What am I thankful for this year?
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Monday, November 22, 2004
Thank You, Kind Patriot!
I'm walking into work this morning through the back door of the building. It's mostly the front door, since most people park in the back. It's a little before 9am, and I am one of three people arriving to the door about the same time. Due to regulations of insecurity and perceived attention of Orwellian stature, we have Photo-ID badges along with the access badge you wave over the sensor so the door that you don't really want to go through will unlock.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
What A Dick!
Ashton Kutcher Tools Around Hollywood In Penis
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Not Sure What Else You Need To Know
I'm not even kidding anymore, quit it. You know exaclty what I'm talking about, so drop the games. This isn't old news, you know where I'm coming from, where EVERYONE YOU KNOW is coming from. You're doing it again, you know you're doing it, and you're too wrapped up in your own little narrow world to see it.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Results Are In: Open Mic Concedes To Everything
I got bumped last night at the Underground’s open mic, after originally making “the list.” I don’t have a fragile enough ego that needs or demands my 3 minutes like it’s OWED to me, so it was more a waste of time than anything else. Due to the conventions in place on Open Mic nights, spots are first allotted to performers who have brought people to see them, then the pros, then it's kind of a free-for-all. I got bumped most likely due to the debacle from last Thursday. nah, that's conspiratorial nonsense. I got bumped because I haven't purchased a Lex Cooper tape in two years. Last night was a deep pool of acts, 41 in attendance, 29 slots, with only about 4-8 non-performers in the crowd. Or at least, that is how many who had no intent of getting on stage. Going on stage in that room would equate to attending 28 other kid's birthday parties, wondering why they were so special as to get a toy they were just going to abuse and forget after 3 minutes.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Consider The Source
Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Old Dirty Bastard's Dead. And So is Dirt McGirt.
I have a deep belief that we are spirit-beings experiencing a human life. You know you are human because you make and follow through on decisions. Sometimes you act without conscience thought, until it's too late and you have to hide the evidence. We've all been there, late at night, not thinking straight, roommate's been pissing you off, and WHAMMO, you've just killed the last of their Pepperidge Farm Milano stash. Thought, decision, action. Decision. That's the human talking.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Stuck In The Middle With Poo
(Geoffrey Lott will not be able to blog anything on Friday, November 12th. He had a horrific accident on Nov. 11th in Everett, WA, wherein his material self-destructed on the 3rd floor of what was once a Masonic temple. His wounds are healing nicely, and he should be able to return to blogging and general ignorance within the next few days.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Highly Devolved
Thursday, November 11, 2004
A Thinly Attended Showcase, Deep With Talent, etc.
Hmm... it seems the sun came up today. That's odd. The way some people acted last night led me to believe that we were having the lamest last day on Earth in history. I guess there'd really only be one on record though, except maybe Pompeii.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Forecast Calls For Awss Funnies
Yeah, I said "Awss." It's short for "awesome." That's a word that means "something that you stand in awe of because it's massive and tumescent and possibly veiny." Could be a bull without myostatin, you don't know.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
Monday, November 08, 2004
You're Kidding, Right?
You understand THIS makes everyone around you 100% MORE normal, right?
===========
A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
===========
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
===========
A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
===========
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Tony Isn't Too Far Away
I gotta hand to it to Tony Moser.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
America: The Greatest Idea In The World
Eventually I am going to be telling jokes in this vein, so hang in there with me.
America loves giving things to undeserving people. Food samples, tricked-out cars, makeovers, and most things Presidential, all of them given to people who prob'ly don't really have the faculties to properly process their blessings and the tag-along responsibilities.
Free food causes the most laconic of shopper to head-turn and eye-perk with the fervor of a Terrier hearing jangled car keys. Totally derails the person's afternoon, no matter how boring or disgusting the kibble. One second you're heading for some Axe Bodyspray... wha?... next thing ya know, you're nodding your approval of the Calamari-Black Licorice mini-quiche. Can't get the team together at work? Bring in food. People can't return vital e-mails or calls within 36 hours, yet they're Jedi-tuned in to a plastic knife diving through a sheet cake at a half-click.
Tricked out cars. Wellsy... it's been done to death. Long story short, if the car's driver had the maturity and intelligence to be able to afford what is being done to the car, they probably wouldn't choose to do THAT to the car. Enjoy your purple Brat, Tyler. Now you're a douche nozzle.
Makeover shows. Wow. People play negligently ignorant to improvement of the self for their entire lives, and BINGO, here come a gaggle of people who "just want to help!" People lose their motivation to work out or develop, you know, other personality muscles in hopes of getting ugly enough to be on TV. I'm addicted to these shows. The state of Washington has turned out 4 of the 20 women on The Swan's first two seasons.
As for the Presidential thing, hell, that's easy. Encourage voter turn out with free food.
"So you're telling me that I voted for Nader... just by tossing back a paper cup of GORP at PCC? Son of a bitch... BRILLIANT!"
=======================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
America loves giving things to undeserving people. Food samples, tricked-out cars, makeovers, and most things Presidential, all of them given to people who prob'ly don't really have the faculties to properly process their blessings and the tag-along responsibilities.
Free food causes the most laconic of shopper to head-turn and eye-perk with the fervor of a Terrier hearing jangled car keys. Totally derails the person's afternoon, no matter how boring or disgusting the kibble. One second you're heading for some Axe Bodyspray... wha?... next thing ya know, you're nodding your approval of the Calamari-Black Licorice mini-quiche. Can't get the team together at work? Bring in food. People can't return vital e-mails or calls within 36 hours, yet they're Jedi-tuned in to a plastic knife diving through a sheet cake at a half-click.
Tricked out cars. Wellsy... it's been done to death. Long story short, if the car's driver had the maturity and intelligence to be able to afford what is being done to the car, they probably wouldn't choose to do THAT to the car. Enjoy your purple Brat, Tyler. Now you're a douche nozzle.
Makeover shows. Wow. People play negligently ignorant to improvement of the self for their entire lives, and BINGO, here come a gaggle of people who "just want to help!" People lose their motivation to work out or develop, you know, other personality muscles in hopes of getting ugly enough to be on TV. I'm addicted to these shows. The state of Washington has turned out 4 of the 20 women on The Swan's first two seasons.
As for the Presidential thing, hell, that's easy. Encourage voter turn out with free food.
"So you're telling me that I voted for Nader... just by tossing back a paper cup of GORP at PCC? Son of a bitch... BRILLIANT!"
=======================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Just to the Left of The Last Of The Straws
Yasser Arafat may be dead. He's in a French Hospital, and lord knows if the French know anything, it's how to keep a Jew-hater alive. Thank you Anti-Semitic Humor, I'll be here all rally.
I was accused recently of getting drunk at a work party, which was 100% WRONG.
I was drunk at lunch and it carried over to the party, so NYEAH. :^p
I got gas today. Thank you, Cabbage & Airport Sushi, for this horrendous squealing below the belt-line. It's a Biblical, Act of Nugent heat happening here. Somebody's gonna have to kill me before I kill again. I know this is immature to speak of, but there's really not much else going on with me today. I can't very well WHOA, gotta go.
-------------
(cont'd)
As if Tim Eyman weren't enough of a reason, THIS is a damn fine reason to haul your ham to Costa Rica: Freddie Prinze, Jr. To Star In TV Sitcom
Exhibit 27,452,910-B in the argument FOR making the following point: America loves giving things to people who are undeserving.
Kids are going hungry in this country, yet Carson Daly is STILL on the air nightly. And you thought W.'s re-election was the beginning of the end...
U.S. Forces Pound Parts of Fallujah. Fallujah's sister waits her turn.
Okay, this is kind of cool. Brother & Sister convicted on charges of felony spamming. How did it come down like this: We-ull...
"Prosecutors compared Jaynes and DeGroot to modern-day snake oil salesmen who use the Internet to peddle junk like a "FedEx refund processor" that supposedly allowed people to earn $75 an hour working from home. In one month alone, Jaynes received 10,000 credit card orders, each for $39.95, for the processor."
AND
"David Oblon, representing Jaynes, argued that it was inappropriate for prosecutors to seek what he called an excessive punishment, given that this is the first prosecution under the Virginia law. He also noted that his client, a North Carolina resident, would have been unaware of the Virginia law."
I highlighted that last statement because it is indicative of what shit-piles lawyers can be. "Virginia Law," like most state judicial systems, carries an implicit contract written in King James-style patois: Thou shall not be a jackhole and rip people off. And Spamming crosses all state and emotional boundaries, just like Tony "AssFlush" Moser's jokes.
So what did Jaynes get for his fleecing?
Jurors recommended that Jeremy Jaynes, 30, be sentenced to nine years in prison and fined Jessica DeGroot, 28, $7,500 after convicting them of three counts each of sending e-mails with fraudulent and untraceable routing information.
Of course, that's just their recommendation, not the sentence. Going to jail for Spam & Fraud, felony-style. Yeah, holmes, that's some straight-G shit raght thurr. Unh, YE-UH.
===========================================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I was accused recently of getting drunk at a work party, which was 100% WRONG.
I was drunk at lunch and it carried over to the party, so NYEAH. :^p
I got gas today. Thank you, Cabbage & Airport Sushi, for this horrendous squealing below the belt-line. It's a Biblical, Act of Nugent heat happening here. Somebody's gonna have to kill me before I kill again. I know this is immature to speak of, but there's really not much else going on with me today. I can't very well WHOA, gotta go.
-------------
(cont'd)
As if Tim Eyman weren't enough of a reason, THIS is a damn fine reason to haul your ham to Costa Rica: Freddie Prinze, Jr. To Star In TV Sitcom
Exhibit 27,452,910-B in the argument FOR making the following point: America loves giving things to people who are undeserving.
Kids are going hungry in this country, yet Carson Daly is STILL on the air nightly. And you thought W.'s re-election was the beginning of the end...
U.S. Forces Pound Parts of Fallujah. Fallujah's sister waits her turn.
Okay, this is kind of cool. Brother & Sister convicted on charges of felony spamming. How did it come down like this: We-ull...
"Prosecutors compared Jaynes and DeGroot to modern-day snake oil salesmen who use the Internet to peddle junk like a "FedEx refund processor" that supposedly allowed people to earn $75 an hour working from home. In one month alone, Jaynes received 10,000 credit card orders, each for $39.95, for the processor."
AND
"David Oblon, representing Jaynes, argued that it was inappropriate for prosecutors to seek what he called an excessive punishment, given that this is the first prosecution under the Virginia law. He also noted that his client, a North Carolina resident, would have been unaware of the Virginia law."
