Stay At Home Comedian doesn’t stink. #ComedyRecord95LessGarbageLines
English muffins reminding me of the time alcohol prevented my son from dying a premature death.
“So, Arthur, one time, I went to Fire Island with an old work bud, who wasn’t a complete Long Island hack like the rest, when I used to sell online ads for CitySearch in Manhattan. Our primary target audience was gay men searching for who gave the best facial. I had just met mommy, yet we weren’t in a committed monogamous relationship. Son interrupts my flow. “What’s monogamous daddy?” I say, “Decoupling in reverse.”
“I was semi-seeing this Filipino girl at the time who co-owned a restaurant in the city. She showcased way too much upper gum for my taste. But she was the 1st one I ever did phone sex with because of her instigating encouragement. Son says, “What’s phone sex? I say, “Kama Sutra talk without getting naked, so there’s no harm in it really, assuming you have her consent to give her endless dick over the phone that is. Still, she pushed me to write a Family guy spec during one of my brooding moods, after asking point blank, “What’s going to make you happy?” And I said, “Writing a Family Guy Spec, so I wouldn’t feel like such an ineffectual jerkoff outside of what sporadic laughs I was getting throughout the open mike stage outside of a semi-reliable opener at the time, which was, “So far, my claim to fame was an appearance on the show Blind Date. All I got out of it was a free meal and herpes.” Son says, “What’s herpes?” I say, “Worse than long COVID, next question. And just when you think you’re in the clear, it keeps breaking out from within.”
“Yeah, so back to Fire Island. I made Avocado toast on a toasted English muffin with melted Munster and turkey bacon and all the yenta breaths went hog wild over it. All of a sudden, I felt like Jerry Seinfeld minus the career, which reminds me, he just auctioned one of his Porsches for charity. I only hope half the proceeds go to Larry’s kids.”
“So, for my 1st time on Fire Island, I was feeling semi-cocky, already had some living under my belt after living in LA for a bit. I didn’t miss driving in LA. But I did miss road head. Son says, “What’s roadhead? I said, “Primo pole position all the way.” Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.”
One time I did that joke at the Comedy Cellar and addressed a banger pretty NYU girl sitting close to the stage with, “Did you just call shot gun?” And the crowd screamed touchdown. Yeah, so I wasn’t married to any one fun hole just yet, my days of being a slut-in-straight jacket hadn’t happened because I didn’t get mommy pregnant by mistake.” Son says, “How did you get her pregnant by mistake? I say, “By being a stoner who forget to ask if she were on the pill. Or from being too much of a chicken shit in a post feminism world to inquire about whether the pill still made her “nauseous” or not, which is code for, run for the hills if you don’t love the bitch.”
“So, I hit on this beautifully, sexy gal on Fire Island who was sunbathing all by herself. She was a better stacked, prettier faced Phoebe Cates with longer luscious hair than the sexless, dike cut she sported in Gremlins 2. All the yenta breaths surrounding us, got their panties in a bunch over the new big headed Heeb in town hitting on a far sexier Barbara Stanwyck without breaking a sweat because girls this sexy are normally dating some alpha man jock who lettered at 3 varsity sports, which I didn’t, who most likely didn’t run down the basketball court, looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops. At the time, I didn’t know that she broke up with her boyfriend. Chances are, he banged her hotter friend because guys are scumbags like that, always interested in doing the next best thing. So, I bump into her on the dance floor at some random bar later that evening. We grind on the dance floor as I flexed my magic mike love stand behind her love buns to Moby from what I recall. I’m also on incredibly strong E and have been drinking for 5 hours straight, which is a blackout combo waiting to happen.” Son says, “What’s a blackout?” I said, “Your southern hick DNA sabotaging your chances of getting laid again.”
“Eventually, she says, “Want to take a walk by the beach. I follow her lead. Shit, I would’ve followed her into a glory hole at a Chicago bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. Son says, “What’s a glory hole.” I say, “Russian Roulette with your dick.”
“So, we sit on the sand together but now I’m light-headed. So, I recline back on the sand to look up at the stars. And I feel a bump. She says, “Did you just pass out?” I can’t believe we came that close to fucking.” And that’s how my crazy hick DNA prevented your premature death. Crazy Hick DNA lives. But endlessly wrong produced endlessly right in you kid.”
Endlessly wrong produces endlessly right, Challah. Thank you very much.
Ego Bubbles Popping
Getting turned down for an interview with an ancient bath company in Manhattan sinks your spirits. Granted, it was an in-house recruiter position and I have no experience chasing after boys in Chelsea to play footsie in Barry Diller’s tub whenever David Geffen is in town with Calvin Klein for their annual winter wine wonderland retreat in Stowe, Vermont but still.
