My new mission in life is to prevent scurvy. It is known by many names. Barlow's disease. Cheadle's disease. Moeller's disease. Pirate AIDs. Miami’s Black Plague. That thing that is up with Edward James Olmos’ skin. The point is that Scurvy is also known by a new name: swine flu. We brought it upon ourselves by not feeding enough limes to our pigs. To combat this threat we must be prepared for tangy bacon, bitter bologna, and sour ham hocks!
The utterance of these names has caused men more brave than I and robots programmed with no emotion to scream like a marsupial that had discovered that he has no pouch. “Where will I put all my chewing gum, condoms, and various trinkets?!” he cries out to the cold and foreboding world. “And why do I suddenly have Scorbutic gums and Psoraisiform hyperplasia?”
The answer is surprisingly simple. Ye doth need more Vitamin-C in yer diet! There are multiple things that you can eat which will prevent Scurvy and get you all of your required daily dosage of Vitamin-C. All of which can be found in your local supermarché! Lemons, Limes, Oranges, Grapefuits, other people who don’t have Scurvy. With enough money, you can purchase any of these things. Or with enough guile you can steal them. Or with a high enough persuasion skill and a skill check, you may be able to convince someone to give them to you. This last option is particularly easier if you have a bear on a chain or a gun that can shoot flaming tires. Nothing says “Help me or die!” like a bear on a chain or flaming tires!
But wait! Isn’t Scurvy a problem for people on ships and large Spanish galleons adrift on the Triangle Trade? We don’t use boats anymore. Those were clumsy and random. Cars are the transportation for a more civilized age. Well, you would be right. We no longer do our slave trading by boat but by cars! Specifically vans and trucks. But if you add a sail to any of those, they begin to look awfully like a boat. So, fill you gas tank with oranges! And slaves (or indentured servants)! Kill two birds with one small, cramped compartment! If anyone objects, hit them with your oranges! Problem solved. They don’t even leave bruises. Why should you listen to me when I am obviously mad? Because I look good in a pair of Ray-Bans and can name at least three different types of cheeses, that’s why! I look better than Tom Cruise did in Top Gun and I know what parmesan is! Which is apparently all that is required for a PhD these days.
A while ago I did an interview with Rob Delaney regarding an upcoming show of his in Boston. Well, Rob has been busy since then and recently came out with this Mass based Mad Men parody which also features New Kid on the Block Joey McIntyre!It is doing really well at FunnyorDie.com. Rob asked me to share this all with you. Watch and enjoy!
Finally! After lots of audio recordings, I was able to get a set professionally recorded. I've been going to the Shaskeen for a while now and have been going roughly once a week since I got home from college (discounting my one trek down to Mottley's Comedy Club in Boston). This room is awesome, even providing a videographer who will record your set for a cheap price. This week, it was packed to roughly 60-75 people. So, on the bright side I had a large crowd to play to and on the downside, I had a large crowd to play to. Blessing and curse. Lots of energy. Lots of noise to contend with. Overall, this set was not my best but I am glad that we were able to get it filmed. A solid set with only a few slow points, I hope you all enjoy it.
Special thanks to Lisa Romagnoli of Notion Films and Kurt at aspecialthing.com!
I have come with tidings from the Future. It is the year 2011. The Future is a fantastic place, ye olde time tenants, let me tell you! Everything you can’t imagine is real. Corn Dogs are sentient and are popular house hold pets, particularly in Nebraska and the Irish countryside. Cars are now called “Mobile Non Sex Time Pods.” We no longer sweat, we cry through our skin. Bathrooms now come in pill form. Robots are common place and are largely responsible for the revival of Jherri curls. You haven’t lived until you’ve gotten a massage from a cupcake dispensing robot adorned with Jherri curls. Literally. You haven’t lived. We changed the definition of “alive.” If you die before getting your government mandated robotmassage, it is considered an abortion. And it is 100% legal. Only the strong survive a robotmassage.
