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  Punchline Fever!

Standup Standup

  11/16/03: Comedy Studio
  12/03/03: Emerald Isle
  12/17/03: Emerald Isle
  01/07/04: Emerald Isle
  01/08/04: The Times
  01/18/04: All Asia Cafe
  01/22/04: The Times
  01/25/04: All Asia Cafe
  01/28/04: On the Hill
  01/31/04: Chops Lounge
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  02/08/04: The Vault
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  03/10/04: Emerald Isle
  03/24/04: Emerald Isle
  04/01/04: Comedy Studio
  05/17/04: Comedy Connection

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  101 Things About For Me

  101 Things Posts About Me

  #6: Six Stitches
  #7: What's in a Name?
  #11: The Speling Bea
  #19: A Capital Weekend
  #35: Road Trippin'
  #36: Geronimo! Ditto!
  #40: Three for the Ages
  #43: Mishaps on the River
  #47: Puzzled Over Puzzling
  #53: Justifying My Tuition
  #55: My Yearbook Quote
  #56: Whatever It Takes
  #65: Pissing in the Middle
  #78: Losing My Faith
  #85: Goodbye, Teeth
  #88: A Painful Separation
  #91: An Only Child
  #98: Nothing But Putrid
  #99: Bovine Dreaming
  #100: 'Dudden Hurt'

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Charlie/Male/31-35. Lives in United States/Massachusetts/Watertown, speaks English. Eye color is hazel.
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Where the Hell Was I? has moved!

Please visit my new home at:

I'll be glad you did!

Saturday, February 07, 2004
Her Meals Take 30 Minutes to Make... But She Can Eat 'Em in 30 Seconds!

Look, I'm a nice guy. I don't want to sound mean or anything. But I just can't stand it any longer -- I have to ask:

Am I the only one who thinks Rachel Ray has the physically biggest mouth on the entire planet?

Seriously, I want to like her. I'd like nothing more than to check out her FHM spread, and say to myself, 'Damn! Now that's a honey! She can braise my lamb shanks any day!' Really, nothing would give me greater pleasure.

(Well, okay, obviously that's not true. I would probably gain far greater pleasure from being able to say all of that, and then wandering into the kitchen to find our young friend Rachel doing this.

Um, ahem... you know, from a purely academic, sociological standpoint, that would be fun. Purely from the 'Hey, look, a celeb in my kitchen... and by the way, is that hot fudge?' sort of sense. I imagine we'd sit down over tea and discuss the carbohydrate content of various legumes, or something.

Eventually, I might even ask whether she wanted to put her shirt back on. No, really. With a very broad definition of 'eventually', it could happen. Seriously.)

Anyway, that's the sort of thing I'd like to think. And her mouth isn't open very far in the fudge-licking picture, so it's just about possible. But then I see her smiling, and all I can think is:

'Holy pixelated nipples, Batman! It's 'Bride of Joker'! Quick, get the BatFloss!'

Really, she seems very nice, and she knows a lot about food, but when I see one of her shows, I'm honestly afraid she's gonna accidentally inhale a friggin' salad bowl or something. I'm convinced that she is the only person in the world who can lick her own ears.

(And while that's actually sort of hot, now that I come to think of it, it's also highly disturbing, in a very Exorcist, forked-tongued snaky sort of way.

Damn, 'forked-tongued snaky'... yep, it's hot again. I just go back and forth on this one.

Still, even if she can get her tongue over that far, I'm pretty sure she doesn't give her lobes a lickin' very often. Everybody knows that ear wax is just empty calories. And our friend Rachel is food-smarter than that.)

Anyway, that's what my brain has been chewing on (What, a pun? The hell you say!) this afternoon. Thoughts? Comments? More pictures of Rachel and hot fudge, perhaps?

(Hey, I said I thought her mouth was kinda big. I'm still a man, dammit. What the hell do you expect?)

Ahhhhhhhhh... Oh Yeah, That's Better!

Wow, that was hard!

I've been playing along with the new guest-posting game dreamed up by Al over at Shouting Into the Void. First, I submitted a post to Al, which he was kind enough to post, and leave as the 'top story' for more than a day, as per the rules. That was the easy part.

(Never mind that the post rambled on for-frickin'-ever, and not one damned person commented on it. This was the first guest post penned for this new meme, you know. We groundbreaking pioneers expect to be misunderstood, and even ignored, in our own lifetimes.

But just you wait -- a couple decades after I die, that post is gonna be huge. Ginormous. They'll probably make holomovies and neurobooks out of it. Seriously. Mark my frickin' words, people.)

But the next part was hard. I had to pick a guest poster of my own from the multitudes handful three people who offered to give it a whirl. And all three had great ideas, so picking Brad out of the horde crowd smattering of would-be posters was no small feat.

In the end, though, Brad's offer to write about flushable folded wipes caught my attention, and so I posted his story. And again, that part was easy. I could take the afternoon off and actually do some real work! Result!

Then the evening rolled around, and I left work. And went home, exhausted and happy to be spending some 'quality time' with the wife. Fine. But this morning, we got up, and she left to run some errands. A perfect opportunity to post an entry! But gah! -- it was only ten-thirty. I couldn't post for another three-plus hours. I was honor-bound to give Brad's excellent post the full twenty-four hours it so richly deserves. Eek.

And so... I went postless. And it was tough, people! I mean, I've gone a full twenty-four hours without posting before -- but never when I was able to post, and ready to post, and downright itching to post, but prohibited from posting. Oh, sure, I could have cheated, just a little -- but really, that's not fair to any of us. We all need rules to live by, and most of mine lately seem to involve this site you're reading. I wasn't about to bend the rules out of boredom.

However, now that it's all over, I will show you just how bored and anxious to post that I was. Hopping around on other blogs, I found a cool new toy, and created a cockeyed Valentine's heart, just for you. It's made out of other hearts, and features a few of my favorite slogans.

(The short slogans, anyway. There's not much room to write on those little peckery things, that's for friggin' sure.)

Check it out -- you may have to stretch your browser out to see the heart shape, but really, that's not particularly the point. I think the real issue is that I spent a couple of hours thinking up the slogans, downloading the pictures, and finding a way to arrange them into a heart shape.

So you see, dear reader -- I was away for a while, but I'm always thinking of you. And now I'm back! 'Cat poop' hearts all 'round! Yay, us!

Oh, and one more thing -- now that I'm back, I can remind you that Round Three of Blog Madness is under way!

This time around, I'm up against Today's Shoes, and her heart-gripping post 'Back Home'. I'd like to encourage all of you to read 'em both, pick your fave, and then rock the vote! Remember, if you don't vote, then you can't complain when I'm elected President and declare Wednesdays 'No, Really Hump Day, Seriously This Time'.

(I mean, shit, folks -- if we're gonna keep calling it that, let's get a federal ruling out there, slap on the damned baby oil, and get to it, fer chrissakes. Nobody likes a damned tease!)

