Puppy Love and Poopie Jokes

July 29, 2004

Hey, there, folks.

Sorry about not posting yesterday — I had a spot in a comedy show over in Cambridge, and got home pretty late. I’ll post the set (and the one from a couple of weeks ago), just as soon as I have a computer to do it on. Of course, you’re under no obligation to actually watch it — I don’t want to be responsible for contributing to your mental instability — but it’ll be available soon. Soonish. Sometime. Whenever.

(In any case, you saw most of the new material here first — most of it from my snarky grammar post a few months back. But I’m sure the thought of seeing me reciting potty-mouthed poetry onstage must make someone out there all wet and tingly, so I’ll see what I can do.

And yes… my mother is very proud. Whee.)

While I was waiting for the show to start last night, I ran into a friend of mine from the comedy class I took last fall. She’s one of just two other people from that class who’ve ‘stuck with it’, and are out there, like me, making a horse’s ass of themselves in front of strangers on a regular basis.

(Actually, I take that back. There are only three of us that I know of being jackasses on stage. But judging from what I learned about some of the other people in that class, I’d say that several of them are making horses’ asses out of themselves in front of strangers. Nearly every day, in some cases. Yeeks.)

Anyway, we chatted for a while, and in the course of conversation, she mentioned several of the rooms where she’s been performing lately. I found that I’d been to a couple of them, but not many. And of the few I’d visited — and sullied with my nonsense — I hadn’t seen most in weeks or months. I was a little disappointed in myself, frankly — I dig doing comedy, but I’m not doing a great job of worming my way into rooms, buddying up to bookers, frequenting open mics… all the things I really should be doing. So I said as much, and my friend replied:

‘Yeah, it’s a little easier for me — I don’t have a job right now… or a house… or a spouse. This is pretty much what keeps me busy these days.‘

And I thought, ‘Wow. That is different. Whoa.‘ I can see how she makes the time for comedy.

And then, I thought, ‘But there must be a down side… uh, somewhere. Um, isn’t there? Somewhere?‘ But of course, I couldn’t find one. Unemployed, unmortgaged, a completely unfettered schedule — how could there be anything wrong with that? Sheesh. Lucky girl.

(Okay, okay — I’m kidding. I’m not jealous, really. I love my wife, and my house. Hell, I even like my job a lot.

I mean, I wouldn’t tongue-kiss it or anything, but my job’s not bad. We cool.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever tongue-kissed my house, either. I’ll have to take care of that, one of these days. Don’t want it to feel unappreciated, right? Now, I just gotta find a spot that won’t give me splinters. I’ll keep you posted.)

Actually, I’ve found that the biggest obstacle to doing more comedy usually turns out to be my dog.

(And yeah, I love my dog, too, so I can’t just dump her in a trash can and get it over with — much as I’d like to some days. Like the days she pees on the couch, or drags garbage all over the floor. Little bitch.

Of course, it’s not all bad. After all, I have technically tongue-kissed the dog, albeit accidentally. It usually happens when I’m lying in the floor, and start talking when she’s sitting too close to my face. That goddamned tongue of hers is quick, and I swear it’s a foot long. She’s like ‘tongue ninja’ or something when she decides to lick you — sometimes, you barely even feel it. You’d never know her licker had brushed your gums, if it weren’t for the sudden taste of horse meat in your mouth. Yum.)

Stunting my career isn’t really the dog’s fault, of course. But I do have to pick her up from ‘day care’ a few days a week, or scurry home in the evening to make sure she’s not pissing or chewing or otherwise trashing the house. Or to clean up the mess, if she’s way ahead of me.

(Which is just damned rude of her, if you ask me. I mean, I don’t piss where she hangs out, or drag garbage into her room. I’d try it, though — I’ve been that close to weeing on her bed a few times — but I think she might like it. Pervy little bitch, ain’t she?)

Anyway, it’s just that most nights, I’ve got a date with a doggie, so it’s hard to plan two or three or six shows a week, the way I might otherwise. My wife is cool with it — she works late a lot of nights, so I could probably do a show and still beat her home half the time. But the furry bag of pee waits for no man, so it’s just not an option.

(That’s an old Spanish proverb, I think: ‘The furry bag of pee waits for no man.‘ Or French, maybe. I think I heard a Belgian guy say it once. One of those European types, anyway. You get the idea.)

In the end, it’s all cool. I like hanging out with my dog — provided she’s not licking the inside of my lips. And, when we can, I love spending time with my wife, too — and even more so when she is trying to taste my tonsils. And, I’ll admit, I spend an awful lot of time at my ‘day job’, too — where I keep my tongue shut down and hidden as much as possible. It doesn’t pay to speak up when you’re a raving lunatic smartass, you know. That shit doesn’t bring in the ‘big bucks’, lemme tell you.

So, I guess my standup career will creep along, rather than soar. And that’s okay. I’ll probably also drink less, inhale less of other peoples’ smoke, and spend time with far, far less other raving lunatic smartasses. Bad for comedy, perhaps, but good for sanity, I suppose. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying not to drop-kick my dog down the basement stairs. God love her, it gets a little harder every day. If she wasn’t such a good kisser, I might have booted her already. Lucky bitch.