The Hicks Set

Well, I'm glad I saw it. The censored last appearance of Bill Hicks on Letterman has been the stuff of comedy legend for more than 15 years. But like most things built up in the mind, the real thing comes as a bit of a disappointment - not because of Hicks himself but because it was television, and even though the material is great, the constrictions of TV suck a lot of the life out of it. A huge TV audience saw comedy that pushed a few buttons, though, and maybe that will whet their appetite for more. But what will probably happen is that the Letterman show will receive reams of hate mail asking him not to have Hicks back on.

Better Late Than Never(?) with David Letterman

Heroes, Pt. 2: Robert Anton Wilson

Former editor at Playboy, co-author of the Illuminatus! trilogy, author of the Schroedinger's Cat trilogy, essayist, futurologist, philosopher, guerilla ontologist, libertarian, and stand-up comic. Saner than Timothy Leary and less pedantic than Terence McKenna, Robert Anton Wilson examined everything and believed nothing.

What's not to like?


We have seducers and rapists. The seducers become artists, and the rapists become politicians.

***

Is, is, is — the idiocy of the word haunts me. If it were abolished, human thought might begin to make sense. I don't know what anything "is"; I only know how it seems to me at this moment.

***

Reality is what you can get away with.

--R.A.W

New Comedy Podcast

My buddy Adam Harris has launched a new podcast, The Stand-up Chronicles, in which he'll be interviewing comics in the green room of The Jukebox Comedy Club in Peoria, IL. The first episode is up. Go get it.

Heroes, Pt. 1: "Moz"

If you were a hip, moody teenager in the mid-1980's, you had at least one paisley shirt and one Smiths album. I had one paisley shirt and every Smiths album, including every 12" import single I could find. I saw The Smiths twice, once for the Meat is Murder tour and once for The Queen is Dead. Yes, I was straight and still am. I was, like Morrissey, celibate in 1985, but not by choice. I didn't necessarily understand my own tastes, but I liked anything and anyone that wasn't Ronald Reagan or Bruce Springsteen (even though I now understand "Born in the USA" is not jingoistic garbage, the adoption of the tune by both Reagan's second campaign and every jock fuck I hated in high school nearly ruined all Springsteen for me forever).

While I haven't really kept up with Morrissey's solo career since 1988's Viva Hate, I honestly think he should be inducted into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame - not that he would accept - if for no other reason than that "Moz" has always done exactly what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it. He's the most unlikely rock star - incredibly fey, bookish, and given to writing lyrics in traditional forms loaded with literary references. But here he is, nearly 30 years after The Smiths' first album, defiantly doing his thing and still loved by his fans. One thing I admire most about him is his absolute control of his own image. He is a master at cultivating and perpetuating his own mystique and doing it with a sense of humor. Case in point - the above album cover. Freakin' genius.

When asked about influences, most comics will cite the usual list of comedy heavyweights - Bruce, Carlin, Pryor, Hicks - maybe Stephen Wright, Hedberg. I'm a fan of them as well, of course, but I'm always interested in what influences artists have outside their particular genre. If I had to compile a list of artistic heroes, a few comics I would add to the list are Joe Rogan, Doug Stanhope, and Jim Norton, not because I want to be like any of them but because they're all smart, original, and most importantly - honest. But the list of non-comic influences is probably larger and includes musicians, writers, and artists - from John Lydon to Kurt Vonnegut to Alex Grey to Emily Dickinson to The Ramones to David Lynch. And yeah, Morrissey. I don't know in what way my admiration for these folks influences the way I write, but it's something I'm going to start giving some thought to, and probably here on this blog. I do know they all have something in common: a commitment to their ideas and an incredible amount of will.

I'd be interested to hear from comics about who your non-comedy influences are. If you could be the comedy version of some other artist, who would it be? Do comment. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pre-order a copy of Years of Refusal - on vinyl so I can frame it.

"I don't mean to get off on a rant here, but..."

Yesterday I got a Myspace message from some Iraq vet in CA named Josh telling me my clip was "kewl" and that I should upload it to youtube or some other website that shall remain nameless. A quick inspection revealed "Josh" to be a dummy profile created for the purpose of luring folks into submitting clips to said website, which is yet another in the ever-growing list of talent competition sites. The inspection wasn't really necessary, though, because a) I have two clips, not one, and b) neither had been viewed in more than 24 hours.

