Awkward house warming gifts
This was my first attempt at stand up comedy ever. I delivered this at the open mic at the Bamboo Lounge at the Silicon Valley Hotel San Jose Airport. It was too long and complicated and I skipped most of it. Great learning experience though.
I work in high tech. The scope is world wide, and I
deal with lotsa different cultures each with their own special taboos. Even in
my neighborhood, as different people are drawn to work here, you find that
tastes and culture can vary from house to house. But, you learn to adjust,
though it isn’t always easy.
For instance, last week, a Mormon family moved into
the house next store. They invited us over for a house warming party. What do
you take as a gift? I mean Mormons don’t drink, they don’t smoke, they don’t
drink coffee or tea or eat chocolate. Decaf, diet chocolate, maybe? Does that
even exist?
The neighbors across the street, said “fuck it,” and brought
over a coffee table book about Irish pubs.
“Well isn’t this lovely, said Anne, the lady of the
house, what a lovely cover photo, but we’re not really sure where to… put…
this. We don’t drink coffee you see so we don’t really have a coffee table.” I
mean, it was so awkward.
It’s like a Jewish couple giving a Catholic family Hanukkah
candles for Christmas.
“Oh how lovely, but we don’t really have anywhere to
put these. You know, being Catholic, we celebrate that other holiday at the end of the year. Oh, this is so awkward.
Maybe we can use these in the bathroom, you know, for
when flatulent Father John comes to visit.”
Hanukkah. That reminds me, do Israeli politicians
pork barrel? What do they call a parlimentary bill full of goodies in Israel? Pork
is forbidden and chicken barreling doesn’t really do it, does it? Chicken
barrelling sounds like something someone makes you do at summer camp.
“Next, campers, we’ll weave the rubber chicken through
the barrel staves. Oh, watch Freddie, he’s doing that so well.”
I could never be like Freddie. My rubber chicken
wouldn’t weave. It was so awkward. Don’t you just hate that. I knowwww!!
I spend my life feeling awkward. It’s the new normal.
Speaking of awkward, anyone here ever watch “The Shark’s
Tank?” 5 big shot millionaires tear small startup entrepreneurs to shreds on
TV? Seen that? You know, they’re expanding the concept and going foreign. In
Canada, they have, “The Dragon’s Den,” I saw an on-line ad for an Irish version
of, “The Dragon’s Den” recently. God knows where I surf when I get surfing.
Anyway, maybe they should think about running a show
out of San Francisco. “The Drag Queen’s Den.” Sort of like, you know, “Queer
Eye for the Straight Guy” but with an emphasis on pitching business plans.
5 sharply dressed business people take on San
Fransico startups with no holds barred. “No holds barred if you got the numbers,
honey. We can show you some hot little numbers ourselves.”
Our first contestant is a petroleum engineer from Idaho.
“My oil pump will save businesses millions.”
“Ooh, ladies, a man with a big pump, tell me, is this
saffron oil or truffle oil, because I won’t invest in saffron, all those
terrible Spaniards you have to deal with always pinching your ass.”
“Well,” looking around, “it is for petroleum…”
“Hold it, hold it, am I having a nightmare or are you
really pitching your idea in a green suit with brown suede shoes! Pinch me
girls, I’m about to pass out.”
“The Drag Queen’s Den,” coming soon to a TV near you.
Awkwardness. And then there are those among us who
have no sense of awkwardness. An executive from somewhere said at a meeting
recently that his business was
reinventing itself like an Arab Spring.
Yes, those were the very words he said. “like an Arab
Spring.” Really. OK, then, who set themselves on fire?
If you’ve been following the Arab Spring you’d know
that the commonly accepted starting point was when a poor Tunisian fruit pedlar
set himself on fire to protest the police harrassment. Worked for him: the
harrassment stopped.
Imagine setting yourself on fire. How horrible. Does
that executive think that setting one’s self on fire was on that Tunisian’s
bucket list? Indeed, what the hell was the executive thinking?
“That’s a efficient way to shorten or, indeed, to end
your bucket list. Let’s see, dinner with Beyonce, not likely to happen, ah
here’s one, self-imollation.”
Then, of course, there’s that whole mess in Egypt. Is
that where his business was going?
What about the Olympics? I thought the Olympics were
supposed to bring peaceful competition to replace armed conflict. How’s that
coming along? Anyone feel awkward there?
Maybe it’s a case of the right idea but the wrong
scope, maybe the Olympics should be closer to home.
Maybe there should be a Disfunctional Family
Olympics.
You know, relationships can be an emotional
rollercoaster. Rollercoastering isn’t an Olympic sport: But since they got rid of
wrestling, there’s an opening! Please, please, maybe with rollercoastering one
of the Pacific Island states can finally win a gold medal before Greenland
falls into the ocean and drowns them out.
How about emotional badminton then? Your wife
responds to your opening service with an overhead smash on your shuttlecock.
Or here’s one, Love Triangle Triathalon. She
discovers your girlfriend, and bang, you’re under water before you know it, but
as soon as you hit dry land, you can hop on a bike for a quick getaway. And if
she can’t keep up with you, you don’t have to listen to the lecture. Maybe they
should hand everyone different items at the pit stops to fling at each other.
That would make the chase more exciting.
