The Blog Before The Next One

Hey there ‘Redheads… It is my intention to be straight with you, my loyal readers. So, I have to level with you. This installment of the blog is going to be woefully thin. Look closely and you’ll be able to see its ribcage. The next blog, however, will be a blogbuster…the one year anniversary of this exercise in self-important blatherskite. It’ll be jam-packed with all manner of reminiscence about stuff that you didn’t really care about when it happened in the first place. I’m just sayin’…cut this installment some slack, because the next one is gonna knock your socks off (try to remember to wear socks when you read it…otherwise it might skin your feet).

Normally, I save the obituaries ’til the end of the blog, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the freak death of Steve Irwin. Yes, it’s time to have a moment of silence…with an Australian accent, to have a 21 boomerang salute, and to shed a tear in your bloomin’ onion for the khaki-clad croc hunter. After cheating death by cavorting with some of the most dangerous predators on the planet, he was felled by an unexpected foe. He was filming a new special to be called The World’s Most Venomous off the Great Barrier Reef, when a stingray gave love…a bad name. I need to purge the crappy jokes from my system here, so I won’t be tempted to join the chorus of hacks who’ll use this as an excuse to club the shit out of the dead horse that is his impression. Here’s how short on substance this blog is…I going to cite another blog. That of Jessica Paquin, who crystallized the comic ramifications perfectly. I’d just like to say to Jessica…get out of my head…and into my car…

Worse, and more tragic, than his actual death are all of the hack, piece of shit comics that immediately whipped out their “little journals of big laughs” and began feverishly scribbling down the comedy gold that will shoot them to stardom once they can fully implement a hokey Australian accent. So many will attempt to resurrect the poor, crazy Aussie bastard through a seemingly endless string of shitty impressions with shitty punchlines. Not unlike the comics that have the audacity to pull out the overdone hack Crocodile Hunter jokes before, now that he is dead, the “jokes” that surround him should be buried along with his body, but won’t. Let it go, kids. It wasn’t funny then and it won’t be funny now. Let him just be dead. All I’m saying is: Rest in peace Steve, and may all the shitty comics in the world allow you to do the same. I only hope they can wait for Arnold Schwarzenegger to keel over. That’s a body that will be kicked long after it has gone cold. It’s cheating comedy when you it’s something so easy. I’d rather see death cheated than comedy.

Amen, sister.

From the tragic to the sublime, I bring good tidings from the sold out The Labor Day Poonanza. Kudos to Larry Poon, Jim Marsdale, Randy Ford, Deaf Jim, Ryan Conner, Danny Rouhier, Kojo Mante (the REAL one), Seaton Smith, Jeff Maurer, Justin Schlegel, Jay Hastings, Tom Myers, and Quincy Ledbetter for putting on an inspired bit of comic gluttony. The DVD is forthcoming, and I hope a couple of the sketches make their way to YouTube or some other place where they can get exposure to the masses.
After the show the party moved over to Millie and Al’s, where we were joined by Jon Mumma…who was, oddly, nowhere to be seen during the show (yeesh…paper-thin AND full of inside jokes…stay with me, people). Man, Larry Poon knows how to party. Buxom Slovenian women on both arms, each taking turns pouring vodka and Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper down his gullet as he gargled the theme from Taxi. He is an inspiration to all of us who think that a mug of Miller Lite and whistling the end credits from The Incredible Hulk is any way to throw down. So, after my mug was empty and my lips chapped from the effort, I had to pee somethin’ fierce. As I finished up and exited the stall, the guy waiting his turn remarked to me, “I can’t believe there’re only two urinals in this place.” I shot back, in typical guy-banter fashion, “Yeah, the last thing you want is a line for the men’s room.” He zings, “Or a lion king.” Perplexed, and not wanting to violate any unwritten man-law, I simply affirmed, “You got that right,” as I walked back to the bar. I can’t imagine that women engage in this primitive haiku that guys do. The typical diagram breaks down like this: Two guys who don’t know each other engage in a brief superficial conversation that consists of no less than two, but no more than four lines, the last line of which is always, “You got that right,” or some variation thereof. The first line is typically a quip or observation that isn’t really funny or insightful, but in order to not be awkward, the respondent will force a laugh or break out the, “You got that right,” and be on his way.

We are an odd breed. If he were still alive, Steve Irwin would tag us and track our hapless mating habits. Here’s to ya, Steve.

To be continued…

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