So, Sarah Palin won last night's VP debate. I mean, she didn't actually win the debate, but that's not important. What's important is that she didn't appear retarded. She said words in the right order, completed over half of her sentences, and displayed an average vocabulary. Victory. I'll bet money that performance will bring her a few more supporters. It doesn't matter how qualified she is - that's not the way it works. She's the underdog who done good, and that's enough. People are into causes, not effects.

See, Sarah Palin's campaign is the opposite of the Special Olympics. She receives praise the less retarded she looks. And right now, that strap on her helmet is getting pretty loose. Right now, there are thousands of so-called hockey moms praising the Pit Bull for "taking on the tough guys," and "getting through it." That's right, she's being lauded for only losing by a little bit. It's like that sixteen seed who keeps it close for a half against Duke. Sarah Palin is Coppin State.

All of that brings me to my main point. Because of this campaign, I've concluded that I can no longer discuss politics with men under the age of twenty-four. Especially if they have even the slightest hipster tendencies. Whenever Palin's name enters a conversation involving a skinny-jeaned thrift store junkie, you'll inevitably hear the familiar refrain: "She's totally unqualified, bro. She would suck as Vice President."

And that's an excellent point, bro. Really it is. But it would probably make more sense if you weren't wearing an "I Love Hasselhoff" t-shirt while stating it. See, people like you have been instrumental in creating a culture where it's actually cool to worship things that suck. From your ironic trucker hats to your nonstop fellating of the 80's, embracing mediocrity is the essence of your existence. That's why you listen to Journey and carry a Mr. Belvedere lunch box. This election is just your chickens coming home to roost. Maybe I'd take your political opinions more seriously if you didn't spend half a decade trying to convince me Wesley Willis had talent. He was retarded and you know it.

And I know what you're going to say.

"That's just fashion and stuff…not a national election."

Wrong. Politics these days are nothing but a giant reality show, and every reality show has a Sanjaya. You're the ones that made it cool to vote for him. It's okay, though. Just think of Sarah Palin as *Awesomely Bad* and you'll be fine.

In fact, the only positive about Sarah Palin you'll hear from the young hipsters is that she's good looking. That's something everybody can agree on. Basically, she's got that whole librarian fantasy going on. But here's the thing: you can't disagree with her politics and also find her attractive. Why? Because your librarian fantasy is supposed to be conservative. That's part of the appeal. You want your librarian to be a hardcore pro-life Christian. You want her burning a few books every now and then. That makes it more satisfying when you dick slap her in your mind later. If she were a free love neo-hippie who wanted to legalize weed, she wouldn't be nearly as hot. You're trying to defile and corrupt her. That's the fantasy. Nobody ever looked at a hot librarian and said, "Man, I'd sure like to discuss Proust with her." No. In fact, the librarian fantasy doesn't even end with the sex. It ends with her regretting it. That's the point.

Palin's looks have everything to do with this campaign. Remember all the media scrutiny when she was first chosen? Her camp protested that the questions being asked about her were rude and unfair. Even today, the fairness brigade scrutinizes everything that happens to her. But you have to look at this from the right point of view.

Sarah Palin is a former beauty queen. She was a runner up in the Miss Alaska pageant - lost to a black girl. In Alaska. What are the odds of that? You'd have a better chance of losing to a black bear in Alaska. She never even faced a black girl playing four years of high school basketball. She's 0 for 1 lifetime against black people, and now she's facing Barack Obama. You'd think she'd line up a black tomato can first.

Be that as it may, she is a former hot chick. But, if you closely examine her pictures now, she's not looking too hot anymore. Sure, she cleans up well, but underneath all those distractions, she's clearly in the process of hitting the wall. All hot chicks must hit the wall at some point in their lives. And whether she hits the wall in her twenties, or in her forties, the instant a hot chick loses her looks, everything changes. Suddenly, the world seems really mean and unfair. Suddenly, she's being forced to stand in lines and pay for her own things. And for some reason, nobody lets her merge into traffic anymore. Suddenly, she's being held accountable for all the dumb shit she's been saying all these years. And all she can think is, "Wow, these people are so rude." No they're not. You're just ugly now.

So I finally sat down and watched the infamous 2 Girls 1 Cup video the other day.  What took so long, you ask?  Well, unlike some losers, I don't watch pirated videos on the internet.  I sent away for a real copy of the film to ensure the artists were compensated fully for their work.  It's only fair. 

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, I'll explain.  2 Girls 1 Cup is the cheaply made scat-munching sex romp that has taken the internet by shit storm.  It comes from the same people who brought you Barely Fecal, Squishtar, and Flavor of Love - so you know it's high quality.  There are currently thousands of videos on YouTube posted by people who have filmed their horrified reactions while watching the two girls.  It's almost a rite of passage for anyone with a camcorder.
 
Here's a brief synopsis of the film:  The epic begins with two scantily clad women engaging in some typical lesbian foreplay.  In my fantasy, they've just returned from the International Chili Cookoff.  Needless to say, things get crazy.  Long story short - girl shits in cup, girls lick and swallow shit, girl vomits on shit and the pair continue licking.  The end.  Remember that sex scene in 9 ½ weeks?  Well, pretend that scene was about eighteen hours longer.  This video would be the last ninety seconds of that.  

I have a couple problems with all this.

1.  First off, the video didn't gross me out at all.  Perhaps I have a strong stomach.  Maybe I'm not a twelve-year-old girl.  Whatever the case, there was no effect.  What did bother me, though, was that I couldn't find out what was on the video without actually watching it myself.  Every time I asked somebody, they would reply with, "You gotta see it yourself, man…I don't want to spoil it for you."  What the hell are you people talking about?  This isn't The Sixth Sense or Harry Potter.  This is a porn/fetish video.  There's no such thing as a spoiler.  Nobody cares about the plot twists and cameo appearances.  In fact, here's another spoiler for you.  Through savvy eBay bidding, I recently acquired the script for the sequel to 2 Girls 1 Cup.  It's called Tootsie Roll.  Essentially, it's the same plot as the original, only this time, one of the girls is an international drug mule, so when they're done licking, there's a nice surprise in the center.  Kobayashi co-stars.  Sorry if I just ruined it.  

