Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Here's a bit from last Christmas. I think I'll drag it out a couple of times this X-mas as well, and maybe try to convert it into a Frankie No Pants monologue at some point. A poem? This is just me thinkin' here.
Hide the Virgins! Hide the Virgins, everyone! Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Hide the Virgins!
Good evening. I’m Andrés du Bouchet. Thank you.
Many of you only know me as Andrés du Bouchet the brilliant comic slash actor that frequently graces the stage of this and other sporadically attended low-profile semi-professional comedy venues. But a few of you do know me as Andrés du Bouchet the incredibly wealthy businessman and wheeler and dealer, owner of such things as most of the artwork on permanent display in the Guggenheim, the New York Islanders hockey franchise, a sizeable chunk of the real estate in Tribeca, several patents for various aquarium filter pumps, and of course, the entire Duane Reade chain of pharmacies.
Tonight I stand before you in that second capacity. As Andrés du Bouchet the incredibly wealthy and charismatic businessman. Thank you.
First off, I’d like to thank Mike and Bricken for allowing me to take a few minutes of your time in this manner in exchange for my agreeing to appear in their little monkey sketch. Mike and Bricken, thank you, you won’t regret it, because I am here to make a very special announcement that is going to affect all of our lives.
As of 3pm yesterday, I officially bought out Santa’s majority share of Claus Industries. This includes all of the facilities, equipment, employees both regular-sized and wee-sized, patents, trademarks, rights, etc., and effectively puts me in charge of Christmas.
I know this is not coming at a very convenient time, but fear not, my transition team is at the North Pole right now working overtime to ensure that this holiday season goes off without a hitch, and let me tell you, we’ve got some very exciting changes in the works that I really think are going to jingle your bells. Ha ha.
First off, the biggest change is obviously that the holiday is no longer going to be called Christmas. Frankly, I’ve never liked the name. Too religious – the word Christ is right there staring you in the face, which really just makes you feel guilty and awkward since the holiday has evolved to the point where it has nothing to do with Christ or Christianity at all. So, the new name for December 25th is Economic Stimulus Day, and following logically, this changes the name of the 24th from Christmas Eve to Last Chance to Buy Stuff Before Economic Stimulus Day Day.
Secondly, there is no more Santa Claus. When I bought him out, I gave him a handsome severance package and wished him luck. If you are interested in keeping in touch with him, I can’t give you his home address, but I can tell you that he is the new manager of the Blimpie’s on 78th and Lex right here in town. Try the Kringel Club.
Who’s going to make the toys? Well, I’ve fired all the elves and replaced them with Malaysian children. What are the elves going to do for work? Some have found jobs as Jockeys. Some have gone to work for the Cirque du Soleil. But most of them were sent to a glue factory.
Who’s going to deliver presents? I am. Why me? Frankly, I’m a bit of a voyeur, and the thought of being inside everyone’s houses while they’re asleep really turns me on.
What name am I going to use? Andrés du Bouchet. Let’s face it. My name kicks ass. There’s no point in me calling myself Andres Claus or Santa Bouchet or Andres Santa du Claus Bouchet, when my name kicks so much fucking ass all by itself.
What am I going to wear? Some variation on what you see here. A nice pair of khakis. A sweater, a blazer. But I will keep the Santa hat. It makes me feel sexy.
Instead of Ho Ho Ho, my catchphrase will be Hide the Virgins! I want to perpetuate the image that I’m a rogue, a womanizer, not just a ladies man but a sexy, menacing scoundrel with a dark edge. He’ll bring you presents, but he also just might get lost in your house and find his way into your teenage daughters bedroom and give her some pre-prom night training! Hence:
Happy Economic Stimulus Day, here comes Andres du Bouchet, so Hide the Virgins!
Instead of eight reindeer, I’ll be using 400 chipmunks. Chipmunks have the explosive jittery energy needed to keep my sled going at the near light speeds required, and as they flame out I can replace them with chipmunks I pick up along the way. Which reminds me, I hope you all like venison jerky, because you’re all getting some in your stockings this year. As a special promotion, if you find the glowing venison jerky, you win a Microsoft X-Box game console. So keep your eyes open for that glowing jerky. That is the first time any human has ever uttered that sentence.
I won’t be landing on your roof. I use the driveway. If your driveway is full, I’ll land anyway, and you can clean the chipmunk poop off the top of your cars the next day. Not my problem.
No more chimneys. I pay too much for my clothes to get soot all over them. I’m walking in the front door. If it’s locked, I’m smashing in a window with your own patio furniture. Or, if you don’t have patio furniture, I’ll just use as many chipmunks as it takes to break a window.
Don’t leave me milk and cookies. I want scotch and pornography. More specifically, single malt scotch and Asian pornography.
Also, you might not all get what you want. I don’t keep lists. I don’t check them twice. I work from the gut. If I’m in your living room and it doesn’t feel like a Scrabble Deluxe type living room, I might give you something else, like a Salad Shooter or a DVD of the entire first season of a popular Japanese game show. It’s up to me. So be naughty, be nice, I don’t care. I work from the gut.
Now then, any successful holiday has marketing icons, and Economic Stimulus Day will be no exception. Gone are the traditional icons such as Santa, Rudolph and Frosty. I’d like to introduce the new symbols of the holidays – Piranha & Barfbag. You’re going to be seeing a lot of these two rascals over the next few days, and their debut will be in an animated special tonight on Fox. Piranha is a grumpy little fellow who just wants to kill and eat. Barfbag is his goofy sidekick that teaches him that the true meaning of Economic Stimulus Day is not to kill and eat, but to buy pre-killed stuff in a store and eat that. Piranha’s voice will be supplied by Steve Buscemi, and Barfbag’s by James Earl Jones.
Also, gone are the traditional catalog of holiday songs. Instead, we will be using classic 80s hair metal. No more jingle bells – instead, Pour Some Sugar On Me from Def Leppard. No more Deck the Halls, instead, C’mon Feel The Noise from Quiet Riot. And instead of the Twelve Days of Christmas, it’s I Wanna Rock from Twisted Sister.
Thank you for your time. Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Hide the Virgins!
On Squeaky, on Bucktooth, on Bushy, on Stripey, on Nutball, on Roadkill, on Fluffy, on Whiskers, on Flapjack, on Pippin, on Rabid Tony, on Regis, on Muffin, on Amber, on Shelby, on Jittery, on Twitchy, on Spiceboy, on Dipshit, on Frodo, on Halftail, on Threepaws, on One-eye, on Wingding, on Crapper, on Zippy, on Twinkee, on Spanky, on Patches, on Humper, on Scratchy, on Dizzy, on Hakim, on Buttlick, on Chewy, on Squaretoes, on Brownie, on Watkins, on Roadkill Two, on Clooney, on Softy, on Unibrow, on Poopy, on Crotchslapper, on Henry, on Fancy, on Dreyfus, on Squirt, on Pinky, on Hedwig, on Cupcake, on Red, on Aquaman, on Booby, on Munchkin, on Buster, on Larry, on Hermione, on Squiggy, on Van Helsing, on Turbo, on Fonzie, on Gaptooth, on Heimdall, on Fashionplate, on Fenris, on Sagan, on Rocco, on Dolphinsafe, on Shasta, on Chippy Chipperson, on Gringo, on Chapstick, on Troutface, on Beatlebum, on Joey, on Hyper Stan, on Furry, on Sweet Pea, on Hairy Hank, on Mullet, on Mario, on Kubrick, on Hootch, on Starskey, on Lemonfresh, on Peepee, on Tuccus, on Crispyfeet, on Cranky, on Noodles, on Arnie, on Quackpants, on Fuckface, on Incontinent Hal, on Douchebag, on Steve, on Count Chipula, on Clambake, on Fluffy Two, on Rabid Vinnie, on...
posted by Andres at 1:15 AM
Monday, November 18, 2002
This is a bit from a promo e-mail for one of my shows that I sent out earlier this year...
