Here's a joke that hasn't been funny since I was on A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila--I was the first person eliminated. It was awful. I didn't get along with the producers and am fully ashamed that I was ever on the show--But still! This used to be a funny joke:
"So I guess I'll just have to get famous the old fashioned way. Oral sex. It used to be just a dream that a lesbian could sleep her way to the top. Now it's a reality TV show."
I think I can salvage it. Maybe I'll give it a whirl tonight.
Show fourteen was one of those shows where if I didn't know I was going to go home and blog about it, it would have been uzi-to-the-crotch soul-killing. Hello, Laugh Lounge! The host didn't show, so the six of us passed the mic and took solace in the brutal honesty of the situation. There was no running the light. More of an, "ok, I have two bits I want to work on tonight. Here they are," type of thing. A solidarity in knowing we had paid $6 for a soda and were in a dark basement on a rainy day just trying to do our thang. And the cocktail menu had me in stitches! Essex in the City! Good one.
I skipped Friday for a burlesque show in Philly where I officially lost my crush on the 22 year old who obviously had never dated in the real world before, and performed at a lesbian bar that was full of women in vests and featured a carpeted floor. Who carpets a bar? (Insert lesbian carpet joke here.)
Show fifteen was teneleven bar, where the mic just recently moved from 8pm to 6:30. I was late, and the room was a little bit weird, though welcoming, and happy hour brought me a $3 vodka/soda and the bartender a $2 tip. Hey, big spender.
Because the audience was pretty thin, one of the comics took it upon himself to pick me out of the crowd (because crowd work makes so much sense at an open mic. HBO special, here you come) and ask me, "would you ever date a black man?" with an obvious race card in his deck that he was itching to play.
"Nope. Never." I replied. "I don't date men at all. I'm gay." Ha! Let them think I am racist and then switch it up at the end. Gay rights, touche!
I should have know better than to think that revealing my lesbian-ism is ever a deterant for men. I know, from experience that it is more of an invitation for sexual comments, personal questions, and an eventual offer to shave close and go down. (Men, take note. If you think you have a chance of bagging a minxy mo, at least come up with something more original than oral sex. We do other things, you know. Like scissor, cuddle, and talk about our feelings.) His rant against me ended with a question about my lover's breasts--please note, I did not have a lover at the time, nor did I ever imply that I did. This girlfriend to which he was referring was a product of his imagination, entirely.
"Does she have watch batteries or funbags?" He asked, employing possibly the most random point of reference for breast size that I have ever heard.
I didn't answer. Watch batteries? What is he, hitting on anamatronics at FAO Schwartz? Whose breasts look like watch batteries? The least he could have done was make a AA battery joke. Something.
I did have the pleasure of running into Sasheer Zamata (sasheer.com) who took me along to The PIT's mic at 10pm. Though my name did not make it out of the hat for one of the six open spots, all around good guy Rob Stern (http://passthecarrots.podbean.com) tacked me onto the end, anyhoo, so I ended the night with a smile and a slight wine buzz. Even though the Q train was shuttling. Freakin, always.
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