The Hitchin' Post , Part 1: Love Comes To Town

If you have been following the pages here you know that I am now engaged to be married. If you’ve been following the archives you know that you are more surprised than a bartender serving a Kennedy a Diet Coke. I have never been anti-Love, I just have not really grasped how it correlates with Marriage. Until a couple years ago.

Alicia and I met through our mutual friend, vodka. Killorn was also there. Killorn and Alicia have known each other through a number of Presidencies, some of them even ASB-style. I had been unattached for a few months when I met Alicia, and Alicia had also been single. It would not have mattered, really, the timing. I would have likely charmed, bribed, led, and/or groped her away from anybody she had been dating. Something clicked. I had to be with her. To allow Killorn her chance to record some of this story as well, I will refrain from too many details of the early days. Look for that entry some time near our 4^th Wedding Anniversary. Encapsulated, Killorn introduced me to Alicia. I could not be cool. I was in Her presence.

A lot of people, since the announcement of the engagement, have asked me “To a woman?” They’ve also asked me how it all went down, because I hang out with guys who run these streets, see? And because I look around this world and see so much that can be cast in a negative light, I want to bring, instead, levity to my space of the InterWeb. The mere appearance of the words “my” and “space” probably just cost me a copyright royalty.

In MySpace… No on can hear you perv.

So here is how this all culminated. Alicia and I have been dating since late September of 2004. We went to Mexico together, if you wanna flash back to those blogs. Last year we went through the moves, her to Fremont, me to Juanita. Late in 2005 I asked her to move in with me. We tend to get along pretty well when we are awake, and I figured since she would be closer to work, I should try and collect a little help for the mortgage. And I love her. So she moved in, officially, around Decemberish. I knew that would buy me a little time.

Then things started getting really serious…
WE BOUGHT FURNITURE.

Pick your chin up, I’m serious. I wasn't kidding around. She found the style of couch she wanted, and Lord knows I needed a new one… literally, it was an old Youth Group rec-room couch. I am sure it was infused with the Lord's blessings, not to mention the echos of fumbling zippers. Anytoots, we got us a great, off-white couch and chair/ottoman set. I AM NOT AFRAID OF COMMITMENT, as long as it comes with a Warranty.

Prior to this, I had made a very key decision: To be Happy. It’s a very simple decision. Instead of waiting until I had X, Y, or Z (they are Icelandic triplets who live across the way when they aren’t modeling the latest in seamless unmentionables), I decided that I Am Happy. Instead of seeing Happiness as Contentment, and therefore, as Resignation To Mediocrity, I saw Happiness as Consistency. It is how I am, and it is to anybody’s credit if they are Happy and go toward their Best Self. Happy is the oil in your crankcase. Desire is the gas. The seats are genuine pleather.

Here I am, happy and focused, and moving forward. Alicia had been really encouraging of my comedy and writing, and not just in a way that is shouted lazily from the other room when I am off to a gig. I shared my goals with her, and we sat and devised a plan for it. I don’t understand why it involves watching her get a hot oil massage by the Florida State linebackers, but a goal is a goal. God Bless.

I wanted to marry Alicia because I love her, and because relationships take the kind of work we cooperate on. The energy I can put into my relationship with Alicia doubles when I am not dodging phone calls from wom..
When I’m focused on just US, that will go a long way. We have not compromised our independence; I still do whatever I want to when she’s not looking. She still gets her breakfast made by a smoking-hot stud in workout pants. (thank you Tyler. Next time, less tumeric in my eggs)

I wanted to do things right, so I knew I was going to have to ask Alicia’s parents for their permission, not to mention the dowry, to marry their daughter. And that’s when things started getting so good, somebody humped a camel.


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Kenneth Lay SHould Not Go To Prison

Kenneth Lay, former Enron Top-Turd and current "Legion Of Complete AssTools" Chapter President, was found guilty of wire fraud, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, and homeliness this morning. He will be sentenced at a later date.

I say "No" to the sentencing. Shouldn't have to do jail time. Nope. None.

Enron already stripped pensions of its employees. And a few million, if not hundred million, if not billions, from the Government in something that I cannot find on the internet. (ed.note, there are no returns when searching for the phrase "How much did Enron totally ream the average taxpayer's face, if not their ass, via Government bailouts?" Smells fishy.)

Now Lay is maybe going to a Federal prison, where he will get a place to sleep, a job of some sort, clean clothes, limited opportunities to meet in a conjugal manner (shudder), food, and health care. Odds are he'll write a book about his experiences as the local Chapter President of the"Greed Is My Viagra Brotherhood." Proceeds will pay for his crimes.

OR... and this is just a wild suggestion...

Ken has to get two day jobs working in the food service industry. He can't quit either of them. He uses that money to get a place to live. He has to get a roommate. He cannot drive a car, vote, or get health coverage. He starts from scratch.

OR...

He has to do the jobs the Mexican immigrants are doing in our country. Prison is supposed to be a perspective and a punishment. He should have to face the public every single day for the rest of his life. Among the everyman, the hoi polloi, those he took from with his greed.

Then again, I could be cold here as I declare some people's every day lives as a punishment.

Okay, they get to rape him. Happy now?

BANG, case closed.

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May 24th, 8:17a.m., Juanita Village

Hey... Hey lady, seriously... what are you...
Yeah, you, riding solo in the Lexus 450 MonstroLuxe. The one you're lollygagging down the middle of the parking rows while staring at the chic phone you don't know how to work.

>HONK<

Oh Hi! Now you see me. Can you move to your right a little? The Right. It's the side with the hand that you drink from all night. It's opposite the side that four men have mistakenly put rings on.

You look exasperated at my motioning to you, but I'm not really sure why you're driving down the middle of the aisle here. I understand this is a busy parking area near the Starbucks, it's packed this morning, but I'm on my way out... What are you pointing at?

>HONK<

Move your car. Now. Move it. I swear I will get out of this car and knock your window and ruin the majestic feathery wings flying from your head, you idiot. Move. Now.
What are you pointing at?

Lady, that parking spot is one of 3 that you passed, and you gotta get beyond me, first. Which, if you MOVE THE CORN TO YOUR RIGHT YOU WILL BE ABLE TO DO. If you want a staring contest, you got one. I'm not moving. I'm on my way somewhere, and you're where you need to be. You won't get in until I get out. Same thing with elevators.

You look really exasperated. This is NOTHING. Seriously, I'm trying to get to work, you're working on another divorce. The world will continue turning, and I'm sure we both are cursing each other's existence. I cannot move over any further unless I learn to manipulate solid matter with my mind, but that Whole Foods class is not until NEXT week. This one's up to you.

The guy behind you is honking now.
Now HE is motioning for you to move to your right. The spot you want is now open.
The lady behind me is honking, too. This is awesome.

Oh great, here comes a cop out of Starbucks.
Yes, PLEASE roll down your window and... you're doing it!
Are you going to talk to him?
You ARE talking to him!
He's looking at me... now back to you. Now back at me... he's nodding...

AND NOW THE COP IS TELLING YOU TO MOVE TO THE RIGHT TO PASS MY CAR.

Why isn't he reaching for the pepper spray? What the hell do I pay these guys for? GO FOR THE SPRAY, THROW DOWN WITH THE SPRAY! DROP THE HOT SAUCE ON THIS WALKING REASON FOR A PRE-NUP!

There ya go, now you're doing it. The officer is waving me through, shaking his head. I shrug, he shrugs.
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This was my first outside human interaction today.

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Blessings On The Well-Heeled Hoof

Some day, when you are engaged to be married, perhaps for the 4th time, you should be praying that you have a friend like Killorn O'Neill.

Let's all get it on the dancefloor that Killorn can sometimes bring the kind of grace to a party that can only be described as "Full Contact," both in word and into-the-curio-cabinet-cross-check. Well that was on hold last night, as the dearest Kilo-G put on an engagement party for my fiancee Alicia and me. It was as moving as it was loving as it was bubbly. In attendance were some of my closest friends and their significant others.

Mike & Lucia. Tara & Cody (Cody can cook, wow, seriously, y'all missed out). Desi & Perryn. Kim. Ali. Geoff & Tasha.

Some of the smartest, funniest, most creative, most life-loving people I've ever met. And they are my friends.

And as glasses were raised to toast the next step of the relationship Alicia and I are always building, I sat in awe of the amount of care that had gone into the table setting, the lighting, the champagne purchase. (side note, we gotta lay off the champers for a while.) Our food was perfect. The conversations were lively. The wine flowed. We poured the "beer of champagnes," and eventually got to the High Life. I thank my lucky stars for them folks.

When pressed for a date, I can drum up when I met these people. But honestly, it feels like I've known them all along. I had the spaces in my life for them and they appeared. I am very blessed.

As Alicia has been welcomed into my family, and I into hers, I have begun to see how great marriage can be. It's a cornerstone, not an anchor. It is a pillar, not an obstruction. And I know it will take a lot of work at times, like when you spend your entire gorgeous Saturday making two trips to the rockery because somebody mis-measured for the walkway.

I am surrounded by some of the best people put on this earth, and I have the dulcet brain warmth of a champagne hangover to prove it.