I highlighted that last statement because it is indicative of what shit-piles lawyers can be. "Virginia Law," like most state judicial systems, carries an implicit contract written in King James-style patois: Thou shall not be a jackhole and rip people off. And Spamming crosses all state and emotional boundaries, just like Tony "AssFlush" Moser's jokes.
So what did Jaynes get for his fleecing?
Jurors recommended that Jeremy Jaynes, 30, be sentenced to nine years in prison and fined Jessica DeGroot, 28, $7,500 after convicting them of three counts each of sending e-mails with fraudulent and untraceable routing information.
Of course, that's just their recommendation, not the sentence. Going to jail for Spam & Fraud, felony-style. Yeah, holmes, that's some straight-G shit raght thurr. Unh, YE-UH.
===========================================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
What Did You Expect?
Well SHIT.
Once again George W. Bush has won a Presidential election by a very narrow, questionable margin. The question I have is this:
Why the fuck is everyone I work with, and most everyone in general, talking about politics like they know what the hell is going on? I honestly doubt they know jack about the workings of the Senate floor, because if they did I'm sure I would have seen them at an Open Mic at some point. Lord knows they are cracking themselves up, as I am hearing ballot box-loads of nervous "This is supposed to be funny, so I will now laugh instead of allowing this person's feelings to be hurt" laughter.
We needed to ask ourselves a simple question before voting yesterday: In what positions, as U.S. citizens, are we most comfortable being royally fucked? If you thought we'd wake up with Kerry as President and all the wars having wonderously ended shortly before your RootyTooty Fresh&Fruity order being placed, you gotta straighten up. I have read and heard and sifted through enough information to know that neither Kerry nor W. would have been able to unfuck the fuck-ed-ness of America's stature in the world.
Bush has run our country's economy (read: White People's jobs) into the ground. Since taxes are the retail charges our Governmental Strip Mall has to charge for the Orange Julius and Priceless Pretzel you just picked up, if they drop their prices (read: tax cut), then quality will eventually suffer (read: fewer paid jobs OR the same jobs for lower wages). But we do love a bargain in America. And we got a President who knows all about slashing prices. But hey, he's "tough on Terrorism," which is a way of saying "he'll shoot from the porch, then check it out in the morning." Terrorism is not an "-ism." It's a religious movement, people. It's a beards-out war on American interests and symbols designed at getting our government's attention. Those prayer-crazy fig-logs are cutting the heads off of people working as contractors for American companies. That's DECAPITATION, Homey, and it ain't guillotine style. How do you deal with that?
And NO, he's not tough on Terrorism, and the Patriot Act has nothing to do with Patriotism. If Bush were truly TOUGH on Terrorism, he would have ex-fuckin'-scused himself from storytime back on 9/11/01 when he heard a hijacked plane went flight-deck first into an American financial beacon. I hope that story was funny enough to sit through.
One thing is for sure, you don't say "Okay, whatever you want. We'll look the other way." Next thing you know you're having trouble understanding the guy "helping" you fix your computer or selling you a pizza-tube at 7-11... oh shit...
I hoped for the Bush victory because I hope his administration will have learned from their mistakes with Iraq before we go any further. Saddam had to go, but he's been gone a year now, and we're still hanging around.
However, Bush led every company he's ever run directly into bankruptcy, with a bravery that can only be likened to "gross negligence." Bush also took over a heat-stroked economy backsliding after the celebratory drunken knee-&-palms-&-chin scraping known as The Internet StartUp Downfall. And President Bush courageously threw a rope to that faltering economy as it tumbled down the hillside of ShortSighted Capitalist Peak. He then launched himself off, screaming "BUNGEE JUUUUUUUUMP YEEEEHAAAAAW!" Nobody's holdin' that rope, W. Really should have had somebody tie that off.
Boring-story-slightly-longer:
Please God, watch over the leaders of this country. Don't let the Bush Administration fuck this up like that Halliburton thing, or the Enron bail-out, or the 3 companies that W. forgot to feed. We're all a little freaked out right now, especially those of us who voted for Nader. Amen."
----------------
Had Kerry been elected President, would we have been more comfortably fucked? Would he take care of OUR needs as the fuckees? It sure sounded like it. It's so easy to trust a man wearing a "LiveStrong" bracelet and a $2,500 suit. It's much easier to be on the side of a man who's second, yes, SECOND wife's family is well known for their ability to cover things up and hide mistakes, and yes, sometimes make it all a little tastier.
I hoped for the Kerry victory because he wanted to make it almost impossible for this nations corporate giants to send jobs overseas and/or offshore. A few blogs back, a comment left by Peter Johnson, a.k.a., "PJ," made key points about the proliferation of offshoring, not the least of which was a subtextual allusion to the "freaky hump style" of the foreign gals that PJ like so much. You have to read between the lines. It's there.
I shouldn't blog when I'm this jet-lagged. Okay, so this is what we have to work with. Keep reading and talking and thinking about politics. Don't let this go away. I wish I could throw down something that would make you feel better about the overall election day, which went nearly the exact opposite of everything I had hoped for. I wish I had words of encouragement and hope and direction. But I'm avoter, not a politician. I don't know squat about politics, other than I love the word "gubernatorial."
And mozzarella, fucking LOVE the motz.
=======
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Once again George W. Bush has won a Presidential election by a very narrow, questionable margin. The question I have is this:
Why the fuck is everyone I work with, and most everyone in general, talking about politics like they know what the hell is going on? I honestly doubt they know jack about the workings of the Senate floor, because if they did I'm sure I would have seen them at an Open Mic at some point. Lord knows they are cracking themselves up, as I am hearing ballot box-loads of nervous "This is supposed to be funny, so I will now laugh instead of allowing this person's feelings to be hurt" laughter.
We needed to ask ourselves a simple question before voting yesterday: In what positions, as U.S. citizens, are we most comfortable being royally fucked? If you thought we'd wake up with Kerry as President and all the wars having wonderously ended shortly before your RootyTooty Fresh&Fruity order being placed, you gotta straighten up. I have read and heard and sifted through enough information to know that neither Kerry nor W. would have been able to unfuck the fuck-ed-ness of America's stature in the world.
Bush has run our country's economy (read: White People's jobs) into the ground. Since taxes are the retail charges our Governmental Strip Mall has to charge for the Orange Julius and Priceless Pretzel you just picked up, if they drop their prices (read: tax cut), then quality will eventually suffer (read: fewer paid jobs OR the same jobs for lower wages). But we do love a bargain in America. And we got a President who knows all about slashing prices. But hey, he's "tough on Terrorism," which is a way of saying "he'll shoot from the porch, then check it out in the morning." Terrorism is not an "-ism." It's a religious movement, people. It's a beards-out war on American interests and symbols designed at getting our government's attention. Those prayer-crazy fig-logs are cutting the heads off of people working as contractors for American companies. That's DECAPITATION, Homey, and it ain't guillotine style. How do you deal with that?
And NO, he's not tough on Terrorism, and the Patriot Act has nothing to do with Patriotism. If Bush were truly TOUGH on Terrorism, he would have ex-fuckin'-scused himself from storytime back on 9/11/01 when he heard a hijacked plane went flight-deck first into an American financial beacon. I hope that story was funny enough to sit through.
One thing is for sure, you don't say "Okay, whatever you want. We'll look the other way." Next thing you know you're having trouble understanding the guy "helping" you fix your computer or selling you a pizza-tube at 7-11... oh shit...
I hoped for the Bush victory because I hope his administration will have learned from their mistakes with Iraq before we go any further. Saddam had to go, but he's been gone a year now, and we're still hanging around.
However, Bush led every company he's ever run directly into bankruptcy, with a bravery that can only be likened to "gross negligence." Bush also took over a heat-stroked economy backsliding after the celebratory drunken knee-&-palms-&-chin scraping known as The Internet StartUp Downfall. And President Bush courageously threw a rope to that faltering economy as it tumbled down the hillside of ShortSighted Capitalist Peak. He then launched himself off, screaming "BUNGEE JUUUUUUUUMP YEEEEHAAAAAW!" Nobody's holdin' that rope, W. Really should have had somebody tie that off.
Boring-story-slightly-longer:
Please God, watch over the leaders of this country. Don't let the Bush Administration fuck this up like that Halliburton thing, or the Enron bail-out, or the 3 companies that W. forgot to feed. We're all a little freaked out right now, especially those of us who voted for Nader. Amen."
----------------
Had Kerry been elected President, would we have been more comfortably fucked? Would he take care of OUR needs as the fuckees? It sure sounded like it. It's so easy to trust a man wearing a "LiveStrong" bracelet and a $2,500 suit. It's much easier to be on the side of a man who's second, yes, SECOND wife's family is well known for their ability to cover things up and hide mistakes, and yes, sometimes make it all a little tastier.
I hoped for the Kerry victory because he wanted to make it almost impossible for this nations corporate giants to send jobs overseas and/or offshore. A few blogs back, a comment left by Peter Johnson, a.k.a., "PJ," made key points about the proliferation of offshoring, not the least of which was a subtextual allusion to the "freaky hump style" of the foreign gals that PJ like so much. You have to read between the lines. It's there.
I shouldn't blog when I'm this jet-lagged. Okay, so this is what we have to work with. Keep reading and talking and thinking about politics. Don't let this go away. I wish I could throw down something that would make you feel better about the overall election day, which went nearly the exact opposite of everything I had hoped for. I wish I had words of encouragement and hope and direction. But I'm avoter, not a politician. I don't know squat about politics, other than I love the word "gubernatorial."
And mozzarella, fucking LOVE the motz.
=======
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
The Blog About What I Saw On Halloween
First Off:
Yesterday I watched a long-ish clip from the new Osama B-Laden 12", "Yo, America." Not sure what it was called, it's pretty underground shit. Check it.
Ted Koppel V-Jay'ed the track, and in this mufugger "The Beardy Weirdy" as he's referred to in the undersand DJ circlez, layed it down like this:
"If we so hate freedom, as is said by your President Bush, why have we not attacked Switzerland?" Ah hellz, that's some JadaKiss rhe-to-rizzical inquiry.
