Sunday, June 27, 2010

The Routines

If you come here for sports and sports only, move on: this one's going to be that 1 out of 20 that's got nothing to do with that. Mostly because, well, we are well into the Dead Zone of Sports, even with the welcome infusion of World Cup action.

Instead, I'm going to post the first of my two stand up routines, because some of you have been interested. So, well, here goes. Feel free to tell me not to quit the day job, or any job...

* * * * *

Don't worry, full-sized comedians are on the way.

People say to me, "Dave, what's it like to be so short?" Well, OK, they don't, because that's just a crazy question to ask someone. You don't ask people what it's like to be tall or fat or skinny or white or black or afflicted with a murderous rage towards everyone who is over 5 foot 3, right?

No, of course not.

Anyway, the big issues with being my height is the defensiveness, and the coping mechanisms, and the defensive coping lies about how being short means it's totally out of proportion.

I'm talking, of course, about earning power. But it could be worse. I could be Not White.

It's fine, though, because my wife is one critical inch shorter than me, with shorter arms, so I get to be The Tall Person in my house. So long as I can be the Tall Person, it's all good.

I had a girlfriend who was taller than me once, and her posture got worse for me. It was sweet of her. But I knew the relationship wasn't going to work out when she wouldn't let me wear her stilettos.

Anyway, I get to be the tall person at least until the kids grow... and they only do that if you feed them. My wife's with me on this, since she doesn't want to be anything less than the Second Ranked Tallest Person. We don't see it as child abuse; more like we're breeding Shetland Humans. You can't overfeed 'em. Weakens the stock.

And seriously, where the hell is Shetland? I want to go and spend a week reaching their tallest cabinets, dunk a basketball a few million times, and act all patronizing to everyone I meet. "Oh, how do you manage at your height? It's like you are little children. Here, let me use my superpowers to get that jar for you. Telescoping arm, go!"

I actually enjoy being my height, for one simple reason: I ride the subway every day. Which means I get to see all of you tall people pay for your poor upbringing and defective DNA. "Aw, too bad. Not enough leg room for you, Stretch? That's a shame. Too bad you didn't have the willpower to just say no to your pituitary gland, and remain shrunken and ratlike." That lack of self-discipline, it'll cost ya.

But I didn't just want to talk about height here. No, I'm up here to honor my father, who died a few months ago.

He was a short, drunk, crazy ratlike man who abandoned his kids.

Show of hands -- anyone here have a dad that was drunk, crazy, or gone? Good, none of you. Having a drunk, crazy or gone father makes me unique among people doing stand-up comedy.

Anyway, I'm convinced that my father's dying wish was for me to do stand up. It's right there in the will. OK, well, there wasn't so much a will as there was a life insurance policy. Made out to a pole dancer.

No, seriously. The man had a policy for three grand made out to some dancer; nothing for anyone else. Now, I'm not sure where you get a life insurance policy that pays off three grand. Maybe in an arcade claw machine, or at the dog track. He might have gotten it with Camel Bucks, I don't know.

Now, I know this all sounds bad. But I look at this with *pride*. My father thought ahead. I mean, I'm betting that he didn't have to tip *at all* for at least six months. Think about how much he pulled in from that policy. Think of the shining example he's set. The idea that he's given many of you. And how many strippers and strip club owners could be doing great volunteer work down at the senior center.

Anyway, I can see him in my mind's eye, enjoying his last days on earth, overcoming the pain to pull out the paperwork and point to his junk. This set's for you, Dad. We made it!

Plus, there's the fun of imagining that poor girl trying to cash that puppy. "Sinammon with an S? I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see some ID here..."

Besides, what choice do I have, but to look back with pride? If I've learned anything so far, it's that you can't get bitter. Being bitter will take years off your life. Those years will come off the end, when you wake up with waves of pain, then medicate yourself to the point of dementia, slowly losing all traces of dignity as you fail to control body systems that you've mastered your entire life, settling for a lower and lower standard of living each day while just hoping for some magic pill or technology to put off the inevitable, all the while knowing that it won't come. But, still. You can't get bitter.

Besides, checking out early just means you miss out on stuff. Just recently, my wife and I bought a new hybrid car. And the fun thing about the car isn't so much the technology that allows you to get more miles per gallon. It's the little displays that tell you when you are driving the right way, and when you are salting the earth with your urine, which is going directly into the eyes of a baby panda. It's a complicated display, but there it is, right on the dashboard.

So when you drive the car, or at least when I do because I seek approval from strangers and strange computers, you hump that mileage gauge for all that you are worth. When I'm driving that car, you could put an egg between my foot and the accelerator, or as I like to call it, The Regrettably Necessary Pedal That Overcomes Friction, and I'd never break it. Besides, why would you want to break a poor, helpless, defenseless egg?

I also like that the car is really quiet. Helps me with my drive-bys. I only use recycled bullets, of course.

It's not that I drive slow; it's that I drive to Save The Planet. So, stop signs? The gateway traffic signal to global warming. Red lights? A tool of the oil companies. Highway off ramps that are posted for 25 when I've got my dearly won 55 miles per hour of momentum happening? Purely suggestive. I might crash into you, but when it happens, I'm going to be getting over 100 miles to the gallon. So I think we can agree who's at fault for the accident.

