The local comedy club’s open mike was back in full throttle last night, so needless to say, a fresh crop of crazies and assholes were back out. 25 comics showed up for 14 spots and mass confusion ensued. At the workshop pre-show, a new open miker (I almost typed comedian, then punched myself) showed up, plied his wares, then took advice. Another comic, more of a veteran, began to berate him for not practicing his act more. It was awkward…then he got up and tried a new joke and forgot the punchline. Physician, heal thyself? It was like the coach who tells you how to swing a bat, then misses the ball 14 times in warmups while a cigarette hangs from his lip.
I emceed, which was fine, but a week ago I had a bad day and may have punched a wall. That’s right, in 33 years I have yet to learn that the satisfaction from punching a wall last 2 seconds, but the hand pain lasts several weeks. Now I will punch people instead. Glad that’s settled. I saw a newbie getting ready, he was pumping his arms and looking all tiger like, about to pounce the stage. Knowing this was coming, I prefaced his intro by saying “I should know by now you shouldn’t blast walls when angry, then shake 26 hands in an evening. Let’s go for the fist bump!” Of course, he shook my hand like a farmer warning traveling salesmen to stay away from his daughter. Thanks, cokey dokey! Now I can’t grip my beer. Die a slow death, holy shit that hurts. Dislocating your metacarpals will do that.
I would type more, but my hand is throbbing. Stay tuned for the “My Left Foot” blog! Instead of Daniel Day-Lewis, you get Christopher Drunk-Pieceofshit.