“I’ve heard said that the Universe brings certain people into your life to mirror issues and behaviors that need to be worked on. If this theory is correct then I must truly be an asshole.”
Just a quick note regarding a policy change taking effect immediately.
I will continue to say “Hello” or “Good morning” when we make eye contact, even if you don’t acknowledge me.
I’ll still hold doors, the elevator, say “Please” & “Thank You” & “Pardon me” and offer to help carry something when your hands are full, even if you don’t extend the same courtesy.
However from this moment forward: When walking towards each other on the street, in a hallway, in the mall or anywhere one would walk towards another human being, I will no longer be the only person who steps aside so that we don’t smash into each other. I’m 6 feet tall and weigh 150lbs — I’m willing to take the hit.
Everyone was issued regulation manners and kindness when we were assigned to this post. If you can’t find yours—check in your ass. That’s usually where mine are when I forget that I’m not the only person on the planet.
Your fellow earthling
So, here’s the thing with Jill. She’s been my best friend for about twenty years. I love and want to kill her more than anyone on the planet. Not including myself, of course. Well, of course.
We met on the road doing stand-up in the early nineties…I think.
I wish I couldn’t remember because the road was so crazy with partying and stuff. But if I’m going to be honest, I’ll have to say I don’t remember how long ago we met because I’m not good at math.
The first time I saw Jill was when I opened for her at The Punchline in Houston, Texas. It was a comedy club in the lounge of some hotel in Houston, Texas. Did I already say Houston, Texas?
It was a club just like they all were back during the comedy boom. Fake brick wall. Three people in the “crowd.” It was awesome. I think I made fifty dollars for the week. Sorry if it seems like I’m bragging.
Anyway, I remember she went on stage after seeing my act for the first time and said, “If you liked Becky or you didn’t, get ready because you’re going to feel the same way for the next forty-five minutes.”
In other words (not that I really need other words), we’re basically the same person with the same sense of humor.
Wow. I know. She is so lucky.
We’ve been through it all. Jill is the first person I call when I fall in love or get arrested. She’s the friend that if I walked up to her in a bar and said, ” You need to come with me right now because we’re going to kick somebody’s ass.” She wouldn’t ask why. She’d just politely excuse herself from the table and go help me kick somebody’s ass.
Oh my heavens, we wouldn’t actually do that because we were not raised that way, thank you very much. But you know what I mean. Jill is that friend.
One weekend she was staying at my house, and we were talking about my breakup from my boyfriend of fourteen years. She was there from the beginning. I think she was more heartbroken over it than I was. Our relationship had been the one that she held all others up to. Yeah, sorry ’bout that.
So we were having drinks, and I was trying to console her with the typical reassurances: ” You’ll be okay. These things happen. I’ll find someone else.”
“But you guys seemed so perfect together.” She said between sighs and sips of a dirty martini.
Well, obviously no relationship is perfect, but telling her that seemed like a lame way of getting the point across. So instead, I thought I’d tell an awkward story about our sex life that would make me seem great and him seem like a judgmental jerk. Then she would feel better about the breakup and we could just make fun of him all night.
Now, either I’m a bad storyteller (really?) or she just wasn’t paying attention (more likely), and somehow our wires got crossed along the way. This is how our conversation went:
I said, “So one time we were in New York and I was ‘downtown.’ ”
Now first let me clarify that by “downtown” I meant his “nether regions.”
Also, let me clarify that I’m euphemistic and put things in quotation marks whenever I’m talking about anything sexual. It makes me feel less like a whore.
So I said, “We were in New York and I was ‘downtown.’ ”
And she asked, ” Why were you downtown? Were you working?”
I said, “Well, I was sure trying.”
“What?” she asked.
Jill didn’t realize, like you and I do, that I meant his downtown. Because of course, she wasn’t listening.
I said, “I was ‘DOWNTOWN!'”
She and I both started laughing.
And she added, ” Why didn’t you just say that? So what was New York a euphemism for?”
As I thought, Come on Jill, please don’t use “euphemism” just because I used it earlier. I said, “Uhhhhh….it was a euphemism for New York.”
Then she added, “Well, why’d you have to mention New York?”
“Because we were in New York!” I screamed.
Which made us start laughing again until she was wheezing and I thought I would wet my pants.