It’s been officially 6 months since my year without beer journey began. It got humiliating spending so much time hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush-littered past, as entire Rocky Marathon marathons on AMC passed me by. Now, I fuck with type A personality types, who think it’s a good look wearing a running medal of some kind at a bagel shop during the weekend. Chances are, this edgeless, blah breath, has never been in a rush to slam double IPAs behind his kids’ back on a Friday, because his wife is being ahead of the curve annoying again, especially when she says, “Do you believe in the Monkey Pox Vaccine?” I say, “Babe, I gave up my alt right dirt rags like the Gateway Pundit and Breitbart according to Anti-MAGA country at large. So, I don’t really give a shit about any of the damned hell hole sex commentary about it. All I know, is that according to an American Thinker article from 1 month ago, kids are getting it, according to groomed are us.com. Plus, from what I’ve read in the past, I’ve learned that Monkey Pox primarily impacts the gay community and can be transferred from mere skin on skin contact, which rules out random hand job relief at the Equinox Gym in Chelsea, that I can’t afford a membership from my non-existent book sales anyway. So, I don’t see what a vaccine can do to prevent skin on skin infection outside of good old-fashioned abstinence, which I’ve got going for me because were us, and I’m in the middle of porn cleanse also, so the temptation to juice for joy at the sight of Third Legged Beauties.com has died. So, I’ll pass on the Aids light, Monkey vaccine, thanks.”
So, the Medal running douchebag at the bagel store on a Saturday gets all chummy with the manager there, taking about the upcoming New York City Marathon, I think, then his age of 36 is brought up, which is a decade a younger than me. My sober Alpha Dog attacks and spit fires, “Do you still get asked for ID?” Atkins lite barely mutters a clear sounding lie, “Well, maybe, sometime.” Because this asshole has never passed out with a raging hardon with a condom still on while blacking out the face of the gal he banged the night before, guaranteed. And I say, “I still get asked for ID and I’m 46. I win this race to the fountain of the youth, BMI light. The only thing that sucked about getting asked for ID around my 3 kids at Target, is how it made me feel like a teen drop out mom from Tallahassee. Later when I got home, I wanted to change my headline title on my LinkedIn profile to Crystal Meth Homemaker.”
So, what’s my essential thought leadership point LinkedIn, as the new king of sober media? Comedy keeps you young at heart and does wonders for your complexion, which is why upholding a rigorous regimen of banging out more endless sheets of comedy gold keeps those encroaching greys at bay. At the same time worry lines don’t become to pronounced worrisome after your done lifting the spirits of random mom’s standing next to you with your kids at Target now, with the oppressive hold of Adderall and edibles rapidly fading from your system, who thank you for “making their day”, after you refuse to get your son a Hershey Bar after stating, “No chocolate bar. We just made Chocolate chip crumbled pancakes at home. And we have crazy hick degenerate DNA to contend with on the southern side of our family, that makes Hunter come off as a slacker underachiever in comparison. Plus, mom had a drunk cousin on her Irish side who fell into a vat of Guiness while on the job once to. So, we need to temper our over top indulgent desires more than most families or else you’ll be a slave to your primal desires forever, and never achieve sustainable levels of holy lighter light. Which explains why Uncle John, looks like a hollowed version of his former self these days or why former Mets All-Star Dwight Gooden talks in that stilted, drained dry manner while losing his God given ability to throw blazing, awe inspiring fastballs that scream you better feel the fucking breeze in my presence motherfucker. Back when Dwight Gooden’s masterful timing and killer attack ease, would leave you speechless like Shoeless Joe Jackson batting .408 his rookie year, which is a hit to swing ratio even Woody Allen couldn’t match on Show of Shows with Sid Ceasar, despite him shitting out films like Bananas soon after in his sleep. That’s why holy lighter can’t be beat.”
Son says, “So not drinking beer for 6 months in a row, makes you feel lighter on your feet? I say, “Yes, and your inner light shines brighter than putz breaths who show up to bagel shops on the weekend wearing running medals with far more stable work histories to boast of, who haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, that’s correct kid. Plus, I can finally trash my old joke about what it’s like being a Stay at Home She Male Slayer Comedian. “Well, drinking alone is no longer an issue.” Son adds, “Don’t you mean behind our back?” I add, “Well, daddy, doesn’t do that anymore, but that’s correct Art Show. Now, I can feel superior around mama while she nurses a glass of Pinot Grigio on a Friday night or around my mother for that matter, who sometimes can’t even wait for the Oaky Chard to cool because I’m strictly committed to getting high off your presence now kid, Matilda and Samuel included. That is until, next summer in Vermont, so I can order an insanely overpriced IPA in Burlington Vermont, only to spit out the 1st sip and declare, “Murderers Row work here. Sorry, I confused you for Hospitals sanctioning quadruple clot shots for its employees while more Doctors hit the floor than coin at the strip club in Montreal during pledge trips from the University of Buffalo while Neil Young and Crazed Vax Horse is reclaiming lost Spotify royalties in town. Holy Lighter rocks on in his free clot shot world, Challah. Thank you very much.
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