Month: April 2012

I wrote a new premise last night and carried it, all proud, to last night’s open mike.  The workshop fired up and this new guy with duct tape on two fingers went into a rant about how all the other comics sucked and he was “born for the stage.”  Yes!  Another loon.  He then went ape shit and talked about hooking up with camel lady and whatnot.  Turns out the duct tape, which he never brought up onstage, was for warts.  So if you have HPV, just wrap your shit in duct tape.

I had what I thought was a funny joke about how women are so much more caring than men.  Example – my girlfriend sent flowers to my family because she’s thoughtful for a birthday gift.  I posted on her mom’s facebook page, “Happy Bday!”  Not quite the same.  I don’t even know what most of my friends do for a living or their kid’s gender, let alone name.  That’s sad, but not as sad as the reaction to my joke about that.  Oh well, back to the drawing board.  At least I have enough duct tape to cure my skin blemishes.

I realized my shirts don’t sell as well as I would like, so like anything with my OCD, I broke it down.  Here’s what I have observed from doing hundreds of comedy show; the number one rule…  People like shirts that are independently funny.  Example – You may have a great joke about Cream O’ Wheat, but post show, a “Suck my ass” shirt sells better.  That in mind, I have some new ideas; feel free to leave feedback.

“These colors don’t run…because America is too fat to exercise.”

“Mystery bruises = I had fun last night.”

“That’s a great story, you should tell someone else.”

“I use birth control, I pull out.”

“Hangovers only happen when you quit drinking every day.”

“Have sex with me – guaranteed orgasm!  (For me)”

I had about five others, but they were very offensive.  Feel free to leave feedback, I may roll with your suggestion.

I work in an office where five or six people sit in an open area.  We usually defer musically to the only female and God love her, she has the amazing ability to listen to a pop station that plays about nine songs on a loop.  Spoiler alert!  A lot of Katy Perry and Rihanna right now.  You fell in love in a hopeless place last Friday night, we get it.  Wait, those songs meshed together in my brain.  Remind me to hollow out a tooth and keep a cyanide capsule in case this rotation continues.

I loathe pop music, unless I’m at a party, drinking, and I hear it ironically played.  Then I only enjoy it for making giggles.  I honestly think my entire makeup is different, because I don’t know how one can listen to this drivel and enjoy it at all, let alone 4-5 times a day.  I like birthday cake, but by the third piece, I’m vomiting hot sugar unless I chug milk to coat my stomach.  Therefore, I will propose a deal to my office.  Everytime the same song plays during our nine hours together, I get to play a song.  BTW, I’m starting with “Halo” by Machine Head – it’s 9:02 and I’ll play it on principle to double up your Beyonce “I’m a woman that tells men how it is” songs or your Lady Gaga “I’m different no one understands me, that’s why I sell millions of records ra ra ohh la la who gives a steaming shit” songs.  As my tune says, this is our time to fight; no more compromising!  Then I realize I’ll forget my iPod and no station plays my psycho angry music, so it looks like we’re falling in love in a hopeless place this Friday night again…sigh.

One of my limited weaknesses, showing my limited humanity, has been my recent and rapid declining eyesight.  This sucks, since I am at the point now where I can’t read menus in restaurants unless the lighting is great and I work best in dimly-lit places.  I got reading glasses, but everyone knows glasses are for four-eyed nerds and I am clearly very cool and quite the badass.  Thus, my recent switch to contacts.

Whatever sick and twisted human invented these self-torture semi-orbs, I admire you for your amazing ability to get me to shove my finger into my eye to avoid spectacles, but this process is about as easy giving myself a catheter.  The lady showed me, but I couldn’t get these damn things in my eye the first 20 tries if the government in Clockwork Orange let me borrow their tools.  My eye kept moving and flinching – probably thousands of years of DNA stacked up telling not to poke myself in the eyeball.  Just a thought.  Morning one I was almost late for work.  I was so angry, I almost punched a hole in my wall, realized that wasn’t healthy, then beat my fist on my sink five times.

I’ve been told this gets easier.  I sure changing a colostomy bag does too, optimists.  Oh well, at least I don’t look like a feeb.