2.  Secondly, the girls in the video are wearing mascara and lipstick.  Listen, when you're eating shit for a living, there's no place for vanity.  If there's anything I can't stomach, it's the thought of these girls acting like divas in the make-up chair before the big shoot.  Because if they're wearing make-up, you know there's been at least one instance when a girl threw a fit because her look wasn't right.

"I won't come out of this trailer until somebody gets me some conditioner.  Yeah, I have no problem eating shit, but not with frayed, split ends.  I'm not some kind of a tramp.  Would Beyonce eat shit with split ends?  Then neither will I!"

I bet the other girls hate her because she walks around with her nose in the air.  Sure, she acts like her shit doesn't stink, but everybody knows it clearly does.

Also, the portrayal of the girls is completely irresponsible.  All they're doing is perpetuating the myth that you have to be a perfectly toned size two to break into the scat-munching industry.  Right now, there are literally millions of girls being denied access to their dreams because of this unfair stereotype.  My fear is that these young shit eaters in training will develop low self-esteem and ultimately eating disorders because of their efforts to reach the top.  One girl in the video already appears to be bulimic.

3.  You have to feel bad about the guy for whom this video was made.  It's all a big joke to us, but there's a guy out there who really gets off on this stuff.  He's married, has a couple kids, lives in the suburbs.  He goes to work every day in a big office building.  He eats lunch at Applebee's.  By all accounts, he's normal, except for his little secret.  And you know he's spent his entire life convincing himself his fetish isn't that bad.  "Some guys are breast men, some guys are leg men…" he says to himself, confidently.  "If god didn't want us eating shit, why did he put our asses so close to our mouths?  You'd think he'd put them down at our feet," he reasons.  Then, one day, after years of denial, he checks YouTube and finds five-thousand people screaming, dry-heaving, and vomiting at the one thing that gets him off sexually.  This guy sees scat-munching the way the rest of us see tongue-kissing, yet most people would rather set their eyeballs on fire than watch another second.  Heartbreaking.  Now he has to come to terms with his life taking a giant shit on him.

So, what's the future for 2 Girls 1 Cup?  Will it settle into obscurity like the Star Wars Kid, or Andy Milonakis?  Will it be remembered in shitty countdown shows starring lame, unfunny comedians?  No.  That's not good enough.  I think it should be used as the trailer for Dane Cook's next HBO special.  It's perfect.  The girls represent Dane's dumbass fans.  The shit represents his material…and they can't stop lapping it up. 

DANE COOK - BOTTOM'S UP.

There's something you need to know about comedians. Many of them are fucked-up in the head. Not me, of course, but a lot of the others. If they're not already fucked-up when they start comedy, the grind of constant failure and rejection interspersed with dim mirages of hope can really take its toll on a person's psyche. The majority of comedians I know are a strange mix of narcissism and insecurity - two qualities that seem to be at odds with one another. What this combination usually amounts to is a person who has a grossly unjustified sense of self-importance, along with a constant state of mild paranoia. It can be entertaining if they actually have some talent, but for the unfunny ones, it all just adds up to insane. Here's an example. Remember when that Michael Richards video hit the internet? Everyone was outraged, but not all for the same reasons. I'd bet money there was at least one misguided comic sitting at home, screaming:

"That motherfucker stole my bit! I'm the white guy who says nigger on stage. That whole hanging-upside-down-with-a-fork-in-your-ass thing – THAT'S MINE! I wrote that after I saw Soul Plane. Where in the hell did Michael Richards see me perform?"

Then, this comic - we'll call him Rodd Roady - spent the next three minutes unraveling the mystery. He probably concluded, with total sincerity, that Kramer was sitting in the back of the Chortle Portal in Racebait, Iowa last summer while Rodd was opening for a veteran puppet act ("Hey Mutton, do you support the troops?" "Support the troops, I can't even support my head!!!"). Rodd called all three of his comedy buddies - the Truth-Teller, Mr. High-Energy, and the One Who Plays Guitar - complaining that he could never do the ass-fork chunk again, and that Kramer had screwed up the bit anyway by leaving out all the funniest parts. He lamented that life wasn't fair, and that the little guy who writes the brilliant jokes is always trampled upon by the big, famous celebrity who steals them. He vowed to take his frustrations out on the crowd at his next open-mic. They're a bunch of idiots, anyway.

The level of delusion in stand-up comedy is unbelievable. It's like watching an infomercial with the volume turned down.

I once opened for a guy who called himself "The King of Showbiz." He took the stage wearing dark shades and clutching an acoustic guitar – your classic single threat. That evening, The King had shown up at a mid-week one nighter in the comedy hotbed of Altoona, PA. You know what they say: If you can make it in Altoona, kill yourself. He arrived fashionably late to a capacity crowd of twelve people (leg-room only), and a wall adorned completely with headshots of past comedians who had used this very bar as their own stepping stone to shame and obscurity. There was The Coach, The Tough-Talking Mother, The Fatty, and of course, Miss Daddy Issues. All of the pictures had turned a dark, rubber-chicken shade of yellow, and most sported fashions from the late eighties. It looked like a Battle Royale of regret, and I'll bet there was a stack of applications in the back corresponding with each name on that wall. I left before The King's set, but I'm sure he crushed. In the back of my mind, I was hoping the whole "King of Showbiz" persona was a put on, but that's a really long drive just to be sarcastic.

Another time, I opened for The Disgruntled Clown. He dressed up in a black and white clown suit with matching clown makeup. He spent his disgruntled life in a disgruntled van, lugging his disgruntled props and merchandise across every run-down state highway he could find. He was a hardcore road dog. I imagine he had at least fifty ways to tell a pothole to lick his balls. Way number thirty-seven: "You know what I call an empty pothole? Motel Nutsack, and I'm checking in!" Before each show, he had to spend time applying his makeup and getting into costume. After each show, he lingered, cleaning up the props from around the stage. Fifteen percent of his act had anything to do with being a clown.