(Oh, and in case anyone notices, don't get your knickers in a twist if you go see the latest post at Today's Shoes and see that she's trying to coerce votes, and calling me 'evil', and all of that. I'm sure it's all in good fun.

Course, if she wins this round, I'm gonna throw a Hefty bag full of hippo droppings on her front porch and light it on fire. 'Fun' is one thing, but I wouldn't want to think she got herself an unfair advantage or anything. *sniff*)

Friday, February 06, 2004
Don't Think I Wasn't Serious, Dammit!

In my last post, after nobody appreciated my little joke (including me, once I finally got to the damned point), I threatened graciously offered to let someone else take the reins for the rest of the day, to see what he could do with you. Well, that lucky someone is our good friend Brad from over at Kinder's Garden, and he'll be guest-posting for you right here in just a moment.

First, though, you should go check Brad out. He's got a fantastic, funny -- and visually pleasing -- site, and is well worth your precious clickies.

(Unless you have some sexually deviant connotation for the word 'clickies' that I don't know about. And even then, Brad may be well worth your, um... 'clickies'. But I can't really say, personally. If that's your little bag o' fun, you're on your own to find out. And good luck with that. Really.)

Anyway, give Kinder's Garden a try; you'll be glad you did. And it's probably good to read something else Brad wrote before diving into his guest post. I think he dipped into the 'bathroom humor' solely in my honor. I'm not much on the highfalutin' 'tea and crumpets' talk around here, so Brad probably wanted to write something that he knew I could understand, and relate to, and spew OJ on my monitor about.

So, um... thanks, Brad. I think. I'm really not sure. Here, you guys be the judges, and see what you think:

OK, Charlie has graciously allowed me to submit an entry to post on his very popular blog. I wanted to come up with something that I probably wouldn’t post on my own blog. I think I was able to come up with an entry in true “Charlie style”.

I will reveal something that I don’t think anyone except my family knows about me. It is a particular item that is almost REQUIRED for me in the bathroom. I am sure your minds are racing now. What could it be? OK, I can see where your dirty little minds are going. No, it is not Kleenex! Although, I do think Kleenex is considered a bathroom item (but we like to keep boxes throughout the house). OK, are you ready for this? Oh yeah, first a disclaimer may be in order.

The following could be considered as “Too Much Information!” If you find ‘T.M.I.’ statements as offensive, please do not read the following. This means you, if you could be offended and are continuing to read, you should’ve stopped reading by now.

I have found I need to have “wipes” in the bathroom. You know those flushable, folded wipes. Haven’t you seen these? I don’t even know if this is what we use. In fact, I think I started using that particular brand, but I think the refills are “baby wipes”. So if you need me to “paint you a picture” and tell you how I use these “wipes” I will (reluctantly) tell you. I like to use these in the bathroom when I “make the major transaction”. I don’t think anyone could be confused now.

I totally hate to “make the major transaction” if I can’t follow-up the toilet paper with some “wipes”. This means I am “not feeling my freshest” when I am at work, in a public restroom, and in a friend/family members bathroom. I don’t like to be without those things! You are probably saying, “You mean you don’t “travel” with them?” NO, that is just wrong! OK, It just hasn’t come to that yet. I feel bad enough about “needing them” at home.

OK, I guess if you are still reading I have not lost you yet. So, I will reveal my preference in toilet paper. Yes, the T.M.I. continues! At one time, I wasn’t picky about toilet paper. I didn’t really care about which brand I wiped my ass with (just as long it wasn’t a Sears catalog or tree leaves). Just as long it wasn’t like sand paper, it was fine with me. I have found I like Northern. Why do you ask? I have found it doesn’t leave any lint. Yes, I said IT DOESN’T LEAVE LINT ON MY ASS! The opposite of Northern, I have found is Charmin. If you like lint, Charmin is the brand to use. At my work, they use Charmin in all the bathrooms. Yes, in addition to not having my flushable, folded wipes, I have to use toilet paper that causes lint.

Wow, do I feel better that I “testified”! I tried to create a post in the same “theme” as Charlie would have (no offense intended, Charlie. I know you are trying to do better.)

Well, there you have it, folks. I never knew the bathroom could be so complicated. (Okay, that's not true -- I've actually had quite a few head-scratchers in there myself. I'm rather easily confused, you see.)

But I have to say that I've never thought as hard as Brad has about the state of my posterior. Kudos to you, sir! We, and all of our asses, can learn a valuable lesson from your experience. Why, I think I'll go do a bit of 'research' myself, right now. If I'm not back in an hour, you'll know they had Charmin in the stall. Cheerio!

(And thanks to Brad! Go see Kinder's Garden, now playing in a browser near you!)

Hey, I'm All Grumpy and Crabby Just Thinking About This

So, I was leaving a comment this morning on Julia's site, Tequila Mockingbird.

(All of you must know Julia by now. She's fantabulous, and she's up there on my 'Giggly Blogs' list. And she's far more famous than I could ever hope to be. She has plagiarists, fer Chrissakes. I can't even get a decent stalker around here.

Where are all the 'Peeping Tammy' types when you need 'em, eh?)

Anyway, lest you think I'm name-dropping simply for the sake of it, there is a point to all of this. I was leaving my comment on Julia's post from today, and I had to look up the word 'menstruation'.

(Yes, folks, it was that kind of comment. See this horrified look on my face? No? Well, it's there, trust me. One day, I'll get that webcam, and you'll see. And then you can have the same horrified look -- it's all circles within circles, people. Circles within circles.

Anyway, I didn't want to look like a total cluetard in my comment by grossly misspelling a word that I chose to use, so I looked it up. I do the same thing here when I want to use a big long word, too. Assuming that I haven't made it up on the spot, of course, which frankly is usually the case. But I wasn't giving Julia special treatment -- I whip out the ol' dictionary.com for you, too. You know I love you best.

But it really pisses me off when I look like a grammatical assbag on other people's sites... as opposed to a logical assbag, which apparently, I can deal with quite handily. But just the other day, I noticed that I used 'you're' when I meant 'your' in a comment on one of Natalie's recent posts at PickleJuice, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.

I briefly considered writing a second comment to say that I noticed it, and that it was just a typo, and that in fact, I know how to speak and write proper English, but had a momentary slip. But then it occurred to me that I couldn't determine which was asshatteder -- the original faux pas, or a gratuitous comment drawing attention to it. So I left it alone... but I haven't been the same since. These are the sorts of things that keep me awake at night, people! Pity me. Pity me now!)

(Oh, and did you notice? To comment elsewhere, I look up 'menstruation'. Here, I toss out 'asshatteder'. See? I told you I love you best.)

Okay -- moving back to the point of this whole exercise, which is rapidly diminishing in both importance and entertainment value. So, I looked up 'menstruation', and I realized that I've been spelling it incorrectly my entire life.

(Okay, so the, like, three times I've had to write the word down in the past thirty-three years. Whatever.)

Anyway, it dawned on me that it's really not my fault. Seriously. I've always spelled it 'menstration' (knowing full well that it's not the 'menstral cycle', but generally just waving my mental hands around to make myself believe that it's one of those weird things that happen to some words when they get suffixes glommed onto them). But then I realized why -- I'm a man. So, of course when I think of menstruation, the first thing I tell myself is:

'Now there's something u don't want to be in the middle of.'