” Too bad I wasted fourteen years with that guy. Think of all the ‘downtowns’ I could have visited on the road.” I said.
“I know, ” she agreed. ” Becky’s Urban Renewal Plan.”
I said. ” I really regret not visiting ‘downtown Buffalo.'”
The giggling and wheezing went on into the night. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when two nice Texas girls try and have an adult conversation about a blowjob.
My neighbors in the building across the street are fighting and screaming the “F” word at each other while their children cry in the background.
The good news is, when their son ends up in jail and the daughter is a pregnant stripper at seventeen years old, we’ll be able to pinpoint exactly where things went wrong.
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.
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.
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.
Most of my life I’ve been “one of the guys.” My choice. Because to be honest, it’s just more fun.
I remember being a kid playing at my cousin’s house; the girls were inside, the boys outside. Suddenly, I became very frustrated with the situation, and the voice inside my head started screaming. (Everyone hears voices in their head at seven years old, right?) It was screaming,”What’s wrong with you people? Why are we sitting in this room with these stupid dolls when we could be up in that tree, with them? Good grief, what a bunch of pussies!”
The voice didn’t really call them pussies, but seriously, how funny would it be if it had?
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those women who don’t like other women. I have plenty of really cool girlfriends, but most of the time, you can find me hanging with my boys, gay or straight.
The downside to this is that I get stuck doing the dirty jobs that they would never have their girlfriends/wives/boyfriends/lovers/significant others do.
For example, I am the official “porn sweep” to four of my friends. That means if anything happens to them, I’m the person that has to go into their house first to clean out all of the porn so their family and loved ones don’t find it.
I guess they don’t want other people to know about their creepy, dark side after they’re dead. But apparently it’s perfectly okay if I do.
I just spent the weekend in Palm Springs telling jokes and fighting bikers. Where should I begin?
First, let me say if you ever need a beautiful gay man or a very tan senior citizen, Palm Springs is the place. If there’s a more abundant supply elsewhere, then I’ve not found it.
My goal for the week was to record every show and then make a CD for both people who have asked if I have CD that they can buy. It’s so cute when I set a goal because “This time I’m really going to do it!”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t my crowd. It seemed as if they were waiting for me to get off stage so the MC could bring up Red Buttons.
And so I ended every show by saying, “Enjoy your headliner.”
Even though I was the headliner.
My favorite thing about the road is napping. Oh dear, do I love to nap. It’s the highlight of my day. I plan it while having my morning coffee, which is the other highlight.
The hotel they put us up in wasn’t the greatest, to say the least, but sometimes that can make napping even better. Because when you’re asleep, you don’t have to look at stuff and wonder where things went wrong.
So Saturday afternoon I was getting ready for my beloved nap.
Here’s how it works-
Air-conditioning set to 32 degrees below zero.
Phone turned off.
Blackout curtains were drawn so the room is pitch black, except for that one comforting stream of light coming through the bullet hole in the curtains.
Then I usually wake up a few hours later, have more coffee and go to work.
Not this time.
About fifteen minutes in, I heard the roar of motorcycles. Then I heard a woman who had smoked a lot of unfiltered Camels in her life say, “Go get some ice.”
The gang of hooligan bikers that had just checked in to the room next to mine stood in front of my window drinking beer. I think they were having a “Who has the best fake laugh” contest. (And for the record I would just like to say that I think they were all winners.)
Luckily, it only lasted about two and a half hours.
What happened next? Nothing. I just waited. At about three a.m., when I heard sweet, little, drunken snores through the paper-thin walls, I called their room. When they answered, I hung up. Then I waited for about twenty minutes so they could fall back asleep, and I called again.
Who’s the winner now? Huh, pussy bikers?
I am a hypochondriac. Worry is my middle name. If I wake in the morning feeling happy and peaceful, I will immediately do my best to put a stop to it. Be it “new freckle” or “cramp in my thigh,” I love to jump to the worst-case scenario.
Last week I thought I was going blind in my left eye. Turns out, I should take my eye makeup off before going to bed.
This “I’m sure God is going to kill me at any moment” personality quirk can be traced back to age eleven, when, before going to sleep one night, I had a long, tearful goodbye with my dog. Just in case one of us didn’t wake up. We both survived the night, but things were never really the same between us after that.