Most of these sites promise cash prizes and claim to be working with "industry insiders" eagerly looking for new talent, etc. The legitimacy or illegitimacy of these sites is not the issue (though I suspect most of them are bullshit). What annoys me is the way a lot of these multi-million dollar web ventures increasingly reduce live entertainment to a competition. It's what pissed me off about the poetry publishing industry years ago (yes, I was doing that whole literature thing before comedy). Practically the only way to publish a first book of poetry with a legitimate press in The United States is to enter a "first-book competition," and that means writing checks for reading/processing fees. The money was one thing, but having to submit my work to an editor or small group of editors who would decide whether my work was worthy of an audience at all - and pay them for the privelege - was infuriating. One advantage of doing comedy or music is that you can find an open stage and take your act straight to an audience without having to audition for a single gate-keeper first.

The other annoying thing is that most if not all of these competition sites depend on user-votes to determine winners. In other words, talent is judged by any douchebag with an internet connection or cell-phone. Or the one with the most friends willing to take the time to text #blahblah to wherever. So everyone on Myspace or Youtube or Facebook is constantly subjected to appeals to "VOTE FOR ME" from complete strangers. Wait a minute, where are those "industry insiders" who's job it is to know talent when they see it?

Aside from perhaps submitting to the SF or NYU festivals - just to do it - I'm not competing with anyone, not Joe Rogan, not Joe open-miker. And my act is not "content" for someone else's web venture. End of rant.

Phoenix: 0, Flames: 1

When my friend Jake sent me the clip of Joaquin Phoenix rapping, my first thought was that he was trying to pull off a Sascha Baron Cohen-esque goof. Then I watched it. Then I read the interview. Then I saw this picture. Bye good. Hello fodder for comics everywhere.

Dear Mr. President

Today was an historic moment, both for you and for us. While I was fairly confident that I would see a black president in my lifetime, I'm still a bit surprised (pleasantly so) that it happened at a time in my life when I am still young enough to care about both the current state and future of our nation.

I thought your speech today was excellent. You managed to express, in very few words, both the hope that America and the world have in you as well a realistic grasp of the immense challenges that face us all. You have a lot on your plate, Mr. President. I admire you for accepting those challenges, though I have to say I don't envy the struggle that lies before you.

While your responsibilities and concerns are many; while millions of Americans currently place their hopes and dreams in your hands; and while several of the issues you must now work tirelessly to resolve are of a magnitude most of us cannot comprehend, I would like to make a humble request of you during your first days in office. This is something that I think will not only be fairly easy to achieve but also set a positive tone for the new America we all envision.

I would like to see, not one, but two black titties at this year's Superbowl. Being a 40-year-old white male living in a small Midwestern community, my opportunities to see black titties are limited to 1) the internet, and 2) the occasional trip to St. Louis. But it is not for selfish reasons alone that I make this request. I feel that a beautiful pair of proud black titties, displayed in one of the nation's largest arenas, at one of the nation's most watched events, would send a message to the world - to both our friends and enemies alike - that it is indeed a new day in America.

These titties need not belong to Janet Jackson. Nor do they even need to be young, firm, or stereotypically enhanced American titties. I for one would be perfectly happy with the titties of Aretha Franklin, or even a set of National Geographic On Location titties. Personally, I wouldn't care if the possessor of these titties could nurse a two-year-old without picking him up, just so long as jumbo-trons across this great land of ours are brimming with black titty on the one Sunday of the year that truly unites us all.

I sincerely hope you will consider my request, Mr. President, despite the fact that you have so much else to do and think about in these the first days of your ground-breaking administration. Believe me, if I had readier access to black titty, I would not even ask. But alas, I'm no Robert DeNiro.

Yours,
Dan

"The Stanhope Effect"

I was going to write something like this, but that was before I found Mike MacRae had already done it. I'll just add that the only thing more annoying than the armies of Doug Stanhope imitators is the Stanhope fans who have never taken the comedy stage but have no problem declaring all comedy that is not Stanhope's (or Stanhope Fanatic Reviewed and Approved) to be "hack." I think Doug is one of the best comics out there, I've seen him several times, shared a stage with him once, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again in March. But I also think Brian Regan is one of the best comics out there, and anyone who's spent 30 seconds on stage trying to be funny has to recognize that, whether you like Regan's act or not.