And so, I left it out. The 'u'. See, 'cause it's 'menstruation'? Get it? It's a 'u', and I'm a guy, and... oh, for the love of super-absorbent wings. I give up.

Screw this. I can't please you people. I'm gonna get somebody else in here, and we'll see whether he can do anything with you for the rest of the day. I'm taking a break, dammit.

Thursday, February 05, 2004
So Does This Make It Better... or Worse?

Well, that wasn't much of a blogging day, now, was it?

Really, I just posted two updates -- sure, it ended up being a few hundred words when you add 'em all up, but it's not really a proper 'post', in my normal style. Barely any of those words were 'asshat', or 'spootmuffin', or even 'jackbaggery. (Whatever the hell that is.)

And I can see I've let you down. Please, don't give me the 'pouty face'; you know I can't bear to see the pouty face...

Oh, there it is! The pouty face! Damn, damn, damn, damn... have a fricking heart, will ya?

Look, I know it hurts. And I could make excuses -- I've actually had to pay attention at work lately, and I've been so busy this week in the evenings that I'm just exhausted, and with just one contact lens, I really can't see the part of the world that's on the right side of my nose -- but these are just excuses. They can't mend a broken heart. They can't wash away a pouty face.

A little plastic surgery, now that might do it. A nip here, a tuck back there, and you might just manage to 'get the pout out'.

Heh. 'Get the pout out'. That's fun!

Get the pout... out yo' snout! Get the pout... out ya' snout! Hey-ey, ho-oh, hey-ey, ho-oh.

Canyoudigit, Icandigit, hecandigit, shecandigit... theycandigit, wecandigit, Icandigit, youcandigit -- get the pout out yo' snout!

Woo! Yeah! Yeah! Whoooo hoo! Now that was fun! I --

Whaaaaaat? You've stiiiiiiill got the pouty face? Fer chrissakes, now you're just being difficult. There's a word for people like you, you know.

Poopenheimers, that's what. Big fat pouty-snouted poopenheimers. Fine. Be that way. I don't care.

Okay, look, I didn't mean that. Of course I care if you still have a pouty face. Let's get that widdle pouty-wouty face all taken care of, okay? We'll make him all better now, yes we will!

(All right, look -- this is just getting silly. Does this count as a post yet? Can I just cut my losses here and call it a night? Look at this shit -- it's ridiculous.

What? There's gotta be an 'ending'? It's gotta wrap everything up, and make sense of it all? Are you friggin' nuts? Have you been paying attention to this? There's 'pouty faces' and plastic surgeons, and... and some sort of weird Shaft music thing going on back there... I can't wrap all that up in one neat little package! Seriously, 'pouty-snouted poopenheimers'? Come on!

Oh, look, fine, I'll get back out there and write some more... but I can't promise anything. There's no getting out of this mess, dude. It's just one big clusterfuck out there.)

Oh, um... hi. Sorry about that. Just having a little chat with the, um, management. Everything's fine... just fine. Everything's just peachy. So, um, back to the post, then. How's that 'pouty face' coming along?

Oh, still there, I see. More or less, anyway -- it looks a little puckerier than before. Have you been sucking a lemon or something to keep that pout going? Are you pout doping? 'Cause that's just wrong. You'll never get onto the Poutolympics squad doing that crap, that's for sure.

(Look, I tried, all right? No, it's not getting any better out there. I just made up the 'Poutolympics' -- what the hell does that mean, anyway? Seriously, I'm begging you, just let me go to bed, all right? I'll go back out there and say good night, and then I'll just call it a day, and make it up to them tomorrow. How's that?

I've still got to have an ending?! Oh, fer the love of peanut oil wrestling -- really? You sure? It's in the contract?

*sigh* Fine. I'll go find a way to end this. Jeez, the shit I have to do to keep this site rolling...)

Hey. Me again. Sorry about that -- just a little interlude there. And sorry about that whole 'Poutolympics' thing earlier. Clearly, that was from out in left field -- I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. Just assume I was momentarily drunk, or talking gibberish, or channeling some idiotic douchebag ghost for a minute. Really, I don't know what the hell happened.

But now, in just a sweet simple sentence or two, I'm gonna wrap all of this up. It'll all make sense, and be funny, and you'll be chuckling over it for days. Really, it'll be a hoot. Maybe a hoot and a half. (At the very least, a hoot and a quarter. Certainly.)

So, I'll just walk over here near the door, while I... prepare to tell you... alllll about how I'm gonna... wrap this up, and I'll... RUN! Gotta go! Sleepytime! So sorry; don't hold it against me! Just be sure to lock up when you leave! G'night, everybody!

Now Why Didn't I Think of That?

Don't think I forgot. Don't even imagine for a second that it slipped my mind. I may not have much going on up in the old nogging lately, but I would not forget my guest post hosting duties. Not something so important as that.

I'd like to thank the myriad of people (*cough cough* three *kaff cough*) who leapt at the chance to see their words here, in this very space. The response was nothing short of overwhelming; it makes me think, once again, of those famous words spoken by a truly gifted entertainer, many years ago:

'Uh... is this thing on? Testing, testing. One two... is this on?'

Oh, I kid. I appreciate everyone who wrote to offer a topic idea, and frankly, it was hard enough to choose one from just a few interested people. If there'd been any more, I'd still be sitting here wibbling over which one to pick. But in the end, I did make a choice. I won't tell you who will soon be taking over the spotlight here, but I will reveal the topic, to whet your appetite for the upcoming yummy goodness.

(Did I just fricking say that? Damn. It must be late.)

Anyway, after all was said and done, I just couldn't pass this topic by -- there are simply too many compelling words leaping out and begging for attention. And here it is, one delicious word at a time:




Folks, I don't wanna get your hopes up or anything... but I really think this is gonna be good. 'Flushable folded wipes' is the stuff Pulitzers are made from, people. So stay tuned for that -- it ought to be a doozy.

And while we're at it, a big round of blogplause to Al over at Shouting Into the Void, who thought up this whole idea.

(And who gave me the honor of penning the first guest post in the chain. And I didn't even have 'flushable, folded wipes' to work with! Think how much better this next one's gonna be! Woo hoo!)

I Think We Know Which Is Funnier, Don't We?

Hey, all.

Not really a post, I'm afraid -- I just wanted to let you know that last night's set is up. (Since Joe was kind enough to ask... and go check Joe out at Play By Play, dammit; you could learn something from him!)

As for me, I'm off to play volleyball wearing just one contact lens.

(Okay, that's 'just one lens', as opposed to two lenses, not 'just one lens' in lieu of all other clothes. I'm seriously thinking of wearing pants for this. And not just because of the bruises I gave myself last time. I've really got to be more careful diving for the ball.)