ADDENDUM!
Monday night's "Girl's Night, Heeeeey!" party at the HQ here had the following items to share:
Almond Flavored Sparkling Wine
M&Ms
Salad Deluxe
Roasted Veggies
Skirt Steak, post 36-hour marinade
and the phrase...
"You mean the doctors like, go UP IN YOUR HOLE?!?!"
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To Come This Week!
The Engagement Story, a.k.a. Lord Of The Rings, With Cheese!
Comic's Trip: My Travelog
Recipes For Disaster: Something to Try Out At Work
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Fuelling My Anger

The reports are that oil prices could soon top $100 per barrell. That is 1,000% growth in about ten years. The oil, mind you, has not changed in quality. It's all about supply and demand. And I am outraged at the sins of our fathers!

...for not investing more in oil, what were they thinking?

Hindsight is always 10w-40.
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Headlong Into The Fan

Comedy Blog!

Last night I performed a gig out in a somewhat rural town in East King County. The joint wanted to host a comedy show. Apparently they did NOT want to advertise it. Zero pub, zero media on it. It was a microcosm of bar comedy, but the crowd... well, the 8 people in the room who weren't comedians... they were very nice.

On the way to the gig there were a few wrong turns and nearly-missed streets. We got there about 15min before show time. Did the show, it was what it was, like trying to do comedy in the lunchroom at a plant that makes boxes to hold other boxes. One lady stood at the bar the whole time. Eye-level comedy can be discomforting. I also felt as though I were auditioning for somebody booking a comic for their brother's probation party.

On the way home I nailed every turn, every road, and every green momo-fofo light. And I learned a lesson. I'd like to share it with you now.

When MapQuest is your guide, you may go a bit slower to make sure you find your way to your destination.
When The Knowledge That Your Destination Is A ShitPile is your guide, and said Pile is in your rearview, you can drive perfectly away with your eyes closed before the last cocktail glass hits the pavement, post-window toss.

Sloshing back and forth in the shit-bucket, sorry World, I'm all full up.
Save your lessons and nestle up to my man-flower. Not that you owe me, but for crying out loud, could you not cause ONE F*CKING TRUCK ROLL-OVER in that town after a guy's been out pounding beer in a Kroger parking lot? And not a high schooler this time. One of those burned out guys who tucks his t-shirt into his pleated cargo shorts, tube socks slunched around his ankles, just like his outlook on life after his SECOND mail-order bride left him. Because if that could happen right in the parking lot of that gig next time around, I would really, really think everything is in order and stop winging backhanded compliments at co-workers.
"Shane is a multi-tasker. He can both confuse and bore you in the same sentence."

Thanks for indulging me there. You know how you feel after a 20-min nap? Take an Old Testament-styled shit after that nap, and THAT is how I be feeling.

Thank you, I'll be here all night.
In your liquor cabinet.
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Oh, one more thing, hun.
I'll be posting more "Jokes That Barely Work," as well as a Cruise Journal, and the story of my engagement, from Ring Shopping to Proposal. Gonna be good times.

Thanks for reading. Love ya.
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Joke That Never Worked # 1: Gay Friends

The following material never does well on stage.

Is Gay The New Black?

For a while, people would say things like "I have a friend who's black," or "I work with a lot of
black people," like we were supposed to spread the word to the streets, or it would up their coolness.
Hey guys, guys? I heard that Matt over in Finance knows a black guy. Holler.
Right? Holler?

It's the Political Correctness movement, that's what did it to us. I have friends, some of whom were born with darker pigment. But they're all good guys, even the Mexicans.
It's not MexiCAN'T… it's MexiWON'T, that's what I've learned. MUY MACHO!

We have to include EVERYONE in EVERYTHING, or else we appear to be insensitive. And some of us aren't insensitive, we just usually spend our inner-city time buying drugs, not hugs.
But now, it's all changing. Everyone had the black friend, and now, everyone's getting a gay friend. They want the fashion tips, the grooming, the off-beat androgyny that stirs up emotions inside, so much that you just lay in bed stairing at the ceiling, confused, throbbing, listening to ABBA, wearing hotpants that were a gift from… well, none of your business MISTER MAN!

The women's gay male companion has been around for centuries, thank you Liza Minelli's husbands. But now straight guys, or "Heteros" as I call me, are getting street cred with the old fashionable "I have a black friend," but replace "black" with "gay," and "Friend" with "We were at the river in a canoe, and there was some gin, and well, nevermind! Until after this Cosmo." I don't drink Cosmos, but I have had a cosmo to drink. It did little more than kidney-punch me, when it wasn't busy making me look "open for business."

And I understand the grooming and the fashionable dress and the presenting one's self to society in a way that is classy and proper. But guys are shaving their arms now, and the eyebrow waxing... It's not manly. They look like the third henchman in that one Bruce Willis movie. And the arm shave, come on. No straight man should shave his arms, unless he was in a bad fondue accident, and if you're a guy who does the fondue, you're probably gay, so shave away. Wow, I came full circle on that one, which for $50 I will do at your party on Saturday.

People aren't novelties to be collected. Unless we're talking about Angelina Jolie's so called "adoptions." Why is Paris Hilton carrying around an ape born to a lab-chimp that was injected with crack... oh, that's Nicole Ritchie, sorry. She's not gay, I don't think.

People love to say they have a gay friend, though. It's all the rave. In fact, Gay is The New Black. As in Fashion, so in Friends. Ya work with 'em, ya love 'em.
(if you're offended by any of this material, please understand that there's a reason I don't do this on stage. It's not funny, as much as it is an observation of how people be talkin' and conductin' themselves. Don't call Jesse Jackson or Rosie O'Donnell, not yet.)
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The Beginning Of The Empire

The past weekend was a culmination of not only a few weeks of planning, but a few years of my life.
My girlfriend Alicia and I headed to Northern California's Wine Country, heretofore referred-to as "Napa" because it's shorter. The trip was Alicia's birthday gift from an adoring boyfriend, and I'm really happy he sprung for it. Napa is known for it's wineries, Mona Lisa-beautiful scenery, and white people. Any time we were not admiring scenery, it was for a very good reason: The winery did not have outdoor tastings.

While the wine, scenery, and grapey buzz of the weekend were all very nice, this blog isn't a travelblog (to follow). It's for a much more important reason. See, I did something to Alicia that I have never done to a woman before.

And I wouldn't suggest any man do what I did if that man is still "just kind of dating around," or is "not over that rogue 3rd-grade boner," or sees Casual Friday as "the other day of the week to wear sweatpants to work."

I asked Alicia to Marry Me.
AND SHE SAID YES!!!

I am engaged!
She is My Fianceé!

I am excited, happy, blessed, and fearless.
She is beautiful, wonderful, perfect for me, and amazing.

For now, this is all I can share.
Stay tuned for "How It Happened!"
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Imitation Immigrants

A friend of mine...
Well, "friend" to the extent that he doesn't drive me to start my five-day waiting period...

We were talking about the immigration hub-bub that's been clogging our streets and leaving our Mexican restaurants slower than usual as of late. We talked about the jobs they immigrants worked, where they lived, the money they made, and the Pros y Cons of the whole situation.

He said "well, we're all immigrants, except for the Native Americans."
To which I replied, "No, we're not all... okay, we're gonna have to move because I had some dairy product last night, sorry about that, wow, go go go..."

Then I re-started with, "No, we're not all immigrants. I'm not. I was born in America. I'm a Native American. I have single citizenship. I speak one language. I try to remember to vote but I just can't bear the thought that they don't have some bribes to get me to go in there. The Northern Europeans were here prior to Columbus, like 500 years earlier, and turned around because they thought the place blew. There were people here already, sure, but all of those first, say... 20 generations, assuming 25 years per generation... they're all dead. It's all new people now. Native American, Chinese, Japanese, African-American, Hispanic, Latin, Caucasian, Other, those are just check-boxes for you to fill-in so marketers know what kind of porn you dig, or what kind of person signs their name with a Winky Face ;^]
So NO, I don't buy that we're all immigrants. I didn't come from anywhere. And with the grace of God, I'm not going anywhere."

To which he replied, "Huh? I was MySpacing a sec there. Something something, Chinese porn?"

This is, of course, just how I see things. The Truth on this matter is subjectivo. Immigrants are working a lot of jobs that most Americans, i.e. White People, would say "don't pay me no f*ckin' money, not enough to finish this barbed wire arm-band tattoo, so I ain't gon' work it!" Then a racial epithet and PITOO with the tobacco spit.

You wanna work? Work. You don't? Fine. They're not all gems. Somedays all I want to do is mow lawns, rake bark, and actually see something get done. Fewer meetings, fewer mission statements, fewer re-orgs. But, after all, I have a degree in History. I'm underqualified for landscaping.


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Searing Gas Pain.

8 miles. 40 minutes.

That's the distance from my home to my work, and the time it took me to cover that in a car this morning. I left the house at 8:13. I swung into a parking spot at 8:53.

My clock clicked off 20 minutes in just the first 2.4 miles. I could have jogged it faster. I went through I was only at one stop-light prior the majority of the wait. I traveled 1.3 miles, then hit the slog. .5miles later I was at the back of a 1.1mile-long line to a stoplight near the on-ramp of Southbound I-405. 90% of the traffic at that light gets onto I-405. The rest of us who travel through, and don't work in Bellevue or, (gross) Factoria get to sit and wait, when we're not sitting.

Every now and then a few lead-footed commuters would fly by in the left-hand turn lane, using it for travel. This is dangerous because some folks use it for travel to the left-turn light, some are on-coming to turn left across the exodus line and into a business, and some use it to get past the exodus so they can drop their kids off a daycare.

So here's the dilemma. There's no carpool lane, so making friends isn't going to help at this point. The trip to the main release point of the exodus is as long as the rest of the trip, yet only 25% of the total travel distance. All roads out of the Juanita Beach area are clogged like this on a daily basis from 7:30 to 9:30... yeah, I'm sometimes late to work, even when I'm not hungover.