Okay, so the governmental bodies that be (read: Ann Coulter and Lisa Welchel, Google it ya self) are peering at this site by now, seeing as how it mentioned the Big O. Personally, I'd say the guy's deeply misguided, preaching hate against American involvement in the Palestine/Israeli conflict. That's what he said on the video. I would rather he never peeked his gaunt and spiteful face out his mother's hookah, but the f*cker's in our grill and he's gotta be dealt with. The music, frankly, was a steaming pile of breakfast burritos, but what he said, who the Fallujah knows if we can take it for hairy-face value? The guest VJ's with Koppel mentioned this fact, and one of these guys was Muslim:
Old Beardy Lankster WANTS George W. Bush in the White House because it galvanizes America's enemies. W. is the lightning rod that attracts the discharged hatred of millions of trained and angry people who want to blow the candy corn out of anything who can tell you who Toby Keith does commercials for. Just say "Saturn," you'll be cool.
Anyway, yeah, that's what some experts said. Paraphrased, of course, but FAWK people, the track was in some foreign tongue. The subtitles, for all I know, could've been typed in by the underground control room running the media.
VOTE GEORGE W. BUSH AND GEOFF LOTT WILL BE ALLOWED TO LIbceaS40-=[o
Holy crap, I blacked out for a second... wha happa?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Yesterday I watched a long-ish clip from the new Osama B-Laden 12", "Yo, America." Not sure what it was called, it's pretty underground shit. Check it.
Ted Koppel V-Jay'ed the track, and in this mufugger "The Beardy Weirdy" as he's referred to in the undersand DJ circlez, layed it down like this:
"If we so hate freedom, as is said by your President Bush, why have we not attacked Switzerland?" Ah hellz, that's some JadaKiss rhe-to-rizzical inquiry.
Okay, so the governmental bodies that be (read: Ann Coulter and Lisa Welchel, Google it ya self) are peering at this site by now, seeing as how it mentioned the Big O. Personally, I'd say the guy's deeply misguided, preaching hate against American involvement in the Palestine/Israeli conflict. That's what he said on the video. I would rather he never peeked his gaunt and spiteful face out his mother's hookah, but the f*cker's in our grill and he's gotta be dealt with. The music, frankly, was a steaming pile of breakfast burritos, but what he said, who the Fallujah knows if we can take it for hairy-face value? The guest VJ's with Koppel mentioned this fact, and one of these guys was Muslim:
Old Beardy Lankster WANTS George W. Bush in the White House because it galvanizes America's enemies. W. is the lightning rod that attracts the discharged hatred of millions of trained and angry people who want to blow the candy corn out of anything who can tell you who Toby Keith does commercials for. Just say "Saturn," you'll be cool.
Anyway, yeah, that's what some experts said. Paraphrased, of course, but FAWK people, the track was in some foreign tongue. The subtitles, for all I know, could've been typed in by the underground control room running the media.
VOTE GEORGE W. BUSH AND GEOFF LOTT WILL BE ALLOWED TO LIbceaS40-=[o
Holy crap, I blacked out for a second... wha happa?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog About F*ck If I Know
I write to you from the Dell Tower Of Power in my cousin B-Rock's bedroom. He's 22 and I am wearing latex gloves. This kid is deviant. I feel weird using his computer when he's in the room. I feel like I should wait until that girl on top of him leaves, but Blogging waits for no tryst, even if it's illegal in most states between consenting Community College students. NO, I am not looking at them. Directly.
Hold on, gotta change camera angles.
He keeps getting IM'ed by somebody named, and I wish I were kidding, "kyssyfur meow. " Latest message:
RUT? Wanna see a movie l8r? I tootsied and it smells like cotton candy LOL!
$100 says that's a Jr. High science teacher named Orville wearing knee-garters and al dente schmeckel.
Last night was my cousin Sonya's wedding. She's about 6 months younger than I am, which makes two of my female cousins, younger than I, who have tied the knot. It's been all kinds of interesting to watch how this all goes down, the wedding planning. I think the divorce rate is so high in this country
(JadeFox90210 has signed off)
because people don't diversify their thoughts between the Wedding and the Marriage. 6 months to 1 year to plan a Wedding, which is one day of getting stared at by yet another relative with an oxygen tank, who knows you're part of the family, but can't remember if you're Rupert's kid or the one with the bent spine they adopted from Sierra Leone. The Marriage is FAR more important, that's where all the best sit-com material comes from.
Did you drink last night? I bet you danced sick, huh? Where RU? LOL!! ;)
So as my cousin B-O'Tard sits a few feet from me loading the clip of his .9mm Ruger... I'd rather be filming illicit movies... and testing the batteries in his stun-gun. He's really excited to go try his new rounds, which are like hollow-points but filled with a high-impact polypropylene ball that will keep the slug from exploding on impact, causing a much larger entrance wound.
I feel like getting crazy later? Do you want to come to my clas... come to my fort? LOL, MF'ER!
I feel the worst/best for Jeff, my cousin Jenniefaffer's new beau. This guy ROCKS. A successful lawyer at the age of 27, a truly good human being,
(AdoreableAmanda82 has signed on)
and has a great family surrounding him, he's being tagged by every other person he comes in contact with as the next to marry into the family. The guy rocks, my cousing JoonieFlapper kicks much cakes, so that's something that I give full blessing to.
In the meantime, where the hell was I going with this?
Oh yeah...
No matter if you're getting IM'ed by vapid dad-haters with more looks than brains, hey, you're 22, play the field and enjoy the game.
No matter if you're getting ready to go to Mexico in a month, and you ARE going, with some of your favorite people in the world, go for the stories and the sun and the fact that there will be friendly and unnoticed nudity cabana-wide.
No matter if you're 30 and 2500 miles away from your comfort zone, use the means you have available to communicate with those you miss and love.
No matter if you're setting up a date with KyssyFur Meow for your cousin, make sure you use the words "Halloweener," "Jack O'Lickern," and "Statutory of Liberty."
Trick or Treat.
Smell my feet.
Change the camera angle again.
BTW, my cousin B-Rat got shit-housed last night at the wedding and tounge-rooted a bowling alley waitress. He's all class.
---------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Hold on, gotta change camera angles.
He keeps getting IM'ed by somebody named, and I wish I were kidding, "kyssyfur meow. " Latest message:
RUT? Wanna see a movie l8r? I tootsied and it smells like cotton candy LOL!
$100 says that's a Jr. High science teacher named Orville wearing knee-garters and al dente schmeckel.
Last night was my cousin Sonya's wedding. She's about 6 months younger than I am, which makes two of my female cousins, younger than I, who have tied the knot. It's been all kinds of interesting to watch how this all goes down, the wedding planning. I think the divorce rate is so high in this country
(JadeFox90210 has signed off)
because people don't diversify their thoughts between the Wedding and the Marriage. 6 months to 1 year to plan a Wedding, which is one day of getting stared at by yet another relative with an oxygen tank, who knows you're part of the family, but can't remember if you're Rupert's kid or the one with the bent spine they adopted from Sierra Leone. The Marriage is FAR more important, that's where all the best sit-com material comes from.
Did you drink last night? I bet you danced sick, huh? Where RU? LOL!! ;)
So as my cousin B-O'Tard sits a few feet from me loading the clip of his .9mm Ruger... I'd rather be filming illicit movies... and testing the batteries in his stun-gun. He's really excited to go try his new rounds, which are like hollow-points but filled with a high-impact polypropylene ball that will keep the slug from exploding on impact, causing a much larger entrance wound.
I feel like getting crazy later? Do you want to come to my clas... come to my fort? LOL, MF'ER!
I feel the worst/best for Jeff, my cousin Jenniefaffer's new beau. This guy ROCKS. A successful lawyer at the age of 27, a truly good human being,
(AdoreableAmanda82 has signed on)
and has a great family surrounding him, he's being tagged by every other person he comes in contact with as the next to marry into the family. The guy rocks, my cousing JoonieFlapper kicks much cakes, so that's something that I give full blessing to.
In the meantime, where the hell was I going with this?
Oh yeah...
No matter if you're getting IM'ed by vapid dad-haters with more looks than brains, hey, you're 22, play the field and enjoy the game.
No matter if you're getting ready to go to Mexico in a month, and you ARE going, with some of your favorite people in the world, go for the stories and the sun and the fact that there will be friendly and unnoticed nudity cabana-wide.
No matter if you're 30 and 2500 miles away from your comfort zone, use the means you have available to communicate with those you miss and love.
No matter if you're setting up a date with KyssyFur Meow for your cousin, make sure you use the words "Halloweener," "Jack O'Lickern," and "Statutory of Liberty."
Trick or Treat.
Smell my feet.
Change the camera angle again.
BTW, my cousin B-Rat got shit-housed last night at the wedding and tounge-rooted a bowling alley waitress. He's all class.
---------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Blog About Potilical Simepplings
Gonna have to vote in a week. Go do it. It's your right as an American to vote. It's a right that was fought for by millions of people over the past 230 years. It's not a fun thing, per se, which is why they oughtta open all voting booths near food establishments. Christ, America is all about Capitalism and Special Interests anyway, go put a booth in a Krusty Krepes and people will turn out like a mid-70's Who concert.
Rock For Change campaign's running strong. Springsteen's stumping with Kerry. It's been a Summer/Fall-long run of people attending shows with the agenda of getting Bush out of office. Understoond. Most everyone's got an agenda. This one, however, eesh, I don't know. I am happy that public figures are making pleas to get us 'Mer'cans in the booths, but f*ck if I want a President voted into office by people who thought it was a great idea to camp overnight for a shot at seeing Jackson Browne open for the Dixie Chicks.
You get my point. It's voting for the sake of voting, and that's about all we're gonna get right now. However, I'm hoping and somewhat believing that people are educating themselves more deeply on the "issues" affecting our country: National Security, Health Care, Social Security, Terrorist Insurance, Hymen Rejuvenation, Whatever Tracy Tuffs Is Doing, Low-Carb Diets, and Tax Structures. Iraq does not affect our country. It affects Iraq, and I have no friends there, so I give a shit.
I'm voting to approve I-884, to get money into schools. I'm voting against I-892 so that slot machines won't pop up on every street corner, regardless of revenue opportunities. It cheapens the neighborhoods, the stores, and it's greatly hated by Jackson Browne.
That's a shitty call-back.
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Rock For Change campaign's running strong. Springsteen's stumping with Kerry. It's been a Summer/Fall-long run of people attending shows with the agenda of getting Bush out of office. Understoond. Most everyone's got an agenda. This one, however, eesh, I don't know. I am happy that public figures are making pleas to get us 'Mer'cans in the booths, but f*ck if I want a President voted into office by people who thought it was a great idea to camp overnight for a shot at seeing Jackson Browne open for the Dixie Chicks.