So there's your choice of image, folks. Picture me -- and see me, in living color -- doing standup in front of exactly one audience member last night, or try to imagine me running around half-blind tonight on the court, getting bonked on the head with the ball and running into the net every twelve seconds.

Holy shit, how jealous are you people right now, eh? There's not one of you who wouldn't trade your life and two fistfuls of cash just to live in my shoes. No, you don't even have to say it -- I can tell by that horrified, pitying look you're pretending to have right now. You're not fooling anyone, you know. You're just aching to get your hands on a little piece of this life. Yeah, I know. It's cool.

So, anyway, I'm off. Assuming I don't suffer a horrible car crash or ear-bleeding head trauma, I'll be back later to squint my way through a real post for you. Man, it's been a crazy week. I'm just looking forward to the weekend -- maybe I can regroup and get off this frickin' merry-go-round. I'm looking forward to that. Oh, and seeing again. Yeah, that'd be nice, too. Baby steps, people... baby steps.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Is It Fricking Tomorrow Yet?

Folks, I'm just here to apologize. And I apologize for that. For which I'm very sorry. And my condolences for being sorry. And I apologize for --

Oh, enough of this crap already!

(Sorry, sorry. That was uncalled for. I apologize. For the last time. Or just for now. Whatever.)

Anyway, as I hope that little 'effort' clearly shows, I've had a rough day, kiddies. I don't want to bore you with the lowlights... but then again, I don't want a lot of things. Sometimes life doesn't go the way we'd like it to, you know? So here are a few tidbits from my past twenty-four hours:

Sometime after midnight (so technically today, but still feeling like yesterday), I lost my right contact lens as I was getting rready for bed. The water was running, and our drain stopper doesn't work, and I'm pretty sure it was just whooshed right on down the sink. Maybe one of the feral gators that live in the sewers can use it; I don't know.

What I do know, though, is that I'm essentially blind without my contacts. So, I looked for that backup set of contacts that I never ordered after getting my new prescription a couple of months ago. Mysteriously, they weren't there! (Spooky, no?)

So, I checked all my old contact cases, and found exactly one contact, an ill-fitting, uncomfortable, out-of-date left lens in the back of the medicine cabinet. But what the hell -- any old piece of plastic in your eye in a pnch, right? And a crappy contact is better than no contact, at least when you have my dysfunctional eyeballs, so I soaked the thing in saline overnight and went to bed.

Next came morning. (As it so often does after nighttime. These are real gems, people -- pay attention here.) I had an early meeting this morning, so I'd set the alarm for about two hours before I'd normally get up. And so, of course, despite way too few hours of sleep and general exhausted crankiness, I woke up. Twenty minutes before the alarm was set to go off. Bitches!

Twenty minutes is the absolute worst amount of time you can have left in bed. A half-hour would be fine -- you can get some real sleeping done in a half a damned hour. Two minutes is fine -- hey, you beat the alarm, and didn't have to listen to it blaring on and on before pulling your sorry sheet-wrinkled ass out of bed. Bully for you. But twenty minutes? That's a friggin' nightmare! All you can do is lie there, not sleeping because you know the alarm's gonna go off as soon as you do, and not getting up because... well, dammit, because you have twenty whole minutes of bed-time left, and you'll be damned if you're giving that up without a fight, a court order, and a cadre of fucking Clydesdales to drag you away from it. This is America, people. The right to sleep is, like, the Ninth Amendment or something. You can look it up.

Anyway, here's a summary of the twenty minutes I spent in bed this morning, circa seven in the fricking a.m.:

'Hurnngh? Wha? Oh. I'm awake. Shit, it's light outside. Is it time to get up yet?

Hmm, no. Still twenty minutes to go. Damn. Why'd I set an alarm again? Oh, the meeting, right. Well, maybe I can get in another nap before the alarm goes off.

*brief pause as I try to sleep*

Is it time yet? What time is it now?

Oh. Damn. Now there's only eighteen minutes before the alarm goes off. I'd better get to sleep quick.


I wonder if I'm hungry. I thought when I went to bed last night that I might be hungry in the morning. Am I hungry? Hmmm... nope. Not hungry.

What time is it now?

Poop. Seventeen minutes. Better work on that nap.


Gotta sleep, gotta sleep, gotta sleep... am I asleep yet? No. How about now? No. Now?

Dammit, stop thinking about sleep and go to fricking sleep before it's too late!

Too late? What time is it, anyway? Jeez, only twelve minutes left. This is gonna be one short nap.

I can't believe I'm not falling asleep. I'm just wasting good snooze time. Why the hell am I getting up, anyway? Can I get out of this meeting? Call in sick? Just quit suddenly and move to Barbados?

Mmm... Barbados. Reminds me of Barbasol. I'm gonna have to shave today. Gotta shave for those meetings, that's for sure. Can't be scruffy. Might be exhausted, but I can't look it. How long did I sleep, anyway?

Let's see... in bed at one, after looking for that stupid contact... that sucked. Never want to lose my contacts... lose contact... no... must gain contact... need human contact...

Hey. That's weird. Why is Lucy Liu walking into my bedroom? And whoa -- yeah, take it off, baby! Oh, yeah, slather on that tapioca pudding, girl! That looks tasty!

What? Do I want some of that? Well, you bet your sweet perky ass I do! Here I co --


'Damn. There's that fucking alarm. I officially hate my life. Bleh.'

And frankly, folks, that should have clued me in right there.I should have smashed the clock on the floor, Riverdanced on the damned thing for a while, pissed on the remnants, and crawled back into bed. Because it was all downhill from there.

I've taken up enough of your time already, so I'll just whiz past the milestones I saw today -- I paid three hundred dollars plus to get my dryer fixed, performed in a comedy show with an audience of two people (no shit, and here's the kicker -- the two were never in the room at the same time!), had my replacement contact pop out en route to the show and never go back in properly, meaning I had to drive one-eyed and half-blind for twenty miles each way, and then, to top it all off, decided to fight through the crowd situation (or lack thereof) at the show and deliver my jokes as best I could... and my videotape ran out mid-set.

There may be something there to salvage and show you tomorrow -- I'm not really sure. I'm too tired and too blind to check it out now. (Though I do want to give mad props to our lone audience member at the time, Eric, who held the camera for me; you're a good sport, Eric -- the best one-man audience a motley group of comics could hope for.)

Anyway, enough of this pissy nonsense. While I've been bitching and ranting, it actually has become tomorrow, so hopefully my luck's about to change. I'm off to bed now -- after backdating this post first, naturally -- and I'm sleeping as long as I goddamned please tomorrow, meetings and alarm clocks and tapioca-soaked Hollywood hellcats be damned. That oughta put me in better spirits. And I'll get a replacement lens and be good as new before you know it. But for now, I'm calling it a night. Febrary fourth was no friend to me; here's hoping my fifth -- and yours -- is one helluva lot better. Goodnight, and sleep tight, folks!

A King or an Idol? Oh, Don't Make Me Choose Just One!

Hey, all -- just a short note to let you know that the King of the Blogs competition is under way again, after some sniping and griping and general tomfoolery the last go-round. The judging and scoring and such for the first week of the competition will happen over the next few days; in the meantime, if you're interested, you can check out my humble entry for this week.

