BOB THE HUMAN PIECE OF FUCKING TRASH BURKE

(The middle 7 words are not in quotes because that's actually his God given middle name)

We were somewhere around Barstow at the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

If only my life were that interesting.

Fitzgerald's just plain fucking sucked. I played 8 shows there. 6 nights at the old strip in Las Vegas. And I never even got paid. Let me explain.

As soon as I pulled off the highway onto the strip, I knew I was in trouble. I thought I was in Reno. One look at all the big fat white trash in shorts and tank tops sucking on vases full of sweetened liquor as long as their distended torsos, and I knew the week was going to suck. I started cursing out loud in my car. I knew I was going home early this week. I've never been fired before, but I thought for sure this would be the time.

It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. I was supposed to be working the Huntington Funny Bone with my friend Claude Stuart. It got cancelled. Claude recommended this gig as a substitute. It seemed like a good idea when I accepted it. But all of a sudden I didn't want to do it. It's like when you're trying to find a job for ages, or hoping your temp agency is going to call every day. Then when they finally do, you're driving to the job with knots in your stomach.

I checked in to Fitzgerald's. More white trash. People wearing T-shirts advertising their family reunion. Cigarette smoke. People too fat to walk riding rascals, getting on elevators, taking up every square foot possible.

This was the old strip in Vegas. You can tell by looking at it, that it was at one time grand. A place to get away from your life, play a few hands, see a show. Now it's just a place to eat a 99cent hotdog and see a couple of girls topless. Keep in mind, this is the same caliber of woman who in any other city would volunteer to take off her top if you just bought her a 99cent hotdog (P.S. Never initiate a deal like this. Let it come into play naturally).

I was doing a gig for Chuck Johnson. He books the worst shit on the planet (unless you count Dave Tribble) (which is too horrible to even count). He's a nice guy, and I always do ok at said rooms (that's my version of the story anyways). The gigs aren't impossible, they just suck. They're usually make shift and free to the public, with no security, which allows people to do and say whatever they want and walk around the room freely. If he wants to dispute me on this, fine. But first he's got to perform at any one of the countless barnyards he books. I'll let him pick which one.

I mean, I question my own validity in the world as a stand up comedian. But I can't imagine making a living from booking shit rooms. It's not a question of morality, it's the issue of self examination. One must ask oneself, "Is my life valid? Redeeming? Worthwhile to anyone in anyway?"

The worst part about this show was having to open with 35 minutes and no MC. Starting cold and doing 35 minutes is hard. For me anyway. I'm sure a million comedians will write myspace comments about how easy it is or how fun it is, but if you're me, you hate it. And I'm the one writing this thing, so leave me alone. If stand up comedy is so much goddamn fun you should be either writing jokes or out doing it right now instead of reading my blog.

I went to the bar and had a beer. My nerves were shot from all the people I saw in line. Old. People with canes, walkers, and Rascals. Like 40 Mr. Herberts from Family Guy standing in a row. How am I supposed to relate to these artifacts? The greatest generation is not the greatest audience. That's a fact.

Whenever I say I hate playing for old people, my friend Claude always tells me, "Hey man, old people fuck." Um, no they don't. And even if they did, I don't have any jokes about fucking. And besides, that's gross. If old people do fuck, they should stop. Immediately. Today. Right now. They might end up with little old men for babies.

When I showed up to the club, there were extra comedians on the line up. Paul Kozak and Shayma Tash. Jessi Campbell was there as well, and I was all of a sudden relieved. I only had to do 20 minutes, and there was an MC. Yeah, he did magic. Yeah, he brought people on the stage. Yeah that's impossible to follow in Vegas. But I didn't care. Paul was crazy cool, and he took the pain out of my situation. All of a sudden, I had the easiest slot on the show.

The first night was fun. I don't remember much, just that I had a good time on stage. Tons of old people, and they were seated very randomly and all over the place. But it was loose and fun. Kozak was funny, Jessi was funny, Shayma was funny. It was fun.

The rest of the trip was uneventful and I don't remember the details as belonging to any specific day. It was like Purgatory. Not quite Hell. It was just the fact that I wasn't in Heaven with God that bothered me. I was on Earth. It was hot on this section of the planet.

I got free food at the hotel restaurant and ate at least 4 orders of the fajitas during my stay. They were incredible.