It is March 11th, 2002.
There is an astronaut application on my desk.
I received it in the mail after filling out a simple form on NASA's website.
Six months ago today, my choice to be a comedian suddenly seemed trivial, so I began researching alternative careers that might make me more useful to society. Astronaut seemed the most logical choice.
At nine pages long, it is surprisingly concise, and consists mostly of ordinary questions that you would find on any job application. The only page that really stands out is the one labeled "Summary of Aeronautical Experience", in which the applicant is required to provide a detailed record of the number of hours they have spent piloting and/or co-piloting various types of civilian and military aircraft. The application makes it clear that special consideration is given to those who have experience as test pilots.
I had to leave that page blank.
After reading further, I realized that my college degree was also unacceptable. NASA requires that you have at least a B.A. in a field related to engineering, biological or physical sciences. My degree is in English. At least that's what my diploma says. Please never ask me any actual questions about literature - my automatic response will probably be some flustered tirade about the wasted years of my life (1985-1997), followed by the sentence "Oh yeah, definitely Vonnegut, without a doubt." I will then eat.
After thoroughly reading the entire application, I realized that the only minimum requirement I did meet was that of height. In order to be an astronaut, you have to be between 58.5 and 76 inches tall. I'm approximately 72.5 inches tall. 73 if I've just finished using the lat pulldown machine at the gym. I found it surprising that you could be so short and still be an astronaut, but what I found even more surprising is that one of the genetic attributes that allows so many great NBA players to soar high above the rim, will forever prevent them from soaring high above the Earth. In a spaceship. If NASA ever establishes an elite team of basketball-playing astronauts (astrobasketnauts), it will have to be the smaller guards that lead the way. Mr. Iverson, set us down on that asteroid! Now bury the tre! BOOYAH!
But I digress.
I felt like I had hit a brick wall. I was having severe doubts about being a comedian, yet I was completely unfit to be an astronaut. I had run out of options. I fell into a deep depression, and abandoned my good friends Mr. Beer and Mr. Ice Cream for my arch-enemies Mr. Too Much Beer, Mr. Way Too Much Ice Cream, and Mr. What The Hell Are You Doing With That Suede Pillowcase Aw Man I Don't Need To See That For Crying Out Loud Andres No.
That was until yesterday, when I picked up the most recent issue of "Vicarious Astronaut Bi-Monthly", and came across an article by Buzz Aldrin entitled: "United We Laugh: Why Comedians Are This Country's Most Precious Non-Fuel or Military Related Resource". In compelling and sometimes even tender language, Buzz recounts how his career as an astronaut would not have been possible without some of the earlier Marx Brothers films. It's a very interesting article with some fascinating, serpentine leaps of logic, but in the end Buzz makes it crystal clear that the future of our space program is entirely dependent on the comedians of this great country. And on advances in Plasma and/or Fusion research.
Immediately, I felt better. Validated. More committed to making people laugh than ever before. Except for maybe when I was eleven years old, and just would not shut the fuck up until people either laughed or hit me.
I suggest all you comics out there pick up the article and read it yourselves. Though I doubt you will ever, ever find it.
Even so, the knowledge that there is a man named Buzz, and that he has set foot on the moon, is reason enough to go on. Right?
posted by Andres at 1:24 AM
If the last two posts look familiar, it's because I copied and pasted them from the old gianttuesday blog. Yup, I'm on one of my "posting old stuff" kicks again! Here's more from the files...
(here's an old Canned Family sketch I wrote - for a while I was the voice of Neil, but Jonny Fido eventually took over the part with his strange pseudo-Christopher Walken impression. Dan & Tina were usually Michael Reisman and Jen Sprague)
1-900-CALL-NEIL
Enter Dan. Dan excitedly picks up the phone and dials an eleven-digit number with deliberation and mounting enthusiasm. He puts the phone to his ear and looks very anticipatory.
NEIL VO
Oh, hello. This is Neil. One...two...three...four...five…
Dan looks more and more excited with each number.
Enter Tina.
Dan hangs up.
TINA
Hey Dan, what are you doing using my phone again?
DAN
I'm calling Neil.
TINA
Who?
DAN
Neil! (turns to audience) Everyone's calling Neil! Just dial 1-900-CALL-NEIL, and listen to Neil count. Whatever number he reaches before you hang up is the dollar amount you pay for the call!
TINA
That's it? (pause) You mean there's no catch?!
Tina sits and begins to dial.
DAN
That's right! It's as easy as throwing your money out the window!
TINA
That's pretty easy!
NEIL VO
Oh, hello, this is Neil. One...two...three...four...
Tina is listening with mounting excitement, she can barely contain herself. She slams the phone down and raises her hands in victory.
TINA
Four dollars! Wow! Calling Neil is fun!
Tina immediately begins to redial.
DAN
It's more fun than doing nothing, that's for sure! And calling Neil is different every time! Sometimes he counts slowly --
NEIL VO
(very slowly) Oh, hello, this is Neil. One...two...three...
DAN
Sometimes he counts fast...
NEIL VO
(quickly) fourfivesixseveneight
DAN
And sometimes he'll even be a little tricky!
NEIL VO
...19, 20…22…26…38, 45, 72 --
Tina slams down the phone.
TINA
(incredulous) Seventy-two dollars. That Neil is wily!
Dan starts to dial again.
DAN
He sure is! And he's smart too!
NEIL VO
Oh, hello, this is Neil. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181, 6765, 10946, 17711, 28657, 46368…
TINA
(she says this around 13, then Neil's voice drops into background as Dan talks, and comes back into foreground at some HUGE #)
He's doing a Fibonacci Series!!
DAN
He sure is! Call Neil! Just listen to him count, and whatever number he reaches before you hang up is the dollar amount you pay for the call! Just dial 1-900-CALL-NEIL, and remember to leave off the last L...because it simply isn't necessary.
Tina slams down phone.
TINA
Call now! (realizing) Oh my God the phone bill!
Tina walks off stage mumbling vitriol.
Dan looks around and picks the phone back up. He dials.
NEIL VO
Oh hello, this is Neil. One. Hundred. Mill—
Dan slams the phone down. Blackout.
posted by Andres at 1:07 AM
It seems like every banker I've ever worked for is very fond of disparaging the skills of other banker's assistants:
"Andres, listen, you're really going to have to keep after Joanna for that document, she's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Thanks pal."
"Hey buddy how was your weekend? Uh huh. Listen, I'd really appreciate it if you called Flaherty's office again about this Corptech meeting. I know his assistant said she'd call you back, but just between you and me, she tends to let things fall through the cracks alot. Thanks pal."
"Andres, can you please call Erika and just make sure that these are the right dates? I hate to bad mouth her, but she's pretty dim. Thanks buddy."
"Hey Dr. Dre! Ha. How was your show last night? Good crowd? Yeah I don't know how you do it man. Wow. Listen, I need a huge favor from you. Can you please call Peggy and just make sure she knows how dumb she is? She's pretty fucking stupid so you'll have to remind her a few times. Just be persistent. Thanks, Dre!"
posted by Andres at 12:34 AM
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself.