And yes, you regular readers, it just might look somewhat familiar, which is why I've linked it off the main page, rather than bore you with this particular window into my blackened, wretched soul again.

(Hush up, Amber. Shhh, shhhh, and shush! I've got no control over which questions they ask!

Just be cool, all right?)

Anyway, check it out -- and go see all (well, okay, most) of the others' contributions, too. I'll be interested to see whether another snarkfest breaks out, but for now, Nick seems to have things pretty well in hand.

While I'm here, I'll also take the opportunity to list my Blogger Idol 'Picks o' the Week'. This week's topic was 'A Day in the Life of...', and it spawned some very interesting posts, including these:

(As always, click the image for a list of all of this week's Idol posts. It's a veritable grab bag of goodness, folks!)

And again, if you haven't read it yet, feel free to peruse my submission, about a day in the life of a professional comic. Oh, the places we'll go!

So, anyway, that's about it for now. Right now, there's a big burly dude in my basement, fixing my dryer.

(Yeah, you know what? That is so not a euphemism. Ick.)

But I'll be back sometime later -- either before or after my Emerald Isle show tonight -- to bring you... um, well, the sort of crap I always bring you. I've got nothing in mind yet -- I'll just pull something out of my ass and see what sticks.

(Eep! Note to self: when mixing metaphors, try and avoid beginning with those that contain the words 'ass' or 'stick' Yeeks.)

Okay, that's it for now. I'm gonna go see how the dryer's doing. The guy better work his magic on that thing today -- I'm down to my last pair of clean undies, folks. If he can't resurrect the thing, we may have something involving 'ass' and 'sticking' around here, after all. Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.

Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Spreading the Blather All Over the Blogosphere

Hey there, kiddies. If I may, I'd like to direct your attention over to Al at Shouting Into the Void. Al's come up with a brandy new meme, and I'm proud and thrilled to say that I've been selected as the very first participant!

(No, really, it's very exciting! I'm all hard-on and jazz hands over here. Really.

Um, yeah. Too much sharing? Sorry. I'll work on that.)

Anyway, here's the jist... oh, no, wait, you know what? Screw the jist. I'll give you the entire set of rules, right from the original post. (Jists are for babies.)
  1. If you visit my blog regularly (or think you may from now on) and would like to create a "Guest Entry", send an email with proposed topic to h**atton98@yahoo.com (without the '**', natch)
  2. Once I receive the emails, I will select the Guest Author.
  3. It will be the only post for the day it goes up, so it will stay at the top of the blog for at least 24 hours.
  4. I will create a short introductory paragraph to your guest entry blatantly plugging your wonderful blog.
  5. You then create a blog entry plugging my site by directing people to come on by and read your guest post.
  6. Continue the meme by inviting others to be a guest author for your site by replacing my email with yours and posting these six steps.

Okay, so I'll be honest -- I might cheat just a little, and post something on the same day as your post. You know, just to keep in practice. But mine'll go up before your post, and you'll have 'top billing' for at least 24 hours, just like Al said. So if you want to see your words here, in the seedy naked-lightbulb glow of the dive bar that is my blog, send me a topic. I'll pick the one I like the best on... oh, let's say Thursday evening. So get those thinking caps on, people -- this space is for rent.

In the meantime, toddle on over to Shouting Into the Void, and check out Al's fantastic stuff. And if you're up for it, take a look at my guest post while you're there. As usual, it's ridiculous, personally embarrassing, and extremely, extremely long. You won't even know you've left. *sniff* Beautiful, ain't it?

So This Is What Happens When People Migrate to Movable Type...

So, me and Andy go way back, blogging-wise. August of last year, maybe. Perhaps even July.

I had only been blogging for a month or two, and Andy even less, I think. We were both on Blogger at the time. I still am, as a matter of fact. But Andy... well, he's moved on to bigger and better software.

(Or perhaps bellsier and whistlier. I can't really say.

No, really. 'Bellsier'. I'm not sure I can say it, physically, at all. My tongue just doesn't move that way.)

Anyway, I was curious to see what the extra freedom would do for Andy, what new content he'd concoct, which new features he'd create. And I didn't have to wait long. Hoo boy, no I didn't.

For you see, folks, our dear boy Andy has decreed the month just started to be Facial Hair February. He'll be keeping a running log of his progress, with daily 'State of the Face' posts.

(At least, he'd damned well better call them that, unless he can think of something better. That's pure comedy bronze, folks!)

Apparently, young Andy's not the fastest hair grower on the face (heh!) of the planet. Two days in, and I'm afraid he's got little to show for his efforts. Or lack of efforts in the form of shaving. Whatever.

Look, the point is that you should go check it out. Partly because he's a good guy, and deserves your attention. Partly because this is one of the few things I've seen out there in the blogosphere that outweirds some of the shit that I've done. But mainly to suggest to our dear friend a better name for his little experiment.

(Personally, I'm in favor of 'When Hairy Met Andy'. It makes me giggle. But that's just me. Go tell him your idea, too -- maybe he'll have a contest or something. The winner could get a lock of beard, if he manages to grow one in the next twenty-six and a half days.

Ooh, ooh, and the booby prize could be his 'soul patch'!

Um... yeah. You know, that's one of those sentences where there seem to be a lot of good words floating around, but in the order I put 'em, they just sound creepy. I think it's time we left that little incident behind us.)

So, anyway, go check out the 'Facial Hair February' extravaganza over at Walking Stick. (There's even a cool little icon that I just might have to find room for over here.) And tell Andy I sent ya.

(Just don't tell him I said he doesn't have any hair yet. He's very proud of his fledgeling stubble, from what I understand.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Andy, old boy -- soon enough, you'll be growin' that shit way too fast in places you don't even want to dream about. Places they don't make trimmers or waxes for, either. Fear the hair, baby. Fear it!)

Monday, February 02, 2004
Will the Real 'King Dong' Please... No, Wait, Don't Stand Up! Really!

I don't know about you folks, but I get some pretty fricking entertaining spam.

And I think that's the way you have to look at it. Sure, it can be annoying, and take up time and mailbox space. But it can also -- like just about everything else in the world -- be a rich source of entertainment. And free entertainment, at that. Yay, spam!

Okay, wait. I can see that you're unsure. You're saying to yourself, 'Yay, spam? Has Charlie been mixing up his ecstacy and his Flintstones vitamins again?'

Well... maybe. (I'm pretty sure the little green monkeys crawling on the wall know, but they're not talking. Damned monkeys.)

But regardless, it's a valid point, and I'll try to prove it. Let's take a little stroll through the spam currently in my Yahoo account, and see what we find. C'mon -- it'll be a hoot. (And we might see hooters, too! Bonus!)

Okay, so I've taken a careful look at this, and I've found that there are essentially two types of spam. There's the boring, anooying kind -- 'Get low mortgage rates!', 'Buy vitamins here!', 'Ink cartridges, ink cartridges, ink cartridges!' -- and then there's the entertaining kind.