You get my point. It's voting for the sake of voting, and that's about all we're gonna get right now. However, I'm hoping and somewhat believing that people are educating themselves more deeply on the "issues" affecting our country: National Security, Health Care, Social Security, Terrorist Insurance, Hymen Rejuvenation, Whatever Tracy Tuffs Is Doing, Low-Carb Diets, and Tax Structures. Iraq does not affect our country. It affects Iraq, and I have no friends there, so I give a shit.
I'm voting to approve I-884, to get money into schools. I'm voting against I-892 so that slot machines won't pop up on every street corner, regardless of revenue opportunities. It cheapens the neighborhoods, the stores, and it's greatly hated by Jackson Browne.
That's a shitty call-back.
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
The Blog Where I Realize How Much Work I Must Do
So what is "hack" in comedy, according to other comics?
Pretty much everything on this list, and I'm sure I've done all of them at some point or another.
Well, I'm gonna be in the lab a lot longer than I thought. G'night.
I am off to Michigan to see my cousin get married off. I wish her the best of love and growth and warmth in this new stage of her life.
Thank you God, for open bars.
===========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Pretty much everything on this list, and I'm sure I've done all of them at some point or another.
Well, I'm gonna be in the lab a lot longer than I thought. G'night.
I am off to Michigan to see my cousin get married off. I wish her the best of love and growth and warmth in this new stage of her life.
Thank you God, for open bars.
===========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog Full of Schwag
I would watch nothing but C-Span if it were anything like Taiwan's Governmental Debates.
"You've got no shame!" screamed Chu Fong-chih of the opposition Nationalist Party, after throwing a take-out box of chicken and rice at Chen Tsung-yi, a legislator from the ruling Democratic Progressive Party who backed the special budget.
As it stands now I feel like I keep hittin' the 984 minute mark of Rep. Gerry Manderbustin's filibuster on the evils of low-rise tube socks and short-cropped hair on the female children. Let's see a person from the right throw a left hook, then MAYBE we'll talk. Until then, I'm voting the Green Curry line! Get it! OH MAN, DOES THE FUN EVER START?
==========
I've Been This Excited Before
Puss And Boots. Two people get caught in a rainstorm, break into a shoe store, feel frisky, and get it on amongst the boots. It's gross. They were both drifters.
==========
And Now For Head's Up - 7Up
I think I'm on the Teacher's side here. Parent arrives in classroom, teacher and parent get into brawl, parent goes to hospital, teacher goes to jail. See Teacher Run. See Teacher Get Pepper Sprayed.
==========
Probably Because God Hates Gay Sports
I'm not sure if anybody saw it, but there is video going around of a figure skater being dropped on her face after her partner stumbled and dropped her on her face. I want this video to share with you, but all I can find is news of Lindsay Lohan on the come-back from a high-fever. If you've seen the video you know the devastation of which I speak. I plan to implement it in my upcoming arm-wrestling match with Tony "Mousey On Jam Shorts" Moser.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
"You've got no shame!" screamed Chu Fong-chih of the opposition Nationalist Party, after throwing a take-out box of chicken and rice at Chen Tsung-yi, a legislator from the ruling Democratic Progressive Party who backed the special budget.
As it stands now I feel like I keep hittin' the 984 minute mark of Rep. Gerry Manderbustin's filibuster on the evils of low-rise tube socks and short-cropped hair on the female children. Let's see a person from the right throw a left hook, then MAYBE we'll talk. Until then, I'm voting the Green Curry line! Get it! OH MAN, DOES THE FUN EVER START?
==========
I've Been This Excited Before
Puss And Boots. Two people get caught in a rainstorm, break into a shoe store, feel frisky, and get it on amongst the boots. It's gross. They were both drifters.
==========
And Now For Head's Up - 7Up
I think I'm on the Teacher's side here. Parent arrives in classroom, teacher and parent get into brawl, parent goes to hospital, teacher goes to jail. See Teacher Run. See Teacher Get Pepper Sprayed.
==========
Probably Because God Hates Gay Sports
I'm not sure if anybody saw it, but there is video going around of a figure skater being dropped on her face after her partner stumbled and dropped her on her face. I want this video to share with you, but all I can find is news of Lindsay Lohan on the come-back from a high-fever. If you've seen the video you know the devastation of which I speak. I plan to implement it in my upcoming arm-wrestling match with Tony "Mousey On Jam Shorts" Moser.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog About Moses On Jamba Juice
He's at it again.
You probably have no idea who I'm talking about since he's mostly diapers with a car.
Tony "Moses On Jamba Juice" Moser is up in the grill of yours truly, making attempts to rattle my gilded mic stand. I've tried to listen to the underlying message of his rantings about me. I've let the words fall aside and squinted so that I may look not at the mirrors, lava lamps, and smoke drifting from Moser's breathing holes, but at the intent of those words. Well I saw that intent my friends. And it was blank.
He was basically typing just to hear himself type. He's now taking credit for the songs written by bands such as Poison and Slaughter. He's stealing. He's plagiarizing the work of these men he so very much desires to look like in order to, basically, steal the clout of one Bradford Whitcomb Ainsely Undersworth Brake III. Keep trying, Mose.
I'm admit, I am NOT in Tony's league. I skipped it on my way to "confoundingly astonishing" at 3 months into this whole comedy thing. Tony sees me outside of his league, but he's so backwards that he believes he's looking behind him and there he sees me, but actually, I'm AHEAD of him, and he's forgotten what the future looks like. He's living in the past. Actually, he's living in a dreamworld populated by aromatic midgets, and he thinks it's the future. In reality, he's living in his mom's closet again. Nice pants, Gay Lord.
Deal with Moser any way that you must, but remember this: He is only out to please ONE PERSON; And when that woman of ill repute comes along Tony will finally quit comedy and become her lap dog. And maybe THEN, she'll realize what a real man it takes to do it the way it's done by Bradford Ainsmob Whitforth Underpants the Broken VII.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
You probably have no idea who I'm talking about since he's mostly diapers with a car.
Tony "Moses On Jamba Juice" Moser is up in the grill of yours truly, making attempts to rattle my gilded mic stand. I've tried to listen to the underlying message of his rantings about me. I've let the words fall aside and squinted so that I may look not at the mirrors, lava lamps, and smoke drifting from Moser's breathing holes, but at the intent of those words. Well I saw that intent my friends. And it was blank.
He was basically typing just to hear himself type. He's now taking credit for the songs written by bands such as Poison and Slaughter. He's stealing. He's plagiarizing the work of these men he so very much desires to look like in order to, basically, steal the clout of one Bradford Whitcomb Ainsely Undersworth Brake III. Keep trying, Mose.
I'm admit, I am NOT in Tony's league. I skipped it on my way to "confoundingly astonishing" at 3 months into this whole comedy thing. Tony sees me outside of his league, but he's so backwards that he believes he's looking behind him and there he sees me, but actually, I'm AHEAD of him, and he's forgotten what the future looks like. He's living in the past. Actually, he's living in a dreamworld populated by aromatic midgets, and he thinks it's the future. In reality, he's living in his mom's closet again. Nice pants, Gay Lord.
Deal with Moser any way that you must, but remember this: He is only out to please ONE PERSON; And when that woman of ill repute comes along Tony will finally quit comedy and become her lap dog. And maybe THEN, she'll realize what a real man it takes to do it the way it's done by Bradford Ainsmob Whitforth Underpants the Broken VII.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, October 25, 2004
The Blog About Travel and Self-Censorship
I fly out to Michigan on Wednesday morning. Not sure which airline it is. I usually don't look, care, or pack until an hour before I'm leaving for the airport.
That's not true. I'm past that phase of life. I have had those trips where I'm f*ck off until the last 3 hours before I am supposed to be at the airport, sweating my way through packing useless items. I am 30 years old, for crying out loud, I should know that I need at LEAST a toothbrush, a t-shirt, one pair of underwear, and a decent book for a week away from home. I can do that. And I'm flying which means I'll be packed in a tube of "who's who in day tripping."
I think I'm going to fake some sort of 'tard so that I can get whatever I want on the plane. Nothing violent, but if someone is leaning all over me, I'm gonna get in their pie face and tell them in hushed tones "This is the last time you will ever fly if you don't quit coloring in that book, f*cksock." It seems that I go on every flight with an air of adventure and loving travel, and everyone else gets on it with "F*CK THESE PEOPLE, I AM GOING TO JAM THIS CARRY ON AND THIS LAPTOP AND THIS DOG AND THIS INCAN MATRIMONIAL HEADDRESS INTO THIS COMPARTMENT WITH MY BALLBAG ON THIS GUY'S SHOULDER BECAUSE I HAVE THE RIGHT TO!" AAAAH, there's where people 'tard themselves, their "Rights."
To have a "right" means you are justifiably allowed to do something. I think a lot of people confuse their "rights" and their "opportunities." Just because one may have the opportunity to neck-chop a 90 year old man staring at the cashier who just asked him "Paper or plastic," well, you don't really have the right to the aforementioned choppage. You have the right to make money for performing tasks, but you may also have the opportunity to steal from your employer. Even if it's just ONE time, giving away a handjob makes for a angry peeimp. na NA na NAAAH!
I feel privileged to fly, because it's not as cheap as it seems to be when you're going cross-country with a stop in Minneapolis. Not everyone can fly, especially if they are well-mannered and without a 3 year-old colicky snot monkey who wants "Seb-up NOW!" Seven Up? Severance Benefits? Spongebob? Don't know. Don't care. Quiet the kid down. So, do I have the right to a comfortable flight, where comfortable means "surrounded by people at 6:45am who just want to SLEEP GAWDDAMMIT?!?! I feel I DO have that right. So I'll make sure to get a notebook in order to manage my thoughts as I tell people to put their seatbacks up, wash their pits, and point out, quite loudly, that their ballbag is resting on my fake baby.
Have a great Tuesday, my friends.
=========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
That's not true. I'm past that phase of life. I have had those trips where I'm f*ck off until the last 3 hours before I am supposed to be at the airport, sweating my way through packing useless items. I am 30 years old, for crying out loud, I should know that I need at LEAST a toothbrush, a t-shirt, one pair of underwear, and a decent book for a week away from home. I can do that. And I'm flying which means I'll be packed in a tube of "who's who in day tripping."
