Move. That. Bus.

This past weekend, I trekked up to Boston for the Women in Comedy Festival.  And since my self-loathing has hit an all-time high, I decided to take the bus to get there.  As I walked over to the makeshift bus depot made up of random chains, dirty shoelaces, and tears, I tried to reserve my judgment.

“How bad could it be?” I wondered, out loud, and also, on Twitter.

Lucky for you guys, I am not prone to exaggeration of any kind.  I report the facts just as they occurred, much like those truth-tellers over at Fox News. Furthermore, riding the bus to Boston from New York gave me new insight into Rihanna’s song about finding love in a hopeless place.  There is now no doubt in my mind that she met Chris Brown on a bus.  They likely bonded over a shared case of post-trauamtic stress disorder, or a bag of stale pizza-flavored combos.

I was told to wait on a line on the side of the road, and was left there to size up the other passengers.  Things already looked grim, and they smelled even worse, like an upsetting combination fish flavored hummus and middle school children.  This concerned me as we were about to embark on a closed-window journey that was predicted to last at least four hours.  I boarded the bus, and strategically chose a seat the top of the stairs.  I figured, if I needed to escape, I could throw myself down the stairs and insist that an ambulance take me the rest of the way to Boston.

After settling in, the bus driver began his pre-departure ritual of starting/stopping every two seconds until we had left the island of Manhattan.  But, as it turns out, he enjoyed this so much, that he decided to do it for the rest of the ride as well.

I began to feel nauseous before even boarding the bus, so to say I was sick to my stomach at this point would be a bit of an understatement.  It was also around this time that my phone died, and so, I knew: all was lost.

I began rocking back and forth, murmuring, “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round” over and over again like a mantra.  I began thinking that this must have been how those folks on the Carnival Cruise must have felt right before literal pieces of poop came sliding down the wall.  Then I wondered if I still had time to take a cruise ship up to Boston instead as that sounded preferable.

Finally, the bus came to a complete stop.  I opened one eye, and then the other, because I was feeling like a frightened cartoon character.  Had we reached our destination?  Was I finally going to wake from this nightmare?  I peered over my seat mate to see if I could read the highway sign.

It read: “Yankee Stadium, 2 miles.”

Here’s the bus I should have taken.

 

What More Can I Say?

Yesterday, I had the distinct honor of spending an entire afternoon with one of my biggest fans.
Despite the fact that she is completely illiterate, refuses to use a toilet to relieve herself, and frequently sneezes in my mouth, I know that she has great taste in friends (me) and also in comedians (me again), and therefore, I am willing to overlook her minor lapses in personal hygiene during our visits together.
Since I know she’s such a big fan of my comedic works, I arrived on the scene completely prepared.  I had worked on some new bits, sketches, improv games, silly faces, offensive voices, cruel and/or heartless impressions, and even fashioned together a few sock puppets that vaguely resembled some of the key characters in Les Mis, in case she was feeling dramatic or just wanted to hate on Anne Hathaway, PrinCESS of Genovia.
But, alas, all this preparation proved to be worthless.  My favorite superfan slept through the better part of my visit (RUDE!) and when she awoke, she did not seem happy to see me.  Instead, she yelled in my face!  Perhaps she was just starstruck?  I found it to be a little aggressive, but I’ve had worse hecklers, so I was not discouraged. I went straight into my new material, but she continued to interrupt and threw her hands up in exasperation.
As a last ditch effort, I threw on the hottest beat I could think of (“Be My Lover” by La Bouche”, duh) and called upon my experience as a classically trained dancer.
Oh, I’m sorry.  Did you say something?
I’ll say that again, just in case.  Classically.  Trained.  DANCER.
She finally stopped screaming just as her parents walked in the door.  Turns out, she just had to poop.  Which apparently is pretty standard behavior for a five-month-old baby.  Who knew?!
Please note: I am very responsible and available to care for your children at any time.


She was not.

Snooze Control.

My morning routine:

7:00am: Alarm rings. Press snooze.

7:15am: Alarm rings. Press snooze.

7:30am: Alarm rings. Wasn’t today the day I promised myself I would start going to the gym at 7am?  But wasn’t 7am half an hour ago?  And if I’m sleeping that means I’m not eating and am basically losing weight, so I’m gonna go ahead and…press snooze.

7:45am: Alarm rings. Hello? Who’s calling?  Oh, is that the alarm again? God, he is annoying. Is this what having kids is like? SNOOZE.

8:00am: Alarm rings. Geez, that thing is relentless.  Can’t he see I’m busy sleeping/burning off the calories from last night’s wine dinner?  My head hurts.  Someone is screaming!  STOP SCREAMING!  Is that the baby?!  I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BABY.  Oh, wait.  I forgot to press…snooze.

8:05am: Alarm rings.  There’s no way that was 15 minutes.  Oh, that’s my second “emergency” alarm.  No, wait.  That’s the smoke alarm?  Did they elect a new Pope?  In my apartment?  Maybe the battery is low.  I don’t think it has a snooze button.  Better just get up, and throw it out the window.  Maybe it’ll hit the bird that’s been squawking on my fire escape all weekend, and I can kill two birds with one broken fire alarm.

8:15am: Alarm rings. Do I even have something to do today?  SNOOZE.

8:30am: Alarm rings. “Snooze” has to be the silliest name for such a vital life-saving button slash constant romantic companion.  Reminds me of “Snood.”  God, that was a great game.  Alright, I’m up now. I’ll just go ahead and turn off my alarm…

10:47am: (Eyelids flutter) Wow, I feel great!  I should probably start getting ready for work.  Do I have time for a shower…Oh.  SHIT.

“You’re fired.”
(He’s talking to my alarm.)

Dance Like Everybody’s Watching

I am incredibly busy and also, important.  So, sometimes, it becomes difficult for me to fit everything I want to do into my packed schedule.  Sadly, I am the only person in the world with this problem.

However, when my little sister asks me to be somewhere, I try to show up.  Because “family” is on my priority list.  (Other items on my priority list include: eating pizza alone, keeping enough room in my DVR queue for every episode of Catfish, accurately quoting the movie Juwanna Mann, maintaining a healthy relationship with sets of twins, and Tupperware.)

This past Saturday was my sister’s birthday, and she had very generously invited me to join her – and a few lucky friends – to have a drink at a bar.  I was honored to be included on this exclusive invite list this year, and promised I’d be there.  Plus, I knew I’d have a ride.  (Thanks, Mom!)

I arrive at the bar, and there’s a line to get inside.  Like, TOTAL buzzkill, AMIRIGHT??

(Pause for high fives.)

But since I am, in fact, important, as I may have mentioned before, I figured this whole “wait outside” thing would not apply to me.  I just walked right up to the bouncer, winked, and then waltzed right into the bar.

He then grabbed my arm, and was all like, “GET BACK IN LINE!” Which is just part of this fun game we play where I get to pretend to be a Normal. #Yolo

After the game was over, I went inside, and darted to the bar to find my sister – and some of her friends – hanging around, sipping on some drinks.  I said hello, but as the wise oracle Taio Cruz once said, I came to dance, dance, dance, dance, dance.

I live by the motto that you should dance like the person you’re dancing with doesn’t even know you’re dancing with him, and that night, I was especially committed.

And so, I danced.  And danced.  Danced.  Danced some more.  Kept dancing. Thought about stopping, and then, changed my mind.  And danced again.  At some point, my sister and her friends left, but I didn’t notice as I was too busy dancing.  When I finally looked up, and saw that everyone was gone, I thought to myself, “Wow.  I’m going to have to update that priority list.”

I wasn’t tired.  This is one of my dance moves.