(Which are pretty much all about sex, frankly. It's really pretty tough to send an unsolicited email about earning money at home, or some cockeyed pyramid scheme, and make it funny. But the porn peddlers -- ah, now, they have all the fun, don't they?)

Of course, within the scope of 'entertaining' spam, there are many subtypes. For instance:

There's the 'Mean It, But Don't Spell It' technique. In just the past couple of weeks, I've gotten enticing emails with the following subject lines:
  • 'G1ve H.e.r. da |O|R|G|A|S|M| S.h.e dezurvez!' -- Now, I can understand trying to fool spam filters, but is there really a need for 'G1ve' or 'H.e.r.'? Are there filters out there killing emails with 'her' in them? Is that why I never hear from my mother any more, because she always asks about my wife in her emails?
  • ' Find your finest c'o'c'k' -- You know, I presume this is supposed to make me all hot and watery somehow... but frankly, all those apostrophes just make me think of 'cock', as some African bushman might say it. Or rather, click it, or pop it, or whistle it. (Anybody else see 'The Gods Must Be Crazy'? Now that's what I'm talkin' about.)
  • 'p.e.n.e.t.r.a.t.e your predicament' -- This one gets high marks for both readability and for not distracting me from the obfuscated word; right off the bat, I'm thinking about 'penetrate'. I'm all about the 'penetration'... but my 'predicament'?! What the hell? Suddenly, I'm all shrivelled up and sleepy. Penetrate my predicament? What on earth does that mean?
  • 'Sooper s_eks machine - want ladiz to think of you the same?' -- Um... huh? Maibee? Whut wuz tha kwestun agin?
  • 'Amplify y0ur erect10ns and 0rgasms!' -- D00dz! That would totally r0x0r my b0x0rs! This one gets bonus points for creative use of 'amplify', though.
  • 'J0|N N0\/\/ to see new 2004 foorblddeen lnccessst scenes' -- Holy hell, they're breaking out the punctuation! Can umlauts and tildes be far behind? And \/\/hy go to all the trouble to disguise 'now'? Is it me, or is that just \/\/eird?

Not into butchering individual words? Well, then, maybe you'll appreciate the 'If There's One Thing We Don't 'Conjugate' Around Here, It's Sentences' approach. Observe:
  • 'Secret Apparitor' -- Dictionary.com tells me that an 'apparitor' is 'An official who was formerly sent to carry out the orders of a civil or ecclesiastical court.' So I say to you... uh, what? And why is it a secret?
  • 'circulate indefwnite' -- Look, let's give the spammer the benefit of the doubt here, and say that the second word is really 'indefinite'. So now we're up to 'circulate indefinite'. Um...Vanna, could I buy a damned noun?
  • 'Be the great and the gorgeous' -- Hallelujah, it's almost a sentence! This one isn't completely garbled -- it just comes across like a subtitle on a Japanese movie. And if there's anyone we should be taking sexual advice from, folks, it's the Japanese.
  • '(Recipient), tasty read ends' -- Well, 'tasty' certainly sounds good. And 'ends' could be about bottoms, I suppose -- that might be sexual... but 'tasty read ends'? Are you sure those words are even in the right order? I might have just used 'tasty ends', and left it at that. But that's just me.

But not all spammers eschew the rules of grammar, of course. No, some of them simply abandon reason and meaning, instead. Structurally, these sentence fragments aren't so bad. Semantically, they're half-baked head-scratchers. Here are some examples from the 'That Subject Line You Keep Using... I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means' camp:
  • 'Let her be alive' -- Um.. unless you're getting a lot of necrophilia spam, I really don't think this is much of an issue. 'Alive', I think we've all pretty much got covered. It's 'happy' that we're shooting for, dingleberry -- show us how to let her be 'happy'. Sheesh.
  • 'Run down your revenge now!' -- I gotta admit, I actually looked at this email. I had no idea what the fuck this was getting at. And it turned out to be a Cialis ad -- sex, sex, sex, just like all the others. But... 'run down' my 'revenge'? 'Now'? Wha?
  • 'Excuses should be excluded' -- All right, this one actually makes some sense, in a rather broadly interpreted way. Still -- I'm pretty sure the last thing someone who's looking to improve their sex life wants is a frigging tongue-twister. Maybe if that thing wasn't so busy trying to wrap itself around 'excuses should be excluded' three times fast, it could be doing a loved one some real good.
  • 'Have your mission accomplished' -- You know, when you put it that way, it sounds an awful lot like someone else is going to 'accomplish' my 'mission' for me. And if that means what I think it means, then we gotta talk. I am so not into that, dude. Get your own freakin' 'mission'!

Maybe all this misdirection isn't really your style. Perhaps you're more of a 'direct approach' kind of guy or gal. Well, then you might like these examples from the school of 'Less Than Subtle Suggestions':
  • 'the best buttocks in the industry' -- Okay, so possibly this one could be a bit more direct; I don't really even know which 'industry' they're referring to. La-Z-Boy testers? Underwear models? Retro 70's 'bump' dancers? Who's to say?
  • 'Your organ shall be full of it' -- Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, dude! How did you know I even have an organ? Not everybody has room for all the pipes and keyboards and things. And just what exactly is it gonna be 'full of, anyway? Music? Bong water? Cheese doodles? What?
  • 'The bigger, better boner' -- Finally. There's no mistaking what this little gem is offering, right, kids? And I gotta tell you, I have been begging for that 'bigger, better boner' for years. I can't wait! The knife I'm using now to clean fish is just way too dull, and not nearly long enough, and... oh. I see. Not that sort of 'boner', eh? Um, never mind, then.
  • 'Massive Hole Stretching Cocks' -- Wow! So big, we had to capitalize all the words! I dunno, folks... I'm sure these things are very exciting and all, but really, this just looks like the tag line for a bad B horror movie. 'Look! It's the giant cocks that peckered Las Vegas! Run for your lives!'
  • 'beef up the size of your willy!' -- Something about this one just seems so happy and excited! I can almost picture one of those little newspaper kids in the old movies -- you know, the 'Extra! Extra! Read all about it!' ones -- who always seemed so happy and eager. Can't you just see one of 'em skipping up to businessmen at the newsstand, beaming, 'Well, howdy, mister! You wanna beef up the size of your willy?' Aw, shucks.
  • '(Recipient), it just keeps drippin' -- Well, then, fer Chrissakes, put a bowl or something under it, and call the damned doctor! That's not sexy, dammit -- that's clinically gross! Double 'ew!' and a horrified look to you, my friend.