I think I'm going to fake some sort of 'tard so that I can get whatever I want on the plane. Nothing violent, but if someone is leaning all over me, I'm gonna get in their pie face and tell them in hushed tones "This is the last time you will ever fly if you don't quit coloring in that book, f*cksock." It seems that I go on every flight with an air of adventure and loving travel, and everyone else gets on it with "F*CK THESE PEOPLE, I AM GOING TO JAM THIS CARRY ON AND THIS LAPTOP AND THIS DOG AND THIS INCAN MATRIMONIAL HEADDRESS INTO THIS COMPARTMENT WITH MY BALLBAG ON THIS GUY'S SHOULDER BECAUSE I HAVE THE RIGHT TO!" AAAAH, there's where people 'tard themselves, their "Rights."
To have a "right" means you are justifiably allowed to do something. I think a lot of people confuse their "rights" and their "opportunities." Just because one may have the opportunity to neck-chop a 90 year old man staring at the cashier who just asked him "Paper or plastic," well, you don't really have the right to the aforementioned choppage. You have the right to make money for performing tasks, but you may also have the opportunity to steal from your employer. Even if it's just ONE time, giving away a handjob makes for a angry peeimp. na NA na NAAAH!
I feel privileged to fly, because it's not as cheap as it seems to be when you're going cross-country with a stop in Minneapolis. Not everyone can fly, especially if they are well-mannered and without a 3 year-old colicky snot monkey who wants "Seb-up NOW!" Seven Up? Severance Benefits? Spongebob? Don't know. Don't care. Quiet the kid down. So, do I have the right to a comfortable flight, where comfortable means "surrounded by people at 6:45am who just want to SLEEP GAWDDAMMIT?!?! I feel I DO have that right. So I'll make sure to get a notebook in order to manage my thoughts as I tell people to put their seatbacks up, wash their pits, and point out, quite loudly, that their ballbag is resting on my fake baby.
Have a great Tuesday, my friends.
=========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog Regarding The Wrong Joke At The Wrong Time
Here's a joke I did this past weekend that each crowd groaned on.
"I enjoy my status in life, every now and again being treated to a dinner of exotic foods. Tonight we sat down to eat and had, let's see, Crab-stuffed Lobster Tail... then we had Veal-stuffed Lamb-shank, and for dessert we ate a black baby."
People groaned for one reason only.
They thought the baby was ALIVE. NO NO NO. It was dead, unlike those monkies whose brains are eaten while they kick away under the table.
I was upset they groaned, because they didn't even seem to register that I had never eaten a black baby before. Not that I particulary enjoy the dessert baby, but perhaps it was that I was eating a baby with dark skin, which would make them racist to think THAT is why I ordered that child. I did NOT. I have eaten babies of all ethnicites in the past, really mowed through them at all hours of the night. How come nobody groaned about the Caucasian shorty? What of the Laotian infant who met it's fate in the winter of '97? Succulent, yet not sympathized over. That crowd was racist.
I also snuck the word "wigger" in, but shyed away from material on "fisting," "anality," or "religion."
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
"I enjoy my status in life, every now and again being treated to a dinner of exotic foods. Tonight we sat down to eat and had, let's see, Crab-stuffed Lobster Tail... then we had Veal-stuffed Lamb-shank, and for dessert we ate a black baby."
People groaned for one reason only.
They thought the baby was ALIVE. NO NO NO. It was dead, unlike those monkies whose brains are eaten while they kick away under the table.
I was upset they groaned, because they didn't even seem to register that I had never eaten a black baby before. Not that I particulary enjoy the dessert baby, but perhaps it was that I was eating a baby with dark skin, which would make them racist to think THAT is why I ordered that child. I did NOT. I have eaten babies of all ethnicites in the past, really mowed through them at all hours of the night. How come nobody groaned about the Caucasian shorty? What of the Laotian infant who met it's fate in the winter of '97? Succulent, yet not sympathized over. That crowd was racist.
I also snuck the word "wigger" in, but shyed away from material on "fisting," "anality," or "religion."
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Blog About The Weekend and Such
I saw a license plate that read "HOUSE4U."
Is it odd, to anyone else, that the word "house" is a conjugation of "ho use?" That's how it all started.
~~~
Did she fake it?
~~~
All of this past weekend's comedy was fun. 2 sets that were amazingly fun to have storked for the paying customers. 2 sets that were thrown sideways a bit by other people, one by my decision, one by fum-lucking-duck.
This past weekend I participated in a "showcase contest" where the winner was chosen by the audiences. We paired off 8 comics to go "head to head" over 2 nights, open game, winners vs. winners, and so on as it continued until there was one comic voted to have had the best set of the two with the most wins. Also referred to as "Round Robin."
I guess I can't write this as a recap. I had a set on Saturday night, first show, that defined what I'd like to get to as far as performances. The seats were sprinkled with high school-age kids in fancy dress, on their way to a dance of some sort. Cool. For them. I launched my mind out of my body and felt like I flew aroud the room as I told these kids that, even though they felt very powerful, it's aaalll bullshit. High School, the American Dream, Popularity, it's all crap played up by movies and people who, after high school, will see their popularity quickly fade. I know that I wasn't saying anything ground-breaking or sea-parting, in the big picture, but that room full of people were happy that I was going so loudly and heartily into it, face to the wind, weaving in and out just for show. So why reflect so masturbatorially on this all?
Because in that moment I was totally myself, unhinged and uncorked and fully loaded. A forward-thrusting expression of ad-libbed verbiage sprung forth like a kite in the wind, balanced by a tail with knots of pre-determined punchlines to jokes written many sets ago. All I could think of as I saw those kids walk in, besides "Where were these chicks when I was in High School? Oh right, the 2nd grade"... all I could muster inside myself was to tell them that the grades matter to people who never got out of school. School provides opportunities to relate factual information into daily life. But open eyes and hearts get us much further, faster, than walking around with a copy of Dostoyevsky under one tribally-inked arm, and a CD player held in their other hand, blasting Linkin Park's latest recipe for empowerment through revenge.
I got beat by 3 votes. It's never felt so great to be unpopular.
By the way, Fyodor Dostoyevsky wrote, among other things "The Brothers Karmazov." I've never read it because I haven't ever made a conscious decision to seek and take in the work. Glancing about a bit, I found a number of his texts on line. Existentialist. I should take time and check those out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Here's this turd log trying to throw the "Rock On" sign. Does she understand that nothing about her music rocks? Should people stabbed for doing this? I think so.
Is it odd, to anyone else, that the word "house" is a conjugation of "ho use?" That's how it all started.
~~~
Did she fake it?
~~~
All of this past weekend's comedy was fun. 2 sets that were amazingly fun to have storked for the paying customers. 2 sets that were thrown sideways a bit by other people, one by my decision, one by fum-lucking-duck.
This past weekend I participated in a "showcase contest" where the winner was chosen by the audiences. We paired off 8 comics to go "head to head" over 2 nights, open game, winners vs. winners, and so on as it continued until there was one comic voted to have had the best set of the two with the most wins. Also referred to as "Round Robin."
I guess I can't write this as a recap. I had a set on Saturday night, first show, that defined what I'd like to get to as far as performances. The seats were sprinkled with high school-age kids in fancy dress, on their way to a dance of some sort. Cool. For them. I launched my mind out of my body and felt like I flew aroud the room as I told these kids that, even though they felt very powerful, it's aaalll bullshit. High School, the American Dream, Popularity, it's all crap played up by movies and people who, after high school, will see their popularity quickly fade. I know that I wasn't saying anything ground-breaking or sea-parting, in the big picture, but that room full of people were happy that I was going so loudly and heartily into it, face to the wind, weaving in and out just for show. So why reflect so masturbatorially on this all?
Because in that moment I was totally myself, unhinged and uncorked and fully loaded. A forward-thrusting expression of ad-libbed verbiage sprung forth like a kite in the wind, balanced by a tail with knots of pre-determined punchlines to jokes written many sets ago. All I could think of as I saw those kids walk in, besides "Where were these chicks when I was in High School? Oh right, the 2nd grade"... all I could muster inside myself was to tell them that the grades matter to people who never got out of school. School provides opportunities to relate factual information into daily life. But open eyes and hearts get us much further, faster, than walking around with a copy of Dostoyevsky under one tribally-inked arm, and a CD player held in their other hand, blasting Linkin Park's latest recipe for empowerment through revenge.
I got beat by 3 votes. It's never felt so great to be unpopular.
By the way, Fyodor Dostoyevsky wrote, among other things "The Brothers Karmazov." I've never read it because I haven't ever made a conscious decision to seek and take in the work. Glancing about a bit, I found a number of his texts on line. Existentialist. I should take time and check those out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Here's this turd log trying to throw the "Rock On" sign. Does she understand that nothing about her music rocks? Should people stabbed for doing this? I think so.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Blog Next To Tony's
So Tony "Moses On JambaJuice" Moser is at it again, trying to rattle my pots and pans. Ain't gonna happen.
See, I have a secret weapon. Last week I befriended a man who shall be referred to as "Dirt McGirt," or Dirt. You may remember him as Old Dirty Bastard, or Big Baby Jesus, from The WuTang Clan. Yeah, he my boy.
So I aks Dirt, "Hey Dirt, a lot of fools are trippin' on me lately, trying to run a pace that outspeeds they own shortcomings of paranoida, disempowering, and egotisticness and trying to step on my game, numsayn motherf(beep)ker? What da f(beep)k I'm a do?"
Dirt says to me, "First off, we need to work on your vocabalary and methods of communication. Second, it's important to remember that people are the products of environments that have longs since passed by. What you see now is like the starlight you see in the night when y'all know the words and the time is right. That light you see is what burned off that star a long time ago. It's getting to you now, but it can't hurt you, enjoy the burn, bruh. Just understand that you keep your head up, and you'll see starlight, you'll see your name in lights, and sometime you see up a ho's tights, word?"
I says "Word, Dirt. Word."
And then I hit the "Next Blog" button on Tony's screen and I got THIS, which throws down on Tony and everyone else but me like you would not believe. Holy crap. Check THIS OUT!
===============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
See, I have a secret weapon. Last week I befriended a man who shall be referred to as "Dirt McGirt," or Dirt. You may remember him as Old Dirty Bastard, or Big Baby Jesus, from The WuTang Clan. Yeah, he my boy.
So I aks Dirt, "Hey Dirt, a lot of fools are trippin' on me lately, trying to run a pace that outspeeds they own shortcomings of paranoida, disempowering, and egotisticness and trying to step on my game, numsayn motherf(beep)ker? What da f(beep)k I'm a do?"
