The Joy Of Sectional Seating

Tuesdate

So I checked out the Personality Disorder test that you may have read on Blaine's Blog or Blogo De Shoogs. I took the test myself and I had a High level/tendency towards narcissism, and everything else was pretty low. I don't disagree with that, I find myself to be self-involved and self-preserving, unless someone could use a hand or asks for help, then I will pitch in. Usually free of charge, but gawd knows it's nice to move a dresser with the promise of a cold six on the receiving end. I have been told that I am elitist, a bit of an a-hole, and a f*cking (fill in the blank). To each their own opinion. I have had moments, hell, months of my life where I truly did not give two loaves about anybody else. That period usually followed a spate of me being too involved in things other than my life, and that imbalance usually gets one in trouble. I'm much more balanced now. I rarely venture out of my world now.

The questions of the test were pretty funny, too. I posted a few here that were pretty much loaded questions, or at the least, poorly written, in a way to cause some confusion in the test-taker, because a lot of people are pretty dumb. Let's be honest, you're probably a co-worker of someone who's lips move when they type, and who breathes with their mouth open.

Some of the questions!

• Do you tend to avoid social relationships? "Social relationships." Please define. Like general, "hey what's up?," superficial stuff, or ???
• Do you find yourself unaffected by praise or criticism? Do I have to be unaffected by both? Someone was too lazy to type another question.
• Do you feel a yearning for acceptance among your peers? Did you just use the word "yearning?" Acceptance... I don't know. I guess if I consider them my friends. I'd rather be feared than accepted. Or no, lusted after, that's it.
• Do others see you as being cold and distant? And if you answered Yes, how can you be sure, if you're that distant?
• Do you find it hard to concentrate on one thing for a long time? Define "long time." Also, it depends on what that one thing is, and what # date I'm on.
• Do you sometimes profit at the expense of others, without being bothered by the pain or damage you may cause them? Yeah, every day. If there was anybody else with no foresight who wanted this job and didn't get it, then yes, every day we all do that. Do you do X without feeling the Y that others may feel? I don't know what others MAY feel.
• Do you consider your needs to be more important to you than the needs of others? Yes, all the time. My needs are more important to me than the needs of others because I'm responsible for getting them met. I can't give a man a fish if I haven't caught one, can I?
• Are you often uninterested in the feelings of others? The loaded "negative affirmation" question. Do you not want to answer this?
• Do other people accuse you of being manipulative? Ssometimes, but I can usually change their minds.
• Have you ever been in jail or done something that you could be put in jail for? Try answering this honestly, including every time you drove your car after a few Xanax & tonics.
• Do other people accuse you of being self-centered? Perhaps. I don't really pay attention.
• Do you have trouble not taking criticism personally? See, they do it again here, the negative affirmation. What the hell is the deal here, do they think I'm not going to see this? Do they think I am some bimbo? FAWK THIS TEST! I AM GOING TO THROTTLE THE NEXT PERSON WHO DECIDES IT IS THEIR PLACE TO PLAY "PEOPLE'S COURT" WITH MY DREAMS! SOMEBODY.... IS GOING... TO DIIIIIIIIIIIEEEE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGRRRRRRHGHGGHGHRHRRHAAAAAAAAAAAA
• Are you prone to bouts of anger? A resounding "SNORT" and a "NO, thank you."
• Do you often get stuck on the details while missing the larger picture? Sometimes, but I find that women kind of like that. And isn't that what it's all about, lying to women?
• Are you very concerned with your appearance and how others perceive you? Why, do I look heavy to you? "Very" concerned? No. This should be two questions. "Are you concerned with your appearance?" and "Are you concerned that others think you're a slob?"
• Do others accuse you of being rigid or stubborn? This question is horse-apples and I refuse to cotton to such banality. I say GOOD DAY, Sir. Thomas will show you to the door.

I hope you can see that this test is not 100% accurate, but I do have to agree on the narcissism. I'm a bit of an elitist, and while I understand that other people will say things about other people, I hope that when I come up in conversation, as I tend to do, they realize that I don't care what they say, just so long as they're talking about me. Press is press, people, even if it's a "stolen" romp tape and a pending lawsuit. Nothing can remove the memories of my weekend with that Mrs. Garrett look-alike.

Narcissism is a level of self-involvement that borders on insecurity. A semi-constant wondering how I am perceived by others, OR a high level of self-concern. Hmm.... I can look at myself naked and know that I'm surely not obsessed about my looks. I can see that I'm losing some hair and have yet to replace it with a convertible (irony?), but I do want a Benzo Roadster at some point. I like to dress well and smell nice. I read books and articles about overcoming fear and anxiety in order to achieve the highest goals in life. And when I hear reports of people speaking badly of me, I laugh. For some reason, I guffaw loudly as it rolls off my back. I have developed a sense of humor about myself as a shield against the photons of low-thinkers. And I do these things because I like to, because I want to be this person I am constantly becoming, and not because I want to fling it in the face of the tragically unattractive.

Anyway, I have a personality disorder, according to that test. Just one, after 30 years? I guess I have every reason to love, love, love the Me that is the I that I am for My Self. I need a little "Me" time... if I know what I mean.

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Football, Comedy, Football, Green Lake, Talking Meatball, Footmeat, Greenball, Audition, Love Machine, Fomedy, Cootball, LoserAss, Junk In Da Trunk, And of Course, Football

Oh dear gawd, it's Mon-F*cking-day already. The only way for me to start this week is as I'm doing it right now, manipulating the lettered buttons of this "board" to produce words that form recognizable structures of communication in your friggin' brain. Dig my technological advances with a side of honey mustard ass-kicking sizzauce. Go ahead, dip & lick yer fingers. Enjoy.

I just watched the weirdest Aqua Teen Hunger Force ('toon network, look it up) of all time. In an effort to get Meatwad to lose weight, Frylock attempts to put him on a diet. Carl gets involved by using the South Bronx Paradise diet candybar, which helps him lose weight by the handful, including his ass-deposited liver, over a few hours. "I thought I felt somethin' slip," says Carl. Turns out it was the South Bronx ParaSITE diet, so you can imagine the extreme effects. In the meantime, MasterShake is making Funnel Cakes and brownies to get Meatwad fatter, so that MasterShake can win. 'Shake's secret strategy? Sticking a shop-vac into his straw right before weigh-in (it kills him). Carl wins the contest when a giant millipede erupts from his gut and drags Carl's body onto the scale, chanting in the voice of Emmanuel Lewis from "Webster," "I WIN! I WIN!"
(If you have no frigging clue what I'm talking about, that's what it's like to talk to a woman who tells stories about her friends you've never met. Everyone's losing weight, and one's got a virus inside of her.)

I got really bad food poisoning last Thursday. That's the last time I eat vending-machine Sushi.

HAX-TV will return next week on 10/05/04, with new sketches and a fresh outlook on life. A couple weeks back I did a candid review of the Open Mic Comedillio at the Underpants, and one of the performers from that night & review was a pile by the moniker of "Major." Generally a guy who is trying to be the life of every party, even if it's a wake, he's got a false confidence that comes from being 6'3'' and 300lbs, sporting a really intricate tattoo (read: covering up something embarrassing, like a guy's name or a swastika), and donning sleeveless attire while lacking muscle tone. Were it not for my sureness that he was packing a bootknife, I probably would have had a go at him. Anyway, in the lobby of SCAN is an article about that same guy, Major, having his own TV show on SCAN a while ago. Anybody can do it. Sadly, anybody will do. We want ours to be the Joe Millionaire of Public Access. A 1-season phenom that launches us all into stardom. Mercedes E55, here's I come.

Back now:
Football & It's Affect on Dating.
I didn't watch a lick of Seattle football this weekend. I watched a ton of other teams and schools go at it, but the Huskies are really bad this year, and the Hawks are really good. Besides, I had a hot date on Sunday afternoon, and she was far more interesting than the 'Hawks 34-0 Dirty Sanchez'ing of the Niners. Until the Oh! network (that sounds hawt) starts a Dating Highlights show, I feel okay about skipping the game now and again. "As you can see here, Lott jumps the count and goes right for the flank, but comes up short after being brought down by a facemask. He was carted off with an embarrassed libido and later traded for a man with all his hair and a leased 325ci."

I realize, also, that it's quite impossible for me to date someone more than 5 years younger than me. Not that women aren't beautiful in their own ways at all ages, but damn, there's just no shared experiences there. That's the way this wheel keeps rolling, though.

I'm thinking it's time for a good practical joke to be played at the office. I want to try the old "free pizza and donuts" e-mail, then leave empty boxes of each in the lunchroom, except for one of each with bites out of them, then see if anyone takes it. Perhaps sugar cookies where the sugar is actually salt? Out of Order signs on the Fridge? Somebody's been taking food out of the refrigerator again, so perhaps it's time for a booby-trapped item? "Oh my, I've never seen a California Roll just catch on fire in someone's mouth like that." Anybody got ideas?

I gotta get back to work now. Have a good Monday. Check out my schedule, btw, as I'll be headlining Laughs soon, and also, there's a hellacious weekend of comedy coming up. Where do we go? Where do we go now?
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Take Me Home Tonight, I Don't Wanna Let You Go Till I See The Light

My Non-Funny Blog.

HAX-TV Makeover Episode

Last night was our 6th episode of HAX-TV, the Hostile Makeover show. With the help of Pinky Murdero and Tony "Thigh Meat" Moser, there was a great segment wherein Tones was given a fashion update. He has since abandoned the look in favor of his "Street Tough Charlie Brown" look. Damn if that guy ain't funny. Damn if that guy ain't got a talent for the comedy.
Damn.
Tony's rap video was tight, fresh, and fly. He gots mad love from tha streetz. Yeuh, Tone, whaddup Playah? Whaddup Pe-imp? YEUH BOY! No seriously, what's up? You left in a huff last night. What's up?

Luckily for us, it was dress rehearsal. Brousseau's intensity was key, he made us feel as if there were people watching. I need to be more tuned in for that stuff. He's good at what he does. And what a glorious head of hair.

