I didn't exactly...
Thursday, June 8, 2006 at 3:00AM |
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And, if all I had to say could have been summed up in so quick a sentence, the audience wouldn't have had the time to kill the point by booing. Some of the things I said in Ireland I will repeat in this update. Boo if you like. It won't bother. |
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Kilkenny, Ireland is a quaint village that, to my understanding, is somewhere in Ireland. Perhaps it is even the quaintest town in Ireland. I was there for five days and I will tell you that quaint turns to boring faster than lust turns to shame once you ejaculate. Quaint is good for writing a novel that is going to suck and nothing else. They say that if you're bored, it's because you are boring and I have no reason to say they are wrong. I realize on a daily basis that have very few interests at all. I found myself consciously trying to stop from complaining but I failed and it seemed every utterance was straight from the mouth of Mother.
Misery Loves Comedy Ireland, as luck would have it, couldn't stop complaining either. They were what us city folk like to call "gone apeshit". It seems the news of the day - which turned into the news of the week and is still being milked as I type - had to do with a Supreme Court ruling that made for a small change in the statutory rape laws of the country. |
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Ireland |
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Did you know... |
As I understand it - it used to be that if you were convicted of banging someone under 17, you went directly to jail, no questions asked, even if you believed the person to be of legal age. The courts say that it was unfair not to let a defendant claim that it was an "honest mistake".
Being that the drinking age is 18 and that it is very common to have pubs serve those underage, this all seemed logical to me.
Problem was that - due to the court ruling - a convicted pedophile was released from prison pending a new trial and a few others were attempting to do the same. (Currently there are only 17 people in the entire country in prison for such crimes)
They called the released pedo "Mr A", a pseudonym given so that they might protect the identity of the accuser. "Mr A" was on the cover of all the papers shown with a sportcoat over his head and face as he was lead from the courthouse. The cover stories of those newspapers sent you to the 5 or 8 inside pages that covered the story or related stories until you thought that all of Ireland was under a seige of kid-fucking.
"No wonder this town is so peaceful and quiet. They're all inside the castle walls pooning the children."
Maybe you wouldn't think that but I will tell you who did. All of Ireland seemed to think it. Mass protests in the streets. They were all putting down their bottles and picking up their pitchforks - and then of course realizing they could hold their pitchfork in one hand and still bring the bottle.
I do not in any way distort or embellish the level of frothing hystrionics that enveloped this country. From the moment I stepped off the plane, you would have thought that rouge pedophile cells had flown hijacked planes into the asses of Ireland's innocent youth.
To my great fortune, this segued perfetly into my favorite new material. With all the Myspace/child predator fear-mongering over here in the U.S., it didn't take much coffee to make the two into one long rant about people's over-reactions and delusions to the risk of their child taking unwanted cock.
But I never actually said that Irish women are too ugly to rape. I did say - to Brian Hennigan as we walked down a quaint street from breakfast and looked at the ladies - that women this ugly should be lucky to get fucked at any age - but I never said it on stage.
I'd touched on the subject on the first show just using the current national crisis as a segue to previously written material. The audience fell stunned and silent so I went back to the drawing board and wrote even more about their specific situation.
This is where it really went downhill.
The next night I ventured - on the issue of one making an "honest mistake" and having intercourse with someone you beleived to be of legal age - was that most of the women there were such misshapen pigs, that if you actually were to fuck them, you would be more concerned about what species they were and that you wouldn't ever consider how old they were until days later when - still staring at it - you'd wonder "How long can one of these live?"
Now, maybe you think that's just the same as saying they are too ugly to rape and perhaps it is but I like my version better.
Keep in mind that this wasn't by any means the Crown Jewel of the chunk of material - it's just the one they are misusing in the press. One journalist called my hotel and asked if I'd said that Irish women are to ugly to rape and I replied "Yes, I guess I did say that...in a way... but what I said was..." and then explained the bit. In her article she quoted the part where I said "Yes, I guess I did say that."
No press is bad press - unless you're the guy with the sportcoat over your head being lead from the courthouse.
Back to the show. The crowd went from squirrely to boisterous and bordering on violent before I saw them frantically giving me the light far earlier than my contractual obligation required.
To say I was booed off stage sounds exciting but - since there is no rulebook - I say that it was management that kowtowed to the booing. As my friend Basil White says - "I bathe in your hate" and I could have bathed all night. So long as they kept bringing me beer it would have seemed like fun to me. History is written by the winners or just as easily by the alcohol.
