From Others: Jenee's Road Story

Doug and I worked together at the Punchline in Sacramento and were joined by our friend Henry Phillips, a fantastic guitarist and hilarious comedian. Henry happened to be in the area performing at a wedding (and really, if tunes like "The Bitch Song" and "Jerkin' Around" aren't appropriate at a wedding, where are they)?

After the show, we head around the corner to a little karaoke joint where Doug knows the bartender who must get a bonus from the Jaegermeister people for unloading so much of it.

At the point that I'm called a pussy for not doing a seventh shot, Henry takes his cue and asks if he can borrow my cell phone. I let him and he proceeds to make a long call to somebody in Texas. Because that's what comics do when they're together: find ways to screw each other over.

Properly inebriated, we take our turns on the mike. On this particular night, I'm wearing a red wig and belting out my best Britney Spears on top of the bar. I jump down for my big finale when Doug walks over and yanks the wig off my head. He puts it crookedly on his own head and looks like he's 20 years too late for a "This is Spinal Tap" audition. Doug then performs his infamous rendition of "I am Woman," which, of course, ends with his pants around his ankles. Even with the shaggy do, Doug manages to get a heavyset middle-aged woman to slow dance with him on the next song and he looks like he's in love. Despite his persistent attempts, he can't get the woman to french kiss him.

Perhaps inspired by the way drouping trou landed Doug a lady, Henry pulls out his own two inches of silly putty and asks how he measures up. I tell him to chub up a little bit and return for reevaluation. He spends the next hour or so working on it, finally blaming his poor showing on the Jaeger. I don't know what it is with comics exposing themselves but I've had quite a few whip out their dicks in front of me in public. Maybe they're hoping that once I see it I'll think "I MUST have that!!" like a cute pair of shoes.

Around 3 am, we start our trek back to the hotel in the torrential rain with Doug still wearing the wig. We see some shopping carts and Doug decides we need to take them with us. So Doug and Henry each grab a cart. I opt to ride in Henry's. We go about 30 feet when Henry hits a bump and I fly from the cart. You can't help but stop and think about what you're doing with your life when you're stinking drunk, wet and you've just fallen out of a shopping cart into a puddle of polluted rainwater. As quickly as Doug decided to take the carts, he decides they need to dispose of them. He and Henry hoist the carts over a ledge into a water-filled ditch. I think he was expecting some spectacular splash followed by the carts being whisked quickly down the ravine but they just fell in with a plunk and stayed there.

We close out the evening with greasy pancakes at Denny's and a conversation about the ideal size of labia lips (classy people, ain't we)? After polling everybody on the graveyard shift, we learned that when it comes to women, size doesn't matter.

From Others: The Fester Story

Who I am is unimportant. I am not currently undergoing psychotherapy or counseling, nor am I enrolled in any 12-step organization or rehab program. There is no one out there who can help me. I am writing this both as a form of catharsis and as a cautionary example to those who may be thinking to follow in my footsteps. What follows is my dim, hazy recollection of a night involving myself, Doug Stanhope, booze, a girl - and a man called Fester.

First, the setting: Wednesday, January 24th of '01, Doug begins a week at a club near me. We were casual online-friends who'd met a few times before, and since I have plenty of free time and a taste for quality comedy on the darker end of the scale, I dropped by to see him. He'd comped me for the night - one thing you learn quickly about Doug is that it's nearly impossible to buy a drink or otherwise spend money in his presence, regardless of your financial situation or how well he knows you. Anyway, the show was all right for a Wednesday, and there were some hardcore fans of his in the audience. Some of them followed us - myself, Doug, the feature and the opener - to a nearby karaoke bar after the show. (Doug's line describing the establishment is: "They say you can't get AIDS from a toilet seat - I think that place is where they did most of the testing!"; my only addition would be that, as we walked in, someone was wrapping up a drunken rendition of "King of the Road" to a fair round of applause - not a promising sign...) So there were the four of us, plus four locals: all youngish, husky guys with shaved heads and unshaven faces, all apparently from the same Red Lobster kitchen staff, and all clearly devoted members of the Cult of Stanhope. Under other circumstances their presence might have been kinda creepy, but something about the atmosphere of the night made it all right.

We spent a few hours there. Over the course of the evening some drinks were downed, some yarns spun, and inevitably, the subject of self-exposure came up... Doug quickly obliged (though I don't specifically recall anyone actually asking him), and it was at this point that one of the group of fans entered my sphere of attention. They called him 'Fester', after the Addams Family guy. I later learned his given name was Jason. His eagerness to match Doug's gesture could not be denied, and indeed he actually insisted Doug not only observe but actually TOUCH him... To Doug's obvious amazement, Fester actually had less to exhibit than he did! He wasn't even able to extend any part of his genitalia beyond the zipper of his pants - indeed, he seemed oddly proud of the fact. Doug was enjoying this novel experience immensely, and had clearly developed a keen interest in this fellow. Dicks became the only possible topic of conversation for the rest of the evening. But finally it was time for me to go home, and after playing designated driver for the comics, I did so - with a promise to return on Friday.

The fateful day came, and I arrived early enough to catch both performances. Fester and his crew unexpectedly returned for the late show, and found us at that karaoke bar again later that night. There had been far more drinking - a guy in the audience had bought Doug several un-asked-for shots during his 2nd set, and I myself had no plans to drive anywhere that night, but before long the bar was closing. Doug had been amusing himself by having Fester show his schmeckle to various patrons, to their evident delight and amusement - one especially attractive woman even complimented him on it (of course, she was clearly there with one of the club bouncers, so there was no misinterpretation possible...) Now, about here my memory begins to get a little indistinct - but after closing time, we found ourselves outside in the cold with everyone leaving for wherever. Soon an SUV pulled up out of the darkness, and Doug and I hopped in. Turned out it was driven by one of the waitresses from the club, and after picking up Fester she drove us back to the condo. The other two comics were already there, but the opener quickly disappeared into her bedroom and the feature left with some relatives of his who lived nearby, leaving the four of us for the night. It's at least 2:30am at this point.

As a prelude to what follows, let me say that Doug is possibly the most persuasive person I've ever met. He never really orders anyone around; he just asks people to do the most outrageous stuff, then with a jovial "C'mon!" and a jerk of his head, they obey as if dragged by wires... it is simply incredible to watch, and it makes me very glad he's on our side. But I will go to my grave without any clear idea of the sequence of events which lead to what happened next. Doug had been questioning Fester about his personal life - his divorce, whether he was dating anyone, and so on. Not a lot of action in Fester's life recently, as I recall. Almost before I knew it, he had Fester blindfolded and had talked the waitress into giving him a free hand job! Doug had found makeshift lubricants in the condo kitchen - dish soap and a half-empty tub of goat cheese from the fridge, I believe - and was dribbling them over the action, while I did my drafted duty as photographer. Incidentally, I have never developed that roll of film. Eventually he and I decided that the more sensitive and mature course of action would be to adjourn to the next room, so that she and Fester could get the job done in private. And in fact we did briefly leave them alone, mostly to release the uncontrollable schoolgirl-like giggles of amazement at what was happening. But minutes later we quietly sneaked back out into the hallway to watch and listen from around the corner. And let me tell you, she was goooood... she had the moves and the patter of a real pro! I mean no slur on her character or community standing, but we were both impressed at her level of commitment to the job once she'd taken it on. And clearly, it was taking far longer than she expected, for whatever reason... I honestly don't recall if Fester eventually managed to come despite the fact that he probably could hear our stifled guffaws from four feet away, or if she finally just gave up and called it a night... in fact, the whole rest of that evening is a blur for me. The waitress was gone the next morning but I don't remember when she left, or even her name; although I strongly suspect that Doug got a picture of me in a compromising position at some point, thanks in part to her... there go my hopes for a seat in Congress! Fester crashed on the sofa, I took the feature's room, and Doug collapsed on his bed (fully clothed, with the light left on, arm dangling off the side, mouth open - looking like he'd been shot and left there for dead, really).

