Don't Call Me Boring, It's Just 'Cause I Like You

This is what the sky has been looking like lately. I like it. I love a brisk wind, slight rain, and oceans of clouds that blot out the sun. You may have noticed a preponderance of gray (or grey, if you like) on this blog. I like gray. I love this weather, and this time of year.

I don't think everyone else does, though.

Last night, for the first time I've seen, the Wednesday night show at the local comedy club was canceled due to "lack of participation." If you're new to the English language, "lack of participation" means "only 13 people showed up to watch the show." I know that some people who would normally be there were busy with school, or work, or cleaning up dog crap. I wonder, though, if the weather contributed to the situation. Well, whatever. You can't listen to the new material I was going to debut last night, but you can read it. Some of it, anyway. A lot of it sucks. So, I'm just going to put up a few jokes, not the actual routine. Let me know what you DON'T like, and if you can, tell me why. And remember, some of this is performance based and just won't be funny on paper. Anyway, I hope this grays up your day.


I just got back from D.C., and boy is my crack pipe tired!

I did spend some time in D.C., though. Got to hang out with some cabbies, and I discovered that those guys are the most opinionated people in the world. And most of them are crazy. And you can't start a fight with them, if you're a tourist. Or they'll drop your ass off in Anacostia. That's where crack houses get robbed.

They all had opinions on Mark Foley, though. And it was interesting, seeing it through the eyes of immigrants. 'Cause they've got a different perspective. "This man, this Foley, if he had done this in my country, we would cover him in flaming cow dung!" And you just nod. And they keep getting angrier. It's like "We would eat him!" What country is that again? Let me just mark that on my Lonely Planet guide... Senegal... likes... to eat... pederasts.

'Cause I'm a vegan, so I wouldn't, you know, enjoy the cuisine. Honestly, I love vegetables. My favorite was Terri Schiavo. She was hot. You know, before. Kinda chunky, though.

I'm actually trying to lose weight. I've heard models sometime snort coke to lose weight. I don't understand that. Why aren't they snorting diet coke? It's got less calories, ladies.

And then there's Meth. Or as I call it: Chicken-Fried-Crack. Crack is the word for tonight, in case you were wondering. It's almost like a cultural touchstone now. It's like Xerox, or Aspirin. And now everything's like crack. "Myspace is like crack!" Unless you're blowing someone for a friend invite, it's not like crack. If you are... then maybe you'll make my top eight.

I do like myspace, though, because it lets me engage in my bizarre sexual fetish. See, I love having explicit, nasty, filthy cybersex with federal agents posing as fourteen year old girls. It's a very specific kink. But it is so hot. I have to register as a sex offender now, but it was worth it.

Okay, I've got no segue for this next stuff, so let's talk about tampons. I think they can be more festive. Why not paisley tampons? Why not beads? Why not flashing led lights and hydraulics? Pimp My Pon!

I think they can be combined with stuff, too. I want to combine tampons and iPods. Call 'em iPons. Instead of a string, it's an extra-long pair of headphones. You control it with kegel muscles, and don't we all win when those girls get a workout? And it would come pre-loaded with "Proud Mary," and "River of Dreams," and "Sunday, Bloody Sunday." And then Vanessa Redgrave tells you whenever it needs to be changed.

Or maybe just put streamers in 'em. Pull the string, POP! It's like a party in your cooter. Everyone's a winner!

I'm trying to pitch a film idea. It's a prequel to Weekend At Bernie's. Yeah, I don't care if it's old. I told a damn Terri Schiavo joke. Anyway, this one takes place in 1945. In Germany. It's called Weekend at Adolph's! Two numbskull S.S. officers accidentally kill him, but they can't let their boss know, otherwise they'll never get promoted! So they make a little Hitler puppet and trot him around for a few hours, then set him on fire and kill his girlfriend. It's a comedy!

Okay, last bit, let's talk about religion. Hindus won't eat a cow on the off chance that it's really their dead grandma. Catholics eat crackers on the off chance that it turns into the son of God once it hits their tongues. There's no punchline to that. I just think that's neat.

All Right Baby, I Just Can't Keep On Pretending

Doug Marlette says that the key to comedy is being completely committed to what you're doing. Okay. So tonight at the Loony Bin I said some really disgusting, horrible stuff, and I did my best to commit to it. I think it turned out pretty well.

What does that have to do with not stepping on stuff? Well, in my haste to cover as much material as possible in 4 minutes, I managed to step on my own jokes a few times. Why can't I just let the audience enjoy the bits that work without ham-handedly pushing forward? It's something I'm working on.

Enjoy!

If You’re Tired Of The Big So-So

I saw Get Your War On last week. It was the swearingest show I’ve ever seen in my life. The show, based on a popular Internet comic from New York, was put on at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre in Washington, D.C. by a theatre group called Rude Mechanicals out of Austin, Texas. Truly, it is a national effort. I loved it. Anyone familiar with the comic knows that it is a stripped-down 4-panel invective aimed at terrorism, war, and those who profit from both. To call it bilious does not do it justice. Bush, Cheney, bin Laden, Rumsfeld, North Korea, Wolfowitz, Ashcroft, and even Voltron are on the receiving end of some blisteringly funny rage.

It’s a traveling show, and if it comes anywhere near you, I suggest you see it.

Less sweary, but just as entertaining, was the night of improv comedy I saw at the Washington Improv Theatre. Once you get past the too-clever acronym, you find yourself in the midst of some pretty talented kids. There were two troupes, Best Friends and One Sixty One, performing 30 to 40 minutes each with minimal direction from the audience. It wasn’t like that abysmal “Who’s Line Is It Anyway” bullshit, where professionals are forced to perform acting exercises for our “amusement.” This was more like jazz, where the actors were allowed to riff, and if they hit something good, solo for a bit.

If you’re in Washington D.C., I suggest you see it.

And here’s some more pictures.

I don't know what that building was, but I thought it looked cool.

Me and Abe.

Me and George.

Here's another damn elitist liberal sipping on a soy latté.

I Am A Visitor Here... I Am Not Permanent

Creepy or Congressional?


What's that smell?


That's me in the corner.


That's me outside a Think-Tank. It's a lot like an office.


There's a strike going on behind me. Apparently there is a local drywall company run by total dicks.


Get your learn on.


Sitting poolside at The Mondrian.


A statue of a horse.


Another statue of a horse.


That's where Pandas live.


There's some Pandas.


This is a picture of a picture of a Panda.


Tai Shan is coming to kill me.


Dinner from Teaism.

In 27-D, I Was Behind The Wing Watching

Flying into D.C. this week, I saw the most amazing thing. As the plane is coming in for a landing, one of the flight attendants sits down accross the aisle from me, in 27-A, opens the window and looks out at the District like it’s the first time he’s ever come in for a landing. He stares out the window, his fingers start twitching slowly, and the world inside the plane disappears. It’s amazing to watch. Once we start our final descent, at the last moment allowed under FAA regulations, he stands up, moves back to his seat next to the rear exit, and picks up a sudoku puzzle. The tiny window in the door is of no interest, and though he’s moved no more than three feet it might as well be an entire world for how his perspective has changed.

I wondered if he did that every time, or if there was just something special about the water hazard they call Reagan International. I hope the wonder of that moment never wears off, that the magic and the passion never fades.

At that moment, I was glad that I have things in my life about which I am passionate. I don’t know what my life would be otherwise.