With gas prices what they are, my question is this:

Who is responsible for the career of Nickelback, and why aren't they being attacked with a sleeping bag-full of terribly upset pit vipers as we speak?

America is all about Having Options, and Waiting in Lines for Them. Then again, in other countries, I could have been stacked in with 90 other people on a flat-bed rail car hoping to get work 80miles away. Carpool lanes, only in America.

Please, Dolphin Army, attack! ATTACK NOW WHILE WE SLUMBER AT WORK! Because I needs me a day off.


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Jokes That Are Stage-Death: Pro-Logue

In my comedy act I have worked out quite a few bits that never seem to do as well as I believe they should. I speak not of the jokes that are guaranteed groaners, by which I mean "gross out material/potty humor,"and anything derivative of those genres. I'm talking about bits that, when I wrote them I knew they they had shed their cocoons and were ready to start beating their wings. Maybe they needed a little more time as a pupa.

I once took such a huge pupa I changed colors!
That was easier than your mom on a three-day weekend.

Psssh, it's CAKE, my friends... CAKE.

I can't say I believe whole-heartedly in everything I bring to the stage. But I work from the 80-20 rule when it comes to matieral. 80% of the audience will get it, while the other 20% will be broken up into 10% who REALLY get the joke, and 10% are only laughing because I stopped talking. That majority percentile, the 80%, which on an average night in Seattle is about 8 people... which is for another blog on why comedy isn't as hip as music in this city... that big group has to "go with me" from the get-go on a bit. And if you don't have attention early, you may as well be trying to get your money back from the hooker who could only muster a golden shower when you paid for a Rusty Trombone AND the... FOCUS, Lott...

Forthcoming will be a number of blogs that are the bits I wrote, best I can remember them. They will include, but not be limited to:
Gay Friends
Rubber Band Bracelets
Drugs Should Be Illegal
Sometimes, Death Means God Cares
Self-Deprecation

And Many More!
They appear, at first glance, hacky. But hey, these bits have developed over years of re-writing and untreated psychological abuse. You can expect the best.

More to cheese, please... Take care.

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Humor Strike Show TONIGHT!

About a month ago I got the idea to throw together a fundraiser in the guise of a Comedy Show to benefit BoomTown Cafe. After some hand-wringing and street-peeing (totally involuntary, officers), the show is upon us! It is called Humor Strike! I think that's because Killorn, the designer of the ads for it, likes the word STRIKE! She's very much a puncher.

BoomTown Cafe provides low-income citizens and families a place to eat that is like a diner, not a soup kitchen. In exchange for a hot meal in a clean and dignified setting, the diner themself must pay a small fee, or work 15-30min for their meal. Working for your keep can add a lot to a person's self-worth.

BoomTown is trying to re-open its doors, after losing most of their government funding in the past year the way that most non-profits have. Tax breaks, budget cuts, war chest, whatever it is, the need to help people never gets a break. We create our own. A lot of small waves create a large ocean. The same holds true for when I eat popcorn and then sleep in a tent with other people. Sorry guys.

Please check out their website at the address below. If you can, please give, and spread the word?

www.BoomTownCafe.org

Was it me, or was Azteca like EXTRA slow on Monday?

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Mario Williams ... Huh...

If you needed 4 different tools, and could get one tool that would do all the jobs, you'd buy that tool, right?

Now let's say you had one job, and one tool could probably do that job really well. But the job is going to be tougher than any other jobs it's been asked to accomplish. Tool 1 and Tool 2 do NOT perform the same functions, mind you. You can have one or the other.

I would go for Tool 1. In this case, it's Reggie Bush, Heisman Trophy Winner, stellar college running back out of the University of Southern California. He can run, catch, return, and fly with the best of them. He's a 4 Tool Machine. At 6-feet, and 200lbs of wrought-iron wrapped around mercury heated to a sizzling 1,000 degrees. 1,000 Degrees of Awesome, that is. Check out someof his highlights on-line. You'll see. He's been compared to Gale Sayers. If you're not sure who that is, go Here, Now.

Tool 2 on the board is Mario Williams, a Defensive End out of South Carolina. Monster-sized. 6'7", 290. And yoked. The guy's huge. And fast. Huge and Fast. And Muscular. Even if he went to college to be an All-America French Horn polisher, he'd still be Scary. The guy's got freakish talent, speed, strength, and attitude. This guy worked as a Subway Sandwich artist throughout college. Tell me that's not cool.

Now, the Houston Texans have already decided that they're going to suck for a long time. They chose Mario Williams with the first pick of the NFL Draft, which, as I write this, is about 5 Grey Goose away. This is the day that hundreds of college football players dream of: Being drafted, making millions, and seeing their lifelong dream of making their ex-girlfriends jealous come to fruition.

When you're the worst team in the NFL, record-wise, and by "record" I mean "Ability to do anything other than find the field," you get the first pick in the NFL draft. Everyone knew it was the Texans choice to pick Reggie Bush. Then they wanted to "keep it interesting" by talking up Mario Williams this past week. Well, when you need to fix a lot of things, you need a lot of tools.

Long story short, take a multi-talented, 1-in-100,000 team player whenever you can. And never, ever objectify people.

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Fossil Fuels

More later, of course, but let me say this.

The more I see the way the world is going, the more I wish I would have invested in oil a long time ago. Not only does it continuously rake in huge profits off of the everyday workin' person in America, but it makes the every-day person SO ANGRY! GRRRR!!!

The other day I saw a woman washing her car at a gas station with the squeege near the pump. This was after her tirade about how high gas prices had gone (up 4-cents a gallon just on Thursday), and how we should "blow up the whole 3rd World!"

Either she didn't get it that 3rd World countries really have f*ck-all to do with gas prices, or she wasn't fully aware of the implications on further generations by this era's fat, rich, old white guys, much like those who had divorced her numerous times, slowly finding a way to make gas unloveable... all while trying to drive the price of biodiesel through the roof.

OR she did understand the implications and was just a giant bigot when she wasn't busy being a ghoulish gasbag. For the sake of Monoxide, SHE WAS WASHING HER CAR WITH A SQUEEGE.
The topper was hearing her say "Well I am NOT using their car wash!"
Right on. Way to stick it to the man, and make the water dirtier for anybody else who wanted to wash their windows after waiting for you to finish detailing your Ford Five-Hundred for 8minutes... while their engine idled behind you in line.

Nothing would have made me happier than to have been able to say, with all honesty and truth, "Thanks for shopping."

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Smoke Out

As a recovering smoker (ten years), I'd have to say that Seattle's smoking ban has helped me immensely. I wanted to quit for quite some time. I rarely smoked at home, and went through MAYBE 2 packs a week, including sharing among friends. Smoking and Me went together like Booze and Me. Or so I thought. Not smoking is one of the best decisions I was ever forced into by the Dark Lizard Gentry of... okay... sorry guys...

I've said too much.

I still drink. But not as much. Maybe I'm mellowing out a bit. I'm 32 with a mortgage, which makes me better than your average renter. I have more to lose, financially, so I don’t spend all night sitting in a bar talking it up with people. It helps that so many people are catastrophically, not to mention anatomically, BORING, which births me back into the evening and right on home to catch my TiVo. I don't have TiVo. No smoking. Not as much (frequent) drinking. But plenty of opinion on the smoking ban.

A lot of people use that "I only smoke when I drink" line to throw you off the scent that they are smokers. If you smoke on a regular basis, even if it's just the weekends, you're a smoker. Also, I'd like to suggest you look into your binge-drinking. Anything, not "Everything," in moderation, you lushy whore drunken lip-locking lush. You don't have to do Heroin "In moderation" to know why it's called "Heaven's Handjob." Pick your poison and take it easy on your bod. Before you know it the holidays will be here and you'll need a little extra stash around. This is what they mean when they say "the addiction starts in the family."

When I smoked I didn't want to be judged by my habit, but I'm sure I was, and that is WRONG to do. People are so uneducated on how to properly judge others. Judging others on their behavior is a terrible thing to do. When I judge, I judge on the by-products of a person's behavior! You can run around and call me dirty names, go for it! But if the by-product of your behavior is that you do it audibly, and the words offend me, I'm going to mount your face with my just-finished-5 Rounds-of-KaBong Fuy Knee Strikes-ManAss. If your kid wants to walk around all night and try to break into my yard, hey, Kids Will Kids! But I am NOT paying to have your carpets cleaned when they come home with 1.5 feet, and I have .5 foot in one of my spring-traps. For every action there is an Equal but Opposite and Annoying Whiner taking it Personally.

Do as you will. There are consequences. Your consequences should really only affect you, but they don’t always do that, huh? That's where Road Rage comes from. That's where Rage comes from, now that you mention it while rubbing my exposed thigh. Smokers want to smoke. It's what smokers do. It's not illegal. They take the brunt of the physical damage. HOWEVER, when I smoked I knew I wasn't warming a ReNuzit; I was throwing some stink to the wind and that byproduct may offend people. If people get offended by smoking, for any reason, then they have as much right to react to it as the smoker has to put on their big-boy underwear and ACCEPT THE REACTION. Nobody is forcing you to smoke... except your need for nicotine fueled by a lifetime of commercial imagery being force-fed into your frontal cortex, your rebellious nature, and not knowing what else to do with $6. And Frank. When he says smoke, you f*ckin' burn one, pronto.

