Funnyman
Ba-dum-tish.
I stare out at the crowd. A lot of people are laughing, which is a good thing. We're on par, we're communicating. I like these folks just fine, and'd probably buy a drink for any one of 'em provided they were good-looking enough and I had some money. Them laughing, though, is the catalyst for money; the more they laugh, the more I get paid. Yuk it up, guys, I need to pay my cell phone bill.
There are a few faces in the crowd that are starting at me blankly. I hate these people more than I hate the few who are glaring at me who will probably yell obscenities at me onstage or go write bad reviews of me on whatever blog they happen to have. The angry ones I can fuck with; I'm at my best when I'm yanking a hapless heckler around, and more than once I've made a member of the audience leave in bitter tears while the rest of the crowd taunted them out of the building with ruthless guffawing. Those are my proud moments, when I can shame someone to self-loathing while keeping the show going all the while.
BA-dum-tish. Another one gone.
More laughs this time, and a few of the blank stares are gone. Okay, I think to myself in the instinctive non-voice of show-thoughts, we're starting to warm up, now. Good. You'll love this next one. I keep going, pattering and bantering along. I cross the stage, big gesture, loud inflection, lots of laughs. By this point, I've spotted the ones that Aren't Going to Get It. These are the people that piss me off the most; the angry ones are fun to fuck with, and the good ones keep braces on my ex-wife's lover's daughter's teeth, but it's those apathetic cock-bites that just stare at you right after the line's been delivered, those sheep in sport-coats and low-key evening wear. They gaze up at you blankly, Stepford stares and Barbie-doll eyes, no hint of anger at their confusion. Getting the gag is beyond them, but they can't bring themselves to hostility. Instead they just sit and stare at me, absorbing what I say, tucking it away. They didn't come to laugh, they came to sponge. The mannequins in the crowd distract me and put me off my game more than the fat bastard in the Steelers jersey lobbing insults at me could ever hope to do.
It's because of people like this that I used to put a gun to my head right before I went onstage.
Ba-dum-tish. Big laugh.
My time's almost up, and I'm starting to sweat a little bit. I keep staring at the worst sheep in the crowd. He's a whale of a man, wearing a bright floral print shirt soaked in his sweat and a spilled drink. He doesn't blink at all. He's not even twitching. I want him to scratch his nose or sneeze or do something instead of sitting there like a corpse. I keep talking and staring. The crowd doesn't even notice, but my eyes are not going to leave this fat fuck for the rest of the show. He infuriates me worse than any of the others, because his stupid stare belongs on his face so well. Something about this man sitting there in that ugly shirt says that he looks like this all the time. I think for a second about what this guy's life must be like, going through things so passively, never bothering to feel anything. I'm angry now to the point of rage. I'm shaking now, noticably, and right as my time runs out I swing the mic and yell out “Laugh you big stupid fuck! Open your mouth, like when you drool, and giggle a little. It ain't rocket surgery!”
Ba-dum-tish. Huge laugh. It's my last punchline.
They've been a beautiful audience. Thank 'em so much.
I walk offstage and catch the eye of the comic taking the stage. That poor bastard is going to deal with them now; they're not my problem anymore. Let them laugh to something else while I go home and drink and surf porn sites and drink more and go to sleep, probably thinking of joining the Marines or jumping off a bridge.
This is my life.
Ba-dum-tish.
I stare out at the crowd. A lot of people are laughing, which is a good thing. We're on par, we're communicating. I like these folks just fine, and'd probably buy a drink for any one of 'em provided they were good-looking enough and I had some money. Them laughing, though, is the catalyst for money; the more they laugh, the more I get paid. Yuk it up, guys, I need to pay my cell phone bill.
There are a few faces in the crowd that are starting at me blankly. I hate these people more than I hate the few who are glaring at me who will probably yell obscenities at me onstage or go write bad reviews of me on whatever blog they happen to have. The angry ones I can fuck with; I'm at my best when I'm yanking a hapless heckler around, and more than once I've made a member of the audience leave in bitter tears while the rest of the crowd taunted them out of the building with ruthless guffawing. Those are my proud moments, when I can shame someone to self-loathing while keeping the show going all the while.
BA-dum-tish. Another one gone.
More laughs this time, and a few of the blank stares are gone. Okay, I think to myself in the instinctive non-voice of show-thoughts, we're starting to warm up, now. Good. You'll love this next one. I keep going, pattering and bantering along. I cross the stage, big gesture, loud inflection, lots of laughs. By this point, I've spotted the ones that Aren't Going to Get It. These are the people that piss me off the most; the angry ones are fun to fuck with, and the good ones keep braces on my ex-wife's lover's daughter's teeth, but it's those apathetic cock-bites that just stare at you right after the line's been delivered, those sheep in sport-coats and low-key evening wear. They gaze up at you blankly, Stepford stares and Barbie-doll eyes, no hint of anger at their confusion. Getting the gag is beyond them, but they can't bring themselves to hostility. Instead they just sit and stare at me, absorbing what I say, tucking it away. They didn't come to laugh, they came to sponge. The mannequins in the crowd distract me and put me off my game more than the fat bastard in the Steelers jersey lobbing insults at me could ever hope to do.
It's because of people like this that I used to put a gun to my head right before I went onstage.
Ba-dum-tish. Big laugh.
My time's almost up, and I'm starting to sweat a little bit. I keep staring at the worst sheep in the crowd. He's a whale of a man, wearing a bright floral print shirt soaked in his sweat and a spilled drink. He doesn't blink at all. He's not even twitching. I want him to scratch his nose or sneeze or do something instead of sitting there like a corpse. I keep talking and staring. The crowd doesn't even notice, but my eyes are not going to leave this fat fuck for the rest of the show. He infuriates me worse than any of the others, because his stupid stare belongs on his face so well. Something about this man sitting there in that ugly shirt says that he looks like this all the time. I think for a second about what this guy's life must be like, going through things so passively, never bothering to feel anything. I'm angry now to the point of rage. I'm shaking now, noticably, and right as my time runs out I swing the mic and yell out “Laugh you big stupid fuck! Open your mouth, like when you drool, and giggle a little. It ain't rocket surgery!”
Ba-dum-tish. Huge laugh. It's my last punchline.
They've been a beautiful audience. Thank 'em so much.
I walk offstage and catch the eye of the comic taking the stage. That poor bastard is going to deal with them now; they're not my problem anymore. Let them laugh to something else while I go home and drink and surf porn sites and drink more and go to sleep, probably thinking of joining the Marines or jumping off a bridge.
This is my life.
Ba-dum-tish.