I would just like to take a moment to send a special message to those audience members who attended the comedy show at the Hollywood Hotel Lounge Friday night.

F.U.C.K. Y.O.U.

May all of you get exactly what you want and deserve; a boring, unexamined, unoriginal, sterile, insignificant, fruitless, banal existence. And cancer. May you all get cancer. The type of cancer doesn’t matter so long as it makes you lie in your death bed, eating at your organs at a slow enough pace to get you to realize that you wasted your life fearing your death, and that you should have laughed more.

No, let me clarify. You should have laughed more at yourselves. At your insecurities and your prejudices and your fears and your shitty jobs and your designer clothes and how ridiculous this all is. This existence.

There, that feels better. I’m glad I could get that off my chest. I tried to say as much as the show was ending but what can I say? I’m better at writing than I am at improv. All I got to was the “fuck you” part.

They say that a comic should never blame the audience. By “they,” I’m referring to those who suck at comedy and try to stay relevant in the industry by dispensing shitty advice for a nominal fee. Fuck them too. Nobody knows anything in this business and if you want to know my opinion on that, see the first piece I wrote for this site. You can find it here.

Sometimes you get in front of a crowd that is a perfect microcosm of a facet of humanity that stokes the embers of cynicism and hatred that led to comedy in the first place.
Friday night was that crowd.

It’s not like I’ve never eaten my own ass on stage before. In fact, it’s happening more and more. A sign I’m growing, I’d like to think. Some nights I’ll get on stage with one too many cocktails and only a half formed premise and I don’t get surprised or angered when it fizzles off into the ether to be met with silence. I’m no twenty year vet in comedy but I have been in this game long enough to know when I’m on, and when a bit is good. Even then, if it bombs, I don’t get too bothered by it, save for the slight disappointment and embarrassment. Sometimes, people just don’t feel comfortable laughing out loud. But when the crowd suddenly is LOLing at hacky tricks and predictable punchlines, the hate begins to well up and the cancer fantasies begin.

Friday night was one of those nights.

You might say that I sound bitter and pathetic and you would be right. I am bitter and pathetic. Like the late, not-so-great, George Steinbrenner said, “Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.” Still, I can’t help but be honest. Comedy is the only place left in the world for honesty these days, no matter what that Friday night crowd might think.

So it is with honesty that I shared with you my opinions of stick-up-the-ass comedy show audience members. And it is with honesty that I share with you the real reason for writing this piece. One to vent. And two, to say this. A lot of comics, when they don’t get laughs, will blame the audience. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to blame them as an audience. I’m going to blame them as individuals. It is, individually, their own fault for not laughing at my bits on how gay marriage could be legalized if they simply made a Morgan Freeman movie about it. Or how we shouldn’t be putting Dick Clark on television after his stroke. Or how people who believe in the 2012 apocalypse shouldn’t rely on the Mayans as a credible source. Of course, it was all puched up and hilarious but you’ll have to come out to a show if you want to hear the bits. And if you do and don’t find it funny, then I will be honest and say that I won’t blame you for not laughing. I’ll blame you for the Holocaust. I’ll blame you individually for the Holocaust. Cause, really, if I’m going to hate you, I don’t want it to be for something petty like silence.

More decent than this guy’s.

Personally, the Fourth of July is my ninth favorite of the ten federal holidays, just inching out Columbus Day cause fuck that dude. Throw in the unofficial holidays like Halloween, St Patrick’s Day, and the Super Bowl, and the Fourth of July drops down to somewhere in the teens for me. It’s not like I don’t understand the significance of the day or its importance in our nation’s history. I don’t like the Fourth of July for the same reason I don’t like to see old pictures of myself; because it is just another reminder of how much potential we had and how much we’ve let ourselves go.

How many times have you heard, “America is the greatest country in the world!”? Between Presidential speeches, fireworks shows, and Fox News, my guess is you’ve heard it plenty – especially this past weekend. I am wondering upon what this claim can be based. Now, I want you to really think about that. Freedom? That is the answer I hear the most. “America is the greatest country because we have the most freedom!” First of all, that is not even accurate. Go ask a gay person who wants to get married or join the military how much freedom we have. And secondly, it doesn’t even make sense. If the measure of a country’s greatness is determined by the freedom of its citizens then the greatest country in the world is Somalia. They don’t even have a government. You can do anything you want over there.

“Obama can’t take our guns!”

Granted, exercising your Somali freedom can lead to death by starvation, AK-47 or Navy Seal, but nonetheless, you’re free to do as you wish. So freedom can’t be the reason America is so great. What else? Money? We certainly have plenty of that. Military might? Oh yeah. We can kick ass with the best of them. But if our greatness comes from the fact that we’re rich and can beat up everybody else, then basically we’ve become Johnny from “The Karate Kid” and is that really so great?

Johnny Lawrence: American Greatness

The last time I checked, everybody in America dies just like everywhere else. So we can’t be that great. It would be a different matter if we had some immortals running around. Because, let’s face it, that is what everybody wants, right? Immortality? There is a school of thought out there that hypothesizes that most negative human behavior, from violent patriotism to religious extremism to infatuation with vampire movies, stems from the basic fear of death. Now, if we didn’t have that fear because we actually could achieve immortality then, hell yeah, I’d be onboard that whole “Great America” train. But we can’t, so I won’t.
Now there will be those that read this and say the same bullshit I always hear when I question our country’s greatness. “If you don’t like it, then you can leave!” Like the country where you were born into citizenship is nothing more than a neighborhood full of meth labs you can just pack your bags and move away from. It is that kind of thinking that got us here. I would argue that it is more neighborly and more patriotic to want to clean up this hood. Fix the problems instead of waiting for somebody else to do it. Rather than being the fat, lazy, son of the CEO, who inherits his father’s company then proceeds to run it into the ground through ineptitude and inaction, I want to be the guy who starts off in the mail room and works his way up, improving it as he goes. You know, The American Dream. Remember that idea? It’s what once made this country great and the only thing that is going to save it from going straight into the shitter.

Somebody keeps keying cars in my neighborhood and I would like nothing more than to watch the son-of-a-bitch die. That may sound like a harsh statement to read. Even to me, as I read it back, it seems like a harsh statement but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t true. Should I feel this way? Probably not. Do I deserve it? Probably. Without going into any of the self incriminating details, I’ve done enough vandalism in my day to deserve plenty more than a scratch in the paint of my car. Yet I can’t help but fantasize about catching the motherfucker in the act. The pure joy I would feel in being able to seize the, all too rare, moment of teaching somebody a lesson they would never forget.

Of course, I’ll never get to fulfill this fantasy. Even if I did catch the asshole do it, I’m not sure what I would do. Probably something lame like call the cops. Let’s face it, we as a society have become so impotent and litigious, that justice can only be dispensed through the justice system. Street justice has been corralled and sectioned off from our civilization, only to be practiced by the most criminally indifferent. In short, I wouldn’t have the balls. But I know somebody who would. Somebody who has never been restrained by the conventions of society. Somebody who grew up in a time where an eye was truly for an eye and sometimes even a head was for an eye. Who is this somebody, you ask? Well I’ll tell you. It is my Dad.

To call my father old school would be like calling Abraham Lincoln a politician – a gross understatement. He is the epitome of old school. Born on a farm in Louisiana in 1935, he grew up in a time and place where you handled your own and you got what was comin’ to you. My Dad’s biography reads like a Jim Croce song and to this day, people still know him by name in the small town of Natchitoches. Now, I’m not going to write you a report about my Dad, my hero. I just wanted to share a couple stories with you about my childhood and what it was like to grow up as the son of “The Badest Man on Cane River.”

We moved to Kent, Washington in 1980. We lived in one of those suburban housing developments where every house was identical to the fifth house away from it and everybody’s mailbox sat in a quaint little maibox house complete with its own little shingled roof. For whatever reason, the lot across the street from our house was never built on and it served as a playground for me and my friends for several years until a developer, much to our chagrin, finally decided to build two more houses on it. As is often the case with track home developers, certain details went overlooked and our new neighbors moved into a house with no mailbox and, more importantly, no little mailbox house. It needs to be mentioned that on our block, the little mailbox house sat in front of our house, right next to our driveway. I needed to tell you those details so I could get to the real story.

It took about two weeks before our new neighbor attempted to remedy his mailbox dilemma by nailing a 2 X 4 to the exterior of the mailbox house and mounting an ugly aluminum mailbox to it, jutting out from the quaint little mailbox house like an undeveloped fetus of a conjoined twin. Unfortunately for us, but more so for our neighbor, the 18 inches of new mailbox stuck directly into the path of our driveway. Being the fair man that he is, my Dad left a note in the mailbox, explaining our problem with the driveway obstruction. A week went by. Nothing happened. My Dad left another note. Another week. Another nothing.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning in the summer. The sun was shining. Everybody in the neighborhood was outside mowing their lawns and watching their kids play, including our neighbor. My Dad went outside too. But instead of bringing a lawnmower, he brought a saw. Very calmly, he walked over to the Siamese mailbox and began slicing his way through that 2 X 4. Our neighbor watched the whole time. He did nothing. What could he do? After my Dad cut through the 2 X 4, he turned and, with mailbox in hand, walked about halfway across the street. He stopped, looked our neighbor in the eye, and threw the mailbox at him. It came to rest right at our neighbor’s foot. My Dad turned and went back into our house. It was one of the coolest things I had ever seen. A few weeks later, our neighbor put up his own quaint little mailbox house right in front of his own. We lived happily ever after.

Until…

Another time my Dad was disrespected only this time it was by kids. We lived very close to an elementary school. I went to that school. My sister went to that school. It was cool because we could ride our bikes there. In fact, right next to our house was a bike trail that would lead to the school. Dividing the bike trail and our front lawn were 10 small pine trees, about six feet tall and separated every three feet. I was in high school when my Dad, who was retired, began complaining about some sixth graders who would venture off the bike path, ride through the pine trees and through our front lawn. They would power slide and skid and basically tear up the lawn. Yes, my Dad became that old guy who would tell the kids to keep off his lawn but he was justified. The kids would either ignore him or flip him off or laugh as they rode off. Being a man who didn’t take kindly to being disrespected, my Dad devised a plan. One day he was watching television as school let out. He didn’t get up. He didn’t rush to the window. He waited and waited, patiently. Then he heard the crash. He, very calmly, got up and walked out the front door to see the kids sprawled out across the lawn, bikes mangled, faces horrified. You see, when riding a bike full speed through six-foot pine trees separated every three feet, it is very difficult to see the metal chain strung between each one. Those kids never rode through our lawn again.

I can go on and on. There are a million of these stories about my Dad and I love each and every one of them. A man who never took any shit from anybody. A man who lived by a simple rule, don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you. As I sit here typing this, I wonder how he would handle the mysterious keying cocksucker that is roaming my neighborhood. Actually, I don’t wonder. I know exactly what he would do but like I said earlier, I don’t have the balls. Still, maybe one night soon, I’ll stay up late, wait in the shadows, and try my best to impersonate my idol.

“Technically, porn is still acting. I’m so broken.”

I’ve been having employment on the brain lately. Not sure why. Maybe the recession. Maybe the Gulf Oil Spill. Maybe I’m getting to that age where I should start giving a shit about money. Whatever it is, I thought I’d share some thoughts I’ve had recently about the topic of employment.

First of all, I think we can all agree that work sucks. I don’t care what your job is. I don’t care about how you feel about your job. Your job sucks ass and I can prove it to you with one question. Does your company ever recruit? Job fairs? Monster.com? Careerbuilder? Craigslist? If the answer is yes then ding ding ding ding, tell ‘em what they’ve won, Johnny! That’s right, it’s a shitty ass job!!

Two shitty ass jobs.

You see, anything you have to recruit for, inherently, blows goat balls. If it didn’t, people would be lined up to do it. The job, not blowing the goat balls. Corporations, the Military, Religion, if they’re recruiting, bring out the goat. That’s why comedy is so awesome. You’ll never go to a job fair and hear, “Have you ever considered a career in stand-up comedy?” Never, and do you know why you’ll never hear it? Because comedy does not suck. People will volunteer to do it.

Last Comic Standing 1956

How absolutely tragic is it that the unemployment rate still hovers around 10%? That there are educated, skilled, good hearted folks out there with no job and little hope? That everyday, more people are getting laid off and they don’t know how they are going to feed their family? How sad is that? And yet, some guy over at the Coors Light Research and Development team just got a big, fat raise for having the brilliant idea to cut a hole in a beer box and call it a “window.” Are you fucking kidding me? Is that the best they can do? Coors Light with windows? “Why the fuck does a fucking beer box need a fucking window?!” I screamed at the Indian kid standing next to me in the liquor store. He didn’t know but his mother did. Apparently, it’s so you can see the mountains on the can turn blue when it’s cold enough to drink. Call me judgmental but if you need your beer to tell you when it is okay to drink then maybe you’re not the type of person who should be drinking alcohol in the first place. You got some things you need to take care of first, like a vasectomy.

Coors reminds you to drink responsibly.

And don’t try to act like this whole temperature sensitive material thing is something new and revolutionary. Did we not learn anything from HyperColor shirts? People don’t give a shit and they won’t buy it. And I’m asking you to not buy it. Fuck those lucky, no talent hacks over at Coors. They need to be relieved of their duty like General Stanley McChrystal.
Speaking of General Stanley McChrystal, this week, the unemployment rate got a little bit higher when President Obama gave ole Stanley his walking papers. Apparently, the man over seeing the war in Afghanistan got fucked up in a bar in Paris with a bunch of commandos and a young reporter from Rolling Stone and decided to reenact the house party scene from “Almost Famous.”

“I am a 5 star Golden God!”

People were shocked to hear a General act so callously on the record and they couldn’t believe he didn’t show more restraint when expressing his opinions of the Obama administration, in particular Vice President Biden. Shocked? Really? Didn’t they know what this guy was? Before being put in charge of the war, Stanley McChrystal was in charge of all Black Ops in the United States Military. What did they think was going to happen? I’ve seen enough of the Bourne movies to know how those guys view authority and we’ve already established that being in the military is a shitty job. So, basically, the White House promoted the real life equivalent of Colonel Trautman to be the voice of the Afghanistan war.

“If you decide to withdraw troops from Afghanistan, don’t forget one thing. A good supply of body bags.”

And then they got mad when he spoke the truth.

“You want me in that sand. You need me in that sand!”

Of course this is nothing new. These days, countries are no different than corporations. In the effort to maintain an impossible veil of competence, the right person for the job is often cast aside to make room for the person who says all the right things. Even if what’s being said is total bullshit or Coors Light with windows.

“Ass” was the fifth word in his sentence in the first sentence of his set. I think the first four were, “ You ever notice somebody’s…?” And just like that, the MC, holding his own mic and sitting off to the side of the stage interrupted and said, “OK, that’s all. Thank you very much. Our next comic coming to the stage…” The comic’s audition was over before he could even tell his first joke. This was at the Laugh Factory here in Hollywood not two months ago. They call it an open mic but it really is an audition. Comics show up at around 2:30 in the afternoon to wait in line until 5:00 to try to get the first ten to fifteen spots for the following week’s “open mic.” The rules are simple. You get three minutes. The owner watches. If he likes you, you get “passed” to do a showcase. You have to be clean. Apparently, “ass” is dirty not just in the literal sense of the word.

I found it amazing that the owner of a comedy club would deem, “ass” as offensive all the while a billboard in front of his establishment advertised for the movie, “Kick Ass.” I remember marveling at how stringent they were to their cursing rule. To drive the point home further, the following comic, an elderly woman in her sixties, made it all the way through her set without interruption and without cursing. However, her entire set was about fucking men her age and Viagra and the real possibility that her wrinkled pussy could kill a man. But she didn’t curse. Not offensive at all. The thought I had before my set was, they don’t seem to care about content. Just don’t curse. No problem. I’m a pro.

I was about one minute into my set when I did my bit about how Muslims throw their shoes when upset. Here’s the punch line: “…cause in the Muslim culture, throwing your shoes at somebody is the highest form of disrespect you can show another human being. Okay. Where do you think suicide bombing falls on that list of disrespectful things?” I know, gold right? I got about half way into my next sentence when that fucking MC interrupted me. “OK, that’s all. Thank you very much. Our next comic coming to the stage…”

Son-of-a-bitch! I didn’t curse at all and they gave me the hook. I was fuming. As I left the Laugh Factory that evening, I saw a sign on the door. I can’t remember it verbatim but it said something like this, “Due to the incident on November 17, 2006 (Michael Richards meltdown), we here at the Laugh Factory want you to know that we will not condone offensive material regarding race, religion, culture, etc…If at any time you are offended, please let us know…” Because of the Michael Richards incident, the fucking Laugh Factory now wants to put a leash on all the comedy that goes through there. Now you may be thinking that the elderly woman’s comedy was self-deprecating while mine was commentary on a religious group. But really, how would anybody know if I’m Muslim? And it’s not like I was saying that all Muslims are suicide bombers. I was simply telling the truth that, right now, all suicide bombers are fucking Muslim. But that’s neither really here nor there. I don’t need to defend my set. I told you this story to demonstrate what I’ve been seeing as a growing and concerning trend in stand-up comedy; the censorship of comedians to protect the sensibilities of those in the audience who might get offended. Well fuck that shit!

The Laugh Factory is not the only club guilty of censorship. Comedy contests, clubs and rooms all over this country are subscribing more and more to the “clean only” school of comedy. The World Series of Comedy Contest held in Las Vegas has it right there in the entry form. “Not too dirty. When you’re a headliner, you can curse all you want.” A booker recently just told me that she was hesitant to book me because of a set online of me doing seven minutes on religion. It’s not even dirty. It just makes fun of God. Like God can’t take a joke. God made marijuana, birth defects and Tyra Banks for Christ’s sake! If God didn’t like comedy, do you really think She would have created farts? Of course not and do you want to know how I know? She told me while I was high on mushrooms, farting and having sex with conjoined twins.

The purveyors of this clean comedy coalition call themselves righteous for steering up and coming comedians away from the blue material. They think they are doing comics a favor by forcing them to work clean. After all, cruise ships and corporate events don’t pay to hear dick jokes. And that’s all well and good if you got into comedy to work on cruise ships and corporate events. But I didn’t and I don’t think most comics did. And if you got into comedy to do that, you should stay the fuck out of comedy clubs and open up a room in a vegan coffee shop.

Another argument I hear is that it forces a comedian to be funny without having to rely on saying, “fuck” every other word. What a bullshit argument. Do you want to know what forces a comedian to be funny even more than working clean? Silence from the audience, which is exactly what a comedian would get if they say, “fuck” every other word.

I’m going to leave you with this to think about. Who was the first comedian who really made an impression on you? Nine times out of ten, the answer is Carlin or Pryor or Bruce or Murphy and the tenth time you’ll hear Cosby. Okay, I’ll give you Cosby. But my point is that the game changers of stand-up. The ones who really left a mark would never censor themselves. That was the whole idea. Stand-up comedy is THE last bastion of free speech. Be it curse words or content or both, the idea is to get to speak the things that others think but can’t speak for themselves. If that involves a little cursing or the mocking of a group of people then so be it. In a comedy club, the only thing that is offensive is telling the comics what they can and cannot say.

I once read that comedians should always have a pen and notebook with them so they can be prepared when lightning strikes and that million dollar idea pops into their head. I think it was Judy Carter’s, “The Comedy Bible.” It was the only thing I got out of that book, but I did heed that wisdom and for the past four years I have had a notebook on me. I’m on my fifth one. Most of the ideas never make it to the mic. Most of the jokes that make it to the mic never make it to the set. That is the process of prospecting for gold. Lately I’ve been going through a bit of writer’s block. I’ve had this current notebook for three months now and I’m only 20 pages in. I need to do something to break down that wall so I figure I can kill two birds by purging the jokes from my notebook here in this column. If you don’t like them, I don’t blame you. Just be happy you’ll never have to hear them on stage. So here it goes.

People who believe in astrology use the argument that the stars’ and planets’ gravitational pull on our bodies affect us like they do the ocean. Then I guess I don’t have a receding hairline. My head is just at low tide.

(For when I’m drinking on stage) I’m too drunk to be doing comedy right now. I should be more responsible. What I should do is walk off this stage, out this building and drive my ass home.

People in LA love TV and film credits. It doesn’t even matter what the credit is for. “Wait a minute, you’re Bernie DeWitt, right? Rigging Gaffer? I loved your work on the movie, “Ricochet.”

Rape has got to be harder than it looks in the movies. They always make it look like all it would take is a couple punches and they’re ready to rape. I’m no expert but I bet real rapists carry lube.

Morgan Freeman has a shitty last name. Not necessarily for him but for his slave ancestors. Talk about kicking somebody when they’re down. “Hey, Free-man! Pick that cotton!”

Can that Taylor kid from the Twilight movies be anymore gay? Oprah asked him what he looks for in a girl. He should have said, “cock.”

I’ve noticed that all transvestites either look like a super slutty sex pot or Bea Arthur. What ever happened to the tranny next door?

All religious texts were written by man. The Bible, The Torah, The Quran. All men. I’m just surprised they don’t have verses describing how big God’s dick is. “And He hath a phallus that stands four timbers tall. And it is good.”

This notion that women are more mature than men is bullshit. My wife regresses to a five-year old every time we talk. “Are we compatible?” “How are we compatible?” “Why are we compatible” “Why?” “Why?” “Why?” Fuck, dude, I don’t know!

People use the argument that you should get married so you won’t end up alone in a nursing home. That’s a stupid argument. First of all, people don’t “end up” in a nursing home. They’re “put in” a nursing home. Who do you think is doing the “putting?”

Maybe God created the universe but I’m pretty sure he’s not watching it like religious people would have you believe. Imagine how bored he would be by now? “I wonder what’s going on over on Jupiter? Oh, right, the same exact fucking thing that’s been going on for hundreds of billions of years…nothing…I hate this job.”

The world is a fucked up place but if somebody were actually watching all of us, don’t you think it would be even more fucked up? I gotta think that being God would be a lot like playing the Sims. You can’t play that game for more than an hour before you start fucking with the people in that world. “I’m going to have this man run that baby over then make him eat his own shit.”

There’s nothing worse than having to sit at home, next to your wife, as she roots for comics on Last Comic Standing. “Oooh, he’s good. I like him. One day, that guy is gonna be a star!” I don’t do that to her. I don’t sit there as we watch Kim Kardashian and say, “Oooh, she’s good. I like her. One day she is gonna be my wife!”

Women are better than men in arguments because they can always remember everything the man ever did wrong in the past. We can’t compete with that. I’ve stopped trying to compete with that. So now whenever she brings up things from the past, I counter it by bringing up things from the future. “What about the time you cheated on me with that rich guy?!!” “I never cheated on you with a rich guy!” “But you will….you will.”

Okay, I feel better now. The notebook has been purged. Much like a person with bulimia, I’m ready to binge on the funny again. Go Lakers!!

Cha-motherfuckin-Ching!!

No? Liars. That’s okay, I’m not writing this to tell you how to plan for your retirement. I am writing this to talk about the seven deadly sins and how it relates to comedy. Why? Because I love the movie “Seven,” that’s why. And I just watched it recently and realized how much ass it kicked. It had all the makings of a great movie; the gritty realism, the Morgan Freeman voice over… Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box. So here it goes. The seven deadly sins in comedy but without all the divinity. All inspired by my favorite buddy cop movie.

Gluttony:

Remember the fat guy? Forced to eat spaghetti until his stomach ruptured? He was the first victim in the movie and gluttony seems like a good place to start here as well. Gluttony in comedy, however, has nothing to do with a person’s weight. Fat is funny. No doubt about it. A funny joke spoken by a thin person becomes a brilliant joke when spoken by a fat guy. I don’t know why. It’s just one of those laws of nature, like retard strength. No, the gluttonous comic is the person, who night after night, set after set, keeps doing the same material and night after night, set after set, keeps eating it on stage. The Glutton has seven minutes of material and it is set in stone and it never changes and it sucks terrible, bitter monkey balls. It is truly disgusting to watch. Is it laziness? Is it a disorder? Who fucking cares. What it is is not funny and the Glutton should pay for his sin. As John Doe, to turn the sin against the sinner, I would punish the Glutton by forcing him to do a six month nightly show as the headliner at a maximum security prison. I know, I’m sick.