We have a regular caller named Willie G who, for some reason, is obsessed with baby nuts and smoking pot and pants-pooping. If anyone knows a cop or a member of the FBI, let's get a trace on this Willie guy next time. I'm pretty sure you can find some Columbine plans and and underage alternative school chick in his parent's basement/apartment.

Overall the show was probably one of our best. And we didn't tape it. If you happened to tape it, pleeeeease let me know and I'll make you dinner for a copy. Dinner will consist of refried black beans, pulled-pork sandwiches, garlic fries, and soy ice cream.

HAX is back on the air in 2 weeks!
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Must Be This Tall To Mustache Ride
Mustache Rides. That is f*cking FUNNY.
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Funny Bad Story of the Week

A 19 year-old woman with brain damage was reported missing last week after leaving an argument with her mother during the Styx concert at the Puyallup Fair.

• Brain damage
• Styx concert
• Puyallup Fair

It kind of writes itself. It's got more arms than the Octopus Ride she was found taking tickets for 30 mintues later.
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Parenting Skills

The other day at the store I told a woman to tell her child to be quiet. I could actually feel every word coming out of my mouth. They were like hiccups, as if I couldn't control them but I was powerless to the forced contractions of air through my vocal chords, so are the days of my life. Her daughter, about 2-3 years old, was yelling and screaming while walking down the aisle, away from her mom's cart. The kid would run away from her mom, who never hung up her call, and mom would leave the cart or try and back the cart up with one hand and gaff the kid free-hand.

It dawned on me that the mom's convo was more important than A) her child's welfare, B) getting her shopping done in a timely manner, and C) the generally calm demeanor of the grocery store. I don't know what the call was about, but unless it was a negotiation with an East Timor child-labor sweatshop, it wasn't worth disrupting an entire store. So as the kid came running near me and I played soccer goalie, dancing back and forth to corral the chumpkin. I think she quickly realized I wasn't her dad and could therefore not be investigated for child abuse should she take a fall, so she stopped and looked up at me, silently. Her mom had yet to hang up. Mom looks at me like "isn't she a turd? I'm frustrated, too" and grabs her kid, with no "thanks" or "sorry" or anything, as if I was some metaphorical condom who's job it was to stop unwanted kids traveling up the tea/coffee/cereal tubes.

So as she grabs the kid by the hand, I say "You're not paying enough attention to your kid," and walk on down the aisle past her. I don't know if she heard me. I hope she realizes that a kid running around in a crowded store is not the safest little poopsie. People talk about "parenting" and "having kids" as being really hard. It would seem that you love them a lot and use common sense, and realize that YOU ARE THE BOSS OF THEM, and they will do what you say, not by reason, but by respect. So you choke-collar the antsy on for a few years, they'll learn. If you want to bring a kid into public and you can't control it, someone has to. If you can't control a loud 2 year-old, you better start saving their college money in a bail fund.
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"Not Everyone Believes In Travis Simmons, It's a Fact."

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Perhaps I'm Just a Prick. (insert emoticon here)

I was reading Blaine's blog earlier and it opened my eyes to a number of things. A few comics I'd never heard of, an update on our friend Meghan's trip through the San Fran Comedy Competition, and a statement at the end about heckling loudly at the open mic. It made me think if I did that last night. I know I've done it before, so I guess I am, or at least have been, a prick, as he put it. I actually try to let go of that whole deal, to just let people go on stage and do whatever it is they do. And the stupid thing is that a day later I rarely remember what it was they said that may have made me heckle prickishly. In that sense, why the hell would I even do it? It's not a comic's intent to drill one in my wheelhouse and attempt to offend just me, and if I get offended, that's really just my peccadillo to bear.

To be honest, I can't justify sitting in the back of a comedy club and heckling. Not loudly, anyway. Lord knows I wouldn't want anyone doing it to me, throwing some verbal comedy gauntlet in my grill. And what's meaner than knowing something is mean and doing it anyway? That's actually kind of evil. That's like talking down to a person you know is insecure, or manipulating someone to tell you something they probably don't feel, just so you can feel the throb of your own ego. Meanness can't be justified, unless the person getting meaned on was a dick to begin with. Whatever is in you is going to come out, sooner or later. If you're a dick, it will show. If you're a good person, you won't be able to hide it. If you're partial to telling others what's wrong with their judging of others, well you're an oxymoron. And the horse you rode in on.

I wish there were comedy classes for people to take to remind them of some basic trouble spots:
* Rhetorical Questions on stage. Find another way to phrase the idea, but don't quiz the audience. Ask a question, and someone will answer.
* Addressing an audience as "You." What "you" don't know is that "you" are not as smart as the person telling "you" all about how to solve the world's political strife, an idea derived from sleep deprivation, weak weed, and too many viewings of "The Daily Show."
* Giving two shits about what others say. If that person's a friend of yours or has decision-making authority over your paycheck, that carries clout. Other than that, that person's pointing a finger with suspect aim. Repeat this phrase: "Thanks. The line to blow me forms in front of the Anacortes Quizno's."
* Thinking I am good. Good is mediocre with a sunny disposition. I want to be one of the best. If I don't want that I'm just wasting my time in this.
* Seeing both sides of an argument. It's better to be completely entrenched in one school of thought, staunch to a cause and blind to counterpoints. Build your walls. You need them.

As Tracy reminded me last night when someone mentioned the Blue Collar Comedy phenomenon sweeping the country, "Don't worry about them. There's enough room for everybody." I have to remember that I should do what counts when it matters. My act is up to me, and that's the only act I need to worry about.

Blaine's got a point. Why heckle at an open mic, if at all? It would be childish to trudge on in the same fashion, bullying the open mic'ers with loud heckling, just to spite them or Blaine's protection of them. I guess I'll have to do it because it's fun.

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Better, Closer, Funnier

Last night's Underpants Open Mouth was as close to stellar as I've ever seen. The good comics got great responses, the newer guys who tried got good responses, and the Bellevue Salad Dressing of the comics got stared at or tagged on by the MC, Jeremy Whitman. Jeremy then had a big debate afterwards over his Rick Astley-ness.

Theme of the Night That Played Itself Out None Too Soon:
Rodger Lizzaola's Latino heritage. It almost got a head of steam, but as is prone with this kind of stereotyping, it stopped working early on.

Best Bald Comic:
Killorn O'Neill. That's a wig, has to be. Scott Meyer also RULED for like 10 minutes after his 3 minutes. To quote Scott: 'MONGO HAS A HAMMER?'

Best Resurrected Bit:
Duane Goad's revisitation to "The Stalker." That's all I'm saying.

Best Misuse of Stage Time: (TIE)
1) Stay positive... okay... I saw a guy go 0-for-6 on the joke scoreboard. Uncomfortable. And he's been doing it for a while, which is even more reason to quit. Pandered for a laugh to close on, got a round of stares. Poor bastard.
2) I won't drop a name here, keeping it postitive, but when starting your act with "I know what you're thinking... just another brown guy in a FUBU jersey," you kind of open yourself up for slagging. I don't understand why comics of skin color darker than off-white want to perpetuate divisive stereotypes through their material. Also, if you're going to set-up a tag line with "Oh, you may laugh..." make sure that people were, you know, laughing.

Best Post-Set MC Tag:
Jeremy tagging #2 above, who ended on a joke about not being allowed to wear adult diapers for fear of being teased. "See, you CAN shit on yourself in front of your friends." Jeremy is aaaawwwesoooooome. Dingly dangle doo.

I think that's enough out of me. I'm off to do whatever it is I do when the system's up and running here. It's not running, but I have screensaver I slapped together that looks like I'm working. Desk nap #2, on the way.

HAX-TV tonight! 10pm, Channel 77. Be there. Please?
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"It's funnier when you don't screw it up."

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Wow, So Glad I Got Up Today

Last night I did a show in Bellingham with Shoogs B. The 'Ham is a good hour and twenty from Lott's Love Lair and Lasagna Lanai, and we got home close to 1 in the ay-em. My brain was going about a killion miles a minute when I got home, as G-Bro and I had a great talk about our goals in comedy, life, women, and overall ripplage of musculature. See, guys can talk about things! Ha! I have debunked yet ANOTHER premise!

I finally crash out hard around 1:30, alarm set and off to sleepytown. I have a tendency to sleep on my right side, which, if you've ever read about a sleeping position's effect on dreaming, the right side can be very intense. It's the creative side of the brain, so as you can imagine, forced therapy via dreamland can turn into "Fantasia" before the talking monkey flips you the bird. I eventually forced myself out of a dream that involved a date from hell with a woman who wanted me to drive to her dad's house and help her kidnap him to prove my affection for her, but she wouldn't let me drive without trying to take the wheel. I took it as another sign that issues with your opposite-sex parent play out in your relationships, and those are really heavy, unfair bags to carry and trip over. I carry bags, too, but they're more like book-bags now. I lost that steamer trunk about 2 years back, that felt good. It's always a good thing to hear that my friends are going to try some therapy. FINALLY we can both admit how gloriously F'ed up you can get those first 30 years of your life. Freedom lies on the other side of baggage claim, courage propels you to try to pack lighter. Anyway, I slept on the couch to prevent rolling to my right for a second date.

I flop to the floor around 7:45 this morning and, lacking the strength to carry myself, seal-crawl to the first of three Monsters for a shot to the heart... and you're to blame. Eventually I muddle through the morning and get to work. I'm actually excited as I slide through the door, waving my security badge by the scan plate and never breaking stride. I felt pretty Mentos. I sit at my desk, ready to take on the day. I had a new Macro in mind I was going to write for a large reporting system, to save myself about 15 minutes per report, which comes out to saving an hour each day. Eventually I will have to work backwards to even out the time I'm saving by being tech-savvy. ANYhoot, I'm tired, invigorated by my declaration to not date women who don't like their dads, back-ached from couch sleeping, and excited to save some time while on the clock...
AND THE FRIGGING REPORTING SYSTEM IS BROKEN, THANKS TO THE PROGRAMMING SKILLS OF A CONTRACTOR WHO HAS NO VESTED INTEREST IN THE DAILY WORK OF THIS COMPANY. See, he gets paid by the hour. If he messes up, he simply must fix it. In effect, he doubled his pay for the week thanks to his own incompetence.
But don't worry. Offshoring is good for the economy. I think I will start selling "What Would Vishnu Do" bracelets. Packs of 8, natch. Welcome to America, enjoy the chintz. Time for a car nap. If I'm not back in 2 hours, my Lotto numbers came up, and I'll never see you again.

