Wednesday, March 6, 2013
I had all these grandiose plans to write today about an awesome client who, in a moment of triumph, instant messaged me “I HAVE BIG BALLS”—she really does, she’s beyond awesome—and how exhilarating it was to see her embracing her power…however. However, I went out to see a comedy roast last night, and while I have a near-fetish for funny men, I forgot how most comics, in person, are somewhere below Jeffrey Dahmer when it comes to their ability to interact with other humans.
And trust me: I’m not a delicate flower. I survived elementary school with other gifted children, living in Russia, dating Russian men, law school, Nancy Grace pre-make-up…to name but a few. So I don’t take personally your inability to make eye contact or shower or get laid, and thus your need to spread your rage against women. As long as you’re funny, I don’t care. As long as you make me laugh, be as spiteful as you wish.
But when you’re not funny, when in fact you can’t even be bothered to attempt to be funny since you’re so full of bile, contempt and barely suppressed loathing, because you’re spending more time on the comic lifestyle than the comic discipline…well then as certain suburban housewives say, shit just got real.
In those circumstances, you know, it’s difficult for me not to say, “Oh, you think?” when you tell me your wife is leaving you. You took off the handcuffs for 5 minutes and she saw her opportunity, hmm? Run, bitch, run! Luckily, the humanoid in question here wasn’t hitting on me but the lovely lady sitting next to him…her face a mask of horror. If he had been hitting on me, I would have spontaneously developed some lingering vaginal cancer…which, on second thought, he probably wouldn’t have minded. I suppose this is my point: no one made you want to grow up to be a comic. Other people get over the beatings, or being laughed at in third grade, or being emotionally abused or being dressed as a girl. Didn’t seem to hold back the Hohenzollern Dynasty!
Some people go into therapy. Some people choose to enjoy their life. Some people develop people-skills and you know, make actual friends. Some people become Hugo Chavez which seemed to work for a while. So you, my dear: you choose to be a comic. That’s awesome, sounds great to me: so how about you work at it, and commit to your skills, to your talent, to networking and STOP committing to being a miserable f**k and taking it all out on the audience. If I wanted to be miserable I’d still be in TV, dealing with “reporters” who can’t report. I’d still be cutting teases of a goddamn water-skiing squirrel…who was at least easier to take than a certain action-figure-sized Greek on-air “personality.” I’m using “personality” here in the sense that Stalin was called the “Cult of Personality.”
But, if I go out to a comedy roast, it’s because I’d like to drink some vodka and be amused. Don’t even get me started on the chick who laughed at her own woefully unfunny jokes. The same chick who, naturally, sent me a Facebook friend request: nothing to see here, keep it moving.
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