"Is this thing-" "-Pussy! Har har har!" "...on?"

My dear readers. I've missed you. No bullshit.
But enough about you.
With only one exam remaining, to be written some days from now, in which I have the exam questions already, in a course being taught by a professor who loves me, I am back.
My sleeves are rolled up.
It's Friday night. I have nowhere in particular to be, and no one to cling to.
Let's do some blogging guys.
Right hard.
Okay. Show first. Let's do that.

And did I ever have a show a few weeks back. For you cronies scratching your ignorant craniums, here.

Animals. Fiends. This show was monkies throwing shit, I'm not kidding.
It was a blast, though. Traumatizing in its own right, but a blast.
George, Tim (another up-and-whatever doing Victory shows) and I are sitting at one of the tables.
In front of our fish n' chips.
There's a Kraft portion of tar tar sauce sitting next to my plate.
It's looking at me. And I'm looking at it.
The first free food that comedy has ever afforded me.
"I won't be able to eat much," I told George as we were setting up.
"Oh, sure you will."
I didn't eat much.
It was cool to sit around and just talk about comedy for the sake of talking about it.
Now, our group is about 25 or 30 old...dudes.
As we wait to get started, I become increasingly more and more aware of the amount of booze these men are putting back.
Tim's first. ...
...
Man.
George gets him up. Tim launches. The wheels sorta come off quickly, though.
These men don't want to listen to Tim talk about 5-second bacon.
And they let him know.
And Tim has some solid shit, too. These guys were just impatient.
This one portly bald fellow yells "Pussy!" after a comment Tim makes.
"You know what tastes good?" was what started it. Something like that.
Too crass for the children.
It was awful. Then all of the men guffaw, heartily. Then they all start yelling it.
It gets ugly in a very short amount of time.
George gets up again. Tim begins to regain some colour.
I know I'm fucked, at this point. I say so to Tim.
I have an insult prepped for the Pussy gentleman, an ounce of Gin, and my soul, and that's it.
Some of them were into it. I'll admit.
But these men were not interessted.
They wanted jokes about Jesus and Santa defiling nuns.
They didn't want my observations on drunk women hailing a cab. And I know this. But I go with it.
The wheels come off, regardless.
I decide myself to cut the set.
One man slurs that I should keep going.
"Keep goin' buddy, I'm listenin'!" He shouts. Turns over his shoulder. "Shut da fuck up, b'ys!"
I point at him and say, "You sir, are my favourite audience member."
I think he is.
Or he was.
Until he gets up on stage with me in order to take the microphone from my hand (gently, at least) and say, "Shut da fuck up" again.
Which didn't really help.
But it was charming, just the same.
The point?
The point is this: when I was done, I was as satisfied as I was before getting on stage. I was, at the very least, entertaining.
It was the best bomb of my life, by far.
George got a shirt.
We didn't.
I might ask George for his.