Every comic who's been around for a few years has stories like these. Why? Because comedy is teeming with the biggest freaks you've ever seen. It's like those fish that grow to a certain size based on the volume of the tank they're in. The more work these fuck-ups get, the crazier and more delusional they become. I've seen ping-pong balls shooting out of a mannequin's ass. It was somebody's closer. I've overheard a shitty road comic advise his opener to wear a propeller hat and bow-tie on stage. And he was being sincere.

You always hear about the stereotypical sad clown in comedy – the lovable jokester who's really hurting on the inside. Perhaps he didn't get attention as a child. Maybe he was a big Creed fan. People love that story because it's a romantic idea. But you never hear about the untalented sideshow attractions who remain anonymous their entire lives. They're usually even crazier. It's just like people say…it's the ones with quiet crowds you have to worry about.

The same thing happens in music. Everybody romanticizes the tortured lead singer, but I bet there's a nameless bassist out there who's only humping amps because his uncle touched him wrong. Rappers love talking about their troubles, but why doesn't anybody mention the melancholy hypeman?

"Yeah, you know, I love telling motherfuckers to wave their hands like they just don't care…but I wish somebody would care about me, nah-mean?"

But comedy is worse because, frankly, I have to be around these people. They have the costumes, the song parodies, the one liners, and the wacky props. But they don't have the talent, and that's driving them insane. If the seedy underbelly of stand-up ever goes extinct, the people who will suffer the most are the ones working at the silly-string and slide-whistle factories. They'll lose their jobs and default on their mortgages. An entire town will fall into ruin. Michael Moore will arrive with cameras to document the atrocity. He'll talk with a father of four who's been in the slide-whistle game his whole life, just like his father before him. Sure, he's applied at the fart-machine plant, but they're about to go under, too. He'll parade out his youngest son, starving, who will lift one of the last remaining whistles to his mouth and blow, mustering a symbolic, downward slide. Then, the kid will go off and use that sound to write a joke about going limp in bed because he "smelled something fishy." Years later, it will be his closer.

Freeze frame, roll credits.

I hope you're sitting down for what I'm about to tell you, because this won't be easy.  Are you ready to be outraged?  Well, here goes:  A 70-year-old white radio host might possibly be a racist.  Or a sexist.  Or a monster.  Maybe he's a ruthless creature sent here by alien warlords to destroy women's basketball.  Oh, the humanity.  Whatever he is, we sure do need to talk about it.  A lot.  I mean, how did we, as a society, allow this to happen?  And whose fault is it?  And will he be punished?  And double standards.  And rap music.  And black people.  And the children.  And grrrrrr!

What a bunch of nonsense.

Self-righteousness has finally become overexposed.  Even Bono has to be scratching his grossly inflated head.  It's like we've been surrounded by an army of pundits, reverends, rappers, and crackers – all spewing their morally superior, ego-stroking rhetoric at us.  Now I know how the cookie feels in a circle jerk.

Who would have thought, in a story of supposed national importance, that we would be hearing Snoop Dogg's point of view?  We already know he ain't got love for ho's.  What else did we expect to get from him? 

Who takes any of the news networks seriously after they wasted thousands of hours covering the "story" of our beloved sweetheart Anna Nicole Smith and her poor, fatherless child?  It was like the Maury Povich show had turned into a miniseries.  Either that, or some kind of Who Wants to Father a Millionaire reality show contest. 

"Love Sauce, you are not the father.  You may say goodbye to the other contestants, but then, you must hang up your testicles and go home.  Next week, tempers flare in the house as Shawn Kemp eats Larry Birkhead's peanut butter and Larry gets pisssssed."

News doesn't exist anymore.  Only gossip.

There's no way this Imus story should be getting so much publicity.  As far as racial incidents go, the Michael Richards story was far more inflammatory and sensational than this one – and that story didn't get nearly as much play.  Want to know why?  It's because white people can actually repeat what Don Imus said.  That helps with the gossip.  Being able to say it equals being able to talk about it without feeling awkward.  When the Imus story broke, it was so easy.  I called all my black friends:

"Hey, did you hear what Don Imus said?  You didn't?  Well, he said – and I quote…"

I couldn't make that call when the Michael Richards story broke.  That was a completely different conversation:

"Hey, did you hear what Michael Richards said?  You didn't?  Oh…you want to know what he said?  Well, he said, umm...uh…he said, uh, you know what, check your e-mail.  Yeah, check your e-mail – I'm going to send you a link.  As a matter of fact, go to YouTube and type in 'Kramer N-I-G' and then stop typing.  For the love of god, don't type another letter.  Just hit enter."

Every day, I expect this Imus story to disappear, and every day it just gets bigger.  I don't know if it will ever go away.  I do have some hope, though.  Don Ho died today.  His name is basically a combination of the first and last words in every article written about this stupid, irrelevant story.  That's got to be symbolic of something. 

Either way, this story will have no legacy.  No improved race relations.  No awareness.  No changes in those dreaded rap lyrics.  Nothing.  It will just blow away like a piece of tumbleweed as soon as the next scandalous "news" story hits. 

In the meantime, I'll just sit here and wait for the day when something good actually comes out of women's basketball.

People everywhere need help.  Right now.  As you read this, there are people all over the country, desperate to improve some facet of their pathetic little lives.  At least that's the message you get if you watch as much TV as I do.  It seems like 70% of television shows these days center around ambitious losers who are dying to turn their bad luck around.  They all need something – a date, a new wardrobe, a makeover, a remodeled room, help raising children, a nicer car, bigger house, their dream job, fame and fortune.

And who holds the key to everyone's happiness?  Gay guys and British people.  That's right – gay guys and British people, roaming the countryside, building gazebos, fixing your hair, and telling you how to tango.  Television is littered with show after show featuring carpenters, designers, nannies, life coaches, and talent scouts; experts in every field, trying desperately to scrape some of the shit off of what you've become.