Fade to dawn

The next morning was oddly subdued... I woke up early, and spent the time corrupting Doug's laptop in ways he will discover over the coming months, as is my custom. Once the others awoke, we left for breakfast. Since nobody's car was nearby, it was about a mile's walk along streets purified by a blanket of newfallen snow. The clean, white hush of the landscape served as an ironic counterpoint to the sinful debauchery of the previous night, and somehow nobody seemed to have anything much to say. We arrived at a pancake place in time for lunch, and the rest of the day passed as distinctively as any time with Stanhope does - for example, he decided he wanted to play some baseball in the treacherously icy parking lot of a discount store at one point, then bought a plastic bat and ball and did just that. Later, back at the condo, Doug spent hours eerily engrossed by a documentary about Hitler on TV; then after seeing a commercial which somehow annoyed him, he abruptly called the number it listed with his cellphone and proceeded to deliver his most evil sentiments on whatever poor schlub was unfortunate enough to answer... But ultimately, we all knew that nothing could follow the previous night, and I finally left for home as Doug was driving Fester to his evening shift at the seafood restaurant.

I wonder what he told his buddies about that night. I wonder what he thinks are going to happen with the pictures. And I wonder what Doug remembers of what happened. But I now have a new standard of measurement for all the wild times I've had before and all the ones yet to come - the Stanhope Scale.

Ben Scott

From Others: Patricia Nelson's Road Story

I had a party scheduled months prior for Halloween, and was delighted to hear last minute that Doug Stanhope had picked up the week at the Chicago Zanies and would be in town for the festivities...until it actually came to him wreaking havoc in my house. Here is a brief summary of the events which unfolded in my apartment with the Zanies staff and a sorted mix of comedians on All Hallow's Eve...

Doug had decided he would experiment with the development of his one man show at Zanies on Sunday night by inviting my boyfriend, Eddie, to accompany his comedy at the dilapidated piano seeking refuge on the club's stage. The piano player showed up late, however, and Doug had directed me, "If he gets here while I'm on stage, just send him up and I won't even acknowlege him." That is exactly what happened, and fifteen minutes into his set, Eddie made his way to the stage, Sam Adams in hand, walking deadpan past Doug and making a subtle, yet dramatic procession of pulling out the piano bench and settling in to play, first softly, then very much with the rhythm of Doug's act. The effect was absolutely intriguing, and the two of them played to the back of the room, sending at least two people to the bathroom in fear of pissing their pants in the most literal sense of the word.

After the show ended, we quickly gathered up our belongings, verified that Doug had been paid, and all quickly migrated to the party that was already in full swing at my house. Then again, if Doug Stanhope is showing up, nothing is REALLY in full swing until he arrives.

We got to my house and settled in just in time for the hourly Cuervo shot which is customary at all my parties. It wasn't soon after the second hourly shot (at midnight), that things began to go awry.

After a certain comic was found in my roommates bedroom, "just sleeping" with a certain waitress (with her body glitter all over his face), Auggie Smith, who made a guest appearance in town just for my party (as far as you know), was found in a sixty-nine with another waitress who shall remain nameless as far as this tale is concerned.

The pump organ was rolled in a few minutes later, and various persons took a crack at making carnival noises in sporadic intervals of typically drunken attentions. I never did get to sing the song I wrote for Susanna Lee, which was the reason it was brought up from the basement in the first place.

A picture was posed for, and Doug dropped his pants for the camera, much to the surprise of anyone who didn't know him. Much to the boredom of anyone that did. After you've known Doug a while, you expect it. Seeing Doug Stanhope whip out his penis is like seeing a baby spit up. At first it's cute, even though it's kind of disgusting, but after it happens a few times, you just have to shake your head and think to yourself, "Oh, God, not again..." and simply deal with it. Then of course, there's a mess to clean up.....

Doug Stanhope was definitely the life of the party, and played host by kissing everyone on the mouth and with tongue, including John Roy, who has since moved to San Francisco and is performing in a not-for-profit musical production of Philladelphia while going to beauty school. We love him for him. Ironically, Stanhope was quoted as saying, "I think I kissed just about everybody last night... oh - except Josh Perlman." This is because Josh is staying faithful to Anthony Clark. We're looking in to whether or not Scott Perlman was involved in a tongueing as well. It is assumed, but at this point we cannot confirm anything.

Mel and myself switched costumes mid-party, and she became Ginger from Gilligan's Island, and I became Charlie Chaplan. Little did I know that Eddie was commenting on the sexy dress all night, and was unwittingly to all parties concerned, placed in a rather precarious dichotomy of seeing his girl's co-worker donned in the dress he wanted nothing more than to rip off of it's original wearer. I also got to see Mel close to naked. If John Roy hadn't come out at the party, I'd have had to paint with words the sight of Mel in her underwear. Phew!

Dan Carlson had a few cocktails and disappeared without a trace into the night. He never did get to see Auggie Smith do time, although he DID catch wind of him getting a blowjob, and I think he was pretty impressed. I don't want to jump the gun, but if I were you, I'd look for Auggie at the Third Annual Chicago Comedy Festival. Doug and Eddie disappeared into my bedroom for an indetermineable amount of time before Mel inquired on their whereabouts. "They're probably making out in my room," was my semi-concerned reply. Mel entered the lion's den in search of the MIA partiers, and quickly found herself being held hostage in a game referred to as "The V.I.P. Room". The object of this game is to leave the remainder of the party guessing as to what events are transpiring mysteriously behind closed doors and to make them jealous, if at all possible, and is most effectively done in sexual innuendo. I was the next to be hijacked. Doug Stanhope, as expected, was the instigator of the game, and Eddie, Mel, and I quickly conspired with him. Doug first emerged from my bedroom naked, parading through the party to retrieve a beer from the refrigerator in a most nonchalant manner. He returned to the room with a beer, the V.I.P. room giggling like preteens at a porno. Doug decided to donn a piece of suggestive clothing next, and I volunteered the white lace teddy I had worn beneath my dress and now had on under Mel's Charlie Chaplan costume. Much to my chagrin (as far as anyone else is concerned), I was shocked and a bit confused at finding myself naked, but quickly slid on a pair of purple polyester bell bottoms and a blazer. Doug walked through the party, having a bit of a dilema with keeping his testicles contained in his lingerie. Let me tell you, he looked like a breathtaking bride on her honeymoon night, all ripe and virginal and ready to be deflowered.

The party haphazzardly migrated into my bedroom, at least a large majority of it. Despite Mel's insistance that he not be allowed into the V.I.P. room on dress code violation (i.e., he was wearing a turtleneck) her decision was overridden, and Auggie and the waitress who shall remain nameless came in and got to the good stuff, quickly becoming nearly oblivious to the large crowd of people that had gathered around their escapades on my bed. That is, until Doug Stanhope started dripping wax on the exposed rear end of the girl. Mel retaliated by dripping wax on Doug's ass. I doubt I can take the teddy to my regular dry cleaner and maintain the slightest bit of respect from her.

John Roy was allowed into the room, and soon emerged with his penis exposed. Mel was seen exiting the room wrapped in a blanket on a mission to change the CD, then, a half an hour later, flung open the door with a bloodcurdling scream, crying hysterically, "This has never happened to me before! I thought they were my friends!" No one really knows what was going on in there, but the outsiders were only left guessing. They may never know. It's possible that the public will discover the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa first.

After that, it gets a little hazy, but this was near the time that the party broke up. That was around 6:45 a.m. The downstairs neighbor had made an appearance, but he slipped out unnoticed, and all I know is that I saw him coming home the next day, and he refused to make eye contact with me. I think he's scared of me now. Auggie and his girl disappeared from the building together, and Mel gave Stanhope a ride back to the condo, after he grappled through my laundry pile in search of the clothing he walked in wearing. I vaguely recall telling them goodbye.

I awoke in the late morning the next day, to the sound of Doug Stanhope crowing like a rooster with throat cancer into my answering machine. "Fuck him," I thought, noticing that my apartment smelled like a pool hall and my brain was rattling around in my head like a stale prune, all black and sticky and shrivelled. I waded through the aftermath of liquor bottles, tipped over cups, full ashtrays and empty beer cans, not to mention my wax-caked bedclothes, smiling at the second incoming call where Doug relayed his breakfast order into my machine.

