unintentional Rube Goldberg alarm clock: the box fan I’ve placed at the foot of my bed succeeds only in blowing beer farts up to my face, waking me up too early. Then, as is closure for these types of machines, I crack an egg into a frying pan.
Also, “Rube Goldberg” sounds like a name for an inexperienced Jew.
This is my online effort right now, everyone. It’s a blog of a man’s last words to his friend Douglas.
"It’s illegal to buy fireworks, sure, but I don’t remember hearing anything about making them on your own. It’s only called a pipe bomb if you blow it up because you hate America. If you love America, Doug, then it’s fireworks. See, I’m even painting little flags on them.”
when’s the last time you witnessed something awesome happening that didn’t have the magic of its occurrence destroyed by a thrusted camera phone?
i’m nostalgic for spontaneity and the retelling of great moments, because they made me want to get out and find out for myself. i never wanted to be on the listening end of “you had to be there,” but no one needs to say that phrase much anymore.
and yet i’m bitching about it in yet another forum overrun by pictures of twee desserts and people’s pets and self-involved quirk. please please please just take three seconds before occupying even more space and energy to determine whether or not what you’re submitting is for the benefit of others or for good or at the very least entertainment…or if it’s just to prove to yourself that you have unique sensibilities and you’re a special little google image-probing snowflake who got to the picture of the cat in the yoda costume first. there’s no prize. just another pile of used iphones in a dump in india somewhere, discarded because they couldn’t process the tweets of a million self-involved dolts trying to let the world know how good their binto box lunch was fast enough.
i’m sure this makes me sound self-righteous, but be sure i’m not patting myself on the back about it. just weighing in.
a guy named jim used to live across the street from us when i was teenager. jim didn’t have as many fingers as everyone else but that never stopped him from trying to play classic rock songs on the guitar. genial enough fella that would drink beer in his driveway and occasionally set fire to this old mercury cougar he had in the garage. “should be road-ready by fall,” he’d say.
he bought a boat once. it sat in his front yard the whole summer. some days i’d catch him swearing at the boat, but it turned out that cats started living in it. he was swearing at the cats and not the boat, you see. i inquired about the vessel. “you’ve got quite the boat there, jim,” i said. “yeah, i know, except all these goddamn cats are living in it,” he said. some of the cats may’ve been the same ones my mom was feeding from our porch, so i avoided the topic. he continued. “it was 300 bucks, kyle.” “i had no idea you were a sea-faring man,” i replied. he said, “i’m not, but it came with the trailer. you can’t pass up a deal like that.” i said i certainly could. he scoffed and went inside to get his guitar. an awkward serenade of nubbed-out deep purple followed, and i excused myself after one more beer.
and now, for no reason at all, i’m reminded of how i accidentally became a part of a puerto rican parade in chicago last august while driving my father’s pickup truck through humboldt park. there were some streamers, and some excited puerto ricans and I just thought they were all having an above-average ethnic saturday, then all of a sudden there was a band on a flatbed truck driving next to me barrelling through some hot number and i was surrounded by festivity.
i remember thinking “well, i could put on my signal and hope for the best or i can just honk and wave and ride it out.”
i went back and ordered beers number 7 and 8 from the thicker flight attendant who was nice to me earlier. nyc to los angeles is six hours and we were over colorado at this point. the other flight attendant (a dude) in the little annex area asked me “are you driving?” i said, “no, we’re on an airplane” and returned to my seat next to the chubby spaniards trying to copulate in seats 40a and 40b.
once i was at a party where i didn’t know anybody so i drank a bunch of champagne and kept going into the closet and yelling “it sure is dark in this bathroom!” still nobody liked me even though i thought that was a pretty funny thing to do.
then i woke up on the couch in the day time without ever remembering going to sleep. i didn’t know where i was and i thought i had been kidnapped even though the door was open and i didn’t have any duct tape over my mouth or anything. then my friend mike came out of one of the bedrooms and it all made sense and we went and got breakfast burritos.
thursday: terrible set. given an unsolicted lap dance by a woman with the size, shape, and face of jonathan winters. she knocks an entire pint of beer down the front of my person.
fri: terrible set. i am heckled by two drunk men in the front row wearing complimentary hard rock cafe tshirts, which i instantly know will end poorly*. i refer to one of them as “cosmonaut” because i detect a russian accent. they are removed from the club, but not before yelling to the entire audience “we’re not gay!” doorman tells me the man was not russian, he was slow. in what i can only politely refer to as a strange choice, they sat a drunk retarded person at the front of the stage. coincidentally, that very day i answered an interview question for therumpus.net that asked “how would you handle being heckled by a person who is quite literally retarded?” here is my exact answer from 12:30pm that very day:
-are you trying to tell me that a retarded person has the capability of also consciously being an asshole? And would so choose to go to a comedy club to harass the performer? I think you just created a supervillian named “Pizza Party.”
needless to say, Pizza Party’s strengths are greater than we thought, because he revealed himself to me no less than 8 hours after i invented him.
saturday: terrible set. my musings on life are failing to no end, but the headliner’s asian-eye glasses and dunkin’ donuts employee impersonations have them falling out of their chairs. at some point during my set i almost wished my hooters hot wing-induced diarrea would come back right there, on stage, just to see what it would be like. i wanted to skip the metaphorical “shitting on the stage” and just get right down to it. i’d continue doing my act, but uncomfortably wince and blow wet lunch remnants right through the back of the jeans i’d been wearing for three days. “anyone dating tonight? [shrappp] anybody on a date? [whraphphp] oh, god. what’s your name, sir? [thrphrphrphr] can i get another budweiser up here?”
one more show tonight. check the calendar for more dates!
*my luck with hecklers has never been any good. three weeks ago i mocked a heckler out of the bar i was performing in to a pretty humiliating degree. after the show, the bartender told me that they all knew the guy because they had all gone to high school together, which is when he’d shot his girlfriend twice. the reason he wasn’t in jail is because it was an accident, as she was only trying to wrestle the gun away from him while he was trying to shoot himself. then the bartender joked “hey, maybe tonight’ll be the night he actually goes through with it!”
Yeah! Sweet press for Matt Braunger, a comic to watch!
With the Letterman appearance, a gig on the final season of “Mad TV” (including a jaw-dropping part in a “Weight Smashers” ad parody), a new role as a detective on the Internet satire series “Ikea Heights” and this summer’s release of a comedy album, “Soak Up the Night,” Braunger acknowledges that he finally has some momentum. But he’s also a realist and knows that such momentum is “an ethereal thing,” so really, he’d rather say, “Yes … with a question mark after it.”
Whoa, unexpected mention of Ikea Heights in Variety.