What I'm saying is that Opinions are Like Assholes: Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for marriage. BOOOOOOO!


=========================
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What Took Him So Long?

Hey everybody who's hoping to have President Bush impeached, take heed. Read and heed. Heed it up like you've never heeded anything, let alone "up"wardly. It's a whole PANTSLOAD of "heeding" up in this kiddie pool.

Neil Young - Canadian, I believe - has recorded a song that calls for the impeachment of President George W. Bush. Well that oughtta do it. The final lean-and-squeeze to extricate the metaphorical whitehead from the carbuncle of the American Presidential system.

I'm pretty sure that every President has been targeted for impeachment.
I'm pretty sure America has been at war since before "I Traveled 183 Days With Scurvy And All I Got Was This Lousy Undergarment!" nightshirts made it back to Europe over 300 years back. Officially, America is but 320 years old. But the destruction of the White man is forever! We have THAT to hold on to, eh?
So if every President's an asshole, and every year we get into a new war (including the ones that don't get the press coverage), why is this any different?

In my honest opinion, we feel more strongly about this stuff because The Public has demanded that the governing bodies be more up-front about the goings-on of the Nation. And they are telling us what's going on, in as truthful a manner as they can. And to quote Jack Nicholson in the movie "A Few Good Men;" I don't know what kind of Panama hump-hump bar you learned to speak English in, but sell crazy somewhere else. We're all full-up here.

Paraphrasing, obviously. But remember, Opinions Are Like Assholes. Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for Marriage.

=========
Bad side, good side:
America is kind of in the shitter: At least people are talking about politics
Talking about politics is as much fun as talking about rectal surgery: Rectal Surgery can save your life
Your rectum is broken/diseased/home to many a festering virus: But now, the diagnosis will help you live longer
You have to live longer... on Earth: Earth is quickly gaining popularity as "Most Liveable Planet For Humans"
Sometimes people "spin" a story to look better than it really is: You can use your deductive reasoning to figure it out for yourself
There are as many half-truths as there are cable channels: You don't have to pay attention to the negative propaganda
You will end up a crack-pot street-corner screaming wild-eyed wonk: You don't have to worry about a mortgage or bills
You lack the initiative to handle the life of a responsible adult: You are "chasing your dreams"
Your dreams died and you're dragging their corpses around: No dream dies if you believe in it
You're walking around with your eyes closed to reality: All you're missing is Life
You're missing Life: ... yeah, but in America, where it's kind of in the shitter.

Impeach all comics still doing Neil Young impressions!
===
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Don't give your child the middle name...

of "Ray."

It means they're going to end up dying in prison.

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It Is A Good Friday

Since it's Good Friday, this is a good time to share what I know about it. It's not much, but if you want more theology and Holy Day smarts, you've come to the wrong place. I'll happily prepare a report of it for you, however. My going rate is $500/hour, with a set-up fee of $500. Get on board NOW.

Good Friday is the Christian holy day that marks the day of the Crucifixion of Jesus at Calvary. Some people say "Cavalry," but that's a military horse brigade, and the coordination of a horse army crucifixion is a little too much to wrap my head around. If you've seen, or even heard of, "The Passion Of The Christ," which I haven't, you'll understand why people believe so strongly in this day. It ended a week of spiritual, physical, and mental preparation by Jesus. He was betrayed by a long-haired conspirator for 30 pieces of silver, a man who led the authorities to Jesus' quarters. That man… Ted Nugent.

NO! It was actually another hard-core metal act, Judas. It was this day on which Christ was crucified and buried in the tomb. Three days later (Easter Sunday) he had risen from death, having atoned for the Sins of Man and ascended to Heaven. Accepting Jesus as your soul's Savior, believing he was sent by God, and treating others with dignity and respect is your jumping-off point to a happier life.

I'll admit, it takes a lot of faith and looking at it from the proper angle to accept the story. Believe what you want. That's your call. But here's what I believe:

Treating others as you want to be treated is the pivot point for your entire life. You don't need religion of any kind to be a kind person. To give, to sacrifice of yourself from time to time costs nearly nothing. Do good. To believe that one man was sent here by God to teach us to care for each other, to care for our communities, to drive out the corrupt and pointless is to believe that EACH OF US were sent here for the same reason. We can care about each other, treat each other well, and believe that we're here for a purpose. No, it's not a "rough and tumble" way to live. Lots of people live "rough and tumble," never takin' shit off nobody. They look so happy.

Now let's say you get to the end of life, you never followed nobody's rules, man. You weren't gonna let no Jesus talk get in the way of you living life the way you wanted to live. You did what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted. If somebody didn't like it, well they could KISS YOUR ASS. Yeah, man. That's how you lived. And then you're dead. Yes, even you. But you did it your way, yeah. You stepped up and kicked ass and stomped on those smaller than yourself and never did nothing to better yourself, because hey, the world wasn't gonna give YOU a break, so why do the world a favor? Oh, you had chances, but you skipped them. Do for YOU, take care of YOU first. Yeah. The world can kiss your ass for ever. [holding aloft two middle fingers] And then ya die.

As people stand over a body in the casket, assuming you didn't die in custody, and a few of them will say "HOLY SHIT, I thought this was the buffet. How'd this get in here? Who is this guy? Go through his pockets."

Some of them will say "Well at least he's not talking anymore."

And many will say "Well, that's it. Man, what a life he led. He set his own rules. He didn’t go around rummaging through the pockets of his spirit to give back to nobody. He played it low-key and cool. He didn't give what he had, because he worked hard for that shit. He taught me a lot about how to act, and he probably didn't even know it...
Man, what a dick. Died owing me $200 for that coffee table he Jimi Hendrix'ed at my mom's birthday party last year. Go through his pockets. I'm gonna grab a beer and move on his sister, [middle finger in the face of the deceased], so laters."

Maybe it seems like I'm passing judgment. I'm not, mostly because this is, what science refers to as, "A fictional scenario." But if it struck a chord with you that made you angry, is that a bad thing? I know that I have plenty to work on in my life and how I treat people on a daily basis. I can't make anybody do anything, all I can say is this:

Don't die a dick.

God Bless You, and Have a Blessed Easter.


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NOTICE!

Last night my girlfriend's car was vandalized in the parking lot of our condo complex.

Somebody is going to get their asses handed to them.


That is all.
===========================
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Further Proof That America, And Not Its Government, Rules

Just finished watching another episode of Extreme Home Makeovers. If you're unfamiliar with it, the show is on ABC on Sunday nights.

What they do is accept submissions from families in need, from all over the country. The family usually is not just a "little sister's pregnant, mom's in the clink, dad's wearing mom's underpants" kind of "in need." We're talking people with serious illnesses or disabilities who don't have what they need to have their lives be made as normal as possible. Check it out Here.

I have watched probably 20 episodes over the past year, which makes at least 27 times that I've nearly cried. Once when the Seahawks won the NFC Championship, then three drunken and profanity-fueled times during the Super Bowl. Again when I was wishing I could have fully shared the Super Bowl with my dad. Then another time that involved some hard gas and a very stubborn bowl of oatmeal. I gave it 36 hours, then went in after it. ANYway...

I don't usually shill for things I get no recoupment from, but there is some poignancy to the subject matter of this posting. I've blathered long enough, so here you go.

FEMA needs to stop their operation and hand everything over to Ty Pennington. Funnel the money, the work, the hours, the goods and services all to ABC, let Ty take it on from there. It's as obvious as the now-unused trailers sitting in Louisiana and Mississippi that FEMA is incapable of doing simple things like watching the Weather Channel or Administrating the Management of Emergencies, Federally. The EH group gets a job, plans it, rolls in, and gets an entirely new house built and furnished. Them last two are done in ONE WEEK.

No magical debit cash cards that go to, surprise, people who LIE TO GET FREE MONEY! (gasp, I'm astounded, really? People lie? Who could've seen that coming? Oh right, it's FEMA.)
No trailers waiting around filling with hot and stink instead of people.
Putting volunteers and community-minded people to work for the good of their neighbors.
Making me cry.

Now think what they could do with TAXPAYER'S MONEY, and I don't mean the funds we've given to the coffers since Hurricane Katrina, 9-11, and everyone who accidentally watched more than 30 seconds of "Joey." Tragic.

FEMA:
F*cking Everyone Massively Affected
Forgetting Everything Marginally Affective
Forgetting Even Marginal Assignments
Funding Every Marginal Annoyance
Funneling Every Monetary Allotment
Funding Eternal Munificent Abscondence

I could go on for quite a while, but I won't, you're welcome. Besides, I had to go to the thesaurus for that last one, and a little pee was made.

We take care of each other better than Big Government does. Let's continue doing that. In the meantime...

Send Ty and the gang to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. ASAFP.


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From time to time...

I step back and look at my life and say...

I am very blessed.

For whatever reasons (family, friends, creativity, God), for however long, I am happy and blessed.

That's all. Thank you for stopping by. I am humbled and inspired that anybody reads this, and a hundred times-more that you would come back. I hope you enjoy reading even half as much as I enjoy writing.

Thank you.

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Yo, Dawg. Fo sho, you gotsta stay relevant!

Earlier today Marshall "Skittle" Mathers filed for divorce from his baby mama, Kim "Brown LipLiner" Whocares. They re-married three months ago.

Is it a calculated move by Reese's Piece to stay in the public eye, so that he doesn't get forgotten about while emerging rapping people like "The Contest!" and/or "T.O." step to the forefrizzle? Or is this really what it appears to be, a giant "and this effects anybody how?"

