I think it was Carol Burnett who said, “Comedy is tragedy plus time.” It sure is. My freakishly big-breasted friend Madeleine called to tell me her incredibly cute ex-boyfriend Wilson was performing a stand-up routine at this place, and would I please, please join her? Now, I like a good joke as much as the next guy, but not if the next guy is sitting in some badly-lit improv lounge in Chelsea. I’ve learned never to go to these things, I’ve made that mistake before and it’s the surest way to lose a friend. They suck, and then you can’t look them in the eye anymore, and well, I like looking at Wilson, it’s a visual orgasm.
But Madeleine promised it would only be 20 minutes. Besides, she has the biggest boobs and she lets me play with them. My friend Kim (not my roommate) joined us, a lovely beautiful and single girl (if you know any hot, unattached, and employed men, please let me know, oh and someone for Kim too). I love Kim. She has the best worst-dates stories that make faggots look sane. She’s on my speed-dial, whenever I feel like my love life is fucked up, I give her a call.
The idea was to pay our respects, sit through Wilson’s act, then head to nearest bar and get tanked. One problem with that plan, Wilson was last. We waited an hour and a half, cringing through the some of the worst, tow-curling performances since Elizabeth Berkeley in Showgirls. It was so bad, if SNL did a skit using that material you’d think they over-did it.
I’m not exaggerating. One act involved two guys in wigs talking about tuna-tinis and mar-tunas (something about how during Prohibition martinis were made with tuna?). They went on and on:
“Hey Marvin, there’s not enough tuna in my tuna-tini, but there’s much to much tuna in my mar-tuna." Um, okay.
Then these two lesbians got on stage, sporting bad hair cuts and flannel shirts (where do they buy that shit anyway? Lesbos R Us?) and did a ten-minute song about Radio Shack. Radio Shack! They played their acoustic guitars, with screeching voices, like two cats fucking.
But that wasn’t the worst part. As the three of us tried to drink ourselves into oblivion, sucking on beer cans like cancer patients on a doobie, this midget got on stage and sang something called “Heavenly Discotheque,” about love in the afterlife. A small person dressed in a suit that looked like it was ripped off a Ken doll, moving his disproportionately big head to the sound of synthesizers. At first, I thought this was a going to lead to funny punch line. Nope. Just a bad Willy Wonka moment.
Kim looked at me, her eyes saying, “Is this for real?” Then she whispered, “I bet you ten bucks he’s married.” I looked at Madeleine. She was slowly melting into her seat with a doomed look on her face, a person aware of having dragged unsuspecting victims to something that can only be described as surreal. I figured I’d exercise some Schadenfreude. I leaned over and quietly said, “Bitch, you owe us a blow-job.”
Lucky for Madeleine, Wilson was funny. More importantly, he was hot. Hotter than any sexual favor from an udderly good friend.
