Available here.

If only they were scratch and sniff.  And too bad they’re not available for people—I know a few assholes that could use one.

I’m in love with die Antwoord. And I think I want that chick’s haircut.

Did you see the pic of Jobs with the iPad between his legs?

Frat boys are already planning iPaddy raids.

Somebody should make a carrying case called The Douchebag.

First-time iPad users were overheard saying, “Dammit, why can’t I reboot this bloody computer?”

So I get on stage at Castagnola’s, a seafood restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf in SF.

A 50-year-old heavyset woman is sitting with her bald husband about 4 tables back.  She’s drunk and has been growing increasingly talkative throughout the night; she’s told comics before me that she’s from Iowa and loves sex.

My initial strategy is to ignore her.  I open with a few jokes about growing up in a white trash town. I get some decent laughs—then Iowa babbles something.

I give her a smile, ignore her, and keep going.

Iowa babbles again, this time loudly enough that other people hear it—something about her wanting me to tell a joke.

I laugh and say, “What do you think I’m doin, lady?”

The audience chuckles, but it was a bad move on my part — open-ended questions in a burgeoning standoff rarely end well (well, for me, at least…).

And as if on cue, she responds in a drunken slur, “You’re jacking off. Why don’t you tell a joke that’s funny?”

The crowd gives up a long woooo. A woman whispers ‘oh shit’ in the front row. The battle is on.

I smile…but I feel myself start to sweat. Any comic can look like a bully, but—call it sexist if you want—male comics have to be especially careful when dealing with a female heckler. Push too far and you go from saying what’s on the audience’s mind to sounding like an abusive jerk, and you can kiss the rest of your set goodbye. The best strategy in this situation is to gently riff and let the heckler hang herself; just repeating what she says will sometimes get a laugh, and give her enough attention to satisfy her need for attention.

So I say, “If you saw what I have to work with when I’m jacking off, you’d think it was funny.”

The audience laughs.   Iowa laughs.  Maybe I’m O.K.   I continue with my set.

Iowa orders still another drink…oh god.  The bartender—a very nice woman who inserts herself into shows to the restaurant manager’s chagrin—walks up to Iowa’s table, and in the middle of my set, proceeds to shake Iowa’s martini loudly.  I stop talking and stare at the bartender as she pours the martini. The pour seems to take forever. I check my invisible wristwatch. The audience chuckles. Thank god I’m still getting laughs.

Iowa remains occupied with her fresh martini while I launch into a bit about people in SF thinking I’m gay.

Suddenly Iowa yells, “You look gay to me! I bet you like dick.”

I answer: “Just like your husband enjoys sucking yours.”

The audience laughs, but the situation is getting precarious….

I go for my big closer and  Iowa interrupts me again. This time I try a new strategy: I literally hold my hand up to her like a traffic cop making a stop — my hand right up to her face — and she shuts up! She halts, brakes squealing! Tell it to the hand! Not a word comes out of her mouth!  A new miracle technique!  I finish my joke, get my last laugh, and thank the audience.

As I run off stage, I pass the headliner who’s about to go up. He looks deathly nervous; I’ve seen him perform before, and I know he doesn’t like riffing with crowds.  I shake his hand and whisper, “Good luck with Iowa!”  He smiles sickly.  His palm is soaking wet.

I go to the back of the room and take a drink. Iowa jumps out of her seat and stumbles over to me and my comedy partner KayDee.

Iowa slurs, practically crying, “I’m sorry I ruined your setttt, Scotch Wichmann!  I’m sorrryyyyyy!”

And of course I lie: “You didn’t ruin it…the audience was laughing…that’s all that matters.”  I even pat her on the back.  Iowa smiles a little.  I deserve an Oscar.

Then she yells, “MY HUSBAND THINKS I’M A PIECE OF SHIT!”

KayDee and I look each other.  Oh man.

Iowa continues slurring as the show ends. The houselights come up.  Iowa wants a hug, so I give her one; no hard feelings.

One of the other comedians walks by.  He’s 16 years old, skinny, and shy.   He had a good set early in the show; the crowd liked him a lot—even Iowa.

Iowa looks him up and down. She licks her lips—then lunges forward and grabs his asscheeks hard with both hands.  Meat!  The 16-year-old yelps and runs.

Iowa chases him across the room and tries to get another handful while her husband laughs at his piece of shit.

“Look at this man! He is insane! Why bring him to me? Am I so short of madmen that you have to bring this fellow here to carry on like this in front of me?” — Sam. 21:14

I think it was 1979.  A shrink told my mom that I was hyperactive.  I screamed, “NO I’M NOT!” — then sat down on the kitchen floor and polished off an entire jar of Skippy peanut butter with my bare fingers.

That pretty much sums me up.

Some old-but-instructive interviews with Mitch Hedberg at Arizona State University, Montreal, and with Howard Stern. Also found some old Bobcat Goldthwait here and here. Although superficially their volume couldn’t be more different, their intensity, observations about the industry, subtle political POVs, and riffing skills are formidable.

Comedians’ best horror stories from Hollywood — auditions, day jobs, head shots, you name it. Nothing’s funnier than watching comedians cry.

Esquire writer Scott Raab interviews Seinfield genius and Curb Your Enthusiasm neurotic Larry David about hummus, driving a Prius, and the Seinfeld Curse.