Because I sure as shit can't figure it out, with JellyBean being into black dudes.
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Five Months More

Tis now and for ten fortnights into current time
a season of bloom and forthward growing
as movement crawls and beards on chins sprout
and all the traffic processions are slowing
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

Take me to the ball game
So I may sit nearest nature's freak.
Asexual behemoth, bejerseyed and hot-dog killing
besmudged scorecard, cholesterol at a peak
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

Eighty-one to see, contested home
Contested away, eighty-one more
Pillar of the community. endorsing as a family man
To swing, to catch, then throw out of the hotel, a whore.
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

A time of year, bittersweet in weather fair
Fans in legion flood and swell the roads and bars
In cars, in jackets, in their sweatpants of class
Clogging traffic, take not transit but largest cars
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.

And now, the sun warms the green and clay
Line-up cards, pine tar, and tobacco spit
Out come the names and skills of training
For what it's worth, I give not a shit.
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.




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For The Record

Tonight I record my first Comedy CD.

Half of my brain is trying to get together this slick, tight set that has a perfect flow and no slow spots. Inside that half is more of my brain that wants to do nothing that may offend people.

The OTHER half of my circuits are telling me to just let it happen. I know where to start, and how to start the show tonight, and then let it kind of happen from there. That's when I do my best, anyway. And I'm not paying a professional crew to come tape me, so I may as well let it rip. I honestly doubt anybody will be offended. At least by me.

=========================
Oh.
My.
Gawd.
This work thing is killing me.
At my last job I wrote, sometimes at length, about the numerous co-workers who deserved to be shared with the world. Remember "No Makeup Sandie?" She had a breast reduction at some point. It was the one thing she could have done to make herself even LESS attractive. But she nailed it.
Her happiness and constant laughter inspired me, much like people are inspired when they're fired from the Post Office.

I wouldn't get violent in the work place. I don't have the temper nor the time management to properly plan it. But work, sheesh... I like my job, don't get me wrong.
What I don't like are a certain group of people. I call them, with sarcasm, "The Dynamo Club." The dead-eyed stare of somebody who not only doesn't realize that This Doesn't Matter, they barely know that they drove to work today. I wish they could take a second and see themselves I see them, and they will, if ever they find my sketchbook. (My favorite is "Brenda DuckWalk," she likes cableknits!)

It is a gift to put off any kind of Up energy to the world around you. Life has other ideas, sometimes. Diarrhea can put a stain on your day. Head aches are a pain in my ass. Hangovers make me wanna drink. Underage Drinking makes me miss Jr. High. So really, Life will always give you PLENTY of reasons to walk around looking like you're just running through the script for "Walk to Kitchen, Water In Cup, Drink" in your processor. I've been there. I got out.

This, again, is Perspective. It is how we know Black From White. Drunk From Sober. Flaccid From Semi-Flaccid. These people are necessary, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
Oh yes I do...
I'd be boring.


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Brad Pitt Angelina Jolie Sex Nude Sexing

As we all know, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had unprotected sex and now she’s carrying his baby. Apparently Brad couldn’t seed the Aniston fields while married. I can’t quite remember what the Pitt-Aniston disconnect was on the baby front, mostly because it’s none the dook of my business and it would probably make me feel dirty and horny at the same time, were I to sit and ponder those two gorgeous creatures engaged in a little Side-Saddle with a Reach-Around Bean-Fiddlin’. Anyway, Brad and Jen never got it together on the baby front. But everything happens for a reason. And that reason is about to be splorched-forth unto the Earth.

Angelina Jolie is hot. She’s not good-looking. She’s not attractive. Pretty is too minute for her. She’s incredible. Like if you tried to describe her, people who had never rotted their brain with a Hollywood product, be it movies or whatever Jonathan Antin puts in his forehead, would say “I deny that a person of such described beauty exists. But if they did, I would want to Feedbag them before a solid session of Wheelbarrowing.” I’ve seen her naked in a movie here or there. Truly a gorgeous woman. She’s the kind of hot that wouldn’t anger you if it were on your new couch, and she was passed out on it in her own urine and vomit. There would be no poo, because hotness that hot doesn’t poo, it expends every last calorie fueling the hot. And whatever style she wears her Hair Down-There in would be considered Fantastic, no matter if it stretched hip to baby-widened hip.

Brad Pitt is also hot. And I say this as a straight guy, Pitt is genetically blessed in the physicality department. He works out, sure, but he’s got good genetics, too. He’s also one of the better comedic actors who is often overlooked (see “13 Monkeys” or the subtleties of Tyler Durden) because, well, he is hot. Funny and hot rarely go together, although funny can make someone hot. Hot cannot make someone truly funny. He’s both. How hot is Pitt? Well, about 6 months ago he BARE-BONED ANGELINA JOLIE, if that’s any sort of indication. Then again, she blew Billy Bob Thornton, everyone’s favorite “High School Janitor-type.” But he couldn’t blow the kind of super-wad that it would take to match hotness to Jolie’s ova, which Pitt had packed away in a climate-controlled testicle-oid for just such an occasion.

Now we come to the baby situation. Jolie’s got a couple of adopted kids, a son and a daughter. Son Maddox is about 5, a Cambodian orphan. Daughter Zahara is about 2, born in Ethiopia, and orphaned after her parents died from AIDS. Africa is really in bad shape, people. So let’s band together and not go there. That’s what Bono is for. Digression! Apologies… So she’s got a couple of imports, showing not only that she has a heart for the world’s needy (see her long list of humanitarian efforts, like putting Thornton’s penis inside of her mouth), but also that she can out-accessorize anybody on the planet. So now she’s gone and trumped even herself by deciding to allow her uterus to carry the child of The Brad Pitt, which is NOT but could be a good nickname for her vagina, which is probably actually named Vagelina Jolie. Reaching, I know. Focus.

She HAS kids. She’s GOING TO have another one, which will officially be sent to Earth to destroy Kevin Federline’s son. But I have questions about it all.

For example, will the hotness amplify on the Jolie-Pitt child, but the child comes out with a professional athlete’s vocabulary? Or will it be the case of magnets with like-polarities, the child birthed as a gaze-averting abomination of nature, complete with a spiked tail, transparent skin, and red beak capable of breaking through a grown-man’s sternum… yet has a flawless mind that can solve every socio-economic problem known to humans long before it takes its first steps, granted that it is not whisked away at birth by the people at Weekly World News, sent by the parents of Jon-Benet Ramsey?

AND…

Will Angelina Jolie go through natural childbirth or go C-section and not risk blowing out her probably flawless and magnolia-scented Brad Pit?

I have to go with Natural, only because she’s a worldly woman. I mean natural as in drug-free, no make-up, hip-fracturing, squatting in a hut with an Aborigine woman chanting over the recently-dispersed amniotic fluid cupped in the hollowed-out shell of a turtle, 57 hours of labor, ass-ripping natural birthing of the Child Jolie-Pitt. Visceral. Animalistic. And somehow that would Up her hotness. She grapefruit-spooned her “Billy Bob” tattoo off, for the sake of Clooney, people!

As for the looks, I think the kid will be gorgeous, and probably go to Cambridge to study zymogenetics and hate everything about Hollywood. Or become a chef in a small Portugal fishing village, cooking meals and sharing the secret recipe of a magical healing pie that was never shown or taught to the child… they just somehow always knew it.

Yeah, so that’s what I was wondering.

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Out Of Office

I'm stuck at my desk at work.
Stuck. On many levels. I don't think I can take it. I'm sober, which is a good thing for everyone involved. I need to get up and get away from this stuff, I can't geek out to any more queries, LEFT OUTER JOINS, or nerd speak.
I can't...
I won't.

I'm trying to look on the bright side of everything lately. I see a downer, and immediately go to the flip-side of it, which can be uplifting. Let's try it a bit.

• My job is boring. But, at least I have a job.
• I have to go to work five days a week to make money. But at least I'm making money.
• I work with a guy who looks like the human form of a fart. At least he's not farting.
• He's farting in meetings again. At least the meeting will be over soon.
• The meeting is running long because he won't shut up. But his experience may teach a lesson.
• He keeps trying to be funny and it's not funny. Funny is subjective, so let his humor roam.
• Why is he greeting people with "Wasssuuup?" His attempts at being hip are dated, but honest.
• I can't breathe, this is too much between his coffee breath and lactose intolerance. This will give you perspective to appreciate fresh air!
• Okay, that's it, I am now going to return fire. At least the stomach percolation will subside.
• Damn, I pushed too hard and now I'm touching cotton back here. I have given everyone a story to tell, AND the meeting is adjourned!

A pantsload to go with me, but at least I get to leave work! I can't believe it came to this but I needed SOMETHING. You can fake a seizure only so many times.

Look for my Cruise Diary in the coming weeks!

If anybody needs me I'll be in the can with a spatula.

==========

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For My Grampa

My grandfather, William "Red" Rider, or "Bill" to his friends, and "Rider" to my gramma, his wife of 57 years, Sunny, has passed away. He went Home last Friday night following a stroke, his second, which occurred last Sunday evening. I was out of the country at the time, and didn't find out until late last night. I feel as though somebody has punched me in the gut. As usual, I hope to publish something here that when you're finished, you'll say "That was worth reading."