I can't flip through five channels without seeing some gay guy dolling out fashion advice or upholstering cushions to turn your boring garage into a Spicy Spanish Paradise.  Nor can I flip through five channels without seeing some British dude giving a reality check to talentless dreamers who think the only requirement to singing and dancing well is the desire to do so.

Who's behind all this?  Probably Elton John, but that's not even important.

What gets me about all these life-improvement shows is the bullshit affirmations the people give at the end - as though their lives have actually been positively altered by something as trivial as new drapes or cooking tips.  I mean, if you're on American Idol, okay fine, your dreams have just come true.  Good for you.  But, if the only thing that changed in your life was a gay guy showing you how to walk like a diva, stop smiling; you won't be seeing a new tax bracket any time soon.  You'd better try getting used to your shitty existence.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.  Pimp My Ride lacks both gay guys and British people.  But, it still has that horrible life-affirming moment at the end.  There's always some 20-year-old idiot in tattered jeans and a tight t-shirt saying, "I just got a disco ball in my Mazda.  Now I can go to law school!"  Only if it's offered at DeVry. 

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually feel a little bad for Kevin Federline in this whole divorce saga.  Yes, he has no talent.  Yes, he has a stupid nickname.  Yes, he looks like a ferret.  There are a thousand reasons to hate him.  But, just think about the last couple years from his point of view.  He hooked up with Britney Spears when she was at the peak of her fame; when she was one of the hottest, most desirable women in the world.  She could have had any shitty, no-talent idiot she wanted.  You think Ryan Cabrera or Hayden Christensen would have turned her down?  Not a chance.  Fuck, Elijah Wood would have sliced off one of his pointy little ears and written a love poem on it just to get a sniff.  But Britney decided to give K-Fed the ticket to paradise, so he couldn't say no.  I mean, how could he ever do better than Britney Spears?  It was a dream come true.

As soon as they got married, though, things changed.  Britney stopped performing and started getting all fat and dumpy.  She stopped wearing makeup - her hair was always greasy.  Everything she wore was tattered and dirty.  Britney Spears became a complete white-trash mess.  It was embarrassing.  How many times did you see one of those pictures of Britney cluelessly strolling through a parking lot wearing flip-flops with a kool-aid stain on her lips, chocolate running down her shirt, gut sticking out and hanging over her shredded denim shorts – barely long enough to conceal the acre of cottage cheese taking root on her ass.  And in the background of all those pictures, there was K-Fed looking completely befuddled.  As if to say, "Who the fuck is that cow wearing my ring?"  There's a reason he's always squinting his eyes.  And to make matters worse, Britney got pregnant.  Twice.  Over two years.  Eighteen months of morning sickness, weight gain, mood swings and screaming babies.  It was the cruelest twist of fate ever.  Like the clock struck twelve on their wedding day and Cinderella turned into the cast of Mama's Family.

When Britney filed for divorce, K-Fed had to have been at least somewhat relieved.  But she wasn't done fucking him over just yet.  The next day after filing for divorce, she showed up on Letterman, and guess what?  She was suddenly thin and hot.  THE NEXT DAY!  She walked out onto that stage and basically said, "Hey everyone, now that I'm divorced, I'll be firming up my ass again."  After that, she went out ice-skating in NYC.  Ice-skating with a low cut sweater on – cleavage dripping out of every opening.  I'm pretty sure she even blew a couple hot dog vendors just because they had cornrows.

It was as though the last two years had never happened.  It took Britney all of twenty-four hours to transform from dumpy trailer trash back to Miss America.  And all K-Fed got was a couple more kids to add to his collection, and a shitty album no one is going to buy.  Once again, the man is the real victim in a divorce.

Remember how hard it used to be to get a girl to show you her tits? What an arduous process - hours of negotiation, gallons of alcohol, sleep deprivation and veiled threats. It felt like an FBI interrogation. And even after the whole good cop/bad cop routine, you and your friends still wound up having to accept a ridiculous plea bargain. Remember the deal? A split-second flash, one breast, side shot, candlelight only, no cameras - and most of the time, you'd have to show your balls first.

And then the girls went wild. These days, it seems like every girl in the world can be talked into showing her tits to a room full of frat boys. Usually, with nothing more to persuade her than a drunken clown with a camcorder yelling, "What are you, some kind of prude?" That's really all it takes. And I'm not talking split-second flashing here. I mean full frontal, long-term nudity. If you ask nicely enough, you can probably touch them and play with them - even draw on them. Women can't wait to show off their tits.

If you want to be real about it, women can't wait to get attention from men. Sexual attention. The kind of attention that makes them feel special and wanted. True empowerment for a woman is finding a way to turn men on. That means more than any bullshit Oprah-style affirmation. It used to be so much easier, though. There was a time when a woman didn't have to do much more than wear sandals to get the frat boys excited. Accused rapists would often use the defense, "But your honor, I could see the tops of her feet...she was asking for it." Or the more popular, "Toe Means Yes." But guys became jaded and started demanding more, so women began giving it - no matter how far they had to go. Pretty soon, hemlines were going up and necklines were plunging.

Even the women's lib movement couldn't stop the parade of cleavage and ass cheeks. By the late 60's, women were walking around in miniskirts with halter-tops, yapping about equal rights and independence. They didnt know whether to burn their bras or pad them. Soon after that, wet t-shirt contests, random tit-flashing and thongs made their way into the repertoire.

It's at the point now where the only thing a woman can do to get noticed is to just fuck other women. That's how far it's come. Every girl from 18-24 has at least kissed and probably fondled another girl. And many have had that random fuckfest with their "girlfriend" in college - you know, because it's, like, fun or whatever...yeah, it's not gay or anything. You've heard the story:

-We were sick of boys acting like jerks.
-Bananas were on sale.
-It was spring break.
-A woman's body is the most beautiful thing in the world.
-John Mayer rulz!!!!