They told him not to do the Lorena Bobbitt joke again.

Pride:

In “Seven,” the pride victim was a model who got the old Fallujah Face Lift from John Doe and was so disturbed with the way she looked that she opted for suicide rather than live the rest of her life with a disfigured face. I guess she hadn’t considered a career in comedy. If she had, her sinful pride could have probably won her a few comedy contests. We all know comedians with handicaps, right? We also all know comedians who talk about their handicaps, right? And we also all know comedians who ONLY talk about their handicaps, right? Doesn’t it make you want to give them another handicap just so they would talk about something new? It doesn’t have to be a disability either. It can be a race (Dat Phan) or sexuality (Mario Cantone) or socioeconomic status (Jeff Foxworthy). The prideful comic latches on to the one subject matter that can get them laughs and clings to it like Brett Michaels clings to bandannas. These comics are so ugly on the inside that they can only talk about what we see on the outside. The prideful comic thinks style is synonymous with subject matter. Yes, gay comic, we know you love the cock but do you have any thoughts on, oh I don’t know, anything non-cock? Let’s hear them. Hey mixed race comic, why don’t you make like your parents and try something different? As John Doe, to turn the sin against the sinner, I would punish the prideful comic by forcing him to do a six-month nightly show as the headliner in the burn unit at a hospital.

If I was a burn victim my mother would be like, “Dat Phan, why you so melty?”

Lust:

Lust in comedy has nothing to do with sex. Sure I hear comics complain about other comics who got a career boost by giving a “tight five” on the casting couch. And in the movie, the lust victim was a hooker. However, in comedy, sex of any kind is worth its weight in jokes, usually about 185+ lbs worth of jokes. Be that as it may, it can never be sin. No, in comedy, lust is stage lust. It is a lust for the limelight and not the spotlight. They care more about being “known” than they do about being funny. These are the comics who arrive late, get on early, fuck up the list, ask everybody to watch their set, then leave five minutes later. These are the comics who whine and complain and lie to the hosts to get their way like it is owed to them. Then when they do get their way, they show all the gratitude of Kanye West. These comics put more effort into manipulating, backstabbing and lying than they do writing, performing and putting in dues. The lusting comic is common in Los Angeles and unfortunately is often rewarded for his sin. Fucking slut. As John Doe, to turn the sin against the sinner, I would punish the lusting comic by giving him his own HBO one hour special…tonight.

Something funny should go here.

Sloth & Greed:

In the movie, the sloth & greed victims could not be more different, a lawyer and a junkie. In comedy, however, they are often the same person. Sloth & Greed shows up, not necessarily, in comics. It shows up in bookers. The slothful and greedy bookers are the ones who are too lazy to scout talent. Instead they’ll put up anybody who has five friends who are willing to pay the $10 cover and two-drink minimum. Even if that “anybody” has never set foot on stage. Rather than telling a newbie that he is not ready to be in a real show and that he should do more open mics, he says, “How many suckers, I mean people can you bring?” Rather than making fliers, they make Facebook invites. Rather than producing a quality show that will have repeat customers, they rely on a bait and switch technique to pray upon the naïve enthusiasm of green comedians’ friends. Rather than nurture, they corrupt. Like lust, sloth and greed run rampant in the Los Angeles comedy circuit. As John Doe, to turn the sin against the sinner, I would punish the slothful and greedy booker to booking a nightly open mic in Juarez, Mexico.

“Hey, I got 5 amigos, puto. Lemme get the mic, eh?.”

Envy:

This is an easy one. The comic whose sin is envy is a thief. Joke thief, bit thief, style thief, thief. This comic can’t think for himself so he steals others’ ideas. As John Doe, to turn the sin against the sinner, I would punish the comic who envies by making him spend a year opening for Carlos Mencia.

“This sucks! This guy’s got nothing! Dee De Dee!”

Wrath:

Wrath holds a special place in my heart. Probably because I am guilty of it. The wrathful comic lets all the other sins get to him. Wrath alienates audiences and polarizes comedy bookers. It clouds a comic’s judgment and cripples his creativity. Just look at this piece. It started off kind of funny and now it just needs to end. So that’s what is about to happen. So what is my punishment, you ask? Didn’t you see the movie? Brad Pitt’s character, Detective Mills became wrath. His was the only sin that went without punishment. He got to shoot John Doe in the head and then he got a police escort home. So that’s what I’m doing. Don’t like the ending? Fuck you. I’m wrath, bitch. Now cue the Morgan Freeman voiceover.

Every once in a while Hollywood manages to remake a classic film, and it touches our hearts. It captures the lightning of the original film, bottles it, and then catapults it into the stratosphere erupting in a downpour of film making magic as drops of genius rain down to quench our thirsty souls.

Do you think that’s how they pitch these remakes? Can’t you just see a room full of suits over at Columbia Pictures, sitting around an obscenely long table, jerking each other off in these bullshit pitch meetings? “Goldstein, quick, what did you love as a kid?” “Uh, I used to watch the A-Team.” “Of course! That show with George Peppard and Mr. T and all the guns and explosions and nobody ever got killed! That’s genius, Goldstein, green light it!”

That’s gotta be how they do it, right? Just recycling old ideas rather than putting in the work to make new ones. Like a guy who is too lazy or scared to go out and meet somebody new, so he spends all his time at home, masturbating to the memory finger-bopping his prom date. I rarely see the remakes. I see a trailer for a remake and I dismiss it as soon as I recognize the first piece of regurgitated dialog. Before they can say, “Unleash the Kraken!” I’m out that bitch. I won’t see it. Ever.

People often accuse me of being too judgmental (by people, I mean dipshits) and that I shouldn’t judge a movie until after I see it. This is where I have to disagree. If there is one thing Hollywood can do, it can make a trailer that reveals everything you need to know to A) Know the plot twist. B) Know the movie will be shit. C) All of the above. With that said, let’s examine Hollywood’s newest remake, The Karate Kid, and why it will be a glorious turd.

Setting:

In the original version, it was easy to be sympathetic to the plight of Daniel Larusso because he had just moved cross-country, from New Jersey to Reseda, had no friends, no money and had to get around the valley on a bike. How could you not feel sorry for a kid who had to live in New Jersey AND Reseda? Needless to say, it was hard for poor Daniel to fit in with the popular rich black belts that live in the Hills. But in this version, The Karate Kid is an African-American kid who has to move to China because his selfish mom can’t find a job in the western hemisphere. Be that as it may, he’s an American living in China. I imagine that all he would need to win the hearts and minds of his new classmates would be a box full of Kobe Bryant jerseys, an ipod full of hip hop and some Jordans. Throw in a good lie that he’s Diddy’s nephew and he’s the most popular kid in school. Even the bike angle won’t work because he lives in China. Everybody rides bikes there. That’s like moving to Beverly Hills and all you have to drive is a Bentley.

Suspension of Disbelief:

Sure the original Karate Kid had many levels of bullshit. Like a Super Bowl sized crowd at the All Valley Karate Tournament, a crane kick that, “if done right, no can defense” – until part 2, and a 23 year old Ralph Macchio playing a high school kid but it was 1984. It was a simpler time. We could suspend disbelief that a high school kid could wax some cars, paint a fence, paint a house, sand the floor and become a black belt in a semester; especially if he was fighting some rich white kid who was taught Karate from a sleeveless, alcoholic, Vietnam vet. But this is 2010 and this new Karate Kid is shown in the preview jumping, spinning and kicking like he’s Jet fucking Li. I don’t remember Mr. Miyagi teaching Daniel nunchucks. And are we really supposed to believe that round eye can learn enough kung fu to beat up these grasshoppers in their Shaolin Temple by Spring Break? C’mon.

Dialog:

“Get him a body bag, Johnny!” “Sweep the leg.” “Mercy is for the weak. We do not train to be merciful here. Here, on the streets, in competition, a man confronts you he is the enemy! An enemy deserves NO MERCY!” Those were the shit. How many times have you heard those lines? The Karate Kid had some of the most memorable dialog for 80’s movies. How do you think that is going to sound by somebody from China in 2010? “Get him body bag, Xian Chan!” “Sweep reg.” “An enemy deserves No mercy. And now we do Buddhist meditation.” It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

So there you have it, three very good reasons not to see this new version of The Karate Kid. Of course, there are many more. Like the fact that they aren’t even doing karate, they’re doing kung fu. Jackie Chan is way too badass to play the Mr. Miyagi role. The Karate Kid is fucking twelve in this movie. And if the UFC has taught us anything, it’s that kung fu, karate or any other type of aesthetically pleasing martial art doesn’t really work in a street fight. Daniel would be better served to learn a rear naked choke and maybe a little ground and pound. I don’t know why Hollywood keeps trying to remake the classics. I would rather see them take another shot at a movie that sucked the first time around. You know, to get a little redemption. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing a remake of Howard the Duck.

We come in peace, putos!

That’s right, space aliens. What was once deemed a subject of science fiction has slowly moved into the realm of just-plain-science. One of our greatest scientific minds, Stephen Hawking, recently produced a show about the likely probability of the existence of space aliens. The History channel has been running marathons of “Ancient Aliens.” Even Larry King had an entire show dedicated to aliens and although he didn’t say it at the time, might have been interviewing a real life space alien who called himself, “Dan Aykroyd.”

I come in peace, putos!

It seems that everybody has been having aliens on the brain these days so I thought I’d share some thoughts with you on the subject. First off, I believe aliens exist, which is to say they do exist. I don’t believe in much but what I do believe in are odds. And so does just about everybody. Show me somebody who doesn’t believe in odds and I’ll show you somebody who will take the Rams to win the Super Bowl this year.

We’ll take that shit right the fuck to the bank!

The universe is just too big. Almost too big to fathom. Put it this way. If our Milky Way galaxy, which is over 100,000 light years across and has over 100 billion stars in it, were the size of a CD, the universe, by comparison, would be the size of the Earth. Or to put it another way, if our Milky Way galaxy was an actual Milky Way candy bar, the universe would be about 3 of Kirstie Alley’s stomachs.

What do you mean you’re out of galaxies?? Kirstie hungry!

So yeah, there is alien life out there. But that is where I draw the line as far as my belief is concerned. Whether or not they have been here, are here or are coming here is anybody’s guess. Because the truth is, like any other kind of belief, we have no fucking clue. But it sure is fun to listen to them try to convince you. My favorite ones are the people who speculate what aliens would be like because they always give them human qualities. Even the illustrious Stephen Hawking couldn’t escape the arrogance of comparing space aliens to humans. He said that if there are intelligent aliens out there, we should do our best not to contact them because, most likely, they would be hostile and would want to exploit the resources of our precious Earth the way the white man did the Native Americans. Wait a second, Stevie. You mean to tell me that an intellect so powerful as to create and master intergalactic travel would want to come here to get our resources? What resources? Wood? Oil? Nuclear material? Dirt? They better hurry. We’re almost out of the good shit. What could we possibly have that a super race of aliens couldn’t extract from the billions of other planets out there? Bullshit maybe? We’ve got lots of that. And there are over 6 billion of us crawling on this rock with our germ infested, war mongering asses. To come here to exploit our resources would be like sitting on a pile of fire ants cause the dirt is soft.

This looks like a good spot. Don’t worry, they’ll move.

The History channel’s “Ancient Aliens” proposed that ancient civilizations could have had relations with space aliens and that genetic hybrids could have been created. The evidence they cite to support such claims are simply the large amount of human / animal hybrids we find in hieroglyphs, statues and art. Okay, that makes about as much sense as an episode of Tyra. Don’t any of these people realize that ancient humans were still humans? My bet is that they were just as full of shit as we are. Maybe the ancient artwork and hieroglyphs were nothing more than their pop culture. Can you imagine the shit you could come up with if you saw our culture 2000 years extinct? You would probably think that we were a race of people that bred with teenaged vampires and worshiped giant silicone dildos.

Sally never felt comfortable in church.

Look, I don’t know what the answers are. But what I do know is that nobody else does either and probably never will. Let’s be honest, if aliens ever decide to come here, most people wouldn’t think they’re aliens anyway. They would call the aliens Jesus or the Jew Messiah or the Prophet Mohammad or L. Ron Hubbard and would be happily vaporized by their death ray in the name of the rapture and Armageddon and the promise of Heaven. Isn’t that a movie? If it isn’t, it should be.

Moral question: Does taking that Priceline gig make me a sellout?

I always thought a log’s purpose was to document a point in time; some amazing place or profound thought or anything bearing some kind of importance to be referenced at a later date. You know, a LOG.
Now what is a blog’s purpose? To be a virtual toilet, clogged and filled up to the seat with mental mud butt; an outlet for people to write the things that nobody would want to read. A vehicle to express a favorite ring tone or discuss the layered subtext of a Fergie song. A seed of thought planted, only to grow into a glorious shrub of babble.

He called me, “glorious!

I’ve read blogs about hair dryers. I’ve read blogs about rims. I’ve read blogs about celebrities – who’s fat and who’s thin. (Sorry, got a little Dr. Seuss there)
I know what you’re thinking. “What about this blog? You’re just writing about blogs! What the fuck do you know?” First off, these blogs have purpose. They’re throw away joke premises that are way too long to ever do onstage. And secondly, nobody reads this shit. I’m actually just talking to myself. Which brings me to another thing that pisses me off. WHY DOESN’T ANYBODY READ MY SHIT?!! Jesus, I’ve read blogs two sentences long that say something like, “Got a parking ticket today. Cops are fags.” And the goddamn thing has like 50 comments on it. I’m writing about the shit that matters, like politics and school shootings and school shooting politicians. Well I haven’t written the latter but keep a look out.

Class is dismissed, bitch.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to read blogs and there are many good ones out there. But for every interesting one, there are at least 500 ones that actually make me WANT to go back to work.
People seem to be blogging just for the sake of blogging. I mean, C’MON PEOPLE! Your lives are fucked up. All of ours are. Write about it! Make it interesting! Before you post your blog, think to yourself, “What would Captain Kirk do?”

What the fuck are you doing, Kirk?

Do you think Captain Kirk would ever write, “Captain’s log, stardate 2008. Today I bought an iphone. It rocks!!! OMG I was on it all day today! Spock says its lame but he’s just jealous…..and fat. LOL.”
If you’re going to post your thoughts on the web for the world to see, let us in there man! Inquiring minds and shit.
Go ahead, don’t leave a comment. I fucking dare you.

This guy totally craps thunder

What in the Sam Hell has been going on since I’ve been gone? I swear, I take a one month hiatus from my global watchtower and, next thing I know, there’s a riot in the yard. Looks like an extremist Muslim sought payback after the creators of South Park punked him for his commissary. Oh the horror. I don’t know about you but I’m starting to see through this whole terrorist bullshit and I’d like to share some thoughts.

In the past I wrote a column on what I thought would be a good way to disrupt communication within these terrorist organizations’ websites by giving us, the tech happy, social networking, American citizens their URLs so we can spam and comment and plug chrisputro.com until their terrorist sites are as baron as Myspace. You can find it here: Click here. Apparently Janet Napolitano either didn’t like my idea or is not a fan of heavyhittersofcomedy.com. I’m betting the latter. So I took it upon myself to start searching the World Wide Web to seek out these websites. It has turned out to be a difficult search. Even with my Google translator set from Arabic to English and searching words and phrases like, “Death to the infidels” and “Jihad,” all I found was an ass load of forums where most comments were positive and informative but there would be one crazy fucker who would say, “Death to the infidels.” Much in the same way you would find that one asshole who says, “I hate niggers” on a Tiger Woods thread.

That’s the guy

Once again, I’m getting the feeling that things aren’t as bad as the media would like to make them seem. This week the Times Square Bomb Scare was the only thing happening in the world if you watched the news. Some dipshit, would be terrorist drove a Nissan Pathfinder into Times Square loaded full of gasoline, some fireworks and an alarm clock as a timer. The news is always quick to tell us how sophisticated these terror networks can be but one look at this guy and you can’t help but think they’re getting their weapons training from Wile E. Coyote. Watch, the next thing you’re gonna see is a terrorist on roller skates with a big red rocket tied to his back. If you happen to see a dish full of birdseed in the middle of 5th Avenue, don’t stop or you’re liable to have a giant boulder dropped on your head. These fucking idiots. It would seem that extremist Muslims are really fond of cartoons. From the Dutch cartoon that inspired riots to the South Park episode which inspired death threats to the stupid son of a bitch who used Road Runner chemistry to make explosives.

“Praise be to Allah”

Are you really still scared of these terrorists? Don’t be. If you go to the website where the death threats to Trey Parker and Matt Stone were issued: revolutionmuslim.com you will see that the example they used to try to instill fear in our American heroes was the stabbing and shooting of a documentary filmmaker named Theo van Gogh by the hands of an extremist Muslim after van Gogh made a film depicting domestic violence in Muslim marriages. Cause he didn’t want to be depicted as violent. That was it. One stabbing and shooting. These people fail to realize that this is America, baby! Stabbings and shootings are like apple pie and baseball. You have a better chance of getting killed over your watch than you have of getting killed over your freedom of speech. Fuck those assholes and don’t you worry, America. If anybody is going to kill us, it’s going to be us. Like our forefathers wanted.

“What the fuck?” I said as I sat down on my bed. It was the only thing I could think to say which surprised me because I had just spent two hours spinning an elaborate, albeit fictional, tale about the sexual indiscretions of my Resident Advisor to the cops. I guess words are harder to come by when you’re speaking the truth. “What the fuck happened?”

Charles, still visibly shaken by what just transpired, shook his head as he sat down across from me. “He tried to take her, man. I couldn’t let him take her again.”

“Her? You mean your video game?”

“Yeah, man, Michelle. When Dean walked in the rec center and saw us, he flipped out. He started yelling and wheezing and sayin’ some Bible shit. Before I could even pull up my pants, he was grabbing the PlayStation, telling me I was going to burn. It was fuckin’ trippy.”

“No shit. So how did the cops end up here?”

“I was trying to explain it to him but he didn’t want to hear it. All he kept doing was snatching up the cords and telling me what a sinner I was and how I was never gonna live there again and sucking on his inhaler. I don’t know, man, then I just lost it. It was like Michelle’s Dad all over again. He was gonna take my happiness. I grabbed the PlayStation and he was fighting me and kicking me but the wheezing got worse and worse. Finally, I grabbed his inhaler and threw it out the window. He stopped fighting after that. He just kept grabbing his chest and fell over. That’s when I called 911. How did you know what to tell them?”

“I don’t know.”

And I didn’t know. I mean it didn’t take Columbo to figure out that Charles got walked in on in the middle of his date with Lara Croft. And when I saw that Dean was speechless, so to speak, I guess I just seized an opportunity. People often look back on the defining moments in their lives with a sense of regret and rightfully so. The, “I should have said this” or “I should have done that” sentiments are usually correct. In that rec center that afternoon, however, I did it exactly the way it should have been done.

“You owe me big.” I said.

Charles just looked me in the eye and nodded his head.

“You name it, bro.”

I woke up the next morning with a smile. You know how some days you just hop out of bed like you’ve been sleeping for a year and you feel like you did when you were a kid on the first day of summer vacation? It was like that. I jumped out of bed, took a shower, got ready and headed off to class. Charles was still sleeping when I left. I knew he would be happy to wake up to the gift I had left him. Right there in front of the 13 inch television we shared in our room was the PlayStation. Inside of it, Tomb Raider was ready to go. I even added a little note, which read, “I’ll be home by NOON. Enjoy!” We were the only ones who played video games in the rec center anyway and with Dean out of the way, I knew nobody would even notice it was gone.

Class that day was a breeze. Two of my professors had decided to show movies and the other one decided not to show up. In college, you give a professor exactly twelve minutes to report to class. At twelve minutes and one second, class was officially cancelled. At least for me it was. I used the free hour I had to sit in the quad, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and people watch. There are few places in the world more suited for people watching than a college quad. At any given moment you can have the pleasure of seeing a spectacular skateboard accident, some brilliant hackey sack maneuvers and a wind assisted skirt blown up all in the same location. Life was good.

When I walked back into our dorm room at exactly 12:01 that afternoon, Charles was nowhere to be found. I could tell that he appreciated my gift because he left me with a gift of his own. I grabbed it, dropped off my backpack and headed back out the door for my newest job interview.

The Schoenfeld Medical center was considerably less crowded that day than it had been the previous day. Still, I decided to head back down that stairwell I had found just twenty-five hours earlier. As I bounded down the stairs to the basement it was Journey, once again, accompanying my footsteps in my mind.

“Just a city boy. Born and raised in south Detroit. He took the midnight train goin’ anywhere…”

I emerged from the stairwell and walked down the hall to the open doors on the right.

“A singer in a smokey room. A smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can share the night. It goes on and on and on and on…”

Through the doors was a waiting room. There were a couple of students sitting there. Their heads buried in whatever they were pretending to read. I strutted up to the woman standing behind the counter.

“Workin’ hard to get my fill. Everybody wants a thrill. Payin’ anything to roll the dice just one more time.”

The woman behind the counter lifted her head and unenthusiastically greeted me. “May I help you?”

I smiled at her as I said, “Yes, I would like to donate my sperm for cash.”

“Don’t stop believing. Hold on to that feeling.”

Now I know that I told you earlier that with the amounts of controlled substances floating through my body that year, the only thing you would have been able to get from any of my body fluids would have been a confession to the DEA. I did say that and that was true. But I also told you that I had a plan.

You see, donating sperm can be quite a lucrative endeavor. If the sperm bank deems your little swimmers worthy, you can donate them up to four times per week. Each deposit is worth $175 dollars. You do the math. The problem is that most men cannot pass their stringent tests. The perfect candidate would have to live a completely clean life void of any controlled substances. He would not be able to drink. He would not be able to have sex, as it would lower the sperm count on his deposits. Basically, he would have to be kind of a straight edged hermit who only lives to jerk off. Fortunately for me, I just happened to live with such a candidate and he just happened to owe me a favor.

I filled out the questionnaire the woman behind the counter handed me as dishonestly as I could and eagerly handed it back to her. She handed me a plastic cup and with the unsexiest voice imaginable said, “Go into that room and deposit your sperm in this.”

“No problem.” I said as I snatched the cup from her hand and made my way into the “milking chamber.”

Any brilliantly crafted plan is going to have a speed bump or two. In mine, it had to do with smuggling Charles’s sperm into that sperm bank. I won’t get into any graphic details but we’ll just say that all it took was a little Ziploc baggie, some tape, a pair of rubber gloves and my shaved inner thigh to keep those little fuckers warm. The only other tricky part was figuring out how long to wait in the room before coming out to give her the sample. Too quick would seem suspicious. Too long would seem creepy. After four minutes, I emerged, cup in hand.

“It takes about a week to get the results. We’ll call you.” She said.

“Take your time.” I replied. I handed her the cup and walked out the door.

I had a smile on my face. I had a bounce in my step. I had just nailed my job interview and was about to be making some easy money. It would have been perfect had I not seen Candace as I stepped into the hallway. For a moment we both just stopped and eyed each other. It must have looked like one of those old spaghetti westerns where the hero and the villain face off in the middle of the street except in my case; the villain was a tall, pudgy woman who bared an amazing resemblance to Johnny Depp. She looked at the open door way from which I had just exited. Then, as the realization sunk in for her, she laughed under her breath and walked on by. Goddammit.

That week went by quickly. When the sperm bank called to inform me that my donation was healthy and that I could begin my deposits immediately, I was ecstatic. It was to be the best job I had ever and would ever have.
That fall and winter flew by. I was making money, enjoying life and the new Resident Advisor stayed out of our business. By the way, we never pressed charges against Dean so they threw out the case. I can be a prick but I can’t be that big of a prick. Besides, I’m told that a little jail time is good for the soul.

Charles and I had our routine down. He would do the heavy lifting, so-to-speak, and I would reap the benefits. The only downside was the occasional bumping into of Candace in the medical center basement. Every time I would see her I would either ignore her altogether or tell her something witty and mean like, “It looks like you’ve been eating Gilbert Grape.” I even started to look forward to our serendipitous encounters. How could I still be mad? If it weren’t for her, I would have still been working in that dungeon of a copy center. If the satisfaction she would get by seeing me emerge from the spank bank was enough to light up her miserable life and make her smile at me, so be it.

