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.
Want some help committing to yourself? Of course you do! Email me
@carlotazee@gmail.com, or become a fan of my Facebook page, “Carlotaworldwide
Creativity Yenta," for a free consultation!
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