Month: August 2012

I was at BW3’s last night and realized that another season of college football had begun.  Apparently, though, screaming baby and hyper undisciplined white trash child season was still in full effect.  I need to learn how to use a blowgun.  Oh look, you did make a ketchup pool on my table!  (Dart to neck)  That’s it, take a nap.

I love college football Saturdays.  The weather recedes, which is good because I instantly sweat at anything over 77 degrees.  Me and the boys go to the bar (our hangout closed down, evidently it is illegal to operate without a valid liquor license – currently free agents at the moment) and pound some beers screaming at the TV.  The routine is quite solid.  If Ohio State is winning, we order the crappy promotional shots and high five more aggressively with each shot.  If losing, we scream obscenities and leave early…and drink angrily at home.  No matter what, I have enough to convince myself $14 is a reasonable amount to spend at Taco Bell and get the shit sweats 30 minutes later as I debate whether I can make it home in time or do the ol’ bar bathroom hover method.  After $14 worth of tacos, the hover method usually wins.

No, I’m not talking about my ween.   That works just fine.  I decided to off the cuff it last night and hot damn, it was OK.  Irony of an open mike is that when newbies come, they bring people, but usually blow.  When they don’t, the show is better, but no one comes.  Mostly because your friends think you have a new set every 14 minutes.  When you don’t, they quit coming out.  Can’t blame em, come to the door deal shows, please!

Living in a swing state, I have been batting around doing a political joke and I found one deep in the recesses of my huge brain.  Problem?  There were under 40 people at the show.  Hmmm.  Why not?  “The problem with living in a swing state is that you get the ads from both sides.  Mitt Romney’s going to end Medicare and kill your Grandma.  Barack Obama is going to set Jesus on fire.  Shit.  Who do I vote for?  I like Grandma AND Jesus.”  It was totally organic and it got a laugh.  Problem is that once this election is over, that joke is toast.  Much like burning Jesus.  Thanks for nothing, Obama!  Oh well, now to work on that Hurricane Isaac joke that will last four more days!

I saw two things this week.  One was at a family pool.  It was a man, strutting around in front of children.  No, not what you’re thinking – speedos are bad, but he was wearing full women’s bikini bottoms.  They even had the tie on the side.  That’s not strange at all – oh wait, this isn’t Key West, it’s a public pool.  Kids are everywhere!  Seriously, save the drag show for Saturday night weirdo.  Now excuse me while I take a swig from my hidden flask and snarl at kids.

Then I got home.  There is a teen, let’s just say, a little strange.  He’s been wearing the same outfit for two days and is running around the parking lot with a full walkie talkie headset on having a full conversation (or not, maybe just himself).  I said hello and he looked horrified and slid between two cars.  OK, that actually is normal.  Then I opened the door and he ducked past me into my condo’s common hallway.  How long has this kid been out there?  I don’t know whether to call the authorities or leave a sandwich in the hall.  No, you’re right.  If I feed him, he’ll come back.  Don’t disturb the nest.  However, turn in momma bird for keeping her young’uns in the parking lot for hours.

I had a show Saturday and all things considered, it went pretty well.  However, it is amazing how one little thing can throw you for a loop.  Pre-show I was told no “f word”, which is not life or death, but the little seed of restraint grows into a tree rather quickly.  On my first joke, of course ultimately about my penis, I realized I hadn’t done it in a minute and missed a non-essential line.  While I pondered this, I grabbed my crotch…one line before the punchline.  Ah yes, the unnecessary crotch grab.  Off to good start.

I then got to a joke where the key is my grandma saying fuck, not on purpose, but because she had never heard it before and was repeating the conversation she heard.  I realized I couldn’t say it and the joke lost its edge.  I came to this realization, but also decided to plow through the rest of the material.  Don’t lose faith, kids.  I still did everything else verbatim, including my joke about running over a guy while driving and plenty o’ sex humor.  Glad to know the f word was off limits, but dirty sex, vehicular homicide and public indecency are still OK.  Take that, establishment!  (Just kidding establishment, please book me for more shows.)

There’s a side of comedy that no one gets to see, but it may be the worst part – people before the show trying to joke it up with me.  I was walking into a show and some guy said, “Are you the comedian or the commodian?  HA HA HA!”  As in commode, like they called toilets in 1942.  Have you seen my act, dick?  It’s shit and you’re paying me.  Commodian it is.

I walked into the show Saturday and told the people at the front that I was one of the comics.  “You don’t look all that funny!  HA HA HA!”  Oh, I always look like this when I’m talking to a moron.  It’s very exhausting.  I then set up camp in the back and three guys meandered over and proceeded to yuck it up with inside jokes about the people in the room (I didn’t know any of them) and how I “could use that in my act!”  Thanks!  I’ll ditch the stuff I’ve worked out over the last five years and go with your advice.  Boy, that Jim really does like to fish!  HA HA HA (rope goes taut, legs twitch).

Probably the most disturbing was after a show when a short, very drunk man came up to me.  “You should do more n-word jokes in your act!”  Only he didn’t say n-word.  Also, by more, he was implying that I did at least one n-word joke in the first place.  Suddenly his daughter ran up and said, “I’m sorry, that’s my dad.  He’s very racist.”  What bothered me was I could tell this had happened before.  Well, it was nice being here.  Now excuse while I hop in the Delorean and go back to 2012!

Car wreck.  How do I know?  I went in for an oil change and the mechanic said I was in dire need of tires.  I know he was serious because 1) this is the third time they said it and 2) they looked like racing slicks.  Fine, what’s the damage?  Three tires – $642.  Excuse me?  “Well you have oversized wheels and there are no specials.”  Hmm.  Let me get back to you.

A buddy of mine then told me about this place down the street.  Why not check it out?  It had no sign and when I walked in, no furniture or office type shit, like a fax.  An Arabic man came out looking very suprised, like I was interrupting his designs on the capitalist pigs by coming into his fake storefront.  My bald eagle didn’t scream, so I knew it was legit.  He spoke no English, so I left.  His cohort chased me down and told me they sold to the public.  So I walked out with three new tires for a cool $30/each.

Knowing that nothing ever goes smoothly, I realized this shady business is currently either using my debit card to steal all my life’s fortunes (joke’s on you bastards, I’m poor) or more likely, I just bought used tires made in a Malaysian sweat shop.  The tears of a 9 year old worker/slave mixed in with the polymers, which cause the tire to shred at high speeds, making me crash headlong into a church bus, either killing me or somehow shaving off only my genitals, in which case I kill myself anyways.  Oh well, gotta go sometime.  At least I saved a couple hundred!