People reminisce about the joys of college for many different reasons. Some people remember the independence. Others remember the feeling of invincibility that age yields. Some remember the friendships, which were created. Me? I remember the parties. Huge, borderline-out-of-control ragers, where the music never stopped playing and the alcohol never stopped flowing. Where drugs were dispensed like relief aid to the impoverished citizens of sobriety. Where a relationship could run its entire course in a single evening. From introduction to courtship to consummation to separation. Where complete strangers would slip out of their daily lives to gather on a location for the same immediate goal; fun.

I’ve been told that that kind of thinking is juvenile. I’ve been told that that kind of thinking is dangerous. I’ve been told that that kind of thinking is wrong. And that is exactly why I look back on it so fondly. Because it’s not like we weren’t thinking. We just didn’t give a shit.

Spring quarter always brought on the best parties. The weather would start to warm up and the clothes would start to come off. As much as people would like to believe that humans are somehow above the primal impulses of the animal kingdom, one only needs to examine a college party in the spring to know that is complete bullshit.

It was a warm Thursday night when I decided to attend such a party. It was huge. Some ex-fraternity guys who had rented a nine-bedroom house decided to blow off some steam and everybody was invited. There was a band in the living room and a DJ in the dining room. There were kegs in all three kitchens and jungle juice in all five bathrooms. Did I say it was huge? By the time I arrived there were already, at least, three hundred people there and by the look of it, alcohol was not the only mind-altering substance on the premises. You can usually tell the drugs a person is on by the dancing. When people are drunk, they dance off beat. When people are on a hallucinogenic, they dance to anything; car horns, crickets, air. Judging by the people dancing in the front lawn of the house, my money was on mushrooms. Yum.

I already had about six cocktails in me when the ‘shrooms started to kick in. I made my way through the sea of people, greeting the ones I knew and meeting the ones I didn’t. I was having a blast, drinking, smoking, snorting and basically consuming anything anyone put in front of me. They say that it is never a good idea to mix drugs and that is partially true. What they should, but never will, say is that you need to mix the right drugs. Coke and alcohol? Yes. Mushrooms and weed? Absolutely. Coke and alcohol and mushrooms and weed? Now you’re pushing it. And that is exactly what I was doing. Pushing it. To say my judgment was a little off would be like saying Kurt Cobain was a little depressed. I was ripped. Looking back on that night, I actually wish I had done just a little bit more. At least that way, I would have passed out, overdosed or got arrested. Anything would have been better than what actually happened. I can’t, for the life of me, remember much of what happened late that night but I do remember running into Candace. Then I remember going home with her.

You know you had too much when you wake up the next morning still fucked up. I found myself staring up at a ceiling fan, not sure if it was actually turned on or if it was still the drugs and alcohol making it look that way. I scanned the room I had never been in before then realized the truth. I was lying naked in Candace’s bed. She was lying naked next to me. And she was snoring. Son-of-a-bitch.

I managed to sneak out of her apartment without waking her. Good thing too. I can’t imagine what I would have possibly said to her if she woke. “This was a mistake? I had way too much to drink and smoke? I loved you in 21 Jump Street?” I am thankful that the only thing I had to deal with that morning was my own crippling shame and the gnawing hangover that was slowly creeping into my head.

By the following Monday, everything went back to normal. Charles and I kept our routine and the foggy memory of that night slowly began to fade. I only saw Candace a couple times after that night. We would pass by each other in the hallway like we never knew each other and we never spoke of that night.

College seemingly grew better with each passing year. I enjoyed lots of parties, lots of substances and lots of girls. Charles and I stayed roommates until we graduated. The saddest day for me was the day he told me that he was going to move to Argentina to find Michelle and that I was going to have to find another job. Nothing good can last forever. Last I heard, they got married. That was thirteen years ago.

I never saw Candace again and, to tell the truth, never really thought of her again until just four weeks ago. I received an email from a “Candace Wallace M.D.” and in the subject line it read, “SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW.” Her email was very vague but in it she stated that there was something extremely important that she had to tell me and requested that I visit her and she left an address. Now I know what you’re thinking. It was the same thing I was thinking. What “important something” could a woman possibly tell a man thirteen years after their only time together? Motherfucker.

Her home was a two-hour drive from where I live. Those two hours were brutally painful. Thoughts ran through my head like a freight train. “Why would she do this?” “What does she want from me?” “How did she find me?” “Goddamn Facebook.”

I pulled up to her home early in the afternoon on a Saturday. She had done well for herself. A million dollar home in a million dollar neighborhood. When she answered the door, I almost did not recognize her. What was once a fat, Johnny Depp look-alike had transformed into a skinny, plastic, Johnny Depp look-alike. She had become one of these women you see on those reality housewives shows. Faces pulled, lips injected, tits inflated shell of a real human. She still had that condescending smile, however. “How are you?” She said. Not in a sincere kind of way. More like the way you see doctors ask on those drug intervention shows. “I’m fine.” I replied. “What do you have to tell me?” I saw no reason for small talk.

She welcomed me inside her home. It was pristine and cold like a museum. The more I looked around the more I got the feeling that nothing in this woman’s life was real. From the never-before-sat-on furniture to the post modernism art on the walls, the house screamed pretension. She sat me down on the couch.

“I wasn’t going to tell you but I felt that you should know.”

“Know what?”

“I don’t want anything from you I just couldn’t let you go through life without knowing.”

“Knowing what?”

“Jesus, my husband even said that it wouldn’t be a good idea seeing how he’s better off without you.”

“Who? Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your son. You have a son. We have a son.”

I knew she was going to say that but when your worst nightmare seems the obvious answer, you’ll pray for the long shot. I was clinging to the hope that she might say that she got my copy center job back. My heart sank. Of all the girls and all the parties why did it have to be that one? I didn’t know what to say. She put her hand on my shoulder.

“How could this have happened?” I said as I buried my head in my hands.

“I don’t want anything from you.” She said.

“How could I have been so stupid?”

“I just had to get this off my chest. I had to tell you.”
“I never should have let this happened.”

“You? I’m the one who impregnated myself.” She answered.

“Yeah but I was so fucked up that night and…wait, what did you say?”

She looked at me with that fucking smile. “Well, I think it is safe to say that you and I both know that we had chemistry but it was never meant to be.”

“What?”

“Realistically speaking, I was going to be a doctor and you were just a burn out who couldn’t even hold a job at the copy center. It would have never worked out. I mean look at you.”

I didn’t know whether to be offended by her remarks or confused by what she was telling me. I must have been invisible because she just kept going on like I wasn’t even fucking there.

“Still, I have to be honest, I had the biggest crush on you. You know how stupid kids can be. After that party that night, I was absolutely obsessed with you. Doesn’t that sound stupid now? Anyway, I knew I was about to transfer later that quarter and I knew that you had been visiting the Schoenfeld Cryobank regularly and I just decided to go for it.”

“Go for what?” My outlook on life was having a sudden shift again.

“Your profile. Your sperm. I impregnated myself with your sperm.”

“What about that night at the party?”

She covered her mouth as she started laughing at me. “The party? Oh dear, you weren’t in any condition to do anything at that party. I’m surprised you didn’t overdose. We got to my apartment and you passed out.

I wish I could have had a camera to take a picture of my face at that moment. Pure bliss.

“So you decided to impregnate yourself with the sperm deposits I was making all that time?”

“Yes, that is what I’ve been trying to tell you. But don’t beat yourself up over it. It really is better that you’re not in your son’s life. Not in your shape.” She said.

Goddammit if I didn’t want to kiss that fat-turned-skinny, plastic bitch right there on the couch. I jumped up to my feet. “You know what, Candace? You’re absolutely right. I am in no shape to be in junior’s life but just let me take a peek at the lil’ bastard and I’ll be on my way.”
Candace looked stunned. Just as I had realized that all she wanted to do was give me some kind of sick sadistic final fuck you to me, she realized that I didn’t give a shit. She slowly got up from the couch.

“C’mon, I won’t let him know his daddy is here. I just wanna see him. Give me a memory to go back to my shitty existence with.” I grabbed her by the hand.

“He’s probably in the den playing video games. You can take a quick look but then you should probably go after that.” She said.

She walked me through a series of hallways leading to their den. When we approached the huge den at the end of the hallway, I could see a young teenager sitting on the floor. I could hardly contain myself when I saw that the little fucker was playing Tomb Raider on his PlayStation 3. “Son of a bitch.” I whispered. “If that is not the craziest shit I have ever seen.” I turned back to Candace. “Let me ask you something. How is his singing voice?” She looked at me shocked.

“Actually, he’s in the choir at school.”

“Yep, that voice must come from his daddy.”

I started laughing and it was the first time in a long time that I couldn’t stop laughing. I walked back down the hallway, covering my mouth and laughing. Candace tried to hush me but I just couldn’t stop laughing. I made it to the front door before I stopped and turned around to Candace one final time.

“Candace. Thank you for giving me the greatest gift a woman can give a man. I wish you and your family a nice life.”

I turned and walked out the door. I got into my car and headed home and as I looked back on the memories I had made those four years in college, I just couldn’t stop laughing.

THE END

I had to go in early to the copy center the next day. When I got back from dinner that night, I had a message on my answering machine from my manager, Dennis, requesting a meeting. This seemed strange as it would be the first meeting we would have in the two years I had worked at the copy center. Still, I paid no mind to it. I figured I could use the extra hours to bump the puny little bi-weekly paycheck I got from sup-poverty to full blown poverty.

I arrived at the medical center at 11:00 – Two full hours earlier than I normally arrived. I had never been to the medical center before lunch. If I had, my opinion of it certainly would have been different. It was like a real hospital. People were actually working. Doctors and nurses and students scurried up and down its halls like they had some place to be with urgent matters to resolve. I suppose in the world of medicine, the hours of operation stop right after noon or, more accurately, right before tee time.

Unlike the dorms, the medical center’s elevators were pristine; huge, vault-like boxes that could quickly and without stench, escort its passengers from floor to floor. Normally, my trip down to the basement was a solitary ride but as I stood there waiting for the doors to open, I realized that I would not be alone on this trip. People began gathering in front of the elevator doors, staring up at the arrows, waiting for them to light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. I’m not what you would call a claustrophobic person but I have never felt comfortable in tight quarters with strangers. Call it what you want, I just feel that if you are going to pretend that the people standing next to you in the elevator are not there, you might as well make them not there. I decided to look for the stairwell.

The stairwell leading down to the basement opened to a corner of the hospital I had never before been. I was used to the quiet confines of the southwest corner where ne’er a group would gather. Where the rooms were always locked behind solid core doors and the only people who had keys to them were the same people who kept the floors clean. This corner was different. The hallway buzzed with activity. The doors were all open and people would emerge from them with charts and files and just as soon as they would emerge from one open door, they would disappear into another. As I walked down the hallway, I read the tapestry of notices and bulletins tacked to the cork boards which stretched down the hall.

“Sign up now for flu shots.”

“Volunteers needed for experimental treatments.”

“Sperm donors wanted.”

“Donate your eggs for cash.”

“Get paid to relieve your allergies.”

And on and on they went. There must have been thirty-five linear feet of advertisements targeting those who did not subscribe to the “my body is a temple” school of thought. I imagined hoards of college kids lined up in stables like dairy cows, each one hooked up to a different machine poking, pulling and prodding them as they waited patiently for their medical center check. I smiled as I made my way into the maze of basement hallways.

There is nothing worse than having a sudden mood shift. For some people it happens without cause. It is like their brain is a traffic light with no yellow. One second, life is swell and peaceful. The next it is not worth living. I am told it is called a chemical imbalance although I am not sure how they came up with that name as it is impossible to measure chemicals in the brain without cutting it open. Who knows, maybe these people volunteered for the medical center. However, there is also another type of mood shift; one that does not happen so internally. It is triggered in response to an external stimulus like seeing a child crawling into a polar bear den at the zoo or, in my case, seeing Candace standing at the end of the hallway with my manager, Dennis.

As I walked toward them I replayed the Candace incident from the previous day in my head, preparing my argument. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to get chastised for not giving exemplary customer service. I was going to get reprimanded for telling one of our “esteemed” medical students to kiss my ass. I was going to get…

“You’re fired.” Dennis said.

I couldn’t believe the nerve of this asshole. Not so much that he would fire me, but that he would do it in front of the bitch who got me fired.

“For what?” I replied. I already knew what the reason was. I was just trying to buy myself some time to try to figure a way out of it.

“For refusing to make Dr. Schoenfeld’s copies. Do you even know who that is?”

That was the second time I was asked that question in less than twenty four hours. He must have been pretty important. I still didn’t give a shit.

“We were closed.” I said. “And I made that perfectly clear to her too. What am I supposed to do, work overtime so Dr. Schoen-whatever can have some book copies to examine on a Wednesday night?”

“It’s Dr. Schoenfeld.” Candace blurted out of her fat Johnny Depp-shaped face. “And since this medical center was constructed from his donations, I think you could have made an exception.”

I could feel myself losing the argument. I, apparently, was ill prepared. “How am I supposed to know who Dr. Schoenfield is?” I asked.

“Feld. Dr. SchoenFELD.” Dennis said. “Are you serious? It’s on the name of the building. Schoenfeld Medical Center.”

Damn. Now I really felt like a tool. Not for getting fired. Not for not knowing who Dr. Shit-for-brains was. I felt like a tool for letting this go on as long as it did. Sun Tzu wrote, “Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.” I got up, shook Dennis’s hand, nodded an apologetic nod to Candace and walked away. I made it about ten feet down the hallway before I stopped and turned back to them.

“Hey!” I said.

They attentively turned towards me.

“Go fuck yourselves!”

So much for Sun Tzu.

It goes without saying that my trip back across campus that day sucked. It was the first time I had ever been fired from a job. I once heard that there are some things everybody must do at least once in their lifetime. Kick somebody’s ass. Get fired from a job. Fall in love. Now that I am older, I definitely agree with, at least, two of those. But at the time I was desperately broke. I needed to figure out a way to earn some money. Another campus job was out of the question. Although warning misbehaving kids that, “this will go down on your permanent record” is total bullshit, it does hold true at state universities. I even considered some of those advertisements in the medical center basement but that was quickly ruled out. With as many substances as I had running through my body at the time, the only thing I was qualified to donate were cautionary tales. I didn’t know what to do. By the time I got home I had exactly zero ideas. If it weren’t for the distraction of seeing the ambulance and police cars parked in front of my dorm I may have even had a real life anxiety attack.

They must have just gotten there. Nobody was in the ambulance and the masses had only just begun to gather. I quickly entered the stairwell and bound up the stairs to my floor. With each passing step, the knot in my stomach tightened. Remember the intuition thing? Well it was happening again.

I reached my floor and opened the door to the hallway which led to the rec center. I would like to say that I was surprised to see my floor was where all the action was but I wasn’t. I knew it.

A cop came up to me to turn me away but I told him I lived there and he let me go by. In the rec center I saw Dean, gasping for air, on a stretcher. He had EMT’s administering something to him through an IV. Through their bodies, I could see him. He had a mask over his face and his eyes were wide and panicked. He turned his head and we made eye contact. Dean desperately tried to speak but all that came out was wheeze. He tried to sit up but the EMT’s pushed him back down on the stretcher. He tried to motion his arm toward me but the handcuffs locked around his wrist held him tight to the rail of the stretcher.

In the other corner I could see Charles. His shirt was soaked with sweat. His head was down and he was slumped in a chair. A cop was taking his statement. Charles lifted his head and he saw me.

Have you ever done mushrooms before? Have you ever done them with other people? If so, you probably know what I’m talking about when I say that it is possible to completely communicate with another human being without saying a single word. You can read each others’ minds just by making eye contact. I know it sounds silly but you don’t have to take my word for it. If you’ve never done them, ask somebody who has. Then go get yourself some mushrooms.

Up until that moment with Charles, I had only done it while high on mushrooms and with other people high on mushrooms. Charles had never done mushrooms before. Charles had never done anything before. Yet there we were, locked eyes and in complete understanding with one another.

“He’ll tell you.” Charles said to the cop as he nodded in my direction.

The cop turned to see me standing there looking back at him. He pointed to Dean.

“Do you know that man?”

I turned to look at Dean. His eyes, still wide, were staring right back at me. A rush of excitement filled my body. I turned back to the cop.

“Yeah, that’s Dean. He’s our Resident Advisor.”

“Have you ever witnessed him exhibiting any inappropriate sexual behavior?”

I paused for a moment to look back at Dean. The look in his eye was pure panic. He tried to talk but only air was coming out from behind the mask. I looked back at Charles.

All I could think about was everybody who shit on me in the past twenty-four hours. Fat assed Candace and her condescending smile. Dennis and his righteous indignation. Dean and that fucking sound of his inhaler.

I looked the cop in the eye.

“Yes, he’s done things to us. Many times. It’s true.”

Had it not been for the handcuffs Dean would have jumped straight out of that stretcher. He squirmed as the EMT’s restrained him. He made the sound a slashed tire would make if it could breathe.

“Okay.” The cop said. “We’re going to need you to give us a statement.”

“I can do that.”

You may be asking yourself how I could possibly frame an innocent man for a crime he did not commit simultaneously protecting the man who did.

Well, you see, I had a plan.

To be concluded…

My room was on the ninth floor of the dorm. Unless I was injured or really really high, I usually took the stairs. The elevators in dormitories are akin to elevators in the projects. Never inspected and often smelling of vomit and hair product, the elevators were not a pleasant way to travel vertical. Plus the stairs provided me with the only real exercise I would have for that year. I would jog up the stairwell, listening to the echoing clangs of my footsteps against the metal steps and would think of a song. Somehow the beat always matched. That night it was no coincidence that the song was Journey’s.

Dean was our Resident Advisor. He had asthma. It would not take someone longer than ten minutes of knowing him to figure that out. He was constantly sucking on his inhaler. He would go through cartridges of Albuterol like they were Pez. Dean was your typical R.A. Mid twenties; kind of a prick. He was the kind of person who could find joy in Bible studies and philanthropic endeavors and even more joy in chastising those who didn’t. I usually tried to avoid him. When I reached my floor that night, I was surprised to see him standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his typical RA uniform; khaki shorts, hiking boots which looked every bit used as they were, plaid flannel tucked in behind a brown braided belt. He greeted me with his canned enthusiasm. “Slow down, Prefontaine. The Olympics are still a few months away!”

“Hey, Dean. You taking the stairs now?” I asked. I believe most people are not as stupid as they seem during small talk. When confronted with the dilemma of speaking with somebody you don’t care to speak to or just ignoring them completely, stupidity is what most often comes out. That was certainly the case with me.

“No, I came to see where all the racket was coming from. First I’m hearing your roommate singing up a storm, then I hear your commotion up the stairwell. Good thing it’s not finals week. I wouldn’t want to have to write you guys up again.” He gave a condescending smile as he took a drag off his inhaler. He lived for moments like this.

“Singing?” I asked. “He was just singing?”

“Yes, singing. Loudly I might add. When I got to the rec room, it looked like he was just finishing up.” He said.

“More than you know.”

I slipped past Dean and stepped into the short hallway leading to the rec room to see if Charles was there. The rec room was empty.

“Anyway, I told him the same thing I’m going to tell you. There are students living here and it is my job to make sure that the living conditions support a learning environment. That environment gets polluted when there is a lot of noise, understand?”

I smiled as I contemplated how much noise would be made if I pushed him down the stairwell. “Yes, I understand.” I replied. “It was great talking to you, Dean. I’ll make sure we keep the noise to a minimum. You take care now.”

I turned and as I walked down the hall, I could feel him watching me leave. He said nothing. The only thing I heard was the sudden burst of his inhaler giving him his life sustaining medicine. Like Darth Vader, but pathetic and queer.

Charles was folding clothes when I entered our dorm room. His shirt was still wet with sweat from his “singing practice” and he was whistling a tune. “We gotta talk.” I said as I sat down on my bed. “What did you get busted for?”

Up until that point in our friendship, I did not care to know. He had tried telling me once before. About a month after we first moved in, we were up late one night talking. I was trying to sober up after a late night of partying and Charles, I suppose, thought that would be a good time to come clean. He got as far as, “I am a convicted sex offender” before I passed out. That was the only time he spoke of it, until I asked. He looked at me puzzled. “Why do you want to hear this story again? It’s not like it’s any good or anything.” Charles did not know that I did not know. Sober people can never fully appreciate what it truly means to be in an altered state of consciousness. Sure, you can reach levels of contentment and serenity through breathing practices and meditations but to really understand how the physical universe exists independently from the mental universe, chemicals need to be involved. The night Charles told me of his ordeal, I might not have been sleeping but certainly I was in another place. I remember nothing. “Tell me again.” I said.

“When I was in high school, I worked at a skating rink. I started in rentals but after a couple months I was moved to the DJ booth. Of course I hated it because I had to play the shitty music twelve year olds want to hear. I mean, who the hell skates to Mariah Carey? By senior year, I couldn’t take it anymore and I was going to quit. Then they hired Michelle. You know how people say there is no such thing as love at first sight? Well that’s bullshit, bro. It may not happen to everybody but it does happen and I’m living proof. She worked at the snow cone stand and I tell you, she was an angel. I couldn’t even talk to her for the first month. Every time I would try, I would just get all stupid and I would start sneezing. It was weird. Well one night, after everybody had left and we were closing up, Michelle comes up to the booth to request a song. It was like a John Hughes movie, man. Something just sparked. We hung out in that DJ booth and just listened to the song and stared at each other. It was incredible. After that night, I picked up every shift I could when she was working and every night, after everybody left, we would go into the booth and play songs. That was the best Summer of my life, til one night, it all went bad. Michelle’s dad came early to pick her up and he caught us, bro.”

Charles just sat there, staring at the floor.

“Caught you doing what?” I asked.

“Making love, dude. What do you think?”

“In the DJ booth?”

“Right there in the fucking DJ booth. Anyway, he grabbed her, took off and next thing I know I’m getting arrested and they’re moving to Argentina. I never saw her again.”

“Why would you get arrested for that?” I asked. “She was fifteen, man. I was nineteen. Statutory rape.” Charles’s lip started to quiver as he could barely finish his sentence. Tears were welling up in his eyes. I actually felt bad for the guy. Here I was thinking he had some kind of sordid sexual past when really he was just a kid in love. Then I remembered the game. “Wait, what the fuck does that have to do with you jerking off to Tomb Raider?” I said. “Lara looks just like Michelle. Even though she’s just a game, any time I see her, I see Michelle. I can’t help it, I love her.” He said.

Then Charles stood up, composed himself, and slowly walked out of the room. At that moment, I wished I was fucked up again.

Tomb Raider Wii

I once had a roommate named Charles. Charles loved video games. While most college students were spending their time discovering their favorite drugs, drinks and sexual practices, Charles spent his nights playing video games. He didn’t drink. He didn’t use. He didn’t need to. Charles was the kind of person everybody just assumed was as high as a plane over Amsterdam. Everything he did was high. The way he talked was high. The way he moved was high. The way he played video games, well you get the idea. He liked Tomb Raider – a lot. He played it – a lot. He beat the game 67 times but would continue to start it over and beat it again. I used to tell him that the only reason he played that game was because he was in love with Lara Croft. She’s the main character in the game for those who don’t know. I guess, with computer graphics the way they are these days, a man could fall in love with a video game. People obsess about celebrities all the time. Obsessing over a realistic looking video game celebrity is no different. But this was 1996. Graphics were just starting to develop. As big as her tits were in the game, they were still just polygons. As far as I was concerned, anyone who could be aroused by geometric shapes had real issues. So it made it especially weird when I came home from class one day to find Charles on his knees in front of the TV, controller in one hand, Charles in the other.

Walking in on somebody playing with himself is never a comfortable situation; for both parties. Notice I wrote, “himself.” The only time girls get walked in on playing with themselves is in porn and even then it is unbelievable.

I wish I could say that he was just playing with himself to a video game and it was awkward. I wish I could say that. Unfortunately for me, he was not just doing that. He was also singing; beautifully. I had no idea he could sing so well. How could I? We did not go to karaoke bars back then. Unless your friend was in a band or in a choir or something, you had no way of knowing if he could sing. These days, everybody sings. People aren’t bashful anymore. Everybody wants to be the next American Idol. It’s 10:15 in the morning as I write this and I’ve already heard 7 people sing today. Back then, even if you could sing, you kept your mouth shut until somebody gave you a microphone and a stage; or in Charles’s case, a controller and some alone time.

