Stand Up Act 1

Hi,

This is all improvised. I'll probably never get up in front of a mic because I am an impossibly shy guy, unlike the actual shyguys from the Mario universe. They were pretty in your face and aggressive. Actually I'm kind of like that too. So never mind that whole thing. I guess I'm just self conscious like everyone else who doesn't have enough money to ignore the rest of the world from the second they get pushed out of the womb like that little donut hole that pops out of a whole puncher. Who knew that those things grew up to be people. Or maybe people are just loose leaf paper. Waiting to be hole punched or something. How fun was using that thing. I must have ruined at least three acres of forests punching holes in paper. But I guess it wasn't really my fault. The teacher's were the ones who wouldn't accept paper with holes punched in the middle of it and around the corners and across the sides like St. Valentines day. Stick figures aren't going to shoot themselves. That's what meth and coke is for. Or something. Well anyway, I should probably explain a little more:

I've listened to a lot of stand up on the radio, well, on my computer. Which is the radio of my generation. Or I suppose, just my segment of my generation. The poorer people who got birthday cards with ten dollars in them from their parents. The kind of thing you'd expect from a grandparent who still believed ten cents could get you a sucker and copy of the latest Action comics in color and a trolley ride to the carnival next to the board walk made of gold and pixie dust and where the hell is that dish of Werther's I left to keep my copy of the TV Guide cross word I tore out of that magazine at the doctor's office, because I may be old and out of touch, but I'm still sharp enough to know when to steal shit instead of buying it. Thrifty. Like listening to radio on your computer instead of going to the club and seeing it live, because your poor and, shit, with that much money you could buy a whole mess of bacon and the good orange juice with the pulp in it instead of the food coloring.

Listening to all of this has basically made me as a largely failed occupational, but still pathological, writer want to express things that are funny to me too and hope that maybe like two other people will also think so. I say two, because I always like my stuff and my friend who doesn't really exist, the person who is basically holding down a time share in my head sometimes likes my stuff too so we need at least one more person in on this before it'll get good. Kind of like having sex with that person in the office that everyone has already had sex with, or actually no, it's more like picking up a copy of the latest nude mag, whatever they call, Juggs, or Juggs for black guys who apparently can only be aroused by large jewelry and x and y and z that we already featured in this magazine, but now it's earth toned and somehow more street, well whatever they call it, it's like picking that up and then you realize that "yeah, it's still just glossy paper and your left hand, dumbass. We coulda bought booze with that money you ass. Then, we could have at least forgotten that we were horny in the first place and also apparently do not have internet access." So at least me and two other people. Because one of you is imaginary.

So I'm gonna take some stabs at being funny until the acts kind of peter out, wherever that is. Maybe it'll be a continuing thing to go with my art. The problem with the world today, one of the many problems with the world today, possibly the largest problem with the world today is that there is so much to do and keep up with and pay for that there simply is not enough time to use these two hands, this one mouth, and these two eyes to generate everything that well's up inside. Which is why massive population extinction will be swell. Less stuff to do. More time to spend drawing on caves. Or at least exploring caves. How fun would that be? Screw this fucking phone bill. Who the hell am I going to call? Dave? He's ten states away for fucks sake. And the only other person alive on the east coast. My geography sucks by the way so if there are less than ten states on the east coast, I don't want to know, because I'll forget and be a forgetful jerk, but really it's your fault for giving me that information to hang on to with the expectation that I would actually commit it to essential memory where I put things like "how to breath" and "do not sleep underwater because that shit will drown you". Well I'm not calling Dave, because last time I schlepped up there it turned out he hadn't found the last post apocalyptic brewery still functioning. It was a fat rendering plant. So fuck this phone, fuck this phone bill, I'm gonna go draw on walls for the next month and get really good at growing shit." And so I figured I would take a stab at it. I mean what could it hurt.

I had this joke actually already in mind on my way home this morning. It was a fictional conversation. Happened in my head. Not fictional. Fictional to you. But this actually happened: "you smell like dog farts again."

"shut up"

"dude you smell like dog farts."

"well, shit. I have been slinging bags of dog food around for the last two hours to feed you"

"dog farts, dude. You better shower when you get home. I don't want you in my bed fartin up the sheets."

"well, shit on a stick, I'm tired as hell."

"have you been fisting dogs all night?"

"no, but that's kind of funny."

"I know, right?"

"Yes, I have been fisting dogs for the last eight hours and that is why I smell like Alpo gas. It's tough, but if I don't fist these dogs, who will? Who will fist these dogs for $7.75 an hour? Do I like it? Frankly that's none of your business. Other job skills? No. Just the fisting. Yes we do get a half hour to eat lunch. Alright then, thanks for your time. Should I wait for a follow up call for that second interview? Alright then, you take care too. Bitch. Click."

That last part was the joke. It was this thing that just struck me as hilarious. How would I explain to someone, because sometimes I am very much compelled to defend my various conditions of dress and stench and dishevelry to people I have to share public transportation with. And that's part of why I hate the bus. It's not like the subway where you can just look outside once in a while and know where you are or count the stops, unless you ride a particular bus line all the time. Your head has to always be on the gopher swivel trying to assess how much longer you can press your luck. Is this the stop I need to get off at or can I save myself another hundred yards, but if there is no stop in the next hundred yards I risk riding this thing all the way to the stop right before the depot because for some reason no one lives or works anywhere near this road for the next two and a half miles, but if I do get off here I'll have pit stains by the time I hit that meeting and I think there was a bridge with no sidewalks after this stop light, oh shit, I should have gotten off. So you're always looking around and making dodgy eye contact and in those few seconds you can read a lot once you've done it enough times.

Yeah I reek of cheap beer, but hey, at least it's not puke. And yes I did sleep somewhere without toiletries so my pits stink, but hey, at least it's not puke. I'm sorry, do I smell like I've just taken a bath in coffee creamer and fisted dogs for the last six hours? Well, guess what? I did. Boys gotta eat lady and quite frankly I'd rather smell like I just did something than like I just crawled out of a vase at the funeral parlor. I don't know where they get that scent, but they all have it. Probably from failed Mary Kay pyramid scheming or is it Amway still? Aren't those the same thing? I bet they were both founded by the same married couple. Rich wives. Pyramid schemes. Started by the richest wife who needed something to do that would still stroke her ego. God, that's depressing. And now part of the cando American fabric. Along with dog fisting for near minimum wage and listening to the radio on your computer. Which is actually not listening to the radio at all. When it's pre-recorded. But what's the difference. The difference is the radio is live. Sort of. What the hell is the difference?