And chases are exciting. What can be really dull are field
sports. Who here gets psyched up for the discus, for example? Discus, anyone?
Well, in the disfunctioinal family olympics, we spice
up the field sports with, you guessed it, moving targets. Instead of a field,
it is a dining room with an adjacent living room and kitchen. Instead of a
discus, we use dinner plates. Accuracy is the name of the game here. Stepping
up for the USA, my wife, whrrrrr, whoa that was close.
Hey, just watch that jam jar shot put fly after you
insult her mother, zippp, followed by steak knife archery, zippp, zippp, and
the dreaded broom handle javelin.
They turn the lights down low for the javelin, damn
those things are hard to see when they’re coming at you at 30 miles per hour.
Watch out!
You know we tried the marriage counseling marathon,
didn’t do it for us.
But I kid you about my wife, Irene, she’s actually
the greatest and sweetest partner you could imagine. Just recently Irene helped
me through a very awkward night at our place.
We had a dinner party. My sister, Emma, showed up
with her new boyfriend, Harry, a doctor, a gastroenterologist, as matter of
fact, the same gastroenterologist who had recently done my colonoscopy. It was
so awkward.
Talk about putting the “enter” in gastroenterology! I
was about to have dinner with a doctor who had recently probed my insides.
“What are we having?” Harry asked as he sat down on the sofa next to
Emma.
“<CLEARS THROAT>, roast beef wrapped in bacon
and tabacco leaves with french fries.”
“Oh, that’ll look good on your next little movie. What
are we having afterwards, asbestos flavored cigarettes?”
“OHKAY. Oh, there’s the door bell.”
It was my brother, Sam, with his date, Samantha, who
I didn’t know.
“Oh you can call me, Sam,” she said.
And now, I had to remember to call him Sam and her
Sam. Is there a special way to pronounce the female version of Sam? Do you go
up in your intonation, like, Saaaam? Or do you say it in a different way, like
Samm?
“Relax,” my brother said, “it’s just Sam and Sam. Do
you always have to make such a big deal about everything?”
“OK, Sam and Sam. What do you do, Saaam?”
“I’m a state income tax auditor!”
“Oh wow, I mean, how interesting.” I said, now
turning a little green.
You know, last year, I got a little ^creative^ with
my ^deductions^, so just as I’m thinking about having my insides inspected by
Harry, I’m now going to be reemed out by an auditor.
I was already a little nervous about dinner, …and this
was so awkward.
“That sofa looks familiar,” said Sam, the auditor “is
it really reserved for paying customers?”
“Ah yes,” turning to Emma and Harry, “wouldn’t you
feel more comfortable on the arm chairs? That sofa is reserved for paying
customers.” <Hustling motion>
“Nice sticker on your car outside,” continued Sam, “first
time I’ve ever seen a hybrid Porsche.”
“Oh, my wife, Irene, is calling, dinner’s ready.
Everyone, let’s go to the table.”
So there we all were at the dinner table. Irene had
also invited a friend, Nancy, a kindergarten teacher. Now, Nancy is a mature
woman, but her world is filled with small children so, when you talk to her, you’re
suddenly aware of your bad behavior.
I mean she wasn’t going to fall over in a dead faint
if you swore but, you know, it was so awkward.
Nancy said, “Do you like my new yoga top? It’s from
Lululemon! The color is called, spring melons. Can you see the spring melons?”
Oh, I could see them alright, ripe and ready for
picking.
Irene offered everyone a glass of wine.
“Thank, God!” I said.
“Absolutely, I’ll have a glass” said Harry, “helps
reduce the risk of cancer, you know.”
Nancy said, “me too. What the hay, I don’t have any
children here. At least none that I know of.”
“Is that from your, tax deductable ‘entertainment
reserve?’” Sam, the auditor, asked me.
“Yes, don’t you feel entertained?”
“Oh, I’ve felt very entertained since reviewing your
tax return this afternoon. You know, we should get together sometime, like
maybe Monday morning at 10 o’clock, at my office downtown?”
“OK, so who else would like some wine?”
Everyone got some wine and Irene then asked me to
carve the roast. And it was slippery, with all this bacon all over it and
everything. The first slice, however, was no problem. Nailed it. Yeah.
Then Harry said, “that beef is a little rare for
someone your age, isn’t it?”
“More rare than what they serve at San Quentin,” said
Sam, the auditor.
That did it. I lost my concentration and cut my thumb
on the next slice.
“Oh Watermelon,” Then upon seeing Nancy, “I mean, Darn!
Yes, Darn, Darn, Darn.”
Nancy, grabbed my thumb with her napkin to help stop
the bleeding.
“Oh settle down you big baby. This is just a wittle
scratch, you’ll be OK. You be a good boy and we’ll see about getting you a
cookie.”
“A cookie free of saturated fats, that is” said
Harry.
“Are you going to be OK?” asked Sam, the auditor, “or,
are you going to need another one of your special ‘tax deductable’ trips to the
hospital?”
“I think that’s enough from all of you,” said Irene
who then took me to the bathroom, bandaged up my wound then suggested I go lie
down.
When I awoke, every one had left. There was a note on
the table from Irene, “just driving Nancy home, back soon.” The house was
peaceful and, for that moment, all was well.