As I laughed at his tale of the stupid waitress he'd had at Mitchell's, I managed to find several items which were left at my party. This is the lost and found portion of my little piece. If any of the items listed below belong to you, please contact me.


* 1 blond wig, chin length, curly

* 1 pair of plywood slabs graffittied with radical religious slogans

* 1 pair of women's CK blue jeans, size 14

* approximately 150 half-full plastic cups, 12 oz.

* approximately 80 beer cans, various brands, most empty

* 1 pump organ * 3 empty 1.5 liter bottles, 2 Cuervo, 1 Jack Daniels

* 1 brown faux fur coat, calf-length

* 27 empty cigarette packs, various brands

* 3 blue garbage bags, torn * 1 alien mask

* 1 statue of liberty torch, cardboard

* 0.8 oz. unidentifiable body fluid, found on my roommate's bed

* 8 CD's, entitled "Doug Stanhope: Sicko", found in my car.


Mel Gillpin was quoted as saying, "It was good, clean fun." John Roy, who is apparently a political wacko, said simply, "The Republican Party: We're Changin'." Eddie Dixon simply asked, "So, how long until Doug Stanhope stops coming up in conversation?" All I know is, it could be a while. PATRICIA WAITS

From Others: Kevin's Road Story

I'm sure a number of Doug's road stories involve drunken nights stumbling into karaoke bars; if you haven't heard this one already it's about time you did.

After a rough "Kill the Keg" Thursday night crowd at Uncle Funny's in Davie Florida, Doug, D.T. Tosh and myself wanted to go out for "just one beer". Arriving at a local bar, we were turned away at the door because I was wearing a baseball cap, and Doug had no intention of going into "a redneck bar with a dresscode"! Just wanting that one beer to fufill the evening, we wandered around finding "Luke's Bar and Grill" just up the block. Walking in we knew this was not our element. A forty-something hillbilly chick is wailing Reba McIntyre on the Karaoke stage in a room filled with blue jeans, cowboy boots and red plaid shirts that matched the tableclothes nearly identically.

Doug wastes no time; He scans the Karaoke selections and gets a hold of the MC in hopes of being bumped up in the rotation rather than listen to 15 more clint black-garth brooks wannabes. As his name is called, Dt and I squirm when we see the song he has selected to sing pop up on the lyrics screen - "I Am Woman"/Helen Reddy. Doug greets the audience with his usual charm, and urges them to read along (since he's about to change nearly every word).

The next three minutes of profanity laced singalong prompts the manager out of his seat attempting to cut the breaker on the speakers. Rednecks seem to be lining up to kick Doug's ass but he's belting it out with all the energy of a star search contestant. If it were not for a table of 12 or so college students who stood up and cheered for Doug at the conclusion of his "song" things could have gotten ugly.

To really appreciate this story I will have to dub the copy I have of Doug's performance that night because it would be a great addition to this sight as a WAV. file. I left moments later when Doug and Dt decided to slow dance cheek to cheek as the MC sang " love on the rocks ".

Bobbie Barnett

Bobbie Barnett was quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had sex with but, other than that, we had very little to say.

I met Bobbie in a strange bar in Minneapolis years ago. Strange, meaning that I had not performed there nor did anyone there know I was a performer. Normally, I would never have the balls to approach a woman in a strange bar. I usually just sit at the far end of the bar and stare at the TV as though the only reason I’d come out to a crowded dance club on ladies’ night was to watch Sports Center with no volume. But that night, I was

Doug and Bobbie.

Drunk or inspired or, sometimes what’s the difference.

Bobbie was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that hurts to look at. She had short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes and a smile that made you feel like you were the only guy in the world, even after she smiles the same way at the waiter when he says he won’t charge her for the extra sour cream.

We talked for a while and, though I didn’t outright lie to the girl, I did tell her everything she wanted to hear. She hated long hair, I was thinking of cutting it. She hated cigarettes, I was trying to quit. And so it went through several cocktails.

We made plans to go see the Twins play the next day and she told me that I could stay at her place since she lived so close to the stadium. Not to have sex, she said, just out of convenience. Funny, that’s exactly what I’d tell a girl I was trying to have sex with.

We got back to her place and had that last cocktail which led to kissing, which led to groping, which led to some of the most viscious dry-humping I’d seen since junior high school. It was like porno with clothes on and it went on for an inordinate amount of time until I realized it wasn’t going any further. “I don’t want to be a slut.” “It’s not that hard I can walk you through it.” “I don’t even know you.” “I’ll have my agent fax you my bio.” It finally proved futile, so, like a gentleman, I rolled over and said goodnight, using my balls as a comfy pillow.

The next day we went to see the Twins play against my favorite team, the Boston Red Sox. I’m not a huge baseball fan but it’s always important to have a favorite. Bobbie, of course was rooting for the home town Twins so I made a big production out of rooting for the Red Sox, jumping up and down and screaming like an asshole, just to fuel the rivalry. I continued in this fashion until the sixth inning when it was obvious the Sox were going to get killed. They were down 5-1 and hadn’t done a thing right all day and now Bobbie is starting to talk a lot of shit. So I called her bluff. I said,” I’ll make a bet with you right now. If the Red Sox lose this game, I will cut my hair and quit smoking. If they come back and win, you turn loose some of that ole pussy!” I’m sure I phrased it more carefully than that but, regardless, she couldn’t say no. It was a sucker bet and Bobbie had been gloating too much to turn back now. She shook on it and, within seconds, Mo Vaughn came to the plate and SLAM!, right out of the park! The Red Sox went on to score 10 unanswered runs and won the game 11-6 while Bobbie just sat there turning grey.

She drove us home without saying a word. Finally I asked, “So would you think I was a prick if I took you up on the bet?”. She grudgingly said “No.” I said “Would you think I was a prick if I picked up a homeless guy and told you I wanted to donate my winnings to charity?”. She didn’t laugh. Bobbie made good on the bet and, although I even cut my hair out of a sense of fair play, she decided pretty quickly afterwards that she didn’t care much for the person I was turning out to be. But that was okay with me because, generally, beautiful things have always left me feeling empty. Like beautiful sunsets or a beautiful mountain view, because there is none of that you can take with you. You can take all the pictures in the world and it will never do it justice. You can use every word in you’re vocabulary and it will never describe it accurately. And there’s always someone next to you saying, “Doesn’t it make you feel so insignificant?”. “Yes, as a matter of fact it does. And I don’t need any more of that in my life, I don’t need to feel any more insignificant.” But a beautiful woman is different, because a beautiful woman just might want to fuck you. And when a beautiful woman fucks you it’s like she’s giving you part of that beauty, it’s like she’s giving you a piece of her soul and that will always be yours. No matter how much she may regret it, no matter how much she dislikes you down the road, that is yours forever. And your beautiful mountain may crumble into the sea and your beautiful sunset might never rise again... but you fucked me, Bobbie Barnett! You fucked me, and a thousand repo men with a thousand tow trucks can never take that back!