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

One More Wrung

At some point in the past month I took a step up the comedy performance ladder. I don't know what nor when it was... wait a second, it just hit me, but I'll save it for later... but I am working with a different set of tools on stage. Different for me, everyone's gotta get their own tool box and build their own cabinets. To follow my blog from Monday with something self-milking may seem, at first, egotism at it's most gorgeous. Call it what you will. I truly do not give a Siamese Roca.

Last night at Giggles I did two sets, 15 and 20+ minutes (recorder ran out at 22). First show had 4 Everett'ians in it, right up front, who got pretty loosey-goosey... that was Siegfriedy... shithouse before the show. A few rows back were 5-8 Boeing employees, also well into their cups at that point. I started by telling the drunks to Shut the F Up, saying "I'm not nice like David (Katims, the MC), I used to teach." Kind of ad-libbed, got a huge response. Bank it. I spent the next 15 minutes interacting with crowd, verbally cow-sticking them into their corrals, hoping the headliner would have a more well-behaved crowd. Regardless, I did 3-5 actual jokes and somehow filled 15 minutes so much it had joke cleavage. Bouncy Bouncy.

And I had a ton of fun up there. I wasn't frustrated by the crowd, I didn't care that they were talking, I went back and forth with them and delivered a couple of pretty hot lines that got the crowd howling. Afterwards, nobody told me I was "good." They told me "Dude, you were f*cking hysterical," or "Holy crap dude, I had to leave the room I was laughing so hard." I was happy and humbled by it. One woman stopped me at the bar next door and told me my set "was like watching someone dance on a high-wire, but only (I) know that I have a parachute." I'd say it was trickery, but I kind of knew what I was doing.

I decided to have fun. I think that was my secret, the Geoff's Hard Lemonade I made from happy hour lemons. I discovered that making people laugh is more important than doing ALL of my material. I put my writing ego aside and let whatever talents I have for comedy and humor play out on stage. "In the moment," as it were. I think I'm gettin' it. No ego, no hate, a wink and a smile, and just have fun. There will be nights where it will feel like work, that's okay. I love my job.


I Love Football
I have an obsession with football. I love this time of year. Rain and gray weather and sun breaks and football on TV for 12 hours a day for 2 days. I found myself last night watching Boston College vs. UConn. A good basketball game, but a crappy football matchup. And I didn't care, it was FOOTBALL. If Bethune-Cookman College for the Blind lined up against my neighbor I'd probably take the Blind to cover. I love football. Come here football. Let me love you. Down. Set. Red 3, Red 3. Love.

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"What Would Lance Armstrong Do?"
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Stop The Unsanitary!

Today in the kitchet at work there is a high-end Rubbermaid tub full, CHOCK full, of oatmeal - chocolate chip cookies. I know because I made 'em. And humpy-humps to the lo-carb lifestyle, these things are the white tiger of your first day on the diet. I dare say I outdid myself this time 'round. This is at-home, from-scratch, half-organic/half-heartstopping baking. It's a zen thing I do now and again for 3 dozen

For reasons varying from humility to legal implicity, I try to make a phantom drop of the cookies. It's always best to drop 'em off then swing in when people are fueling up at 9am. Dropping off their monster lunches wrapped inside insulated bags, which they then put in the fridge. Filling insulated, $30 REI mugs with free sock-filtered coffee. Telling nobody in particular that "oh my, someone brought cookies, this is going to ruin my diet" as they waddle to the bucket o' goodness, zwip-zwipping over in stretch polyester pants matched to their light purple eyeshadow. (i know the color is lilac, but after the cookie making, one mention of the color wheel and my penchant for the ladies becomes suspect) To throw people off, I stand idly by staring at the tub with a look on my face reminiscent of Sandra Bernhard at a Firefighter Calendar signing. My gawd, I just mentioned another gay icon. Dang Firefighters!

Anyway, I work with some of the great unwashed hands in the history of The Death Star's Network Integrity department. I've seen people stir the inside of their Hawt Placket with their finger, then jam it back in the microwave sans Chinet. No, I'm not hacking Gaffigan, this is my reality. So I guess what I'm saying is that if you see free food layed out for all to paw at, the previous paws may have been wrist-deep in a BBQ Tuna & Swiss wrap. I'm more worried one the net'wenches will steal my bin.

My Biggest Crushes, circa 8:47am, 9/17/04
First off, this started a while back, this funny little crush I have. Being 30 and still crushing is funny, because I know I'm not going to do anything stupid to let the crushee in on the fact that I'm making a lot of money off the toilet cam... whooops! I keed, I keed.

1) Giada Di Laurentiis: She's an executive chef at an exclusive Hollywood eatery, owned a catering company at 25 that worked for the MGM execs, and has Italian sensibilities in the kitchen... and elsewhere? Also, Giada (we're on a first name basis) has possibly the cutest hands ever. I can't figure out what it is, that they are perfectly proportioned or manicured or covered in olive oil, but she could knead my dough any ol' time, if ya know how my yeast is risin', and I think you do.

2) Jack Hourigan: No, Jack's a woman. She co-hosts "How To Boil Water" on the Food Network... that's two now... hmm... okay, and she's friggin' hilarious. Also single, a big sports fan, and working with a nerdball. The problem is that she got paired up with Tyler Florence on the show, instead of the other French guy she started with. Ty-Flo is a pretty boy convinced of his ability to pre-heat the oven, if a ya know where my knobs are turning, and I think ya do.

3) Misty May: Gold medal winner in Women's Beach Volleyball, 2004 Olympics. Endorsement money coming in. 5'10" without the gigantism head, and she has a really great ass, if ya know where my eyes are lookin', and I know you do.

4) Genevieve Gorder: Handy with a nailgun, and has access to Paige Davis' face. Gimme.

5) Wanda Sykes: In a word, mmmmmm.


It's Friday. If you're a comic who shat the bed on Monday and you don't know you did, you're not a comic. If you're a friend who stopped by, I'll be at Giggles tonight with Tom Cotter. Call me, we'll get a drink afters. All others, take care. I'm out.

"Clean or Dirty?"
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Was That A Little Harsh?

From the stats I've seen, over 100 unique hits have been to my Open Mic review. That seems like a lot for a webpage lacking pictures of (insert outlandish bodily function/fetish here), doesn't it? And from the looks I got tonight from a couple comics tonight, perhaps they may have been amongst the 100+. So be it.

I won't apologize for voicing my opinion. Frankly, stand-up comedy is a passion of mine, one of very few in my life. And not that every performance at an OPEN MIC has to be ready for an HBO audition... But WOW, some of that stuff was HORRIBLE. Anybody can get on the list... except me that night as I showed late... and therefore you're not going to always watch a "comic," per se. Some of them are just people who are getting their rocks off. But 3 minutes at an open mic does not a comic make. Last year I did nearly 200 sets from 3-45 minutes in length as a means of sifting through what was funny and what wasn't. Built an act, found my voice, and at the same time realized that I will never be easy like Sunday morning about my act. It will always change, as long as I want it to, and hopefully it will always get better. Evolve or bomb.

So if you're a comic who thinks you were shat upon by my review, you'll find me at clubs all over the place sooner or later. Want to talk about it, please do so. Bitch about me if you want, it's your perogative. I will also gladly give whatever pointers I can about your performance. Not that anybody should take The Comedy Gospel of My Big Head to heart, but hey, we all want each other to get better, so that Seattle has a rep as a kick ass scene for comedy. If you want to get better, great! If you don't, that's great, too. But I can only ride in a fart-filled car before I roll down the window and start pointing fingers. And if I caused the discomfort, you can count on me claiming the devastation.

Go blog yourself.



Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

This One's For The Ladies

Gotta start on a serious note. Ladies, to reiterate what you've heard, read, been told, and told your friends, WATCH YOUR DRINKS ON THE SOCIAL CIRCUITS. Two dear friends of mine had their drinks drugged last weekend, and got out of the situation by the grace of instincts, and a guardian angel-sent taxi cab. There are some seriously lecherous MF'ers out there who really don't care that you aren't interested, have a family that cares about you, or guy friends who would rock the Marcellus Wallace on your enemies with little provocation.

The first way to tell somebody has doctored your drink is that you'll feel really drunk way faster than you thought. Room-spinning, stomach-turning, Anna Nicole Smith-eloquent drunk. Get a bartender, call a cab, go to the doctor, just get the F out of there and get safe. You'll probably need a scrunchie 'cuz you'll probably throw up. That's GOOD, get it out of your system.
It's happening a lot more in the Seattle area. It doesn't matter if you aren't a Girl in the throes of Going Wild, we all deserve a social goodtime, but like any party, a few assholes stink it up for the rest of us. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's time we drink responsibly. Trust your instincts.

Oh My Lord, This is A Woman...
French Tennis Player Amelie Mauresmo and her paleolithic paw.


Reasons # 784-787 Why This Place Is In The Can

784: The hair-pulling managers I am creating efficiency and cost reports for were manic as of 5:45pm yesterday. First off, that's way too late to make me think they had an efficient day. If you can't get it done in 6 hours, fix your assembly line. This morning, when all the reports need to be perused and approved by said managers... they are all gone. I'm thinking of pasting a chart into a report they present that shows how much they are paid per year vs. how much their knowledge is actually worth.