“How is this so?” you ask. (I knew you would ask it. I’m from the florpin’ Future!) Well, after Barack Obama ascended into the Heavens to help Bhudda with some calculus homework, the power vaccum was filled by the violent duo of Her Royale (with Cheese) Highness Mila Jovovich and her loyal servant Leonard Maltin. Using a complex rating system, Maltin rated all of the nation’s problems on a scale from Five Stars to "Stuff We Gots To Fix". In the now infamous “Operation Wicker Man”, Her Royale (with Cheese) Highness Jovovich proceeded to punch all of those problems into Asia, all the while looking sexy while doing it. As a result, the land you know as “Russia” is only called “The Mayonnaise Swamp”. You’ll understand when it happens. All I’m saying is that you should put a lot of money on “Madea goes to Jail” if you are betting on the Oscars. Also, you might want to learn a few magic tricks. We no longer pay for goods and services with your outdated concept of money. Your value will be measured in smiles and confused children.
But I’ve spoken long enough for now. I don’t want to risk ripping the space-time continuum as new asshole. It already has 7. And that is 6 too many.
May Patrick Stewart's Voice ring through your ears and fill your heart with Lust,
You and I have a beef to settle, friend. Now, before I begin I want to let you know that I still think you are a good person. Everything seems more exciting when you’re around and I really appreciate it. But our relationship as of late has been a little rocky and I feel that we need to act like adults and talk about it. No hard feelings. I just can’t lie to myself any longer. It is tearing my heart in two. And I need that. Otherwise, I’m no better than Pinocchio: a heartless puppet. Do you know where he is now? He’s the Craigslist Killer. And I hope they catch him. I need the firewood.
Monster Drink, I’ve never understood what crack addicts feel like until now. You give me the jitters. And I’m not talking about the nervous jitters of the various virgins during the feast of Thorrablot but the straight up Michael J. Fox “We’ve gotta go back to the Island, Kate!” jitters. The twitches are getting noticeable. Just this morning, I hit a small child with a wooden chair. In my rage, I tried to create a fire by rubbing it with another chair. I am told that when forced to explain myself to the authorities I simple sated: “Boy Scouts!”
Additionally, I am worried because I don’t fully understand what you are. To my understanding you are either a drink FOR monsters, which means that our love is clearly forbidden. Or you are a drink FROM monsters. Now, I think this one is the more likely. After all, you seem to simply be a can filled with monster piss. This worries me to no end: if you are monster piss (as your color would suggest), why do you taste so good? Where do you come from, Monster Drink? And what kind of a game are you trying to pull? My piss is now the same color as you. This is even more frightening. Does this now make me a monster? If you came from a monster and made me a monster, am I simply perpetuating the cycle? Am I making more monster drink? The connotations are sinister to say the least.
Lastly, why haven’t you started a large marketing campaign with the upcoming “Where the Wild Things Are” movie? It seems like a smart idea. I mean, it is rare to see monsters get a film where the whole cast is monsters. Particularly ones who don’t just play servants, gang members or some sort of anachronistic shaman or voodoo priestess. I am glad to see that we are finally moving beyond that dark chapter in our nation’s history. I hear that some fresh-faced monster senator from Illinois is making a lot of commotion lately and that the Demonstercratic Party might want to put him forward as their candidate. Good for you monster drink. But why not seize on this moment and talk to Spike Jonze about his movie. I am sure he would love to have you.
Until then, I just need some time to sort things out. No hard feelings,Monster Drink.
I have been given a tiny wooden katana. From Japan. What now? How can you threaten me when I can cut through your dreams? This is Hattori Hanzo wood, my friend. Bullets, Baseballs, Bears, Babies, Barracudas, Barack Obama, Bodies of celestial light, Back Alley Abortionist, Bagels, Bridges to Terabithia, Butter, Blow jobs. This katana can cut through anything so long as it starts with the letter B.