AA Calling

This is some years back, I was headlining Acme Comedy Club with Jackie Kashian, a phenomenally funny lady and a hell of a drinking partner, especially Saturday late show that week. We were breaking records that night and taking as good as the bar could give (they were a staff that liked trying to find your outside range) while still maintaining barely enough coherence to perform. Tony ______ had come through town and had managed to get a guest set on the late show. He was a comic I'd worked with once when I was just coming into the lower ranks, a bit beyond his day but a nice enough guy. He booked a couple rooms in the dustbowl, lived a clean and sober life and evidently still tried to get work on stage here and there. Tony doesn't imbibe, big AA guy but that was fine with us. We had our own party going and it was going at full tilt. Tony was staring at us with a familiar mixture of pity and longing for a day gone by for him but otherwise his presence, like his set, was barely noticed. I'd tried to listen to his act but the mixture of Jagermeister and his lack of anything to say made it absolutely impossible He left at some point after he got off stage and we continued into our usual Saturday night last-show gutter, signing the green room wall with senseless drivel in permanent marker. Several months, maybe a year later, I got a call out of the blue from Tony. I assumed at first that he wanted me to work at his club. He said " I heard you quit drinking." Now, I had just quit smoking a week before as I was prone to do every six or eight months on a lark or an empty threat from a nonsmoking girlfriend and quitting smoking always required a temporary yet mandatory abstinence from alcohol. Tony had spoken with a comic I'd just finished working with who made mention of my not drinking and smoking. Tony, who evidently had been under the impression that I live in the same condition he'd seen me in that night so long before, called to lend the friendly hand of Alcoholics Anonymous. "I heard you quit drinking and wanted you to know... If you need any help..." I was confused at first but then my lip started to curl up as I put the pieces together. "I didn't quit, per se, I just...." "Well I'm just telling you, is all", he interrupted, "Cuz I've been there. I was a big partier too and I've been sober for (?) Years. So if you're having a hard time, you let me know. I'll give you my home phone number. You can call me anytime, day or night". I was a bit speechless. I wanted to say "Are you fucking kidding me?" but at the same time I was struck by his heartfelt sincerity, not to mention I still thought he was going to offer me work. " I haven't really quit, Tony, I just toned down a lot. You get older, you know...." Again he doesn't hear me." You know Bill Hicks? I was his sponsor for eight years! I sponsor lots of comics so if you need a sponsor..." This was beautiful. Now he was dropping names as though he were an agent with AA and trying to get me to sign with them. Maybe their numbers were down, what with drugs being all the rage and NA getting all the good names. Maybe a good old fashioned drunk was in demand. I took down his number when he offered it, thanked him and then paused one last moment to make sure no work was coming out of this call before saying goodbye and quietly hanging up the phone. I sat there for a few stunned moments, staring blankly save for the odd grin. How good are you when AA actually calls you! I don't know if I ever told Jackie about the phone call. I don't know if she knew there had been scouts there that night from AA and I wonder if she'd be mad that I got the call when she didn't. Don't take it personally, Jackie, I've been drinking a bit longer and have a stronger drunken point of view. Keep at it girl, they have your name on file.

The Grim, Final Appearance Of My Dick In Public

Oh, these cocksuckers in Utah, they deserve all the bad press they get and then some. Not the general public but the Pilgrims and eunuchs that make the rules here. If AIDS monkeys were running amok with gnashing teeth in the Capitol building or the Mormon Tabernacle and I owned the only BB gun in town, I would not relinquish the key to the cabinet.

"This squirrel is all Aidsy and now it's got hold of my eye!", the Mormon responsible would scream, rolling around on the floor of Parliament or whatever, bloody in his powdered wig. I say nothing and walk away.

Dr John is a fine citizen of this Earth and also a smut entrepreneur of unequaled integrity. He runs smut shops, Dr John's Lingerie and Adult Novelties in Omaha and now Midvale, Utah, or at least he tries to. I first heard of him when I was playing Jokers Comedy Club in Omaha where Dr John was being brutalized and beaten down by a puritan City Hall and it's team of vice cop flunkies. Evidently making a large rubber phallus available to the upstanding folk of Nebraska threatened the wrong people in high places. He was arrested on a variety of obscenity charges and, at this writing, is appealing a 15 month sentence....for selling dildos.

Dr John moved on to Midvale, Utah, another place with a glaring absence of vibrating latex or any other product that might make one remember that "sex" thing that has been so popular in other regions of the world. I happen to play this Midvale as well and stay directly across the street from his shop. They didn't take kindly to him there, either, and immediately started harassing him through any means possible from fines to vice stings to general police harassment. The last time I was there, they had a cop stationed in the parking lot across the street every single night when I was coming home, no doubt to dissuade anyone who may have drank away some of their Mormon-enforced inhibitions from risking DUI in order to have something soft to accompany their genitals.

On hearing about his arrival and subsequent canoodling by the powers that be, I again took up his cause in my shows and on radio as I had done in Omaha. Dr. John had hooked up a cross-promotion with Spin, the owner of the Comedy Circuit, who would pass out all sorts of complimentary adult products from Dr. John's during the show and I finally had a chance to meet the man. He was everything you'd expect from a smut-peddler. Round, bald, bloated, clammy and a bit high strung but really, really eager to please. Extremely generous as well, I found out the next day when I visited him at the "boutique". I call it that because it's not a skeezy jack-off joint. There are no viewing booths or live nudes. It's a boutique. A boutique that sells remote-controlled, vibrating leather underwear but a boutique nonetheless. He loaded me up with any and every free item I could imagine. If my girlfriend might like it, if I could bring it on stage and make a joke out of it or if it might simply fit in my ass, he gave it to me and wouldn't take a nickel.

That night John came to the show, a special show, the 10th Anniversary of the Comedy Circuit that promised to be, if nothing else, very, very long. Spin had brought in Carl Labove, Ludo Vika, and Lonesome Dave to fill out the bill for the big event. The show lasted 3 hours. John took us all back to the store afterwards for celebratory cocktails. The store has offices on the second floor that look out over the front counter and part of the showroom. We all sat in one of the empty offices, Spin, Carl Labove, Ludo, Lonesome Dave,and Dr John, along with a couple other Comedy Circuit staff and a few cases of beer and we proceeded to beat our livers like mouthy wives. All the while we are sitting behind a security window watching fine Mormon couples at the counter below discover lubrication and other brave new ideas. At one point Corey from the club leaned over and banged on the one-way glass while an overweight girl and her boyfriend who could have been the abusive guard in any bad prison flick were stocking up on Anal-Eaze and 3-X crotchless support hose. The guy was wearing a handgun in the small of his back, more than likely just for the trip to the porn shoppe. "Ok baby, we'll go get you a nighty," he'd probably said as he loaded a fresh clip, "but if any faggots in there look at me...".They looked around self-consciously, as anyone would do in this place, wondering who was trying to get their attention. I stood there, behind mirrored security glass as they stared up, dropped my pants and pressed my cock against the glass. They continued to look around like cows and we all had a little chuckle.

None of us ever gave it a second thought as we continued getting piss-ugly trashed. Not another thought til a sweaty and wide-eyed Dr john came running in, half laughing, half screaming, "What the hell are you doing showing your cock to the customers?!?!". Evidently, what I'd assumed to be mirrored security glass was not that at all. It was good old-fashioned, see-through, clear-as-day, squeaky clean glass that I'd been pressed against with my pants down like a naked Dustin Hoffman in "The Graduate" to the horror of the wholesome Mr. and Mrs. Packinheat. I told John that I'd thought it was one-way glass and he said that I shouldn't worry about it, that he'd given the guy his order on the house to placate him. Again, we had a chuckle, never gave it another thought and finally I got as drunk as one man can get on 3.2 beer without bursting from the quantities.

The party started to break up as we went downstairs. Dave and Ludo went into a back storeroom with Dr John to pick up some complimentary smut tapes while Carl and I took the opportunity of being alone and did some shoplifting. Dr John would have given us anything we wanted but sometimes it's more fun to steal. Besides, there are some things you don't want a guy to know you're using. So while they were still in the back, we went out the front with our booty. Carls "booty" consisted of a pair of silky panties that he was now wearing over his shaved head. I had my things under my black overcoat as we headed for the car. We sat down in the car to wait for Dave and Ludo when three police cruisers pulled into the lot, parked and headed into the store. Afraid that the state legislature had made some late-hour ruling against rubber vaginas that was now going to be enforced by all available officers, I waited for them to get inside and ran back across the street with my wares back to the condo where I waited for the rest of the crew.

About fifteen long minutes later, Carl returned, still wearing the panties on his head as he had done throughout his entire conversation with the Midvale police. They had come, not to raid the place, but to investigate a report of a man in a long black overcoat who had exposed his penis! That gun-toting piece of shit had taken his free goods and called the cops anyway! What the fuck is that? That's like eating your entire meal and then having it taken off the bill!. And he called the cops because he saw a dick in a smut shop! If there is one thing you can be guaranteed to see in a smut house, it's COCK! Pocket pussy, maybe. Anal beads, perhaps. Big Rubber Fist, on a good day. But DICK? Every shelf, every direction. At what point had he seen too many? "Well what do we have here? Dick, dick, dick, dick dick, dick, double-dick, dick dick, strap-on dick, dick dick.... Hey, what's that? Look up there! It's a diiiiiiiiiiiiick!!! Hello, Rescue 911? Hurry, quick, there's a diiiii! iiiiick!!!"

