a stale nicostick blown directly into your mouth. Mmmmm. Cancer.
Last night I got another sample, just to say I tried it. It was a beer with habanero peppers in it. I took a sip, not bad. I hammered down the rest, thinking I was safe when fire roared into my stomach. I’m sure this will turn out fine. After all, beer really blocks you up. Oh wait, it makes your toilet look like a Jackson Pollock painting the next morning.
Sometimes people say things so absent of thought, I wonder if they are dumb or slightly off. Example – in high school, we were having a discussion about guys at our jobs trying to pull fast ones on newbies. One guy got sent to find a bucket of steam, another got parts for a coffee maker when he worked at an auto repair shop and was told to put them back in the car (he tried for six hours). The latter story prompted one of the fellows to say, “Did they have you top off the blinker fluid? Ha ha.” Another commented, “Where would you get blinker fluid?” One, there is no such thing. Two, we were having a conversation where we established the trickery and absurdity of the situations. In this case? Moron.
Last weekend I parked at the movie theater. I was on the sixth floor and in a hurry. There was a middle aged lady mumbling to herself and walking in circles, looking up, down, left and right. As I passed her, she began to follow me, muttering to herself. I began to get the fist ready with a bogey on my six. Violence against women is bad, but if a homeless lady pulls a switchblade, it’s go time. I’ve seen enough 80′s action movies to know parking garages are beehives of street violence.
As I hit the stairs, I heard, “What parking garage is this?” I pointed to the sign, that was bright yellow and had the name of the garage. She looked at it, then said, “But where are we? Does it have another name?” I don’t know lady, I’m late for Captain America. You could be on fire and you’d be lucky to get spit at as I speed by. She then followed me down the entire six floors muttering and finally said, “What other garages are around here?” She was holding a phone like it was a wildcat and it was struggling to break free, but didn’t appear to know how to use it.
I could only assume she went up all six floors, then back down, meaning she not only didn’t know the geographic location of her parking garage, she didn’t even know the floor if she found it. That takes a special type of confusion only generated from a massive concussion or a lobotomy. Then I realized I’ve had five concussions and I was staring at the future. I should probably buy some diapers this week just in case I get smacked in the head again sometime soon.