785,786,787: Recently in the news there were 3 local, off-beat character stories. Larry, the guy who eBay'ed his ex-wife's wedding dress, the dude with the GOTMILF license plate, and a 38 year old man who was stalking Avril Lavigne. All of these people work for The Hole. Yes, they are, or were, in the stalker's case, my co-workers. Larry Starr is cool as hell, that guy is as funny and real as they come, no beef with him. The GOTMILF guy actually had a very funny letter campaign back and forth with the Dept. of Licensing due to some tightass being offended by what the letter "F" on his plates represented. I want to F that person's mom in the back of their minivan with the grandkids watching on closed-circuit LCD player. And the stalker guy, well, he's in jail or some mental facility. I totally see why. Have you heard Avril Lavigne? Gawd, that's horrendous caterwauling Great White North style. Welcome to my Tuesday.

Waiting To Laugh... Waiting... HA... More...

Last night was the weekly sloughing of dead premises at the Underbelly. There were highlights to be spoken of, but most of it needs to be called out for the crap that it was. Almost every rule of being a comic was broken, from not playing to stereotypes to being unfunny. I'll try to be fair, but when you see your calling bashed in the funny pouch with a clown nose-topped dick-joke ya go a little Sean Penn. Deal.
Attention...
This is going to be mostly uncensored, and I'm using names. These are simply my opinions, and if you don't agree with them, you're probably not a very funny comic. This has only to do with a person's performance, not them as a person, unless your name is Brad, then you are an idiot.
Also, if you think i'm being mean, deep down I would like to see a very strong comedy scene in Seattle so that everybody evolves and gets better. This is review, not the truth. Enjoy.


Killorn brought some awesome chocolate chip cookies that were devoured by the comics. It was very sweet of her, and gawd knows I love me a good cookie. Thanks to Brad for eating more than your share you idiot. Killorn rocks.

• James "Oh, That Guy" Heneghen MC'ed the event and was surely the highlight of the night, a pro, a vet (literally) and a good guy. Despite numerous attempts to liken him to Neil Young all night, I like Heneghen. Thanks to Brad for the bad Neil Young refrences you idiot.
  
• Suzanne Park was first up for the night. She's Korean, and as you can imagine, she has an amazing amount of jokes that an Asian comic can do about their crazy family. She started with a joke about her dad not being able to pronounce his "R"s or "L"s and how his best friend Larry wasn't cool with it. Why stereotype groups when they will do it themselves? BTW, Suzanne, don't wear those pants on stage again. They cast a shadow that was reminiscent of Gene Shalit. A quote from her website: "So here is my big pet peeve: guys who wear XXL athletic department shirts. If you're one of them, stop wearing those damn shirts. A-holes." How come I didn't think of that? Oh right, because that's not funny.
  
• James Alberson. Wow. This was crap. Starting off with a Kobe Bryant "rape is okay" angle, then switching it up at the end to make it seem like he is, indeed, a love-makin' man. You had me at "I wanna talk about somethin'..." You had me wretching. Stop wasting time and get back to being short.
  
• TK Kasnick. Now with Reddish Hair! I just can't watch this act. I had a moment last night while in the bathroom, TK's on stage, and I could see one of those clips on A&E talking about stand-up comedy. A voiceover in my head said "... and some just never get it." Nothing Brad said during this set was funny because he is an idiot.
  
• TJ Orthmeyer. What I would look like if I had never learned to walk. A mountain of a man, he stood so far to the front of the stage that he couldn't see the light of the laser pointed on his chest. Man, his eyes are WAY back in his head. Chongo like funny. More delivery, more energy, get your hand out of your gawddam pocket. Are you on stage or trying to strike out at a bar? Luckily Carl saved us by playing music. Brad was an idiot.
  
• Updated at 3:21pm: Bob Lindsey. Freddie Mercury, but married to a woman. I think it was his first time on stage. From there he did a street joke and another joke I'd heard about a one-eyed iguana. Eh, it was what it was.
• Blaine Reeder. He always gives it up for the MC. Not sure about the Guess glasses and Punk Rock collection, but hey, he doesn't watch TV, so we know he's weird. Good ninja cyborg joke, took it out near the ledge, is working on some new jokes and I'm sure he'd love to tell you all about them. Nice work Reeder. We'll return to Blaine later.
• Joe Larson. Simply adorable.
• Chad Roberts. Well, he says he is not gay... good set, Chad did his funnies and kept it moving. It's so nice to see a lineup of pros here, Blaine, Joe, and Chad. A solid move through the first 1/3rd of the lineup. Nice work Roberts. As always, Chad's the best person to sit next to in the back of the room. Soft hands. Nevermind.
• Jeremy Whitman. He's dark, and it sneaks up on you. Fawkin' funny guy, he pulled up short on a necrophilia joke, and in fact told me later that he had 3 more tag lines on it. It's almost ungodly to have that many, but it shows talent. Good work Whitman.
• Jeremiah Hill. EMT. Got it. Good guy, I can't pick on him. Close your eyes and he sounds like a woman, okay? Happy?
• Dorothy Nesbit. DOA. Kidding. She's precious in that substitute teacher kind of way, but only to little kids. She may get her lunch eaten above grade 5. And NO, we're not sleeping together, but that's not from a lack of my trying.
• Geoff Brousseau. Even when he's off, he is on. Last night he was on by being a little off. Get it? Started with a perfectly written joke about rising gas prices and the war, and still has the finest drunk-driving joke ever written. His shirt made him look like a little kid. So damn huggable. Nice work Shoogs.
• Major. Follow this pile's stage name with any derogatory name or noun, and you've summed up his adult life. About 6'3'', 300lbs. Bald. Possible "white power" tattoo on the left upper arm. Camo pants tucked into boots. Black muscle shirt and pocket vest. If you want to wear a muscle shirt, FIRST, you must have a muscle, no? How can you get that fat and have NO muscle tone? Quote from his act: "I told my girlie to take off her panties. And she said No, No. She's not that kind of girl." (reaches into his pocket to pull out red silkies.) Thank you Crap With Feet. Enjoy Militia Weekly.
• Lizzy Pilcher. The second tallest paramilitary performer, bedecked in a Soviet hockey jersey. Brousseau offered to set up a Pilcher vs. Major grudge match. No go. Lizzy is funny, straight-up, but she's got this mental block when she goes on stage that I've seen her slap to the side and get to the real Lizzy. Just relax Lizzy. Blaine's not booking you. Yet.
• Robb Westvang. Hmm... when is homicide justifiable? Here's a guy who saw Miami Vice and said "Yes. This is my look." Spikey hair, constant 4-day growth of beard. He'd look cool if he were taller, and didn't have spikey hair and that beard. And wasn't him. All I heard of this set was "Guys, if you can't find the G-spot in 7 years, you are OUT. I have 6 months left." Is anyone else drunk?
• Bryley Hull. I didn't see this set. I was upstairs when Bryley was on the stage. But we did hang at The Red Door in Fremont a couple weeks back and I like Ms. Hull aplenty.
• Doug Gale. Oh you beautiful elf. To craft a joke that gives the "I'm Rubber, You're Glue" defense in a legal setting, along with tackling gay rights all under 30 seconds, I'm sorry, I have not what you have, sir. I bow before thee. You win. Brad is an idiot.
• Bobbie Jean. Why did she have to open her mouth? Puns, sex jokes, no mention of the fact that she wasn't wearing panties. Can't confirm, but she looks like the kind of gal who likes comfort and curb sexing. I loved her boots and bangs, which is the name of the first Faster Pussycat album.
• Ed Rubin. Stop listening to CR Larsen's sets. Deal?
• My hands hurt.
• Peter Greyy. Peter says he pooped it. I say BOO to that, Peter. You did better than most who got up, and Peter's a great guy. Dude, do whatever you like, but remember to hone something. I know you write a lot and there's the want to try everything. Do what you do. I ain't got beef witchoo.
• HEREIN THE FINEST TAG OF THE NIGHT. Peter ended on a Julia Childs joke that was summed up about how Ms. Childs wanted to be sauteed and consumed at her funeral. Heneghen tagged it with "Well, nobody wanted to eat her when she was alive." Okay, drugs aren't all bad.
• Daniel Juan. It was his first time on stage and he tried to get off early, but the crowd championed his cause. He did his time. I salute you sir. Never come back.
• Shawn Cain. This is where the show hit the dead spot on the ocean. Called "up-currents," they look non-threatening, but the water of the ocean is smooth because it's the top of a harsh upward-thrusting current, and it is unpleasant if you're unprepared. To sum up Shawn Cain's act, I quote Shawn Cain: "Vagina Blood Fart." Three nouns, non-sequitir, non-humorous. He made a joke about his sister being named Candy Cain, and then a peppermint reference. There must be a sacrifice.
• Something Van Bibber. Technically not a midget, but very short. He got on stage in a really orange shirt, and either sat or put his butt area on the stage stool (his new nickname, btw) but looked like he never sat down. Short and weeeird. Hates gay people and good writing. Tried to go over time. I almost started doing shots here. Of heroin. Into my glans. Look it up.
• James Lewis. Despite what your acting coach has told you, James, the crowd you are performing for is not on your shoes. Look up. Hi. You stood stage right the whole time, as if you were ready to run from the lights as soon as possible. Considering that you delivered a set reminiscent of David Cross, minus the wit, humor, and spit-shine, golly, it's okay to bump yourself some nights. To have no delivery, no presence, and no definable punchlines and yet still be on stage is some sort of phantasmic oxymoron of existing in a comedy club. One more of those and I'm sorry, we can't help you. I would have settled for a joke about prostate milking from you, just to see if you had any life experience beyond what you've sniffed from "The Daily Show," remote in one hand, al dente ween in the other. If you're going political, be political, not Sci-Fi. President Bush taking poor people to Mars? After your set I slapped a W sticker on my fun-bag. Your neck-conjoined aunts love it. You inspired me, though. Today I bought a throwing knife.
• Woody Wood. Two words: Fitted Shirt. He was wearing his dad's clothes, and he looked like a dooooork. He's almost 21, so we can look forward to him dying in a bar fight before Hanukkah.
• Larry G. I get it. He's a ladies man. How can you not fill 3 minutes? A thong as a punchline? Larry G is back. You've been warned. I wanted more, I really did.
• Gervin. Got 'er done. GOT. ER. DUN. I wanted to drink beers with Gervs post-show but homey bounced quick. I didn't get the "Drug Emporium" tee, however. I'd say ironic, but he looked too hoi polloi to grasp the level. Either way, I e-mailed him to wingman for me this weekend.
• Dan Moore. Mini-wolverine. After Larry G and Gervin, I thought Dan was being projected onto a screen. He's wee, but precious. It's important to go slow, but my gawd, at one point he was retreating. I expected more out of Dan. He got heckled by Major, for crying out loud. You get heckled by a guy who once ate a baby, step it up! STEP. IT. Yeah.
  