Fortunately I was gone when they got there. That was the good news. Even more cops had shown up after I left, six or seven total, leaving me with the impression that the size of my cock must have been really blown out of proportion in the report. The bad news was that Lonesome Dave Conrats had made the poor fashion choice of wearing a long-black overcoat just like mine and had been promptly and viciously detained by Midvale's finest. And to hinder him even further, he's a piss-poor drunk and only got surly with them, refusing at first to show them any ID or cooperate at all. He did not know what had happened, all he knew was that he didn't do shit and didn't care for these pigs saying he did. It had, by all accounts, gotten very ugly, with Dave barely avoiding arrest. He didn't know that it was me all along. He would have turned me in if he had. Only afterwards did he find out and now Carl was warning me that I may want to hide under a bed or something, cuz Dave was violent, drunk and looking for a fight. You could hear him from the parking lot when he got there, screaming and hollering to Ludo, his wife, that he was going to kick the shit out of me and his wife threatening to kick his ass if he did. Finally, I told him to just come up and kick my ass quietly in the apartment so the neighbors could sleep. He came in the apartment and continued to slur and fume. He'd drink a beer and start to calm down then he'd do more coke and get mad all over.

"Well what the fuck?", he'd stutter and half-yell. "You pull out your... your fucking dick? What is that? I don't get it?" As though there were some deeper meaning. "You got me arrested, you fuck!" I pointed out that he hadn't gotten arrested. "Ya, well they wrote down my fucking name, man!" I continued to apologize just to shut him up but it only irritated him further. I decided not to argue and let him sleep it off. The guy is burned out, washed up and in bad shape anyway. I knew as drunk as we both were, it was best to go to bed. Who could be mad about something so ridiculous the next day?

Lonesome Dave could. Still just as angry the next day. Having his name on a notepad in some cop's pocket somewhere had turned this man into a hysterical housewife.. I apologized again and he said that he appreciated the apology but that he was still angry and would continue to be angry. "I still don't get it. You... pull your dick out???". He was saying it as though I'd raped a kid as a goof. I was at a loss for words.

I'd already been warned by the city of Midvale after my first appearance at the Comedy Circuit eight months earlier. At the end of the show, Spin, who sings and dances in his act as house MC, brings out the comic to take a bow. Then he does a little dance move and points at you to dance a little dance move in return. Not being much of a dancer, I decided instead to just pull my dick out. Spin had me do it the rest of the week. When I returned a month later, he had a letter from Susan B Shreeve, the business licensee whore who had gotten a complaint and threatened to pull his beer licensee should it happen again spent all of that week with the letter on stage trashing her mercilessly. Ironically, her husband is a sergeant with the Midvale Police and was the one trying to take Lonesome Dave downtown. Coincidence? Or Cock-Haters?

The Shreeve family is dedicated to keeping dick out of the eyes and minds of the good folk of Midvale. Shortly after that week, Spin received another letter from Susan B Shreeve saying that if he continued to hand out marital aids during the show he would have to relinquish his liquor licensee and apply for a sexually-related business permit, the same permit that they refuse to give to Doctor John or anyone else for that matter. The reasons for their commitment to a cock-free society are unknown. Maybe they were attacked by cocks while walking through a bad part of town one night.. Maybe the lady Shreeve had a cock-monster living under her bed when she a little girl or her husband, the sergeant, may have been raised by an abusive, even alcoholic cock who beat him unmercifully. Whatever their reason, it must have been some mean, dirty cock that got in 'em to make their constitution so strong.

After that whole fiasco, I decided it was a good time to retire my cock from the public eye. The return of my cock to Austin the week before was a shambles, the sequel never being as good. In short, my cock, while remaining troublesome, had gotten boring. This night made for a proper exit from show biz for my lowers, at least in a George Foreman kind of way. My agents say it's only a matter of reinventing my cock, giving it a new image. We'll see. All I know is that I don't have the backbone of guys like Dr. John who spend their lives fighting against things that may seem ridiculous to some. The fact that a man may spend time in our brutal prison system so you might bring your wife to orgasm may seem silly to you. But those are the true heroes. People like Steve and Susan Shreeve should be stricken with AIDS babies and bad teeth.


To send a note to Sergeant Shreeve:

Ain't Nothing But a Hand-Job

Little Sean Rouse is a knobby little kid out of Houston, white as a frogs belly and scrawny like an old man with thin blond hair stuck to his head. He's got this arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, that makes his joints all big on his skinny little extremities so he looks a bit stiff and cartoonish in an adorable way, in a way that makes you wanna do things for him. He was originally diagnosed with Lupus, an incurable disease that can be fatal. That's what he thought he had the first time I worked with him in Houston. The first night he came into the bar after the show.

"You're really funny. Let me buy you a shot."

"I can't drink. I have Lupus."

"So what? I have radio in the morning."

"Ya, once I had radio and Lupus in the same morning. It sucked 'cause not only did I have to get up early, but my friends and family had to watch me slowly deteriorate."

This kid is funny. So I brought him out to El Paso to open for me on his first road trip. The week is kinda slow cuz we got no car, nobody is fucking us and Big Knuckle Seanie can't drink. The occasional waitress would get him high but it wasn't a great first road trip. So I see this flyer that was laying around the condo for a massage joint. Legitimate massage, the worst kind. It screams legitimate, too. It's called Montwood Day Spa and has all that aromatherapy and herbal body wraps, nothing close to a hand job anywhere near the place. It was fairly inexpensive though, the kicker was that they pick you up in a limo. I say "fuck it, lets be rock stars for a day!" and I call them up.

They pick us up in a stretch and bring us clear across town (El Paso is a big fucking city, too, for as little as goes on) while the driver a way to exuberant Mexican guy, beats us down with the unyielding tide of tedious "after-show" questions; "So you guys are comics? What's that like? How'd you get started? Do you work on a circuit?", etc. Not a relaxing start but its still a limo. We get there and the place is a lot smaller than you'd imagine from the flier. From the flyer your picturing the pools from Caligula with nymphs feeding you grapes and fanning you with palm fronds. This place is a few rooms in a strip mall. We go in and there's a girl behind the desk, pretty cute and friendly enough, who takes us back through to the sauna and Jacuzzi where we lounge til I'm near a beautiful coma waiting but in no hurry for my massage.

Now my big fear in "legitimate" massage is that I'll get wood on the table. When I was a teenager, my mother went to massage school and I would go down to be a test dummy for the students and get free massages. Only problem was that when you're 17 years old running your fingers through ground beef could practically make you whitewash. So I'd lay there under a thin sheet with my dick reaching straight to find God in front of 15 students and my Mother. It was horrifying. Ever since then I have fear of massage. That's why you go to the jerk-joints where they expect and encourage you to get wood. So when this girl finally gets me for my massage, I'm real nervous. I'd already jerked off ahead of time so I'd show up empty but she's real cute and I'm still worried as she leads me towards the massage room. I couldn't be sure that wood wasn't just around the corner. She opened the door to a quietly lit room with a massage table, turned and very softly and sensually to me and said "I'll step out now, you can take off your towel, slide under the sheet and then David will be into give your massage."

David? I don't want any massage from David! Who in the world would be so low as to pull a a bait-n-switch like that?!? Nobody wants a massage from David. Unless it was free and you were on ecstasy and you knew David real well and even the you'd be pissed you didn't get the cute chick. But I'm already two hundred bucks in on the deal between me and Lupus Lou so I can't back out and I'm thinking "At least I don't have to worry about getting wood for David", but then I think "HEY WAIT! What if I DO get wood for David!?!" Anytime someone has their greazy palm rubbing up and down your inner thigh you risk a strong possibility of chucking lumber.