I am the ugliest pony. I can see by the expression on your face that you agree. Don't worry, my feelings aren't hurt. I'm used to it.
Let's move on.
Your disgust by my appearance is matched only by your amazement at my eloquence. This does not surprise me. A talking pony is, to say the least, highly unusual.
Plus, I am so very ugly.
So.
We seem to have reached a bit of an uncomfortable moment. Let us continue this discussion later.
posted by Andres at 12:33 AM
Thursday, November 14, 2002
The air is thick with the smothering smell of fiscal matter!
Hey folks, I'm here in the men's room on the trading floor of a large investment bank, and boy, let me tell you -
THE BANKERS BE SHITTIN'!
Ooh yeah. I'm talking about a dozen stalls, all occupied at once. Suit pants around 12 sets of ankles, the rustling of 12 newspapers, the periodic grunting of 12 investment professionals.
Random PLOPS of various pitches!
Stall #4 - He's got a one o'clock with Bayerisch Vandersbank regarding a hundred million dollar placement. But right now, he's a dangler wrangler! One false move and there could be an unwieldy amount of residue. Nothing adds awkward tension to an important meeting like the subtle, lingering scent of a mis-wipe. "Hang" in there, champ!
Stall #11 - How ironic! You're an ass to your secretary, and now you're a secretary to your ass! It looks like you're transcribing message after message onto those little slips of one-ply. Gee, they sure are hard to read. Oh yeah, that's because it was just a metaphor! You've got the runs!
Stall #7 - Hi, I'm Carl H. Hoynes III, from Structured Finance. I pushed hard to finish the O'Reardon contract before deadline. I pushed hard to get my son into Princeton. And I'm pushing hard now.
posted by Andres at 1:59 PM
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
At the Morgan Stanley cafeteria, for only $3, you can get an egg salad sandwich with a side of chips and a pickle. Oh God my stomach hurts.
Egg Salad : Sandwich Filling
White Dwarf : Star
WHO'S WITH ME!?
As soon as it becomes financially feasible, I'm going to buy a penthouse apartment and a high-powered telescope. I know what you're thinking. But I'm also going to use the telescope for astronomical purposes. I've always been intrigued by (booming voice) OUTER SPACE, and whenever I read an astronomy-related article in The New York Times science section, or Discover, or Omni (remember Omni? Sexy sci-fi!), I just get filled with awe and wonder and giddy antici
(any Rocky Horror fans in the house?)
pation. Especially when the article has anything to do with the search for extraterrestrial life. Because the greatest, most momentous scientific discoveries throughout human history will all be dwarfed by the discovery of extraterrestrial life. And I'm not even talking about little green men emerging from their gleaming saucer on the White House lawn and demanding an audience with Liberace (they will be highly misinformed aliens). I'm talking about something as simple as a speck of microscopic organic matter, or even a fossilized bit of organic matter. Basically, if it's organic and it's not from Earth, it's historically huge news. It might seem like a far-fetched notion straight out of a science fiction novel, but the fact is that as we learn more and more about life on Earth, the existence of life elsewhere in the universe seems more plausible. Why? Because here on Earth, we continue to find life in the unlikeliest places, thriving under the most seemingly hostile natural conditions.
Miles below the ocean's surface, in utter darkness, perched along thermal vents that belch poisonous chemicals into the water, scientists have discovered (this was years ago) what look like giant, living tubes of lipstick. They are tubeworms. Anchored to the ocean bottom at one end, and feeding on tiny bits of microscopic life with its tulip-shaped head at the other, the tubeworm is a creature that we wouldn't have thought possible under our old assumptions about the pre-existing conditions necessary for supporting life. Permanently steeped in a hot, roiling, poisonous broth, far from any sunlight, denied oxygen and trapped beneath the enormous, crushing pressure of miles of ocean, the tubeworm thrives in an environment that would mean certain death for practically every other living thing on this planet.
I would like to formally nominate the tubeworm as posterworm for our search for extraterrestrial life. Its very existence vastly broadens the list of places where we can hope to find life. No longer is some Earth-sized planet with an oxygen-rich atmosphere orbiting a Sun-like star within a very narrow range of acceptable distances necessarily required. Now, there are even celestial bodies within our very own solar system where the presence of life is conceivable. Like Europa. One of Jupiter's many moons, Europa has long been known to be very volcanically active, and much more recently, is known for having a several-mile thick crust of ice on its surface. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Wow, Andres stopped trying to be even remotely amusing several paragraphs ago!" But you're also thinking, "WOW! If Europa is a volcanically active body with an ice crust, then isn't it possible, just POSSIBLE, that beneath those many miles of ice, closer to the heat-generating volcanic interior of the moon, there could be, maybe, JUST MAYBE...an ocean of liquid water? With thermal vents?
Meet the tubeworms' alien cousin. You never know.
posted by Andres at 1:27 PM
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
GO
GO
GO
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
$6.00 LEFT
GO
INSUFFICIENT FARE
GO
GO
$15.00 LEFT
$10.50 LEFT
GO
INSUFFICIENT FARE
$4.50 LEFT
GO
GO
$9.00 LEFT
GO
GO
GO
$1.50 LEFT
GO
SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
OKAY YOU'RE EITHER A TOURIST, REALLY OLD, OR JUST PLAIN STUSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
HEY STOP FOR A SECPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
MAKE SURE THE PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
GODDAMMITSTOP AND LET MESWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
MAKESURETHESTRIPEISDOWNANDTOTHELEFTYOUFUCPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDISWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
I BET YOU'RE NOT EVEN USING A METROCPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
IT'S A CREDIT CARD OR A SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
DUANE READE CLUB CARD OR SOME SHIPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
MORON PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
MORONMORONMORONSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
YOU'RE A "METRO-TARD" IS WHAT YOU ARPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
HEYBUDDYYOURKINKOSCOPYCARDWON'TGETYOUONTHESUBWSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
YOU'RE AN ASSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
SEE WHAT I DID THERE PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
I CALLED YOU AN ASSWIPE SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE
BY CLEVERLY INCORPORAPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
SIGH PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN
AREYOUEVENFUCKINGPAYINGATTENGO
IT'S ABOUT FU$7.50 LEFT
WHEW INSUFFICIENT FARE
GO
GO
GO
posted by Andres at 10:38 AM
My roommate often mentions how sexy she finds both firemen and UPS men. That got me thinking.
Why not combine the two professions?
It might go something.
Like this.
But I doubt it.
WOMAN
HELP! My baby's in there!
UPFDS MAN
Don't worry, Ma'am, we'll get your baby. But first, sign right here.
WOMAN
What's this? J. Crew! This must be from my sister, she told me she was going to send me something for my upcoming ski trip. I hope it's a rollneck.
UPFDS MAN
Now to save that baby of yours!
NEIGHBOR
Wait. Anything for 2H?
UPFDS MAN
Hmm. Let me check the truck. Be right back.
UPFDS man leaves.
NEIGHBOR
Sorry about that.
WOMAN
That's okay. (wagging finger disapprovingly) But if anything happens to my baby...
NEIGHBOR
(shrugs bashfully)
UPFDS Man returns with another package.
UPFDS MAN
Would you look at that! Here ya go. Sign right here please.
NEIGHBOR
It's about time! I've been waiting for this package for months! What was the hold up?