Dirt says to me, "First off, we need to work on your vocabalary and methods of communication. Second, it's important to remember that people are the products of environments that have longs since passed by. What you see now is like the starlight you see in the night when y'all know the words and the time is right. That light you see is what burned off that star a long time ago. It's getting to you now, but it can't hurt you, enjoy the burn, bruh. Just understand that you keep your head up, and you'll see starlight, you'll see your name in lights, and sometime you see up a ho's tights, word?"
I says "Word, Dirt. Word."
And then I hit the "Next Blog" button on Tony's screen and I got THIS, which throws down on Tony and everyone else but me like you would not believe. Holy crap. Check THIS OUT!
===============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
The Blog About Regularly Scheduled Blogging
Damn, what a week.
The Bostonian Buttplug at my work is off his head. Twice this week I've asked him to keep it down, but it's not working. His Boston RedSox are tied up in the ALCS with the Yankees, so he's strutting around like he's at least 5'5". Then the Patriots beat the Seahawks last week so he's been trying to sound like he's a proud father, but humbled all the same.
"Yeah boy, we really showed you guys what Championship football looks like."
I hate the pronouns people use when talking about sports teams. "We." I don't remember the Pats ever calling a play that went to a 5'3", 219lb fartback with emphysema and Samsonite eyebags. "You guys." Right, like the guys from Network Security suited up for the game. Right after their 2nd French Bread pizza and 4th handful of Halloween M&Ms. Then again, we got f*cked into paying for the stadium, so I think each week at least one tax-payer should be allowed to suit up and make the average pay of the team, and then take liberties with a hotel concierge.
Man, who keeps ripping in the elevator? I think it's in the metal work now.
I'm out for now.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Bostonian Buttplug at my work is off his head. Twice this week I've asked him to keep it down, but it's not working. His Boston RedSox are tied up in the ALCS with the Yankees, so he's strutting around like he's at least 5'5". Then the Patriots beat the Seahawks last week so he's been trying to sound like he's a proud father, but humbled all the same.
"Yeah boy, we really showed you guys what Championship football looks like."
I hate the pronouns people use when talking about sports teams. "We." I don't remember the Pats ever calling a play that went to a 5'3", 219lb fartback with emphysema and Samsonite eyebags. "You guys." Right, like the guys from Network Security suited up for the game. Right after their 2nd French Bread pizza and 4th handful of Halloween M&Ms. Then again, we got f*cked into paying for the stadium, so I think each week at least one tax-payer should be allowed to suit up and make the average pay of the team, and then take liberties with a hotel concierge.
Man, who keeps ripping in the elevator? I think it's in the metal work now.
I'm out for now.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, October 15, 2004
The Blog About Why I Was Up All Night
Last night's comedy pursuit quantum-leapt me to Marysville. This city is weird. It's got all the small town feel of Hoquiam, sans history. Do they sell drugs in Marysville? Can't say, didn't buy any there. Do the MAKE drugs in Marysville? Can't say, didn't swap recipes with the locals. What CAN I say? How about this:
When in Marysville, you can drive to a local convenience store and buy a scale. Saw it on the way out of town. Yeah. Not a bathroom scale. Not a produce scale. A druggin' scale. And yet, like so many of their mysteriously "late" girlfriends, nobody in Marysville acknowledges the issue.
Shawn Cain MC'ed the evening, dressed like a Shaolin Monk. I had to snatch the mic from his hand to do my set. Bob Lindsey did 3 minutes that did really well. Bob's biggest snafu is not knowing how to get off stage. Not that he's a stage hog, but he truly says "Okay, I guess I'm done, so I should go now and yeah, okay, thanks for laughing, okay... Shawn?" To that effect. I hope Bob keeps it as his calling card. It's actually pretty funny. I feel bad for saying "How about Bob, huh? I used to buy crank from him" when I got on stage, because that's NOT FUNNY. Bob, white pants? You're not supposed to wear white pants after Labor Day of the year 1926.
I had a good set at JR's Steakhouse. As good as it's gonna get there, from what I was told. I realized that when I am performing in a room that serves as a pool hall, dance floor, and vomitorium it's best to stick to the joke material, and not the story-line jokes. At least for me. The crowd that listened was with me. The ones who talked were, at first-through-15th glances, the kind of dudes who "ain't gonna listen to nobody no how, got it, FAGG*T???" I closed on 8 minutes of religion and politics, getting 3 applause breaks during one new bit on Advertising and Christianity. That's one I will have to deliver with a wrinkly brow and winky eye. People tighten up around the Lord.
James Inman headlined and did a great job, resurrecting his Wal-Mart bit that I friggin' love. It's one of the first I've ever heard him do. Yeah, uh huh, you don't hear THAT at Wal-Mart DO YA? NO! Nice work James, for the 20 minutes I saw of it. Then I had to go and comparison-shop the scales. I got some product to move.
Of course, it would have been GREAT to get home and fall asleep. Aaah, yes, that would be the way it's supposed to work out, no? Get home and be lights-out at 12-ish. SUPER. Couldn't happen though. Nope. Started getting really tired about 12-ish, get in bed to read... upstairs neighbor's TV is on. But I figure it'll go off in a bit. 1:30am, I'm knocking on the hog's door to get her to turn it down. Nothing. No answer. Lights on and all that. 2am, back up there, knocking. 2:30, knocking. Leave a note to let her know
A) She's ugly
B) Her TV is too f*cking loud. I even wrote down what show she was watching, and two lines from it. Does "Matlock" EVER go off the air?
5 minutes after my last trip upstairs, I hear her galumphing over to the front door. She likely got the note. The TV was off 5 minutes later. Silence at nearly 3am. Either she was stone-walling me or she's half-deaf. I once fell asleep listening to Metallica's "And Justice For All" on 8 in my headphones, so my hearing isn't THAT sensitive. Then again, I'm getting older and would prefer to not "nap" when my body demands 5 - 5.63 hours of sleep each night.
Some woodsy, tie-dyed sandal jockey is wearing toe-bells at work today. This also the same woman who raises llamas. Llama pictures at her desk. Llama sweaters, shirts, kerchiefs. To each their own, of course. But wow, it's unhealthy. It's not a hobby, it's an obsession. TINA, COME GET YOUR MEDS!
-------------------------------
"Can you turn off 'DAT FAN' ovah dayuh?"
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
When in Marysville, you can drive to a local convenience store and buy a scale. Saw it on the way out of town. Yeah. Not a bathroom scale. Not a produce scale. A druggin' scale. And yet, like so many of their mysteriously "late" girlfriends, nobody in Marysville acknowledges the issue.
Shawn Cain MC'ed the evening, dressed like a Shaolin Monk. I had to snatch the mic from his hand to do my set. Bob Lindsey did 3 minutes that did really well. Bob's biggest snafu is not knowing how to get off stage. Not that he's a stage hog, but he truly says "Okay, I guess I'm done, so I should go now and yeah, okay, thanks for laughing, okay... Shawn?" To that effect. I hope Bob keeps it as his calling card. It's actually pretty funny. I feel bad for saying "How about Bob, huh? I used to buy crank from him" when I got on stage, because that's NOT FUNNY. Bob, white pants? You're not supposed to wear white pants after Labor Day of the year 1926.
I had a good set at JR's Steakhouse. As good as it's gonna get there, from what I was told. I realized that when I am performing in a room that serves as a pool hall, dance floor, and vomitorium it's best to stick to the joke material, and not the story-line jokes. At least for me. The crowd that listened was with me. The ones who talked were, at first-through-15th glances, the kind of dudes who "ain't gonna listen to nobody no how, got it, FAGG*T???" I closed on 8 minutes of religion and politics, getting 3 applause breaks during one new bit on Advertising and Christianity. That's one I will have to deliver with a wrinkly brow and winky eye. People tighten up around the Lord.
James Inman headlined and did a great job, resurrecting his Wal-Mart bit that I friggin' love. It's one of the first I've ever heard him do. Yeah, uh huh, you don't hear THAT at Wal-Mart DO YA? NO! Nice work James, for the 20 minutes I saw of it. Then I had to go and comparison-shop the scales. I got some product to move.
Of course, it would have been GREAT to get home and fall asleep. Aaah, yes, that would be the way it's supposed to work out, no? Get home and be lights-out at 12-ish. SUPER. Couldn't happen though. Nope. Started getting really tired about 12-ish, get in bed to read... upstairs neighbor's TV is on. But I figure it'll go off in a bit. 1:30am, I'm knocking on the hog's door to get her to turn it down. Nothing. No answer. Lights on and all that. 2am, back up there, knocking. 2:30, knocking. Leave a note to let her know
A) She's ugly
B) Her TV is too f*cking loud. I even wrote down what show she was watching, and two lines from it. Does "Matlock" EVER go off the air?
5 minutes after my last trip upstairs, I hear her galumphing over to the front door. She likely got the note. The TV was off 5 minutes later. Silence at nearly 3am. Either she was stone-walling me or she's half-deaf. I once fell asleep listening to Metallica's "And Justice For All" on 8 in my headphones, so my hearing isn't THAT sensitive. Then again, I'm getting older and would prefer to not "nap" when my body demands 5 - 5.63 hours of sleep each night.
Some woodsy, tie-dyed sandal jockey is wearing toe-bells at work today. This also the same woman who raises llamas. Llama pictures at her desk. Llama sweaters, shirts, kerchiefs. To each their own, of course. But wow, it's unhealthy. It's not a hobby, it's an obsession. TINA, COME GET YOUR MEDS!
-------------------------------
"Can you turn off 'DAT FAN' ovah dayuh?"
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Blog That Puts A Knee Into Goldencrotch
Yet another shot has crossed the bow of the Lott Luxury Liner. I am often taking fire from other vessels and light artillery. Firing gives away one's position, however. You know that... you silly, dumb, wee spirit of a man. And again, You have fired.
You see, as I sit at my desk of gainful employment, listening to the perceived "funnies" of people also employed by the 2nd worst-managed company of all time - the first being whichever company Tony will sexually harrass into an early grave during his lifetime - I am reminded that just about everyone believes they can "bring the funny."
The lady obsessed with Smeagol and therefore doing his voice every 2.4 hours? "Funny."
The guy who brought in a squirt gun or 3 to "liven things up?" "Funny."
The Hortense Cumberpatch of a woman who will answer ANY question you have... For a Fee! Does it have to be the Right Answer? "Funny."
The gal who calls the other ladies "girlfriend"s? "Annoying," and "barren," yet to many, "funny."
