Last night I did a show in Evansburg Alberta. The show went reasonably well, with only a minor hitch or two along the way. The crowd was nice, but not as rowdy as I would have expected. In every respect it was your typical rural town watering hole. (Although cleaner than most.) The first thing I noticed when I walked into the bar was a shrine to Dale Earnhardt junior. It was a little odd I thought, but not to be unexpected. People in small towns like racing. They love it in fact. The whole thing is lost on me.
I have to admit, I loathe NASCAR. I just don’t get it. Watching cars go round and round in a circle for a few hours is fucking boring. Truly I’ve a hard time imagining anything that might be more boring to me. I’ve sat through insurance seminars, and mid level marketing pitches that were light years more interesting. I would rather push needles into my eyes, and be forced to watch “Mary Kate and Ashley go to Europe” (The outtakes in Amsterdam are not to be missed! At one point Ashley gets sold by Mary Kate to a sex show for a carton of smokes and a mickey of Absinthe… And the hilarity ensues…) than ever spend an afternoon watching NASCAR.
But I digressed, after the show, the other comics and I sat with the owner of the pub, and proceeded to get blotto. It was nice to sit around a get shit faced and shoot the shit for a while. The owner of the venue likes comedy a lot, and has surprisingly very sophisticated tastes. He knew his shit, which is totally nice to see. It sure beats those venues where the staff treats you like a karaoke machine, or sees you as the latest form of trash they’ve been forced to foist on stage.
When I finally crashed out at the hotel, I wound up having a very strange dream. I dreamt that I was performing at a show, and things were going reasonably well (Not the odd part…) when suddenly the fire alarm went off. People started panicking, and for some reason the best I could muster was to stand there and jiggle my nuts.
People were screaming, smoke started to fill the room, and I just stood there with a big fat idiot grin, rooting around with my ball sack. It was the best I could do in the situation. That’s fucked. (That’s inkblot and straightjacket fucked!)
It’s important to note, that I did not panic. It was quite the opposite in fact. The world was burning around me, and I happily failed to see the sense of urgent emergency and impending doom. I was like Nero, but the fiddling was entirely different.
The dream really bothered me. I’d like to think in the middle of chaos I would react in a fashion that’s dictated by the moment.
But in a strange way, this dream is kinda like how I imagine George Bush reacts to a crisis. Given that he looks like a cross between Glen Quagmire and Alfred E. Neumann, it’s really not hard to imagine him playing pocket pool in the middle of the maelstrom.
This is what I picture in my mind’s eye. Condi Rice spinning in a circle, screaming something like “Sweet Jesus, We’re all gonna die…” and Donald Rumsfeld running around with a fire extinguisher barking out “Outta my way, I’m a fucking hero you bitches…”
Dick Cheney is putting his “Emperor” from Star Wars robes on, while rubbing his hands together like Golem. “Soon the precious will be mine… Muahahahahahahahahaha!”
And Georgie boy is just standing there having a good ole Texas style root at his berries.
Now that’s what I call “The Leader of the Free World.”
Good news, only two days left until all those evil fuckers get a massive shake up. Soon George will be an early lame duck, and congress will be run by shiftless Liberals. This will likely not change the amount ball massages in Washington, but at least the Republicans will be castrated.
End of Transmission.
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