  So that's that! Thanks for hanging in there. I had to relive it, and now I'm going to punch someone with crutches.
  And now I hear that HAX TV is off tonight... FAWK!

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Wingin' and Slingin'

It's almost like the guy behind me is growing more annoying by annoying me. He has become my arch-enemy. I haven't said much about other people's annoying habits, but his are just killers. Here's what my today has been like so far:

1) Allergy lady telling everyone about her nasal routing surgery. She plowed her head clean open with the help of a doctor, a bottle brush, and a fifth of Old Crow. Then she told everybody who stopped by about what was extracted or reportedly seen by the doctor's booger-cam, when really the peeps were only stopping by to feign concern in exchange for the good candy on her desk. She knows how to swing the cocoa bean, and none of the bullcrap Tootsie Roll 17-pounder from Coscto. I'm talking foil-wrapped choco-sedatives. And I denied myself the bounty because I didn't want to see... are you ready?... THE BEFORE/AFTER PICTURES OF HER NASAL SURGERY. Enjoy your Krackle.

2) Around 9:17 I could hear a "chck... chck... ch-chck" from over the Great Wall of Whiner. It was the sound of a nail clipper in-action. About 15 minutes ago I got out of a meeting with her, where I glanced at her nails. Not freshly painted, but not too short nor chipped. See where this is going? I glanced at her footwear as she walked by... SANDALS. She was cutting her toe nails. That alone should warrant my own bowl of candy.

3) Boston Shipdit behind me has a habit of leaning his wee form (5'5"-ish) back in his chair and tahssing (with Boston accent) a pen at the ceiling just hard enough to cause a slight bounce effect. He then catches it and repeats his game of "The one with the pen that is stupider than the one with my cell phone" for the duration of the call. I want to side-arm a handful of uncapped Mr. Scents markers at his head so he understands how annoying that is. He cannot NOT make noise.

4) The Cell Phone thing he does: Everyone who works here has a cell phone. Call it an apology, if you will. The Boston Crap Pie there has 2, one personal, one business. With the number of cell phones and the number of calls going around due to our being taken over by the Orange Julius, phones vibrate like crazy around here. VIBRATE. We try and keep the noise to a minimum. Not this guy. His ringer is set to "Holy crap, Raahn, how many horsepower you got in that phone?" Here's why that is stupid. If he's in his office or has his phone on him, he can set it to vibrate and know when someone's trying to get a hold of him. If he leaves the ringer on and walks away for 30 minutes to go be short in another part of the building, the ringer goes off for everyone BUT him to hear. He may as well have his kid stand at his door and yell 'DAAAAAAD! MOM'S LAWYER IS ON THE PHOOOOONE!' for all the good that ringer does.

I'm about to go wing the pens, crush his phone under my heel, and hold his face in the garbage can until he admits to being annoying and promising to work from his hotel room until his contract is up, then stare blankly into his window with a sign that says "You Have Been Warned."
Or I guess I could ask him to keep it down.



Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

And Now, Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Crapton of Crap

What a weekend. I spent Fri-Sunday volunteering for SkiForAll, a non-profit that plans and executes outdoor excursions and operations for disabled people of all ages. That sounded pretty Rambo, let's reign that in.

I volunteered for my own reasons, none to be paraded around for any kind of accolade. Mostly I did it because Life plays by absolutely NO rules, and who knows when the rules you thought were in place are going to change, sans bow-crossing warning shot? The only thing I think I have is an integrity or moral currency or karma or paranoia that drives me to give when I've been given to. Nobody ever told me to do it, but I can only give when I know what it's like to receive. That, by the way, is a standard for Loving, but that's for another exhaustion-fueled blog. I've been blessed, and when counting said blessings, I had plenty to share.

The highlight of my weekend was not seeing an 18-foot male orca within 30 feet of our boat. Those animals, by the way, are fawking amazing. SeaWorld is not the place to see them. To see them out there was basal, primal, made me think of the first person to ever see one. That expedition prob'ly went through pants like Elvis through peanut butter. 18 feet of seal-eating, shark-killing, pack-hunting, family-loving killzone. Yet if one freaks out half-way through a flaming-hoop jump and it makes the 6 o'clock headline, we stare in wonder. I'm surprised Keiko wasn't knocking back Body Gloved trainers like Keg mints. (you haven't had a choco-mint from the Keg? Why are you still reading this? GET THEE TO A KEG!) The campers we took out had an amazing time, too. They were all very keyed in on where the pods (human term for "whale posse") were playing, and a mammoth school of salmon kept the pods on the hunt. I ain't seen a mammal close on a fish like that since this one guy ate 19 linear feet of scrod at Ivar's. WHATEVER, it's almost 1 in the morning on a MONDAY, make up your own references, Ahab.

So why volunteer? No pay, some play, and if you don't learn something about yourself and the world then you ain't paying attention. I wanted to give, and I hope that, in some way, I did. Some people will never really fathom love, bliss, fulfillment, enlightenment, or unconditional acceptance in their lives. Maybe they have and they haven't yet realized it. But I realized for a split second yesterday that I was counted on in a moment of need, and to fulfill that need simply because it needed filling was enough reward for me. I do plenty of comedy, which I love to do, for no charge. And I also do quite a bit for a decent chunk of change. Yep, it feels great to do what you love AND get paid for it. I have a fair presence in the Seattle Comedy Circle(s). But after a while I had to see how Life goes on without knowing I was even around.

And it turns out that I missed jack-point-crap in "my world" this weekend. I hope I haven't sounded preachy in this, and if you think I am preaching then you should volunteer and see what it's all about. Pick an organization, there's a LOT out there you can give your time to that requires no political, religious, or financial agenda. If you're wondering what to do, just do SOMETHING, once.

Oh, and the highlight of my weekend was getting schooled in bowling by a kid who is a nationally-ranked Special Olympian in bowling and powerlifting. I asked him how he got so good at bowling. He said "I bowl a lot." "Oh yeah, why?"
"Because it's FUN!"
It's not one of the things he CAN do. It's something he does. And he does it because it is fun.
Yep. It sure was.

And now, off to bed, up early to work out, then in to the office to do something that has no effect on the world whatsoever. Oh... that might be my answer right there.

Thanks for reading. Who's up for coffee?


Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Homicide Trifle: Ain't Nothin' But A G-Thang

Get this straight: I'm at work and I don't want to be here. I'm coloring in spreadsheets, cutting and pasting so much I'm high on e-glue fumes. BUT, I also have amazing job flexiblity, so much so that I can regularly kiss my own ass and take a day off.
--------------------------
Last night was the "Suicide Pie" show for Meghan Hounshell's travel fund. She is heading to San Fran for a comedy competition and needed a little extra fundage. Meghan's a friend and I hope she goes down there and kicks ass in the comp. Comedy comps are usually like the third self-pleasure of the day: Pace yourself and it's a good time, otherwise you're gonna hurt. I've seen people in the finals of comps who truly suck, pulling hack joke after hack joke out of their hacksides. But when you're judged by people who go priapic (look it up) to know that "King Of Queens" is in syndication, "comedy" is simply an umbrella term. I wish the best to Meghan, and I was happy to perform at her benefit show. She better not f*ck it up.

The entire night was fun but odd. The audience was up & down more than a sophomore on Prom night. RIMJOB! SHOT, RIMSHOT, sorry. Anybuns, it was hard to tell what they'd laugh at, but that's good. Don't pander by tailoring to a room full of people when Meghan's getting all the money. I did a great set in the back-half of the night in front of a room full of Seattle pseudo-smarties and lez-biguous sandal soldiers. I think if people, person by person, just went ahead and took a few hours a day to skip out of work and go do what they say they would do if they had all the free time in the world, those people would realize just how full of crap they are. They get a free weekend, no weddings to drink at, rooms to paint, indie coffee-filled mugs run manicured digits rim-side. They could do whatever they want. Every time I see a group of people picketing to get America out of Iraq I make a wish that a truck on the way to a food bank would drive by and a pallet of Del Monte Cling Peaches would slide out the back and mow them to their hips. It's soccer parenting without the kids. All this, and I think I had one of the best sets of the show, so you can feel my love affair for Seattle. This probably would have been better off in another blog. The line to blow me forms in front of the Queen Anne Starbucks. (stepping down off soapbox)

Everyone had solid sets last night, I can't think of one where somebody just sat down with a spoon and a bowl of shyte and ... oh wait... the MC wasn't getting the laughs he deserved, that's fo' sure. But he wasn't eating crap as much as he was taking one for the team. So yeah, everyone did well. Top to bottom, that was a solid, funny show.
I'm pretty free on stage lately. I do little else than take a topic with a few points in my head, stand on stage and begin to talk, to allow myself to take the right or left fork or just plow through the brush. It's a little exhilirating at times, not knowing where on earth it's coming from, but I can feel my brain open up, like the third eye is reading from a different list than my jokes reside on. My props to all who performed. Meghan, seriously... do not f*ck up.
My gawd, I am really good looking.