The mistake these comedy snobs make is that they automatically equate clean with cliched and commercial success with sell-out. They're the ones who cop an attitude when their pet garage band gets a contract and stops responding to their Myspace blog comments. Yeah, there are a lot of working comics doing tired, derivative material, and yeah, most of them are clean, but that doesn't mean there's a cause-effect relationship at work. The only conclusion you can draw from that reality is that clubs and bookers would rather use clean forgettable comics than "edgy" forgettable comics. Of course, good comics who push the envelope suffer unduly because of it and fall through the cracks, but you're not cooler than everybody else just because you're the only one in your dorm who owns an Andy Andrist or Rick Shapiro CD. All good comedy is subversive, clean or not, for the simple reason that it compels the audience to see things differently from the way Madison Avenue wants them to, if only for an hour.

What Not to Wear

Wow. I don't know at what point in a pop star's life he should look in the mirror and admit to himself that it's over, but I do know Boy George passed that point a long time ago. Death-heads and a peace sign? This is a cry for help, and while I never gave a shit about BG or Culture Club, I'm moved enough by the sadness on display here that I want to offer what help I can:

Sell the wardrobe. Buy a neck.
.

I Laughed Till My Face Hurt

Jim Norton's Happy Endings: The Tales of a Meaty-Breasted Zilch is so hilarious - so creepily, disturbingly hilarious - that I recommend it to everyone, especially comics. This isn't a print version of his act. It's a collection of short essays and personal stories ranging from Norton's ideas for sit-coms (people die horribly) to his sexual addictions (poop). It is brutally honest and laugh-till-you-shit funny.

Comedy Central to "Roast" Dan Whitney

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Comedy Central is "roasting" Larry The Cable Guy. I put "roasting" in quotes because the Comedy Central "roasts" never struck me as true roasts, where comics break out their sharpest weapons of torture to eviscerate one of their own. Any pretense that this was still the case was annihilated when CC "roasted" Pam Anderson, and in doing so forced viewers to endure an hour of Courtney Love chain smoking and blurting out inane bullshit. I can understand - to a degree anyway - roasting Hugh Hefner. At least he did something major that helped define the second half of the 20th century in America. But Flava Flav? Fuck. Don't get me wrong, I'm no racist and enjoy laughing at Negros as much as the next guy. But where is the roast of Paul Mooney or Chris Rock, who are funny on purpose?

Anyway.

Here's the Comedy Central press release on the big event. I had a few thoughts along the way, which are in bold.

COMEDY CENTRAL is stocking up on the ammo and bringing out its big guns - By "big guns," do you mean Lisa Lampanelli's ass cheeks? They're big. It's a good thing she likes black dudes because she's fatter than a kindergarten pencil - when it roasts comedian Larry the Cable Guy. His name is Dan Whitney, and he's about as southern as a polar bear (though just as fat, white and hairy). Is Comedy Central roasting imaginary characters now? Why not put Bill Hick's skeleton on the dais and roast Elmer Dinkley? At least that character was funny. The hits will be dirty, fast and hard. The only thing "dirty, fast, and hard" about Comedy Central is the black cock in Lisa Lamapanelli's ass. Larry will be making the night unfor-git-able - I'll bet the unpaid intern who wrote this was proud of having gotten "git" into the press release, probably under orders from the exec who brushes against her inappropriately in the break room. I hope the intern wakes up to the stupidity of her existence and the exec dies in a meth lab fire - during this star-studded evening, which will tape in Los Angeles on March 1, 2009. In other words, none of the celebrity shills on the Comedy Central payroll were willing to travel to Branson, Missouri. The “COMEDY CENTRAL Roast of Larry The Cable Guy” will air on Sunday, March 15 at 10:00 p.m. So what.

"It is an honor that COMEDY CENTRAL has chosen me to be roasted. Only a handful of folks have been dumb enough to accept. And believe me, I'm pretty dumb! I don't get it. Is that supposed to be a punchline? I'm guessing it is because you put an exclamation point at the end of it like a 12-year-old chat-room retard. It makes no sense whatsoever. I'm looking forward to this about as much as I am to a prostate check with a doctor with a hook arm,” said Larry the Cable Guy. That's five prepositional phrases in one short sentence, "Larry," which is just sloppy. You could have at least changed 'with a doctor' to 'from a doctor' for variety. Who taught you how to write, John Madden?

