Stand-Up Sneak Peek

Here's a rough cut of this Wednesday's stand-up script. There's no guide for delivery or inflection, but you'll have to attend a performance for those. Hope you like it. Related jokes in different colors.

People may be shocked when they hear what I say, not so much what I say but how I say it. I use language in ways that would terrify a normal citizen’s grandmother. But not to worry, you’re in no danger! I’ve been convicted of no crime!

 

However, don’t corner me, or I’ll lash out at you like a snake. Like a badger. Like an angry and startled snake lunging at an ambitious badger with an unsavory past. Who will win, the audience asks, hands frostbitten in suspense? Nature.

 

Now you tell me that what I just said, and how I just said it would not genuinely scare an elderly woman. You didn’t enjoy that, did you ma’am? I didn’t either, to be honest. All this terrifies me like you wouldn’t believe. I’m likely to cry any moment now.

 

I don’t know why I’m up here. I barely know THAT I’m up here. It’s over very fast and I have no memory of the episode, like that one little time when everyone was hopeful about Obama. It was “quaint”. Even conservatives were sitting around fireplaces, leisurely puffing on a glass of brandy, eating stacks of twenties and hundreds, going, “Well, I, for one, am proud to be an American in an age when we’ve elected our first black president. Go get ‘em, homie.” But the economy doesn’t care who’s president. It’s not even registered to vote.

 

Hi, I’m Tyler. What’s your name? We’ll talk after the show, I can’t hear a damn thing up here. You can buy me a drink. What’s that, three drinks? I’m flat broke.

 

Some people do comedy to get girls, which is sad not in the noble pursuit of beautiful ladies, but sad that doing comedy to get girls is a flawed premise to begin with. Girls don’t want funny. What they do want is kinda like funny, ‘cept it starts with an M. It’s like playing guitar. Young men in the audience, never pick up playing guitar to get girls. Doesn’t work. Pipe dreams. It only brings calloused fingertips and hearts.

 

(SOMETHING ELSE)

 

Yet another comment that would anger and confuse anyone over the age of sixty-five. And if you talk to me after the show, I might can say a few more.

 

Sike, I Had 13 Total Posts And I'm Superstitious

"I'm not racist."

"Yes, you are. What you just said was clearly racist."

"No, I'm superstitious."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"No, like, I'm really superstitious that black people are gonna steal my things."

It took me three seconds to think of that, and about ten minutes to articulate it. I have no idea what that means, but it's most certainly the fault of the MARIJUANA PIPE.

I really don't know what to make of this post, taken as a whole. It just kind of happened, and was written and conceived largely without emotion or malice of forethought.

Second Page Google Image For "Cosmic"

I have tobacco stains on the tips of all my fingers. I hope they go away, with time.

I have devised a system of rarely running out of marijuana. I have two small pill bottles, each packed with anywhere from one sixteenth of an ounce to one eighth of an ounce of good weed. In the first of these bottles, labeled "CURRENT STASH" (in white-out), rests the cache of pot I'll be smoking on a regular basis. When I run out of that bottle, I put to buying more. In the meantime, I smoke from the additional pill bottle, labeled "EMERGENCY ONLY!" (alas, white-out again) until I buy more weed. I then restock "CS" and replace whatever I inhaled out of "EO". In this way, the only way I'll run out of pot is if I go five days without being able to buy it when I need it. Quite fail proof, really.

I hope my fingers' tobacco stains and time enjoy themselves when they go away together.

I had a powerful strange vision the other day. Actually... it was less a vision than flashes of fantasy imposed on what I was already seeing. I was listening to Brothers of a Feather, stoned, driving on a beautiful day up by South Lowell Road. Everywhere I looked, images snapped before me. If I saw a bridge, my mind's eye would to flash that same bridge, with two monks leading a pack mule over said bridge, in a different place and time. Stories like this, fleeting and vivid, would pass before me time and time again for about seven or eight minutes. It is only luck that I had the thought, at the time, to focus on these thoughts and conjurations and keep them in my heart. All of this, set to Driving Wheel... it was a spiritual experience. I don't know if what I saw was my future, a past life, songs I'll one day write or stories I'll tell. I just know that I saw them, and they meant something to me, and that fact alone reckons them worth noting on the old timeline.

I'm gonna get out of here as soon as humanly possible. I seem to have misplaced my funny.