Mostly true stuff…

Snow is like candy corn.

You just

think you want it.

Today: Comedy. Comedy. Comedy. All comedy – all the time. 

Tonight, I bring my arsenal of one-liner attempts in a showdown with Vancouver’s king of the concise joke, Johnny Scoop. (Ha, ha, he will go down in a hail of punchline bullets). I’m equipping myself Rambo-style, but without the slur. Punch. Punch. Punch. Intellectual irreverence will win tonight. (That would be me). Okay, so I may actually die a slow death by spitball. No matter. 

The show starts at 9:00 p.m. at the Kingston, 755 Richards. A beautiful lounge/bar which has quickly become a weekly gathering place for local comics whether they’re performing or not. Comfy armchairs, a place to spread out comedy notes, delectable food, and jocular banter between comedians. Now and then, you just need to surround yourself with other comics – the creative back and forth fills up the void. 

But first, this afternoon – bawdy guffaws, toilet humour, silly sounds. (No, not my act). I’m teaching a comedy workshop to 40 little boys (no, not fellow comics). With a purely philosophical approach, we’ll explore the wildly immature ranklings of puns, physical humour, and then some. I’ll be introducing into their world – Demetri Martin, Brian Regan, Steven Wright, and others. Enough of the video games – these boys need an education in life and all things truly infantile.

I’m bringing a whoopie cushion.

THAT, in itself, is a sign of a day well spent.

Security for Tuesday’s Presidential Inauguration is expected to be unprecedented as Barack Obama has received more death threats than any other American President in history – except for former President, Bill Clinton.
 

But, those were from his wife.

When running low on clean laundry,

remember:

Wearing your son’s socks:

Cool.

Wearing his Spiderman underwear:

Not cool.

 My comedy play, co-written with fellow comedian Antoinette Keane,  is a  GO.

Watch for it at this year’s Vancouver Fringe Festival.

 

I am the most grateful playwright in town,

and, possibly the universe.

“Open it.”

Fingernails snap tape, hurriedly tear through pink wrapping.

“It’s a cell phone! Happy Birthday, mom!”

“Whaaa? But, my darlings! Mommy doesn’t WANT to be reached. EVER.”

“What about that time your car broke down? You could have used a phone then, couldn’t you?!”

“Oh, my little sectarian sausages, mommy was ready to accept her fate, envisioning herself dramatically and romantically perishing like that ‘Into the Wild’ man in the Alaskan bus, subsisting solely on leaves from indigenous flora and relishing, albeit the pain, those few days of catwalk, heroin-chic, Kate Moss elfin-ness – just prior to death .”

“Except you were in a 7-Eleven parking lot.”

“Shush, my cherubic cretins. Besides, I like my Luddite existence. When I walk down the street, people point and say: ‘Hey! There goes that Amish girl!’ Sure, the bonnet itches, but that life suits me just fine. Have I told you my Amish drive-by-shooting joke?”

“Yes, mom. Six times. Waaaaaa, don’t you like our gift?!”

I am defeated.

I obligingly place Devil artillery in the car, where it sits neglected. Lo. Behold. I am driving when I realize I must call my son. One eye on Sisters of St. Francis walking club, the other on cell phone buttons… 6-0-4 …BAM. Holy! I have sideswiped a parked car! I’ve decapitated my side-view mirror! The other car’s mirror too! My God, I’ve become the cell-noshing, narcissistic driver I’ve always abhored.

After note is placed on car’s windshield providing phone number, childhood history, vulnerabilities, passions, fifth favourite song, first kiss details…I return home to await a call that , oddly, never comes.

I place Lucifer’s little lapdance on table. It begins to buzz, writhe, Patrick Swayze Dirty Dancing-like across my oak table.  My God! I just got this phone. Nobody knows the number. Who is calling me?! WHO? 

“Hello?”

Telemarketer.