I also started watching the That 70's Show at night. I didn't realize it was that funny. The dad is phenomenal. I always loved him in Pinky and The Brain, and I was glad to see he ran with the same type character. And why is Ashton Kusher good in that? Sitcom acting is way harder to pull off than film roles, so what's the problem? I saw his latest movie on a plane. Yuck.

"What Happens in Vegas?"

Sorry. I'll get on with it.

I strayed from my material a lot during the shows. Still did my jokes, but did as much as I could in between. One time on stage, I said I thought I was Reno.

"Boooooooo!" from a complete piece of white garbage in the audience.

"Are you booing me, or Reno?"

"I'm not sure yet."

It's all about respect, y'all. The week prior in San Diego I was booed as I was walking on stage. Hadn't said word yet. Hadn't made it to the mic.

Fuck all y'all. You don't know me.

I proceeded to make fun of whoever it was, but I couldn't tell exactly who was responsible.

After the show, this Laitno kid comes out and he's like, "I was the one booing, bro. But I wasn't booing you. I was booing bill."

The bill.

This waste of chromosomes was booing the bill. He applied a verbal attack to a piece of paper. Inanimate objects are never subject to boos. Ever. At all. Just people.

Yeah, Dumb Guy . Your parents or grandparents, or great grandparents struggled and sacrificed to make a better life for their family by moving to this country, only to wind up with a kid as dumb as an American. Please never go out in public again. Thank you in advance.

As a comedian you are definitely lame until proven hilarious. Everyone who gives me a compliment after a show also has to include the fact that they thought I was going to suck when I walked out on stage. How the fuck do you think I got on stage? By signing up for an open mic? It's a booked show with a difficult and competitive screening process. Stop being retarded everybody. Please? Please? Just for me? Could everybody stop being as dumb as a bag of rocks? And if you can't, can you at least just be quiet and not talk to me. That would be even better. Thank you in advance.

It doesn't make any sense.

I don't know. Maybe it's important to humiliate and criticize others. It keeps people from becoming greater than you, and sorry that they ever tried to do something monumental, or even different than the norm. Yes. Now I see the light. We must tear down those that try. Even if they are successful, it's important to let people know they are worthless. It only takes a second to shout an insult, or disrupt a show, but the memory will be there forever if you do it correctly.

There's a movie out called "Heckler." It's all about how shitty and lame people who heckle and criticize are. My friend Eric Edwards is in it. He watched the The DVD commentary. The director of the movie makes fun of his appearance. My friend Eric got heckled in the movie Heckler by the director of Heckler, thus self-proclaiming himself as a horrible person. Douche bag.

And now I'm criticizing a director of a movie that denounces criticism, in which he criticized someone who was denouncing criticism.

In conclusion, everyone is an asshole, and a total piece of shit. Oh! That reminds me. I still have to get to Bob The Human Piece of Fucking Trash Burke. It's my turn to criticize somebody.

So back to Las Vegas, the only highlight of my week being my friend who was working down the street (and who will go unnamed) texted me and told me he performed cunnilingus on a girl with a baby in her stomach on Friday night. I was very happy about the news. He was very ashamed.

Going downstairs to perform made me more and more and more sick as the week progressed. I didn't want to have to entertain people. Not the people they kept seating in the comedy club anyway. I would be so disgusted with myself as I walked into the showroom every night. I'd look at the scattered groups of old people and rejects wearing shorts and tank tops with extra skin and fat hanging off of every possible appendage, and I would get so depressed. I wanted to die. This was OK with these people. They were fine with themselves. This is what they wanted their lives to be like.

Every night I would walk off stage and think, "that wasn't so bad. I'm gonna' go get some fajitas." But every night when show time rolled around, I was completely allergic to performing (guess that's why I was always breaking out in hilarious jokes).

One night, as I walked down the old strip to buy a 32 oz. Miller High Life to go with my fajitas, this idiot was on the street shouting into a microphone. His voice carried on for blocks. The microphone kept popping as he SCREAMED into it, which made something that would have been merely tacky, absolutely unbearable.

He asked this 8 year old kid to walk up and talk to him. The kid said he was from Belize.

"Where is Belize?"

"Central America."

"Wow. Your English is really good."

Pop, pop,pop, pop.

"Thank you."