“Larry is an incredible sport who knows how to laugh at himself" -- How hard is it to laugh at someone who doesn't exist? -- "which is will come in handy when he is being pummeled by our illustrious roasters. The same way you are pummeled over the remaining Krispy Kremes on casual Friday, which is probably why you didn't catch the 'is will' typo. I understand, though, it's hard to proofread while wiping jizz off your eyeball. "This is taking roasting to the next level,” It can get worse? said Elizabeth Porter, SVP, specials and talent, COMEDY CENTRAL.

That was fun. But let me say this - As much as I don't love Dan Whitney's act, I don't begrudge his success. It's hard to come by in this business, and he took advantage of something that worked and made a mint. Good for him. And I am a fan of some of the comics Comedy Central employs for these things. Greg Giraldo is funny. Nick DiPaolo is funny. Even Lisa Lampanelli is funny because - and I have this on good authority - another comic writes most of her roast material. Lisa is too busy chugging cock in the back of a Buick 88 to write, apparently. That said, these "roasts" are not so much about comedy as they are about a major network showcasing its cash cows, and that's just plain boring.

For those of you who recognize the image up top, you're welcome.

Eww.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's one of my favorite living comics, Jim Norton, posing with one of my least favorite human beings ever, Ann Coulter. For those of you unfamiliar with Jim, he's the one on the right.

For those of you who still think of Ann Coulter as some kind of GOP pin-up girl, click the pic for a closer look.

Thank You, Joey Kirkman

The first time I ever got onstage was at a Funnybone in Springfield, IL on Wednesday, February 09, 2005. It was a monthly open-mic/"contest" in which each comic had to throw in five bucks, and the winner - as judged by the staff and the response of the nine people in attendance - took all, as well as a future emcee spot. The winner was Marcus Robinson from St. Louis, who I recall as appearing experienced and professional. I don't remember his act, except for a bit about his name sounding like a black name (Marcus is very white). I didn't expect to remember half of the material I had prepared, much less win anything, so I was neither surprised nor disappointed. And besides, I was 36 years old, well past the times I might have swaggered into anything expecting to dominate.

I've long since lost (read: erased out of embarrassment) the mini-cassette of that first performance, but I do recall that I did a bit on alien abductees, the first bit I ever wrote. It got a couple laughs - especially the part where I fantasize about being an alien, abducting the Olsen Twins, and subjecting them to some cartoonish sexual humiliation - but overall it was lengthy and cumbersome, over-stuffed with unnecessary set-ups and transitions. I didn't erase the bit from my hard drive, but I didn't do it, or even look at it again, for years.

I went back to that open-mic every month for the next six months, until one balmy Wednesday in August when the "winner" was a guy who only got onstage because it was his birthday and his friends insisted. He did a street-joke older than Dick Clark that he took a solid four minutes to tell, badly. I don't remember it exactly, but it had something to do with a door-to-door laundry detergent salesman [insert your own sexual double-entendre here] and a punchline you could see from three minutes and forty-seven seconds away. As the owner/manager was handing him the dozen comics' five dollars, I quietly left, thinking maybe - just maybe - that wasn't the club I would call home. And I haven't been back. It's a shame, too, because at ninety minutes away it was, and still is, the closest club to my house.

But I had already branched out a bit by then and discovered that Crackers in Indianapolis, a little over two hours away, had an open-mic ever Tuesday. So in March of '05 I coerced a buddy of mine, Marty Scott, to tag along and check it out. I don't remember the exact date, but I know it was March because Marty took his own life the day before April Fool's Day of that year. Marty was an award-winning writer with, obviously, no timing whatsoever. Upon arrival at the club, I discovered that I should have signed up the previous month, and there were no spots available for that night. We had made the drive, so Marty and I figured what the hell, let's stay and watch. To this day it is one of the two open-mic's I didn't participate in that I have any memory of:

I clearly recall Kevin Ruble, whom I had not even met yet but who has since become a good friend, saying: "My girlfriend's so kinky she likes me to pull her her hair when she takes a crap."

And Stan Chen, on Sarah Jessica Parker: "How could anyone be so hot yet so hideous at the same time?"