I don’t know if it was shock from witnessing the masturbation or shock from witnessing the angelic a cappella but I stood there silent. I was trapped. What the hell was I supposed to do? If I turned and walked out, he would hear me and it would be awful. If I said something like, “Would you please not masturbate to a video game?” he would hear me and it would be awful. Either way it was going to be awful. I had the kind of dread felt only by the insanely drunk and nauseous. Didn’t want to throw up, couldn’t close my eyes. I don’t know how much time had passed but suddenly I had a thought. What’s weirder here; a guy kneeling in front of the television, jerking off to a video game and singing Journey’s ‘Open Arms’? Or the guy watching it? By the way, he was singing Journey’s “Open Arms.” I know.

“We sailed on together. We drifted apart. And here you are by my side…..So now I come to you, with open….”

“I got next game,” I said as I sat down on the couch. It was all I could think to do. I couldn’t let him go into the chorus. That would be pathetic. Charles, clearly stunned by my presence and my reaction, wheeled around like, well, like a guy getting caught jerking off and belting out Steve Perry tunes. He must have been there “playing” for some time because the sweat shot off his spinning head like a lawn sprinkler. It reminded me of my childhood summers. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TIL SIX!!!” Charles screamed. “You’re not supposed to masturbate in public…” I answered. “…and it is six.” Day light savings time really can be an inconvenience when forgotten. “Put your pants on before Dean gets here. Resident Advisors tend to freak out when convicted sex offenders pound their pud in a fucking rec center.” Did I mention Charles had a history? And we lived in a dorm?

Dinner that night was weird. Usually, Charles would spend the entire meal in a tirade about some uncontestable topic, like how important water is for all of us. But on that night, he said nothing. He just sat there, eating his salisbury steak in an uncomfortable silence only a guilty man can know. He did not know it at the time but I really did not care. What was the harm? Everybody masturbates and everybody has fantasies. Many of which are much more perverse than a 32 bit serenade. But I said nothing. Something sadistic inside me enjoyed watching him writhe in the shards of his own broken ego. The entire night was spent in silence.

I worked most afternoons at the student copy center; a hole at the end of a hallway in the basement of the medical center. The money sucked and the hours were terribly insufficient but it was the best I could find at the time. The fact that it was in the medical center wasn’t bad either. You never knew when some stressed out, over worked, under slept med student was going to have a nervous breakdown and do something newsworthy you just had to see. Believe me, it happens more than they want you to know. The copy center is really only busy for two weeks; the first and last weeks of the quarter. That is when the students get the lecture notes. The smart ones do it at the beginning of the quarter. The super smart ones do it at the end because one week and a photographic memory trump a work ethic in school any day. During the middle of the quarter, things would get so boring I would have to huff the compressed air dusters just to keep my sanity. Word to the wise; don’t inhale it directly from the can. When air molecules expand, they cool and nothing screws up a buzz faster than frozen lungs.

It was a Wednesday in the middle of fall quarter when I first met Candace; a second year med student who looked like a huge female version of Johnny Depp. She stood almost six feet tall and looked like she could play nose tackle for the football team. She was interning in the Obstetrics and Gynecology Department of the medical center and was given the esteemed task of photocopying a textbook titled, “The Epidemiology, Pathology, Diagnosis and Treatment for Sexually Transmitted Disease.” It was a 700 page educational document with more disturbing images than a concentration camp donkey show. She slammed the book down on the counter. “I need pages two hundred fifty through four hundred seventy eight copied and I need it by the end of the afternoon,” she said. For a moment I just stared at her, fantasizing about punching her in her massive man-pretty face. Copy center work is easy work; until you have to copy a book. The monotony of copying one page at a time over and over can bring a man to madness and this bitch just asked me to do it two hundred twenty eight times. “Hello? Did you hear me? I need this copied by the end of the day!” she bellowed. “You’ll need to get a release form signed by a department head,” I answered as I slid the form across the counter. “That book is copyrighted and copying over twenty-five percent of copyrighted material is illegal without signing a copyright release form.” She stood there a moment, her eyes oscillating down to the form, up to me, back down to the document, back up to me. “Are you serious?” she asked. “No, I knew you’d come down here one day asking me to copy hundreds of pages of herpes and gonorrhea photos so I drew up this phony document to buy myself ten more minutes of my life. Yes, I’m serious.” I slid the document farther across the counter until it pushed up against her swollen belly. She snatched the piece of paper, turned and made her way back down the hall from which she came. To this day I can’t tell you why but for some reason I leaned out over the counter to watch her leave. Maybe it was to savor the personal victory one so rarely gets to tell someone to fuck off right to their face. Maybe I have a thing for big chicks. Who knows. All I know is that she inexplicably turned right as I was focused on her khaki wedgie and before I could retreat my leaning body back into the copy center, I made eye contact with her. In one instant, my victory in a personal battle of wits was shattered by the satisfaction I gave a snotty overweight transvestite looking med student who thought I wanted to fuck her. She rolled her eyes and continued down the hall adding a little bounce in her wobble. Shit.

Two hours had passed and Candace had not come back. I only had ten minutes before the copy center closed and seeing that I had not had a customer since Candace, I decided to start closing early. Aside from the large solid core door which was to remain unlocked during business hours, the only opening to the outside world was the counter window. Campus copy centers are always designed so that they are either in basements or back corners of libraries and the ONLY windows are the counter windows; probably to squelch any impulse to daydream; or jump. I counted the modest stacks of one and five dollar bills in the register, wrapped a rubber band around them and inserted them in the “Billbo Bag.” That was the creative name my socially challenged manager, Dennis, gave to the locking zippered canvass bag with which we deposited our daily earnings. I put the Billbo Bag on the counter and pulled the heavy chain connected to the metal shade which sealed off the counter window. I never understood why securing copy centers involved such heavy duty protection. Even if somebody was to knock off a copy center, what were they going to take? The $34 cold cash in the Billbo Bag or the 3000 pound color copier which would have to be broken down to 1000 parts before it could fit out the door? I stared at the clock. Three minutes to clock out. I took a breath and held it. It was a game I often played with myself. Holding your breath for three minutes is tough, even if you first hyperventilate. Try doing it on only one breath.

I always felt it important to test myself with strange feats of endurance and pain tolerance. A childhood spent watching bad movies on HBO developed an obsession of never being caught in a situation where I would have made it out of the sinking vessel alive if only I could have held my breath a little longer. Two minutes thirty seconds. The trick is to relax and think about something pleasant; like sitting in a raft on a still pond in September. I closed my eyes and listened to my heartbeat. There are stories of people who can use their mind to slow their heartbeat to less than a few beats per minute. I don’t know how these people learned to do this. I could never get mine below 40. I glanced up at the clock. Don’t ever glance up at the clock. One minute thirty seconds. Shit, I broke my concentration. My chest started to twitch as my body’s breathing reflex began to say, what the fuck? I closed my eyes. This shall pass. I could feel my nasal passages, clogged and congested from the allergic reaction of copy center dust, begin to clear and expand. People spend billions of dollars a year on anti-histamines to clear their sinuses. All they need to do is hold their breath. Their bodies will do it for them. One minute. I was not sure if I was going to make it. My record, up to that point, was two minutes forty five seconds on a single breath. I still had forty five seconds to go and my chest was convulsing faster and faster. Looks like I might go down with the ship this time, I thought. Thirty seconds to go. Time does fly when you’re having fun. But it grinds to a fucking stand still when pain is involved. I once read about a plane crash that inverted a commercial airliner and sent it into a dive from 36,000 feet. It took only one minute thirty seconds to hit the ground but upside down and at a sixty five degree angle, it must have felt like a decade for the passengers. Fifteen seconds. I was almost home. It was just a matter of concentration and will at this point. I had tied my record and was going for glory. Just hold on for ten more…..BANG BANG BANG! I turned to see the metal shade of the counter window violently waving. Hallucinations are common when you deprive the brain of oxygen. I looked up at the clock. Five seconds. BANG BANG BANG! Four seconds. BANG BANG BANG! Three seconds. I was there. Two seconds. “What is the matter with you!?” I heard coming from the doorway behind me. “HHHUUUUGGHHH!!!!! I gasped as I turned to see fat assed Candace standing in the doorway which was to remain unlocked during business hours, holding her herpes book and a copyright release form. “Enjoying yourself?” she quipped. I couldn’t speak. I stood there heaving. When starved of its essentials, your body chooses your priorities for you. “Well, I got this formed signed by my department head so I’m going to need those copies before you leave today,” she said. I could not believe the nerve of this girl. Not only did she interrupt me one second short of greatness, she actually expected me to pull overtime for her. I waited a few more seconds to get my composure. “Sorry, we’re closed now so it is going to have to wait ‘til tomorrow,” I said. “It can’t wait. These copies are for Dr. Schoenfeld. Do you even know who that is? You’re just going to have to stay late today.” She replied.

Now I know that they say that business has lost its sense of customer service in the modern era. People always complain that in the race to do everything better, faster and more efficient, companies have forgotten that the customer is always right. To this I say go fuck yourself. Although I do agree that the quality of work has atrophied since the days of ma and pop, I believe that it is the customer who has really changed. People have been conditioned to believe that they are truly special and that their special needs are to be met at any time, in any place, by anybody. A sense of entitlement has descended on the populous like a flu pandemic. In the point and click, microwave, drive thru world we live in, people have forgotten that they too play a role in the customer merchant relationship and that role is to respect the rules and policies of the companies with which they chose to do business. And if the hours of operation posted say that the business closes at 5:30 and they arrive at said business at 5:30 with hours upon hours of work in their chubby little hands, then they need to turn their fat ass around, walk back down the hall from which they came, tell the department head that they fucked up and come back tomorrow like every-fuckin’-body else. But that is just my opinion.

“Sorry. We’re closed.” I said. Then I smiled and closed the door in her face.

Usually, my walk home after work was the best part of my day. I would smoke a joint and think about things that did not matter. The copy center was located on the opposite side of campus from the dorms so I would take my time, stoned and content, walking in the shadows of the gothic architecture. On a cold autumn night, it reminded me of London. I had never been to London but somewhere deep in my psyche was an image of long shadows, dried wind blown leaves and Jack the Ripper. The solitude of those walks granted me the only real time to think during my days. That night, however, felt different. I don’t know if it was the extra ten minutes I had to wait in silence behind the locked copy center door waiting for Candace to leave or the anxiety from waiting to find out if I would come home to another disturbing solo act from Charles but something felt off. I don’t believe people can be psychic but I do believe in intuition. There is a difference. Psychics claim they can foresee events in time like a movie. Like we are all part of some sort of cosmic Netflix network where every person’s movie is shown throughout all time yet only a handful of gifted psychics have memberships. Even the NBA is more inclusive. Intuition, on the other hand, is plausible. Our brains perceive and file subtle clues, indistinguishable to the conscious mind yet real and historic, to elicit a gut feeling. Like the feeling one gets when they are about to inherit money or get stabbed. The feeling is often the same.

To be continued…

Barack Obasketball

This week we got to bear witness to what I and many others consider an event long in the waiting. Some say historic. Others say life changing. Of course I am referring to the bitch slappin’ ass whoopin’ rim rockin’ beat down my University of Washington Huskies put on Marquette and the overrated University of New Mexico Lobos as they advanced to the Sweet 16. It was something to behold. Tonight they played West Virginia and although they did not win, they fought valiantly against a team that was clearly pushing the boundaries of performance enhancing drug use as well as an officiating staff who obviously had their second mortgages bet on the Mountaineers. At least that was my take on the game.

Secondarily, Health Care Reform was signed into law.

I figured this week’s piece should address one of these two monumental events. Since the only thing to say about UW’s rise and fall is, “Wow!” followed by, “Fuck you, refs!” I suppose I should write on the latter.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a real partisan guy. I think the Republicans are lying, self-serving assholes. I think the Democrats are lying, self-serving pussies. In my opinion, playing the political game is a lot like playing badminton. No matter what side you’re on, win or lose, you end up looking like a real schmuck.

I cannot think of a better way to demonstrate this fact than by listening to the arguments on both sides of this highly controversial issue.

Republican argument: “Health Care Reform is too costly! We don’t want to increase the deficit!”

Proof of Schmuck: You lying shit! All of a sudden, fiscal responsibility is a priority, huh? Where was that responsibility when Bush cut taxes? Where was that responsibility when we got into a $2 trillion dollar war with a bully in a sand box? Where was that responsibility when public option was on the table which, by the way, EVERY EXPERT ON THE PLANET has already said is the most cost effective way of providing health care? SCHHHHHMMMMUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!

Democrat argument: “We want to make sure every American has access to the best, most affordable health care and pre-existing conditions should not matter.”

Proof of Schmuck: You do? Ever heard of single payer? You have? Why didn’t you make it happen? Because of the existence of insurance companies? So what you are saying is that America cannot get the best, most affordable health care because we, as a country, have a pre-existing condition? SCHHHHHMMMMMUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!

Republican argument: “I don’t like the idea of government mandating my health care. It’s not constitutional. I have the right to choose!”

Proof of Schmuck: They want to take away a woman’s right to choose. SSSSSSCCCHHHHMUCK!

And on and on and on it goes. Back and forth, back and forth, swatting that metaphorical birdie over the net, both sides so focused on winning that they fail to realize that the game itself is queer.

Imagine how much would get done if the Republicans and the Democrats would stop being such schmucks. If they really wanted to provide the best health care for every person in this country without breaking the bank, the solution would be simple. Make a single payer system. Pay for it with an imposed “fat tax” on every hamburger sold from sea to shining sea. Think of it as expanding the “sin tax” they already nail to smokers and drinkers. Shit, heart disease is the number one cause of death in this country, followed by cancer and a whole list of shit fat people get. Maybe if a double cheeseburger went from 99 cents to 8 bucks, these fat bastards would think twice before ordering two. And for those that didn’t, their Mickey D’s tab would, at least, pay for the triple bypass.

I’m Jason LaCour and I endorse this message.

Better luck next year, Huskies. Damn you, West Virginia. Damn you straight to Hell.

Shame

If you are a regular visitor to Heavy Hitters, which you probably aren’t, you find a lot of bitching here. Bitching about comedy; bitching about television; bitching about movies; bitching about this planet of ours; bitching about Eric Somers and Mike Fellows. Okay, maybe there is no bitching about Eric Somers and Mike Fellows but there ought to be and thanks to me, now there is. And the bitching doesn’t start and stop here. When I think about it, most of the conversations I have with people in general could be summed up as bitching. Answer these questions in your head as quickly as you can: What do you think about the current state of popular music? Movies? Television? Comedy? How many of you summed up all of those things with the word, “sucks”? Since I can’t see all those hands raised, I’m going to assume all of you. Now, I’m no psychic here but it seems to me that as a whole, we the people are not real happy with the current state of things. What’s a person to do? Well, if popular culture could answer that as a collective voice, it would seem the answer would be to obsess and bitch and obsess some more. It is like we are all in one giant abusive relationship with the powers that be and we refuse to get out because every time our corporate owned, money grubbing, mind controlling, soul crushing, cock swinging sugar daddy puts his proverbial cigarette out on our foreheads, we know he’s just doing it out of love. Well shame on us.

We seem to have forgotten something, people. We are in control. The powers that be are here to serve our needs. Without us, they have nothing. Let me repeat that. WITHOUT US, THEY HAVE NOTHING.

And that brings me to my point. I think we need to bring back shame. Remember shame? That thing people brought on themselves with acts of indiscretion and works of ineptitude? I don’t like many old traditions but I gotta admit, shame holds a special place in my heart. Shame keeps things balanced. Shame keeps people in line. Shame keeps Heidi Montag off the air. Imagine how great it would be if we could start a pseudo-fame backlash. Anybody and I mean anybody who tries to get into the media without doing something of value gets shunned. SHUNNED. Shunned in public. Shunned on your homepage. Shunned on your television. Shunned. Do you really think shows like the Jersey Shore and Jon & Kate Plus 8 would get aired if nobody watched? The media doesn’t dictate what you watch. You do.

I have felt like this for some time but it wasn’t until recently that I felt I had to speak up about it. Do you want to know what did it? Gloria Allred. That cunt of a cunt lawyer who went on the air to demand a public apology from Tiger Woods after her porn star client knowingly committed adultery with him. SHUNNED! I fantasize of a time when Gloria and her attention whore client wouldn’t even be able to get their Starbucks in the morning because nobody would serve them. They would get heckled walking down the street and nobody would tape it. They would cry to nobody because even family wouldn’t be able to take them being in the same room.

Now I want to clarify. I’m not saying that Tiger Woods is innocent here. He definitely brought shame on himself. But, at least, he deserves to be in the spotlight. He’s the greatest golfer EVER and he cheated on his model wife. He should be in the media. The sluts who banged him should not. Fame should not be transferred with body fluids. These girls act like they are trying to clear the air but make no mistake, they wouldn’t be so forthright if the cameras weren’t rolling. These bitches act like they are doing something noble coming forward; like Spartacus for sluts.

Slutacus.

“I fucked Tiger Woods. I am Slutacus.” “No, I am Slutacus.” “No, I am Slutacus.” And we tune in and they get paid.

Because we now live in a world where shame and fame have become synonymous, lying, cheating and stealing has replaced talent, dedication and hard work. And we tune in and they get paid.

Rod Blagojevich, an elected public official, who has been up on corruption charges in the state of Illinois is on Celebrity Apprentice. CELEBRITY APPRENTICE!? And we tune in and he gets paid.

Well I’m not gonna take it anymore. I refuse to be spoon fed this bullshit. I refuse to be part of the problem. I am tuning out. It may cost me the occasional topical joke reference but that’s a small price to pay for the possibility of quality. Quality in entertainment. Quality in journalism. Quality in popular culture. Imagine if everything you saw on television or heard on the radio was based on the merit of the artist, not the sensationalism of the act.

I know it sounds like a tall order but it is actually quite simple. Just tune out. Turn your back on them literally and figuratively. It is empowering. Bitching turned into action. Action turned into change.

Who’s with me?

Ride

Being a stand-up comedian is a lot like dating a coke-head. Long nights full of fun and excitement, connected by soul crippling days of bitter disappointment and self pity. The emotional ups and downs of comedy make even the largest roller coaster look like “It’s a Small World.” One night they love you. The next night, you’re shit. One booker wants to work with you whenever possible. The next one bans you from his rooms. (Fuck you too, Monarch) One day you’re a comedy genius. The next day, you can’t write a single sentence. That’s the business. That’s the craft. I have learned not to get too excited or bummed about anything that happens. When it bombs, fuck it. When it kills, fuck it. The green rooms in comedy clubs should have a cardboard cutout of George Carlin drawing a straight line about four feet high which reads, “You must be this stable to get on this ride.”

Wow, I just went back and read that paragraph. It reads like some opening voice over in a Matt Damon movie. Like “Rounders” but for comedy…”Pounders.”

What am I trying to say here? What is my point? I have no fucking idea. It is Wednesday at 4:30 and I got a deadline. I really didn’t have much to say this week and I keep hearing and reading of other comics’ disappointment in the Last Comic Standing auditions.

Want to know how it went for me? I stood in line. I got rained on. I got hooked up. I got pulled out of line. I stood in another line. I waited in a room for three hours. I got to audition. I got to see the camera crew and Greg Giraldo laugh silently. I got one minute. I got cut-off. I got told I was too dark. I got told my setups were too long. I got told it was funny but since I already got two “no’s” it doesn’t matter. I got exit interviewed. I got rushed outside. I got to see an 80 year old woman get a pass. I got to go home. I got to do a show that night at Jon Lovitz. I got to do the same set. I got five applause breaks in ten minutes. “Remain seated please. permanecer sentados por favor .”

That’s the business in a nutshell. Anybody who gets into stand-up comedy for any reason other than to express exactly what is in their mind is wasting their time. I often hear comics say, “When I get famous…” When you get famous? Even famous comedians aren’t really that famous. When was the last time you saw Jerry Seinfeld or Chris Rock on the cover of US Weekly? If you’re in this game for fame, quit. If you’re in this game for money, quit. If you’re in this game for prestige, quit and then go kill yourself for being such an idiot. I wish more people would.
Quit, not kill themselves.

I used to own a business. My sales reps would go door to door. We sold all kinds of shit. That’s not important. What is important is that, believe it or not, door to door sales has a lot of turnover. We had this joke; say you were training a new guy named Ted but Ted didn’t come in one day because he didn’t sell anything the day before. “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “Ted.” “Ted, who?” “That’s the business.” I, fucking, love that joke.

Had you told me ten years ago that in ten years, I’d be doing stand-up comedy and selling shit door to door was the ultimate training for it I would have told you that you were crazy…then I would have pitched you; and I would have sold you too. If you think I can write, you should see me sell. Door to door sales, like comedy, has too many swings for all but the most dedicated.

So what is the lesson? What is the point? I guess the point that I am trying to make is this: Fuck Last Comic Standing! I hate that fucking show! I can’t wait to go down to the live taping of the finale and fire bomb the whole fucking theater! Then they’ll be sorry they ever said “no” to me. Oh yeah, they’re gonna be sorry! AND IT’S GONNA BE FUNNY! SO VERY FUNNY! AND WE CAN ALL LAUGH AT HOW FUNNY IT IS! HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Hang in there, dedicated comics. You never know when the next door is going to be gold…or, at least, a chick getting out of the shower.

Last Comic Standing

This weekend is the open auditions for Last Comic Standing. Rather than bore you with a tirade about how the show makes stand-up comedy impotent and diluted and how much it taints the art of stand-up comedy, I thought I’d give you the set I plan to audition with. Hey, fuck you. I don’t see you selling out my shows. You motherfuckers don’t even come out when the admission is free. By the way, email me to get on the guest list for Saturday night at the ten o’clock Jon Lovitz show. I’m gonna kill! As Barack Obama once told me, “A brother’s gotta get paid.” It’s two to three minutes and it has to be clean. For you comedy aficionados out there, notice how taking the curse words out of this set neuters the set entirely. Clean show my ass. Fuck you, Cosby! Anyway, without further adieu, ladies and gentlemen, Jason LaCour!

“So, predicting the end of the world has become cool again. I don’t get why these Doomsdayers waste their time with this crap. I mean, are these people so self-righteous that the last thing they want to hear before they die is, “good call?” “Apocalypse, bro. You frickin’ nailed it.” And they’re persistent too. “December 21, 2012! It all comes down December 21, 2012!” These are the same people who were running in the streets just 10 years ago yelling, “Y2K! Y2K!” How dumb do you have to be to believe 10 years is enough time passed for people to forget just how dumb you were 10 years ago? That takes a special kind of stupid.

Of course, this time it’s different because ancient civilizations predicted it. That’s what they say. Ancient civilizations? Really? You mean to tell me that these ancient civilizations were so wise that they knew, to the day, when the world was going to end 5000 years into the future but not one of these dudes had any idea their own civilization was about to go tits up? Maybe these Mayans were too focused on the big picture. Spending their time worrying about solar flares and gamma ray bursts; meanwhile nobody had the foresight to see that it’s probably not such a good idea to poop in the drinking water. What’s the hieroglyph for dysentery?

I don’t buy it.

I’m a proud American and like any proud American I say that if the world is going to end, it’s going to end cause we say so. No natural disasters, just good, old fashioned, global thermonuclear war; the way the good Lord intended.

Some people think that the apocalypse will start in the Middle East. Well, seeing that they’ve been at war somebody since forever that seems like a good place to focus our attention on. There are just too many differences between them and us. For instance, look at crime. Here in the Western World, people are killed in the streets for their shoes. There, people are killed in the streets with their shoes.

What is that shoe thing all about anyway? They threw their shoes at George Bush. They protest with their shoes in the air. You know, CNN is quick to point out that, in the Muslim religion, throwing your shoes at somebody is the highest form of disrespect you can show another human being. Okay. Where do you think suicide-bombing falls on that list? What, is that like fourth? First it is throwing your shoes at somebody. Then it’s a cartoon of Mohammad. Then a, “Your mama’s so Muslim” joke. Then suicide bombing? Maybe we’re going about this whole war on terror thing all wrong. We don’t need bullets, we need Birkenstocks. Just take a B-2 and drop a whole payload of loafers on the entire region. “Osama, I quit. The infidels are using Huuuucccssshh Puppies.”