Why did you hear the story? Because they love to tell it. Nothing makes a woman happier than being encircled by a bunch of drooling guys as she recounts her pseudo-lesbian exploits. It's precisely the kind of attention she wants. The kind of attention that makes her feel like the center of every man's world. It's ridiculous. A woman has to literally do the gayest thing possible in order to be seen as a desirable heterosexual. And we don't even have to show our balls anymore.

I consider myself to be a fairly knowledgeable sports fan. I mean, I can tell you whats going on in the NBA playoffs, but I can't tell you Tiger Woods' hat size or anything like that. One thing Ive never questioned was the idea of what constitutes a "play." For as long as I can remember, a play has been basically some kind of action that takes place on the playing surface during a game. But, watching Sportscenter lately has caused me to rethink things a little bit.

Yesterday, I made the bloated mistake of watching the bloated Chris Berman give his bloated TOP 10 PLAYS OF THE WEEK on a bloated Sportscenter. Im not sure when this all started, but apparently, the definition of play has changed quite a bit over the years. Sure, there were the typical nice saves and acrobatic shots - even a couple diving catches. However, I noticed something a little strange about this list. Number six on the TOP PLAYS countdown was Floyd Patterson dying. On a TOP PLAYS countdown. Not on a FORMER HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONS WHO JUST DIED countdown. Not even on a GUYS NAMED FLOYD countdown. I don't care how much you stretch it, dying can't be considered a play. And if it is, that was a horrible play. Clearly not the way Floyd had drawn it up. Nowhere on his 'Things To Do Today' list did it say, "Stop living." Besides, dying is easy. Everybody can do it. Most people can't make a diving catch in centerfield. I guess thats why it only finished sixth. Perhaps if Floyd Patterson met his maker while dunking on two seven-footers, he would have finished higher. I guess he took the easy way out. Way to not make the top five, Floyd.

Not to be outdone, the bloated Chris Berman decided to make the number one play of the week Mother's Day. Thats less of a play than someone dying. No action whatsoever - just a bunch of people being related to each other. Of course, Berman's voice softened as he spoke in tribute of mothers taking their children to Little League practice while images of mothers and children attending baseball games flashed across the screen. What they didnt show, of course, was the action two rows back from those honorable mothers. The army of fat, drunk plumbers yelling things like "Throw strikes you cocksucker!" at the field and things like "If the Yanks win, can I squeeze your titty? No offense!" at the mothers.

This is sports, not a Hallmark commercial. When I see a top plays countdown, I want to see spectacular highlights. Things that even the greatest athletes can't do on a regular basis. If youre going to put holidays and deaths in a countdown for plays, why not just put any old thing in there? If the bloated Chris Berman wants to have a forum to indulge his ego and massive self-importance, he should do what everyone else does: Get a blog. Leave the countdown alone.

Finally, in keeping with the Sportscenter tradition, I have decided to compile my own sports-related top ten list:

TOP TEN PROFESSIONAL SPORTS UNIFORMS:

10. The death of Earl Woods.

9. For Norman Wilkerson, a dog is man's best friend - with benefits.

8. Syracuse Orangemen.

7. Napoleon Dynamite is highly overrated. Seriously, watch it again. Not funny. Now go watch Bottle Rocket.

6. Syphilis is not a toy.

5. Washington Mystics.

4. Whats the perfect food for bulimics? Shish kabobs. They're a delicious meal and the skewers come in handy afterwards.

3. Only 65% of foreigners smell.

2. Michigan Wolverines

1. What's the deal with sports, right ladies?

My story of failure at the Carnival Comedy Challenge.

This story is a bit long, so it's been broken down into three parts.

This is part one.

I am not a cruise ship comedian. In order to be a cruise ship comedian, you have to be able to work squeaky clean to an audience ranging in age from 9 to 90. That's about three requirements too many for me. I always imagined the perfect cruise ship comic would be a guy who spends his entire set shaping balloons into animals that have gone extinct.

"Look little girl, it's a birdie!"

"Look grandma, it's a passenger pigeon!"

Oooh's and aaah's all around. Everybody wins. Why, then, did I find it necessary to enter the barely heralded Carnival Comedy Challenge NYC in 2004? Good question. For some reason, most comedians have deluded themselves into thinking that any stage time is a potential opportunity. Even that 2am open-mic set on a Sunday night in front six barely conscious drunks is worth it, because you never know who might walk in and whisk you away to stardom. In reality, the only person who might walk in at that point has probably just shot the President and is looking to hide out until the heat dies down. Lee Harvey Oswald should have gone into a shitty open-mic instead of that movie theater. The idiot comics would have been so happy to have a real live civilian in the crowd, they wouldn't have turned him in. They probably would have let him do five minutes out of courtesy.

"So...what's the deal with treason?...Anyway, uh, can you imagine if Arnold Schwarzenegger was Kennedy's head? It would be like 'I'll be back...and to the left!' Get it? Anyway, I'll be selling my CD in the back, and look for me on MySpace!"

But, the Carnival Comedy Challenge actually presented a real opportunity. The winner, of course, would be given the dream job of entertaining diapered vacationers on the high seas. The losers, though, would at least be able to perform in front of the panel of industry judges. When comics see the phrase "industry judges," the words appear to have huge breasts and blink bright red neon. We can't resist. The judges for this particular competition consisted of some good road bookers, the talent director for Carnival, and special guest judge, Eddie Brill - comedian and comedy booker for The Late Show With David Letterman. When comics see "The Late Show With David Letterman," the words appear to be hot college girls fisting eachother while playing Madden 06 with their free hands. We have to sign up. Even if we don't win, we'll probably get on Letterman. That's the actual thought process. Seriously.

The entry fee was something like $25, which I paid gladly. Now, here's how the whole thing worked. There was a preliminary round in the morning, and another prelim in the afternoon - judged by the road bookers and the Carnival guy. Out of those two rounds, twelve lucky finalists would be chosen to perform the following night in front of those judges and Eddie Brill. Of course, in typical "let's make it like American Idol" fashion, the crowd that night would actually choose the winner, while the judges would just give you a critique after your set. Simple enough.