The fella who laughs at his own quips, yet makes everyone else uncomfortable with his wild-eyed opportunistic jumping-in with a Sandler movie catch-phrase? "Funny."
It goes like this. I could really give 1.8 to 2.3 linear feet of corn-eyed butt trout as to how You get to your funny. But however you get to it, the party is on. Started LONG before I got there. Long before you did, also. So you get your Funny, and you Bring It. Got it? Don't say "Oh I left it in my other career," or "I can't follow Gervin." You put your name on the list, you go on-stage, and deliver funny by the shovel-load into the laps of laughter-horny crowd members.
Until THAT happens for longer than 11 minutes 47 seconds, I will see that Funny is always being Broughten, and therefore you need to take the pressure of Yourself to bring it. It's too heavy for you. Sorry champ. Maybe next set.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a paying gig tonight in Marysville. Boast Toast.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
You see, as I sit at my desk of gainful employment, listening to the perceived "funnies" of people also employed by the 2nd worst-managed company of all time - the first being whichever company Tony will sexually harrass into an early grave during his lifetime - I am reminded that just about everyone believes they can "bring the funny."
The lady obsessed with Smeagol and therefore doing his voice every 2.4 hours? "Funny."
The guy who brought in a squirt gun or 3 to "liven things up?" "Funny."
The Hortense Cumberpatch of a woman who will answer ANY question you have... For a Fee! Does it have to be the Right Answer? "Funny."
The gal who calls the other ladies "girlfriend"s? "Annoying," and "barren," yet to many, "funny."
The fella who laughs at his own quips, yet makes everyone else uncomfortable with his wild-eyed opportunistic jumping-in with a Sandler movie catch-phrase? "Funny."
It goes like this. I could really give 1.8 to 2.3 linear feet of corn-eyed butt trout as to how You get to your funny. But however you get to it, the party is on. Started LONG before I got there. Long before you did, also. So you get your Funny, and you Bring It. Got it? Don't say "Oh I left it in my other career," or "I can't follow Gervin." You put your name on the list, you go on-stage, and deliver funny by the shovel-load into the laps of laughter-horny crowd members.
Until THAT happens for longer than 11 minutes 47 seconds, I will see that Funny is always being Broughten, and therefore you need to take the pressure of Yourself to bring it. It's too heavy for you. Sorry champ. Maybe next set.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a paying gig tonight in Marysville. Boast Toast.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Blog That Wonders Where That Last Blog Was Going
The comments from the previous blog were good. I think PJ is quite well-read, quite intelligent. Quite. And I'm due for a lesson on the world's economy, especially because I wade through it every day of my life on the way to and from my bed. I'm too close to the unemployment line. I need to step back and see if I am destined for it.
Aggressively stupid? In a blog? This is the most passive-aggressive stupidity there is. I can say anything about anyone here, be it rumor or party-camera-recorded incident, and what people really want is the DIRT. What do I think of him? What's her problem? What do I think of you? What do I want to see happen to them? Does she still drink that much? Who just called? And why?
See how it takes one person's death grip on a topic to spin Funny to Unfunny? Lamarckism? That's retro Darwinism, my friends, before the iguanas came to power. Funnier? I hope the F so.
Anyway, it's economically sound to pay people less to do the same work. Still it's hard to have a price tag slapped on your chest by someone who's already decided you're out of style. Let the new Imperialism begin.
Enh...
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Aggressively stupid? In a blog? This is the most passive-aggressive stupidity there is. I can say anything about anyone here, be it rumor or party-camera-recorded incident, and what people really want is the DIRT. What do I think of him? What's her problem? What do I think of you? What do I want to see happen to them? Does she still drink that much? Who just called? And why?
See how it takes one person's death grip on a topic to spin Funny to Unfunny? Lamarckism? That's retro Darwinism, my friends, before the iguanas came to power. Funnier? I hope the F so.
Anyway, it's economically sound to pay people less to do the same work. Still it's hard to have a price tag slapped on your chest by someone who's already decided you're out of style. Let the new Imperialism begin.
Enh...
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog Where Darwin Gives A Knowing Look
Double Fatality Closes I-5.
Both men were on foot, crossing I-5 at night. I'd be traumatized if they hadn't been injured. Not that they should be, but it's two guys making yet another thick-headed decision that will negatively affect an innocent person. When will it ever end?
Rhetorical, obviously.
========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Both men were on foot, crossing I-5 at night. I'd be traumatized if they hadn't been injured. Not that they should be, but it's two guys making yet another thick-headed decision that will negatively affect an innocent person. When will it ever end?
Rhetorical, obviously.
========================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Blog Where Accupressure's Getting The Better of Me
Another episode of HAX-TV is in the can. It was organized a notch or a notch-point-seven better than a rugby scrum. I thought it was entertaining. Most entertaining was Tony Moser's finesse at the organ. Insert pun here. Insert. Pun again.
Apparently the term "midwifery" is pronounced "mid-wiff-ery," as properly dictated by a woman who likely hasn't worn makeup since last Halloween. Odd that she hung in through the entire show, snooted it up, then slammed-down her home phone. Home phone? OOOOOH, she's all kinds of RICH!
Thanks to Killorn and Shoogs B for the talented repartee. Rap partay. Kick ass.
I'm going to fight off insomnia tonight with some accupressure patches, little soft-rubber cones placed at the base of my palm to stimullllllllllllllllarte... stim......................... stimulate the sleepy what. I donm'''''''''''''''' think i ts workin
======================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Apparently the term "midwifery" is pronounced "mid-wiff-ery," as properly dictated by a woman who likely hasn't worn makeup since last Halloween. Odd that she hung in through the entire show, snooted it up, then slammed-down her home phone. Home phone? OOOOOH, she's all kinds of RICH!
Thanks to Killorn and Shoogs B for the talented repartee. Rap partay. Kick ass.
I'm going to fight off insomnia tonight with some accupressure patches, little soft-rubber cones placed at the base of my palm to stimullllllllllllllllarte... stim......................... stimulate the sleepy what. I donm'''''''''''''''' think i ts workin
======================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog Where I Don't Care For A Bit
I have no desire what-so-ever to be at this job today. I headlined a comedy show this past weekend, and now I'm running over spreadsheets. People say "doing what you love to do and getting paid for it is the recipe for happiness."
Guess what? That's 1/2-true. Getting paid enough to make a living out of what you love to do is the recipe for happiness. I'll work a day job, that's fine, but wow, to deal with a guy who brushes his teeth with his ass after feeling like I'd tapped my higher being? Tell me who that gives me a happy feeling?
Watch HAX TV tonight, Ch. 77, 10pm. Please?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Guess what? That's 1/2-true. Getting paid enough to make a living out of what you love to do is the recipe for happiness. I'll work a day job, that's fine, but wow, to deal with a guy who brushes his teeth with his ass after feeling like I'd tapped my higher being? Tell me who that gives me a happy feeling?
Watch HAX TV tonight, Ch. 77, 10pm. Please?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog That I Decide to Yell At The Computer In
Second time now, my keyboard shortcuts erased funny blogging.
FAWK.
IRONY:
I work for a cellphone company, and the worst phone ettiquette of all time is right here in this company. If you're indoors, turn your phone off. You'll hear it vibrate if you're near it. If you leave, and the ringer's on, then your cube neighbors all get to ponder what kind of jerkhole leaves their cellphone on, and what kind of human consciously chooses "Fur d'Elise" in 1's and 0's to express themselves via communication device. IF YOU'RE NEAR IT, YOU'LL HEAR IT. Vibrate or die.
IRONY:
The monkies on whom science has tested numerous vaccines are now so scarce that science fears running out of monkies to test vaccines of the new superbugs on. In the meantime, a massive flu and cold bug-outbreak has gripped London. Thank YOU Simon, Ruth, and Nigel. Step up for a vaccine test, and get a can of sardines! We'll not tell a soul you're on the dole. It'll be our li't'l whispers.
SWEET:
Comics rejoice! Itemize your deductions and get an extra $500 credit! What the chunk am I saying? Comedians ITEMIZING tax deductions such as mileage, gas, food, morning-after pills, and Axe BodySpray to cover up 3-day road-trip swamp ass? Right. There's a better chance James Inman will write an "airline food" set.
IRONY:
The value of your education is apparent only to you. I hope you studied Odds are that a college degree won't mean SHYTE to employers very soon. When a company decides to tap the work resources of a nation that speaks English as a 3rd language, you can bet that they are saving money at all costs. When your President says he's created 800,000 new jobs, make sure those jobs aren't all going to people who don't mind eating with a fly on their eye. So what's the next wave of employment? Self-contracting. Yep. You will be your own boss. Ask for a little more money, take care of your receipts and your benefits, and never again work for a company that doesn't give two kebabs about who it's hiring.
I work 3 cubes away from a guy wearing a XXL t-shirt, running pants, and slippers at work. You know what the sound of failure is? The "zwip-zwip" of nylon in the IT department. And those pants aren't for exercise, those are for random desk-nap comfort levels. And he's from America. Kennewick, to be exact. Oh... now I get it. We. Are. Slobs.
=========
FAWK.
IRONY:
I work for a cellphone company, and the worst phone ettiquette of all time is right here in this company. If you're indoors, turn your phone off. You'll hear it vibrate if you're near it. If you leave, and the ringer's on, then your cube neighbors all get to ponder what kind of jerkhole leaves their cellphone on, and what kind of human consciously chooses "Fur d'Elise" in 1's and 0's to express themselves via communication device. IF YOU'RE NEAR IT, YOU'LL HEAR IT. Vibrate or die.
IRONY:
The monkies on whom science has tested numerous vaccines are now so scarce that science fears running out of monkies to test vaccines of the new superbugs on. In the meantime, a massive flu and cold bug-outbreak has gripped London. Thank YOU Simon, Ruth, and Nigel. Step up for a vaccine test, and get a can of sardines! We'll not tell a soul you're on the dole. It'll be our li't'l whispers.
SWEET:
Comics rejoice! Itemize your deductions and get an extra $500 credit! What the chunk am I saying? Comedians ITEMIZING tax deductions such as mileage, gas, food, morning-after pills, and Axe BodySpray to cover up 3-day road-trip swamp ass? Right. There's a better chance James Inman will write an "airline food" set.
