Pinch Me

This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.

Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.

I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...

I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.

We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.

So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.

Reality Check

I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....

I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.

As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.

My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.

Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.

As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.

My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?

Bathroom Attendants

When you hit a bar or nightclub you will often find a helpful little lady in your restroom when you go to break the seal. As seen in posted photos, often times you might not be in your right mind (Patron)and may actually NEED some assistance in locating paper towels or even finding the door. This tends to be an increasing challenge as a particularly thirst-inducing (drunken) evening wears on. Not long ago I found myself at Martini Park in Chicago with a cluster of my girls in Chicago. We were having a riotous time (crazy shots) and soon enough I found it necessary to visit the little girls' room. Upon entering the miniscule john I noticed it was crowded with stumbling girls in too high heels, trying helplessly to reapply lipgloss that had been sucked off by various members of Tool Academy. (Oddly, there actually WERE two dudes from that actual show at the bar that night, hoping we would know they were celebrities. I thought they were Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan from the "What is Love" SNL skit... Too much hair gel, Abercrombie cologne, and shitty tribal tattoos..) I was not one of those stumbling ladies at this point. Just a casual observer with a full bladder.

I entered stall #1 and noticed they were approximately 3 1/2 sheets of TP left, just enough to wipe HOWEVER there was also a monsoon worth of piss covering my toilet seat. What the fuck?! It was like the produce department when that voice comes over the intercom, "Fresh produce misters are about to start!" and your hand gets soaked as you go to grab a head of red leaf lettuce. Except it WASN'T fresh water misters. It was stinky girl piss from someone who hadn't washed their twat since last weekend when she had a three way with Tool Academy. Smelled like a German cheese festival. Covered in piss because she tried the straddle and squat maneuver but pretty much did a simple hover piss. This is only excusable if you are paralyzed, win the lottery, or run into David Hasselhoff in a Speedo in a dark alley. Next stall please!!!! Stall #2 had a dry seat, three unfinished beverages resting on the floor, TP holder, and toilet as well as a giant puddle of water beneath my feet. Thank God for monster tranny heels. Comes in handy when you want to avoid messy ladies' rooms. Fuck what they say about mens' rooms being cesspools of piss and grime. Drunk bitches are WAY more messy.

After exiting my stall I noticed the lone lady working the john was in a bit of a frenzy as the drunken hoochies outnumbered her 10 to 1. She was flurrying about, trying to wipe down countertops, pass out paper towels, and turn off faucets. Her bowl of mints was askew and almost empty. Her array of hair sprays and perfumes were disheveled. She clearly had no time to examine the assortment of half-empty of beverages that littered the stalls, let alone squeegee up the puddles on the floor. Had she handed out a few less paper towels in hopes of a dollar tip or two she would have noticed the piss monsoon in stall #1. I am betting my tranny heels there might have been similar situations behind other doors of adventure. Later in the evening my friend stepped into a pile of vomit on the floor. Classy. A wee turd was spied on the ground begging us to ask the question, were farm animals allowed in the club or were midgets taking mini shits on the ground because the toilet was too high? Was there a day care behind the wall we weren't aware of and all the sloven behavior should have been blamed on the children running amuck? Whatever the excuse, this woman had bitten off more than she could chew that night in the Martini Park ladies' room. She needed help stat but there was no tag team action to come to her aid. Poor thing.

I have been privy to many a restroom in nightclubs, bars, and restaurants where things are under control. You can pee in a clean stall that doesn't smell like a shrimp net in August. You can wash your hands and rest your purse atop a dry counter, after which you dry your hands with a fresh paper towel handed to you by a smiling bathroom attendant. You can choose a mint or gum, spray on perfume, hell even re-flat iron your hair since some beer got spilled on your head. Taking a piss or tossing your cookies after that 4th Jaeger Bomb should be a pleasant experience, not one where you might need to don you Hazmat suit. And for this you will earn a dollar tip from me.