Someone asked me. . .

. . .when I started writing comedy.

“I started doing comedy in grade school. Or, as my mother called it, ‘My grades.'”

Do you want to create?

Do you want to be a comedian? Do you want to be a musician? Do you want to be an artist? Do you want to be creative at all? Give a listen.

Stupid Adult Games

I don’t know why people think they have to be entertaining when they’ve invited you to their home. You’ve invited me, I brought beer, you have food, I’m sure there’s a TV, maybe a large backyard, that’s all you have to do. You didn’t invite me over for a show. You invited me over to eat and drink and talk at your home so you didn’t have to leave, you lazy ass.

But, people do. The moment I see an easel or hear the word ‘pictionary’ I’m looking for methods of egress up to and including burrowing through the walls.

Up to this point these people have not tried to entertain. They’ve allowed us into their home, that’s the end of their involvement with my night as far as I’m concerned.

But something was gnawing at me. Something ticking. Something in the shadows. Some thing was going to ruin my evening.

“What’s the worst Ben & Jerry flavor you can think of?” Glowingly said the hostess. I shot a glance at the host and it must have been withering because he scurried directly to the cheese table and started gnawing with intent.

Now please, do not for a moment think I consider myself all that funny but why do others think they’re funny? I have a pretty extensive comedic pedigree and I know my funny failure  rate is high. But other people seem to think every humorous utterance that bubbles up in their brain pan is a shiny gem.

The woman next to me says something like Sneaker Stench or some such gem. Then the flood gates open and oh the festivities flow! Road Apple Ripple! Grade School Paste! Chocolate Flavored Vanilla! Ho! Ho! Hot Sauce!

Then the celebrity brands make their appearance! John Travolta’s Happy Ending! Lady Ga Garlic! Bill Burrberry! Elton’s John! Brad Olive Pitt! Taylor Swiffer!

I’m already digging an escape trench on the property line with a spork when someone, I don’t know who but, if I ever find out, I will transform my trench into a grave and make them disappear, calls out,

“Chris! I bet you have one!”

In the chamber with your name on it, bitch!

The thing is I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I know there’s a guy huddling beside a tree fondling the bark . A woman pretending it’s the most exquisite flower pot ever. So, to me, it is my responsibility to help alleviate the stress and strain on these nice people. After all, they’re only here for the beer. They didn’t know they were going to have to perform.

“Ah, well,” I say putting down my spork. “Yeah, ah, I guess I can come up with one.”

I see people, the people enjoying this adventure, the people I’ve come to loathe, smiling. They don’t know me, for if they did, they would have an expression closer to that of my girlfriend. A combination of hatred and fear. This is not unique. I see that most times she knows I’m about to open my mouth.

Remember, I am not doing this for any other reason than to allow the tree huggers and flower watchers in the crowd a safe moment to beat a hasty retreat. I am Mr. Public Service.

“I think the worst Ben & Jerry flavor ever would be Jenna Jameson’s Creampie.”

Right away I see movement, a groundswell actually, of knowledge about what I’m talking about combined with an  almost equal amount of people trying not to have to explain it to the less porn savvy.

Either way, I have caused another out of control freight train of comedic horror to pull safely into the station and come to a full and complete stop.

You are, my gentle friends, welcome.

Old Bit

I really thought I’d written this story. Maybe it’s one that’s in such bad taste I just do verbally.

The reason I bring it up is because I just found out what the movie was (I’d forgotten the name pretty much as soon as I started doing the bit).

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116783/

I’ll get to the end.

At the end of the movie the theater manager says she’s sad to tell us the planned Q&A with the director will not take place. People in the theater groan. I don’t, I say, although I don’t think I did it loud enough to be heard by anyone other than who was next to me, turns out I was wrong, blasted good acoustics,

“Is that because she’s out fucking dead guys?”

Honest question. But the manager shot me a withering look. Okay, it made me laugh but it would have been frightening to a pomeranian. We’re told there will still be refreshments but we’re not interested in that. What we are interested in is getting rid of the refreshments we’ve already ingested.

