Sacramento, Reno, The Carribean, Jamaica, West Palm Beach

Sacramento A 74-0 blowout on the gridiron sounds like a game you'd leave at halftime but this one was probably the most entertaining football game I have ever been to - NFL, XFL, Arena or otherwise. The Sacramento Sirens are unbeaten in their two seasons in the IWFL. Andrist spots it in the paper that they're playing an exhibition game and we are immediately in tailgate mode. We can only drum up six of us total - 3 comics, a process server who'd delivered me a summons the night previously and his two buddies - enough to spell S-I-R-E-N-S across our chests except the opener was afraid of getting watercolor in his chest hair, leaving us one S short. Oh, those Jews and their hangups.

The fact that they didn't serve alcohol in the stands was probably the only thing that kept the thing from going out of control. Sober and in the midst of 50 or 60 low-key family types, we decided it wouldn't be fair to piss all over their Saturday afternoon. The game was so lop-sided that we over and cheered possibly against their will - for the Redding team in the 3rd quarter before going back to cruise the Sacramento sidelines for hotties.

Oh, did I mention? The Sacramento Sirens are chicks. Big, bad, angry motherfucking chicks. From the monstrous Dana "D-Train" McIntyre to little Julie "Wicked" Wicher who scored about every 30 seconds and made "22" my new favorite number.

Half the team was at our show that night, listening as Andy begged them to put their unwashed jockstraps on e-Bay and probably thought he was kidding.

The IWFL has teams all over the country and I would definitely suggest packing a flask in your coat pocket and taking in a game. And guys - I noticed a lot of these girls weren't wearing rings, if you know what I mean. If you like short hair and all.

See you at the championships in July.

 Reno

Renee showed up just in time before the Sirens could sweep me off to a bar called "Choices" to break the bad news to me. In the morning we headed to Reno, again finding some great seedy neon motels - the Golden West going high above the call of duty by having rotary dial and bandaids covering bullet holes in the ceiling. That kind of rot and nostalgia is what keeps Reno yards above Vegas for anyone who has any humor in their souls. Dying shells of people meandering across the streets under the flashing clown, 30 dollar rooms and vintage cars with original owners. A condom in a tumbleweed. Men with tattoos on their knuckles who aren't afraid of anything except the sushi, and for good reason. I could live in this town if I weren't headed in the opposite direction.

We headed south from Reno to Tahoe and then Beatty, where we drank at the Stagecoach Casino lounge to be stylings of the Enchantments. At midnight, Renee had them sing me Happy Birthday - more to end the string of Casio keyboard-driven Huey Lewis numbers than out of any real celebration. I'm 37 years old. As a comic I can't remember once said, "There ain't no pony anymore."

Royal Carribean Cruise Lines 

Rogan was the smart one when he passed on this one. Comedy Central is filming promos on a Royal Carribean Cruise and they're going to pay me to go. A sucker bet, sure but what the fuck. Plus, I can bring Mother. I have never in my life heard someone come back from a cruise and say they were really happy they went. I'm sure someone has said it but I purposely avoid those people. RC's Voyager of the Seas is a floating Mall of America, a fifteen floor cattle trough of people who need to be told how to have fun. The size of the ship is awestriking. The size of the ship-goers is appalling. The hoards of shrieking children running in spastic circles as though on fire made you want to loosen a railing on the viewing deck. Nervous buffet squatters freebasing Dramamine as preventative medicine and taking notes at the lifeboat drill.

Women and children first, my foot. This is the Darwin's boat and it's survival of the fittest. If the band has their instruments in their hands when this pig goes down, it's only to swat your shit-eater overboard.

All the fun to be had on a cruise seems pretend and it's all things you could have done right there in Knoxville, stupid. They have a pretend dance club, a pretend skating rink, a faux-Irish pub. They even have a Johnny Rockets. It's almost like not going anywhere at all. The only way you could out-stupid a cruise as a form of vacation is to find a way to actually transport your own home into the middle of the ocean, draw the blinds and play with your GameCube while you float.

Too add suck to shitty, we spent 12 hour days shooting some the most unfunny promo scripts ever written. Fortunately Nick DiPaolo was on the boat, too, and no one is funnier in a bad situation than Nick. Nick can take a bad day - add anger, racism, sexism, vulgarity, edge, bitter and spite - and turn it into the hardest you've ever laughed.

The producer from Comedy Central was Mike Klinghoffer. The name Klinghoffer sound familiar? As in Leon Klinghoffer, the old guy on the Achille Lauro in the wheelchair - the one the terrorists shot and threw off the boat?

Mike is his second cousin. Such a glaring bad omen and still I hit the casino after hours. 1900 dollars and you don't even get free drinks, you cocksuckers, suckers of cock. Never play roulette on a moving surface. I'm now sure they can time the waves with the wagers. The Titanic could have avoided that iceberg but someone loaded up on Double Zero. Rapists.

Three and Three-Quarters Hours in Jamaica - A Travelog 

Fuck this shithole, yes Mary. Fuck it but good. You barely get ten feet off the boat before these parasites try to rabbit-ear your pockets. You can take that big phoney smile and eat shit with it, "Mon". Those pricks on the cruise ship took me for 1900 in their so-called casino so you can suck my cock and still go back to your shanty-house with not a penny.

This is Ocho Rios - the driver tells me while careening down the wrong side of the road - which means Eight Rivers. Wow, isn't that interesting? Keep your eyes on the road, fuckie. Columbus brought you smallpox for a reason, now I know. Eight rivers and the one that isn't full of untreated sewage is probably running the blood of 1,000 murdered tourists out to sea.