UPFDS MAN
Well, you haven't had a fire until now, have you?
NEIGHBOR
Good point.
UPFDS MAN
(winking) Now then, if you'll excuse me, I've got an even more important package to pick up!
He barrels up the stairs into the heart of the blaze.
WOMAN
He means my baby!
NEIGHBOR
Those guys are so sexy. I'd let him "save" my "baby" from my "burning building" anyday! (making O with his left thumb and index finger and penetrating it repeatedly with his right index finger)
WOMAN
Oh, you silly homo!
NEIGHBOR
(he glares at her, his feelings obviously hurt - we have witnessed the end of a friendship)
UPFDS Man emerges from the smoke-filled stairwell carrying a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. He looks distraught.
UPFDS MAN
I'm so sorry. So sorry.
He unwraps bundle to reveal a charred, misshapen lump.
WOMAN
Oh no! My baby! My baby! Oh no my baby my baby (she begins to weep uncontrollably - she grabs the lump and cradles it, collapsing to the ground weeping.)
UPFDS MAN
I'm so sorry.
WOMAN
Mybabymybabymybabymy - wait a second. This is my iMac.
UPFDS MAN
Gotcha!
WOMAN
So my baby's okay?
UPFDS MAN
I really have no idea. (turns away from woman and approaches camera, which tracks him out of the building and out onto the street) Hi. When UPS and the Fire Dept. were forcibly merged by the 'New York State Chamber Of It Might Go Something Like This', many of us were thrown into situations that we were woefully unprepared for. I worked for UPS for 12 years before the merger, specializing in package tracking in rural areas.* Frankly, I'm terrified of fire, and utterly disoriented by even a minimal amount of smoke. In fact, if you were to check my cute brown shorts right now, you'd find that I've just delivered a "very special package" of my own, due to my intense terror and confusion. Hey, it even matches my shorts. But seriously. Merging UPS and the Fire Dept. was an awful, awful idea. Yes, we are the sexiest single workforce in history, but problems such as this PDBS** are extremely common. Just the other day a former fireman axed down a door just to deliver a Crate & Barrel cheese and country sausage variety box. Accidentally killing a baby in the process. Please write your local Congresspimp (a much more natural merger) and urge them to separate UPS and the Fire Dept. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a calendar to shoot.
Building collapses in the background.
THE END
*The phrase "in a rural area" used with permission from Eddie Pepitone. Not really.
**Probably Dead Baby Situation
posted by Andres at 9:44 AM
Monday, November 11, 2002
NO IDEAS TODAY. Move along please.
posted by Andres at 2:56 PM
Friday, November 08, 2002
Let's get something straight.
I know how fucking cool my name is. Quick recap!
Andres Mario du Bouchet
BOOM. 'Nuff said. Cool spankin' shityeah name.
However, it's a name that is not without baggage. For instance, one might think that I have some connection to one of the three countries represented in my name. France. Spain. Italy. True, you would find French, Spanish and Italian people in my lineage if you investigated my family tree, but out on my little leaf, you'd just find this All-American knucklehead from New Jersey. Well, born in Brooklyn and raised in Jersey. And now living in Manhattan. There is a level of cultural sophistication implied by my name that my actual personality is very, very ill-equipped to support.
I don't speak French. I failed it in college, along with several other classes.
I know only minimal Spanish: Hay muchas cosas interesantes en una paella!
My knowledge of Italian is limited to a small number of espresso-related terms, and to the few brief, misogynistic snippets of dialog I've culled from watching too many movies starring Rocco Siffredi, which alludes to a rather frowned-upon preoccupation of mine.
It is a more nuanced hobby than you'd think.
I am woefully unversed (inversed? nonversed?) in the literatures and histories of my European ancestral homes. I'm pretty sure that at some point those countries were very important in the grand scheme of things, though now they are basically vacation spots and sources of culinary inspiration. I have been to Italy and Spain, but not to France.
Italy is shaped like a boot!
At times I feel burdened by my name, and I always find myself cringing when someone quizzes me about my background. For not only do I not identify with any of the cultures my name reflects, I am also ignorant of my own family history. My parents were both born in Brooklyn. My grandparents? Already, my knowledge is hazy. Or maybe just lazy. I'm pretty sure I've been told this information several times, but it never seems to sink in. Everything I know about my great-grandparents and beyond can be summed-up with this one line that I used to use to (try to) impress women during shouted bar conversations:
"MY GREAT GRANDMOTHER WAS AN OPERA SINGER!"
I also like to say "My grandfather was a New York City police captain." Those are the two facts I cling to when I discuss my family history, because a) they are interesting, b) I am almost positive they are both true, and c) I can't freakin' remember anything else. Ask me to provide more in-depth information, however, and I flounder almost instantly. It is a rather hollow sensation to know so little about one's own family history, and it is extremely frustrating to know that had I paid more attention to things I'm positive my relatives have already told me, I wouldn't be so ignorant about my roots.
Spain has lots of olive trees!
Basically, it's my own fault. I was a space cadet as a child, an ADHD narcissist nutball as a young man, and now I'm a busy, self-absorbed comedian in NYC. Maybe the window of opportunity to attain enlightenment has passed. It seems that whenever I prompt my Aunt or Grandmother or Parents for family information as part of some crusade for knowledge that I've initiated for the umpteenth time, I forget what they tell me almost as soon as I hear it. Odd. Maybe I'm just being half-hearted and insincere about my so-called desire to know more about my family? Maybe I like the notion that I have such a provocative name but such a simple, American, middle class background. Brooklyn. Jersey. NYC. A good friend of mine teases me that Andres du Bouchet is just a stage name, and that my real name is Andy Dabutcher. I was born with a name that a much more sophisticated, suave, worldly and wealthy man than I deserves.Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea there is a man drinking champagne and eating caviar in the casino located on his yacht, a beautiful woman on each arm. He turns to the nearest waiter and says "More of everything for everyone!"
Coupled with a crisp salute, the reply swiftly comes - "Right away, Mr. Spurtbag!"
He should have my name. I should be Mr. Spurtbag.
But you know what? I love my name. As unsuccessful and unmannered as I am, the name almost forces me to carry myself with just a tad more dignity than I otherwise would. It encourages me to be a bit more well-spoken. A smidgen more dapper. The name itself is something to live up to, in a way. Without it, I could very well be the comic book guy on the Simpsons by now. So I guess it's a double-edged sword.
In France they eat snails!
Let's not even get into my Mom's side of the family.
Polish and Yugoslavian.
I am a mutt.
posted by Andres at 2:47 PM
Thursday, November 07, 2002
The following is a rough draft for a submission to Jest's December issue. Remember the disclaimer at the end of the most recent warrior piece? Ditto here.
DECK THE HALL OF ARCTIC LIFE
By Gerald The Former Walrus
I miss my family. ‘Tis the season, after all. Every year during the holidays, that old pang of grief comes back, and the fiberglass-stuffed cavity where my heart used to be aches just as it did on that surreal day nearly a century ago, when I first found myself inside this plexiglass diorama. Deceased but aware. Odd. With time I have become accustomed to this state, and sometimes I even forget how unusual my circumstances are, but the holidays never fail to remind me. My real family, my biological family, my wife, my pups. They are dust. Adrift on the winds of sadness.