Last night I had a convo with my most-recent ex, with whom I am still on good terms. At one point we were ribbing each other about how we viewed our friendship in its current light. And she told me that one of her friends wasn't being totally honest with themselves, causing a lot of drama elsewhere. That's usually how it starts. I told her that I value honesty above all else among my friends, because a person's ability to be honest with you shows a certain level of reality and respect. Sometimes Honesty plays the Devil's Advocate, which is vital for balance. Truth is truth. Everything else is a misperception, and some folks like to swing wildly with their perception of the world around them. For some people, the word "drinking" means "getting drunk." To others it means "have a drink or two." To me it means "bored on Tuesday." Perception vs. Truth. They really need to get together and do it, if ya know what I mean. I can't remember how my ex and I got to it, but I reminded her that, being the ex boyfriend, if any "bullsh*t" starts flying, I won't be targeted. Got no need for it, and I deserve better. Truth is my shovel. But in my honesty/perception, you should never have to take BS from anybody, unless the BS truck is outside and it's got your order for 18 linear feet of manure ready for dumpage. (read: repeating self-destructive behavior over & over. grow up)

Apparently quite a few of her friends ask about me, which is flattering. It's funny to be a step back from the whole picture and be free to see people as they are, not in their "roles" in a scene. At 30 years old I have done a fair amount of "highlighting the hair of my soul" in the past few years. This isn't a license to judge folks, but it gives me much more empathy for people who seem to live in emotional and social chaos. Of course, that's just my perception. I could be right. Or wrong. But as I step away from any situation I see some people who take no responsibility for their own integrity, and therefore look only to fill an emptiness in their lives through the approval of others. (yes, I stand on stage in front of strangers and tell jokes, it's not lost on me, but I know why and choose to. I like me plenty)
Who should I date? Am I ready to date? It's just a date, right? It's just coffee, right? It's more than just coffee, right? Or should we just do it? Should I go back to school? I hate school, I should learn a trade. Screw it, I'll quit everything and become a comic, that's what all my friends have done. Just ask them, they're all in my living room asleep on the couches. Or maybe I should...
We all have something called Gut Instinct. It's the weight of your Conscience, wrapped in your own ideals and upbringing. What's good to you? What's right and wrong? What's important? Answer that for yourself and you may never find yourself food-injured while picketing a cause that needs not be picketed for.

If I have one lesson to share, it is this: You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but then you'd sticky and fly-covered.

Off to Watch Whales in the San Juans!

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Why I Should Be Able To Drink At Work

1. Dipsh*t behind me is whistling a lot. Actually, a LOT of people are whistling a lot today. Imagine what kind of stock price this place would have if people, you know, actually planned and thought their way from pointless meeting to pointless meeting? "Let's see, today, instead of making superfluous noise, I'm going to think of a business-affecting agenda item to keep up with that kiss-ass Geoff Lott, who seems to think we never bring anythiTWEEE TWOOO TWEEEEEEEEEEE, TWEE WEE WEE, WOO WEE WEEEEEEEEEE WOO WO-EE-EE-EE-EE-EE. Oh good, Cheryl's got more candy at her desk!"
2. Allergina, my cube neighbor, recently returned from surgery on/to/in her sinus cavities and general nasal passages. She needed it because she had her head up her butt. I kid. For the past year that I have sat next to her, I have endured a daily report of her health. It's a pissing match of who hurts more when they pee. Sinuses, back, shoulders, scalp, skin, moustache wax-burn, chapped lips, bloating, gas, whatever it is that can annoy but (sadly) cannot kill a person, she's got at least an undiagnosed trifecta of ailments on any given day.
   So I'm hearing her explain her surgery to a number of people throughout the day, and it's f*cking FOUL. She'll use the building-wide e-mail to ask who took her advertisement for silk flower arrangements off the 3rd-floor bulletin board and send out a "totally the NSS Team!"-related Dilbert cartoon, but gawd forbid that Bubble Girl get a blog to recap the atrocity that has been her mucosa nervosa. I've heard the words "blood, dribble, drips, stint, shunt, blockage, widen, white-ish, thick, pus," and "saline nasal douche" in various combinations throughout the morning. I'm leaving at 2pm.
3. Today is my 6th Anniversary at this hole. With two giant headaches as aforementioned tripping me up, I think I should be able to show folks what it means to be truly annoying. I have allergies to half a bottle of Jager. I will be THAT GUY who crapped in Boston Rahn's garbage can, I gar-own-tee it.

Good times, good times.

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Oh For the Love Of Christ...

My work neighbors are having a religious discussion based on their in-depth knowledge and hours of enmeshment in "The Da Vinci Code." Oh my dad, this is what it's coming to. We're back to some old fashioned values here. People are talking war and religion and politics in the work place. "The Passion Of The Christ" is the new "Greatest Story Ever Told." Boston Rahn is the new J. Edgar Hoover. The people in the discussion just NOW both said they purchased "The Passion" on DVD. Thank you Jesus for dying in digital surround sound. Yep, religion, politics, sex, money, it's all coming back around, all the old fashioned values. Finally, we're back to a time when a professional athlete can rape a woman and not go to jail. Don't groan, that's the best Kobe Bryant joke you'll ever read.

Oh good, now it's time for a Japanese prison camp story from the shooting/peanut gallery. There's nothing quite like being in the middle of the crowd and hoping that somebody in the rafters had a bad day on the TIG-welder and is loading their rifle. Wing me if you must, but please remove these dipasses.

Notice, dear reader, that this is my first day back at work, and how it's changed my blogs. The following blog was written late last night... I need a new dogma.

Give It Up For Giving It Up

This weekend I had 4 great sets and one so-so set. One of the highlights was having about 20 minutes to hang out with one of my favorite comics, Marc Maron, who popped in to Giggles after his sets and Bumbershat. He was there in support of his wife, the funny and porcelain-cheeked Mishna Wolff, who was doing a guest set. Maron got there and stood near the door to the show room... near his f*cking HEAD SHOT... What kind of ego does that take? YOU'RE A NEUROTIC COMEDY JEW. I couldn't stand to see him loiter for attention any longer so I waved him over to where the comics were all sitting. He seemed to calm down a bit once Mishna gave him some taffy. Actually, it was a few seconds later that I mentioned to Marc of his original proximity to his headshot and he said something to the effect of "You wanna die? Keep talking, Gentile." Don't cross him.

Honestly, Marc Maron is stellar. Funny, intelligent, and flying just under the radar enough to stay truly funny. Mishna was also really funny with some good sarcasm, magazine-cover bone structure, and staying far enough away from the "Men suck" jokes that ripple through ovarian comedy like so much body shame. She was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt, proudly. A REAL one, not a Hot Topix, pierced tongue- in -pierced cheek knock-off. Marc Maron & Mishna Wolf; the Jay-Z and Beyoncé of comedy. I got 99 problems but notoriety ain't one.

The so-so set was Monday at the Undergrind's Open Mouth extravaganza. I went first with the intention of doing the new stuff and getting out at a decent hour. I stuck around to see Shoogs and The Professor, whom shall be named later perform. Shoogs was doing newer stuff, had a good set. The Professor returned to the stage after 5-ish months and had a great set, great new jokes. I'm happy he's back, he's one of my favorite people, on-stage and off... if ya know what I mean, in a juvenile/homo-hint kind of way.

Interspersed were sets from The Commander who, I thought, had well-written material. The crowd was in & out for it, but he's got something very Commander going on, and if he sticks with it he'll be under a blanket crying soon, and that's on a good day. I look forward to his set on Wednesday Night, which you will attend because it's gonna be rad. Also caught the set of The Safecracker, who has the ammo to blow bricks out of the walls. Funny, ascerbic. Like a verbal middle finger.

Then came giant bowls full of hack crap. Wow, jokes about fat strippers (whaaa?), wearing diapers when you don't need them, and being anti-gay marriage (but not for the reasons we would think, see, because those would actually be, you know... FUNNY), and it just kept spiraling from there. People were asked to give it up for the troops. There's at least one waitress who does on a reg'lar basis, thank you, I'll be here all blog. I guess I've seen enough comedy to wonder if other industries have the same intra-critiquing as comedy. I'm gonna leave it at this: I'm sure at some point in their history, Hemingway read Pound and refused to wipe with the pages of Ezra's passages, so as not to sully a good dump. (if you're counting, that's a literary shit joke. I'm taking the rest of the day off)

I have moments where I watch open mics and hear things that make me wish I'd never learned to clean my ears. I know those performers tell people they "do comedy," and I used to turn violently ill at that thought. But I had to let that go. I'm sure someone thought that of me at some point. Also, it's up to me, each time on stage, to do my best for the crowd and my own pride. At the same time, I hope that those who base their humor in or near a restroom, will invite friends to see their "comedy doings," or "doo'ings," as they are. I want their friends to get perspective as to what stand-up is, in all its forms, and make up their own minds. If they like me and my friends, great. If the hack's friends don't dig on us, or me, perhaps that's even better. I wouldn't want to be part of any group that I would rather sit outside of and ridicule.

Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now. Have a good Tuesday. "Yo, Scott Weiland!" will return tomorrow.

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Take Me Home

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What It Feels Like

Lately I've been doing jokes about things you're probably not supposed to joke about. My father's condition, for one. I simply must find the humor in it, or I'll find a lot of booze in me, and that's simply numbing myself to reality. Humor is my way of handling it. Much healthier, and much more timely, as the Boomer generation gets on in years and neurological disorders become more prevalent. If you get a chance, check that blog out.

I've also been writing jokes about bi-polar disorders, cancer jewelry, and spousal abuse that are, somehow, making connections with crowds. My sentiments expressed in these jokes are truly sarcastic. But it's working. I've hit on something that makes my delivery of these jokes work. OH RIGHT, I know what it was: I DID NOT WRITE THESE JOKES, I PERFORMED THEM. These are my jokes, mind you, my set-ups and punchlines, but I just could not sit down and write them in some mechanical, joke-bot format that stole all the soul from them. I made myself go on stage with the idea in mind, slow down, and let myself be "in the moment." It's been really liberating, freeing, confidence-building. And sexy, wow. I'm a hunk.

This Wednesday I'm partaking in the Suicide Pie Comedy Showcase/Benefit. 8pm, $8, and the majority of the proceeds go to help my friend Meghan Hounshell's trek to the San Fran Comedy Competition. If you're going to see one comedy show this week, let it be this one! The money goes to a good person, if not a good cause, and you'll get to hear my jokes about cancer bracelets, cat kicking, and lover-punching.