So I lock in under the sheet and wait for David, contemplating whether or not I should claim some skin condition to get out of it. "Oh, I just remembered... I have sclera derma. But thanks anyway." A long five minutes passed as I silently decided what to do next when finally the door opens. It's the fucking limo driver!!! That's David! Turns out he's the owner, the driver the masseur and the most annoying fucking guy in the world. "So anyway where do you do your comedy shows? Do you always work with that other guy? Where do you get your jokes from?". He doesn't stop. Then he gets to the inner thighs and I'm trying to think of any horrible thing I could imagine to make sure I didn't go turgid. "What if my Mom got cancer? Remember when the dog died?" Between that and the endless stream of blithering yap coming out of David, I ended up leaving ten times more tense than when I walked in. After a "legitimate" massage from David, I needed a good hand job from a bigheaded Asian girl who wouldn't know your deltoid from your asteroid. That's relaxing. A hand job should be a mandatory part of massage and if you are ever naked on a massage table when a man walks in uninvited you should have every legal right to mace him and cry rape.

Sean Rouse ended up with the cute girl while I ended up with shame, a crook in my neck and the bill. Later, doctors downgraded his condition from the deadly Lupus to the uncomfortable rheumatoid arthritis.. They say he was "misdiagnosed" but I say it was from that massage. That magic massage from the cute chick that I was supposed to get. Lord knows what medical benefits I was cheated out of. I just hope Mr. Rouse remembers that when he's big. That I took the man-massage bullet to save his life.

German Shit Flick

My friend Chili Dog, (and life is always good when you have a friend named Chili Dog), came by this evening with a twelve pack of Miller Lite and, although I had work to do, I took some time out so we could stare at each other for a few hours.

At some point I remembered a German shit flick that my friend Gerry had given me. In my life, conversations can easily steer me to think of such things and I knew he didn’t have the stomach for these sort of things so I said to Chili Dog, “Hey you want to see my new promo reel?”. He said that he would, so I popped the poop film into the VCR and watched poor Chili’s countenance contort as women shit on each others faces, into each others mouths, and pissed all over each other, while in other scenes nylon rope is tied around men’s genitals while some creepy dominatrix yanks his scrotum halfway to the bathroom.

I let the film play until he looked like he might lose his dinner or his cool and, finally shut it off. I was choking back the laughs at this point, expecting the gambit of “Where did you get this?” or “Who would do that?” questions when Chili Dog looked at me, slack-jawed and said, quite seriously, “That wasn’t you!”.

Favorite Gag

You’re in a bar or restaurant that has a single seater bathroom with a few people waiting in line. You walk up and say “Someone clogging up the bathroom? I’ll take care of it for you.”. Then you proceed to wail on the door like an angry baboon and say “That ought to do it.”. Now you walk away so it will look like the next guy in line is the asshole. It makes me laugh every time.

Take That, Robin Williams

In 1995, I won the 20th Annual San Francisco Comedy Competition and called my father to tell him the good news. My Dad has the kindest heart ever known but doesn’t know the San Francisco Comedy Competition from the Nuremburg Trials. I tried to explain the prestige of the event (and possibly exaggerate it) by telling him that Robin Williams came in second in the original competition. Dad recognized the name but, true to form, screwed up the facts in retelling it, bragging to my relatives that I “just beat Robin Williams in a comedy competition”. I’m sure it made him wonder why I was still borrowing money from him, but he never said a word.

Spare Some Change

I believe it was shortly into the new year of 1994, I was working in Lake Charles, Louisiana when the car I’d bought three weeks before for $1000 up and shit the bed. Engine blown. They told me it’d cost more than the car was worth to replace it. So I took my things from the trunk, traded them the title to cover the towing charges and a ride to the bus station. I could take the ‘hound to the next gig in Longview Texas but after that I was fucked. So I called a girl I’d been messing around with down in Kileen, Tx and asked if she might want to come up and spend some time.


We called her Bonefish, The Inevitable Bonefish, to be precise. My friend Mat was known to yell indiscriminately at women “Hey bonefish! Wanna Fuck?” We knew eventually we’d find someone who fit the monicker “bonefish”. It was ineveitable. And she was it.

Fucked if I can remeber her real name. She was a waitress at this podunk bar called Ernie’s Two in Killeen where I’d played on New Year’s Eve. I went home with her that night and I remeber that we passed out shortly after we got done fucking. We fell asleep on the couch with me still inside of her, on our sides from the back and I guess somewhere towards dawn I started fucking her again completely asleep. I actually woke up New Years Day...fucking! I knew it must be a good omen for the year to come. Regardless, she drove up the six hours to Longview and drove me to the next few gigs across Texas until she had to get back to her real life. She dropped me back at the Greyhound station in Big Springs and that, as far as I can recall, was the last I saw of the inevitable Bonefish.

I had four hours to wait for the bus and Big Springs, Texas is the last place you wanna kill any time. Oil town long gone dry of oil. Fucking ghost town. As I waited in the station, I watched a hobo (anywhere else he’d be called a bum, in Big Springs he was a hobo) come through every twenty minutes or so and do his rounds checking the coin returns in the vending machines. Coke machine, candy, coffee, payphone, payphone, newspaper, newspaper and gone again. So, about thirty minutes before my bus left, I took out my toiletry bag where I kept all my change and loaded each coin slot full as I could get it. He came through again just before I left, made it through the first three machines with a look on his face as though he was gonna get caught stealing, went to the men’s room, took a big victory shit and ran outta the bus station without ever checking the rest of the machines. I’m guessing he went back. Hell, he probably goes back to this very day. I smiled all the way to Lubbock. It’s not like I drove this poor bastard around for days to get him where he needed to go but, then again, I guess charity is all relative.

Gay Phone Sex

The reason I got a job doing gay phone sex was not that I needed a supplemental income, not a job I had to take when I was struggling to make ends meet. I took this job to make a point and also because it sounded like it would be hilarious.

The problem started with the fact that I live in L.A. and I have a couch. You can't own a couch in Los Angeles. When you have a couch in L.A., you have a youth hostel. All your friends from the road who move out to take their shot at the big time want to stay with you until they "get on their feet". A week turns into a month turns into three months because they can't find a job!

L.A. is the only place in the world where getting a job is a bad thing. Everywhere else people go out to dinner and celebrate when they get a job. In this city it's a point of shame. "Ya, I had to get a day job". It would get to a point where I would look for jobs for them and one job that was always in the paper was for gay phone sex. Nobody bit. I thought, hell if I were looking for a job, I would do it! At least it would keep you laughing. Finally it got to a point where I said "Fuck it, I'll do it". (At this point my mother had been living with me for five months claiming that she could find work to support herself. Two years later she still hasn't found a way to pay her bills, even quitting a job two days a week at a thrift store because it was "too exhausting".)

I went down and applied for the job and, of course, got it. They were going to start me on graveyard shift which worked out perfectly as I knew I'd be liquored up by then. I also had a bag of mushrooms I'd kept in the freezer for the last few months waiting for a special occasion and this was it. I went to the Coach and Horses, had a few drinks and choked down the mushrooms before Fat Ralphie May drove me down to the job. The first night was a complete anticlimax (scuuze da pun) where they had me stuck on some trainee line where I only got about six calls in eight hours, mostly hang ups, and the mushrooms never kicked in.

Not the good story I was looking for, although I did gain a sincere respect for people who work for a living when I got yelled at for taking thirteen minutes on a ten minute smoke break. Evidently there are people out there who want their cocks mock-sucked now, not later! This kind of shit for six bucks an hour!