Gotcha! Sorry about that, folks. My pal, Louis Who Used To Be A Narwhal, dared me to start this piece out on a real downer note. Anyway, Happy Holidays, and greetings from the Hall of Arctic Life in New York City’s very own Museum of Natural History! Louis and I are conducting a little clandestine mission here - we’ve hacked into the computer in the Penguin Multimedia Kiosk, and as I painstakingly tap this out letter-by-letter with my tusks, Louis is keeping watch for any security personnel that might come around. If we think we’re about to be spotted, our plan is to begin wrestling and then freeze in place. Louis has mounted a small plaque on the wall right above us to aid in the deception, which reads:
ARCTIC ALTERCATION! HERE WE SEE A TYPICAL ENCOUNTER BETWEEN A WALRUS AND A NARWHAL, AS THEY VIE FOR SUPREMACY OF THE FRIGID ARCTIC WATERS THAT THEY BOTH PROWL! HERE THEY DO BATTLE AS THEY WOULD IN THE WILD, ARMED WITH NOTHING BUT THEIR TEETH, TUSKS, AND NOVELTY PLASTIC PIRATE SWORDS. IN THIS ENCOUNTER, THE TWO SEA MAMMAL COMBATANTS ARE TRYING TO KNOCK 10-GALLON COWBOY HATS OFF OF EACH OTHER’S HEADS!
I know, I know. It’s quite a caper! Okay, so maybe the left over Halloween accessories are a bit much. Still, I doubt the security guards would even notice that we’re not in our dioramas, much less wearing cowboy hats. They’d probably just assume it was part of the Museum's approach to sprucing up our Hall this Holiday season. After all, they've already decorated the malfunctioning water fountain as a Sperm Whale in a Santa hat. What do I mean by "malfunctioning?" Well, if you press very hard on the lever, you will get a dribble of water. However, if you press very, very hard, you will get a violent nose flushing. There is no middle ground. It’s truly hilarious to watch, especially when it happens to a tourist. They're skittish enough about visiting big, bad NYC, but when a seemingly normal water fountain blasts them in the face, I honestly think that for a panicky split-second they suspect terrorism. Speaking of which, yesterday some kid's backpack got the royal treatment. I watched the whole thing unfold. He put it down next to the Arctic Fox display to get out a little plastic bag of trail-mix. Then, he became distracted by the diagram painted on the floor ("Hi! I'm a Pika, better known as an Arctic Mountain Hamster! Follow my tiny footprints as I search for moss and lichen buried beneath the snow!") and followed it down the corridor towards the Kid's Fun Shop (those crafty Museum bastards!). Anyhow, no more than two minutes passed before his unattended backpack was surrounded by security guards. As one guard carefully inched towards the pack with a long pair of what I guess you would call "prodding tongs", the other guards screamed into their walkie-talkies and cell phones:
"We need a level two detonation bag!"
"We're going to set up a foam perimeter!"
"The backpack has not made any demands!"
"There's some strange writing on the backpack! Po-ke-mon! Check it against our database!"
"I'm not sure if I hear ticking or not, we're all yelling!"
"We're going to douse it with water from the Sperm Whale Santa! What? It's a water fountain. Yes. Well, it's broken so it can shoot really far. Oh yeah baby, you KNOW I''ve got the same problem. Ah yeah. Tonight? Yeah sure, why not. 8pm. Okay, I'll bring some wine. Are you kidding me? The satin one, definitely. You know what, I should probably go. Okay sexy. No, you are. No, you are! Alright. You first. Oh, okay, we'll hang up at the same time. Ready? Onetwothreenow. You're still there, aren't you? HA! No, you first!"
By the time it was all over, the backpack had been soaked with water, doused in foam, and torn apart. Par for the course these days. Everyone is so tense. I suppose it's somewhat justified, but the sparsely visited, dark and dusty Arctic Life wing of the Museum of Natural History seems an unlikely target. "First we shall strike their economic and military centers! Then, we shall deprive them of their finest taxidermy!" Not likely.
So, the holidays are indeed here, and with the increase in visitors, the decorations, the overall good will in the air, I start to genuinely miss my family. Don't get me wrong. My fellow denizens here in the Museum are practically family. After all, we've been together for decades. Myself, Louis Who Used To Be A Narwhal, Gladys The Ex-Blue Whale, Henry Who Was Until Recently An Arctic Fox, Pauly Who Is Still An Actual Cockroach (our link to the outside world!), and Toby Who Thinks He Is Batman (the once-a-month janitor from the "You Can Do It Foundation") are closer to me than my real family ever was. But all of us miss our biological families.With the exception of Pauly, who along with his entire brood, lives inside Henry's hollowed-out abdominal cavity. And Toby, who thinks his mop is Alfred. The last time most of us saw our real famiilies was right before we were each shot and bagged for the purposes of display. This was long before the days of naturalists tranquilizing their subjects with a dart, weighing and tagging them, and then releasing them back into the wild. Nope. At the turn of the century, the prefered method of studying wildlife was to shoot it, stuff it, and stick it behind glass. From that point, the scientists could observe our behavior at their leisure: "The walrus has remained perfectly still now for several days. I believe we need to rethink our methodology. Also, I'm not so sure that plumber is installing the water fountain correctly."
I've heard that humans by and large spend the holidays with their families, but don't necessarily look forward to or enjoy the experience. It doesn't surprise me. A walrus family gathering would consist of nothing more than grunting, nuzzling, and eating. From what I gather, a human family gathering would include all three of those elements PLUS a wide range of psychological warfare elements. Guilt. Resentment. Passive aggressiveness. And so forth. I guess when you're a higher order of intelligence, you end up devoting a good part of your brain to figuring out why you are the way you are, how you got that way, and how best to exact your revenge on those you blame for making you that way. Make sense? One time I witnessed an exchange between a mother and her child as they stared at me. It provided a telling glimpse into the ways that people mold each other's personaliities:
CHILD - Mommy, what's that?
MOM - I think it's a seal.
CHILD - What does it eat?
MOM - It eats little boys who ask too many questions.
CHILD - Waaaah!
MOM - Shut it!
CHILD - I shall now grow up to mistreat women.
Incidentally, all the mother had to do was read my informative, wall-mounted plaque. A seal? Please. That's like mistaking Rosanne Barr for Yeardley Smith. Or mistaking Yeardley Smith for a tiny, ugly, annoying thing that produces a horrific, high pitched, squeaking noise. Am I right or am I right? The point is, any family gathering has got to feel like you're in some sense meeting your makers. During a time of year when you're supposed to be wallowing in good cheer, looking back on the past year and looking forward to the next, you humans are glaring at each other across the dining room table wondering why your relatives blah blah blah blah blah ugh. I am tired of this thing. I can barely see what I'm writing. The computer screen is about fifteen fucking feet away from the keyboard, and the chair I'm sitting in is an utter ergonomic catastrophe. Plus, every keystroke is interrupted by a phonecall from some noodlehead who urgently needs to speak to some jerkoff about some stupid crappy crap. This article is an aimless load of monkey manure, and temping can put on a French Maid outfit and suck my
Okay. I think it's time for a little breaky-wakey. I'm going to post this unfinished mess and move on for now.
posted by Andres at 12:37 AM
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
This thing is becoming more and more like a workbook for me. Don't you feel lucky to be seeing material in its primordial state? BEFORE IT'S ANY GOOD?!?!?!
Don't sweat it, I will still post items of a more polished nature now and then.
Hey, I went over all of this already.
