How Dare You

I have wasted a lot of my life saying “I’m sorry” when I really wasn’t.

I’m the peacemaker who never wants to hurt anyone’s feelings, even if they hurt mine. I try to be honest, but I’ll pull a punch if it will keep you from killing yourself.

When I was younger, it was really important that people thought I was funny. I needed to hear it. “Tell me I’m funny, please. Tell me!” When I would have a bad set (notice I said “when” instead of “if”), I’d wear the shame like a scarlet letter. Most comics believe you’re only as good as your last show. Uh-oh.

I used to equate that bad show means bad person.

Nowadays, I don’t really care so much. I say what I want. If you’re with me, that’s great. If not, that’s fine too, but I’m still going to say it. And if you’re offended, well, then I’m offended that you’re offended.

I’ve said all that to say this: my mom is mad at me because I said “balls” on television.

The Honeycomb Hideout

I once spent thirteen and a half months hiding out in a gay bar. Now, despite my six-foot frame and the fact that I bought myself “The Perfect Push-Up” for my birthday, I am straight. Sorry ladies, but it took me forty years to figure out how my vagina works, I don’t have time to be messing with yours.

Okay, why would a hetero woman spend over a year of her life in a bar for homosexuals? Well, if you think it’s because that community is accepting and there’s no judgment there, then apparently you’ve never hung out with gay men. There’s nothing but. That’s why it’s so fun. A gay man doesn’t need to know at whom or why you’re mad. They just need to know you are, and then, let the good times roll.

I’m not exactly sure what I was hiding from really, but there I’d sit night after night, a dirty martini in one hand, invisible cigarette in the other, taking to the transvestite next to me. “I’ll tell you the problem with comedy,” I’d say, followed by, “The people who book The Tonight Show can kiss my ass.” Then I’d blow fake cigarette smoke in her overly made-up, pre-op face.

“Fuck ’em, honey,” she’d say politely before grabbing her pony of Budweiser and heading for the men’s room.

Exactly. Fuck them.

I felt like a woman scorned. As if I’d put stand-up through medical school and it had left me  for some open-mic chick.

I’ve spent my life busting my hump on the road. I’ve given up everything for comedy. I’ve never owned a refrigerator or had a kid. And who knows how many times I could have been married.

I don’t know, perhaps the bald young lady with the skull and crossbones tattooed on her forehead was right. Maybe I just need up lighten up a little.

Looking back, I realize that my time spent in that bar wasn’t a total waste. Because with each passing day, the transvestite I was talking about, began to look and dress more and more like me until she was my doppelganger. The lesson I learned is this…when a man who is becoming a woman chooses to emulate you, it makes you remember that you are truly fabulous.

Trigger-Happy

You know how sometimes something will happen that takes you back to a certain period in your life? A time that maybe wasn’t so great? And although you aren’t that person anymore, you react from that place in time? Suddenly you’re in the tenth grade again?

Yeah, me neither.

The other night I came home, turned on my computer and checked my Facebook page. There was a friend request from a seventeen-year-old girl who lives in Ohio. Now, when you’re a comic, this isn’t strange. People of all ages and walks of life Google you and want to be your friend, which couldn’t make me happier. Google away. Although, I do check out the profile first, and if there isn’t a picture of a burning cross or a Nazi violating a woman with a Swastika, welcome aboard.

So, I accepted the friend request and then went to her page and left a comment that said, “Hey”—just like I do to everyone. Then I went back to writing (aka playing Spider Solitaire).

A little while later, I checked my page again, and there was a comment from her that read, “Wow, do you have a program that automatically sends out a generic response? That’s pretty lame. Just a word of advice, that’s creepy. Blah, blah, blah. P.S. I’m really ironic and sarcastic.”

Creepy? Really kid? I’ll tell you what’s creepy: the fact that I’m on Facebook at my age. But hey, you contacted me.

So, I guess she had just sent it and I responded to quickly. I’m not sure. All I know is that I went into Heathers mode. I deleted my comment from her page. I deleted her comment from my page , and I blocked her from my site.

Hah! Take that! Let me show you how to be ironic and sarcastic, young lady.

So, hopefully this will teach her a lesson. And also cause her to develop an eating disorder. That might seem harsh, but that’s how you learn.

I do feel a little bad since she’s only had one year of experience behaving like a seventeen-year-old girl whilst I have had twenty-nine.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: