2B
ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES
Wednesday, October 14, 2015 // The Statement
“
Jeremiah was a bullfrog!
Was a good friend of mine!”
– a genius.
Can I call this a humor col-
umn yet? Whenever someone
asks me about it (this has hap-
pened twice), I want to say, “I
write humor, nyah!” but I’m
afraid they’ll stab me in the eye
with a copy of the New Yorker.
Or vomit. Ah well. Living is
the worst part about life. Also,
genocide, rape and death. Also,
socks with holes in ‘em.
So I like comedy. I laugh at
my own jokes: What did the
entomologist’s
mother
say
when her son’s Drosophila
melanogaster was depressed?
“Your fly is down.” Hilarious.
Important. Italics.
I did stand-up comedy for
the first time last Saturday.
Here’s the story. It’s a tear-
jerker so get your Kleenex™
(“Kleenex: Ah. Now that’s good
wipin’.”).
Sunday (one week before the
show)
I lay face down on my floor
and thought about failing and
depression
and
loneliness.
Then I wondered who played
the Inspector in Young Fran-
kenstein ... Kenneth Mars! I
thought about failing again.
In a fit of sweaty determina-
tion, I resolved to write some-
thing every day, revolutionize
comedy, subvert the medium,
invent a medium, look up the
definition of “medium,” call my
Mommy. And stuff!
Monday
I did nothing.
Tuesday
Finally, I wrote:
“Hey! If phenomena is the
plural of phenomenon, is cin-
ema the plural of cinnamon?” I
got heckled by my Waluigi doll.
I sighed, tried to cry and put my
pants back on.
I’ve always wanted to do
comedy — if you don’t count
the 19 years I wanted to be a
baseball player, photographer,
journalist, politician, therapist,
psychiatrist, actor, judge, pros-
ecutor, priest or happy.
I stopped writing at 2:00
a.m., stared into the mirror for
two hours, went to bed at 4:00.
Wednesday
I woke at 8:00, sleep-
deprived, nauseous, like float-
ing in a block of lead. (Honestly,
does anyone even edit this shit?)
I stood on my (cool, red)
couch, held my microphone
(the TV remote) to my lips and
practiced my opening:
“Wow. Hey guys. Wow.”
I didn’t sleep that night.
Thursday
I did things, did things, did
things.
I ate a bagel, wondered what
a push-up would feel like and
ate another bagel.
I walked home at 2:00 a.m.,
hands
stuffed
in
pockets,
breath materializing in front of
me, floating off into dead noth-
ingness just like Grandpa!
Sorry. Life is a snowball
effect. Socks with holes in ‘em.
“What’s funny?” I asked
God. “What’s the formula for
funny? Also: The hell, Man?”
On the way home, a big,
drunk fella pointed at me and
yelled something. I removed my
headphones.
Me: “What?”
He: “I masturbate to you at
night!”
I think about him a lot.
Friday
You’re
bombing
tomor-
row, monkey! You’re bombing
tomorrow! (And you have a doc-
tor’s appointment on Tuesday.
Don’t forget.)
I felt like vomiting. Or run-
ning. But then, not running
because running sucks.
At 2:30 a.m., I smoked weed
for the first time.
(Sorry, Mom, Dad, and dead
grandparents. Editor says I can’t
devote whole, big paragraph to
explanation of life choices, so
I’ll just say this: How’s the dog?)
That night, in bed, I didn’t
think about my set. (Or you ...
Sharon.)
Saturday (Show Night)
The night was cold and wet,
like refrigerated ham or a dead
body in an aboveground pool
or my hands, always. I paced up
and down the street, muttering
my set and little affirmations:
“You’re taller than most.
You’re taller than most. You
have neat hair. Your sense of
humor totally distracts from
your psychological problems,
handsome.”
At 9:20 p.m., in a Kerrytown
backyard, I took the stage. Tree
branches hung over the stands,
tickling the microphones, wish-
ing me, “OK luck.” Trees can be
such dicks sometimes.
My heart beat hard, fast, to a
rhythm. It felt like, “Jeremiah
was a bullfrog!”
One hundred and fifty people
stared at me. They were all cold,
all standing, all better than me
in their own oh-so-special
ways.
“Was a good friend of mine!”
“Hey guys,” I said, peeing a
little.
I felt their eyes, their blinks,
the spots in their brains that
light up when something’s
funny. A little voice in my head
shouted something racist, but
I couldn’t hear it over the deaf-
ening nothing. I had to turn
my head to see everyone. They
didn’t have to turn their heads
to see me.
I held in a fart.
You are a bullfrog, Alex ... No.
You are The bullfrog.
I said the most honest thing I
could think of:
“I’m a 21 year-old, white, tall,
straight, Catholic college guy.
And I tell it like it is ... That’s
right. I’m everyone’s favorite
kind of person.”
A moment. A blank, ines-
capable moment. Then. Then.
Then. Those 150 somebodies
laughed. And I – I went on. Into
that irreversible, unachievable
It.
And It was good.
Another Thing: I need you to laugh
B Y A L E X B E R N A R D
DEMOCRATIC DEBATE
(OUT OF CONTEXT)
ON THE RECORD
“I’m a progressive, but I’m a progressive who likes to get
stuff done.”
— HILLARY CLINTON
***
“You’re looking at a block of granite … The (Republican)
party left me.” — GOVERNOR LINCOLN CHAFEE
***
“I am the most qualified person up here today to be your
Commander-in-Chief.” — JIM WEBB
***
“I am not a pacifist.” — SENATOR BERNIE SANDERS
***
“But we elected a president, not a magician, and there is
urgent work that needs to be done right now.”
— MARTIN O’MALLEY
***
“We’re not Denmark. I love Denmark.”
— HILLARY CLINTON
COVER DESIGN BY JAKE WELLINS