Okay, here's a contest. Please come up with a definition for THIS brand-new emoticon:
:::_><%#---7
For example, one potential guess might be:
"Half A Carton Of Eggs On One Stilt Preparing To Leap From One Rooftop To Another Rooftop On Which Is Standing A Cross-Eyed, Devil-Tailed Anus Monster."
I'm not sure what "emotion" that's supposed to convey, exactly. Maybe "I'm feeling fragile, but still willing to take some major risks!"
Okay, next up is the long-delayed walrus piece...
posted by Andres at 3:45 PM
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
ROUGH ROUGH (rough!) DRAFT - some new stuff for General Ragnarok to say!
[Oh yeah, I should also mention that the last child-killing piece and the piece with the vampire meeting minutes were both pieces for Murray Peterson which I performed in a sort-of mutated combined form on 10/31 and 11/1 at the Gershwin. They went okay - the typical audience reaction of many blank stares with a handful of people really digging it. Anyhow, here's some new potential stuff for the General, which I will try in some form or another this Saturday at The Boudoir Bar - any good stuff in here?]
General Ragnarok raises his finger to his mouth. The revelry in his camp comes to a sudden hault.
Shhhh. Listen. (taking in the surroundings, a bit wild-eyed with enthusiasm)
The night is not so still as we would think. This land prospers. There. The plaintive call of a wolf for his mistress. Her eager response. Tonight they rendezvous! The hoot of an owl, gliding overhead. A cricket is playing its God-given fiddle. A badger is excavating a new burrow. You can practically hear him humming a tune as he scrapes the dirt away. A multitude of moths flutter and make a soft sound like a breath. They flit and dodge the feisty brown bat. A falcon. Up there, high in that elm. A falcon is snoring. Some frogs! Yes, I do believe some frogs are holding a belly flop contest in the pond by our encampment! The night is alive and well, my friends. We are in good company here in this valley. Far from battle. Far from the black fields where so many of our brave brothers now lie. War has not yet cast its shadow over this land.
And for that we should be proud. For centuries, many a brave warrior has fought in these legions. Fought to keep the hand of War from gripping these lands. Evil has had its way with The World, but not here. Not in this valley, and not anywhere else in our fine Kingdom. And we have done our part! Have we not?! I said HAVE WE NOT DONE OUR PART?!
(he listens to something in the distance)
Do you hear that? The wolf says "yes you have."
When the Evil Warlord of the Blasted Lands tried to invade, did we not march to meet his vast army and turn it back?
When the snarling Tiger Men swarmed down from the Plateau of Horvath, did we not carpet our floors with their hides?
When the Moosemen of the North Woods asked for our assistance in defending their homes from the Moosemen of the South Woods, and vice versa, did we not bring both tribes of Moosemen together in a series of calm, deliberate negotiations that resulted in one, unfiied tribe of Moosemen?
And when the unified tribe of Moosemen attacked our kingdom, did we not make coatracks from their antlers?
YES WE DID! We have served this kingdom well. This peaceful valley where we camp tonight is proof.
Yes, war has not yet found its way to this valley.
But soon...soon it very well may.
My fearless warriors. The Dark Wizard has returned. I know this comes as a major shock to all of you. None of you are more perturbed than I, believe me. I personally cast him into the Pit Of No Return at the conclusion of our great battle with his minions many seasons ago.The fact that he has returned from the Pit Of No Return has really forced me to reexamine my faith in "labels". My wife always told me I took things at face value too much, I never heeded her warnings. I mean, an ill-advised purchase for the home is one thing - I'll never live down the Stain Bane brand carpet I bought - "It magically repels all stains!" Yeah, right.400 gold pieces wasted. Anyway, I'm straying off topic here. The point is, our scouts have reported that he has returned to his Fortress of Desolation on the slopes of Bleak Mountain. And he appears to be using his sorcery to breed strange and terrifying creatures to serve him.
Already, we are hearing of...encounters. In some of the fringe farming communities. Encounters with creatures the likes of which these lands have not seen since an Age too ancient to remember. They are the monsters of our children's nightmares . Beasts of myth. Things that we have seen only as illustrations in books. Not in the flesh. What kinds of creatures? Imagine a horse. What? Well you've got to let me finish! Of course a horse isn't scary! Now, imagine this horse has the hide of a lizard, and a long mouth filled with razor sharp teeth! And instead of long, graceful legs, this horse has short, stubby legs that splay outward in a sideways manner. And its tail is also thick, long, and whips from side to side as it scuttles along! A terrible desecration! A monster! What? Hmmm. Now that you mention, it does sound like an alligator. Alright, that's the last time we trust a report from Sir Skittish of the Swamplands. He tends to overreact to stuff. But STILL, other reports have come in. Dogs with two heads! Massive club-wielding trolls made from pure granite! Fire-breathing half-porcupine half-eagle monstrosities! A one-eyed midget with what one of the scouts described as...let me consult my scroll here..."fecal telepathy." Hmm. Not sure what that means. I wonder if...nah. I mean, that would be unsettling and messy, but scary? Hmm. I've lost my train of thought again. Ah yes. EVIL HAS RETURNED!
We must march to Bleak Mountain and storm the Dark Wizard's Fortress of Desolation, and rid the World of him once and for all!
(Some in the kingdom argue against this. They claim that the Dark Wizard has done nothing to deserve our wrath, other than dabble in sorcery in order to produce the occasional monster or demon that then wanders the farm country committing a murder here or there. They say we have no proof that he has evil designs on our kingdom, that he intends to unleash something far more powerful upon us as soon as he is ready. Well, the King does not wish to wait for proof. He has ordered me to strike first.- a little too awkward of an attempt to parallel today's headlines maybe?)
What will we encounter when we approach Bleak Mountain and begin our assault?
Maybe nothing. Maybe just the rag-tag remains of the army we obliterated the last time we fought him, along with the odd abomination or two. Maybe we will win in a rout!
Or.
Maybe we will come face to face with some unspeakable horror. A fifty-foot tall demon of pure obsidian, with the strength of a mountain, its very skin a mirror of our darkest fears and a portal into Hell itself! To stare at it is to lose your soul moments before his giant fist pulverizes your body, leaving nothing but a smudge on the landscape as a tortured scream echoes on the wind. For example. I'm speculating.
Or.
Maybe the Wizard is nothing but a shadow of his former self! A weak old man. His journey back from the Pit Of No Return has sapped him of his strength, and now he can barely defend himself! We shall easily dismantle his workshops of black magic and cast him once more into a more effective Pit - perhaps we can try that Pit Of Maximum No Return I've heard so much about!
Or.
Perhaps he has conjured some new weapon of ultimate power?
A sceptre that, when pointed at the General of an army, instantly turns all of his soldiers into newts, even while the General himself experiences a sensation twice as pleasurable as any orgasm and is teleported to safety far away? Just kidding! More likely -
A wand that shoots massive spheres of flame that incinerate all in their path!
OR
A Gauntlet of Hurricane Power, which allows him to control the forces of nature itself, sweeping us up in an unstoppable wind and depositing us beyond the edges of the known World, perhaps in some strange land where men of our kind are used by Giants as bait on the end of long, scythe-like fishing hooks! And they're extremely talented at skewering us onto the hooks while making sure we stay alive. And the fish of this land enjoy nibbling, but not taking big bites! And the water is breathable! And these Giant fishermen are extremely patient! HOW AWFUL!
OR
A catapult that can fling enormous, stinky melons!
(pause)
OF DOOM!