Thank you and be sure to tip the wait staff! Let me know what you think. I think it plays better than it reads. Anybody who knows me knows that I’m not exactly network friendly. Even if they hate it, who gives a shit? After all, this is the same network that thinks Leno is better than Conan; thinks Dick Clark is still suitable for New Years; and green lit fuckin’ Joey. What do they know about comedy?

CEO of Toyota

It has begun. We were warned and now it is too late. The machines have taken over. Toyotas have transformed from reliable affordable automobiles to ungodly Hell spawn sent to Earth to uncontrollably accelerate you and your family to a fiery grave, cooking your flesh while pissing on your soul. Who would have thought the plot to a bad 80’s Emelio Estevez movie would be prophecy? I guess the Lord truly works in mysterious ways. May he have mercy on our souls…

I’m sorry did I get a little carried away there? Did that sound a bit alarmist? It must be the news rubbing off on me. For the past couple weeks, I’ve had the displeasure of watching news report after news report tell us about the Toyota menace. At first it was the Prius and faulty brake peddles. Then it became sticky accelerators. Yesterday, a woman reported that her Lexus unexpectedly and uncontrollably accelerated to over 100 mph on the freeway. According to her story, she called her husband on her Bluetooth as her car kept accelerating just to hear his voice because she feared it would be the last time. It was heart wrenching. I can only hope he told her, “Honey, I love you. Now put the car in neutral you stupid bitch.”

Look, I don’t want to sound like a dick here but, really, who gives a shit if Toyota has to recall some of its 2010 models because there is a chance the car might unexpectedly accelerate? I read that four people have been killed to date because of the sticky accelerators. Four people! Tragic? Yes. News worthy? Please. Four times as many people are killed by falling coconuts every year. It is true. Look it up. When you consider the millions of Toyotas that have been sold around the world, the odds of your Toyota getting the not-so-golden ticket are pretty damn slim. Don’t buy into the panic spread by sensationalistic news reports. They’re just looking for the ratings. If they really wanted to do an interesting story they would do a report on how many faulty Toyotas have bumper stickers which read, “God is my co-pilot.” Now there is a story I want to hear.

Now that I think about it, I want one of these 2010 Toyotas. I’m heading to my local dealership! Recall my ass! It is only a recall if you send it back. If you keep it, it’s an alibi. They may call it a sticky accelerator. I prefer to think of it as a lever of judgment. I would put 50,000 miles on it in two months just driving around town, looking for people in Ed Hardy T-shirts, crossing the street, waiting to be judged. It really would be the perfect crime. “Mr. LaCour, for the deaths of twenty-two young men attending the Daughtry concert on the night of February 27th we, the jury, find you not guilty. We do, however, recommend you remove the steer horns from the bumper of your Prius.”

Court is adjourned, bitches!

Bang

Last week, another school shooting rocked our country. A University of Alabama professor went on a shooting rampage, killing three and wounding three more. Allegedly, professor Amy Bishop was upset that she was not going to receive tenure and decided to get pro-active, giving new meaning to term, Crimson Tide. Are you like me? Are you starting to see a pattern here? Let’s recap:

Omaha, Nebraska Dec ’07: 19 year old Robert Hawkins carries a SKS assault rifle into a crowded shopping mall, killing nine people and injuring five more. Red Lake Indian Reservation, MN March ’05: Former student goes on rampage and kills 10. Hillsborough, NC Aug ’06: Student kills father then shoots two other students. Bailey, CO 2006: Gunman kills 6 female students after lining them up against a blackboard and sexually assaults them. (they still use blackboards?) Salt Lake City, UT February ’07: Student goes berserk, shoots and kills 5 other students. And let’s not forget April 16, 2007. Cho Seung-Hui storms around Virginia Tech, killing 32. It’s the deadliest rampage in U.S. history. Do the Asians always have to be number one?

These are just seven of the twenty-three shootings involving schools or teenagers since 9/11. Just three days ago, The Department of State issued a Worldwide Caution to update information on the continuing threat of terrorist actions and violence against U.S. citizens and interests throughout the world. U.S. citizens are reminded to maintain a high level of vigilance. Apparently that vigilance ends just on the edge of campus.

Are you following where I’m going here? Since September 11th, 2001 the only Americans who have been hurt by terrorists just happen to be in the terrorists’ backyard. Here in the good old United States of America? Nada, zip, nothing. Now I don’t know if it’s the wire tapping, water boarding or any other infringement on the Constitution but I’m not real worried about being taken out by Osama bin Laden here on the mainland. Sure, the Christmas Day underwear bombing attempt by Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab was disconcerting but do you know what scared me the most in the whole ordeal? The motherfucker was an engineering student!

These images the news keeps showing us of bearded terrorists swinging from the monkey bars don’t scare me. The grainy YouTube videos of dudes in sandals shooting AK-47s don’t scare me. What do scare me are all these little fucks in our schools, hopped up on anti-depressants and Starbucks feeling a little down because they’re not popular or rich or both, ordering a goddamn assault rifle on-line, walking into Albertson’s and plugging the patrons. And now we have to worry about the teachers too?

What ever happened to school spirit? The University of Alabama just won the BCS for Christ’s sake! It’s not like she had to teach at Washington State.

I think the government should start a new kind of terror alert. It can go to orange every time school lets out.

Feel me?

Saints Win

First off, I would like to say congratulations to the city of New Orleans, the Saints and the Saints’ fans for their first Super Bowl championship. Coming from Seattle and being a Seahawks fan, I know how it feels to wait and wait and wait for gridiron success. It must feel great…I wouldn’t know.

There, now that I got that out of the way, I have a question. To all these so-called die hard Saints fans I have had the great displeasure of having to listen to this week: Who were the Saints offensive starters in 2005? Better yet, who was the starting quarterback? Surely a die hard fan that goes around rocking a Drew Brees jersey and throwing up the middle finger yelling, “Fuck all you Saints haters!” has got to know the history of this historic team, right? Right? Well I think we all know that, in 2005, most of these Saints fans were Steelers fans. And every time I see one, I wish I had a blow gun. What really kills me is that the loudest ones seem to be the most fair weather. My local sports bar has plenty of them, leading the “who dat” chant and sporting the Reggie Bush jerseys. Last year it was Ocho Cinco.

Of course this is nothing new. Every year in every sport, the band wagon gets full of sheeple who don’t have the fortitude to pick a team and stand by them, even when they lose. I assume it is the same phenomenon that compels people to buy Ed Hardy, Starbucks and iphones. That heard mentality that makes me wish we were an actual heard and lions were there to pick off the weak ones.

I understand that any big game is more interesting if you pick a side and I have no problem with those that do. Shit, I was rooting for the Colts. But don’t call yourself a fan. Don’t say, “We won!” No, THEY won. YOU are just a fair weather dipshit.

And another thing I want to address is this notion that the reason the Saints had such a huge following this year was because of hurricane Katrina. For one thing, that was five years ago. And although I’m sure it added to the story, natural disasters are not a catalyst for national support in the sports world. I don’t remember seeing too many Sedale Threatt Laker jerseys after the Northridge quake in ’94.

The truth is that it was the perfect storm for band wagon jumpers. You had the sympathy factor for a city that is trying to rebuild after a hurricane. You had the fact that they had never won the big game before. You had them playing against a team who’s quarterback is generally regarded as the NFL equivalent of Ivan Drago. They have, arguably, the coolest colors in the league. And most important, you had a chant which gave white people permission to use ebonics. And let’s face it, white people LOVE to use ebonics. So there you go.

If it seems like I am bitter about this whole thing it is because I am. You see, like I said earlier, I am a Seahawks fan and 5 years ago it was our turn to be in the big game. We were playing the mighty Steelers in our first Super Bowl. We all know how the game turned out. A Super Bowl turned into a homecoming for Jerome Bettis in Detroit. I think I counted 5 Hawks jerseys at Ford Field that day. Even the refs had terrible towels and after decades of mediocrity, our big day was squashed by the power of the crowd favorite. So the Saints victory is bitter sweet; bitter towards the spineless, mindless, faithless lambs who jump on band wagons. Sweet for the patient, loyal, faithful fan who still rocks an Aaron Brooks jersey.

Go Seahawks!

The Thinker

To all University of Alabama fans who visited Hollywood last month: Walking around Hollywood with a shirt that says, “Alabama” is the equivalent of walking around Alabama with a shirt that says, “Fag.” You’re not impressing anyone is my point.

The best part about the Ultimate Fighting Championship is not the fighting. It’s the interviews. “I’m a martial artist developing my craft.” Yeah, you’re an artist alright. You managed to turn that guy’s face into a regular Jackson Pollack. That’s an art exhibit I’d like to see. “I love how the artist comments on the duality of man with his contrast of blood and snot.” These guys are full of shit. Do you know how delusional you have to be to consider compound fractures, asphyxiation and blunt force trauma, art? That’s like calling Port au Prince an architectural Mecca. By definition, yes it is an art form. It is an expression of one’s self through a practiced skill set. But technically, so is painting your house in dog shit. I can’t believe how popular it has gotten. People spend a lot of time and money trying to learn how to defend themselves with mixed martial arts. I think it’s a waste. You don’t need to know all the moves of a mixed martial artist to keep people from fucking with you. You just need the cauliflower ear. If I see somebody who looks like they got broccoli growing out the sides of his head, the last thing I’m going to do is start some shit. Cause even if he’s a shitty mixed martial artist…he thinks he’s an artist! Nuff said. That motherfucker is crazy.

Technology has taken all of the romance out of combat. So I’ve decided to take a side on the gun debate. I think we should ban all guns. But, at the same time, we should legalize all swords. If nothing else, it will make gang violence a lot more entertaining. “Everybody outside quick! The Bloods and Crips are fighting!” Think about it. No more innocent bystanders. I’ve never read about a medieval kid accidentally getting his head lopped off. Even the most incompetent swordsman will, at least, catch the shoulder of his opponent. Even the NRA people would be happy. All they want to do is defend their homes. What’s a better deterrent than a guaranteed katana blade to all those who trespass? The world would be a better place if everybody put down their guns and picked up a sword and I can prove it. I think we can all agree that everybody loves Star Wars. We’ve all fantasized about living in a galaxy far far away. Do you know why? Because of the light sabers, of course. Take the light sabers out of Star Wars and you’re left with Buck Rogers and nobody wants to live in that world of lame.

If the conspiracy is true that Jesus Christ was in fact, married, it would make sense to cover it up. It’s kind of hard to worship a messiah if you know he was constantly getting nagged for hanging out with lepers and whores.

I think the Miss Universe competition is fixed. The winner always comes from Earth.

To those people who don’t want to let homosexuals get married: Do you know who you are? You’re the guy who thought black people should have a different drinking fountain. You’re the guy who wanted to throw all the Japanese in concentration camps. You’re the guy that thought women shouldn’t be able to vote. Every generation has you and everybody looks back into history and thinks you’re retarded. You’re the guy who, many years ago, said, “Can you believe how much they’re charging for niggers these days?” You’re that fucking guy.

Michael Vick

The neighborhood I now live in is, by far, the nicest neighborhood I’ve lived in since I moved to Los Angeles. It is quiet. Not too many hobos pissing on the buildings. Just a few Armenians. I should love it but I don’t. They say that you don’t know what you don’t know so I shouldn’t beat myself up over the fact that I did not foresee just how annoying living among Hollywood hipsters would be. Relax, I am not going to write a column about hipster clothing. No point in beating a dead horse on how I feel about Ed Hardy T-shirts. I want to write about a growing trend I have been seeing in the hipster community. A trend which, if allowed to go on unchecked, could lead to a major problem. What is this growing trend, you ask? What could Hollywood hipsters possibly be doing which is so dangerous? Well I’ll tell you. Pet Adoption.

That’s right, I said it and I’ll explain it too. But before I do, I should preface my explanation by saying that I own two dogs which have been adopted. I like dogs. In fact, I like a lot of animals. I can’t call myself an animal lover because calling yourself an animal lover implies that you love ALL of them. I look at animals much in the same way I look at Rush Limbaugh fans. For every friendly, agreeable one you meet, there are a hundred others that, if provoked, would eat your testicles. My dogs are friendly. My dogs are small. My dogs were free. The way adopted pets should be. I wouldn’t pay for a pet if you paid me. If the hipsters in my neighborhood went my route I wouldn’t say anything. It’s not so much THAT they are adopting, it’s WHAT they are adopting.

Ever since Michael Vick was cast into the media spotlight for running a dog fighting ring, there has been a pouring of public outcry for the dogs in these rings. Organizations have been set up to take these pit bulls out of that lifestyle and send them to the home of a family looking to add a little love and a lot of adrenaline to their drab little lives. It’s one of those ideas that look fantastic on paper; like communism. Unfortunately, also like communism, it’s not very practical for a twenty-five year old living in a one bedroom with a guitar and a dream to be on American Idol.

These are trained attack dogs. They’ve tasted blood. They smell fear. They’ve killed. And they’re being walked by a 110 lbs lady boy on an iphone. Do you know how helpless it feels to be in the kill zone of Cujo-on-steroids and the only thing holding him back is an effeminate neo-emo douche bag trying to display dominance? “Casper, sit!” Fuck you, McKenna! That’s too much dog for you! Just because you want to feel good about yourself by thinking you can rehabilitate these dogs, doesn’t mean I should have to feel like Andy Dufrain walking through Shawshank. These dogs need wide open spaces where they can run and play and kill things that don’t have social security numbers. They don’t belong in Hollywood.

And don’t give me the old, “they’re misunderstood! They love people,” spiel. These dogs have seen some shit. These dogs are disturbed. They’re like the Vietnam vets of the animal kingdom. Do you know what went on in that dog fighting ring? The things they saw? They’ve seen bitches getting strapped in rape stands as the males took turns pounding that ass and that was just Michael Vick’s parties. Imagine what he did to the dogs! POW! (I couldn’t help it)

Now don’t get me wrong here. I don’t think they should be put down either. In fact, I think the whole Humane Society is bullshit. There is nothing humane about it. Most shelters hold the dogs for about 5 days before they’ll euthanize them. That sucks. Basically, it means that young dogs and cute dogs will get a reprieve through adoption but the older, less attractive ones get the needle. Imagine if Hollywood worked like that. Imagine what casting calls would be like with that standard. 5 days, that’s all you get. If you’re not cute enough to get a role, “sorry, there are just too many actors in this town and we’re overcrowded.” I’ll bet you would want to be let out to fend for yourself. Maybe take an Improv class. And that’s exactly what I think we should do with these dogs. Let ‘em go. Animal Planet is always pulling at our heart strings telling us about the endangered North American wolf population. Well, let’s see what nature can do. Domestic dogs have the same DNA make up as wolves. Send these dogs into the wild, see what happens. Is that cruel? Fuck no it’s not cruel. You were going to kill them anyway and you know what? Some will make it. I love the idea of seeing what a couple generations of wolf / chihuahua fucking would breed. Sing that fucking song, Sarah McLachlan.

Happy Smokers

I’m a smoker. I started, like many others, as a teenager. Contrary to what many of the anti-smoking ads would have you believe, it was not cartoon animals, duplicitous tobacco executives or the influence of peer pressure which got me started. I started smoking for the same reason I’ve started anything that ultimately will kill me – pussy. When you’re at a party and all the girls are outside smoking, well shit, who’s got a light? There was not a lot of science behind it other than the biological drive to hump somebody. I knew they were bad for me. Anybody born after 1970 would know it. I just didn’t give a shit. Any ill effects would be dealt with in the future. When you’re a teenager, the one thing you think you have a limitless supply of is time. So here I sit, fifteen years later and thousands of dollars poorer, addicted to cigarettes and yet I still don’t give a shit. Believe me I try. I really do. I watch those commercials with the black lungs and the shriveled up cancer patients breathing through tubes and I say to myself, “This should bother you. These people spend thousands of dollars on research to find the most disturbing images to show with the sole purpose of instilling fear in you.” Then I go have a smoke.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a death wish; quite the contrary. You know how they say that you don’t die in your dreams? Well that is bullshit, I’ve died; several times. I’ve hit the ground, been shot, blown up, stabbed, drowned and run over and I don’t wake up; at least not right away. So I think I have a unique perspective on death and let me tell you, I don’t think it is going to be a picnic.

But it is going to happen. The day will come when the grim reaper comes a knockin’ and I’m told time and time again that when he comes for me, he’ll be holding a cigarette in his hand. People don’t even give you a chance anymore if you’re a smoker. Nobody ever says, “There’s a chance that smoking may give you lung cancer.” No, it’s more like, “I’m looking at a dead man right now. A fucking dead man smokin’.” Like I’m playing some kind of inhalable Russian Roulette where every sixth cigarette contains C4 explosive. Mind you, most of the people who are telling me this are ex-smokers who used to smoke three packs a day back. Not one of these do-gooders has dropped yet but I’m going to die. Me, the contemporary smoker.

I have to be honest when I say that, for a while, it started to get to me. I don’t care who you are, if you keep hearing the same criticism long enough, it will start to get to you. Just ask all my anorexic ex-girlfriends. I even went to the Dr. about it. I had to know. Fifteen years of smoking had to have wrecked havoc on my fragile little lungs by now, right? I did a lung test. The Dr. had me blow in and out of a tube for as long and as hard as I could…then he gave me the lung test. ZING!! Do you want to know my score? Do you want to know the lung age of a thirty-four year old smoker? The age of my lungs is….thirty-five. That’s it. I’ll be thirty-five in one month. After fifteen years of smoking, my lungs have aged one month faster. Statistically, I have a two percent chance of developing lung disease at this point in my life. I had to ask the Dr. what the percentage would be of developing lung disease if I didn’t smoke. He dropped his head and said, “one percent.” Then he had the audacity to look up and say, “That means you have twice the chance of developing lung disease.” That’s around the time I punched him in the face.

In my imagination.

Which brings me to the thought I had when I started this piece. It’s no secret that Americans are really shitty with numbers. If there is one thing that George W. Bush’s, No Child Left Behind, aptitude tests have demonstrated it is that, when it comes to math, well, Americans are really good at sports. And any blood sucking parasite in marketing and advertising will tell you that if you want to sell a product or idea, deception is key. So what do we hear from the anti-smoking lobby? Numbers! Lots and lots of numbers and percentages and statistics. Things like, “every 8 seconds someone dies from smoking.” And, “87 percent of all lung cancer cases involve tobacco.” (The other 13 percent must be the Mesothelioma scourge all the ambulance chasers on day time TV keep warning us about) It’s enough to make you want to quit because if you don’t quit, “on average, each cigarette takes 5 minutes off your life expectancy!” Shit! Fuck! Son of a bitch! Do you know what that means?! It means if you smoke a pack a day for 35 years, statistically you’ll lose….a little over 2 years off your life. 2 Years? I don’t know about you but when I figured this out, I had the same anti-climactic feeling I had the first time I paid for sex. That’s it?! What the fuck?! I thought it was supposed to be longer!! What’s that bulge?!!

Look, I understand that there are people out there who strongly oppose smoking. For some reason they feel it is their life’s work to impose their Chicken Little will on the rest of us. I accept that I can’t change that fact. All I can do is add a little perspective to the whole discussion and here it goes. Yes, smoking greatly increases your chance of getting lung cancer but guess what? Statistically, every man on this planet, smoker or not, has a 1 in 2 chance of getting cancer anyway. Every woman? 1 in 3. Yep, go ahead and look it up. Cancer is a motherfucker and it is going to get most of us whether you smoke or not. Lung, brain, stomach, prostate, testicular, breast, colon, kidney, mouth, you name the body part and there is a cancer that can eat it. In fact, when I think about it, between getting my nuts lopped off, having my asshole carved out or losing a lung, I think I pick lung. I wonder what the percentage is of people who would agree with me.

Underwear Bomb

As I was watching the news this morning I had a thought. It happened during one of these never ending segments on terrorism we’ve been subjected to ever since Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab tried to blow up his BVD’s on a Christmas Day flight to Detroit. You know the story, “Our enemy is resolute. Our enemy is inventive. We cannot guarantee 100% safety. Be afraid. Be impotent. We’re doing everything we can.” The thought I had was, “we can’t win this war on terror.” Not like this. Not with these people.

It has nothing to do with the men and women of our armed forces. Bar none, they are the most efficient and ferocious fighting force this planet has ever seen. There is not an army in the world that can stand toe to toe with the U.S. military. Unfortunately, our enemies know this so nobody is going to do something that fucking dumb. Nope, this is a new kind of war with no discernible front lines. Our enemies live amongst us. They are shrouded in secrecy, communicating through the World Wide Web as they lie dormant until it is time to strike. And we watch.

It seems as though we have that part down – watching. Our so called security officials keep telling us that they are watching their watch lists and watching the internet and watching the chat rooms and it seems to be effective. I mean there hasn’t been another 9/11 so we gotta be doing something right, right? Well yes and no. Just because your kid is the top student in a class of special-ed children doesn’t change the fact that he’s still a retard. (There probably won’t be a lot of laughs in this column so I thought I’d get ‘em in where they fit in)

Believe it or not, the mighty United States of America is at a disadvantage when it comes to this war on terror and that disadvantage is the under utilization of its most valuable resource; its citizens. No, I’m not saying that we should instill a draft. Shit, I’d be a Canadian faster than you could say E-1. What I’m saying is that our government has gotten so arrogant and swollen sucking its own cock that it seems to have forgotten what got the U.S. to the top of the global food chain in the first place; the fervent swarm of productivity and innovation of an empowered and determined U.S. populous. Yet here we sit, hands tied behind our backs and eyes covered by a mask of secrecy as our officials whisper, “we’ll try to take care of you” in our ears. Compare that to your garden variety Joe Terrorist who, with a little information, can deliver a major blow to us by shoving some C4 up his ass and jumping on a flight to Vegas.

We don’t need weapons training. We just need some information. Every security official on CNN has been talking about monitoring the Jihad websites. They say that Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab had been chatting in Jihad forums. Jihad forums??!! Where the fuck are these Jihad forums? Google “jihad forums.” Go ahead, Google it. I’ll wait.

Well what did you find? I already know; articles from non-Jihadists writing about these mythical websites. Apparently not everybody gives a shit about who Tiger Woods has been fucking. Give us these URL’s, Uncle Sam! Let us at ‘em! I haven’t read the Art of War but I’m pretty sure there has got to be a chapter in there about disrupting communication. Imagine how hard it would be for Osama bin Laden to give cryptic orders if every terrorist had to sift through millions of posts, links and status updates. How are they going to know when to strike when all they can see are invites to Loc Dog’s Pajama Jammy Jam, Cooter Bob’s KKK rants and Chris Putro’s Belly Room invites?

Everyday, the news should post the URL’s to every Jihadist website our intelligence gathers. “Today the Dow closed up 140 points and now here’s Poppy Harlow with the Jihad report.” There would be viruses and spam like you wouldn’t fucking believe and we would feel good about it; giving to the war effort, doing our part. Who knows? Maybe it just might be enough to turn the tide of this never ending struggle. If nothing else, maybe Heavy Hitters of Comedy could get more than 50 subscribers. Hey, Jihadists need a laugh too…I think.

Avatar

This is supposed to be the time. Every columnist for every website and publication around the world is going to write about New Year’s resolutions this week. It is like some unspoken, unwritten obligation to fill their readers’ minds with hacky bullshit. (No offense Eric Somers…well, maybe a little offense but it’s out of love) Well, I’m not doin’ it. Nope, you won’t be reading about what I’m going or not going to do this year. You won’t be reading any tirades from me about how nobody keeps their resolutions. I won’t bore you with the typical top ten list of common bullshit promises people make to themselves only to discover that, come February, they are not just fat and lazy and unsuccessful and rude and addicted and spineless and unmotivated and unloving and stupid, they are also liars. I don’t need to do that. Frankly, that kind of column is beneath you. I understand that my readers already know these things about themselves. What I wanted to write about this week is more important than all of those things. I want to write about the tsunami of over hyped feces that so many of us became victim to this holiday season. Of course, I’m referring to the James Cameron epic, Avatar.