And as long as we are talking about "Letter B", I will make it explicitly clear that I will not Let You Be! I've watched over 50,000 individual Japanese anime series! I know how to kill you in ways only a fucking crazy Asian with too much time on his hands can think of. I will cut a bi-plane in half, pick up the wings, and fly you into the Sun! I will cut off a bear's claws and make you into my personal hand puppet!
Too short of a range to be practical? Yes. And don't you forget it. Made of a material which can be easily broken? So are your bones! This wood has been lacquered. It has no equal.
Picture this:
A man approaches me. I have an expensive watch on, which also doubles as a calculator and tip percentage finder. He is exasperated and out of breath.
"Excuse me, sir? Do you know what time it is?" he asks, fearing that he is late for his 10th wedding anniversary dinner with his wife at TGI Friday's after missing the midtown bus to the strip mall due to a stop at the T-Shirt Bodega.
"Time for you to die." I say after finishing the last bite of my Muscle Milk bar.
F'Twang! I deftly cut through his brain! He should asked me when I was in a better mood, preferably after re watching The Princess Diaries on DVD. Too bad he caught me on a day when I was watching Pocahontas IV: Grandmother Willow's Revenge.
I am going to film this and every other kill. I will sell the collection on VHS, calling it Tiny Sword: You Killed My Father, Prepare to Die! I will sleep with it under my pillow so I can practice safe sex. I will not open bathroom stalls. I will cut them open along with your bowels. When I am arrested, I will hide the Tiny Katana in mid air, pulling it out and cutting the bars of my cell. Their reinforced steal will melt like melty stuff before my blade.
Consider this a warning. A Declaration of Bad Ass-ipendence. I may as well be the wind at your back or the steam rising off your coffee cup. I will strike suddenly. I will employ explosive powders. And I will become the greatest Pokemon Master ever. And by Pokemon Master, I mean that I will cut off your balls and throw them at animals and pretend that I am capturing them.
I will be seeing you soon. You will not be seeing me.
I am slowly getting vexed. I am too short to adequately reach my mailbox. How am I to retrieve my parcels and correspondences? I have tried everything from step ladders and platform shoes but I cannot help thinking that people are lauging at me. It might have to do with the fact that I keep hearing laughter when I go out in public. If only they knew how important it was that I get my mail. It might look like old issues of Rolling Stone and money that my parents send me but it actually is my next orders and my allotted $20 to spend on weapons and bribes. See, they wouldn't be laughing if they knew the truth. I mean, they'd be like "Oh wow, that's cool." and I'd be like "I can't let you know the truth." BAM!
But for like 5 seconds, I would be the coolest guy around! Why can't they understand that these platform shows are only temporarty until I can get a midget riding a dumbwaiter installed? They probably think I like walking around like this and having birds nest in my afro. "Why an afro?", some of you say. Well, I wasn't just going to wear the platform shoes without completing the look. It's like the book Black Like Me except I'm an assassin! Sure it shocked them when one day I was a small, white man named Alex Mac and the next day I was a tall, black man named Alex Mac but I think they are getting used to it. I bet you this is how Robery Downey Jr. felt when filming Tropic Thunder.
Its been really hard since I havn't been able to use my $20 munitions money for any weapons beyond a box of plastic knives. The rest has been going to my Midget on a Dumbwaiter fund. Do you know how expensive it is to hire a midget on a dumbwaiter? $250,378! At a rate of 20 dollars a month plus payment for each assassination it will take me about thirty years to raise that kind of money. Thank Zeus that midgets stay small. I swear if I open that box and he is not still a "Moderately Short 8 Year Old" size, I will be so angry.
For that matter, do you know how long it takes to kill someone with a plastic knife?
This is frustrating on so many levels. But I know all my investments will pay off when I am a moderately tall white assassin disguised as black assassin with a killer afro who has a midget in a dumbwaiter get his mail every morning.
I can tell by the look on your face that you are confused. Well, technically it is the look on my face. Let me explain first. Well, you are my clone. My less sexy clone. Indeed, we look the same except for the fact that you are cross eyed. There were complications in the cloning process that lead to some irreparable damages during your formation. Now, I need you to promise not to be upset if I tell you why. Promise? Pinky Promise? Good.