The place was full, and it wasn't even a pro-am. I left thinking I had to come back there, and I did. I don't remember if it was May or June, but the crowd was maybe half of what I had seen with my then dead friend Marty. I got an enthusiastic response to a few bits, though I remember very little of what I did. When I went to the back of the room, a guy by the name of Joey Kirkman gave me a handshake and a compliment and asked if I had ever done the Thursday night pro-am at The Jukebox in Peoria, IL. I knew of the club but thought for whatever reason they had no open-mic. And it's a little over 2 hours away. Joey encouraged me to go, adding: "They don't treat comics like shit there." He wasn't a comic, and to the best of my memory he was a road manager for someone, but he was obviously was no fan of Crackers. I had no context in which to place this opinion of his, it being my first time on stage there, but he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, so I took his advice and started doing Thursdays at The Jukebox the following week.

The Jukebox is an ugly club in an ugly outskirt of Peoria. It sits next to a second-rate strip club and directly across the road from a dirt track, the roar of which can be heard in the comedy room during the summer. The facade is hideous, the sign is faded, and the rope light (rope light!) barely works. The ATM installed in the wall hasn't worked since someone punched the screen out years ago. The front room/bar is decked out in an awful 50's soda fountain motif: checkered floor, dull chrome edges on the tables, neon. The walls are filled to capacity with headshots of comics past, many of whom are sporting the 80's comedy sweater, white sneakers, and mullet. The only indication that the place currently operates as a comedy club is the poster-sized headshot of Brian Posehn and a handful of still-working comics' pics surrounding the door. The green room is brown. The comedy room is low-ceilinged and painted entirely black. The tables and chairs are old, the carpet is worn. The stage is home to a rubber plant, a waist-high air purifier nearly every comic feels compelled to make R2D2 jokes about, and a half-assed backdrop painting of a jukebox.

And it's my favorite club and the one I call home. The guy who owns and runs it, Dan Conlin, understands and cares about comedy. His stage is a free-speech zone - no restrictions - you kill or die by your own lights. Even before I was 100% ready, Dan put me up as a feature. He supports the local comics who work hard and improve their art where a lot of clubs hold them at arm's length. Any Thursday night, a comic can walk in at 7pm, sign-up for the pro-am, and go onstage an hour later, sharing it with that weekend's headliner. If a patron tries to give Dan grief because comic X said the word "cancer" and that's offensive and blah blah, he basically tells them tough shit, that's comedy.

Friday night I returned to the Jukebox to do a guest spot (Dan is also generous with those when he can be), and I resurrected the aliens bit. The last few feature spots I've done, I've done mostly "dick jokes" - dating, sexual foibles, etc. - the kind of stuff that, while a bit blue, most audiences and club owners aren't going to bristle at too much, and I was recording everything for submissions to bookers. I like my dick jokes and think they're original enough, but it's not the stuff I got into comedy to do. I didn't do the entire original version of aliens but a revised and pared down version, and it went over all right. Not gangbusters, but all right. It still has a soft spot or two and room for improvement (as the video confirmed when I got home), but for the first time in a while I felt perfectly comfortable on stage and had fun despite the flaws. I closed very well with a bit about white trash fashion and left the stage feeling like a comic and not just a guy with a bag of well-rehearsed jokes.

I remember a show there last year where I featured for 19 people. It was practically a single-file line around the edge of the stage, not enough people to drown out the sound of the track across the street no matter how hard they laughed. And they didn't laugh that hard. Not all at once, anyway. I came off stage and began grumbling a bit to Brett Erickson (now the club's house emcee when not on the road) about what I did and didn't do and should and shouldn't have done, etc. He stopped me and said, "Dan, you just got decent laughs from 19 people across from a dirt track in Peoria. You can handle any club out there."

That theory remains to be empirically tested, of course, but I will say that I wouldn't have improved as a comic nearly as much over the past few years if it weren't for Dan and his ugly ass club. And I might not have gone there at all if it weren't for Joey Kirkman, which brings me to the reason I started this overlong post in the first place. I lost whatever contact info I might have had for him, I haven't run into him since that night at Crackers, and I'd like to thank him. If you know Joey and have an email address, please send it to me. Thanks.