"Say Hello to everyone in Balizian (not a real word or language)."

"Hello."

"What language do they speak in Belize?"

"English."

Brilliant. Amplified ignorance. Not that I knew what language is spoken in Belize either, but at least I didn't advertise. And there lies the difference.

It was a weird work week even for a comedy club. We worked Thursday through Tuesday. Anyway, Tuesday night was a taping. I was supposed to sign a contract: A contract saying they could use footage from the show on their internet website. I didn't want to sign it. I hate signing contracts without my lawyer present, because A) he told me never to sign a contract without showing him first, and B) He told me never to sign a contract without showing him first. Those are the only 2 rules he has for me.

It'd be funny if he had other rules for me, like no running or I had to raise my hand before I said anything.

I did the show. It was fun. I got the check from Bob. You know Bob. He's the star of this story. He's Bob The Human Piece of Fucking Trash Burke.

Now Bob The Human Piece of Fucking Trash Burke, is a special kind of idiot. The kind of guy that actually looks like an idiot. It only takes one second to realize you're dealing with a complete imbecile. He looks like Randy Quade in Vacation, but shorter and without the self-confidence. He looks like he should be farming pigs for a living. He's not wearing overalls, but when you picture him in your mind, he's got them on anyway. Holding a pitchfork. But this moron, this idiot, this tragic dunce, this legally retarded dufus, in the end would make me out to be the fool.

I didn't see him most of the week. He didn't show up until the Sunday night show after I was completely over Vegas, and dying to go home.

"Hew is the rum?" He asked, meaning, "Do you like your hotel room?"

I laughed. "It's fine." That's all it was. Fine. Not that I cared. I'll sleep anywhere. But why even ask? He knows what the room is like. Every room in Fitzgerald's is exactly the same. Bland and smoked in.

"Hew were the shuhs?" Meaning, "How were the shows?

"Fine," I told him. Which was still a stretch.

That was the only moment we shared all week. And that was all the Bob Burke I needed for the rest of my life.

So I did the last show on Tuesday in front of the cameras and they weren't even taping me, and that was fine with me, and then it dawned on me, I could get paid and then take off without signing the contract.

Bob hands me a check.

"We youshly give ya cesh, but we're swetchin' bank counts rut nuh."

"That's fine." I said, grabbing the check. I don't want to walk around with cash anyway. It really was a shitty part of town. I've never seen so many bail bonds places in my entire life. Sexy places to buy bail bonds: Places with names like Goodfella's Bail Bonds, Godfather's bail bonds, pimps and players bail bonds. It was lovely. You had a chance to pick a brand of bail bond that suited the personality of your suddenly incarcerated friend or family member. Something that let them keep their identity, through the depersonalizing process of prosecution.

The whole time I'm just trying to get out of there without signing the contract. I felt like I was getting away with something huge.

"Ocean's 11!" I kept saying out loud with a smile.

I got in the car. I deposited my check at a nearby bank, and drove home to Los Angeles. I was off the road by 3am.

CHAPTER 2: The Fast and The Finances.

I went to the bank 6 days later and my balance was -136 bucks.

The check bounced.

I got on the phone with Bob The Human Piece of Fucking Trash Burke. He says it's because they just switched banks. He says another check is on the way.

I cashed the new check.

Do I have to tell you what happens next? Higher than a basketball.

I called Bob. He said he was going to deposit the money in my account that day.

Uh huh.

Why you lyin,' Bob? Why you hittin' yourself?

I called him all day Friday. He never called me back. I left him messages with polite words and threatening tones. He sent me an email saying he, "sent it today and should be there today or tomorrow." Now I couldn't get him to write me back or call me, but I've asked what he means by "sent it," as I thought he said he was depositing the money into my account. No response.

The last thing that he wrote me was that he was going to visit his son in the hospital and he wouldn't be able to answer his phone. Yeah. That goes without saying. Everybody knows phones don't work in hospitals. Anybody who's ever watched ER knows that.

Awwwwwwwwwwww! Poor Bob. His son is sick. So is my landlord's son.

PAY ME!

Chuck, the middle man, who hooked me up with this beautiful scenario didn't do much to help. He sent Bob and email. An email? Check out the big muscle on Chuck. I heard that's how the mob shows they mean business. Online. Emails are very threatening:

To: jimmythewop27@aol.com