Well, first of all it is very expensive to clone someone when you are living on a meager income. As such, certain shortcuts needed to be taken in the cloning process. The most effective one taken was in the selection of where we were to obtain the DNA sample. It is a little known fact about cloning that all it requires is an EasyBake Oven, some tenacity, and a single hair. We obtained our hair sample from my ass.
You are probably wondering why I cloned you from my ass hair. Certainly, there are plenty of other places to get hair. You would be correct. However, once we look at this logically, you will agree that my decision was well reasoned even if now you look like you are pepetually solving a very hard math problem. First, why not the hair from my head? That seems like the best place. Well, you would be wrong. Cloning is complex. If any of my choices were simple, my clone would be simple as well. Would you have liked that? Being simple? Living on a farm in Arkansas and working the dull dust of the land, hoping that one day you might be able to grow some corn? I think not. No, you were meant for a more exciting life. You were cloned to be my stunt double in case I ever date a Sadist. Your life is the glorious life of a gimp. I will not deny you such a glorious existence!
So, normal hair was out of the question. Why not use nose hair? Well, to be quite frank: I just didn't want to even risk it. Nose hair plucking is a highly dangerous process much in the vein of bomb diffusal. Also, it hurts. It really hurts. The nose is sensative for a reason and I can only assume that it is God's way of saying "Don't make your clones using nose hair!" And I don't want to anger God. I just want to play God.
By now we were running a bit low on potential places to get hair from. If we used armpit hair, you would not be a man right now. You would be a small Bernese Mountain Dog. Yes, I am afraid to admit that my armpit hair is not my own. Ever since I was in a freak "Let's See How Close I Can Get This Zippo To My Armpit" accident. And I assume that my potential dominatrix girlfriend wants a human gimp and not a doggie gimp. Who knows? Maybe she would enjoy both but my job is to make reasonable decisions and a doggie gimp is somewhere in the catagory of "Circumstantially Reasonable to Assume as a Sexual Fetish" than "Reasonable to Assume as a Sexual Fetish."
What did that leave? Pubic hair? I am afraid that would be impossible. I only get Brazillian Waxes and I only get on every fith vernal equinox. I wasn't going to use my chest hair since the only chest hair I have creates a tiny "happy trail" down towards my Grudel (which I have somewhat affectionately and playfully nicknamed "Grendel"). That left one place only. My ass.
Now, I have answered your question. Please stop drooling everywhere.
It is hard to think of a better artisan of the absurd than the late Mitch Hedberg. While comedy and the aburd usually are very tight friends, there are very few comedians around that really fall directly into this niche. Today's champion of the absurd non-sequiter is undoubtedly Eugene Mirman. Before his death, the undisputed king of the surreal was Mitch Hedberg.
Recorded a mere two months before his death in 2005, Do You Believe in Gosh? is then, a window into an artist's mind when he is both at the height of his game and near the end of his metaphysical rope. To this end, Gosh? is both an amazingly tight set and at time, a more personal one. Fans of Mitch's earlier work will notice that he is far more assured in his delivery, especially when compared to Strategic Grill Locations. This is indicative of just how fast he was evolving his act. Mitch, for all his seeming nonchalance, shows that his dedication to his craft and the creation of material obviously consumed a large part of his time. It is downright inspiring to see how many angles and approaches that one man can come up with.
His genius is perfectly captured in the track titled Phil, where Mitch handily deals with a drunken heckler and manages to create some amazingly creative counters with such profound self assurance that the level of talent displayed is downright frightening.
Still for all of its cohesiveness, I am unsure if this is the best Mitch album if you are a new listener. It is absolute gold for any previous fan, a cult followers wet dream. Add it to your collection and you will not be disappointed. But then again, you should add all of Mitch's works to your library.
They are required listening for any student of comedy, after all.
Congratulations! You found my super secret blog of justice. Contained here are the inner workings of my mind. From general rants to movie reviews, comedic writings, web comics and more!
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