Apollo Theater, Here I Come

D.I.Y. Part Two: Object Lesson

Recently I had the pleasure of doing my very first gig for an established booker. I had been hitting him up for months, sending in clips, updating my references and avails, etc. Finally, he threw me a show. I did the show, and I had a good time doing it. I got to do my thing in a new town in front of a new audience, I got paid, and I got a few minutes of decent video out of the deal.

All good.

But consider this: The show was sold out, to the tune of 300 people at $8 a head. That's $2400 before they even sold the first Bud Lime. And trust me, they sold a lot of Bud Limes, not to mention curly fries and shrimp baskets. Let's assume, though, that everyone in the room spent $5 (of course a few people spent $2 and others spent $20, but just for the sake of argument...). That's another $1500. So the venue takes in - at minimum because this is a conservative estimate - close to $4000. What did they pay the comics?

Approximately 10% of that.

I understand that the venue has bills. They have staff to pay, heating, electric, etc. And I understand that the booker (in theory anyway) provides a service by ensuring the quality of the talent that shows up. But that begs the question, doesn't it? If the talent is quality talent, would a bigger chunk of the door ALONE really fuck up the entire operation?

What I'm saying, my fellow wanna-be-full-time-comics, is this: take the bookers' gigs - you'll have a good time and earn some fans and a feather in your cap - but you know damn well that everywhere in your state there are are rooms, just like the one I described, miles and miles from the nearest comedy club, that have at least one night a month they'd like to improve. You could improve it if you just got off your ass and called them. They can't all be booked by Fuk-n-Yuk Entertainment out of Tuscaloosa.

For those friends of mine who have been at this comedy thing even a little while (again, you know who you are), you have nationally touring comics' numbers in your cell right now. Yes you do. Shut up. Instead of waiting for them to do something for you, do something for them and get a guarantee that's better than typical and bring them to Podunk. They'll fill a hole for better than average money, you'll get stage time and a credit, and Podunk will give you the key to the city (or at least a few free shots).

WTF do you have to lose?

To My Comedian Cronies... D.I.Y.

Over the past few years, I've made no small effort to find rooms, put comedy shows together, and promote both myself and my comic buddies who I think are funny. It's been a learning experience, and I've had a good time doing the shows that resulted, even the ones that were less than successful. They've given me the opportunity to get on stage more than I otherwise would have and to work with good comics. But the return on investment has been negligible. It's not like I'm keeping score with my friends (you know who you are) or that I expect equal payback for every show I've set up. I've never invited or agreed to work with any comics based on their ability to help my career. Some of you have done me a good turn, either by offering me time or putting in a good word here and there with a club or booker, and I appreciate that. A couple others, however, have accepted a gig (and the better than average money), only to vanish for eighteen months then resurface to ask me when they can come back. If you don't think I'm funny or right for whatever shows you have going in your neck of the comedy woods, I'm perfectly fine with that, but the truth is you don't have any shows going on because, like most comics, you don't want to make any effort beyond asking other people for work.

At least two long-running clubs have closed in the past few months. That means the bookers who handle those rooms now have a backlog of comics already on their rosters who are panicking and bugging them for work. Why would they put you or me at the top of their priority list? If you think performing at a bar or Moose lodge isn't the fast track to a spot on Premium Blend, you're right, but neither is sitting at home on Friday night checking your Youtube hits. And besides, a lot of those bookers are going to send you to a bar or Moose Lodge anyway. Same stage, same audience, same amount of love or hate. Is it more valid because you were sent there by an agency three states away who's taking a chunk of the money?

I'm not saying screw all comedy clubs and all bookers. Most of you know I'm doing what I can to get more work just like everybody else. But why wait for them when your weekends are free? It's not an either/or situation. Yes, it takes time and effort and can be a pain in the ass (believe me, I know), but I'm willing to do what I can with any of you who are willing to match it. If you're not that guy, that's fine, too. We all have our own priorities, and we're still friends and good luck. And if this short rant has done nothing to convince you, maybe this will.

That's Entertainment

R.I.P. Larry the Dwarf, who tended bar at The Top of the Roc in Charleston, IL for several of our shows over the past couple of years. I will always remember Larry walking along the top of the bar, dispensing shots of Jager into comics' mouths like a mama bird. Ahh, comedy. Some of the best stuff happens when the show's over.