You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
The night the comedienne called me "bland"Half a half-assed story
Interesting that she hasn't found an impressive man in so long. In my experience this means that she's up for five more years of therapy.
And while she might "be a bolster for a man", as she so quaintly put it, perhaps she also just naturally undercuts him (oh the type!) in not so obvious ways.
Again, in my experience with being a wannabe fan of (name your celeb comedy poison), I have to say I was at first a bit "put out" (don't you love that expression -- it can mean mildly pissed or giving sex (e.g., she really puts out): the English language, how imprecise, yes!?) when I saw that she was trying to goad the Suicide Girls folks to enter her contest by saying (and I paraphrase her post, because, who wants to get googled and found out? Ahhh, not me.): "All the entries have been bland bland bland. Come on -- hit me with your best shot?"
I mean, talking trash about your beloved wannabe fans (like me) who took a good 10 minutes out of their day to fashion a photographic contest entry, while various likenesses of yourself (perhaps a bit too many -- ahem!) abound?
And then I realized, yes, of course, "bland". I live in Vermont. People actually settle here to become "bland". At least she (denizen of NYC, which constantly throbs with life, like a massive and tumescent spit of phallic real estate, ready to pop at any hour day or night if you whisper the right words in its gigantic ear, said to be located somewhere around 125th and 6th Ave) knows all about it but still...
I know I had a bigger point, but I'm spent. Smoke em if you've got em.
Labels: NYC, sex, succubae