So, a lotta people are asking me exactly what happened at Hamclown last night. This here is the definitive account of what I experienced. I’d like to say that I’m getting “tired’ of telling the story, but that’s a fucking lie. My Grandkids will be tired of me telling this story before I am.
For those of y’all who’ve never been to a Hamclown, we start every show off with a sketch. This month’s sketch had Eric playing a showmom, forcing me to wear Bowie makeup and sing Life On Mars. I was decked out in purple pants, a peppermint striped shirt, and the icing: a glittery lightning bolt ejaculating glam all over my face. Everything was going swimmingly, until right before Matt Dwyer’s set.
Jesse, the incredibly kind, if not a little bro-ey, dude who runs the bar calls me over. This is the most serious I’ve ever seen him. I half-expected him to tell me they were out of Jameson. He guides me outside of the bar where I immediately notice approximately seventeen cops, guns drawn. One of the cops, a portly Mexican with a buzzcut, grasped a shotgun in his sweaty meat-claws like his first erection. I assume pity was the main motivating factor in allowing this lumpy fuck to play with the big gun.
"There’s a hostage situation on the—"
"I’m sorry, what?"
"There’s a man pointing a gun at his girlfriend on the 5th floor. We need you to inform the people that they cannot leave the room."
"Are you serious?!"
The cop just looked at me. It was a look that said, “Listen, faggot, I don’t know what the hell your parents did to make you squeeze yourself into a pair of purple women’s size 4 jeans, slather yourself in makeup, and engage in the neediest excuse for validation… but I am a man with a gun telling you to do a thing. Whatever that fucking thing is, you are going to do it.”
I walked back into the room, in a daze. I took the stage and, as straight faced as I could, explained to the crowd that they could not leave the room.
After about 3 or 4 tries, I think the crowd finally got it. “No, seriously, you guys can’t leave the room… *cough* your next comic…”
If anyone is the true standout in this ridiculous farce, it’s Matt Dwyer. I’d be willing to bet that the intro I gave him was the worst in the history of comedy. (Unless, I guess, you count those jokesters who give a crack-em-up as their “last words” before being electrocuted.)
Matt commented on it, for a bit, then just went into his set… and he was absolutely hysterical. Roughly 5 minutes into it, I was told that the situation was “taken care of.” I haven’t heard anything about it on the news, so I’m just going to assume that the LAPD totally did not shoot and kill a probably-black man two floors above my comedy show.
I gotta hand it to the crowd, though. Maybe it was my Nakatomi Plaza reference, or the fact that I was juuuust drunk enough to be nonchalant about it, but they didn’t freak out. They hung in there and watched some of the best comics in LA do their pretty little thing.
Or maybe they thought it was just a joke. Fucking hell… I kinda hope they did. I wish I could write that well.
That being said, come to the next Hamclown. It’s adventure comedy and nobody that’s been to the show has died yet (at the venue or otherwise!) I love you.
I have a “so-called” mental illness. At least, I think I do. I endured various “treatments” as a kid, and am still on medication to this day. I don’t feel much different from anyone else. I am generally very happy to be me. Because of this weekend’s killing spree, people are talking about mandatory commitments… again. The idea that someone like me would get involuntarily locked up (like what happened in the 60s) is horrifying. “Mental illness” is such a vague, malleable term, that anyone could be labeled with it. I know I’d end up getting pillow-smothered by a giant Indian.
See, the problem wasn’t lack of “treatment” of Loughner’s mental illness. It was the fact that he had a gun. How about requiring a psychiatric evaluation before being allowed to purchase a killing machine? Call me crazy, (others have), but allowing mentally ill people to purchase tools that have no other purpose than halting life seems like the most insane thing out of all of the things. Literally, ever. Out of every combination of nouns and verbs, “Let’s let crazy people buy guns!” is probably the most insane.
I’d be more than happy to give up my gun owning rights, too. I mean, come on, have you seen a hammer? You can probably kill anything with that. Bows and arrows? Don’t get me started. They’re great! The 2nd amendment is necessary to protect from Tyranny, sure, but come on. I’m trying to avoid the use of the word overkill here, because it seems too punny, but I’m failing. It’s overkill. You know what? Remember earlier, when I said that ‘“Mental illness’ is such a vague, malleable term, that anyone could be labeled with it.”? That might happen with the whole “let’s do psychiatric evaluations on people who wanna buy guns” thing. How ‘bout this: If you own a gunstore, just google the person who’s trying to buy the gun. If you’d have seen Jared Lee Loughner’s groin-grabbingly crazy youtube videos, you probably wouldn’t have sold him a gun. There. Solved.
You’re Welcome, Josh
PS. I’m sorry about the boobs thing, that was crass. Feel free to try and hit me with a hammer.