… are not funny. Not funny, you heard me. The ones that I have been up close and personal with over the years, have been cranky, petty, neurotic, self-possessed, vindictive, self-serious, paranoid, lethargic and weepy. Those are the positives.
In my dealings with them over the years, I have never experienced another type of human being that thinks the world is trying to plagiarize their every brilliant thought. I came again last night to be in close proximity to yet another such genius. He’s been on the road since Hector was a pup.
What you see, will never be what you get. In their defense, their lives suck. Only existing in the daylight hours like some unemployed vampire, they roam the belly of any Motel 6, Comfort or Days Inn, eating scraps of whatever they can forage from the nearby pancake house, they pray for darkness. It is then when they come alive and devour the senses of their prey.
And woe be to the clown who imbibes a little too much and slips into a defenseless Tourette’s while sitting stage side. Then the misery and self-loathing that been running down his leg all day can be spewed all over his unsuspecting audience.
My theory is that comedy is a type of repressed, existential rage. Of this I know first hand. Who doesn’t delight in the destruction of all that we hold dear? Politics, religion, marriage and other silly customs, our bodies, our weight, our hygiene habits and most of all our neuroses.
That’s the stuff baby. So the next time you pay to see one of these street urchins deconstruct themselves on stage, remember, he’s just as fucked-up as the rest of us. If not more so. Thanks for coming out tonight Don’t forget to tip your waitress over.