Now, I have a terrible track record in comedy competitions. I never do well, but I also never have any luck. I always seem to go up first, second, or last. The crowd is either ice cold or dead tired. Every competition I've ever done has followed this pattern. From the Boston Festival, to the Seattle Comedy Competition, to Comedy Central's Laugh Riots, to the Funniest Person In Baltimore, it doesn't matter. I never get lucky and draw 6th. There's always that extra little hurdle to overcome.

I, along with a couple dozen other comics, was part of the morning prelim. We filed into the comedy club at 11am and listened to the rules. We would be given three minutes to strut our stuff in front of the judges and whoever else happened to be hanging out in the room. They would just pull names randomly out of a hat and call you on stage. Care to take a guess who the first name was? Me, that's who. Out of roughly thirty people, I was picked to be the first comic on the first prelim. Not shocked at all, I shuffled onto the stage, did my three minutes, did pretty well and left.

___________________________________________________________

Part 2

Before this story goes any further, it's time to introduce the major players in this little drama, so here they are.

Al Ernst
Veteran cruise ship comedian and president of The Floating Mullets Chapter 437. Al was the organizer of this entire event, so every comedian in the world should thank him for the wonderful opportunity. After all, you're not a real comedian until you've told your jokes in international waters. I'm guessing that when Al performs, his intro is something like, "he's played the east coast up and down the east coast, and he puts the star in starboard..."

Walt Wiley
From TV's All My Children. Walt was slated to host the final as the "celebrity" guest MC. My, how soap opera stars have fallen. Remember when you could turn on daytime TV and watch your favorite soap star barking out clues to hapless idiots looking to improve their lives by winning a year's supply of flavored rice or a new stove on some shitty game show? Well, folks, those days are over. These days, soap opera stars who want that extra bit of cash and exposure have to occasionally pass themselves off as comedians. Usually, you can find them popping up in out-of-the-way midwestern comedy clubs, surrounded by actual desperate housewives who have decided to be naughty for a night and ignore their chores to go see a real live famous person. So the parking garages fill up with minivans and the housewives descend, referring to the actor only by his character's name. I wonder how the clubs get the smell of White Diamonds out of the carpet.

"Oh my god, Mildred, it says here that Risk Mudshark from 'Woodshop Sweats' is going to be at the Chuckle Bunker this weekend. I really love that guy. Remember last year, when he was about to get married? Yeah, he was going to marry Menses Collagen, the heiress to the 'Support The Troops' sticker fortune, but she died that one time she went to use the ATM, but when money was supposed to come out of that little slot, a swarm of killer bees did instead. I felt so bad for Risk. We should go see him."

Then she goes and yells at her husband for watching professional wrestling. What a bitch.


The Judges:

Joel Pace - Booker for the Comedy Zones
Everything I've heard about Joel is a good thing. Everything said to me about Joel has been said by a comic who wants to work for him. For example, no one has ever said to me, "Joel Pace likes to throw jellyfish at babies...I'm sending him my avails tomorrow!"

The Comedy Booker From Carnival
I don't remember his name, but I'm guessing that about 80% of the people he books own propeller hats. That's not such a bad thing. Propeller hats probably help you escape the sharks if your ship ever sinks. The minute the sharks see the hat, they'll realize that you're already dead inside. They prefer fresh kills.

Les McCurdy - Owner of McCurdy's Comedy Club in Sarasota, FL.
I don't know much about Les, but he seemed like a nice enough guy to me.

Eddie Brill - Comedian and booker of comedians for Letterman.
He's the greatest guy ever! I mean it! The greatest!

The Blinking Flamingo
Most comedy clubs have a little light above the stage that turns on to alert you to how much time you have left in your set. Sometimes, instead of a light turning on, someone in the back of the room will hold up a candle or shine a flashlight. It's a perfect system, which means that people have to keep fucking with it. For the Carnival Challenge, a big neon flamingo was placed near the side of the stage. When the flamingo turned on, you had a minute left. When the flamingo began blinking, your time was up. When the flamingo shouted "Y'all ready for this," a gay dance party was to begin. Now, picture yourself sitting in the crowd at a comedy show. Don't you think you would be distracted by the sight of a giant neon flamingo suddenly lighting up and blinking next to the stage?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On with the story...

After the prelims, all of the comedians were given a voicemail number to call later in the evening to find out who would be chosen to perform in the final. When I called, I was shocked to hear that not only did I make the cut, but that my roommate and fellow hilarious comedian Mike Payne had also made it. In fact, the field for the final had been increased to 14 to accommodate the abundant wealth of talent in NYC. Hooray for NYC. Everyone here is soooo talented! I mean everyone. There's not one bad comic in NYC. Nope. Not one. Not that guy you're thinking of. Nope, not that other guy, either. Believe it.

Somehow, after being the first of about 80 comics to audition, I had beaten the odds and made the final. Now, a strange thing happens when you get into a competition. Even though you had never taken it seriously to begin with, you suddenly find yourself entertaining these delusions of grandeur. You picture yourself dominating the competition and running away with first place. You imagine gatorade being poured over you as strippers hoist you onto their shoulders and take you away to the Playboy Mansion. I wasn't even interested in winning this thing. All I wanted was to be seen by the guy from Letterman. But, after making the final, I started imagining myself as a cruise ship comedian. I would grow my hair long and change my name to Saltwater Laffy. I would sail the high seas with a banjo and an arsenal of buffet jokes. This was going to be my big break, one way or another. Plan A and Plan B being fulfilled simultaneously.