I'm short-stacked coming into the big blinds, and I just drew Q-J on suit. Flopped a 10, K, 8. 9 or an A, baby.
All motherf*cking in.
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The Grocery Line Publications, Seattle Comedy Edition

The comments on Blaine's recent blog seem to have spiraled out of order. There is no real control over them, it's an e-graffiti artist's "Field Of Wet Dreams." Offer it, and they will comment. Cripes, I commented twice myself. I used my name in both of them. It's about as "in ya grill" as one can get in the tablogs, until I perfect my "ThyroidPunchAnonymousPost.exe" program. So we see that a couple of Anonymous (read: cowardly) posts took the boat ride from good-natured ribbing the equivalent of elevator farting: Your intent is as pointlessly annoying as your action. To find you would be both exhilirating and anti-climactic.

Truly F'ing stupid stuff written there. A descent into the lowest Clown Posse denominator, Ted Bundy'ism minus the charm and day-planner. The anonymous posting party, using a toilet-streak vocabulary to express, with dive-bar graffiti spell-check, a generally stunted view of women. Dude... tit-pumping? You couldn't find a thesaurus among your ever-expanding coffee table-legs of True Crime novels. Do you even realize that so far I have totally kicked your ass with what I've written? And it's almost 2 in the morning, kiddo, I gots game.

So why would I write this bash of an anonymous coward? First of all, because I can. Second, it's entertaining me to do so. Third, because it should be done. Fourth, because I've had too much RockStar energy drink to stop. I have a titanium rod in my leg that is vibrating right now. Until that or the alien voice goes away, the typing must go on.

The fifth reason is that I want to defend my good friend Killorn, for whom I would lay down in traffic or the ping-pong table at Teddy's to help. I know she'd do the same for me. She and I are fully aware of the rumor mill's whispered variatons of our co-mingling. To be honest, I find it best to paraphrase Jesus: "Unless you have a vested interest, it's none of your f*cking business. This is threats Pimp, I'm serrious. I chop you up putcha inna trunk." Nah, not that bad. But if it were going on like that, then what? People who wonder about who's doing what to whom are the same screen-shouters laying bets on which computerized hydroplane is going to win at a Mariner's game. You call "RED, RED, RED!" Green wins. And? Exactly. You're proven wrong on a question that never need be asked.

Next to that, there are so many back-of-the-schoolbus rumors about "who's got a punchline for so&so's set up" that I totally see where The Commander hits the 10-penny with the term "Comedy High School." I can't stop idiots from talking about things they know nothing about, whether it's about me, Killorn, Shoogs, who's funniest, or who should be JFK'ed at Open Mic. To each their own. I cannot defend freedom of speech and censorship at the same time. It's like seeing a man in an Armani suit, with a half-staff hanging out his fly; he almost had it together, then he threw the dick into it.

To stand back and let anybody attack my friends, of any gender, would be cowardly. I've learned enough to know that when somebody wades honestly into the crowd and is hit with a flying, spent Kokanee, it's important to fire one back in the direction of launch. Perhaps you hit the crow's nest, perhaps you ricochet off a few rooftops, but you return fire. Or perhaps it's better to express that the whole thing is so far beneath the true nature of 95% of the people involved that we accept the anonymous posting person as a coward, a simpleton, and a wee-spirited human of low character and even lower ability to entertain in pretty much any form of media. I'm betting they are 0-for-3; stand-up/internet/cruising Hillary Duff chat rooms for local a-cuppers.

To be anonymous is to lack any real sense of self, and have not enough bag to bring themselves into the light. And even if they DID expose themselves, who the hell would believe it? This is how terrorism works: Who hates who? Why? But folks that's some harmless, pointless banter by a tiny bug on the zit of an ass of a dead career. This is all they got... and it's squat. I'm not resorting to posting a "Posting By Anonymous Alert Level" color code/mood-ring. Rumors are just lies the liars are jealous to be left out of. Make up your minds, then forget what you know.

Oh right, we can also track down who posts what, regardless of name, thanks to computer know-how and a little thing called an IP address. I almost forgot that part. I'm-a go make day-glow vitamin water. I have a gig tomorrow for a large software corporation. Think I'm a whore? Get it right: HIGH CLASS WHORES MAKE BANK. And I'll sleep on that tonight, knowing that Anonymous Posting is forever a nervous man with IBS in the back of an elevator: Annoyingly entertaining.
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Comment Card

These are some comments I heard recently after a show. I am not making these up.
"Dude, you are really funny. Why aren't you headlining?" ~ male, 40-ish, drunk
"Bye-eee!" ~ female, 25-ish, blond
"We should go next door where that blond chick's going." ~ male, 20-ish, drunk
"So where do you perform?" ~ female, 20-ish, drunk
"Where's the gawddamn waitress, shit!" ~ male, 30-ish, Kid Rock t-shirt... drunk
"Oh yeah, I'd totally stick it in her." ~ same dude, about the 1st gal
"I love your humor, you were way better than that first guy, was he retarded?" ~ female, 25 (confirmed later on, wink wink), brunette, (he was not retarded, he was Mexican)
"Are you parked close by?" ~same woman
"Great shirt, I love it." ~ male, 30-ish, drunk, drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade
"So you're gonna be famous some day, right?" ~ the woman from two comments ago
"The last guy was really good. Was he retarded?" ~ male, 20-ish, drunk (he was not retarded, he was very short)
"Lemme as... lemme as... ask you. Was that guy after you retarded?" ~ female, 40-ish, plastered (he was not born retarded, but he is now retarded)
"Oooh, leather seats! Come here!" ~ the woman from three comments ago
"Excuse me, do you have a card? I'd like to book you for a corporate gig." ~ female, 40-ish, naughty school teacher thing going on
"Step out of the car, sir. Miss, I'll need to see your I.D. Is this your letterman's jacket?" ~ Wal-Mart security officer... nevermind
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Suicide Pie Bake Sale

A week from tomorrow, Wed. September 8th, 8:30pm there's a great show to be seen at The Comedy Underground. Friend and uber-comedienne, which is a French-sliced comic, Meghan Hounshell, is heading to the San Francisco Comedy Competition in a few weeks. In order to pay for all the expenses, she needs a few bucks. I hope you can all come down and catch the show. For reasons why you should come down, check THIS out. Also, read below:
If you haven't been to a comedy show in a while, this is a good one to see. These are all local acts, many of whom will be famous some day. This is the night you'll remember, when they are famous, that you can tell your friends that you got it on with So & So, even if So & So was passed out when you did it.

I just can't write funny shit here anymore. I don't know why. I try, but it's the fact that I try that kills me. I have no topics, really, just whatever falls out of my fingers. It's droppings, okay? I can admit that. So whatever. I'm outta here.

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"Yo, Scott Weiland!"
Today we introduce a new weekly feature, where Scott Weiland, heroin addict and former Stone Temple Pilots frontman, answers your questions on life, love, cooking, fashion, and addiction. Please send all questions to Yo, Scott Weiland!

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Yo, Scott Weiland,

I work next to a very short man who constantly makes noise. Topping the charts at 5'4", he is always whistling, sniffling, talking on his speakerphone, or tapping his fingers on his desk. It's like his lack of stature is being compensated for in the form of noise, taking up as much space as he can by being loud instead of neighborly productive. I've told him a couple times that his noise is too much for the office, and it's driving me up a f---ing wall! What can I do?

~ Short People Got No Reason

How the f*ck do I answer this sh*t?
Look, I've been in plenty of crowds where I've been making noise, but mostly because I was flying on Dust or some sh*t. Look, the guy is short, so he's got this notion that he's not good enough to do his job. He's overcompensating for his shortness by doing drugs, which causes him to be so twitchy. Have you ever seen someone on blow? Yeah, well it's basically watching someone do aerobics with no music. If he's really skinny, then yeah, that dude's f*cked up on something. If he's not, then he's just doing it for attention. I'd tell your boss that you saw him doing blow in the ladies' sh*tter, and get him fired or whatever. And you should try H, you need to cool your burners.
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Yo, Scott Weiland,

So far this year I've had sex with 19 guys, none of them repeats. I still don't feel like I'm fulfilled. I'm empty inside emotionally. I want something to fill me up. I don't have any money, because I'm only 17, so I usually let the guys inside me without a condom so I can have a baby and be happy to be loved totally by someone. So far I haven't had a baby, just a couple of missed periods and really bad stomachaches. How can I have a baby?

~ Mass Needing Love

I think I got this.
Dear Mass Needing Love,
You're doing the right thing to make a baby by not using condoms, that's key. Now, it's important that you're going to the doctor on a regular basis, also. You've taken a lot of loads, and averaging 2 loads per partner, you're probably at risk for some kind of itching or WHY ARE THERE BUGS ON ME WHY ARE THERE BUGS IN MY EYES WHERE IS THE MUSIC COMING FROM STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP I AM I AM I AM I SAID I WANNA GET NEXT TO YOU
Keep on f*cking sister, you may need the right load to really set your body in motion. Try some BlackTar. What city are you from? I'm on tour right now and always looking for a place to put my cock, if you know what I mean.
- - - - - -

Yo, Scott Weiland,
Don't you think that you'll get sued for having this column in an unofficial, totally humorous, not at all really referring to yourself kind of format?

(Mr. Weiland was unable to finish answering questions this week due to a violation of his probation, namely telling a 17 year-old girl to get pregnant by increasing her intake of loads. He then ate half his shirt and slid through the bars of his holding cell. He will return next week)
===========================

Take Me Home

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Cap It All Off

All kinds of things going on right now. I'm being paid at work to do little more than color. I kid you not, I am formatting spreadsheets for the right color scheme because that's what the cockholsters want. PigTit wants it that way, and from what can only be a serious lack of oversight, or a serious and untreated head injury, PigTit has attained of level of authority at the Death Star. Like most of the management around there, he was handed his job as a reward for, you know, not generally bothering anyone. The squeaky wheel gets the shift-supervisor position. The bulbous, pink wheel gets the better money and a full meeting schedule. And he gets to smell like pennies and eat with his mouth open at the age of 46. Oh why not... I wasn't hungry anyway.