The climate in Jamaica may have been nice but I was too busy watching our backs to notice. I look up for half a second to check for clouds and they'll pull Mother in an alley and cut out her mouth to pawn her bridgework.

The cuisine in Jamaica is shit. I didn't eat it but I saw a guy at the airport eating something out of a styrofoam carton. Some type of meat - monkey or maybe a baby arm - on a bed of fouled rice. I ain't eating that shit. He ate every tainted kernel and then tried to suck the seasoning out of the bottom of the box. They'd eat ticks off you ears in this shithole and then ask you for money.

Fuck this place. When's this fucking plane gonna get here, anyway?

West Palm Beach 

Ah, finally an Improv that doesn't make you feel like you should be wearing a name tag.

Yes, it was a good time and thanks to the Sunday crowd bearing coke and to the staff. I'm still hungover.

But in the meantime - as I sit here writing - Stern is fined almost half a million dollars and dumped permanently from Clear Channel. Is there no corporation with any balls out there? You motherfuckers. I got nothing else.

Here - read this in the meantime. And turn off the tv and the radio while you do it.

Youngstown, OH.

Not everyone in Youngstown, Ohio is a fucking idiot but the ones that are will make you forget about the rest.

The Funny Farm Comedy Club is located in the Holiday Inn Metroplex, in the back room of "Choices" nightclub. Only "Chances" or "Cock-Eaters" could sound more like gay bar names than "Choices". Maybe it was an intentional move to lure queers in for an old-fashioned stomping. And if the name won't lure em, the music will. "Billie Jean" and "Walking on Sunshine" are as popular now as they were when they opened this brass-railed mood-hole in the 80's and everyone from 21- 66 is manuvering ineptly on the dance floor.

Don't worry if you're finding it hard to leave that infectious Sisters Sledge groove behind, because it bleeds right through into the comedy club, giving a bowel-shaking bass soundtrack to every punchline. Still, there are plenty of people who can talk over both the jokes and the tunes. These people are called the audience and gosh, do they suck.

Again, not all of them - just the ones you remember.

I remember you, the meth-crippled kid in the front that kept trying to convey an idea in one everlasting run-on sentence until you were shuffled without resistance towards the door. I know you were trying to help - or to get help - but I think you just needed rest more than anything.

And I remember middle-age business guy with his two associates, he was a stereotype movie heckler whose entire life can be read in a glance from across the room. This isn't your first Holiday Inn by any means, is it, my friend? You're position has allowed you to travel the entire midwest circuit all in a newish Ford Taurus provided by the company. Perhaps a cellular provider or an Orkin distributor. You take off your wedding ring when you hit town, more to impress the guys you work with than for any real hope of landing some action.

I can almost see you lean into your cohorts and say with a wink "Watch this!" before bleating out an inane cliche to the comic on stage and then another wink to your friends as they wish they had stayed in the room. You were a high-yeild asshole in your fraternity days and but you traded that in for a life of wrinkle-free khakis and spread sheets. But now and again you can show you've still got it by being a smart-alec at a karaoke night in a Fort Wayne Marriott or by demanding that they take a little something off the bill since the restaurant was out of rice pudding.

You too will have to be walked out in a shuffle, the doormen now more like sanitarium orderlies than bouncers. You will show your Holiday Inn Priorities Club Card in protest and be dumbstruck that it does

you no good.

Don't feel badly. I envy you. I wish it were me being walked out ahead of schedule. In this drop-ceiling convention room, stacking chairs and folding banquet tables on a stage where so many Shriners have auctioned fruit cakes for burn victims. I wish it was me they were taking out.

They say this is a mob town but I can't imagine what is here that the mob would want any peice of. Like seeing gang insignia in a men's room and wondering what self-respecting street outfit would claim a IHOP shitter as it's "turf".

Whoever said "You can't go home again" surely came from someplace great. But I come from a place like Youngstown and always seem to wind up back in those places despite my best intentions.

---

These girls came all the way from Pittsburgh to see the Youngstown show. Why? Because the one young lady has a wobbly heart for Joe Rogan and since I work with Rogan... well I don't quite know where it was supposed to go from there but they asked if I would kindly put their tits on my website, maybe as a final desperate plea for Joe to see how much they care. So here are your titties, girls. May their exposure to the world bring you all the peace and comfort you desire.

Quickie

Ah, not enough time to update, not enough so you'd understand. In the last week I have boxed Tonya Harding, journeyed to Vegas with Andy Andrist for Arena Football and diseased gambling, re-shot 10 episodes of The Man Show as the FCC begins rationing your already-limited portions of truth and smoked DMT with Rogan where I was immediately transplanted into the center of the Universe, watching all information and reality sucked thru a black hole and let to understand the meaning of life.

Now I'm on my way to play a club in a casino in Bettendorf.

You learn to adapt.

An update will come soon. Until then - email this man. He is an enemy of humanity. He is the chairman of the FCC, the man who used - or who waited for - Janet Jackson's Tittie to springboard his McCarthyist smut-quashing campaign no differently than GWB milked the raw cow-tit of 9/11 to legitimize himself as a leader.

Michael.Powell@fcc.gov

Email him and tell him you want freedom of speech on the airwaves. Tell him that parents should not use governments to babysit their offspring. Tell him that everyone - including his own sad self - has nipples and that they are not dirty, much less worthy of senate hearings, shock-jock firings and blanket media reprisals.

Or just tell him anything you'd like to have the freedom to hear via the privately owned media.

Then mass email your friends to email him.

Michael Powell said he received shitloads of email after the SuperBowl from irate viewers. Thats because the masses who didn't give a fuck don't have time or need to email worthless shitheads.

Make the time and fake the need. Make this person fear for his position in the food chain.

Until then, I will try to put more of this week into an update.