The following evening, we made our way to the club where we would find out the order for the show. I remember, in the car, having a definite feeling that I would draw first again, but I didn't mention it. I was trying to stay positive. We arrived at the club about twenty minutes before showtime and were handed a piece of paper with the order written on it:

1. Andy Kline
2. Mike Payne
3 - 14. People who actually had a chance.

That's right. After having drawn first in the morning prelim, I once again beat the odds and drew first. My bad luck had rubbed off on my roommate as well. The crowd was to choose the winner at the end of the show and they never remember the first guy. Never.

I made my way downstairs to the showroom and met up with Al Ernst to ask him about the format for the show. I asked Al who was hosting and how much time the host would do before introducing me. His response:

"Yeah, Walt Wiley isn't here yet, but he's the host. I'm going to go up and make some announcements, explain the rules, then I'll bring you up and bring up the host, you know, but Walt isn't here yet. He's running late."

We weren't sure where Walt was, but I suspected he was busy signing some secretary's breast while her child suckled on it. Fearful that our host wouldn't show, I asked Al if he was prepared to host in Walt's absence. After all, Al is a comedian himself. His response:

"Yeah, Walt Wiley isn't here yet, but he's the host. I'm going to go up and make some announcements, explain the rules, then I'll bring you up and bring up the host, you know, but Walt isn't here yet. He's running late."

Great, Al, thanks for the info. This was the second time in a matter of minutes that Al had mentioned doing announcements, then bringing ME up, and then bringing up the HOST. I assumed he was just speaking too quickly and jumbling everything together. I mean, there's no way he'd bring the first contestant up before the actual host, right?

As soon as Al was able to confirm that Walt was near the club, he decided to take the stage, make the announcements, introduce the judges and explain the rules. The whole process was incredibly lengthy and boring. Al wasn't even trying to be funny. Usually, when you put a comic in front of a microphone for any reason, a few jokes will naturally spill out, but that's apparently not Al's style. Al went through the announcements with the demeanor of a Tori Amos fan. Serious, methodical, and completely unentertaining. About two minutes into Al's announcements, Walt stumbled into the club reeking of skin cancer and Crest Whitestrips. He gave a nod to Al, then sat down. Al finished the announcements, gave smelling salts to the crowd and proceeded to start the show.

"Alright, let's get things started...your first comedian this evening...give it up for Andy Kline."

What the fuck? He's introducing me? The host hasn't even gone up, yet. The crowd is ice cold. What the fuck? Now, normally in situations like this, my instinct would be to take the stage and comment on the awkwardness of this predicament and even take a couple shots at Al, but I had this neon flamingo staring at me and there were only six minutes to impress Eddie Brill. I couldn't waste any time.

___________________________________________________________

Part 3

Sometimes, if they're lucky, retarded six-year-olds get to run around and play flag football on the field before a real NFL game. Many of them have earned this opportunity by selling the most beef jerky or chocolaty-almond candy bars to their well-meaning relatives in order to raise money for new shoulder pads. They already have helmets and instead of numbers, their jerseys are adorned with various doctor's notes giving them permission to play. It's an inspirational message for disillusioned retarded four-year-olds who may be feeling cynical about their prospects. The crowd is instructed to clap as the kids giddily run around in circles, providing minor pregame entertainment to the befuddled masses. It's something for people to gawk at, condescendingly, while they're waiting for the real game to start. Everybody's a winner.

This is the same feeling you get when you go up first at a comedy show.

When I took the stage, nobody in the crowd gave a shit about me, and why should they? They were barely aware that the show had even started. Some guy had just droned on about various contest rules and made sure to thank all the gracious sponsors, then next thing you know, I'm on stage trying to get some chuckles. I thought the wise move would be to just stick to the script and perform as I always do. I figured the guy from Letterman was experienced enough to understand the situation and fairly assess my set. I had six minutes of material planned. I was purposely naive. I was already a winner. This was going to be great!

I started off by asking the crowd how they were doing. They gave me a faint murmur, just as expected. It was actually an honest answer on their part. I mean, how many people are whipped into a frenzy just by hearing instructions?

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you."

"Fuck yeah dude, it's time to par-tay! Let's go to Bangkok and nail some 8th graders!"

My set was completely unremarkable. Polite, muted chuckles throughout. The flamingo came on and I ended things before the light even hit the crowd's eyes. "Thanks, that's my time!" I placed the mic back into the stand and turned to the judges. I knew the judges were supposed to critique my set American Idol style, but the host was supposed to come up first, then throw it over to the judges. At this point, THERE WAS NO HOST. Everything paused for a few seconds. One of the judges gestured for me to stay on stage while the confusion was being straightened out. So here I was, having just bombed, furious about the entire event, just standing on stage while the shows "organizers" decided it would be a good time to finally do some organizing. In retrospect, I should have just grabbed the mic and demanded a refund.

After what felt like an eternity, Al Ernst, my hero, began bumbling through the crowd with a purpose. He stopped in the middle of the room behind the first row of tables, screamed for everybody's attention, and began introducing the host. That's right, Al, with no microphone and no spotlight - from off stage, mind you - started yelling:

"Alright, are you guys ready for your host? From All My Children, give it up for Walt Wiley!"

I can't stress this enough. I was languishing on stage like a stain while the event organizer turned the entire crowds attention to the middle of the room so he could yell out an intro. It was as if Al had never seen a comedy show before. He certainly hadn't seen one in the last six minutes.

If you've never seen a soap opera star up close, you're not missing much. It's just a disgusting mixture of hair gel, fake tan, body spray, bleach, and chest hair. The whole combination seems toxic. Walt probably spits acid rain. In fact, when Walt is finally dead and buried, I'm guessing no grass will grow above his casket.

Walt and his cheekbones sauntered onto the stage to a big round of applause. Suddenly, the crowd was alive. This was a real celebrity. He's a really serious actor on the TV, so you know he's funny! Walt took the mic and began going into banter with the crowd. You know, the usual host banter: how's everyone doing, where's everyone from, anybody celebrating anything, etc. Keep in mind, he's doing all this with me standing three feet away from him on the corner of the stage. Just standing there. Waiting to be judged. Putting on a fake smile. It was as this point that I started to feel used. I paid $25 to be Walt Wiley's fluff girl. I was the warm-up guy for the entire show, including the host. I was the retarded six-year-old. I was not a winner.