To see some pictures and read a bit more about him, please visit the MEM page for him Here.
==========
Poppy was one of the original Funny People in my life. He was a kidder, a teaser, and a giant of a man. He loved us grandkids just as big. He stood about 6'2" or so, lanky, and always giggling about something else that he thought was funny. He would ask me "Hey Geoffer, what's your favorite cartoon?" and I'd say "Super Heroes" or some such. His standard answer... "Nope, can't like it." Then he'd giggle about getting one over on me. Anything I liked, "nope, can't like it." It never stopped, and it is how I bond with people today: Humor.

I usually saw Gramma and Poppy in the Summer, as they would come out to visit for a couple of weeks. We always had fun, going to movies and toy stores, up to Mt. Rainier, into Seattle, and tons of other stuff I still do for fun from time to time. They lived in Michigan, where my mom grew up, and eventually brought my cousins out with them as they got older. Grams and Poppy were my conduit to the rest of my Michigan family.

Change jingled in his pocket when he strolled about; he never walked anywhere, he was always moseying. That change was fed into many video games by many of his grandchildren, 9 in all, plus 3 great-grandkids. Or as Poppy would say "I don't know what makes 'em so great, eh Heh heh heh." He always had a few quarters to keep us entertained.

He had a distinct smell, aftershave that I never smelled on anyone else as I was growing up. It wasn't until I was 13 that I found the bottle. Old Spice. To this moment and forever I will associate The Spice with Grampa Rider. He smelled good.

He was a stock car racer back before it was regulated, marketed, and commercial. He loved watching the races and taught me a little about what the drivers were actually doing, and going through, in a race. This was back before stock car racing became a punchline, and was pursued with a real passion. He loved cars and the auto industry, as anybody could see in his now epic collection of free t-shirts from auto parts stores, towing companies, and motor oil offers in the greater Kent County area.

As a Poppy, he was a teacher and a friend, keeping an eye on us and making sure we got along. He loved to kid us, called us "Looney Tunes," and was never cross with us unless we deserved it. I didn't see him nearly as much as I would like to have. His passing has given me another perspective of Living, of Family, and of Legacy.

Love ya, Poppy.

All love and prayers to my Gramma, Mom, Aunt Sandy, Aunt Sue, Sonya, Jenni, Amy, Brad, Katie (you owe me $10 from that one thing), Machelle, Chris, and Rich. Miss you guys.


==========
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Cruisin'

This evening I embark on a vacation with my lovely A-list Girlfriend. We're heading to Miami, then on to a cruise ship, and then circling the Carribean for the next week or so! I'm pretty excited for a couple reasons.

First off, I got my ass waxed. I figured it would make me sleeker when trying to outswim the land excursion "guides" who will be trying to gyp me for an extra couple bucks in tips. I know, why swim away from the land guides? Because they are ON LAND, that's why.

Second, after the past few weeks of mundane blathering that has been my life (losing weight, exercising more, saving $) I am beyond ready to take the hell off. A-List and I both and each need a vacation. What better way to do that than get on a boat in the middle of the Carribean? For a week. Together. No where to, you know... go.

Third, I need a rush of someplace new. I believe that a person gets better when they force themselves into new places and experiences BEFORE Life does it to them... yes TO, not FOR. A-List was awarded this trip for her hard work last year, and I'm lucky to be her man, AND hotstacking that pleasure with being the guest she chose to take on the trip! She rules.

Fourth, my old place of employment can now download a picture of my ass and then eat that picture. That has nothing to do with the vacation, but it was fun.

Fifth, I have been coming across more and more passages and articles about the importance of Happiness in life. You can choose to be happy, because of, or in spite of, your circumstances. For too long I lived with the "I'll be happier when..." and that When never fills to the top. It just keeps wallowing between Content and Blah. So I am Happy. The rest of it I will create.

Sixth, some nerd-load at work today tried to be nice to me. First time he ever has done so. He usually barely recognizes my existence. Today he did so, in his "I'm gonna try to be nicer to people" way, by seeing me and saying "Well HEY Tom, I haven't seen you in a while!" Sidestepping the fact that I was sitting 2 chairs away from him 5 minutes earlier in a department meeting, MY NAME IS NOT TOM. I said "Hey CrapSock, it's Geoff." He said, "Oh why did I call you Tom?" I bit my tongue, then he tried to save the moment with "I guess you look like a Tom." Toms have a look?
Apparently... and where that look lacks minorly in SEXY, it makes up for in HUNKY and BRUTISH. I'm devastating.

Seventh, I've dropped 12 lard-bricks this year so far. 6lbs a month of useless fat. My BF% has dropped, I can see an Ab!, and I plan to get in good enough shape where people demand I take my shirt off, but not in a gay way, even if it is in the window of "Jack Banana's Leather Strap Rodeo Roadhouse." Just because, dammit, I'm looking better.

Eight, because I invented motherf*cking INWARD SINGING, that's why!

Ninth, because I'm apparently the only comic in Seattle who blogs. Nobody has anything to write? Well then, I guess I'm the mumbling, disinterested voice of our scene, then. You can't write ANYTHING? Famous isn't waiting for you, GET ON IT.

Tenth, and finally, I'm excited because I get to go with someone I love, who loves me, and because we're ready to get away from everything and just enjoy each other's company. I'll bring ya back some rum or something, because you drink a lot and show your boobies.

Adios, Muchachos. Adios.

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For The Competitive Romantic In All Of Us

Recently I was paid a few very high compliments by comics and crowd members. It's nice to have a perspective from the outside that what I'm doing stands out a bit, or in the very least, is getting the job done well.
"The job," of course, is being really good with a cheese grater and a Shop-Vac (tkm) when some flunky Security Guard wants to ask questions of my friends, like why they were peeking in windows while dressed as Danny Partridge.

Honestly though, a bit of poignancy in the race to the top, from the husband of my favorite blogger, Dooce. Read it HERE...
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Also, this week being The Love Week... f*cking Hallmark & Jewelry stores, forcing a holiday upon us with all the commercialism normally reserved for the religious holidays... I found this story from Anderson Cooper on CNN.com.
In the story, he restates scientific findings that confirm what I've suspected all along.
Love Is A Drug. Between the paranoia, hanging out with people you dislike, the bloody noses, and paying for it from time to time, it's quite a lot like the Booger Sugar.

Love Is A Many Splendored... Mental Illness?
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A Call To Humor!

The fact that more people aren't more into Emo Philips is a testament to the education system of this nation, much like the second season of "Joey" and 99% of MTV.

Below are three Emo mini-performances from the ComedySpeak website. Go to Paul Currington's column (link on the right) to see Russ Amer, circa 2001, with a special guest at the Comedy Underground!


Enjoy Your Emo-ment.
Don't Wear Fur!
The Joke's On Germany
Music Teacher




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Hey Canada, Here's Your Nickelback!

I thought I was going to write a satire piece on the band Nickelback, touting their song writing and fashion and sound while being tongue-in-cheek about it, but I can't. And I have to get these words out or they will continue to gnaw at my optical nerves when they are not busy gnawing at my weiner ligaments.

A couple years ago we saw the glorious end of the band "Creed," who is now some other puss-rock band with a different lead singer who also happens to sound like farting into a coffee can. Creed was a band that came from Christian-rock roots, and even worse, Canada. Canada is not known for its rocking. If you start to say "What about Rush?" I will be elbow-deep in your ass before you get to the R.

Creed was not ever a good band. They were barely tolerable by rock standards. But somebody bought into them. Probably Dave Matthews Band fans who needed something edgier, but couldn't quite handle the deep lyrics of 3 Doors Down, who will be flayed later. Creed slid off the charts when their lead singer, Scott Stapp, decided to pursue other careers, like drunken slob, and/or yelling "I'M SCOTT STAAAAPP!" while being tazered by airport officials. Can we take you high-ah? No. Now finish detailing my car.

3 Doors Down and Creed were shat-forth around the same time. 3 Doors Down has gone on to record pretty much nothing but songs to be played at teen weddings in the Southern states. Perfect, since it was 3DD's music playing a few months prior to the wedding that night at the quarry, when a young tire technician met a tube-top full of daddy issues in a pool of beer. Much like the old saying about the 90 year old man who was asked how things were going, after losing control of his bowels and his ability to get an erection, "I'm not sure what it's called, but it sure ain't living." The flaccid shit-flood that is 3DD, it ain't music.

And now Nickelback... wow.
They answer the question "What would Michael Bolton sound like if he had an electric guitar, a smoking habit, and testicles?"
They answer the question "What should I listen to while I sit in my mini-truck outside the house of the girl I'm stalking?"
They answer the question "What would a band sound like if Metallica had sex with a caribou that just got t-boned by a tourist bus chock-full of under-medicated schizophrenics?"

From the overwrought vocals of the Lead Singer, "Chad The Disgusting" (again with the name, Chad is not the name of a rocking frontman, unless it's Chad Roberts) to the formulaic power ballad guitars of Dipass McSorley and Butt-Finger Groatman, Nickelback is officially on their way to the county fair circuit. Every song sounds the same, every song talks about the same crap, and after a while a person cannot be THAT negative and THAT sad about a life that never happened. These guys sound like a High School Funeral.

Canada has done a great disservice to the world by allowing that band to leave the borders. But then again, sometimes you're not "Presenting" something as much as you are "Kicking it the F out of the lean-to." I guess I would be less aggressive towards this band if they began slipping "Sorry, We're Under Contract" notices inside of every CD they press. Until that day, I shall think of Nickelback while doing shirtless push-ups in my basement, listening to Pantera, finishing my "Iron Maidin" tattoo... oh CRAP...

First person to vomit on Chad Kroeger gets $10, AMERICAN.


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It's Like, You Know, Uh...