I trust that you saw it. Judging by the box office numbers, everybody saw it. In fact, that is all I kept hearing all week. “Did you see Avatar? It’s awesome!” “Wow, James Cameron did it again; incredible!” “3-D! It’s in 3-D! You gotta see the 3-D!” Okay, before I continue, I will acknowledge that the special effects were good. I haven’t seen special effects like that since Michael Jackson’s last facial reconstruction surgery. In fact, the thought that came to mind as I watched Avatar was, “this reminds me of when I first saw Captain EO.” 3-D film seems to be a lasting technology. It looks good and more important to the studios it can’t be bootlegged by some dude with a Handycam but what about the story? Once the initial awe of seeing a three dimensional world wore off, did anybody else find themselves distracted by the persistent thought, “now that doesn’t make sense”?

Now before you get on your high horse and tell me that even the best science fiction movies have elements which do not make sense by citing scenes from Star Wars, I think it is important to point out that the best science fiction movies are really more science fantasy. It is easier to suspend disbelief when you’re watching the goings on from a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. The minute a director tries to take modern day political issues and cast them one hundred-fifty years in the future, I immediately begin to criticize his foreign policy.

Case in point, James Cameron’s take on health care. His hero, Jake Sully is paralyzed from the waist down. He is told that if he undertakes this mission, he can have the costly operation to fix his legs. Are we really to believe that in the future, we will be able merge human and alien DNA to create a synthetic being which can then be controlled remotely through a Matrix-like wireless consciousness intranet but a little stem cell spinal cord regeneration is out of the budget for a war veteran? C’mon James, I know that the US Government treats its injured soldiers like shit but with the technology you show in your movie, regenerating spinal cords would be the modern day equivalent of having a mole removed. I don’t buy it.

I hope James Cameron never runs for political office because, if elected, we would be broke in no time. In his flick, he sends the military light years away from Earth to undergo a very costly Avatar program in an attempt to relocate Pandora’s inhabitants peacefully from their home so that we could dig up the goodies underneath its surface only to say, “fuck it” and bomb the shit out of the planet anyway. Sound like anybody you know? I’ll give you a hint his initials begin with a “G” and “W.” Actually, the only reason Bush even gave the Iraqis a notice was because the world was watching and as silly as it sounds, he didn’t want to look like too big of a dick before bombing the shit out of a country that had his Texas Tea. Do you really think there would even be an Avatar program if some half naked blue people sat on some sweet sweet Pandora Puddin’ and it was light years away? I’ll give you the headline we would read in the 2154 New York Times. “Haliburton Discovers Gazillion Dollar Unobtanium Deposits on Lifeless Planet.”

Another thing that bugged me in this movie was Sigourney Weaver’s character, Dr. Grace Augustine. She is sympathetic to the plight of the Na’vi people and their connection to the environment around them, their respect for all living things and their symbiotic relationship with nature; all the while smoking cigarettes. Maybe in the future, Phillip Morris creates biodegradable filters. Either that or she was eating those butts.

Speaking of eating butts, did you get a look at the asses of those Na’vi chicks? The only thing I really learned in James Cameron’s preachy science fiction epic was how much of a fetish I have for fit blue chicks with tails. In fact, the best thing that will come out of Avatar, in my opinion, will be the slutty Na’vi costumes this Halloween. I can’t wait to see Hollywood’s finest all painted in blue wearing their cat ears and not much else roaming around Sunset Boulevard. Now that I think about it, it’s enough to make me change my opinion of the film. Now I just wish they had more 3-D Na’vi fucking; maybe in the sequel. Hey James Cameron, if you happen to read this, give the people what they want!

So there you go. The best review of Avatar you will find this year. If you have read this and haven’t seen the film yet, you should still probably check it out just so you can be a member of society. If you have seen it and disagree with me, maybe you should make your New Year’s resolution to be a little more critical of contemporary film makers and be a little less of a dumbass. Happy New Year!

Gods Hands

Well it’s time for the silly season again. Even amidst a struggling economy, millions of dollars will be spent this year on gifts to be left under the Christmas tree, Menorah, Kwanzaa candelabra or the skull shrine of L. Ron Hubbard (that’s how they do it, right?) As companies scramble to get your holiday dollar, I too would like to throw my hat in the marketing ring and sell you a wonderful gift idea for this holiday season.

For years now, consumers have been able to purchase a star for somebody. For twenty bucks, you can purchase a celestial body, name it, chart it and give it to a loved one or keep it for yourself – much like the real estate market in Detroit.

While it might be cool to look up into the night sky and see your very own ball of nuclear hellfire, it really doesn’t have the sentimental value of what I have for sale. For the low low price of $300, I will sell you your very own religion. How great is that? The days of personal inner conflict between your commandments and your desires are long gone. Wanna covet thy neighbor’s wife? There’s scripture for that. How about taking your Lord’s name in vain? How about yes, goddamnit! It’s your religion! You get to make the rules! For the low low price of $300 you get a domain name, scripture, sacred holidays and you even get to pick a messiah! The perfect gift for that Tiger Woods fan!

But wait, there’s more! For a nominal fee, I’ll even produce a beautifully made tri-fold pamphlet romanticizing your new religion for you to hand out at airports, shopping malls and churches. After all, when you hold all the secrets to the universe, why keep it to yourself? Use these gorgeous pamphlets to recruit people to your new religion where you can brainwash them to do your bidding. You’ll feel like a high priest in no time! Have you always had a desire to declare holy war against people who wear Affliction t-shirts but didn’t know how to go about doing it? Well desire no more. Just Jihad it! Crusade it! Shit, Souffle it! Call it whatever you want to. It’s your religion!

You’ll be the envy of all your friends and loved ones with your brand new religion. People will marvel at your new found confidence. “Did you lose weight?” they’ll ask. “Yeah, I just shed about 2000 pounds of guilt and hypocrisy!” You’ll reply! Just think of the possibilities!

But don’t take my word for it. Just listen to the testimonials of these satisfied customers. Chaz in West Hollywood writes, “I was a depressed Christian for 23 years. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the thought of men out of my head. But then I started Gaydeism and now I worship the Cock!” Ikram in Kandahar says, “As a Muslim female, I was always reduced to being subservient to men but now that I’ve created Imra’a, not only am I no longer subservient to men, I actually eat them!” (Disclaimer: Commandments of your new religion may conflict with local, state and federal law)

This holiday season make the choice to change life as you know it for you and a loved one. Choose a religion. Your religion.

Generation XX

This week marked the 68th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Now before you go and say, “Hey Jay, even The Devil’s Advocate shouldn’t make jokes about 69ing a fat Japanese chick on the anniversary of the second deadliest attack in U.S. history,” I want you to know that I have no intention of doing that, pussies. What I wanted to do was share a thought I had as I watched the “Remembering Pearl Harbor” segment on the news this week. Now it is common knowledge that with every passing generation, a tier of toughness gets erased. As technology has pulled people out of the factories and dropped them into cubicles, so too has our collective grit been pulled out of our psyche and dropped into a bottle of Prozac. Call it a good thing. Call it a bad thing. Call it whatever you want but you must admit that it is true. Our grandparents’ generation never had emo kids. All it takes to demonstrate this is to observe the look of pure disgust anytime an old person sees a teenage boy wearing fingernail polish. It’s like watching a hate crime without having all the inconveniences of victims. I’m getting a little off base here. We all know that older generations think that younger generations are pussies. Always have. Always will. What we don’t think about is the older generation of our Japanese enemies turned friends on the other side of the pond and what they must be thinking about the mettle of their younger, Hello Kitty, generation.

As much as American seniors must think that the youth of today has lost its sense of fortitude, I imagine that it is nothing when compared to the contempt felt by a person who came from a kamikaze culture. Think about it. These people came from a time where the most revered soldiers were the kamikaze. It was one of the main traditions in the samurai life and the Bushido code: loyalty and honor until death. No matter what your opinion is on the tactic of committing suicide to achieve a military goal, you have to admit that the last word to describe it would be “pussy.” Today in Japan, things have changed to say the least. Toilet-maker Matsushita Electric Works reported a survey this year suggesting that more than 40 per cent of adult men in Japan sit on the toilet when they urinate so as to avoid being scolded by angry women. What….The….Fuck?!

They have even coined a term describing the feminization of Japanese men, “soshoku-danshi,” which translates to “herbivore male” or “grass-eaters.” The following is an excerpt from an article in The Independent World. “Like many all-encompassing buzzwords, “herbivore male” can be laughably imprecise. Among his other qualities, the herbivore is close to his mum, has a liking for deserts and foreign travel and leans toward platonic relationships with the opposite sex. He will happily share a night with a woman without laying a hand on her and doesn’t waste his money on prostitutes.” And you thought I was making this shit up.

Imagine being an eighty-something year old Japanese war veteran and watching your grandson complain that his new shade of lipstick doesn’t compliment the hue of his skin. Imagine that. Then imagine how badly you would wish you could get into a Zero and fly that motherfucker straight into his favorite salon.

Of course the war has long been over and people and cultures change. Now, the kamikaze culture is a distant memory and killing yourself in the name of honor has moved over to the Middle East. I just wonder what their older generation thinks about the young extremists who blow themselves up in the name of Jihad. My bet is the conversation goes something like this, “Kids these days are such pussies. When I was young and we declared Jihad, we were brave and we threw fire bombs. Blowing yourself up is stupid! How are you going to know if you got anybody?!”

Good point, Ahmed. Good point.

Paso Doble

I know what a Paso Doble is and that fact is killing me. Why do I know this? Why have I used up valuable memory space storing this information on my biological hard drive? At 34 years old and with my history of partying, I figure I only have a few gigs left before I get to capacity. Yet there it is, haunting me like the homoerotic stalking matador portrayed in its dance. Soon, I fear it will spread and what started as a little irritant will quickly spread, leaving my entire body racked with sequins. If you don’t know what a Paso Doble is and you’re a bit confused at this point in the piece, I’m sorry for spreading the virus. It is a dance. Like a Tango or a Jive or a Quick Step. Jesus, I can keep going. I, like so many others, have been exposed to this new dance craze that has swept the country and I’m speaking up about it.

It started harmlessly enough; a show called “Dancing with the Stars” debuted on ABC a few years ago. Nobody thought much of it at the time. A boring little dance show with boring little pseudo celebrities filling in the boring little air time that was Summer programming. It had popularity in England but that wasn’t much of a warning. After all, soccer has popularity in England and I don’t need to tell you how much we couldn’t give a shit about the sport here in the States. It is harder to get WNBA tickets than it is to see a MLS game. But “Dancing with the Stars” was no David Beckham. This British transplant had legs and it used them; lots of them. Long, sexy legs attached to scantily clad Eastern European chicks with names like Karina and Edyta. For married men all over the country, the show provided a wife-approved spank bank depository and it took no prisoners. The ratings sky rocketed and soon people began using language never heard before; saying things nobody has ever said before. Things like “great performance” and “Mario Lopez” in the same sentence.
The show’s popularity prompted the other networks to follow suit. Fox added, “So You Think You Can Dance” to its line up where it has improved on the formula by keeping the half naked hot chicks who can put their legs behind their heads but removing the “washed-up athlete / never-was actor” element. It upped the cool factor by adding more contemporary dances like Hip Hop and Krump. Last I checked, “So You Think You Can Dance” has gotten so popular that it defies television law by never really having a season. The season finale is followed the next week with the next season’s premier. In short, it cannot be stopped.

Now we live in a world where dance is king. When I log on to MSN, the first available link takes me to last night’s results. The winners of these shows achieve fame and fortune. Fame and fortune? Outside of Fred and Ginger and Gene Kelly, name me a dancer who achieved fame and fortune. I bet the closest you got was, “Turbo from Breakin.” These shows are important. Make no mistake. The actors who participate on “Dancing with the Stars” practice for 4 hours a day. 4 HOURS A DAY! If they had that kind of dedication to their craft they wouldn’t be on “Dancing with the Stars.” They would actually be stars.

I say that if we are going to put so much emphasis on dancing then fuck it, let’s really put emphasis on it. I want to see conflicts settled through dance. Fuck the troop surge in Afghanistan. Let’s dance battle! I want to see Al Quaeda get served. I want to see Kim Jong Il get berated and voted off for not holding his carriage in his Viennese Waltz. I want to see Sarah Palin’s Cha Cha! I wouldn’t mind seeing her dance either. I hate that I know these things. I really do. Diseases like Swine Flu don’t scare me. There are bigger pandemics ravaging this planet. Pandemics dressed in tights and dancing the Paso Doble.

Accessibility

As I was driving to work today, late of course, I got caught behind one of those cars you can only get caught behind when you’re really late. One of those situations that reaffirm that there is a God and he’s a prick and he doesn’t like you and he’s got a sense of humor and he’s probably a woman.
Sloooooooow as can be, this driver in front of me was going. Not because of traffic. Not because of bad weather. I live in Los Angeles for Christ’s sake. Our idea of bad weather is partly cloudy with a chance of wind. No, this car was driving at the speed of a special Olympic mile pace for no apparent reason. Then I noticed the handicap sticker on the plate.

Now here’s the thing. If you’ve somehow thrown out your back, twisted your ankle, got sand in your crack, whatever, and you have successfully scammed your HMO into writing you a doctor’s note to the DMV for a temporary handicap status, I understand. You’re just an asshole who is a shitty driver. But if you’re genuinely handicapped. You know, paralyzed from the waist down. Double amputee. Whats the problem man?
Why would you drive so Goddamn slow? What, are you scared of fucking yourself up? You don’t want to mess up that good thing? I say balls to the walls Christopher Reeves! It would probably be the only good thing that could come from becoming handicap. That and the cuts you get at Six Flags but thats a different blog. What a liberating thing it would be to be paralyzed from the chest down and still have the ability to operate your very own 3000 lbs. fun wagon. It would be like Grand Tourismo for real, man!

If you’re reading this and you’re handicapped with license, take heed, you’re missing a golden opportunity. Even if you get busted by the cops, what are they going to do? Beat you in the legs with their billy clubs for driving recklessly? Shit, conjure up some fake tears and punch yourself in the legs a couple times and the worst thing you’ll get is a warning. Even if you catch a beating, who cares? You can’t feel it anyway.
If you’re reading this and you are not handicapped. Lets help our brothers and sisters confined to their chairs. Race ‘em! Set them free! Show them the world you and I, with our working legs, can never know. True freedom to drive as crazy as you want with absolutely no inhibition. Freedom only a handicapped or possibly a drunk could know.

It is your duty as an American.

Apocalipsis Sexual

People are obsessed with the end of the world. Since the days early man drew pictures on the walls of caves, he has contemplated the end of times; when life, as we know it, shall cease to exist. From the prophecies of Nostradamus to the interpretation of the Mayan Calendar to the Jesus freak that stands on the corner of Highland and Hollywood Boulevard, the idea of the end of civilization has been and will always be a macabre tale. A story of society collapsed; disease and famine; droughts and war. Basically speaking, it will be a lot like Albuquerque. At least that is what the Doomsdayers would want you to believe. I, however, have a different take on the matter. I think it might actually be kind of sweet.

Okay, so here is the scenario. The global economy is going to collapse. Governments will resort to Marshall Law in a futile attempt to quell the rising contempt of their citizens. Basic human needs like food and water will, once again, become the sole purpose of existence. Local governments will fail and cities and towns all over the world will be reduced to nothing more than a collection of scavenging outlanders trying to survive. No more cable TV.

Is the picture painted in your head yet? Do you have it? Do you see yourself walking wearily down the road in a Metropolis ghost town? Your face wrapped in thick scarves and your eyes hidden behind ski goggles because, for some reason, after the world ends it gets very windy and dusty. Now add this to your imagery. As you walk down the empty street, you see something ahead of you; a beacon in the middle of this dirty Hell. It is a Sears. In it, you find a bonanza of technology. Generators, gardening hardware, sewing supplies, computers and mp3 players. Playstations 3’s! Books! Really awesome books that teach you how to build shit, fix shit and fix shit that builds. You help yourself to this smorgasbord of independent living. You move all of your new possessions to the mansion that you inherited because, after all, do you really think you’ll be living in an apartment after the world ends? The area you live in, once called a neighborhood, is more of a tribe now. Where like minded individuals can communally live and thrive. Each day brings a new find and each night brings whatever the fuck you want it to. Apocalypse turned into Heaven on Earth.

People wrongly make the assumption that when the world ends, we will all be cast thousands of years into the past. No matter what or who pulls the trigger; God, war, economic depression, the environment, swine flu, Oprah; when the dust settles all the technology remains. Need power? Head on down to the solar power store and loot you some panels. Better yet, go on down to a Barnes & Noble and get a book on how to make it. Need fuel? There are more ways to make a combustible engine than gasoline. Read about it. The world would, literally, be your oyster. And tribal living would be the best part.

There would be tribes all over the place. They would be like iphone applications. Are you a douche bag who has tribal tattoos and Ed Hardy shirts? There’s a tribe for that. Still religious after God abandoned you on Earth? There’s a tribe for that too. Hippie tribes, Amazonian Women tribes, Gay tribes and Straight tribes. I’m sure you may even find a real Indian tribe.

Imagine how much more efficient a tribal government would operate. First off, you get to make the rules. Most of the political problems society has stems from the sheer number of people living in it. If you don’t like the way your tribe is operating, just fucking leave. You don’t need no stinking Visa.

You ask, “What about war?” I say, “What about it?” Yes, I’m sure tribes will still be warring. It is what we, as a species, do. Man loves to conquer shit. There really is no way around it. To this I say, “so what?” You may have to go to war with another tribe but to be honest with you the war part was actually the birth of this fantasy. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve seen some snotty pretentious emo kids and dreamed about how great it would be to throw a spear through their necks. Is it just me?

I am realistic when it comes to this fantasy. The world immediately following the end of the world will be a scary place. There will be chaos and a bit of a learning curve. People will starve and get sick and get murdered. Hey, if you wanna make an omelet, right? But 5 or 10 years after all the shit goes down and it is game on. Utopia. A life not bound by bullshit rules from bullshit artists who only seek to serve their bullshit interests. The end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Global Warming

I just watched a very disturbing television show about Global Warming.  Everybody knows that the polar ice caps are melting but most people don’t know what that has to do with Global Warming and you and me.  You see the ice caps are white.  White reflects light which, in turn, reflects heat.  The ocean is a dark blue.  That means it absorbs light which, in turn, absorbs heat.  As the ice caps melt, more and more ocean is exposed to the sun.  This increases the temperature of the water which melts the ice faster and faster.  That is NOT the disturbing part.

As the temperature of the ocean increases, the frequency and intensity of hurricanes also increases.  We all know about the hurricane season we had a few years ago.  People are still scattered all over the country because of the devastation of Katrina.  Schools are overcrowded with children left homeless.  Communities are flooded (pun intended) with the burden of finding homes and economic stability due to the population boom of the refugees.  It has affected all of us.  Now think about this.

As the temperature in the Atlantic Ocean increases, hurricanes will make it farther and farther up the Eastern Seaboard, in some cases making it all the way to New York city.  The same storm surge that hit New Orleans would raise the water level approximately 20 feet in NYC.  It would wipe out the city. 20 million New Yorkers would be left with no where to go but West.  Hopefully now, you can begin to see the implications.

20 MILLION NEW YORKERS!!  Forced to come here, next to where YOU live.  They’ll be your neighbors, your co-workers, your baby sitters and cab drivers.  They’ll be at your grocery store, your favorite restaurants, your SPORTS BAR for Christ’s sake!!

My ears bleed just at the thought of having to listen to those annoying tirades about the Yankees and about how great the restaurants and museums are in New York.  To have to hear that, “New York is the greatest city in the world!” even though it smells like shit.  That hair spray and chest hair.  That accent!!  Oh God the accent!!

We must act now!  This would be a catastrophe of Biblical proportions.  Write your congressman.  Sign a petition.  Go buy a fucking hybrid!  Do whatever you have to do to prevent this terrible tragedy from coming to fruition.  The clock is ticking.
 

Airplane The Movie

Since this column began, I have been focusing on different aspects of stand-up comedy; crowds, performers, styles and beliefs.  Although it has been equal parts entertaining and challenging for me, I find myself being confined.  After all, how many different columns can be written about a profession that consists of nothing but a microphone and a voice?  I suppose I could do some pieces on other aspects of comedy not yet mentioned like relationships, internet promoting and laughs per minute.  I could do it and maybe I will in the future.  But for now, I am putting the stand-up portion of this column aside.  The gloves have been taken off.  The hands are wrapped and dipped in resin and broken glass.  The little Thai girl has been abducted and raped and the big fight with Tong Po in the shady basement of a fish cannery looms.  Wait, I think I digressed a little.  I’m not Jean Claude Van Damme.  I’m me and as the cut and pasted bio of me says, “nothing is sacred and everything is fair game.”  So let’s talk about some shit, shall we?
 
Last week the news reported that the pilots of a Northwest Airlines flight went radio silent for 78 minutes and overshot the airport in Minneapolis, Minnesota by about 150 miles.  Obviously, the incident caused no harm minus the passengers who, no doubt, had to pay a 150 mile overshot baggage fee upon arrival.  Still, the FAA suspended the two pilots as they launched a thorough investigation to get to the bottom of this horrific boo boo.  So far the only thing they have uncovered is that the pilots were not drunk, the in-flight recorder has 30 minutes of….something and the FAA has taken 5 days and counting to listen to it.  The FAA is outraged.  Northwest Airlines is outraged.  The people are outraged.  In fact, the only people who don’t seem to be outraged are the pilots.  So I thought I’d weigh in on this bullshit storm.
 
First it is important to realize that, at cruising altitude, a commercial jet travels about 7.5 miles per minute or about the same speed with which Paula Abdul’s relevance will plummet now that she is off American Idol.  Some quick math will reveal that the pilots missed the mark by about 20 minutes.  In airline time, missing a scheduled time by 20 minutes is generally considered early.  My verdict?  Admissible.
 
Secondly, people hold pilots to unrealistic standards of perfection.  Most people don’t realize that first year pilots only make about 28 – 50K per year.  About what your cable guy makes.  Try holding that mouth breather to those same standards next time you need to schedule an installation.  When he shows up 3 days late, he’ll just end up laughing at you and then stealing your girl’s panties.  If you fall in that salary range, ask yourself how much you give a shit about perfection in your job.  My verdict?  Admissible.
 
Third, how can the FAA seriously condemn pilots for missing the airport by 20 minutes and then take a week to tell us what is on a 30 minute recording?  Talk about the pot calling the kettle the n-word.  Something is not right here.  If it was just a matter of the pilots being negligent on the recording, why the delay?  If it was something else, why suspend the pilots?  If it is just some dick at the FAA taking his sweet time to do his job, which it is, why not put him in the news so we can all throw feces at him?  My verdict?  Assholes.
 
Finally why, after 78 minutes of radio silence between the plane and air traffic control, was there no YF-22 Raptor up there getting ready to blow that fucking plane out of the sky?  That should be the real investigation.  All this shit after 9/11 and this is the closest thing we get to a theoretical do-over and we drop the ball.  If terrorists had hijacked that plane, by the time the Air Force was notified, it would have been illegally parked inside the food court at the Mall of America.  I’m not saying shoot first, ask questions later, but if I’m on a plane that has dropped communication, terrorist or not, I want to see Maverick and Goose on my wing getting ready to do an inverted negative 4G dive to protect my patriotic ass.  The media has pasted the pictures of these pilots all over our screens.  Where are the dipshits at the FAA who should have installed a protocol here?  My verdict?  Un-fucking-believable.
 
I’ll leave you with one last thought.  Commercial airlines, although commercial, fall under the Federal Aviation Administration.  Basically, if the government doesn’t like the way they do business, they can come in and clean house.  Suspensions, terminations, shit even prosecutions.  The logic is that these pilots have many lives in their hands.  These guys overshot the airport by 20 minutes and they get suspended and a full investigation is launched.  In the past year, the Federal Government has spent billions of tax payer dollars to prop up commercial banks in this country.  The pilots of these banks, the executives, have millions of lives in their hands and these cocksuckers have not only missed the mark, they are doing barrel rolls and loop de loops using our fucking money as fuel and not one of them has been suspended.  No investigation.  They won’t even cap their salary.  What a bunch of bullshit.  I want off this fucking plane.  I’d rather walk.

Tragedy In Comedy

The following is a screen adaptation of true events….kinda.

Ext. comedy club – night

Two Shit Pickles stand outside a popular Los Angeles comedy club smoking cigarettes.  They are amongst a swelling sea of aspiring comedians gathered around the front entrance, anxiously waiting to see if they will make the open mike’s set list.  The Shit Pickles eye the passing comedians with a facade of confidence, like fresh fish prison inmates trying to mask the crippling anticipation of gang rape.  Unbeknownst to them, a devastatingly handsome and dangerously brilliant COMIC sits near by with his back turned to them, watching the traffic ZOOM by.

