Year: 2012

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.

A stupid ice storm hit the Tri-state on Friday.  It sucked.  My parents made the late show, so afterwards I was selling shirts when my Mom asked if I wanted to stay at their hotel.  I’m a man, damnit.  I will stay at the comedy condo.  Then, the doorman said it was rough outside.  My Mom was stressing.  Well, I guess I’m staying w/ Mommy!  So much for the cocaine afterparty…(unless my parents get crazy!  Just kidding – say no to drugs.)

I got to the room the next day, but the internet and cable were down and I can’t go three minutes without either.  I went hunting for wi-fi and found a lovely Middle Eastern cafe.  They had some shitty Dubai MTV on.  Some guy with his eyebrows so close together, you needed a magnifying glass to see the skin between them, was singing while his band backed him up.  One had a keytar (keyboard that looks like a guitar), so you know the song was kick ass.  I had a nice gyro and coffee, though.  I’m so cultured.  I did notice, strangely, that women in Arabian music videos wear a lot more clothes than American videos…hmmm, that’s strange.  Oh, right, they get rocks thrown at them if their shoulders are exposed.

John Witherspoon was onstage and I was watching from the back of the room, first show Friday.  He was winding down his act and yelled, “Chris!  Chris!  How am I doing?”  I froze.  I think he’s talking to me…  “Chris!  How am I doing on time?”  I jumped up and began thinking – I’m the feature, I’m not supposed to light the headliner…  “Chris?”  I ran up to the edge and yelled, “You’re good!  I’m here!”  From behind me, the sound guy, whose name was also Chris said, “He’s talking to me.”

I felt like quite the asshole.  Shame draped over me like a wet blanket.  I put my head down and went back to my spot.  I vowed at that moment never to offer help to another person ever.  If someone bursts into flames onstage and calls my entire Christian name, I will stare at them and flick cigarettes.  It couldn’t have been more of a boob unless I took off my clothes and Superfly Snuka-ed the front row.

I got the notice on Tuesday last week that I could feature at the Cincy Funny Bone (which is actually in Kentucky – WHOA!).  I did the first show Thursday with the local talent and drove back to Cbus.  Friday, I was set to do five shows the rest of the week.  I was in such a hurry to get down there I scarfed down some Wendy’s in three minutes.  About 25 minutes later, I vomited part of the Wendy’s back into the sack.  Remind me not to eat a combo meal in three minutes if you see me.  Good thing I didn’t get any puke on me because I didn’t have time to change – I ran in the bathroom and made sure my dandy was on.  (I don’t know what that means.)

I sat in the showroom for the first show, then saw the back door open.  It was headliner John Witherspoon, Craig’s dad from Friday, and also a former writer on the Richard Pryor show.  “Is this all the people?”  I told him more were in line and he shut the door.  That was when I found out where the green room was…I am a dumbass.  It took me two shows in to find out where the green room was.

I then had the most embarrassing thing happen to me ever…

Just two comics hanging out post-show –

What am I talking about?  I hoofed it back (via car) from Cincy last night and I had to pee so bad I was hallucinating.  I hate stopping more than words can say.  There’s no worse feeling on earth, though, than when you get to your exit.  Then some weird body thing happens and you really have to go.

I would have driven 75 through the red lights, but I have a bit of an issue with traffic laws, so I didn’t.  I was pulling into the condo and it was so slippery, I almost lost control…at 10 mph.  Then I remembered at the condo meeting I approved the policy of no plows until three inches of snow.  Nice move, dumbass.  If I had a time machine, I would have pissed in it first, b/c I couldn’t hold it anymore.  Step 2, I would have went back and pissed on the minutes from that meeting and screamed, “You did this!  Not me!  This is on your hands…and table!”