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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
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It ain't easy being blog.
All right, let's try something a little different today. Those of you paying close attention know that I just signed up for a 'Beginning Standup Comedy' class that's going to start next month. Which means that I'm thinking about trying to be funny, but no one's taught me how yet.
(Which seems to be a running theme throughout this blog, now that I think about it...)
Anyway, for the past few days, I've been thinking about how I'd start a standup set. You know, in between sleeping and munching on potato chips and watching Family Guy.
(Yes, the life of an unemployed, soon-to-be-aspiring comic is a tough one, folks. Somebody throw me a telethon or something, would you?)
And I've come up with not one, but two possible openers, neither of which I'm likely to ever use, of course. Once I get into the class, I'll learn how the real funny people of the world do it, and I'll forget all about these swine nestled among the pearls. Or something like that.
Except -- oho! -- I've got a blog. Right here, see? Which means that I have a semi-captive audience that just might sit still long enough to read these first feeble attempts at hilarity. And so, here they come. If you like 'em, cool -- let me know. If not... um, well, hopefully in a few weeks, you can tell me how far I've come. We'll just have to see about that. Keep your funny bones crossed.
But, in the meantime, here's my pair of 'ice breakers', designed to get things off on the right foot. Actually, about that whole 'right foot' thing... Just in case there are any easily-offended sorts out there among you (and if you've read this friggin' far, I seriously doubt it), I feel that I should warn (entice?) you by confessing that both of these snippets contain references to crack whores. And, um, handjobs. Hrmmm... I wonder if I'm gonna be that kind of comic? Oh my.
Hi there, how are you tonight? I've gotta admit, I'm a little nervous up here. This comedy thing is pretty new for me.
See, I got laid off a few months ago, so I decided it was time to step back and see what I really wanted out of life. I'd been working in a little cubicle for years, scurrying around the office and munchin' the cafeteria slop like everybody else. But this was my wake-up call. So I sat down and thought long and hard about what would make me happy, when finally it hit me! The perfect job! The exquisite combination of all the things that were important in my life. So I ran to tell my wife.
And I laid it out for her. I could have it all. This was a job that required no experience, I could work for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes a day tops, I wouldn't have to get up early or wear nice clothes, and best of all, I could drink while I was working! Perfect! I was so pumped!
And then my wife ruins it. 'No,' she says. 'You can not become a crack whore.' Just like a woman.
So, I plead my case, and I get nowhere, and finally she says, 'Why don't you try standup?'
'Standup comedian', huh? Yeah, okay, it's not as glamorous as 'crack whore', but what the hell? I have no pride. So, here I am.
But still, I kinda like my original idea, you know? The danger, the excitement, all those kooky characters. So I think of myself as the 'Crack Whore of Comedy'. And tonight, you folks are my trick. And this -- this is your handjob. I hope you're enjoying it. For an extra ten bucks, I'll talk dirty to you, too.
Well, dirtier, anyway, if that's possible at this point.
and... scene! At this point, I'd have to find something else to seque into, and say something that was actually funny. The horror!
Or, I might forget all that, and go this way, instead:
Hey there, folks. I'm Charlie, glad to be here tonight.
Well, pretty glad to be here, anyway. I've got to admit, comedy wasn't my first choice as a career change.
See, I got laid off a few months ago, and I decided to look for another line of work. Something fun. Easy. Thrilling. A job where I could wear what I want, and sleep late, and work for -- I don't know -- maybe fifteen, twenty minutes a night, something like that. Something that didn't require any special skills or experience, or even being sober. Yeah, a job where I could drink before, after, and even during the work. That's the kind of job I wanted.
So, I made a list. I wrote down all those points, and looked for jobs that fit the bill. And in the end, I came up with three. Standup comedy was second on the list. A distant second, I might add. My first choice was my dream job, something I've been wanting to do for my whole life. And for a precious, all-too-brief time, I lived the dream.
I was a professional sperm donor.
That's right. Cash for cum. Swag for swimmers. Cents for sperm. And at first, it was great. I'd go in to work around two, and by two thirty -- okay, two oh four -- I'd be done for the day, cash in hand. Um, my left hand, of course. Otherwise, the guy at the toll booth won't take it.
But it was cool. The money wasn't great, but I managed. You're allowed to donate five times in a week -- ten times, if your fake beard and mustache are convincing enough -- so I did okay. I got to be one of the regulars after a couple of weeks. All the guys would say, 'Hey, Charlie!' and wave when I walked in. Again, with the left hand. Always with the left hand. Can't interrupt the business, of course.
But, in the end, it didn't work out. After a few weeks of two-a-days, I just didn't have much left to give. My arm was sore, I had carpal tunnels... my little fella looked like the back of a steering wheel, with the permanent finger grooves carved in. I just couldn't do it any more.
I haven't whacked off so much since my dad caught me doing it on the toilet when I was twelve years old. He did the same thing he did when he caught me smoking -- I had to do it a hundred times in a row, so I'd be so sick of it, I would never want to do it again. Luckily, the lesson didn't stick that long. But still, it was fifteen years before I could get a handjob without screaming, 'Please, daddy, no more! I've had enough! I promise I'll never do it again!' You can imagine how well those dates went.
So, now I'm down to my second choice. I really hope this comedy thing works out, too. Next on the list of jobs is 'crack whore', and I just don't think I have the temperament for it. Or the figure. Can you see me in filthy shorts and a crusty old wife beater, pokin' at my arm tryin' to find that last uncollapsed vein?
Nah, me either. I'm not skinny enough for that. I'd go back to 'whackin' for dollars' before I go that route.
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Very nice, but can't you try to be a little more like Sinbad?