Last Friday, I was robbed.
I awoke to hear the news of this burglary via email from a fellow comic. He claimed that he was talking with yet another comic – who I had never met – who said he had seen yet ANOTHER comic do one of my jokes at a different show.
*High pitched old horror movie scream!*
I tried to stay calm. I took another sip of coffee, had a bite of my cold congealed oatmeal, and chased that with three shots of my morning vodka.
“Who was it?” I whispered, out loud, for effect, but you know, also wrote in an email since I don’t communicate with anyone in person, as a rule.
He didn’t know her name, but apparently she was very tall, had brown hair, and an affinity for stealing terrific jokes about the Plan B pill. IT COULD BE ANYONE. The witness comic promised he would not rest until he found out the criminal’s identity, or you know, just ask around a bit.
Sure, I thought, I could write a new joke. Of course I could write a new joke. But that was going to take time, energy, creativity, and it was 11am and I was already out of vodka.
Finally I knew exactly how those Winklevoss twins must have felt when they got Zuckberg’d.
A day went by, and still our very professional investigation that involved only a moderate amount of semi-obsessive internet stalking had produced no results. Meanwhile, my completely irrational anger raged on, and I began to make panicked sobby phone calls to my many supportive friends.*
The witness comic then emailed me to ask about my whereabouts the previous Thursday. I didn’t really see the relevance, but figured he just needed more details for his extensive crime story board, as shown in countless episodes of Law & Order: SVU.
“Alyssa,” he wrote. “I think I know who did this.”
I held my breath.
“It was you.”