I also enjoy the fact that the car will also rat you out if you drive in an irresponsible manner, with a trip log of the previous drives. So just in case you haven't found enough things to argue about, technology has given us the ability to criticize people's driving retroactively. It's helped my marriage loads.

I shouldn't be so hard on my wife's driving, though. I mean, she can't do any better, given how angry, defensive and short she is, really. Plus, she's my getaway driver on the drive bys. We have a lot of people to kill.

Anyway, thanks, you've been fun.

* * * * *

Hey, folks. Before I get into things tonight, I want to address the obvious. I know that, just by looking at me, you can tell... there's a man who's had some threeways. Without even paying for it. Much. And well, I can not tell a lie, unless it leads to being in a threeway. And since so many guys seemingly want the experience, I thought I'd share the knowledge. It's just my way to give back to the community.

Please understand that you don't get involved in one of these if you aren't, well, *loose*. Or sober. Have a good time, but you know... wear two condoms. You can do that. Or six. Don't worry, you won't notice them, since you'll be in a threesome.

Now, if you really want one of these to happen, you've got to start hanging out with actual bisexual women. I can not recommend this highly enough. If a woman is going to share you with another woman -- what, there are other kinds of threeways? Inconceivable! -- do not expect her to do it out of the kindness of her heart. There's got to be something in it for her. Along with the drugs and liquor, and maybe cash.

Where, you may ask, do you find such folks? Well, I found mine at Women's Colleges -- never, ever Girls' Schools, that will get you nothing -- but it does require a good six to nine months of patience. Stay calm long enough, nod thoughtfully at enough poetry during first and second semesters, don't talk very often, and you'll eventually fool them into thinking you are harmless. Harmless, but with a penis!

Next, you have to know what you are looking for. Sentient. Biped. Mammal. Vertebrae. I also insisted on conscious and alive, but your mileage may vary. I don't mean to judge. And if you really want to be able to make these situations work for you, it really helps to be creative. Many people wouldn't think to use the Make A Wish foundation for pussy. I'm just saying.

But the truly tricky thing about threeways is that if it actually goes well, the same-old in-out just isn't going to cut it for you. You're going to have to up the ante just to get by. Battery cables, plastic bags, nitrous, marriage... it just gets goddamn complicated. Either that, or take Age. Shows you how crazy I was... I took Age. The first time was awesome. I felt confident, experienced, cool, stronger. It helped me with the ladies, and made everything just seem better. And then I just couldn't stop. Every minute of every day, I kept jamming that stuff right into my veins. Sometimes, me and my friends would hang out and we'd all get really, really old. But you have to know that it's going to kill you in the long run. And it's just not worth it.

Anyway, if you don't have the willpower to just say no to Age, do not go to the doctor. A year ago, I had repeat episodes of what I like to call Meal Abortions. The Indians call it maize. Anyway, I was concerned, so I went to my HMO. Which was another mistake. HMOs do not exist to make you better. They exist to prevent you from suing them when you don't. Since, well, Age prevents you from really getting over anything. Cheery, no?

So the first words out of my doctor's mouth were, "Does your family have any occurrences of... STOMACH CANCER???"

Um, before you said that? No, not a whit. But now? Fuck, I think they all died of it. Actually, by you saying it, I think you just gave it to me. I can feel it. Oh God, I can feel it...

"We also can not rule out the possibility of... HEPATITIS."

Holy crap, can I get the stomach cancer back? There are people I do not want to call about this. Dying's one thing, but talking to my exes and telling them that I've given them Dirty Needle Love? C'mon, Doc, give me the stomach cancer again. I'll be your friend.

Anyway, after six months of progressively more invasive procedures that I'm pretty sure were done as a practical joke, it turned out to be just a hernia and gallstones. Classic signs of Age Abuse. Now, I think I'm going to die from Age, probably within six months. Which means it's Threeway Time again...

But since I've, you know, been there and done them, I figure it's time to develop a gambling problem. Anyone here play poker? I'm looking for a game. I'll also take any mugger. It's faster, and I'll feel better about myself afterwards.

Of course, there's also playing online. Anyone here do that? Of course not; if you did, you wouldn't be here. You'd be in front of your computer bitching if you were losing, or cackling like a Bond supervillain if you were winning, and generally behaving with the class and decorum of a 12-year-old who just learned how to masturbate, and wants us to see his technique. Ooh, lookie what I can do! With a computer and just one hand!

And of course, you would not be doing it for money, because That Would Be Illegal. Me, I just play offline. In casinos. While paying my fair share of income tax on all wins -- as if -- and losses.

I also tithe.

Poker's great, because it combines all of the addiction quality of gambling with the fun of math. Yay, math! Then you get to combine it with legalized fraud, and top it off by giving a big advantage to people who have more money than you. It's just like junior high school for me. And high school. And college. And life.

The real reason people play poker is to enjoy the suffering of others. I'm convinced of this, of course, because everyone else at the table just seems to be having such a great time when I'm around.

Of course, there is also the people you meet. Tattoos, body odor, missing appendages, yellow teeth, receding hairlines, scars... and those are the guys. It's just like an open mic! Or the people you can have threesomes with.

And with that... thanks for your time. Don't Do Age.

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