Marty was discriminating himself as no longer a comedic savant.
A child actor by trade, and eternally, he walked the path that many of his preceding young acting mentors. Drugs, a close relationship with booze and the law, and wanton desperation to regain the respect he once had for himself. He’s lived several lifetimes and only finds himself in his mid-thirties.
I’ve lost my mojo, and that is not some sort of silly metaphor for coffee bean distributor. Maybe I’ll write that down…
Six children went prancing up the hill with Rip Torn…
NO! that’s already pathetic. I can’t do this.
It was increasingly more difficult for Marty to concentrate on writing material for his struggling stand-up comedy career. He had been convinced by his Life Coach that he ‘could make it if he tried’. And ‘new found success would be right around the corner if he believed in the power of God and The Secret’.
What would Jesus or Oprah write if they were comedians?
The funniest standalone things that exist in the world we live in…umm….Seagulls…hemmorhoids…the name ‘Florence McElroy Furbelow’ spelled just like that pronounced with a Scottish accent…and maybe some sort of fruit should be included.
Hardly inspiring himself to even lift his own pencil, Martin retired from his kitchen to his bedroom. Virtually one in the same, he lived in a shoebox sized studio off of Cahuenga. The floor was covered in taco shell crumbles that slowly disintegrated into his carpet as they crunched beneath his moccasins in just enough time for his next binge. When planes roared overhead the bits of shell danced about as if on a wailing speaker cone. His terrier mix, ‘Bravo’, barked at the unconventional earth tremors.
Marty bombed the night before opening for Bobby Lee. It had been some time since crickets had been heard at Laughs Inc. At least he was memorable. Lee exchanged several unfavorable words with him after his set.
“My name is Martin, thank you for your warm welcome even though I have reason to believe that none of you have liked me since the early 80′s. I can see that a man sitting in the cheap seats is actually sharpening a knife. Sir, don’t bother I’ll take care of that myself, after the show. Folks, this is called dry-humor. It’s funny though, you can’t deny that.”
The crowd appeared nervous and hesitant to be the first to either laugh or boo. They glared about the room in harmony looking to gauge one another’s reactions.
“Did I mention that I might have hemmorhoids? I think a seagull may have given them to me after we both got really drunk last night.”
The following day there was a knock on the door. It was Sam, the land-’lady’ and it was the 5th of the month. Sam was the epitome of all cliche butch dykes.
Do you shop out of some sort of lesbian catalog? Marty pondered, as he tasted a sourness in his alcohol ridden breath. He knew this time was on the horizon and he made well sure to be sauced for it.
Mulllet, no bra, missing canine tooth, plaid flannel jacket, birkenstocks, musk, hair that is not normally found on a woman, and a groin forest that would make Yellowstone National Park blush. She had a major case of the uglies, and unfortunately Martin had an affinity for Scotch and not paying his rent.
Nature or nurture, that is the operative question. No, Sam’s lesbianism was pavlovian. She was thoroughly tormented by boys where she grew up.
It was nothing really personal. Typical teenage angst. She was simply an easy target. Acceptance didn’t come hastily or without a price paid. She rug munched half off the girls JV basketball team before finding her place among the ranks of high school.
“Folks, we’ve shared very few laughs tonite and you’re no different than the audience I faced two nights ago or two nights ahead. If I choose to keep myself alive; scumbags. But, I’ve come to an important realization. No matter how many jokes I make about fucking seagulls, hemmorhoids, broccoflower, or any combination of the three, I will never be able to deliver anything convincing. That’s simply because, in the corner of my feeble mind, I know that no joke I can tell can match the pathetic hilarity of my own private life. You want funny, you fucking assholes? How about having anal sex with a 200lb part-time bull-dyke in order to avoid paying rent money that I don’t have, a plane roars overhead, she falls off my bed smashing my dog into a carpet of crushed taco shell crumbs. My dog stood back up revealing that his asshole wet from shitting out of pain and despair, had now taken the resemblance of a sea anemone with the addition of the crumbs.
The dog died later that night and the dyke is pregnant. Have a good night folks.”
