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T-Minus Nineteen Days… and Sweating

Tonight was my next-to-last ‘standup comedy’ class. Next week, we meet for the last time. The Sunday of the week after — that’s the sixteenth of November, if you’re not calendarically inclined — we’re all gonna get up onstage and throw down some rib-ticklers.

(As opposed to getting up onstage and throwing down French ticklers. That’s different. Rib-ticklers? Comedy. French ticklers? Performance art. And I don’t have the haircut, nor the wardrobe, to pull off ‘performance artist’. So let’s stay on track, shall we?)

Anyway, I’m looking forward to it. It may not go anywhere. I may try it once and be done with it. I may piss all over the stage, or blow chunks on the first two rows of patrons. I really can’t say for sure. But I think I’ll have fun, no matter what happens.

(Hey, making tinkles and spewing food aren’t gonna slow me down up there. Hell, I’ve been on dates where I’ve recovered from worse than that.

Not to mention business meetings. You’d be surprised how much liquid those faux leather chairs can hold. Really.)

In any case, I thought I’d take this opportunity to shamelessly plug the show. It’ll be at the ‘Comedy Studio’ above the Hong Kong restaurant in Harvard Square in Cambridge. The show starts at eight pm. (And the projectile vomiting starts at eight-thirty. Or thirty seconds after my stage time starts, whichever comes first.) Anybody out there in the greater Boston area — or with a car and a shitload more initiative than I — come out and see. Even if I lapse into painful jerking seizures up on stage, there are eleven other folks in my class who can more than make up for my deficiencies.

Nah, it won’t be that bad. Besides, I’ve made an ass out of myself in front of way more people than they could cram into the cubbyhole over this Chinese restaurant. I’ve seen the place, actually — there’s no way more than sixty bodies fit in there without some serious greasing up, and a lot of creative limb-bending.

(And that’s not to say that either or both won’t happen that night. There’s only one way to know for sure, folks. But you’ll have to bring your own lubricant. All the grease in that place is gonna be busy soaking into the fried rice special. ‘Number fifteen — you like it, you like it. Taste like chicken.‘)

Anyway, come check it out. I’m sure I’ll remind you again as the time gets closer, but I wanted all you West Coasters and folks from other lands to have plenty of time to line up those plane tickets. Now you’ve got no excuse not to be there on the sisteenth, sitting on your ass while you laugh it off. So chop chop, folks. Make your travel plans early. These jokes aren’t gonna laugh at themselves, you know.