Shit Pickle #1
So how long have you been doing comedy?

Shit Pickle #2 takes a long, overly dramatic drag on his cigarette contemplating his time in the comedic trenches. Smoke billows out of his nostrils.  A FART squeaks out of his trousers.

Shit Pickle #2
About three months now.  I know it’s not a long time but I’m a little bit ahead of the curve.  You see, I’m an actor.

Shit Pickle #1
That’s so funny, so am I.  I find that performing stand-up really helps me flesh out the characters I draw inspiration from.  It’s really empowering.

Shit Pickle #2 suddenly erupts with a huge YAWN, blinks his eyes three times and has to lean back against the wall.

Shit Pickle #2
Wow, I didn’t realize how tired I was.  Must be the auditions I had this week.  You know how taxing they can be.

Shit Pickle #1
I know, right?

The Shit Pickles burst into laughter in unison.  Another FART pierces their chuckles.

The Comic sitting near by suspiciously turns to observe the Shit Pickles.  He takes a drag of his cigarette and flicks it onto the sidewalk.

The Comic

(mumbling to himself)
Actors.  Shit.

As the Comic begins to get up out of his chair to confront the Shit Pickles, the front doors of the comedy club open and a FAT MAN carrying the set list emerges.  He posts the list on the wall and then disappears into the darkness of the club.

The sea of comics lurches toward the list.  The Shit Pickles push their way through the crowd.  Shit Pickle #2 makes it to the front and runs his finger down the list of names.

Shit Pickle #2
Nice.  My karma is flowing out of me!  Fifth spot, best spot.

Shit Pickle #2 blasts another FART.  His pants ripple in the shockwave and the crowd around him recoils.  He walks through the newly cut path in the crowd like Moses through the Red Sea.  Shit Pickle #1, caught in the human riptide, reels.

Shit Pickle #1
Did I make the list?

Shit Pickle #2
Can’t talk now.  I must get ready for my set!

Shit Pickle #1 regroups and surges towards the list.  He methodically scans through the names.

Shit Pickle #1
Oh, thank Heaven!  It would have been such a waste to have rehearsed all day and not get up.  One time I was at the Ha Ha Café and…

Shit Pickle #1 realizes that the only person in the crowd listening to him is a homeless person sitting on the ground, nodding off like a junkie watching a Nicholas Cage movie.  He looks around for a beat then makes his way inside the club.  Shit Pickle #2 stands on the sidewalk, talking to himself and flailing his arms about.

Next to the front entrance, The Comic props himself against the wall, one leg up and smoking another cigarette, reeking all kinds of bad assness. He shakes his head in disapproval as he observes Shit Pickle #2’s epileptic rehearsal.

Three Swimsuit Models begin to enter the club and catch The Comic’s gaze.  He winks at them and all three fall down in an orgasmic loss of motor function.  The Comic grins at the girls then heads into the club.

int. comedy club – later

Dozens of patrons fill the audience of the dark and smoky club.  Waitresses make their way through the maze of tables to bring drinks and The Fat Man who posted the list is onstage talking to an audience member.  The Shit Pickles stand in the back next to each other but do not talk.  Each one lost in his own world of narcissistic actor preparation.  The Comic sits in the back corner, calmly receiving fellatio from one of the Swimsuit Models as he watches the show.

The Fat Man
Make some noise for our next comedian, Shit Pickle #2!  (Because fuck his name)
Shit Pickle #2 bounces up to the stage amidst the luke warm clapping of the audience.  His energy is nauseating.  He walks right past the outstretched handshake of The Fat Man and grabs the microphone out of its stand.

Shit Pickle #2
What’s up guys!?  How is everybody doing?

The audience gives an apathetic applause as if they’ve been asked how they were doing for the tenth time, which they have.

Shit Pickle #2
You guys ever wonder what it would be like if Samuel L. Jackson worked as a kindergarten teacher?

Shit Pickle #2 closes his eyes to get into character then he opens them wide.

Shit Pickle #2
Your fingers motherfucka!  I said paint with your motherfuckin’ fingers, motherfucka!

Shit Pickle #2 pauses for laughter that never comes.  The silence is deafening until it is broken with a thundering FART from Shit Pickle #2’s quivering ass.  The crowd explodes with LAUGHTER.

The Comic, still watching from the back of the room, pushes away the Swimsuit Model as she attempts to hand him a $100 dollar bill. He sits up in his chair with concern.

Shit Pickle #2
Speaking of painting, ever wonder what it would look like if Helen Keller took an art class?

Shit Pickle #2 closes his eyes and stumbles about on stage knocking the microphone stand over while waiving his arm around as if he was painting the air.

Shit Pickle #2
Unnnghh!  Unnngh!  Mmmmphfff!  Unnngh…

Suddenly he stops and opens his eyes with horror.  Another FART rips through the silence only this time it is not dry.  Shit Pickle #2 looks down to see a wet spot on the inner thigh of his jeans grow larger and larger.  BBRRTHHLLPP!  Shit Pickle lifts his head to look into audience who are gazing back in disgusted wonder.

Shit Pickle#2
I’m sorry, I think I’ve had an…

PPPLLLRRRPPTTHHHSSS! A MAN in the front row stands up.

Man
Jesus Christ man!  You are shitting yourself!  Get off the stage!

The rest of the audience joins in and begins to SHOUT at Shit Pickle #2.  Shit Pickle #2 begins to hiccup cry and jumps off the stage.  As his feet hit the floor, a shit tsunami erupts from the back of his pants and lands on the front of the stage.  The audience GASPS.  He runs off into the bathroom in the back of the room.  The Fat Man takes the stage and tries to calm the mini riot that is now the audience.

The Fat Man
Okay, well that was interesting, let’s bring up our next comedian shall we?  Please welcome Shit Pickle #1!

Shit Pickle #1, still shocked from what he just witnessed, takes a moment to close his eyes and do some kind of faggy little actor exercise to get into character.  Then he skips up to the stage.  The audiences’ horror anger turns into obligatory clapping.

Shit Pickle #1
What’s up, party people?!  How are you guys doing tonight?

Audience Member
Fuck you!

Shit Pickle #1
Okay!  So I was on the bus today.  Have you ever been on the bus in this city?  I swear to God if there is such thing as purgatory I think I found it on the metro.  So I was taking the bus to an audition.  I’ve been in some commercials, maybe you recognize me…

The Comic in the back of the room stands up from his chair and in a Jerry Bruckheimer-movie-like fashion, slow motion walks towards the stage.  He looks around to see people in the audience passing out.  One after the other they suddenly fall asleep.  People left and right fall out of their chairs unconscious, their heads hitting the tables; their drinks spilling on their lifeless faces.  The Fat Man host sits with his head cocked back in perfect slumber.  SNORES rip through his bulbous neck.  Shit Pickle #1 doesn’t seem to notice that the entire audience has fallen asleep as he launches into a bit about ice cream.

Shit Pickle #1
…I was at Baskin Robins yesterday.  Have you been to this place?

The Comic turns to see Shit Pickle #2 emerging from the bathroom, sobbing.  Shit flows out of his pants like some kind of fecal fire hose.  It shoots up the back of his pants and hits the ceiling spraying everything in a 50 foot radius.  He turns to see Shit Pickle #1 still on stage, talking about ice cream.

Shit Pickle #1
…so my crazy mother insisted that she get a double scoop and of course she doesn’t realize that soft serve doesn’t come in scoops and…

Shit Pickle #2 stops sobbing and suddenly begins to YAWN.  The shit erupting from his ass and ricocheting off the ceiling falls into his gaping mouth.  He can’t help it.  His eyelids begin to fall.  The Comic’s eyes widen in panic as he sees Shit Pickle #1 collapse face down, ass up.  His ass geyser ripping his pants off his body like they were made of paper.

The Comic turns back towards the stage and Shit Pickle #1.  He tries to take a step but he is overrun with sleepiness.  With every inch of his strength, he fights sleep and lumbers forward.  The shit on the floor is getting deeper.  The unconscious audience members begin to disappear in the rising rectal river.  The Comic finally reaches the stage where Shit Pickle #1 is still doing his bit about his mother.

Shit Pickle #1
…my mother likes to make me go shopping with her and I tell her that I’m so over it…

The Comic rolls up onto the stage.  With one arm he reaches down into the sea of sewage below and scoops up a handful.  He struggles to his feet.

Shit Pickle #1
(looking towards The Comic)
Uh oh, it looks like I’m getting a hecklmmmmpphhhh.

The Comic swings his shit hand as hard as he can into the mouth of Shit Pickle #1.  The poop splashes on the face of Shit Pickle #1 and he falls to the ground.
The Comic stands over Shit Pickle #1 and grabs him by the shirt.

The Comic
Look at me!!  Look at me!!  You two did this!  Understand?!!  Stories have to have punch lines, get it?!!  So do act outs.  If you just do act outs and there aren’t any jokes you produce nothing but SHIT!  And if you just tell personal stories that do not have jokes, you end up putting everybody to sleep!  YOU HAVE TO HAVE PUNCH LINES!! Now help me save these peoples’ lives!  Stand up!

The Comic lifts Shit Pickle #1 to his feet and shoves him in front of the microphone.

The Comic
Now say something funny goddammit!

Shit Pickle #1 freezes in front of the microphone, staring into the darkness.

The comic
Say it!  Say a joke goddammit or we all drown in shit!  Now say it!

Shit Pickle #1
Um, So what’s the difference between jelly and jam?  You know my mother always liked to make jam…

WHACK! The Comic slaps Shit Pickle #1’s head so hard he falls off the stage and into the shit pool.  The Comic staggers up to the microphone.

The comic
What’s the difference between jelly and jam?  You can’t jelly your dick up somebody’s ass.

Suddenly, heads begin to pop up out of the poo poo pond.  CHUCKLING is heard through the darkness.

The comic
Wow, this was like a horror movie.  I like watching horror movies.  To me they are a lot like the Special Olympics.  Sure you go into it with lowered expectations and the characters aren’t too bright but you gotta admit it sure is fun to see retards run around with their limbs chopped off.

LAUGHTER erupts throughout the room.  Audience members begin to rise to their feet.  Shit Pickle #2 regains consciousness and bowel control.  Shit Pickle #1 is wading waist deep in waste going through his notes.

The comic
Thank you guys for coming out.  Remember to tip your waitress.

The Comic starts to walk off stage but looks down into the shit pool.  He pauses long enough to observe a window off to the side of the stage.  He looks into the shit covered audience and then back to the window.  With power and grace never before seen with human eyes, he jumps out of the window.  The Fat Man, now conscious, covered in shit looks out the window.  He turns to the crowd.

The FAT Man
He disappeared.

Shit Pickle #1
Who was that guy?

The Fat Man
I don’t know.  Some kind of angel I guess.

Swimsuit Model
I don’t know if he was an angel or some kind of devil.  All I know is that I will never be the same again.  He was really hot and funny and smart and cool and…

A single tear rolls down the cheek of the Swimsuit Model as she stares out the broken window.

Swimsuit Model
…gone.

Shit Pickle #2 sees the teary eyed Swimsuit Model and tries to comfort her with a shit covered hug.  She pushes him away in disgust.

Swimsuit Model
Oooh, gross!  Get away from me, Shit Pickle!  I heard your set!!
Everybody in the comedy club LAUGHS at the Shit Pickles.

fade out

Rock Star

My ears are still ringing this morning.  My voice is raspy from screaming at the top of my lungs and my hangover throbs behind my eyes to the beat of Rearview Mirror and I love it.  Last night I had the privilege to witness the best rock n’ roll band in the whole wide world.  No, not Supersuckers.  Of course, I’m referring to Pearl motherfuckin’ Jam.  If you have not gotten a chance to see them live then you are doing yourself a great disservice.  They are the best.  Hands down.  End of story.  Disagree with me if you want to but know that if you do, you are simply retarded and not in the handicapped, low IQ, weird hair cut sense of the word.  You are retarded in the most derogatory way a human can be retarded…retarded by choice.  Okay, so why is a comedy columnist writing a column that reads like some sycophantic Rolling Stone article?    Two reasons.  First reason?  Read the third sentence of this column.  Second reason?  I think it is safe to say that most comedians have the delusional opinion that stand-up comedy parallels rock and roll.  Comedy only parallels rock if, by parallel, you mean it in the same way that John McCain parallels Usain Bolt.  Sure, they both ran for something but that’s about it.

The similarity between stand-up comedy and rock begins and ends with the fact that they both involve performing live in front of an audience.  After that, they kind of go their separate ways.  I suppose you could argue that they both are about personal expression, freedom and connectivity with the audience.  You could argue that but you’d sound like an overeducated, under-practiced douche who probably can’t play an instrument or make people laugh so we’ll just go ahead and say you did not argue it.

Many comedians would love to think of themselves as Rock Stars and can you really blame them?  Just look at the progression of the titles alone.  We refer to beginner musicians as musicians.  Once they get good enough to play in a band they get a specialized title (lead guitarist, drummer, lead singer, etc.). The moment anybody gives a shit about the band and pays to hear them play, they get the prestigious designation of, “Rock Star.”  A, B, C…1, 2, 3…MTV.  Pretty sweet, huh?  Now let’s look at comedy.  From the moment you set foot on stage you’re a comedian.  Then you start to get booked shows and you’re a comedian.  Then you quit your day job and become a full time…comedian.  Then you hit, people come out in droves to see your sold out tour and you get the moniker, comedian.  Then you make the number one television show of all time.  You bring in more money than you can count.  People all over the world know your name.  Even citizens of third world countries wear your merchandise and when it comes time for anybody to speak of you; they refer to you as…..a comedian.  Wow, I didn’t realize just how much that sucks until right now.  Where is the prestige in keeping the title you had when you were entry level?  I need to learn how to play guitar.

Another area rock has comedy beat is in the performance itself.  Have you ever gone to a concert full of excitement and anticipation to hear your favorite band play your favorite songs only to leave pissed off because all they did was play all new shit?  You’re trying to sing along and all you can end up mustering is the occasional, “Oooh yeah” and “Uh huh” like you’re belting out dialog from your favorite porno.  How much does that suck?  Once a rock band strikes gold with a crowd favorite, they get the luxury of always having that hit song to fall back on in concert and not only will the fans be okay with it, they actually want it.  Try that with comedy and see how far you get.  As far as jokes are concerned, once they get aired on TV, consider them shelved.  Even comics who do characters will not repeat the same bit once it is aired.  They may do the same voice but not the same bit.  I just wish more open mikers would realize this difference and write some new jokes.  I swear to God, one of the hardest things to do in stand-up comedy is to have to sit there and listen to Whatshername’s bit about how her overbearing mother is overbearing for the 53rd time.  Names aren’t necessary.  We all know her. She’s at every open mike and every bringer show in every city in the world. If comedians want to keep the fans coming to the shows, the material has got to be new.

It wouldn’t be much of a comparison if we didn’t examine another facet of live performance – groupies.  Really it is not much of a comparison.  Comedians have what are called, “Chuckle Fuckers.”  Sounds hot, right?  Actually it sounds more like some kind of fat fetish and that’s not entirely inaccurate.  Sure, some women find stand-up comedians sexually irresistible but they are about as common as midget hookers and often resemble them.  To be fair, I have seen sexy groupies hanging out with headlining comedians at some of the major clubs here in L.A. but as my Dad used to tell me every time I did something I thought he would be proud of, “Even a hawk can be an eagle amongst crows.”  Jessica Simpson dated Dane Cook until she found out that John Mayer wanted to fuck her.  Then she told Dane where he could go stick his sufis.  Think about it, do you really think Heidi Klum would be with Seal if he was a comic that had some really witty observational jokes about those acne scars on his face?  It must be noted that I am only referring to women when I talk about groupies.  This is because men can’t really be groupies.  By definition, groupies want to have sex with a performer because of the performance.  If a man wants to have sex with a performer it’s because he finds the performer hot.  It wouldn’t matter if s/he worked at Taco Bell.

So there you have it.  A brief but beautifully constructed comparison to demonstrate that rock and comedy are two completely different animals.  Don’t get this column twisted however.  I do not think rock is somehow better than comedy.  It is my not-in-the-least-bit-humble opinion that comedy kicks the shit out of rock and roll any day of the week.  Sure a comedian doesn’t share the same prestige as a Rock Star.  That’s okay, prestige is a bullshit concept perpetuated by the intellectually weak.  Prestige does not equal importance.  When you think about it, plumbers have the most important job in the world because without them, shit would just pile up and then where would we be?  Rock Stars can play their greatest hits in concert but how challenging is that?  Comedians have to constantly create so therefore they are, not only more creative, but better.  What’s more of a challenge, to get a room full of people drunk and stoned to bob their heads or to make them come out of that comfort zone and laugh out loud?  Rock Stars do get the groupies and although I can’t think of any right now, there has got to be some downsides to that; maybe herpes.    So what if comedians don’t get the pick of the litter when it comes to star fuckers?  That just means that the ones we do get are true fans and will remain loyal even if John Mayer is in town.  When you look at the relationships in show business, comedians seem to have the most stable ones.  There are many comics who are in 20, 30, shit 40 year marriages.  That says a lot.  Again, I’m not sure what, exactly, that is but it has to be a lot.  Comedians, stop thinking you are Rock Stars.  You are not.  What you are is more important than that.

James Lipton

Stop me if you’ve heard this already.  A stand-up comedian makes it big.  He / She (Not in a tranny kind of way) becomes a household name.  Tours sell out.  Film roles roll in.  Books are released and True Hollywood Stories are aired.  In the wake of fame and fortune, the inevitable one on one, “in depth” interview is conducted.  Be it James Lipton or Barbara Walters, the question is the same.  “How did you start out?”  The comedian leans back in the chair, looks the interviewer in the eye and says, “Well, I was a regular at (insert local comedy venue here) and (insert other famous comedian / producer / agent here) saw my set and asked me if I’d be interested in (insert first big break here).”  Are you still reading?  If you are, then either you’ve never seen a famous comedian interviewed or you’re not very good at taking instruction because all of them say that.  All of them.  Does this rub anyone else the wrong way?  As a fan and a participant of stand up comedy, I hate it when the story of how a comic “makes it” begins with, “I was a regular at…”  To most aspiring stand up comedians, becoming a paid regular at any comedy venue could be considered, “making it.”  You don’t hear the autobiography of Jackie Robinson begin with, “Well, I started out as the first Negro in Major League Baseball…” 
 
The story is in the struggle.  At least it used to be.  Maybe in our fame obsessed, Entourage worshiping, star fucking culture we’ve lost interest in the David vs. Goliath, against all odds story.  Nowadays it seems like the only real adversity we see our heroes go through is the $500 a day coke orgy habit they had to kick in order to save their fourth marriage.  That’s not adversity.  I don’t want to know about that shit.  I want to know how I can get to a point to where I could afford the luxury of having a $500 a day coke orgy habit.  I, like so many other open mikers out there, want to know how to be down.
 
What did it take?  How did you get to be a paid regular?  How did you navigate through all the anonymity, cronyism and bullshit to really get noticed?  How did you make the jump from open miker to paid regular?  Don’t give me this, “I was funny” bullshit.  If that was all it took to get your foot in the door at a popular comedy venue, I’d be writing this column from a lap top in some green room, backstage at some comedy club while smoking a joint and listening to the new Pearl Jam album.  As it stands now, I’m writing this column on pad and pen in some bathroom, in the basement at work while smoking a joint and listening to people outside ask, “Where’s Jason?”  So there has to be something more than simply being funny.  Why don’t they ever talk about it?
 
I think I know the answer.  I think we all do.  It’s just that nobody wants to admit it.  Everybody wants to cling to the ideal that if you have the talent and you work hard and you want it bad enough, any dream can come true.  While it certainly is the case for every successful comedian out there, it cannot be denied that along with all that hard work and talent, every single successful comedian has also had a degree of luck to go along with it.  Fuck it, two degrees of luck.  Some may have even done a dirty deed or two to get that shot.  This is show business.  When it comes to fucking people over and swallowing your integrity, among other things, to get your opportunity to shine, this business of show is second only to politics.  Be that as it may, I still want to hear about it.  Comedians, when compared to other kinds of entertainers, are the ones who speak the truth.  They would not be funny if they did not.
 
So let’s hear it, famous stand-ups.  When the question of how you got started is asked, let us in.  Inquiring minds and shit.  When you were an open miker, did you hang out and kiss the ass of some talent booker you secretly couldn’t stand?  Were you the weed guy that all the regulars could count on to get them high?  Maybe you had a sexual encounter with somebody who gave you a boost.  Maybe you were just in the right place at the right time.  Whatever it is, let’s hear it.  That is the stuff I want to know.  Tell me about how much it sucked to stand in line for three hours to do three minutes only to find out that while you were on stage, the booker was out having a cigarette.  Tell me about how many times you thought about quitting but could never bring yourself to it.  Tell me about how you got passed while the booker held back a more talented comic because of the color of his / her skin.  I want to know all that shit and I don’t think I’m alone on this one.  If and when I make it and somebody asks how I got started, I know I’m going to speak the truth, “I was born a Negro genius in the Major Leagues, got lucky, blew a guy and I was funny.”

knowledgebrain.com

I am writing this as an experiment.  Nothing you read in this piece from this point, with the exception of spelling and grammar, will be edited, rewritten or thrown out.  Basically, I am writing a stream of consciousness piece to demonstrate how I like to write jokes.  I know this is supposed to be an opinion column but like the title says, “I Got Nothing.”  Who am I to give a “how to” on joke writing, you ask?  I’m the one typing these words that you’re currently reading, so stop asking stupid questions.  I read about comedy all the time and I can say I’ve never come across an article or column such as this so I guess I’m also a groundbreaker, bitches.
 
First I need a premise.  It doesn’t have to be brilliant, just something I hate.  Hate is too strong a word.  What irks me?  What doesn’t sit right with me as I sit here at work, not working, spilling my brain for you?  Healthcare?  No, too easy.  Patrick Swayze?  Not feeling it.  Let me check out the web to see what’s going on in the world.  (15 minutes later)  I got it.  I just saw video of a chimpanzee doing karate.  It seems original enough for this.  Might not make it into the act but it will certainly do for this column.
 
Now, how do I begin this joke?  “I saw a chimpanzee doing karate on the web.”  Well, that sucks as an opening statement.  It sounds like a monkey chopping up shit on a web.  That would be one big fucking spider.  Let’s go broader before we get to the chimp.  “People have too much time on their hands.”  That’s better.  Now explain the set up.  “I saw a chimpanzee trainer teach a monkey karate.”  Don’t like how that sounds.  Chimpanzee trainer will be hard to say and I might fuck it up on stage, especially if I’ve been drinking.  I shouldn’t drink before I perform.  “I saw an animal trainer teach a chimpanzee karate.”  Man, this joke sucks before I even write it.  Fuck it, finish this turd and move on.  Need a punch line.  Where’s the surprise?  Not much of one.  I need to lead them away from where I want them to go.  “People have too much time on their hands.  On the internet, I saw an animal trainer teach a chimpanzee karate.  Is this really helping the cause?  Are too many chimpanzees getting their lunch money stolen?  This animal has five times the strength of a human and now it can do spinning round house kicks?  If we’re going to waste our time teaching animals human behavior, can we at least teach them something practical, like fellatio?”  Ok, technically that’s a joke but it sucks ass.  Back to the drawing board.
 
Let’s simplify.  “I saw a guy on TV teaching a chimpanzee karate.  I think it’s great that The Ultimate Fighter now has Kimbo Slice.”  Too racist and not even funny.  Well it’s kind of funny but it’s just a set up and a punch line; nowhere to go after that punch.  I could do the same joke but make it political.  “I saw a guy on TV teaching a chimpanzee karate.  I think it’s great that George Bush is keeping active.”  Kimbo was funnier.  What is it about this premise?  What’s the truth here?  A guy teaches a chimp how to do round house kicks.  It’s kind of cool but that’s only because it is always cool when an animal does anything like a human.  He could teach it how to play the piano.  He could teach it sign language.  He could teach it to drive a car.  How about teaching it to avoid captivity so it can spend it’s time being a chimp and not impersonating Jean Claude Van Damme?  What about karate?  What is it used for?  Defense?  Offense?  How do chimps normally defend themselves?  Why would an animal trainer want to teach a chimp karate?  Lots of options here.  What is my opinion at the core of all of this?  I guess I think this guy who teaches chimps how to do karate is a real self-righteous attention whore who exploits animals through stupid and probably inhumane tricks just to get on TV and YouTube.  Whatever, let’s just say it all.
 