IRONY:
The value of your education is apparent only to you. I hope you studied Odds are that a college degree won't mean SHYTE to employers very soon. When a company decides to tap the work resources of a nation that speaks English as a 3rd language, you can bet that they are saving money at all costs. When your President says he's created 800,000 new jobs, make sure those jobs aren't all going to people who don't mind eating with a fly on their eye. So what's the next wave of employment? Self-contracting. Yep. You will be your own boss. Ask for a little more money, take care of your receipts and your benefits, and never again work for a company that doesn't give two kebabs about who it's hiring.
I work 3 cubes away from a guy wearing a XXL t-shirt, running pants, and slippers at work. You know what the sound of failure is? The "zwip-zwip" of nylon in the IT department. And those pants aren't for exercise, those are for random desk-nap comfort levels. And he's from America. Kennewick, to be exact. Oh... now I get it. We. Are. Slobs.
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Monday, October 11, 2004
The Blog Regarding Saturday, etc.
Saturday at Laughs was a totally different world.
Holy crap, there were easily 95 people in that room. Imagine your gramma's rec room. Pack that with 10 more people than you should have in there. Multiply that by 5. Welcome to Fire Safety Night at Laughs.
There was some great grass-roots advertising done by Chilidog via the ever-growing mailing list, as well as word of mouth and my own e-mail efforts to get folks to come out to the show. It's much more fun with a big audience. How much fun? Well...
Dan Moore started it off. Killed. Geoff Brousseau hit 2nd. Killed. Blaine Reeder goes 3rd. As Blaine put it he was "working (his) ass off" for that crowd. Admittedly, they were a little reserved. I think it was the heat in the room. Or, according to a previous blog of Blaine's about why a comic won't do well... ya know what, skip that. I attest to the fact that there was a table of 3 in the front that was pretty White and crossy-armed. Fahim Anwar, duh, destroyed. Fawk, that guy is so good, and he's going to F it up with a degree in engineering. I know him "when." Duane W. went up before me. And, uh... I don't know. He's got Funnies.
Then I went up and did a little roast of the openers. My personal favorite roast:
"So Blaine Reeder, give it up for him! That guy's really quite funny, but he's got some problems as you may have gathered. I would pray for Blaine but he doesn't like me talking behind his back." I thought it was rathah wittay. Hmmph.
And for the next 49 minutes I knocked out the best set of my life. I had so much fun it was ridiculous. And I think it carried over to the non-laughing table in the front. They were laughing, then commenting on some of my material. Regardless, I had fun because I WANTED to have fun, I told myself to go HAVE FUN before I went on stage. And being in that mood, I believe, came out in my demeanor. Smoke & mirrors? Not only the main decor of the back of Laughs, but also a little trickery to get people to want to laugh? Perhaps. But damn if I didn't have a horse-carcass worth of fun on Saturday night.
Of COURSE I didn't tape it! That would've made SENSE, huh? Frickin' FRACK.
Thank you to Geoff, Killorn, Tony, Doug, Blaine, Fahim, Dan, and Duane W. for their opening efforts. You're all funny as hell. Tony Moser, well, good enough for open mic'ing. Thanks again to Dave Dennison for headlining me. Thanks to Terry for not believing in me and making me want to work harder in the past year to get better. Thanks to Pat Cashman for the air time on Friday morning. Thanks to all of you who came out to support live comedy and have a laugh.
Life can suck. If you don't make fun of it, you will become Life's Bitch. Stab hypocrisy your first day in lock-down. Run your yard.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Holy crap, there were easily 95 people in that room. Imagine your gramma's rec room. Pack that with 10 more people than you should have in there. Multiply that by 5. Welcome to Fire Safety Night at Laughs.
There was some great grass-roots advertising done by Chilidog via the ever-growing mailing list, as well as word of mouth and my own e-mail efforts to get folks to come out to the show. It's much more fun with a big audience. How much fun? Well...
Dan Moore started it off. Killed. Geoff Brousseau hit 2nd. Killed. Blaine Reeder goes 3rd. As Blaine put it he was "working (his) ass off" for that crowd. Admittedly, they were a little reserved. I think it was the heat in the room. Or, according to a previous blog of Blaine's about why a comic won't do well... ya know what, skip that. I attest to the fact that there was a table of 3 in the front that was pretty White and crossy-armed. Fahim Anwar, duh, destroyed. Fawk, that guy is so good, and he's going to F it up with a degree in engineering. I know him "when." Duane W. went up before me. And, uh... I don't know. He's got Funnies.
Then I went up and did a little roast of the openers. My personal favorite roast:
"So Blaine Reeder, give it up for him! That guy's really quite funny, but he's got some problems as you may have gathered. I would pray for Blaine but he doesn't like me talking behind his back." I thought it was rathah wittay. Hmmph.
And for the next 49 minutes I knocked out the best set of my life. I had so much fun it was ridiculous. And I think it carried over to the non-laughing table in the front. They were laughing, then commenting on some of my material. Regardless, I had fun because I WANTED to have fun, I told myself to go HAVE FUN before I went on stage. And being in that mood, I believe, came out in my demeanor. Smoke & mirrors? Not only the main decor of the back of Laughs, but also a little trickery to get people to want to laugh? Perhaps. But damn if I didn't have a horse-carcass worth of fun on Saturday night.
Of COURSE I didn't tape it! That would've made SENSE, huh? Frickin' FRACK.
Thank you to Geoff, Killorn, Tony, Doug, Blaine, Fahim, Dan, and Duane W. for their opening efforts. You're all funny as hell. Tony Moser, well, good enough for open mic'ing. Thanks again to Dave Dennison for headlining me. Thanks to Terry for not believing in me and making me want to work harder in the past year to get better. Thanks to Pat Cashman for the air time on Friday morning. Thanks to all of you who came out to support live comedy and have a laugh.
Life can suck. If you don't make fun of it, you will become Life's Bitch. Stab hypocrisy your first day in lock-down. Run your yard.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
The Blog on Columbus Day
Christopher Reeve died today at the age of 52, 9 years after his paralyzing fall from a horse. Rodney Dangerfield died last week at the age of 82 from a stroke suffered during yet another bypass surgery. Great men. Great lives. And I'm sure a lot of great jokes to follow. I'll let you know what I hear.
If it's true that celebs die in 3s, here's hoping for Ashton, Paris, or Carson Daly. I strive to make the most of my performing abilities, my gifts and blessings, and William Hung is currently tag-teaming the Theta Ate A Beta chapter of North Texas U. Welcome to celebrity.
************
I Just Bought Me Some BLING!
************
Weekend Recap
So. You'd like to know how the weekend went, huh? You weren't able to make it over to Bellevue to see a show, huh? Well you missed a couple of great shows. Here's a little of what you missed...
Friday Night
Laughs was PACKED. Probably 90% capacity, as in they could probably only fit another 10 people in the room if they really tried. 80-90 people in the audience. It was great to see that many people show up for comedy. We need those crowds, we WANT those crowds!
An awesome show, from the first comci to the guy before the headliner. Doug, Blaine, Brousseau, Killorn, and Tony all showed the crowd why it's good to laugh, and hard to make you do so. I felt kind of bad because another local comic, Steve Nielsen, showed up and wanted to do time. I had asked the other comics to show up and perform, and they did, so I didn't want to bump them. 3 of them weren't at Saturday's show, so I was hoping Steve could come back when he could surely get up. Wasn't gonna work out for him on Saturday.
Steve, being a veteran of the Seattle Comedy Scene (been around longer than me), it's likely the he should never get bumped from a list. He's a great comic and writer, one of my favorites. I had no time nor care over whether anybody's feelings were going to get hurt. My hope is that Steve wasn't upset. If not, then even cooler is the Steve. If so, well, sorry Steve, not much I can do at that, or this, point. To spell it out, this is a glimpse of the Politics of Performing. Not everyone's going to be happy. Especially after I get off stage.
Decent set Friday night. I was very tired as I was at work until 1am for a bunch of crap work. Fawk, that's ridiculous. To come to work just so you can make someone else look good? But I fully learned that, if I'm DOING A SHOW, not just guesting or MC'ing, but if I am the headliner, I have NO excuses, I must PERFORM. I learned that early Saturday morning. I went dancing at Misty's in Bellevue on Friday after the show. Misty's attracts an eclectic crowd. Everything from swingers of all ages, to handsy Middle-earth men sweatin' it up in gabardine.
=========
Saturday to follow Friday. Funny how shit works out, huh?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
If it's true that celebs die in 3s, here's hoping for Ashton, Paris, or Carson Daly. I strive to make the most of my performing abilities, my gifts and blessings, and William Hung is currently tag-teaming the Theta Ate A Beta chapter of North Texas U. Welcome to celebrity.
************
I Just Bought Me Some BLING!
************
Weekend Recap
So. You'd like to know how the weekend went, huh? You weren't able to make it over to Bellevue to see a show, huh? Well you missed a couple of great shows. Here's a little of what you missed...
Friday Night
Laughs was PACKED. Probably 90% capacity, as in they could probably only fit another 10 people in the room if they really tried. 80-90 people in the audience. It was great to see that many people show up for comedy. We need those crowds, we WANT those crowds!
An awesome show, from the first comci to the guy before the headliner. Doug, Blaine, Brousseau, Killorn, and Tony all showed the crowd why it's good to laugh, and hard to make you do so. I felt kind of bad because another local comic, Steve Nielsen, showed up and wanted to do time. I had asked the other comics to show up and perform, and they did, so I didn't want to bump them. 3 of them weren't at Saturday's show, so I was hoping Steve could come back when he could surely get up. Wasn't gonna work out for him on Saturday.
Steve, being a veteran of the Seattle Comedy Scene (been around longer than me), it's likely the he should never get bumped from a list. He's a great comic and writer, one of my favorites. I had no time nor care over whether anybody's feelings were going to get hurt. My hope is that Steve wasn't upset. If not, then even cooler is the Steve. If so, well, sorry Steve, not much I can do at that, or this, point. To spell it out, this is a glimpse of the Politics of Performing. Not everyone's going to be happy. Especially after I get off stage.
Decent set Friday night. I was very tired as I was at work until 1am for a bunch of crap work. Fawk, that's ridiculous. To come to work just so you can make someone else look good? But I fully learned that, if I'm DOING A SHOW, not just guesting or MC'ing, but if I am the headliner, I have NO excuses, I must PERFORM. I learned that early Saturday morning. I went dancing at Misty's in Bellevue on Friday after the show. Misty's attracts an eclectic crowd. Everything from swingers of all ages, to handsy Middle-earth men sweatin' it up in gabardine.
=========
Saturday to follow Friday. Funny how shit works out, huh?
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
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