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They informed us, chop-chop, that they had Big Managers
cookin’ Big Deals and were, as we speak, skidding
on oil to the Big Time. Actually, just one Dan did;
we’ll call him
Demonic Dan. I’m not sure that he’s actually
demonic, but what he represented, to me, is. Decent
Dan, a darling geek, just sputtered info when asked.
Demonic Dan is blandly good-looking with a snaky smile.
He’d be top ten in a Masonic draft — what
might be called a ‘Winner’. You just know
he’s going to Make It — no matter what.
He wields entitlement like Kung Fu nunchucks, as if
‘tis heaven’s will. The ‘my dad’s
in corporate law’ vibe spurts from his pores.
He can simultaneously command and patronize a crowd,
cocksure he’s a champ. He tours. He’ll be
hosting a show for MTV. He has a big balla web$ite with
streaming video. He has everything but… talent.
Au contraire — like an old movie plot —
shy, nerdy Decent Dan really is funny. Smart funny.
His website is just a dorky photo. Demonic D. says that
they often perform together “because we play off
each other well, we’re such opposites.”
The real reason, I submit, is that Demonic D. wants
to hitch to Decent D.’s star, in case he gets
famous first. I don’t think he needs to fret,
though — as I said, Decent Dan is smart.
We learned (for fifty bucks) that clubs like The Comedy
Store and the Ha Ha (Ugh) Café have open mic
nights. That you will endure two years of silence and
boos before you “destroy ‘em!” and
“kill ‘em!” which, relatively speaking,
might mean that some drunks in the audience cough.
At that point you invite your Mom and best friend from
first grade to “give their opinion.” Gosh,
I wonder what they’ll say.
Also, when you’re on the road, you have to stay
in bad hotels. And Carrot Top makes ten million a year,
which reminded me, with anguish, that our culture’s
in a toilet that’s already been flushed.
“Phyllis Dill-eer and Rod-nee Dangerfield —
they are not very young, yes?” the old Belgian
guy chimed out. “You see, there iss no age limit
to have fun!” The guy beside me hissed and clicked
his pen.
“I know how college works,” added the orange
traffic cone. “I know all the new majors, like
Afro Studies and that woman shit. Does that compensate
for being old?”
“Will bodybuilding negatively affect your career?”
asked Herr Butt Crack who, at this point, should feel
free to dwell on other things. “I mean, did it
hurt Joe Piscopo?”
After a break, the Dans performed a bit of their routines.
Demonic Dan’s ventured bravely into the uncharted
waters of horniness and masturbation.
The bulk of Part Two was a ‘workshop.’
Everyone but me had a prepared joke to perform. As I
told Demonic Dan that I’d be sitting this out,
he looked past my shoulder in true Hollywood style.
Hello, ladies and germs! My name is Xanadu Xero —
how y’all doing tonight? Anyone here from Chicago?
I just flew in from Chicago and boy, are my arms tired!
Hear about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making
headlines! I now have the honor of presenting to you
the comedy stylings of the cream of the seminar ‘workshop,’
those inimitable Tinsel Townies - the Pouting White
Men!
Hissing Pen Clicker: “What are steroids for fags
called? Assteroids.”
Butt Crack: “I called my brother and said, ‘I’ve
got some good news and some bad news. The good news
is that my cock is huge, but the bad news is that Mom
died.”
Traffic Cone: “Anyone here from the INS? Oh,
that’s okay, I’m legal.”
Old Belgian Guy: “I do not like a woman with
breasts smaller than my nuts.”
Weedy Toupee: “Confucius say if you drop watch
in toilet you have shitty time.”
Bar Mitzvah Boy: “I was driving cross-country
recently and I felt the urge so I pulled out my dick
and got caught by the toll booth collector. She said
it wasn’t a good thing. Thank you.”
Did anyone, uh, get that last one?
“Whenever I see stand-up, I feel like ‘The
King Who Couldn’t Laugh’” said my
boyfriend, Aap. “There used to be five good comics,
now there are five million who suck. The bar’s
gotten so low it’s subterranean.”
Aap is flammable on this subject. He stood up and started
to pace. “People go to these clubs because they
don’t have a damn thing to say to each other.
Americans will laugh at anything. They’re like
pissing dogs. They’re unable to wait for anything,
they cannot tolerate suspense.”
My confrere Silver threw her quarter into the well.
“The best comedy comes from a dark place and is
supposed to fuck with your perceptions.” Her eyes
went all steely, contrasting with her fluffy hair. “Institutionalized
dullness has choked the life from what is supposed to
be a subversive art form. Give me ‘American Chopper’
any day if the alternative is some asexual ‘regular
guy’ acting all befuddled’n’hostile
in the presence of women and groceries.”
“Girls all say that they want guys with a sense
of humor,” responded Aap. “And that’s
what they get with these ‘comedians’ —
a sense of humor. At best they can sense it.
Perhaps.”
Silver continued, spirit seized: “The entertainment
business is owned by corporations. If the check signers
don’t want the boat rocked, the boat rockers won’t
get onboard, so we wind up with some jackass blathering
about appliances, or his wiener. And people pay to hear
this, and yuck it up, as civilization is crumbling around
them.”
She paused. “Now that… is kind of funny.”
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