The other thing that was surprising to me was that I was not allowed to talk about graphic sex on a 900 line. If you want the hard-core phone sex you have to have a credit card and call in on an 800 number, the theory being that will keep minors from getting through. The suckers who call 900 lines can say anything they want, but the operator is supposed to steer them away from sex talk while keeping them on the line as long as possible. Ask them questions like "What do you look like?" and "What are you wearing?" As though you're about to start talking nasty but you never do. A complete fucking scam. No jacking off without proper credit. I love this country. How they separate even the vices they allow. I can talk dirty in a nightclub for a living but if you want to hear it over the phone, bring your bedroom voice and your Visa card ... etc. Of course, you couldn't jack off when I talk dirty in a nightclub (not that you'd want to), nor could you smoke a cigarette afterwards here in California. You could go to a tittie bar where you could have a cocktail and see partial nudity. You still couldn't jack off, and if you wanted to see full nudity you could but you'd no longer be allowed to have a cocktail and chances are she wouldn't talk dirty to you unless you tried to touch her. The only place the girl can touch you is in a massage parlor but she can't be naked, won't let you drink or smoke, probably wouldn't talk dirty and can touch everywhere but there. You could see someone naked and hear them talk dirty in an "R" rated movie but now you can't drink, smoke, jack off or even heckle for that matter. So you go back home to drink, smoke get naked and jack off to porn. Your cable porn won't show penetration and porn without penetration is like Jerry Springer without the fights so you go out to rent some real porn but you can't rent real porn because you don't have a credit card! Besides, if you jack off too much you'll go blind and if you're going blind that's the only way they'll allow you to smoke a joint.

Well, there you have it. I went back to work the next day only on the assurance that they'd let me work on one of the hard-core lines and spent five hours making the most perverse prank calls ever, all at a cost of $4.99 a minute to the customer. It's amazing what a guy will listen to or pretend not to hear when he's right about to come. If I started off too goofy, they'd just hang up but if I played along at first and waited for them to really get into it, I could say anything. "Oh ya, I'd love to fuck your ass! Oh baby, yeah. I'd love to have you fuck me up the ass but I just found out today that I have colon cancer and it's spread to my lymph nodes and it doesn't look very good... But this probably isn't the time to talk about it. Go ahead, fuck my ass! Right past the malignant lump all the way to the bottom, baby!" "I just had my first black guy last week. I swear, he had an eleven inch cock and when he pulled outta me, my ass slammed shut like a car door! I couldn't shit for a week! Finally I had to get in there with a butter knife and start myself like a ketchup bottle! Anyway what do you look like? Me, I'm a 61 year old Korean war veteran, I used to drive cross-country tractor-trailer until diabetes took away my legs. I have three and a half inches of uncut, twisted, herpe-scarred penis and one ball. Geez, I guess I shoulda made something up, huh?" "I used to use gerbils but that got too boring after a while so now I like to get a big string of rats on a rope, shove them up my kucky-hole one at a time and then yank them out just when I start to come. By the way, do you know anything that will get shit stains out of a Persian cat? My mother is going to kill me!"

I was hoping to get fired but no one in charge seemed to be paying attention. I just kept getting more vile and abusive until my shift was over and I was in pain from the laughter. Of course, most of it was "had to be there" funny and never made the act but it was a hell of a good time. And if there's a lesson to be learned it's "don't own a couch in L.A".. Get a love seat, that way, your friends who sleep on it will cramp up after a few days and move on.


During one of my many break-ups with Khrystyne (a.k.a., the perfect girl), I briefly dated a beautiful 22 year old named Renee who I’d met after a show in L.A.. She was eerily taciturn and secretive about her life, like she may be part of some covert orginization or touched inappropriately as a child. I often wondered if she was some high class call girl on the side. Either way, it gave her an air of mystery that piqued your curiosty to levels that could easily be confused with love. She would command the attention of any room she was in without saying a word. I brought her to the Coach and Horses, my usual hangout on Sunset. Guys would line up to hit on her, unsolicited and oblivious to my presense. I swear they would have interrupted her blowing me to try to buy her a drink, which more than likely, she would have accepted.

The Coach, at that time, was a regulars bar and Renee was quickly at the epicenter. One night Renee and a few of my other friends were sitting in a booth and I, standing in front of the booth, had ordered a round of shots for the table. The shots, (April Bombs, a sour apple kamikaze named for our lovely bartender), had just been set down on the table when a guy slid into the empty seat between me and Renee and helped himself to one of the shots.

The guy was named Lorca and was one of the regulars that I knew only on a "hey-how-ya-doin" basis, a regular once removed from the circle I was close to. I'd seen Renee talking to him a few times and couldn't tell if he was trying to be an asshole right now or if he was just a sloppy drunk. I told him politely that the shots were not for him and he just sat there leering across the table, creating an uneasy tension until finally he muttered something benign and stumbled off.

I assumed that he was trying to bone Renee, as everyone else was, and although Renee and I had no commitment, spoken or otherwise, she was my rebound. And sometimes you clutch onto rebound pussy with ten times the zeal as the relationship you're recovering from, for fear of an empty bed. I'm sure this put me a bit more on edge. I'm against violence as are most people who aren't good at it, and while Lorca in no way threatened me physically, the mere hint of it gave me the creeps the rest of the night.

The next night I'm back at the Coach with Mat Becker and Fat Ralphie May, sitting at one of the round tables up front, away from the cool end of the bar but more accommodating to Ralphie's admirable girth. Not late into the evening Lorca again stumbles up to our table, pie-eyed drunk, and sits down without saying a word, leering around the room. When he finally left, I asked Ralphie and Mat if this guy was trying to be a dick or if I was just being paranoid. Mat, a huge conspiracy theorist who assumes that everyone in the bar is on the verge of assaulting him at any given time, went with the "he's a dick" theory and Ralphie, not one to go against the flow, agreed. Still, he hadn't done anything outright to warrant me saying something to him. I'd be hard-pressed to take him aside and say "Quit being creepy," so I just allowed it to again silently ruin my night.

April called last call and shortly after we were all invited to get the fuck out. The bar cleared out onto the street. Ralphie, Mat and I turned left up the sidewalk towards the car and Lorca, a few steps behind, ran right out into Sunset Boulevard and was killed by a car.

Know Your Audience

Here’s the joke. It’s not my joke, just a street joke but it has to do with the story. A pedaphile is walking through the woods with a little kid. Kid says “It’s scary out here.” Pedaphile says “You’re scared? I gotta walk outta here alone.”. Now here’s the story. I’m on the road in Portland, Oregon playing Harvey’s Comedy Club by the train station. I’m working with James Inman, one of the finest alcoholics in the business and born to lose but certainly one of the few people I’d put on my short list of true artists in this business. The Portland condo is right next to a bar which is right next to a porno shop so it’s a natural progression for the likes of me and Inman.

After a few cocktails at the Tiger Bar we adjourned to the smut house, made a couple of obligatory remarks on the latex implements of destruction and then immediately, as though we’d been summoned over a loudspeaker, into the back to the jack-off booths. We took adjoining booths so we could heckle over the wall as we went through the different channels of filth. “Hey, chicks with dicks on channel 5!” This went on for a bit until Inman evidently found what he was looking for and all the jokes stopped. Witty commentary doesn’t come easily when your pounding off. I was still breezing through the menu when I came across a channel showing the porn awards from Las Vegas. Hosting the show is none other than comedian Bobby Slayton. I’m in a whackit box watching Bobby Slayton for a token at a time! I yell over to Inman, “Put on channel 28 quick!”. The last thing you ever want to see when you’re lumping it is a comic who’s doing better than you are.

I walked back out to the front with Inman following shortly afterward. As soon as we leave a guy in his sixties goes into our now vacant booths with a mop. I want to save him the trouble and tell him I hadn’t blown a load but figured an extra wipe-down wouldn’t hurt the place. We chat it up for a bit with the clerk, tell him we’re comics from the club, maybe hoping he’d offer up a complimentary rubber vagina in exchange for passes or something. I’ve tried dropping the comic card with hookers before, thinking maybe they’d be impressed and blow me for the prestige of it all, but so far no luck. Anyway, we’re talking to the clerk when the mop guy comes back to the counter. I invite them to the show, wondering if I’d succumb to the temptation of calling them out of the audience should they show, if I’d be so cold to look down at this sixty year old guy from the stage and innocently say “So, what do you do for a living?”. I probably would. I’m a prick like that sometimes.

An hour later I’m back at the Tiger Bar listening to Inman blather on with his conspiracy theories, some of which are probably true but who cares, when the spankhouse janitor sits down beside me and throws out the industry cliche, “So you’re a comedian? I got a joke you can use in your act!” He proceeds to tell a few terrible jokes that a retarded kid couldn’t laugh at if it were told by a fuzzy puppet. Now it’s my turn, so I tell him a joke. I tell him the pedaphile in the woods joke. He got offended and walked away. The mop-jockey from the jizz booth got offended at my joke and walked away from me. And my management says I just have to find the right audience.