I know they sound really silly. But The Enormous Stinky Melons Of Doom are a fabled weapon. Perhaps The Dark Wizard has found them, and has now acquired flinging technology. In the form of a catapult. Alright, I've really lost steam here. The point is, my brave warriors, who knows what we shall encounter tomorrow?
And we must be brave in the face of these new adversaries. Spawned though they are by an evil force powerful beyond our understanding, we must march forth and fight this possibly weak but quite possibly unstoppable enemy!
Rest up, for tomorrow we ride!
Did I mention this was a rough draft? More of a first stab at a rough draft. Let's call it an "Incomplete Rough Draft Of Notes For A Pre-Rough First Rough Stab At A Rough Outline Draft." (whimsical emoticon here)
posted by Andres at 11:26 AM
Monday, November 04, 2002
Periodically I just like to point out that this Blog is not intended as a showcase for polished, finished material per se (though some of the pieces I post on here are pretty much transcripts of what I consider to be polished bits that I've already performed on stage), but rather as a workshoppy environment where I can um...workshop things through writing them down. My motto for this blog is "less polished than what you'd see me do on stage, but more coherent than the white noise in my brain!" Also, it affords me the opportunity to write things that would never be performed on stage. Like this post. I mean, COULD YOU IMAGINE?!?! How hilarious would it be if THIS was an entire bit, word for word, that I chose to do on stage? Man. I bet I wouldn't get a single laugh. That's how hilarious it would be.
posted by Andres at 10:57 AM
WHAT THE?!?! Oh my, you people scared the crap out of me! A surprise party! This was all you, wasn't it Patty? Oh hell, I love you, sweetie. Gosh. That would explain the...can I tell you folks what just happened? This crazy broad. Okay, Patty and I were walking down Main Street, looking for a light dinner because we were just going to spend my birthday together at home, all cozy and quiet. Right! Anyway, we're walking by this McDonald's, and we see this little five year old boy frolicking about in the FunZone, or whatever you call that little room with all the little plastic balls. You know, it's a room full of balls that the kids can play in. Anyway, he looks pretty tasty, and his parents are nowhere to be seen, so I go in there and I say "hey kid." He looks up at me and says "who are you?" Now I'm a quick thinker, and I take into account where I am, so I say "I'm Mayor McCheese." The kid stares at me for a second and then says "You're not Mayor Mc-"
And that's when I grabbed him.
I stuck him under my arm and I started running! Patty right along side of me, we're running down the street, and the kid is screaming his head offf: "You're not Mayor McCheese, Mommy, Daddy, help!" His folks finally noticed and started chasing after us, but you know no human can catch us in a foot race.
So we get back to the crypt, and Patty's all "Wait right here honey, I want to go inside and wrap your gift before you come in." I'm thinking alright, sure, but this little kid is screaming his head off, causing quite a ruccus, and I don't want the cops to hear us or his parents to stumble on this cemetary. The last thing we need is to have to "turn" a whole mess of people. Anyway, I hear police sirens in the distance and I pound on the door and yell "Patty, you gotta let me in now!" And she's like "Just one more second, honey!" I can't believe it! She hears the kid screaming, she knows we can't risk getting caught! BUT SHE MAKES ME WAIT! By Satan's Cock, I was in a mood. So I'm standing out there, feeling all weird because this kid won't stop screaming, the cops are closing in, my wife won't let me in my own vault, so I had no choice, right?
I bury my teeth into the kid's neck and I start sucking!
And the kid's screaming and I'm sucking, and the kid's kicking and I'm sucking, and I'm sucking and sucking and sucking...and the kid won't shut up! I'm thinking, where the heck is this kid getting all this extra "spunk", right? What, does he have two hearts or something, how come he hasn't fainted yet? Plus, I don't know about you, but my allergies have been acting up lately due to the changing seasons, and my head has been all stuffy. I can't breathe through my nose at all, I gotta breathe through my mouth. But my mouth is buried in this kid's neck! Gosh. Plus, I was getting one of those milkshake-type headaches.
So, long story short I snapped the kid's neck and threw him in the bushes. THEN, wouldn't ya know it, Patty opens the door and says "okay, honey, your present's ready!" And I'm like "It's about time little mis slowpoke! By the way, I ate our dinner all by myself, so it's squirrels and possums for you tonight!" And I come in here, ready to read her the riot act, and boom. You people. A surprise party. Wow, I am touched. This is the most wonderful surprise. I love you, Patty. To think, just 3 years ago this wonderful woman ripped open my throat in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and I haven't seen the light of day since. Who would have thought that I'd go from being the owner and operator of a successful chain of tire realignment centers among the living to being the owner and operator of a successful chain of tire realignment centers among the undead? I"m just glad that vampires need cars. If all that stuff about being able to turn into mist and bats and stuff were true, I'd have to deal with a major career change at 35! Not to mention the whole vampire thing. Okay folks, dawn is in 8 hours, so let's party!
Mmm. Good cake. ARGH! Hey, who put garlic in this? Yeah., good one, you bozos, okay,put a stake in it already. Give me something to wash this down with! Thanks.
AAAUUUGGH! HOLY WATER?!?! You guys!
(freeze on everyone laughing)
posted by Andres at 10:19 AM
Sunday, November 03, 2002
So, for an upcoming bit I'm doing with another performer, I've had to come up with some woman-bashing jokes. I've tried to make them pretty weird, but they are very harsh. And weird. Here are a few of the potential candidates:
(I should mention that these are for Francisco to say, after he discloses his messy history of mutliple divorces)
Q: Why do women bleed from their vaginas once a month?
A: Because they are full of razor-sharp lies!
Knock knock.
Who's there?
With.
With who?
None of your business, you gossip-mongering whore!
Q: Why is a steak better than a woman?
A: Because a steak doesn't violently tap you on the head shouting directions while you are eating it!*
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Money-grubbing.
Money-grubbing who?
Money-grubbing whooores! (with a drawn out oo sound)
A woman is like a chocolate sampler.
You wish the box had a map!*
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Boo.
Boo who?
Oh great! What did I say to "upset you" this time, you manipulative, emotionally blackmailing whore!?
*Is it clear enough that these two jokes are about cunnilingus? Not sure if I spelled that right.
posted by Andres at 3:29 AM
Friday, November 01, 2002
Hi. Herb Farber here again, from the world famous Farber's Fudgeworks in Herdleberg, New Hampshire. Rather than take this time to address the already very well-publicized spate of civil suits concerning our last product, "The Happy Accident Pill"*, I thought I'd look ahead to brighter days and give you a "taste" of what's to come from Farber's down the road. Our R&D department has been hard at work during the last year, and I can honestly say that you will be treated to a bevy of delicious, non-lawsuit inducing products during the upcoming 2003 fudge season. But first, we've got something brand new for November/December 2002.
Do you love The Holidays?
Is your enjoyment of this wondrous time of year severely hampered by a complete inability to tolerate your family? Based on long-standing, deep-seated, unresolvable mutual resentment and yes, even hatred?
And does your family love rich, delicious, premium quality fudge?
Well, then, we have got the perfect holiday gift for them! We call it The Fudge Doppleganger!
What is The Fudge Doppleganger? Simple. It's a piece of fudge that looks exactly like you!
It's got your eyes! Your hair! Your nose! Your lips! And walnuts!
Simply submit a recent, clear photo along with your measurements and credit card information, and the family member or unwanted friend of your choice will receive a lifesized fudge replica of YOU, in lieu of your actual attendance to their family gathering or Holiday party!
