The Inside Job

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.*

*my mom

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.”

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