After a painful minute of "get to know Walt Wiley" nonsense, it was time to be judged. Walt turned to the judges and gave them the go ahead. Here's what they had to say:

Joel Pace
Joel thought I had a solid set. Not great, not terrible, not memorable. Just solid. He was very polite about the whole thing.

The Carnival Guy
About the same as Joel. Nothing much to say. Courteous.

Les McCurdy
This is where things got weird. Les didn't mention my set at all. Instead, he decided to just critique my clothing.

"Well...looks like you went with a pressed shirt for this thing..nice...but you wore jeans? You could have dressed up a little bit more for something this important."

In the ten seconds it took him to say that, I repeated the phrase "What the fuck?" about fifty-seven times in my head. I mean, what does clothing have to do with comedy? This is bullshit! What an asshole! I can't believe this is happening! Even the crowd felt awkward. There was a palpable discomfort in the room.

Well, it turns out Les was actually trying to be a nice guy. He didn't really critique anybody's material. Instead, throughout the show, he playfully made fun of people's clothing to add some levity to the whole thing. Of course, with me being the first comic, the crowd didn't realize he was joking, and neither did I. People didn't pick up on the joke until probably three comics in. See, in order to laugh at a running joke, you have to first know it's a running joke. The first time you hear it, it's not funny. So, basically, I was also Les McCurdy's fluff girl. I was the setup to all of his other punchlines. Once again, I felt used.

Eddie Brill
Finally, the guy from Letterman. I actually felt optimistic for a moment, but that didn't last.

Eddie began talking to me like I had just fucked his sister with a rusty syringe. He had nothing good to say whatsoever. He told me I lacked confidence. He even criticized me for asking the crowd how they were doing.

"If every comic asks the crowd how they're doing, it gets redundant. Don't ask the crowd how they're doing. That's what the host is for."

I felt like strangling him. Listen dumbass, THERE WAS NO FUCKING HOST. Some guy with a mullet took a break from writing song parodies long enough to explain the rules, then I was on stage. Nobody had asked the crowd how they were doing. Did anybody else notice that?

Eddie went way overboard with me. I don't remember everything he said, but I remember it being incredibly gratuitous and lasting way too long. I kept waiting for the flamingo to light up and tell him to get it over with. This is the problem with American Idol style judging. There's always that one judge who thinks he's going to steal the show by being Simon Cowell. It's almost expected. That show has given repressed assholes the big chance to come out of the closet and act like dicks without repercussion. I had no microphone. I couldn't counter any of Eddie's points. I just had to stand there and take it.

Eddie was the same with almost every comedian. Negative, heavy-handed and just flat out wrong. He told several comics that they lacked vulnerability on stage. Crowds won't relate to you unless you are the vulnerable one in your jokes. If you make fun of your girlfriend, make fun of yourself first. Be vulnerable. Be a pussy. He told an equal amount of comics that his favorite comedian of all time was George Carlin - perhaps the least vulnerable comedian ever - and that they should study him. Nothing was consistent. It was just all out bashing.

I was finally dismissed from the stage, but I stayed and watched most of the remaining comics perform. Mike Payne took the stage second and had a decent set. The judges were no less critical of him. He did exact a small amount of revenge, though, by not acknowledging the judges at all. As they spoke to him from the left of the stage, he stared straight ahead never once giving them any kind of personal response. He treated them as though they didn't exist. I wish I had thought of that.

The winner of the contest was Jessica Delfino. She went up last (so much for my theory that going up last sucks) with a guitar and sang dirty songs. The crowd loved her. There's something about having a guitar and saying the word fuck that whips crowds into a frenzy. Even when real musicians say fuck on stage, the crowd goes nuts. Have you ever heard the crowd at a concert when the lead singer curses? They can't control themselves.

"Wow, Bono said 'fuck poverty.' That's so awesome. He sings and plays guitar and he says fuck. I'm gonna blow him later!!!"

The judges told Jessica that her dirty songs would never work on a cruise ship, but it didn't matter. The crowd chose the winner and she outshined everyone.

After the show, everybody went upstairs to mingle, glad-hand and pass out business cards. Eddie Brill actually sort of apologized to me for being so negative. He was caught off guard because he didn't realize he would be given a microphone and asked to critique people's sets out loud. Apparently, his natural reaction to being surprised is to tell people how much they suck. Don't ever throw a surprise party for Eddie Brill. He'll call your mother a whore and shit all over the cake.

And that's how it ends. No fame, no fortune, no Letterman spot, no cruise ships, no Playboy Mansion. Nothing but anger and frustration. Basically a microcosm of my entire comedy career.

The End.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilogue

Comedy isn't fair. Comedy competitions aren't fair. You can't give each contestant on the show the exact same opportunity. Crowds are cold, then they get hot and peak, then they get tired. Sometimes, you have to follow a comic who just destroyed or bombed awkwardly. It's hard to give everyone an even starting point. That's just the way it is. I wasn't too angry at going up first or having a cold crowd. I was angry at the hosting debacle and the overall tone of the event.

The organizers had been selling us on the incredible opportunities available in this competition. Cruise ship work, club work, INDUSTRY JUDGES, etc. That was their way of justifying the $25 charge to enter. But, when you pay to perform, you don't only pay for opportunity. You also pay for professionalism. There was none at this show. This was the third Carnival Comedy Challenge and they were still working out the kinks. The sad part about it is that Al Ernst and company positioned themselves as the road-hardened pro's coming into the city to show the cocky New Yorkers how a real comedy show is done. They were the real comics who performed in real clubs and had more than seven minutes of material. There were a lot of allusions to that point of view given by the organizers.

I'm not one to prop up New York as some kind of bastion of tastemaking and originality, but if you're going to show us how the real folks do it, you should at least understand the basic fundamentals of organizing a show. Ultimately, the whole thing was a failure.