I was pulled from the two remaining showcase shows - shows featuring multiple comics - and had an extra solo show added. Those shows went fantastically. Thanks to those who came and made long jouneys to do so.
As for the mob that took offense, you need more risks in your daily life.
People who lead such drab and quotidian lives are easily swept into this brand of hysteria because - ugly or not - it gives them an outlet for their boredom. This is why they go apeshit when you make jokes about it. The media has given them an outlet for their rage - a rage brewed in living tedious lives of production and servitude with nothing but the lottery for hope. They love the idea that Mr. A might be lying in wait with a dripping boner just outside their playground. Start a lynch mob - even though Mr. A is hundreds of miles away, hiding under his bed from the hoards of paparazzi. And then some comic goes and deflates the balloon by pointing out that the threat is an invention of the media and really doesn't affect them and the comic becomes the asshole. Someone has started jacking them off and if you're gonna interrupt them, goddammit, you're gonna have to be the one to make 'em cum because that hard-on is already in the works.
If I come across like a smart-fuck who thinks he is better, it's not my intention. I beleive - right or wrong - that I am being more logical. And, if anything, that logic makes me even more hopeless than the apeshit masses themselves.
One more note -
I scrutinize my own genralizations more than anyone I know. That said - generally, the women I saw in Kilkenny of any roughly fuckable age were so oddly grotesque that I wish I could have photogrpahed them all to prove a point. Curd-white gooseflesh with a tinge of purple from the cool morning air, boxed asses falling cheekless into cartoon thighs with faces only poultry could love. A strong habit of too-tight shirts with over-stuffed bras that gave the appearance of a g-string over an adult diaper.
Pigs, more than not. I stand by it as did the two journalists that spoke to me by phone. The same lot that told you to be outraged at the start.
A New Cocksucker To Hate.
Like a lot of my gigs, I get an email saying "wanna play my club?" and if the money is right, I say yes. No contracts or bullshit - an email is as good as a handshake and it's rarely gone anything but well.
Rob Jenkins [ http://www.myspace.com/magicrob75 ] of the 8th Street Comedy Club in Odessa, TX emailed just like that in late December and we booked June 22-24.
Yesterday I just happened to check the club site to see I was no longer listed for those dates. I called and emailed but got no response.
Tonight I called the club and Rob answered. I asked him what was up with my week.
"Uh... what week?" He sounds like he is making accidental tinkle.
"June 22-24. Your website has someone else listed."
"Oh... I have you booked for July" he says and that's bullshit because their website doesnt have me there in July either.
I read him the email he'd sent confirming my booking.
There's a long pause as he looks for something to say and then - get this - he hangs up on me!
I call back immediately and it goes to voicemail. After blogging about it on Myspace, I get word from a comic friend that Rob had turned queer on the booking, thinking I wouldn't do well with his audience but he didn't have the undergarb to call to tell me. I guess he was gonna wait until I got to the club?
Fucking faggot. Any decent booker would have acted like he "accidently" double-booked it and that would be the end of it. At least they know the game of how to be scumbags.
I can't seem to get him on the phone to find out why he didn't tell me he wanted to back out or how he intends to make good on this financially. Maybe you can get him on the phone and find out the problem.
The club number is (432)366-5233.
The problem with grand acts of revenge is that they take patience. You want them to be creative, to have story value. You have to wait until your no longer angry to plot them and turn them into works of art. Otherwise, revenge is just wasted negative energy.
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So, in the meantime, I will soothe myself by imagining Mr A travelling across the Atlantic in a steam ship, seeking refuge in the New Country. He will wander west across the great plains and eventually to the oil fields of West Texas where he will comfort himself in the welcoming bottom of Rob Jenkins child - who he finds squatting in the rotting garbage piled by the flat tires of the ex-Mrs Jenkins broken motorhome. He will continue - in my imagination - to plunder her screaming innocence until her inner organs spill like gumbo from her lower holes and eventually lead to her being confined to a motorized chair, simple of mind due to sexually transmitted menengitis and coughing from the unrelenting smell of potato fammine rise is waves from her blistered snatch. |
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Well, I guess that's that.
It'll be a while but there will be future updates about this here situation with Rob. And it'll be worth the wait. Stay tuned.
No great story from Holland. Only had 24 hours in Rotterdam to film a television show, no time to get into trouble. Besides, all those things that are legal there are just as much fun and readily available here illegally. But I'll be back.
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