Tag: comedy

My Discomfort

I slept late on Thursday morning and couldn’t find my motivation to get dressed. While enjoying my breakfast of Purely Elizabeth blueberry lemon oatmeal, I watched part of comic Tig Notaro’s standup special, “Tig Notaro: Boyish Girl Interrupted.”

Tig is one of my favorite comics. Her quirky timing along with her charming, not quite deadpan delivery, always has me in stitches. I’d never actually watched this special, though, and was totally unprepared to see her slender form dressed only in blue jeans, her top having been discarded at a point prior to my tuning into the program.

Tig is a breast cancer survivor, and I don’t think I knew that until I saw her bare chested on the television. Was I shocked? Yes. Women don’t just bare their chests, even chests without breasts, on television. Right? Well, apparently Tig does.

At first I had a difficult time watching the special. It’s like I didn’t know where to look. Didn’t she know her shirtless appearance would cause discomfort among some viewers? “Holy cow, lady, put your top back on,” I thought in a really loud internal voice.

But then I forgot to be uncomfortable. And I began to cheer her bravery in the midst of her comedy. What a badass.

Now I need to see the special from the beginning. I imagine the reactions of her audience as she first removes her button down shirt. There’ll most likely be some gasps. People won’t know where to look. But me? I’ll be cool with it. I’ll tell those uncomfortable folks to just chill. Tig’s got a point to make and you’re going to want to be looking when she makes it.

Peace, people.

Who’s That Girl?

Studly Doright and I watch a good many movies. New movies, old movies, funny movies, action movies, we like them all. Well, Studly doesn’t care for horror flicks, but everything else is fair game.

Studly is extremely gifted in the art of identifying actors in different roles. We will be watching a movie and he’ll lean over and whisper, “That’s Idris Elba,” and I’ll say, “No way.” He’ll insist and I’ll refute until I break down and google the answer. Sure enough, that’s Idris.

When I watch a movie I become so immersed in the story that the actor ceases to be an actor and morphs into the character he or she is portraying. But every now and then I’m the one who spots the actor, and when I do I celebrate with cries of jubilation. Last night was one of those nights.

We were watching an older movie on television and a fresh young actress seemed vaguely familiar. I turned to Studly and said, “That’s Mary Steenburgen!”

“No way!” He said.

“Is too!” I claimed. Quickly I googled the film and gave a triumphant shout. My victory was short lived though when he realized the male actor was Jack Nicholson and I argued with him. And of course, it was Jack.

I guess I’ll never be ahead for very long. Oh well, he doesn’t look nearly as good in a dress as I do.

Dental Visit

Open wide, don’t flinch

Now you’ll feel a little pinch

Then only numbness.

You call that a pinch?

Sonofabitch I’m wounded

Grievously woonthed.

Thit, now my tongue ith athleep.

Thit, thit, thit, thit, thit.

Here’s one of my all-time favorite episodes of the Carol Burnett show. 

http://youtu.be/1CSJw96SAeM

Just For Gaffes (edited)

I owe my life to “I Love Lucy.” Not in any literal sense, but certainly in some sort of metaphysical way. Lucy’s propensity for doing the wrong thing at the right time set a disturbingly cool precedent for me back in the days when the television was actually a pretty decent babysitter. Lucy’s grape stomping, ledge climbing, chocolate wrapping legacy, if nothing else, gave me permission to be my goofy self with no, ok, a few apologies.

But Lucy wasn’t my only influence. My mom, Freida, and her younger sister, Nedra, lent their wackiness to my formative years, as well. Once while waiting to pick up a relative at the small airport in Amarillo, the pair scurried off to answer the call of nature inside the ladies’ room of the nearly empty terminal. It was late at night and they might have been a bit tipsy. Mom was in one stall. Nedra in another. Gas was passed. Loud and long and clear. Nedra, always quick with a witticism sternly admonished, “Freida!” A deep silence ensued. The kind of silence that indicates something is very wrong. A toilet flushed, a stall opened and closed, followed by the sound of footsteps leaving the room. Only then did Mom explode in laughter as Nedra realized she’d scolded a complete stranger for farting. The pair hid in the bathroom for awhile hoping the gas passer wouldn’t associate them with their bathroom behavior.

Once my Aunt Nedra and her husband Uncle Richard, along with my mom and dad were spending the night at my grandparents’ home. As was their habit at such gatherings, the men went to bed ahead of the women who liked to tell stories and laugh well into the night. After much silliness my Aunt said goodnight to Mom and my grandmother and went to bed. Soon after, my mom followed, but found her spot next to my dad, occupied. She started laughing and soon her mother joined her in fits of uncontrollable giggles. Groggily, Nedra asked, “Richard, why are they laughing?” My dad, who until then was sound asleep responded, “Maybe because I’m not Richard and you’re in bed with your sister’s husband.” Everyone but my grandfather thought the story was hilarious. It just pissed him off.

I’ve turned doing embarrassing things into an art form. Too many to list here, but one of my favorites(?) was the time I was having some sort of sonogram done. As I lay on the exam table the tech was instructing me to take deeper breaths, hold, release, etc. The doctor to whom I’d been referred had an odd name, something like Bozdagerian or Bodgazerian or Bogzaderian.

I asked the tech, “Just how do you say this doctor’s name anyway ? Boz-da-ger-ian?”

“Deeper” said the tech.

So I lowered my voice an octave and tried again. “Boz-da-ger-ian?” I intoned.

The tech started laughing. “That was impressive,” he said. “Now please take a deeper breath.”

I’m most apt to commit verbal faux pas, like the time I told a crowd of people that upon Turning 50 I had “embraced my AARP-ness.” Read that aloud and you will know why I was the butt of more than a few jokes that afternoon.

Then there was the time a drunken me asked a lady on the dance floor where the deejay was located. Coincidentally, she asked me the very same question. At the very same time. She even kind of looked like me, only drunker. I noticed dancers giving me odd looks. That’s when I realized I’d been carrying on a conversation with my reflection in a mirror. I told myself thanks and returned to my table. I never did find the deejay.

My mom always said I was just like my Aunt Nedra, but at least I’ve never slept with my sister’s husband.

Peace, People.