One major event prior to the Super Bowl is "Media Day," where 20 players from each team sit and take question after question from reporters. These reporters are sent to the event from around the world. I asked myself this...

How must it feel to a guy holding a recorder, pen, and notepad, not to mention his degree in Journalism or English, to have to spend a week trying to interview grown men who are fumbling their way through their native tongue?

Last season, in a 30-second span of one interview with Terrell Owens, I counted 8 "you know"s, and 23 "Uh"s.

Football - 31
Education - 0


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Assumption Of The Throne

Lately I have read a lot of words, heard a lot of words, and have yet to discount a lot of words, about me, my feelings, my future in comedy, and my own ideas on the injustices in the world. I usually don't tell people these kinds of things, but with all of the statements about my emotional state, the most important thing I can do at the moment is give thee a clearing-up of the sky in which I fly gracefully. It is here now that I tell you, dear reader, what I am talkin' about. Please pass this on to Arnold Jackson at your earliest convenience.

I normally have only 2 emotional gears; Rage, and Drunken Rage. But lately I've felt everything from disbelief to no-f*cking-way. I've also experienced "that guy is what happens when a bad idea has sex with a fart" as well as "and that lady smells it." Another emotion I got hit with was "ennui." It wasn't quite "languid," but overall I was okay with it.

Then I got a few messages from friends telling me that other people have been talking some sauce about the Geofferee, and frankly, that's just telling me that the bulls have taken their dumps. Here are some feelings and things I am not, regardless of what people are saying, blogging, or being retarded about:

Gay, nor any of its euphemisms.
Hateful, no matter how easy it can be.
Hopeful, no matter how little it's brought me.
Lazy, even though I'd like not do a damn thing for an entire 2 hours and just sleeeeeeeeeeep. Scared, even though Silent is often mistaken for Speechless.
Black.
Distraught, at least not about anything other than the Super Bowl.
Far-Right wing, even though a lot of the Left is beginning to represent poorly.
Doubtful, no matter how much crap it's delivered to me.
Bored, even though I'd rather not be at "work."
Presumptive, even though I have a good idea of what's coming.
Violent, and that's considering that a couple mouths could use a good punching.
Confined, but I could use a little more room to move.
Content, since it's more accurate that I am Happy.
Understood, since everyone's entitled to their opinion, especially when they're counter-arguing.
Argumentative, since I can see most everyone's point, until they can't admit the truth.
Pleased, since so many "bloggers" have nothing to say.
And lastly, I am not,
As Concerned as you think I am.

Drunk, now THAT I totally is.


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Larry The Cable, And Really Cool, Guy

This past weekend I had the opportunity, which later turned into the privilege, to meet Dan Whitney. You may know Dan by his stage/marketing/phenomenon-name, "Larry The Cable Guy." Larry's opening act, PJ Walsh, once stayed with another friend of mine, Dave Dennison, and layed some great tix and passes on Dave as a return favor. Cool move #1.

So we go to the show, at the Paramount Theater, a place known not only for its beautiful interior, but also for a noticeable lack of spitoons. However, the crowd filed in. More on them another time. The seats were kick-ass.

Long story - short, for the moment. Here are some highlights, for me, from the evening:

1. Seeing that a stand-up comedy act can sell out 6 shows in a major theater in a major city.
2. Seeing inside PJ's Tour Bus. It's nicer than where you or I live. It's a good sign that comedy is thriving, if you're working for it.
3. After his set, "Larry" was in his dressing room, and remarked that he "felt okay about it but there were some slow spots, and [he is] working on that 20 minutes, so... anyway..." Even the most arguably-popular stand-up in America, a millionaire, a Star, sees his own room for improvement.
4. He is truly one of the nicest guys in comedy. He is a country boy. His act is less bigoted than the majority of guys I've seen, many of them top-tier comics.
5. About 15 minutes into his set, he turns to a lady in the crowd, near the stage, and says "Lady, this is gonna be the dumbest show you ever saw, okay? Good then, we'll keep going." He knows his own act. Deal with it.
6. Years ago he met and did little tours with PJ Walsh. They both worked their way up. Dan takes PJ with him on the road, and takes care of his friends. He also chews long-cut tobacco.

It was a good motivator to get my ass, and my act, in gear, and make my own things happen for the best. And not forget where I came from, because some day I may have to steal their jokes.

Key factors to take with you: Likeability, preparation, slow down just a little more, and do your best to be 100% original. And it wouldn't hurt if you were naturally funny.

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For the record, the sheer mention of the movie "Brokeback Mountain" illicited a hearty round of boos from a lot of people in, but not the entire, audience.

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Whole Lot Of Hatin' Goin' On (for my Football fans)

Terrell Owens, a freakishly talented wide receiver, multi-millionaire, and titanically self-impressed ass-clown said this in November, and I'm paraphrasing but the jist is correct:

"The Philadelphia Eagles would be better off at the moment if former Super Bowl MVP Brett Favre were playing quarterback, instead of Donovan McNabb, who has, like, only one leg and frequently cries when he has hard bowel movements after eating mass-produced soups."

Full Story below...
http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/news?slug=ap-eagles-mcnabbowensfeud&prov=ap&type=lgns

Donovan McNabb, a strong-armed quarterback, multi-millionaire, and titanically bad Chunky Soup commercializer, was on the cover of EA Sports' "Madden NFL 2006," and quickly fell to the Madden Curse. "The Madden Curse" refers to the past few seasons wherein whichever NFL Star… nay.. SUPER-Star is chosen for the cover usually has an injury befall him within the first 2 games of the season. 2004, it was Michael Vick, who broke his leg in Week One. 2005 was Ray Lewis, who had a torn hamstring or may have even stabbed someone. This year, McNabb got the spot and in the first game, against the Falcons, had a bruised sternum and soon after was felled by a sports hernia.

A Sports Hernia is a tear in the muscles and ligature between the abdomen and the pelvis. You know that "V" shape of the obliques that fitness models get as it disappears down their shorts into musky town? Yeah, McNabb TORE that. And he played through it for a couple weeks until he had too much trouble running around with his giant balls not being fully supported by his rock-hard abalones. He's a tough S.O.B. (Soup-lOving Baller)

So, Owens, the WR, says Favre (pronounced "Freebird") would have been able to lead the Eagles better than McNabb had been leading them. Hey, Owens, a lot of people could have led that team better simply by not having blown out their undercarriage. So why pick Favereer?
Favre, a 15-year vet of the NFL, MVP of the League and the Super Bowl, is a great QB. Any team would be happy to have him under center in a big game. He'll one day be in the Hall of Fame. And Brett Farevere is white. McNabb and Owens are both black. McNabb's response to Owens' comments?

"It was like, it's unreal," McNabb said. "That's like me going out and saying, `Hey, if we had Steve Largent. If we had Joe Jurevicius. It was definitely a slap in the face to me. It was a slap in the face because, as deep as people want to go into it, it was black-on-black crime."

He immediately received a call from multi-millionaire rapper Curtis Jackson, better known as the one-tempo lyricist "Silva Dolla," wherein Jackson told McNabb, "I feel you. This is like that time I got shot 9 times in the F*CKING FACE. How you holdin' up?"
Or the other gang beatings and killings that are commited in predominantly black neighborhoods, the ones that multi-millionaire athletes do not live in. Or it hurt like the many times Donovan was passed over for job interviews as a professional Quarterback, only to have a white QB step in and… what? That never happened? Oh…

I can understand Donovan's mindset, feeling that T.O. just MIGHT have mentioned Favrenugen's name because saying a White QB would be better than a Black QB would then speak down to ALL black QBs. That would be a really, really great move on Owens part. Owens has been nothing but a problem since he arrived in Philadelphia. The city, contrary to that angle, LOVES McNabb. He's up there with Rocky Balboa (a fictional character) and cream cheese (a delicious character). But a CRIME? Not to mention, a RACE-RELATED Crime!

While I appreciate that Donovan mentioned two Seahawks receivers as replacements for T.O., the comments Owens made were in NOVEMBER. McNabb is way overdue to respond to a loutish comment by a loutish receiver who is widely disliked. I can't speak to the sentiment of black culture, saying that a white person could have done something better than a black person. But that's a truly evil, racist, facist notion to put forth. I can see where it would hurt, deeply, because it cuts through the ability, humanity, and dedication of McNabb, saying those traits don't matter as much as the color of the skin of the person playing QB. Something about this issue really made me sick, as I've come closer to understanding how race is still an issue, as much as people being half-tard-assholes is still an issue... but it's not a crime.

Before you call Jesse Jackson, ask yourself THIS:
Is Terrell Owens SMART enough to put that much forethought into a slam on McNabb? It's not like Owens said "We'd be better off with Ryan Leaf." In my mind, it was a comment about ability, a shot at McNabb, and another low-class move by a nearly no-class athlete. By responding the way he did, nobody came out of this looking worse than McNabb.

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And before I go… Joey Porter can eat a bowl of Ass-Flakes with 1% Piss Milk. Talk all you wanna talk, you're gonna get cracked by Mack Strong in between cracks by Steve Hutchinson when you're not getting shit-canned by Walt. I can't wait to see Porter opening for Al Foxx on a speaking tour next year.


GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS

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The Vicious Circle

Only comics can judge other comics.
But if an audience loves a comic, that’s all that matters.
But if the audience isn’t particularly a “hip” or “smart” group, they shouldn’t be judging comics.
But the audience is who PAYS THE BILLS, and that matters more than anything else.
But you shouldn’t do it for the money.
But have we defined “judging” yet?

