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:

http://www.midvalepolice.org/sshreeve.htm

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!”.