I actually felt comfortable enough to strike up a conversation with John Witherspoon by Saturday. We exchanged some stories, his interesting, mine not. He told me about working in Vegas with Tom Jones, the singer, also with George Wallace. We both agreed Vegas is full of “ho’s” or whores as I call them, because I’m too white to pull off “ho’s.”
It was pretty cool talking shop. He assumed I was some traveling comic and marveled at the fact I have 103,ooo miles on my car in less than 3 1/2 years. (He flies.) I didn’t want to be a douche, so I let him talk, mostly. He told me about bounced checks, bad gigs, and old road stories for a few minutes, then the show started and I got out of his hair so he could focus on his act.
After the second show, some girls approached my merchandise table. “Umm, we’re hot chicks, so we should get free shirts.” Me: I don’t give free shirts out, but I’ll knock $5 off if you want one. (I was still in nice, please buy my t-shirt mode at that point) “Umm, I don’t think you heard us, we’re hot and her name is Saxon, isn’t that unique? Oh and it’s her birthday.” Me: That’s cool, good for you. I don’t give out free stuff. Someone stole a shirt off me once and anyone that wants something free can go to hell. (Amazingly, I was still calm because no one buys a shirt off an angry man yelling at girls) “Yeah, but we’re hot.” Me: OK, if you say so. $10. (That’s enough out of you, you entitled nuisance) “You’re an asshole. SEE YA!!!” I’m a dick because some slut wanted something free? One, you’re not hot. You’re a slumpbuster on a good night, toots. Two, do some research – usually, a woman offers a boob flash. Not that I would’ve given a shirt at that point, but demanding shit off me so you can tell your dumb friends you “seduced” me? Fuck you. Also, I HATE self-proclaimed “hot chicks.” You’re a six with the personality of a girl on “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” I wouldn’t give you the lint I pull out of the top of my ass in the shower, you rancid skank.
Hahaha. Part four is by far the best one yet!