I think it's funny to see how things have changed in the past year. I've spent another year on the path of self-enlightenment, learning more about myself through comedy than anywhere else. I need to watch my sets again, open minded, so that I can hear what I'm saying and see if there's a tag-line or 19 I can come up with. Also, it's important for me to judge myself. It seems redundant, I mean, 200+ peeps laughing at and hooting for my humor stylings, that seems like enough justice for a comedian. But if you're cheating the Man In The Mirror, you have to ask yourself why you're playing Backgammon against yourself. Get a date, with anyone, even if they're ugly. Or if you want REAL fun, e-mail me and we'll go down to the Open Mic on Monday night, sit in the back and rip on crappy comics. That's about as much fun as you'll ever find. Some things never change.

The first half of this year treated me like it caught me fingering its daughter in the hut tub. That's wrong. Hot tubs are bad places for sex. Good for the rev-up, bad for popping the clutch. Mostly though, I had some times there where I felt like I was running just fast enough to not get caught by Life's Camaro, barrelling down on me with BTO blaring - B-b-baby you just ain't seen nothin' yet... It wasn't always so horrendous. There have been a lot of moments I barely remember with some great people that I will never forget. But between the news of my dad, the tribulations of my friends, and getting out of a relationship I had stress with a capital "WHAT THE FAWK?" But things are turning around, and I'm staying off drugs. Only caffeine, alcohol, and whatever the doctor prescribed my downstairs neighbor who leaves her door unlocked when she goes to the mailbox. Side effects be damned, I was figuratively backdoored by the Fates! I don't know what she was prescribed but it's regulating my flow. Tender nip-nips, though.

It's really nice to get things wrapped up, though. I've recently taken to Feng Shui, which a lot of folks think is simply a crap-ton of lies and sage-scented hooey. The real deal is that anybody with a few positive thoughts and the right mindset will be able to generate the right areas in their lives. Or if you think that you're someone who always gets screwed over and the world is out to get you, you'll eventually behave in a way that makes people bail or dump on you. I know that I can only take so much arm-punching and put downs before the I show someone the door while kicking 'em into it. Then you Feng Shui that door, likely in your "Helpful People and Travel" gua (area, in New Age Hype) and if you get things in order, there will be more order in your life. And if you step to me right now, I have all the means and reason in the world to show you how animals take dominance in the wild. Marking my territory? Yeah... violently. Just ask the woman downstairs who tried to take her pills back. Caught me on the come-down.

Have you ever seen a woman sit on a balloon? Mmmmm, now we're talkin'.
That was weird.

Yesterday, a bus in the Dave Matthews Band caravan pooped in the Chicago River. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new DMB. Finally shedding their envi-rock-mental poncho in favor of hip-hugging leather pants and scat shots. Still, they'll never match Led Zeppelin at the Edgewater Hotel. What, you haven't heard about that? Oh crap, look it up! Off to my parent's gua. I'll be over at Laughs tonight. Damn, you are gorgeous.

Let's make oat.

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New Feature on Sunday!
Hey kids, make sure you tune in for the first installment of a new feature, "Yo, Scott Weiland!"
The drug-abusing, mascara-wearing, stage-slithering lead singer of Velvet Revolver and formerly of Stone Temple Pilots and I sat down for tea last week. Turns out that Scott, or "S-Dub" as he hates being called, loves my blog. But he's not allowed to use the internet very often, and wants to share his message of love, hope, and reality-skewing with the world. So if you have any questions you'd like to ask Scott, email him Right Here, and I'll post his answers on this site. I'm positive that Scott Weiland is going to answer your questions.

(Internet Owner's Note: This sounds like a crap-ton of crap, but hey, keeps the kid off the street. Help him out.)

Take Me Home

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Hit The Showers

Nice weather, huh? I love this crap. We need it, that's for sure. If you look around you'll notice that our streets were looking a little bad, our forests were in need of moisture, and for the sake of cheese, did you smell the drifters? I'd call them homeless, but that's like saying they're looking for a permanent residence at the time. Nah, they want beer and to street-pee. Who doesn't? Public urination is a privilege afforded to those who sleep in their own filth. Don't take EVERYTHING from them.

The rain has helped me sleep. For the last two weeks, while it was Africa hot out, I was fighting this MF'er of a chest cold. It was hard enough to breathe without the dry air spackling mucous to my bronchii. So then it starts to rain and BINGO I'm over it. I'm not telling my doctor, though. My cough meds have codeine in 'em! Another SlackLung & Rum Punch, por favor. And now it's pouring out. It's actually motivating me to write more jokes. Or join the Merchant Marine... steal away on a gunship, a barkentine. Something heady, square-rigged to the fore and aft, half-rigged at the main and the mizzen, cut from steel and forged from the hearts of angels... what the f*ck am I talking about?

I had a great weekend. Thursday at the Moonraker in Kent. Great f*cking set there. Monster set. Friday in Everett, opening for Brett J - "Playin' the Hits." There's an understood idea within the African American comedy community that it's okay to perform "Street Jokes," those that we tell each other "on the street" or are found more on the internet these days. Watch any comedy show on BET, it's all over the place. Makes me ill, frankly. Anyway, did that, it was fun, made a couple extra dollhairs.

Spent a few hours on the town, realizing that the bar scene is a game for men who have no idea what the bar scene is about. It's actually kind of sad to see a guy in his 30s working at a bar he doesn't own. That's my take on it. Unless the guy has major respect from the industry, such as Murray at ZigZag, widely believed to be the best 'tender in Seattle, then a 33 year old tilting his head and raising an eyebrow when a girl asks for yet ANOTHER LemonDrop is creepier than a Jeffrey Dahmer cookbook. Fonzie was a molester, but at least he was fictional.

Content removed.

I'm off to an acupuncturist today. I'll tell you about it when I can feel me eyes again. Let's make out.

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Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

Man, this guy's got the right idea.

I'm a dick.
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Oh Holy Crap

So I've been ruminating over the case of poor 8 year-old Haley Waldman today. Haley was born with a rare digestive disorder that, if she eats wheat, can cause "blocking (of) nutrient absorption and leading to vitamin deficiencies, bone-thinning and sometimes gastrointestinal cancer."
In order to not, you know, get gut cancer, but still take her first Communion in the Holy Church, Haley ate a rice-flour wafer instead of the classic wheat-flour wafer. The rice-flour will not cause, you know, bone-thinning and GI cancer in this 8 year-old girl.

However, Haley's communion got DQ'ed by the church due to the lack of wheat in the sacrament. First of all, this is a group of people denying this girl's right to a life free of, you know, cancer at the age of 8, because of what it says in the Bible. "There must be some unleavened wheat in the wafer for it to be God-worthy of consumption. Is anybody else asking themselves "Art thou kidding the f*cketh out of thee?"

So here we have a girl who was brought to church by her family from an early age to have religion thrown all up in her head. She doesn't really get to choose, she's likely following whatever her parents say as a way of making them happy and hanging with some of the neighbor kids who'd rather be sleeping than coloring yet ANOTHER Jesus/Mary/Donkey activity page. Connect the dots, receive salvation. Amen.

This same church now denies that she is saved by the taking of Communion, as it was INVALID. Do they think she was pulling an end-around on the Holy Spirit? I don't want to speak for God, but I doubt God cares if an 8 year-old eats a wafer made of rice, wheat, or goat-meal. In her heart she's just trying to show God that she's aiming for the best and brightest she can be. And these Holy Ghostbusters of her local church crossed their beams and put her salvation in the containment unit of eternity due to what is essentially a Birth Defect.

How about instead of metaphorical spiritual regurgitation, these High (ass)Holy fruitcakes pray that Haley's condition be reversed so that she may play eat by their rules? OR, how about forcing Haley to eat the wafer, then promising, PROMISE PROMISE PROMISING that they'll pray for her when her body turns on itself due to the sacrament of the Christ which she partook in? So are they creating one more Bible-thumper, or one more group of people who decided, like me, that the biggest problem with any Religion is the Religious?

This girl is already in the Good Book at the gates just for putting up with these Holy Waterbrains. I hope these f*cks are sent to hell and continually ass-pillaged by demons with 6-cocks made entirely of 7-grain wild rice. Raise thine hands to the Lord above, you wafer whores. Here comes your San Francisco treat.

DING DING.

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Sorry, I'm All Out Of Rat's Asses

My gawd... last night I had one of the best sets of my life at The Moonraker in Kent, WA. This is a bar that knows how to do comedy. People pay a couple bucks to get in after 8pm. The soundsystem is great. the room is big. They did a great job. And they said the 3 little words every comedian loves to hear:
"We Pay Cash" AND HOSANNAS RANG DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS!

Tonight I'm working Danny's Campus in Everett. They have a key element to them that will make the show fun. "THEY PAY CASH." OH CRAP, is the IRS reading this?

Wednesday night I had my lungs handed to me by whatever alien spawn illness I've contracted from Hoorleen McCracken. Transfers happen between how many hugs, high-fives, and handies? All I know is that it's about 10 days of the phlegmish inquisition, and I'm about to give in. Robitussin is a MF'er, too, I've ingested from the incidental chew spit-can and felt better about the effect on my body. And I have all the bedside manner for myself of Buffalo Bill in the "Lambs Be Quiet." 'IT STOPS COUGHING OR IT GETS THE PEPPER SPRAY. IT STOPS COUGHING OR IT GETS THE TABASCO HIGH-COLONIC.' I'm a total homeopath.

If you want to see why people hate the Church, check out this story. Besides all the kid-touching that the priests were up to, and it goes further than we know, now the Church has negated this little girl's communion due to a technicality in the wafer department. LIKE GOD GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THE WAFER!!! I hope they're happy... they just created one less Christian and one more Libertarian.

Not funny. Better go before this gets worse.
Love you. Touch the goods.

G


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