“I saw this guy on YouTube who taught his chimpanzee to do karate.  He was jumping and spinning and kicking and punching and the whole time I’m watching this I’m thinking, big deal, I see monkeys doing karate every time I watch UFC.  Put a TapOut shirt on this chimp and he could pass for your average Ultimate Fighter contestant but with better ears, teeth and sexual orientation.  Why would you want to teach a chimpanzee karate?  Are the other chimps in the neighborhood stealing his lunch money?  Does this chimp lack discipline in his life?  No, it’s a fucking chimpanzee!  This is a wild animal that could rip your face off and now you want to give him proper technique?  Do you want to make sure he rotates his hips as he rips off a nut sack?  If you’re going to waste your time training chimpanzees to be like humans, why not teach them something a little more practical, like Twittering.  I’d be more interested in what Bubbles has on his mind than Ashton Kutcher.  The ironic thing about the whole thing is that while this douche bag trainer is wasting his time teaching the chimp to defend itself by throwing round house kicks, I’ve found it’s much easier to defend myself by simply throwing shit.  You don’t need a black belt when you have a brown hand.”
 
There you go.  Not an instant classic but certainly open mike worthy.  What started out as a joke turned into a bit.  Hey, what can I say, I’ll take bits over jokes any day.  Since this is an opinion column, I’ll close by giving my opinion.  Bits take more thought to write than jokes.  Jokes can turn into bits if you’re not lazy and think it through.  Animal trainers are assholes.  There is my opinion.

The following is based on actual events, the names have not been changed to protect the innocent…

Sept. 19 ‘09
10:37 p.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Hey, Comedy Store!! What’s up!? Was thinking about you and the last time I got up. 2G2B4G! Can’t believe it’s already been six months. Good times! Having some cocktails! Hit me back!

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Sept. 19 ‘09
11:13 p.m.
From: The Comedy Store

Yeah, been real busy. Lots of comics. Great shows. Great to hear you’re doing well. T@YL.

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Sept. 19 ‘09
11:15 p.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Yeah, I’m doing great. Just writing new material…and drinking a bit…lol. Watching Lisa Lampenelli’s HBO Special. WTF?? She uses every racial slur but the N-word. Chicken shit if you ask me. Was thinking we should get together sometime soon.

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Sept. 19 ‘09
11:58 p.m.
From: The Comedy Store

Don’t know, maybe. Lisa is great. Have a good night.

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Sept. 19 ‘09
11:59 p.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Of course you think shes greattt. U love any chickk who’ll get on your stage. Even the hacky bitches I always see hangingg out with u. You wouldnt know a goood comic if he sat on your facee! LMFAO!!

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Sept. 20 ‘09
12:17 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Hey, J/K about the sittting on your face thing…Im drunkk and a feling a litttle unappreciated. U thnk Im funnny right?

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Sept. 20 ‘09
12:47 a.m.
From: The Comedy Store

Of course I think you’re funny. I tell you that every time you go up. You even get the comics laughing. Keep it up – you’ll get your shot. You should go to bed. You seem a little hammered. I’ll talk to you later.

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Sept. 20 ‘09
12:48 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

WHEN!! IN SIXX MORE MONTHSS??!! IF U THINK IM GUNNY THEN U SHULD PUT ME UP MORE THAN U DOO. IM GOOOD TO U. I ALWYS BRNG MY AA GAME. U JST DONT GIV A SHITT ABOUT ANYBOODY BUT URSLEF! ALLL U DO IS PUT UP SHITTTY CMICS AND HOMLESS PEPLE.

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Sept. 20 ‘09
12:53 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Im sorry I didt mean it. I jst reely respcet u and I thnk we would be goood together. Got a neww bit abot weeeble wobbbels u shuld here.

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Sept. 20 ‘09
12:58 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

Hey how wuz the show tonghit?

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Sept. 20 ‘09
1:02 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

helllo?? WTG?!!!

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Sept. 20 ‘09
1:04 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

wer dun ashole…i dnt need ths shiit..go fuk urslef…ha ha ha cafee willl giv me time. Iv got 5 frinds….yull nver see me agaiin!!! Hav a graet lif dok!!

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Sept. 20 ‘09
1:30 a.m.
From: The Comedy Store

Are you coming to the open mike tomorrow? I might be able to get you on. Might not. We’ll see what I can do. Depends on who else shows.

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Sept. 20 ‘09
1:31 a.m.
To: The Comedy Store

il b thre….jowkneln khsooilthl sklilsthhhhhhh thlaznfil

Smile Carlos

Dear Carlos,

You don’t know me. We’ve never met. Yet I feel I owe you an apology. You see in my last column I referenced your name as an example of how popular culture will happily ingest whatever entertainment it is served so long as somebody else says that it is tasty, even if that entertainment is the comedic equivalent of diaper shit. That was unfair and I’m sorry. I had never seen you live. Who was I to judge? I, like so many others before me, jumped on the hatewagon and aimed for the easiest target. You were in the cross hairs and that was very hack of me. Again, I apologize.

This change of heart I am having is in response to two things. First, after thorough introspection, a twelve pack and liberal amounts of medical grade marijuana, I came to the realization that hating on you has, in fact, become pop. If South Park has launched a sortie of hate your way then you can be sure the “Carlos Mencia Sucks Monkey Dick” train has reached full steam. At least that is the case in the world of comedy. I, however, tend to go against the grain. The title of the column is The Devil’s Advocate for Christ’s sake.

The second thing that happened was I saw you perform Friday night at The Comedy Store. I was impressed. Frankly, you killed. I know that most household named stand-ups would slay any audience that comes out to see them but that was not the case on Friday. I don’t know if you felt it but when they announced your name as a drop in, there was a collective “aw fuck, really?” throughout the crowd. The guy sitting next to me got a laugh from the tables around him when he yelled out, “fishsticks.” I was one of the ones laughing. Again, I’m sorry.

So you were facing an uphill battle but you turned them. Not immediately but you got them on your side; myself included. Your early bit about Henry Louis Gates and the Cambridge police department got a lukewarm response. I’ll be honest. I was enjoying the mediocrity. It was an affirmation to my preconceived notion that you were an average comedian at best. But when you went into your bit about Somali pirates, my disdain could no longer suppress the laughter that was building up. It was brilliant. You made me say the words that all comedians hate to say, “Why didn’t I think of that?” I should hate you more for it but I don’t. It was great.

I’m not a comedy critic. I’m not going to regurgitate everything that was great about your set. Just know that I will never bad mouth you again. You are a talented stand-up and you don’t deserve taking cheap shots from me in my shitty little column. I’ll keep your name out of my mouth and off of my keyboard….unless you ever steal a joke from me. Then I’ll just smack the piss out of you. But I don’t think you would do that.

You see, that’s the thing. Everybody knows that you have been labeled as a joke thief. We’ve seen the Joe Rogan YouTube thing. We’ve heard the Bill Cosby, “hi Mom” bit. It’s not even a conspiracy theory. You stole those bits. It was all caught on camera. You even used a canned line on the night I saw you. After your joke about homosexuals, you said, “If you can take a dick, you can take a joke.” Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Shit, my mom uses that line. Not to me of course, I’m just saying I’ve heard it. When I heard you use that line, I had a revelation.

Comedians talk shit about you not necessarily because of the jokes you write, but because of the jokes you steal. These comedians are missing a glaring fact. The jokes you’ve stolen suck. You didn’t need to steal them. The shit you actually write is one million times better. You’re like the Winona Ryder of comedy. You just steal for the sake of stealing and that, to me, makes you a whole lot cooler. I think more people need to recognize this about you. You remind me of my Grandpa. We would buy $100 worth of groceries but he would boost a pack of beef jerky cause, “fuck ‘em, that’s why.” It was great. It always made me laugh. And you too, Mr. Mencia, will always make me laugh. If you suffer from some sort of comedy kleptomania, I’ve got no quarrels. In fact, you should probably write about it. I’m sure it would be gold.

Sincerely,

Jason LaCour

Why Mexican Bank?

Do you know what a “Mexican Bank” is?  No, it is not some sexual act involving rolled up dollar bills, although now that I think about it, it could be.  It is when a group of people agree to put a designated amount of money into a pot each month.  A raffle is then held to determine which month each of the group’s members get the entire pot.  So if 10 people agree to put $500 into the pot each month, by the end of 10 months everybody in the group has a month where they receive a lump sum of $5000.  Essentially, it is nothing more than an easy way to save money without all the hassles of things like interest and FDIC insurance.  We won’t get into how it got its name.  I think you can figure it out.

Well I have this theory.  Basically, a group of comics can form a Mexican Bank.  Except the currency used in this Mexican Bank is not dollars, it is laughter.  Hold on, let me explain.  Most new stand-up comedians who have been at it for a couple years have the occasional booked show sprinkled in between endless open mikes.  Often these are small one-nighter bar shows, bringer shows, small comedy contests and, generally speaking, shitty rooms with less than stellar crowds.  Half the time the audience is comprised of friends and family of other comics.  The other half of the time the audience is comprised of drunks who didn’t even know there was a comedy night at Lou’s Tavern.  Either way, they’re usually not the biggest laughers.  Why not give ‘em a little guidance?

“A little guidance?” you say?  “I thought a great comedian can kill anywhere.  There is no such thing as a bad crowd, only bad comics.”  To that, I respectfully say, fuck you.  Keep believing that as you wonder what tweaks you need to make to your Transformers bit to get that applause break it deserves.

The fact is there are bad crowds out there and people will generally follow the herd.  So if the people sitting next to your Aunt Jenny aren’t laughing, Aunt Jenny won’t be laughing either.  But insert 10 people into the audience who are laughing, applauding and having a good time and, magically, Aunt Jenny’s opinion of your Bernie Madoff joke goes up a few ticks.  It is human nature.  It happens to everybody.  Laughter is contagious.  Have you ever rented a DVD that you’ve already seen in the theatres and, as you watch it, wonder what the fuck you thought was so funny about You Don’t Mess With the Zohan?  A packed theater on opening weekend can do that to you.

Just like laughter, public perception is also contagious.  Imagine how much more memorable you would be as a comedian if you killed consistently.  Imagine how many more bookers would want you to be in their show.  In stand-up comedy, the goals are to first get good then get noticed.  I can’t help you with the getting good part.  That’s up to you and Satan.  You and the rest of your Mexican Bank must pony up the goods for this to work.  All bets are off if you suck.  A shitty Mexican Bank of comedy isn’t a Mexican Bank.  It is just a bunch of obnoxious hacks who laugh at each others’ jokes.  I mean, how effective would it be if everybody in your Mexican Bank only threw in five bucks a month?

Lastly, I want to say that I have not tested this yet.  I could be completely full of shit when it comes to this theory.   The truth is, just like a real Mexican Bank, it takes a pretty big commitment.  If you have a group of 10 to 20 comics and you all have to attend each others’ shows, well you certainly will have a full schedule.  Most comics I know would be good for the first two to three shows then they would mysteriously start dropping off.  I’m not sure how this kind of transgression is handled in a real Mexican Bank but I imagine it would involve a lot of pain, amputation and or rape.  You will have to make your own guidelines.  But I think this theory holds water.  If there is one thing true about popular culture, it is that people will love anything put in front of them if somebody else tells them it is good.  How else could you explain The Jonas Brothers, Tyra Banks and Carlos Mencia?  Go Mariners!

Join The Club

Most people who do stand-up comedy would rather be called anything than a hack.  It’s like the N-word.  If someone says it, it better be a term of endearment or there is going to be a fight.  The term hack comes from the word hackneyed, meaning lacking of freshness or originality; much like using a dictionary definition to begin a column.  Being labeled a hack is such a kiss of death in stand-up comedy that it has become the subject of many a “how to.”  Books have been written about it.  Comedy bloggers have addressed it.  There are even “Hack Lists” out there.  Google it and you’ll see what I mean.  You’ll find page after page of comedy premises deemed unworthy because of the frequency they’ve been used in the past and present.  Any new comic in search of a soul sucking excuse to quit doing stand-up comedy need look no further than the world wide web.  There, a newbie comedian will invariably find one or two, if not all, of his / her premises on the dreaded hack list.  So I thought I’d weigh in on the subject and to these party poopers of the punch line, I have three words, Louis fuckin’ C.K.  I guess that’s two words and two initials.

Louis C.K. is arguably one of the best stand-up comedians working today.  Men want to be him.  Women want to be with him.  Well, okay, men want to be him.  He consistently delivers fresh, thought provoking, hilarious comedy.  On an interview recently with Conan O’Brien, Louis did the unthinkable.  He violated every hack list out there by going into material about…..brace yourself…..air travel!  Yep, the number one taboo premise of all pompous douche bag comedy authorities.  I won’t do the bit justice by repeating it so YouTube it if you haven’t seen it.  Believe me, it is funny.  So how can this be?  How could such a seasoned pro talk about the hackiest of subjects?  Simple, air travel is not hacky.  In fact, none of the hacky premises on the hack lists are hacky.  The only thing that is hacky is, in fact, the hack list.

Here is why.  A joke only becomes hacky if you can see the punch line coming.  Premises have nothing to do with it.  You could start your joke with, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”  If the punch line is a surprise and funny, then it is not hack.  Check out the hack lists out there.  They all list the same things:  airlines suck, men and women are different, relationships are hard, black people do things this way, white people do things that way, observational comedy, etc, etc.  The authors of these hack lists write them without the slightest hint of irony.  It’s the literary equivalent of saying, “You know who I hate?  Negative people.”  Actually, that is kind of funny in a self-deprecating kind of way but you get the idea.

If you are reading this and you are one of these hack authorities, which you probably aren’t, I know what you are thinking.  “If you have an original spin on a hacky premise, I have no problem.  I just hate hearing the same joke over and over again.”  Well, my friend, welcome to stand-up comedy.  The greatest profession in the world will bring many applicants.  Most will not be skillful.  There is no way around that.  Give a shitty comedian a brilliant premise and the joke will still be shit.  The premise is not going to help.  Comedy is a lot like music.  Few can put it together but everybody knows the goods when they hear it….and there is much less groupie sex.  So as painful as it may be, we all have to sit through the Warrants ‘til we get to Nirvana but you still can’t deny them the notes. (Now THAT is hack)

To you new comics out there, keep writing, keep performing and don’t read hack lists.  To you comedy authorities out there, keep writing, keep publishing and don’t write hack lists.  After all, the reason most people get into stand-up comedy is to say what they want.  Tell me what not to talk about?  Hack, please.  Go Mariners!

Young MJ Says It's not too soon

I once was asked to be part of a gig for a retirement community in Marina Del Rey.    Being the laugh whore I am, I immediately said, “yes.”   The only stipulation, the booker said, was to “go easy on the content.”   I guess the thought was that a community of Jewish retirees would probably not find the funny in date rape and Holocaust jokes.  “No problem,” I said.  The Auschwitz Roofie bit I had been working on still needed a little polishing anyway.

When I showed up on the night of the show, the booker gave me the line up.  He had me going up last which, at the time, I thought sucked.  By the time I would get up it would be way past grandpa’s bed time and I thought I would be facing a dead crowd. (pun intended)  The general consensus was that everybody was going to be clean.  The old people were going to love us the way they love puppies and grandchildren and Bob Barker and we were all going to kill.  I still was not sure about my set list but I figured that I had time to figure it out as the show went on.  So I pulled up a stool at the bar, ordered a beer and proceeded to watch the show.

What happened next taught me a very valuable lesson in stand up comedy.  Comic after comic got on stage and gave the “family friendly” version of their comedy and comic after comic bombed miserably.   It was truly horrifying.  This crowd would not laugh at shit.  I actually heard one woman comment on how cold her lobster tail dinner was and she was sitting on the other side of the fucking room.  I decided then and there that if I was going to bomb, I was going to do it without censoring myself.

When they called me up to the stage, the room had about as much energy as Steven Hawking’s fast twitch muscle fibers.  I grabbed the microphone, looked out into the crowd and said, “This is a nice community you have here.  The door man said this is a good place to come to die.  I didn’t know he was talking about comedians.”  The audience roared.  It was like they were on their death beds; about to emit a death rattle and I came by and hit ‘em with the old defibrillator paddles.  “Clear!” was the thought that came to mind.  I stuck with it.  I talked about everything from Asians humping drinking fountains to penis enlargement pills to why retarded people always seem to have shitty haircuts and they loved it.  There was one joke I always had hesitation telling because it was about 9/11 but if there was ever a time to tell it, this was it.  I won’t get into the set up but the punch line is, “Why don’t we have a 9/11 Bowl?  Every year it could be the Jets taking on the Steelers.”  Funny and clever, huh?  No?  Well fuck you, the audience laughed.  All except for one asshole who had to yell out the most clichéd heckle of all time.  “Too soon!”  Too soon?  It was two thousand goddamned seven!  If six years was not enough time passed to make light of the worst attack in the history of American soil then there never will be.

After the show, many of the audience members were coming up to me, shaking my hand, asking me when and where they could see me again and generally kissing my ass.  As the line was coming to an end, the old guy who yelled “too soon” stood there, arms crossed, giving me the stink eye and said, “You disgust me!  You’re inappropriate, crass and you shouldn’t be given a microphone!  How could you make fun of 9/11?  You’re sick!”  It was the single greatest compliment I have ever received as a comedian.

Aside from the fact that I was not making fun of 9/11, rather I was commenting on the pervading commercialization of EVERYTHING, I was in disbelief that somebody could come to a comedy show and be offended, not necessarily by what was said, but by when it was said.  Like I needed to wait twenty years before he would laugh at my 9/11 Bowl bit.  This whole notion of “too soon” in comedy is something of an enigma to me.  Tragedy happens every day and I know time heals all wounds and all that shit but what about laughter being the best medicine?  I mean, if I had to pick a cliché, I choose that one.

This is stand up comedy, people.  Isn’t it the comedian’s job to tap into whatever the collective consciousness is of the audience and exploit it?  Call it?  Put it out there?  Let them know we’re all thinking the same thing and its okay to laugh?  If we have to wait for some designated time before talking about a certain subject, how much is that subject going to resonate with the audience?  Hard to get laughs these days with Magna Carta material.

I write this on the day of Michael Jackson’s memorial in downtown Los Angeles.  You won’t be hearing any MJ jokes from me.  Not because it is too soon; because it is too overdone.  Frankly, we’ve been hearing Michael Jackson jokes ever since we found out he lived with a monkey.  No, not Blanket – the other monkey, Bubbles.  Inevitably though, we will be hearing Michael Jackson jokes in all the clubs and inevitably we’ll be hearing some douche bag yell, “Too soon!”  I don’t suppose there is much we can do about that.  What we can do is to keep talking about things that are in the moment.  I haven’t heard enough Farah Fawcet anal cancer jokes.  What about Ed McMahon?  David Carradine was starting to make some waves before MJ took his thunder.  Keep up the good fight my fellow comedians.  It’s never too soon.  Go Seahawks!

Just You and the Mic

This piece is not for comedians.  This piece is not for comics.  I make the two distinctions because I’ve heard that there is a difference although I am not sure what they are.  I’ve heard the cliché that, “A comic says funny things.  A comedian says things funny.”  I think this is a misquote from Ed Wynn, Vaudevillian comic / comedian from yesteryear, to draw a distinction between how much of comedy can be attributed to verbal content and how much to acting and persona.  Another interpretation is that a true comedian can make the phone book hilarious.  Either way, it parallels the same self righteousness of an old fraternity adage I heard in college.  “Don’t call my fraternity a frat.  You don’t call your country a cunt”  How do they know what I call my country?  I know I’m digressing.  No, this piece is for anybody who performs and / or is interested in stand up comedy and has the same questions I had when I first got started.

Let me first start by saying that I am no authority.  I don’t have any TV credits to speak of.  No HBO specials on the way.  I have been doing comedy for just under three years which, in comedy time, means I’ve just started to sprout my proverbial comedic pubes.  However, I have been going out to comedy venues four to seven nights a week for the majority of my comedy “career” so what I do have is perspective.  Many conversations with stand-ups, both green and seasoned, have shed some light on some common beliefs and misconceptions that seem to pervade the world of stand up comedy and, in my opinion, all of them can be summed up with one rule of thumb:  Nobody knows what the Hell they’re talking about so don’t listen to anybody.  Groundbreaking, huh?  Sorry if you were expecting something more but it is true.  Almost every question you may have about stand-up can be answered with that statement.  Don’t believe me?  Let’s examine.

To bring, or not to bring: that is the question.  The great debate here in Los Angeles and many other large markets is whether or not to do bringer shows.  For those new to that term, bringer shows are shows that producers put on where they ask you to bring a designated amount of people in exchange for stage time.  Most stand-ups I’ve talked to cringe at the mere mention of it.  “I don’t do bringer shows,” is the common response.  “It ruins stand-up comedy by giving shitty comics stage time just because they bring a bunch of friends,” is another.  Well that, certainly, is one way to look at it.  Another way to look at it might be, “How can you ever expect to be a headliner if you don’t have any fans?”  Comedy is as subjective an art form as they come but I think most people can agree that the funniest people are not, necessarily, the most successful.  Unfortunately, show business is still a business and at the end of the day, what’s going to open more doors for you, how many asses you can put in the seat or that sweet joke you have about baby AIDS?  Nobody knows what the Hell they’re talking about so don’t listen to anybody.  If you don’t want to do bringer shows, don’t do them.  If you want to do them, do them…and work on that baby AIDS bit.

Question:  What’s better, edgy and blue or clean and clever?   Answer:  Who gives a shit.  Another common conundrum I see many new comics face is what style they should adopt.  On one hand you have the easy to attempt yet difficult to pull off, “R-rated” comedy.  On the other you have the less popular yet even trickier, “TV friendly” comedy.  I hear it go both ways.  “Audiences in these tough times aren’t going to like you if your jokes are about abortions and 9/11.”  Tell that to Doug Stanhope.  “You can’t really call yourself an artist with observations about Pop Tarts.”  Tell that to Brian Regan.  When it comes to style, a lot of advice gets thrown around.  If you do the open mike at the Laugh Factory here in Los Angeles and you curse, you immediately get thrown off stage.  Their argument?  You can’t curse on The Tonight Show.  My retort?  Fuck The Tonight Show, I’m just trying to get a showcase.  If you haven’t picked up on it already, I tend to lean towards the dark side.  However, I have the utmost respect for those that can be clean and funny.  Unfortunately, most new stand-ups are only doing open mikes and as anyone who has performed at an open mike in front of a crowd of cynical comedians will tell you, the only way you’re going to get good laughs from comedians is if the material is dark and strange and dark and did I mention dark?.  Put it this way, molestation by a transvestite priest in the basement of the Anne Frank house could be considered a hacky premise at an open mike.  Consequently, this type of feedback and reinforcement leads many comics to go blue when, by nature, they probably are not.  Nobody knows what the Hell they’re talking about so don’t listen to anybody.

It works for any question you may have.  This piece would not be a piece if I went into every single question a new stand-up may have, it would be a book.  So I’ll summarize.  “How often should I write?” Nobody knows… “Should I move to LA or New York or hit the road?”  Nobody knows… “How much time should I dedicate to hanging out at clubs and networking?”  Nobody knows… “When can I quit my day job?”  Nobody knows…  “Are stand-up workshops beneficial or a waste of money?”  Nobody knows… “Is there really a God?”  No.

Realizing that nobody really knows anything is actually quite liberating, both in comedy and in life.  Remember all those real estate “experts” that told people to buy in 2006?  You get the idea.  The concept of “Nobody knows” really dawned on me when I kept watching interview after interview of megastar stand-ups say the same thing when asked, “Any advice?”  Every single one of them says, “Just keep getting up as much as you can.”  I guess that is the only real answer to anything in stand-up.  The rest will sort itself out.  But what do I know?  If you got this far into the piece, you didn’t listen to the rule of thumb anyway.  Or maybe you did.  Damn, I hate paradoxes.  Go Lakers.