Perhaps you don't enjoy the subject lines of emails at all. That's fine -- spam can still be entertaining, let me assure you. You can still enjoy the practitioners of the theory of 'Make Yourself Sound Like a Haughty Nineteenth-Century Englishman'. Folks with these aliases (or not?) have taken the time to send me email in the past two weeks:
  • 'Luxembourg V. Antlered' -- Wasn't that a landmark legal battle?
  • 'Monopoly Q. Sweeten' -- 'But my friends call me Mono!'
  • 'Guerra A. Wholeness' -- I like that -- 'Wholeness'. Screw 'Your Highness'; can I be 'Your Wholeness'? That'd be cool!
  • 'Rid F. Physiognomy' -- He puts the 'fizzy' back in 'Physiognomy'!
  • 'Chiropractor C. Bastardizes' -- I'll bet he does, that little vixen. I'll just bet he does.
  • 'Mendoza S. Diophantine' -- 'Mendoza S'... so maybe he's a Latino 19th century Englishman. It could happen.
  • 'Incorrigibly H. Lexica' -- Clearly a friend of 'Biggus Dickus'. No question.
  • 'Interpolation F. Disowns' -- Pow! Hey! Ouch! Inter... oh. Sorry. That's 'interjections', not 'interpolation'. Got Schoolhouse Rock on the brain, I guess. Never mind.
  • 'Cornelia E. Relentlessly' -- Man, I don't know what the 'E' stands for, but if Cornelia does it relentlessly, then that is hot! Sizzlin'!
  • Okay, I'm tired of coming up with lines for these -- here are a few for you to think of comments for: 'Latency D. Underwriting', 'Braked F. Convalescence', 'Opening A. Gingko', 'Fish I. Crabbiness', 'Economists C. Expiry', and last, but not shortest, 'Misrepresentations S. Strongest' Whew!

Finally, there's always the old standby. Find an angle, and get it to as many people, from as many filthy spammer accounts, as humanly possible. It's the 'If I Send This to Everyone in the Fricking World, Something Good Is Bound to Happen' theory. And it's why I, in two weeks of collecting spam for this post, received no less than sixteen emails proudly offering to regale me with the story of:

'How I became Mr. King Dong'

Inside the emails (yes, I opened one; how could I not? It's a compelling premise, damn it!), we find the following text:

'Mr. King Dong took our madication & just look at him tool, it worked insanely well:'

(Yes, yes, I know... look, forget the fact that he was apparently already called 'Mr. King Dong', okay?

And that he seems to have taken the 'madication' and now 'him tool' is 'insane'. I'm sure that's just a coincidence.)

The text above is followed by three pictures of... well, let's just call them 'willies of progressively increasing mass', and leave it at that. (And yes, I could have gone my whole life without seeing that particular spectacle. I won't subject you to it, as well.)

Then there's more text, and more pictures, and some other stuff... but I keep coming back to the question: which of these jokers is the real Mr. King Dong? I mean, presumably, it's one of them in those pictures, right? One of them has taken the 'madication', enjoyed the results, and taken pictures for all to see. And now at least fifteen other snivelling, heartless, cheating bastards are claiming the Mr. King Done throne as their own. It's an outrage! An outrage, I say!

I'm looking for the real Mr. King Dong to step up any time now and put these jokers in their place. Photographs will be examined. Distinguishing... um, features will be compared. Who knows, we may even need DNA samples to sort this thing out. But mark my words, folks -- Mr. King Dong will have his day. He'll stand on stage in all of his glory. Ed McMahon may even sing a little song; it'll be very tasteful. And finally, after ousting the pretenders, he'll claim the title, and don his sash, and his wreath of roses, and his lovely silver tiara.

Just... just don't ask where he's gonna wear them. Really, folks. You seriously don't wanna know.

Sunday, February 01, 2004
Hey, I Could Be the 'Last Comic Stumbling'

Hey, everybody!

Well, kids, it's time for another Blogger Idol post. And I'm just as lubed up as a pair of lard-lovin' lips at a 'Leg of Lamb Lick-Off' about writing this post, so let's get right to the action, shall we?

(That's blogging action, folks, not leg o' lamb licking action.

And no, I don't really even know how 'lardy' leg of lamb is -- look, it's really just there for the alliteration, all right? Don't overthink this shit, people. When you get right down to it, it's all smoke and mirrors around here. Oh, and dick jokes. Yep, smoke, mirrors, and dicks -- sounds like a weekend with Creed, doesn't it?

Thank you, thank you -- I'll be here all week. But for now, let's do this Blogger Idol thing, for chrissakes. I don't have all night here.)

(Click to see all Week Three posts)

Week Three Topic: 'A Day in the Life of...'

As many of you know, I'm an aspiring standup comedian. (And we all know that when you 'aspire', you're only making an 'ass' out of... um, 'I' and... uh, 're'. And 'p'. Hmmm. Maybe that wasn't the word I was thinking of. Damn.)

In any case, for the past couple of months, I've been hanging out in bars, often on weekdays, and making an ass of myself in front of a roomful of strangers.

(Which may sound a little bit daunting, but remember -- this is me we're talking about. If not for the microphone and the memorized comedy bits, I just described the way I've spent the last twelve years. Actually, having an excuse to make an ass out of myself is way better -- and tends to cut down on the calls to the cops, as well. 'Tends', anyway.)

But the point is, I think that one day, it'd be fun to do standup comedy full-time.

(Well, standup and blogging, of course. I could never leave you folks. We're meant to be together. C'mon, step up to the monitor and give me a big hug, right now. Come on, don't be shy. You know I love you. That's it... ahhhhh. That felt good.

In, um, an entirely non-sexual, platonic, friendly way. Really. Er, yes. Ahem.

What? Oh. Uh, no. That was probably my cell phone antenna you felt. Or, um, something. Moving on!)

But would I really enjoy the life of a standup comedian, were I fortunate enough to find a way to make it my job? Well, let's see -- let's take a look at 'A Day in the Life of... a Standup Comedian'. Maybe we'll see just how compatible this dream job of mine and I really are.

A Day in the Life of a Standup Comedian (As Imagined By Me)

12:01am: Stumble into house, exhausted from a night of performing, schmoozing, and yapping like a hopped-up terrier about it on the drive home with my wife.

12:04am: Kiss wife good night. She gets into bed with a book, saying she'll read for a while to 'wind down'.

12:05am: Walk into bedroom to blather about some other minute, uninteresting detail about the evening. Find her slumped sideways, drooling on her alarm clock, with the book splayed open on her chest. Ease her back onto her pillow, close the book, and tuck her in.

2:14am: Finally 'wind down' and go to bed myself after watching and rewatching the tape of the show (and uploading it here, of course), obsessing about whether the folks at the Elk Lodge really liked that bit about the Shriners or whether they were just being polite, and dropping my bar tab receipts into the 'Business Expenses' shoebox.

2:38am: Wake from a dream about performing at Carnegie Hall. With no pants on. And bombing. Completely.

Suddenly have fantastic inspiration for brilliant new joke involving Uma Thurman, the Catholic Church, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Curse that I forgot to leave paper on the bedside table. Again. Consider trudging to the next room to write down idea. Decide to stay in bed, convinced that, 'I'll remember it in the morning.'

5:02am: Wake from another dream, this time about being kidnapped and whisked away to a large room full of peoplewhere I'm told I must make them laugh to gain my freedom, or die. Soon after, I realize that the room is Carnegie Hall. And that I have no pants on. This all seems vaguely familiar somehow. The dream ends just as the angry, humorless mob descends on me with switchblades and eggbeaters.