I go directly into the men’s room while my date waits in line for the ladies room. I’m in mid piss when someone comes out of one of the stalls. Huh, I think, she’s tall. I finish and we start washing our hands. We start a conversation and says she’s amazed at my ease about this. She has no fucking idea.

We’re laughing and finishing up (washing our hands to dirty minded so and sos) when she says,

“You’re the guy who asked if she was fucking a dead guy.”

“I would be.” I said as I opened the door for her as we begin laughing. The moment we begin to step out of the men’s room we walk directly into the face of my date who nodded her head and said,

“Only you could go into men’s room alone and come out with a laughing girl.”

My toilet mate informed her that she was lucky to have such funny and cool guy.

As true as that may be, I knew that wasn’t exactly what my date was thinking.

Time

I’m in a worthless conversation, actually, I’m in a worthless monologue with a guy trying to show me how smart he is. I’m not asking for confirmation nor have I lead him to believe I’m all that bright. He’s just one of those people who needs to impress you.

That’s the thing, to me, which makes the next sentence so nice.

“I have a bad conception of time.” He dazzles with his virtuosity.

“Is that because you don’t give a fuck about time?” I ask innocently.

No, Simply No.

“Hey Chris, do you have time to write me some jokes?”

“When do you need them?”

“Tonight.”

“No.”

Okay, let’s play ‘What Comes Next?’

1) “Yeah, I figured it was a long shot but I thought I’d give it a shot. Thanks anyway.”
2) “You’re screwing me here, you know. You’re really screwing me here. Fuck you, asstits.”
3) “What? You don’t have time to write jokes for me?”
“Not today.”
“You can’t even take an hour to write some jokes for me?”
“Not even half an hour.”
“I can’t believe it. I mean, how hard can it be?”
“Hard enough that you tried all week, got nothing, so were forced to make this call.”
“Fuck you.”

I’ll give you a hint. The winning entry included the offer for me to fuck myself but without the patronymic.

I’ve long come to the conclusion that people, no matter what it is, if they have something in mind, do not want anyone to stand in the way of their achievement.

I can’t tell you how many times a day I disappoint people (we’re just sticking with clothes on here) because whatever it is they want I don’t have or can’t do. It’s not that, if I could, I wouldn’t accommodate them. I would. Not because I want to be all that helpful. Mainly because it’s a way to shut them up expediently.

It’s like giving a screaming baby a pacifier soaked in bourbon.

But, instead of a screed about how no doesn’t just mean no during rape, I’m going to hide my base instinct, and turn this into a PSA for all those people who have to deal with the bearer of bad news.

Ahem. Sorry, I had to get my base instinct off the tip of my tongue.

When sidling up to a person in a service related industry with a question, on the off chance that person must inform you that the item, service, desire, you are asking for is not possible at this time and potentially illegal in all states other than the state of dementia, do not continue to ask them if they’re sure because it will get you nowhere because:

1) yes, they are sure.
2) yes, they know there are no more in the back of the store.
3) no, they don’t know when more will arrive.

Let’s explain why:

1) because you’re not the first person to ask about this today.
2) because they’ve already been forced back there by annoying, bullying trolls multiple times today which isn’t actually a bad thing because they got to go back there, take a mini-break and say evil things about you.
3) because the shipper wouldn’t tell us what’s coming in because that piece of shit is afraid of losing control of his dusty, mouse shit strewn fiefdom.

Now, if that’s not enough to cure your ills, let me stick in a little bonus, you know when you’re told we’ll give you a rain check and call you when it comes in? If you’ve been an a repeater offender we will give you a rain check but we will not under any circumstances call you to tell you when they came in.

Well, that’s not totally true.

We’ll call you the moment the last one walks out of the store.

When we’re about to leave on our day off.

So please, we’re not out here to fuck with you. But, if you don’t understand basic concepts and phrases, remember, we are experienced and powerful counterpunchers.

Thank you for your time.

There is no more to be said.

I SAID there is no more!

Do you people learn anything?????????

My girlfriend said. . .

“I’ve been with the same guy for awhile. But I got fat so that made it easier.”