Okay, so only audiences can judge comics.
But audiences may not understand that "funny" comes from being able to interweave subtle nuances into a joke instead of having it spoonfed to them.
But it takes more talent and hard work to purposely write a joke that works on multiple levels. But it takes even more work to condense that joke from a big web with intricate details into a more recognizable form of hilarity.
But you should always and only write what's funny to you.
But the audience has to be laughing in order for the “funny” bar to be set.
But the audience doesn’t know what “funny” is the way that comics do.

It's settled then...
Only comics can judge audiences.

What's the point?
Because it's all subjective, and it's all from one's own perspective, comedy is nothing but laughter. Who am I to say what and how an audience "gets" a joke? Suddenly I, Geoff Lott, can read all of those minds at once, and visualize who got what and how? No, and I'd be a pompous ass to say I could.
It turns out a good friend of mine loves Larry the Cable Guy, whom many people cannot stand the sound nor existence of. She likes his "gimmick." She "gets the marketing." She knows he's not "real" and she's okay with that. She sees him as "if a redneck with almost no command of the English language were doing jokes, THAT is what he'd do." It's not serious. And that opened my eyes to all of it.

Comics work from their perspective as children, adults, jilted lovers, ex-spouses, specific ethnicities, ex-convicts, drug users, abstainers, happily married, happily divorced, parents, and - but not limited to - people who see the world differently than most of the people around them. All we want to do is get on stage, do our jokes, have integrity, and get big laughs. It doesn't always work that way.

The rest of it can, frankly, judge my f-hole.

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Super Bowl XL... Holy Crap, The Seahawks Are In It!

I don't have a lot to say about the Seahawks being in the Super Bowl that hasn't already been drunkenly screamed into a women's bathroom from here to Steilacoom.

But I will say this. For his entire career, I have been a fan of Jerome Bettis, shown here leaving Cortez Kennedy in the gravy. Jerome will someday be in the Hall of Fame, I think, as one of the best running backs and men to ever work his way up the charts in the NFL. He was born and raised in Detroit. The Super Bowl is in Detroit. He may retire after the Super Bowl.

Mid-American, Hallmark-loving sentiment reeeeeeeeeeeeeally wants to see Jerome Bettis, RB for the Pittsburgh Steelers, go out with the biggest win of his career in his hometown in his last game. It's a good story line. And the Steelers, how much more American can you get than that gritty, intense, old-school persona in one team?

With all due respect, and for just this one game out of the hundreds he has played...
F*ck Jerome Bettis.
F*ck Sentiment.
F*ck the story lines.
F*ck the Steelers.

Ideally, Jerome Bettis will be tasked with winning the game on a 2-yard grind into the endzone, and will not only fumble, but Biblically shit-flood his pants as Lofa Tatupu falls on the ball with 3 seconds left in the game. That would be about 1,000,000 times more memorable than the "perfect ending" to the guy's career. Walter Payton never even scored a TD in a Super Bowl, and now...
Forget it. The right thing to do is to quit getting dewy-pantsed over the Disney-esque possibilities of the end of Jerome's career. No chance.

GO SEAHAWKS!!!

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The Kind Of Decadence I Can Only Dream Of

With Lovely Woman in the house, there's a steady TV diet of the GNN (Gay-CNN/E!) and MTV reality shows that are unintentionally, and therefore 100-times more, funny. It is from the wafting noises of the programs on these shows I get a lot of info about the various "hot accessories" and "cool pubic hair styles" of the macro-biotic Kabbalah-brities in and around the Hollywood. My Aquarian nature shudders at the imbalanced lives they lead, falsely centering themselves in a made-up universe. My Aquarian nature is also equipped with a hollowed-out molar full of Dichotomy-G32, a chemical that immediately puts me in a pair of Prada slides, sipping freshly-brewed Chilean virgin-hymen Bubble tonics out of cups made especially for Whole Foods, and saying, "Yes, I can appreciate the beauty of that Louis satchel. It is right for the season. It is unique. This tonic is, golly, giving me half of an erection, but only on the left. Huh."

I'm very two-sided. Even with the strongest beliefs in a point of view, I am fully aware of the opposing view-point, and rarely see it as an antagonist. It's part of my nature, and often gets me into trouble. Some people believe that I'm being difficult, while some see me as being stubbornly difficult. Still others find me to be "fascinating" when I'm not "doing pushups during the sermon." Balance, I love it. Which is why I really love how some stars have found a way to balance their "Anybody Would Suck On My Body" status with accessories. And from there, it's all about how decadent you can get. The more decadent the accessory (UP), the more grounded you appear (DOWN).

For example, Paris Hilton had Tinkerbelle. Tink was a dog that could fit in Paris' purse, were it not for her pills. From there, she upgraded to not just a living mammal, but NICOLE RICHIE, who fits into most pill bottles now. Nicole was tired of being the third most-famous snatch on the show, so she chewed through her leash and nearly married a once-fat DJ, Howard Stern. Or not. Her dad is the very famous BB King?

How do you top a dog, and a chihuahua? TWO CHIHUAHUAS... DOY. How the hell do you top that?

Look no further than Angelina Jolie. She's got a Cambodian kid, AND Brad Pitt. AND another baby from Africa. Where does it end? Olsen Twins BackPacks by Labor Day, that's where.

Now those are the kind of accessories that make a dude say "Women ARE from Venus!"

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Speaking of Books and Decadence, I think it's great that Oprah, who was once making a fat red penny off of her goy-toy James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces," and never questioned, but instead CHAMPIONED, the tale his "memoir" told has come out to say she feels like she was duped. I was worried for a while that Oprah, who is AT THIS MOMENT, simmering in a pan of her own HARPO juicey-juice, wouldn't give a shit about the lies.

Isn't it great that she's thought about contemplating the possibility of giving to charity all the money her book club made from pushing the book?

What a saint that disgustingly "rich for no reason" that woman is. I hope she recovers from her dupey-ness!
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More to come... but...

In this morning's blog, my friend Killorn, when referring to her drive to dial-back the veracity of her laugh, used the term "Throat the beast."

Google that, and get back to me on how many returns you get for semi-legal sites in Scandinavia.
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Taste The Future, Again

Last year I did a prediction blog, linked up to your visual cortex RIGHT HERE. My comedy prediction is sadly coming true.

I should do this for a living.

"This" = leering at your mom in her aerobicize unitard. What's up Mrs. Cundiff? Need help with those groceries?

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Name Your Kid For Criminal Success

Naming a child is giving them the identity they will carry through their life. I'll keep this short.

If you want your child to grow up to be a criminal, like a "killed by the authorities" criminal, give him a middle name of Ray. Another one was taken down last night in California. He was 76, and this was the first ever execution by "BOO!"

If you're looking more at your garden-variety assault and burglary, just go for the initials. JT. TJ. RJ. JD. BO. It's cute when he's getting his pictures at Sears, but it's sad when he's there changing tires.

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You Can't Sue Mother Nature

27,000 new homes built into area hillsides, once covered with trees.

270,000 trees removed from those hillsides.

27 days of rain.

2,700,000 pounds of mud sliding down those now-rootless hillsides, into backyards, living rooms, reflecting ponds, zen-gardens, and garages.

2 turds given by nature when the mud covers the new Acura and dislodges a baker's-dozen of townhomes.

1 very upset cougar in the living room wondering where it's home went. (Cougars have traditionally low credit ratings)

Zero sympathy to muster. But hey, I have a leak in the living room, and I have to deal with the Property managers now, so I am NOT HAPPY.

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A Sure Way To Beat the Rap

Also, if you've ever wondered how to define the term "Preferential Treatment," look no further than the case of Washington Redskins safety Sean Taylor. Taylor was arrested last year for pulling a gun (F*CK WHAT???) on somebody during an altercation. Taylor, who stands 6'4'' and tips the scales at 225+ lbs basically threatened to kill someone with a gun. His hearing was last week, prior to the 'Skins playing in Seattle.

The hearing, held in Dade County, FL (where Sean Taylor attended the University of Miami), resulted in the Prosecutor's request for No Special Treatment being denied, as Taylor's absence from the Redskins game would have caused hardship on both Sean Taylor AND the Redskins, so sayeth Judge Mary Barzee.

The group he was with during the fight in question was fighting another group... over an All Terrain Vehicle.

Since it's all "alleged" behavior, Taylor has not yet sat down for the standard Athlete In Trouble Tattoo, a.k.a "Only God Can Judge Me." Too bad God has all the ATV's He needs, and is not elected to His post by the voters and boosters near the University Of Miami.

Sean Taylor: Professional Ass-bag.

Happy Martin Luther King Day!



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Geoff Lott... Dead To Comedy?

Rumors of my demise have been greatly and masturbatorily exaggerated.

Last night I started my week of the Giggles Laugh-Off. This competition, like any comedy competition, is as weirdly judged with skewed voting practices as picking "the most F'ed-up Jackson." I was pitted against 15 year-old Ryan Cuddihy, who, when I started comedy, had no idea that some day he would meet, and later beat, me in a comedy showdown.

I will spare the details because comedy competitions aren't about details, and it wouldn't sound gracious, anyway.
I won't be making any wine from sour grapes, either.

What I will say is this:
Ryan had a very good set last night.
I had a very good set last night.
In the end, he had more votes than I did.
The tabloids would have you believe it matters, but like I said last night, votes don't count, not in comedy, not in politics. Not when we're all pawns in the power struggle between the ghost of Jimi Hendrix and the slowly gathering dolphin army.


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