(No, no -- the little machines you use to beat eggs, not the Eggbeaters brand fake eggs. I mean, the first onw doesn't make much sense, but to be killed by hundreds of people pouring Eggbeaters down your throat? That's just silly.

Come to think of it... that's actually far more terrifying. Damn. Now I'm gonna have nightmares about that, too. Bitches!)

7:51am: Wake to find myself being shaken and nudged by my wife, who's leaving for work. Remember that I was having another dream, but can't remember what it was about... except that I wasn't wearing any pants.

Kiss wife goodbye; she asks whether I'm getting up now. Tell her, 'Of course, it's almost eight!' Wait for the front door to close behind her, turn over, and go back to sleep.

9:44am: Wake up again to find that I have not yet reached the double-digit hour portion of the day. Snort derisively, roll over, and go back to sleep.

11:42am: Wake up and get out of bed. Immediately run to my desk in the office to write down joke from earlier. Forget it completely, and spend ten minutes cursing my half-awake middle-of-the-night self for not writing it down when I thought of it. Dissapointedly write something about 'thirteen Umas and spices', hoping it will help me remember. Instead, I just get hungry. And a little horny. ('Mmmmm... fried Uma... *nnngggghhhhh*')

12:15pm: Pad downstairs to have lunch consisting of leftover takeout fried rice, two slices of cold pizza, and the last of the orange juice. And they say fish is 'brain food' -- pshaw!

12:34pm: Soak in the shower, trying to wake up and think of new material for next show. Concoct spectacular new joke about how tuna fish and astronauts are hilariously similar. Discover that I have no pen or paper in the shower -- again! -- and resume soaking my head. Decide that I'll remember the joke when I'm done with the shower; only a moron would forget something like this in the space of ten minutes.

12:43pm: Run dripping and naked to my desk, repeating the joke over and over in my mind. Snatch up the pen, and... it's gone. Nothing. Congratulations, I'm a moron. And I'm getting my desk chair all wet. Fantabulous.

Trying to salvage something from the idea, write 'John Glenn is a sturgeon?' below the Uma KFC thing. Look around the desk and notice at least forty other pieces of paper with two or three unintelligible phrases written on them. The closest one says,

Paris Hilton in a blender

Paris Hilton is a blender?

Mars rover on a weenie roast!

None of these 'reminders' mean a damned thing to me; they might as well be written in Esperanto. Again, I'm irked and disgusted. And a little bit hungry. And kind of horny, again. ('Mmmmm... Paris Hilton at a weenie roast... *ggggglllllnnnggg*')

1:15pm: Finally dressed and ready to begin the day. Sit down to write new material for next show. Clear my mind of all distractions, and wait patiently for inspiration to strike.

1:48pm: Waiting patiently.

2:24pm: Still waiting over here.

2:39pm: Waiting, dammit.

2:42pm: Decide to get a beer to help 'inspiration' get off its ass and do its damned job. I don't have all day for this shit.

3:01pm: Apparently, my idea didn't help. Sometimes inspiration requires two beers, I suppose.

3:16pm: Three's a charm?

3:23pm: Did someone say four?

3:41pm: Aw, fuck it -- I'll just bring the rest of the twelve-pack up.

5:03pm: After twelve beers and a bag of chips, come up with several new jokes. The best of the bunch is:

'Shhhhrrrrigit! Hoo... hoo -- Hoooly hrelll. Bahhrruu goomah! Fuushizzle!'

Decide that it may need a bit more work in the setup. Reeling backwards, my eyes focus long enough to read the paper with the Uma Thurman reminder. The entire joke comes rushing back to me at one, word for word, like a miracle. I say it, out loud to no one in particular. Then I say it again.

It's not funny. Poopstain.

That's the last thought in my head as I pass out on the floor.

7:04pm: Wake up on the floor with drool on my chin. Not entirely sure whether it's my drool or the dog's. It smells vaguely like stale meat and fresh farts, which unfortunately doesn't help me make a conclusive decision. I wipe my chin on my shirt and take a quick inventory of the situation.
  • My wife will be home in an hour.
  • I've got a show roughly an hour after that.
  • I'm lying in the floor, hungover, with no material and a drool stain of unspecified origin on my shirt

And of course, that's when the thought comes, yet again, 'Wow. I really am a standup comedian. Woot!'

('Cause let's face it, folks, Robin Williams went through that same list -- or worse -- every day for thirty years. Denis Leary still lives that way. Chris Rock's autobiography is going to be titled, 'Whose Motherfucking Drool is This, Anyway?' I am so in the club.)

7:53pm: Clean up my mess and gargle enough Listerine to choke a hippopotamus. Get the house in some semblance of order just as my wife walks in the front door. Chat about her day for a while, tell her that I've gotten so much work done this afternoon, and grab some dinner together.

Play dumb when she says she wants a beer with dinner, and 'didn't we have plenty just yesterday'? Wonder aloud whether she might have a 'drinking problem' if she can't remember whether there's beer left in the fridge or not. Pray that she doesn't find the bag of empty bottles hidden in the laundry basket.

8:48pm: Arrive at the venue for the night's performance. Commence the schmoozing with the other comics and the host / emcee / bar owner / Moose Lodge Grand Poobah / HoJo's night manager. (Basically, whoever's writing the check.)

Spend thirty seconds scribbling down key words of old jokes on a napkin to build a set list, and hope that it's within six minutes or so of what the place wants me to do. Order six beers that I really don't want, to show the bartender that I'm not one of those 'cheap' comics who won't spend money during a show.

10:45pm: After watching nearly two hours of the show from the back of the room, take a quick look at the napkin and go on stage. Forget the order within the first three jokes, and deliver twenty minutes of random-access, stream of consciousness bits in whatever order they come to me. Take sips of beer in lieu of segues. Check occasionally to make sure I'm wearing pants.

11:05pm: Leave stage to confused, polite applause, and possibly a barrage of rotten fruit. Wonder whether anyone really got the 'John Glenn is a sturgeon' line. Meet up with wife, resume schmoozing with comics, collect paycheck.

11:35pm: Begin drive home, with wonderful, beautiful, supportive wife at wheel. Chatter to her about every minute detail of the night (all of which she was already there for, of course) until I fall asleep halfway home.

12:01am: Arrive home, ready to do it all over again. Lather, rinse, and repeat until famous.

So that's it, folks. A look at the life of a full-time veteran standup, the way a part-time beginning standup imagines it might be. (Except for the travel away from home, and the hotel food, and the thousands upon thousands of women throwing their panties to me onstage, of course. That comes later.)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it -- I know I'm certainly looking forward to it, some day. Sounds like a blast, and beats the hell out of sitting in a cubicle all day, wondering whether I just Alt-Shift-ed or Alt-Ctrl-ed, and where the hell did that status report I was writing just go? Yeah, gimme booze and bars and Moose Lodge Poobahs over that any day. Standup comedy forever!

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