A Brief History About My Dick In Public

When I was about 10 we lived in the small upperclass town of Paxton, MA. We lived right in the center of town and one night when my brother and I were home alone, I rode my bike aroud the town square wearing only my bathrobe, open and blowing in the wind behind me. I then stood on the corner in front of the house and flashed passing cars.

A short while later the police came to the door under the impression that an adult had been the one reported. He left after finding out I was only ten, but I still got in trouble later. My mother was always caught between trying to get me to behave and thinking I was really fucking funny.

Soon after we moved back to Worcester, where in the more blue collar environment, I was again veiwed as a class clown rather than a terribly disturbed child. Regardless, my dick stayed out of the public eye for years.

The first time I was naked on stage was in Austin, TX on Valentines Day 1998. It was the third show on a Saturday called the "Midnight Blue Show" where all of the local comics can go up and clean out their notebooks of all the filth they could never do in their regulars shows. The crowd had already sat through my entire second show and now through six or seven more acts doing their finest vulgarity and now I was due up again. With nothing left in my act to top it, I just went up naked and started doing bad, hackneyed airline jokes until the manager rushed the stage and threw my overcoat over me.

When the booking agent heard about it he cancelled an upcoming week in San Antonio ‘on principle”. I still defend my actions as appropriate at the time.

A few months later at the Montreal Comedy Festival, the Danger Zone show had a naked poet going on stage and were looking for someone to follow him with another genre of naked reading. The same booking agent who’d fired me previously recommended me for the job. One day it’s a pink slip, the next day it’s art. I obliged and went on to read a paragraph from a Charles Bukowski story in which he describes the difficulties in trying to suck your own dick. Upon finishing the story I lay on my back with my knees at my ears and tried to suck my own cock while Spoonman came out and sang a brief song in the buff. I still couldn’t get a deal.

After that my exhibitionism spiraled out of control, off stage if not on, until I finally had to keep it on a “by request only” basis. My mother still thinks I’m really fucking funny.

Name Recognition

This is quite possibly my favorite story all year... Josh Perlman is a comic friend of mine from Chicago, now in L.A.. He was in Vegas at the bar in the Rio hotel where he stumbled upon a hooker, as one is prone to do in that city. He strikes up conversation and, I’m betting, rambled aimlessly until she finally tried to close the deal.

She told him it would be two hundred dollars if he wanted her to come up to his room and “dance” for him. He said that he didn’t want someone to “just dance and asked specifically what he’d get for his money. She paused suspiciously and then asked “Are you a cop?”. He said “No, I’m a comic”. She said “Really? Do you know Doug Stanhope?”

It turns out that it was the ex-wife of a long time friend from Massachusetts. I was the best man at their wedding. I had sex with her shortly after their divorce and it was disappointing for free. I can’t imagine the shame of the man that pays for it but, then again, I guess I can.

I remember she talked all through it, in a bland monotone as though she was reading copy of a seedy porn flick. “ Oh ya, fuck that pussy, baby. Make that big hard cock come for me.” It was embarrassing mostly because we were friends and I’d never be able to look at her the same way again. She ended up telling Josh that it would cost $500 to bone her, adding that he needed to “make up your pretty soon, because I have to pick up my boyfriend at the dentist.”, a selling technique unprecedented in the field of prostitution. I’m assuming that since Josh can rarely buy his own beer, he probably didn’t fork over 500 clams, even with those high pressure sales methods. And although I’m not by any means a household name, it’s good to know I’ve got a following in the hooker community.

Tip Your Waitstaff, or They'll Beat The Fuck Out of You.

The first (and only) time I worked at the Improv in Tempe was December of 1995, and for me, the barometer of how successful a week had been was still whether or not I'd gotten laid. I remember the staff had a football pool of some kind and I made some kind of wager with a waitress with the pretense of "chicks don't know dick about football". I don't remember what the wager was exactly but I know that it was sexual in nature and I know that I made the bet in the presence of the rest of the staff, one of whom I was to find out later was her boyfriend. She'd played along with the bet at the time because they were keeping their relationship a secret. Evidently there was a club rule against interoffice romance. He wasn't really taken aback by the bet, as it was all done in a jokey-flirty manner but I still thought I might be able to fuck her.

After the last show of the week, Sunday, the three of us went to a disco night at some dance club and started in on the Goldschlager pretty heavy, so the rest of this story is told with a standing "To the best of my recollection". I do remember at one point in the evening, while boyfriend was out dancing and the girl and I were talking about road trysts, she asked me, hypothetically, if I'd respect her in the morning should she fuck me. And I'm sure that it may have been strictly hypothetical but at the time, in my booze-saturated head, it meant she was going to blow off her boyfriend and fuck me. We stumbled out at last call and they drove me back to the comedy condo, the boyfriend driving her car and me, in the back trying to focus and still somehow thinking I could still pull this off.

They dropped me in the parking lot and I said good-bye and thanks to the boy and then leaned through the window and gave the girl a big sloppy kiss goodnight, smiled and weaved my way inside. I stood in the condo laughing for a few minutes listening for the car to drive away, part of me actually thinking she might leave him with her car and come inside. I could still hear the car running after a while so I walked back out to see what was going on. Boyfriend was standing outside of the car, yelling through the open window to his lady ", he owes you an apology!" I went over and said that if anything, I owed him an apology but I think I said it in a way that insinuated that I didn't owe her an apology at all, since she wanted to fuck me. This seemed to rile him up even more, who'da guessed, and after a long exchange of words he grabbed me by the throat and slammed me into a car. The girl dragged him off of me (probably leading me to believe that she really wanted to fuck me) and tried to cool him down. I went back over, full of adrenaline and beer-bravado and after another few heated words, head-butted him in the mouth. This was another poor choice in a long night of them but the ensuing scuffle was brief and again, she pulled him away, sat him on the curb and tried to calm him down, while, perhaps, devising a plan to give him the slip and come fuck me.

The drink policy for comics at the Tempe Improv is that you are assigned a member of the wait staff each night and you order through them rather than going to the bar yourself. That night this guy had been assigned as my waiter and had politely refused my gratuity. Now, as he sat enraged on the sidewalk, I thought I was hilarious for walking over and saying "I guess you want that dollar now.". This set him off completely. He sprang from the curb breathing fire and chased me as I ran airplane-style around parked cars, adding in a few Curly-esque "Woo-woo-woo's" before finally running out of gas and falling down on the parking lot where he promptly began delivering a well-deserved ass beating. I've always had a problem with nervous laughter, one that's gotten me hit by any number of girlfriends in the heat of argument. The more you yell at me, the harder I laugh. I can't help it. I'd wished I could at this point because as the waiter sat on top of me punching me in the back of my head, I continued to laugh which only seemed to goad him into hitting me harder which made me laugh more, etc. And he was really beating the fuck out of me.

Finally somebody came along and tried to get him off of me, to which he replied "He tried to beat up that girl!" Now this guy chimes in with "Oh, you like to beat up chicks, huh?" I managed to squeak out, "No I didn't, go ask her." The passerby asked her, she, of course, denied it and the pummeling stopped just as the police showed up. They separated us and sent us on our way, him with the girl (who, after seeing how much punishment I could take, most certainly wanted to fuck me) and me with a broken nose, chipped tooth, various contusions and a commitment never to drink Goldschlager again. I spoke with the manager of the club the next day after he'd spoken with the other two and found out that the only punch I landed, aside from the head-butt was a nice closed-eyed roundhouse to the head of the girl when, at some point, she'd stepped in to break it up. I've never been much of a fighter and probably wouldn't have done any better sober, aside from not being in that position in the first place. The manager asked if I wanted him to take any action against the waiter and I told him no, it was certainly a beating I was asking for. In fact, when I look back at my younger days, I'm surprised that I didn't get my ass kicked a lot more often. One heavy-handed trouncing in all these years of being an asshole is pretty good odds, although I think I'll quit while I'm ahead