My boxes of girl scout cookies were delivered to me at work today. I can understand why they start out as brownies, being as those little deviants are responsible for more fat people than Texas moms.
I just stopped at Dunkin Donuts and after ordering my usual Iced Coffee was informed that they only had Iced Decaf Coffee. I told them that I was highly offended. I truly think I’m allergic to Decaf and I would prefer that it doesn’t even touch my normal coffee. I really don’t understand the whole concept. It’s like drinking Orangeless Orange Juice, or watching Ivy League Basketball. I’d rather drink Heated Pickle Juice with live herpes infected Sardines, swimming through my innards, biting and infecting me throughout the whole digestive process.
I did a show last night at Shea’s American Bar & Grill in Manchester, CT. There were about a dozen giant shamrocks adorning the wall, being kept company by fourteen or so Guinness signs and some random Boston Celtics memorabilia. I think it was probably an Indian bar, but I could be wrong. I didn’t have a chance to try the curry to test its authenticity. My guess is that it probably tastes like blood pudding and bangers.
There was a DJ who brought up all the comics to music. This was the first time I’ve seen this outside of an urban show. I remember the first time I did a show with a DJ and they asked (aksed?) what music I wanted to be brought up to. I asked if they had any Journey, or possibly Rock the Casbah, but I think they brought me up to Soldier Boy. Same difference.
The first thing I noticed was the diseased fake palm tree and an aged beach umbrella behind the stage. They really needed to spend a little more time working on the beach motif. I mentioned that it was like a little tropical island in the middle of Bridgeport. The only things missing were the syringes, used condoms filled with bubbly aids juice, and a dead hooker.
Behind the stage were televisions featuring off-track betting on dog races and Jai Alai matches, which I didn’t even know still existed. It was like doing comedy for uninterested whales in some Vegas back room, but without all that hope to weigh everyone down.
I’ve never been so happy to go on second. I had a decent set, but the crowd rapidly lost interest throughout the whole seventeen comic three-hour tour. I felt a little bad for the young man trying comedy for the first time on that stage. He forgot his first joke and then things really went downhill. I was amused at how much he looked like some sort of Rob Zombie / Geico Caveman hybrid. I’m convince that his whole purpose in life is to become famous just so that he can be on Celebrity Rehab. There was another newer comic who had the misfortune of combining a lisp with a severe helium addiction.
I went from Corona to Patron to Long Island Iced Tea, so by the time I got to Southern Comfort, there was a comic on stage with an Oscar the Grouch shirt that was the most distracting piece of clothing ever. I couldn’t look at his face no matter how hard I tried. It was as if the grouch was telling me jokes. He had a belly that would jiggle when told jokes, making my furry green friend seem even more lifelike. I made some notes in my notebook and most of it is legible, but I’m not sure what holdap gezogi5n means. I think I probably meant something else, like a puzzle. I need a windtalker, or some sort of person who specializes in breaking inebriated codes. I think I was onto something funny. I just don’t know what it was.
The show had a contest where three comics were brought onstage at the end to tell yo mama jokes and have a dance off in order to win a $50 gift certificate, which could only be spent at this particular mecca of comedy. Yo mama is so fat that when she dies, thousands of bees will die with her because they can no longer sustain themselves on her honey flavored sweat.
The funniest moment of the night may have been when the leader of a group of lesbians, who happened to be about 6’2”, walked past me and said, “I own these bitches!” Right on…