They will be angry at first. But wait until they taste that delicious, premium quality fudge!
UNCLE GARY - So, what have you been up to lately, champ? I hear the comedy thing isn't going too well?
"YOU" - (utter silence!)
AUNT DELORES - Have you thought about Law School?
"YOU" - (ohmygoodness absolutely nothing!(it's not even you!!))
YOUR MOM - Honey? Uncle Gary and Aunt Delores are just -
Half your head cracks off and lands on the floor, where Yoda, your Aunt's pomeranian/poodle mix, starts to gnaw at it.
COUSIN TRACY (7 years old) - Aigh! Aigh!
UNCLE GARY - Good Lord!
YOUR DAD - Yoda sure likes you! Wait a second. Aigh!
AUNT DELORES - Aigh! Now hold on just a minute! It's fudge!
YOUR MOM - I can't believe it. That ungrateful boy (or girl) sent a life-sized fudge replica of themselves in lieu (relative will probably not actually use the phrase "in lieu") of actually attending this family event! This is a disgrace. He/she is not going to hear the end of this from me, I can tell you that right now!
UNCLE GARY - Mmm. It's delicious, premium quality fudge! Farber's, by my guesstimation!
YOUR DAD - Well, he/she may be a disgrace, but they've got good taste in fudge!
YOUR MOM - Mmmm, you're right. You could say his/her "taste" is as good as he/she tastes!
AUNT DELORES - Oh my!
Everyone laughs. The dog finishes eating the half of your head that fell on the floor and then vomits it onto the carpet and then eats it again.
Aside from the rich, fudgy scent wafting off of it, and that fact that it can't move or speak and will probably start to melt if not stored in a dry, cool, place and will also probably have some nicks and dents and maybe even broken limbs due to transport/delivery -related jostling, it's virtually indistinguishable from you! Almost!
The Fudge Doppleganger is available in a virtually infiinite range of sizes and shapes! Not to exceed seven feet tall.
If you fail to submit a clear photo and/or a completed and accurate measurement form, your The Fudge Doppleganger will probably end up looking like an Asian David Duchovny.
Please specify walnuts or double walnuts.
*The Happy Accident Pill is discussed in an earlier posting on this blog. Long story short, according to Mr. Farber, saturation of the resulting organic material intended for consumption was only 93%. Yes, there were traces. Pockets, to be more precise. Blechhh.
posted by Andres at 12:43 PM
Give in to our demands or we will harm these hostages!
PFFFT. What hostages?
Hey no fair.
posted by Andres at 12:29 PM
I wouldn't mind the little God-related affirmations posted all over this secretary's desk if just one extra phrase was inserted into each of them:
AN ANGRY
So, instead of, "Each Day is a GIft from God", the tiny little heart-shaped frame on her desk would contain the phrase
EACH DAY IS A GIFT FROM AN ANGRY GOD!
Specifically Crom, the God of Steel and Battle. The implication being that we should cherish each day that we are allowed to continue existing, for at any moment Crom may fix his baleful eye on us according to his cold, capricious whimsy.
And blast us into oblivion as he laughs from his eternal mountaintop.
So yes, be thankful for each day. But do not pray to Crom. He does not listen.
So, how about those Anaheim Angels!
posted by Andres at 12:09 PM
I often wonder why my right armpit sweats so much more than my left one. I mean, ALOT MORE. Often during times of complete inactivity. I can just sit still, not exerting myself in any way whatsoever. In a nice, temperature-controlled room. Wearing loose-fitting, breathable, comfortable clothing. Thinking cool thoughts. And SPLOOP. I'll feel this drip of sweat trickle down my right side.
I have an incontinent armpit.
posted by Andres at 11:11 AM
So tonight I said something pretty cool.
I said ,"Hey, you invented the one-strap backpack!"
And I was right.
It turns out I went to college with the guy. And he did indeed invent the one-strap backpack. I only knew him briefly, as we were in one acting class together and then never saw each other again. But he told me about his one-strap backpacks, and how they were on sale in the campus store. So I bought one. It looked really cool. The strap came across the front of my body like a bandolier. I liked the look, it was very Chewbacca. Especially when I wore my Chewbacca suit!
But seriously.
It aggravated an existing imbalance in my freakishly lopsided skeleton and gave me a tremendous amount of neck and shoulder pain. So I went back to a traditional two-strap model. An L.L. Bean, most likely. Hey, I may be lopsided, but I'm also rugged. Still, the "normal" backpacks we've all come to know and love (She Loved A Backpack, tonight on WE: Women's Entertainment) also give me trouble. I'm constantly adjusting the straps. I need a backpack that just hovers in mid-air behind me and follows me everywhere I go. The No-Strap Backpack. Heck, you could have all sorts of No-Strap Backpacks. Well, since the back really isn't involved anymore we'll just call them Hoverpacks. You could have hoverpacks that are designed to appeal to all different groups of people:
Star Wars fans could get the Interrogation Droid model: "just flick the syringe and the hatch pops open! Ta-da! There's my bag lunch! And my collection of personalized Star Wars figurines! Look closely at Obi-Wan. That's my face! I used dental tools! To carve the plastic! Nyah ha ha!"
Wiccans could get the model that resembles a crow. There's nothing worth adding to that last sentence.
Sports fans could get the one that looks like a miniature Ray Lewis: "Look! You are so small and slow! You can't catch up with me and your feet don't even touch the ground! And you're stuffed full of my dirty gym clothes! Ray Lewis. Famous linebacker from the Baltimore Ravens!"
Bologna Sandwich fans could get the one that looks like a bologna sandwich: "Man, I'm hungry. Cool! A hovering bologna sandwich, following me at shoulder level! Yum, I will bite it...OW, MY MOUTH! That wasn't a bologna sandwich at all. Oh, that's right! It's my hoverpack. Hmm...I wonder what's inside. Cool! A bologna sandwich! I will bite it. OW! My damn temperature-sensitive teeth. Hot, I'm fine. Cold, I'm fine. It's these damn room temperature foods!"
Investment Bankers could get the Hoverpack that resembles my foot in a muddy hiking boot. It would hover at ass level. And periodically swing away from them in a high arc and then come ramming into their ass. Hard. Over and over until they cried and agreed to get a fucking soul.
(pause while I make copies for my boss okay I'm back)
Bunny fans could get the one that's shaped like a bunny.
But that's all besides the point.
What I like about the fact that I said "Hey, you invented the one-strap backpack!" is that a handful of people witnessed it. And it made me feel cool. Cool and specific. I didn't introduce myself to the guy and ask if he went to my school and proceed from there. Nope, I just came out with that amazing backpack line. BOOM. Instant cool. Someone else came over and said to him "YOU invented the one-strap backpack? I like those!"
Then another person looked over with a look that seemed to say "oh?" Followed by a third. And then the backpack inventor guy, he lights up, amazed, and admitted with wonder and admiration that YES, YES, he did indeed invent that item! And then he looked into my eyes, and realized we had shared that acting class over a decade ago. He must have been so impressed with my ability to be so specific and socially daring. Because I wasn't absolutely certain about who he was. I was taking a chance. And guess what.
I WAS COOL!
Now then, I need to adjust this week's Fantasy Football lineup on my Fantasy Football league's Fantasy Football website. My team is called The Balrog.
Gandalf - "This foe is beyond any of you! RUN!"
Coolness gone.