The bad audience

Every comic that has a bad set’s first reaction is “The crowd sucked.”  Well, every once in a while, they’re right.  There is a simple math equation in comedy that the smaller the crowd, the worse it goes, but sometimes, like last night, it’s just ridiculous.  One way to tell is that if there are 13 comics – black, white, female, male, young, old, gay, straight, etc. – and 10 don’t do well?  The crowd sucks.  Someone has to hit, it’s the law of averages.

Rather than focus on the bad, I will share two moments from the show (I did well, obviously…) that stood out from last evening.  I said, “Who has ever got out of a bad relationship?”  A dude said, “Me!  14 of ’em!”  That’s on you, pal.  You’re 25.  You’re a piece of shit.  He then said (in reference to me talking about crabs, not that I have them), “Hit them with a hammer!”  That explains the single state of your love life.

The crowning moment, though, was a guy came up to the group of miserable comics post-show and said, “Who did the crabs joke?”  Me: “I did.”  Him: “That was funny…who did a lobster joke?”  My buddy: “I did.”  Him: “That needs some work.”  That made my night.  And remember rule 49 of comedy – crabs are funnier than lobsters.

Fancy smancy continued…

I’ve only had to perform totally clean a couple times before, and only once wearing dress clothes, which sucked, because I had to do both here.  The guy working with me was cool enough to go first, since I was called that day to fill in.  The show was in an old theater, so it was very throwback to walk from behind a curtain and have a pitcher of water onstage.  I’m more used to a bucket of beer.  The show went very well and surprisingly, I didn’t curse other than damn and hell, but that doesn’t count since I usually say much worse.

My camera phone sucks when a guy is tapping me on the shoulder...

After the show, I had some super rich people compliment my set.  At this point, I was thinking I should have brought a cup for cannistering for change like when I was playing baseball for the Springfield Lions club.  The guy running the show then gave me a pass to go to the casino and I was all in…until he mentioned “They will provide you a jacket at the door.”  No thanks, my hypocrisy has its limits.  I’ll just drive back to the hotel and listen to outlaw country.  In ten minutes I went from the most high end hotel in West Virginia with a jacket policy to a Super 8, drinking the good part of an 18 pack of Busch Light tweeting about how Cris Carter got screwed by the NFL Hall of Fame.  Back to basics.

The fanciest room I’ve ever worked

I did a show at the Greenbrier in West Virginia.  It has been the vacation spot of presidents, movie stars, and super rich people for a century.  And they had me there.  I was supposed to do it mid-February, but a last second emergency meant I got called at 2 pm.  I had slept in until one, because I am a sack of shit, and at the time of the call, I was sitting at a BW3’s, ready to devour some delicious wings.  I said I would do it and the race was on.

I flew home, stopping first at Arby’s – I normally wouldn’t mention that, but I hadn’t eaten since 6pm the previous day.  I actually got three sandwiches for $5.  I have never spent less than $8 at Arby’s.  It is the steakhouse of fast food…at least in price.  I was packed and ready to roll, when I realized my dog was staring at me.  Son of a bitch.  (Literally!  LOL LOL LOL, shoot me.)  Thank God the hotel was pet friendly, not that I cared at that point, I just would’ve snuk him in the back.

I arrived at the room and to my endless surprise, a valet parked my car and called me sir.  He probably felt all dirty inside having to accomodate my stupid ass and call me sir.  Fair enough.  This place was easily the highest class ever, which isn’t saying much if you read last night’s blog with the whipped cream wrestling.

 

Jack Nicholson is chasing me with an axe.

Small town bar comedy shows

I did a show last weekend put on by my buddy Matt Horn.  The bar was a nice little place and the staff was very cool.  The owner showed us the stage, which had hanging chains all around, ala a sex dungeon.  Not that I know anything about that.  He then exclaimed, “I should probably mop up the floor!”  He ran to the back and grabbed a mop.  As he cleaned up, he said, “We had some girls in here last night wrestling in whipped cream.  It’s a little sticky.”  I was torn between being turned on and vomiting, but it was quite the interesting statement.

These fine patriots allowed smoking in the bar, which is very nostalgic and flips off the do-gooders in our society, which I like.  The drawback is that holy shit, do you stink when you leave.  Kinda forgot about that part.  I’m pretty convinced also that hangovers are worse when breathing smoke all night.  I’m sure it could be proved, if any scientists wanted to waste money trying to prove it.

America and the Super Bowl

My Dad grew up outside Pittsburgh, so he taught (brainwashed) me to root for the Steelers.  If they’re in the big game, I treat the game and my social interaction like I have TB and watch it alone, or with him.  Quarantined from the ancillary bullshit.  Other than that, I don’t care.

When it’s whomever vs. whatever, I just drink and bash the commercials.  Enough with the investment baby, I can’t take Danica “getting frisky” – we all know you’re not getting naked.  You or that tranny from Biggest Loser.  Shut up.  Oh, and Pepsi?  I’m drinking Coke now – your commercials are retarded.  Lower jaw man pushing the Pepsi through the combine course.  That’s delicious.

Here’s what you need to know.  The nat’l anthem will be bastardized.  The halftime show will have a neon green flag crops while some band from a generation ago “rocks it!”  The commercials will let you down.  The game?  One in three chance to be a blowout on the epic scale of a Soviet weightlifter getting a prolapsed asshole from squatting 750 lbs.  Me?  I’ll drink, bet on squares, and pray the Steelers get an offensive line so I can enjoy next year.  Eat Doritos, robots.  Frito Lay says so.