Last week my travels took me to the wilds of Oklahoma, where I performed at an Indian Casino.
I was excited because I had only one show but was to be paid the
same as I would make for performing an entire week at an average comedy
club.
When I pulled up to the casino parking lot, I saw the giant marquis
with my name on it. It was the largest I have ever seen my name
anywhere. I began to feel a bit like a rock star.
I walked into the casino and there were posters everywhere with my
name on them. A staff member recognized me immediately and escorted me
to the show room where I was introduced to the General Manager of the
casino who referred to me as “Mr. Sadler” four times. I counted.
I have become convinced that my cell phone and my cocktails are conspiring against me.
Taken by themselves they are both harmless and even useful. If I
talk to people on the phone while sober, I don’t have any problems. If
I drink and stay off of the phone I’m fine. But whenever the two of
them get together there is always trouble.
It was during one of these accidents recently that I agreed to produce a totally impossible comedy show.
Apparently a friend of mine called me when I was drunk and asked me
to put a comedy show together to be performed at a bar he works at and
I agreed to do it. When he called me back a couple of days later to
confirm the show I was horrified to learn the details of the agreement.
While that may be true, it’s not necessarily a good thing.
When two people are first dating, they tend to put their best feet forward and try to make themselves appear as desirable as possible. This means that they would never do anything as gauche as belching in front of the other person or wiping snot onto their own shirtsleeves.
I haven’t been able to say that for over twenty years.
I was able to get through the first three days with a drug called
Chantix, which inhibits the nicotine receptors in the brain, which
means you go through the withdrawals before you actually quit smoking
so they’re not as severe.
The drug could only do so much, however. About three days in I found
myself in short supply of both Chantix and willpower. It was then that
I discovered the Greatest Anti-Smoking Drug in the World.
Benadryl.
Yep. I popped one of those suckers and washed it down with a beer
and within ten minutes I didn’t want a cigarette anymore. It’s amazing
how much willpower you can muster when you’re completely unconscious
I’ve mentioned before that I’m trying to stop smoking.
I’m trying. I really am. I used to keep an ashtray under my pillow
for when I wake up in the middle of the night for a smoke break. I
don’t do that anymore.
But it turns out that discipline is not readily available to me. I
was able to give up meat, but smoking, drinking vodka and assaulting
postal workers are habits too seductive for me to completely give up.
I’ve found myself with no other options and have turned to
pharmaceuticals to help me. I have begun taking a prescription that
claims to help in smoking cessation. Unfortunately the side effects
make the user want to drink vodka and assault postal workers.
Last weekend the city of Austin, Texas played host to an annual event
known as the Republic of Texas Biker Rally. While locals and annual
participants refer to the rally as “ROT Weekend,” the term “biker
rally” is a bit of a misnomer for what this thing really is.
You see, true bikers are a very specific breed of person. They are
individuals that exist outside of society. They don’t necessarily have
what most people would call a job. Instead they have skill sets that
they use to acquire funds that are usually given to them in the form of
cash, under the table.
They don’t vote or have social security numbers. They have
underworld connections and skin that looks like suede that has been
left out in the rain. Bikers don’t have bank accounts and some look as
though they haven’t showered since the Clinton Administration.
Last month we had a bit of a dust up down here in Texas when some
members of a Mormon splinter group called the Fundamentalist Latter Day
Saints were accused of sexual misconduct.
It seems that whenever a group of people in Texas close themselves
off from the rest of society and tries to worship in a way that is
regarded as weird or unconventional, the state government goes charging
in with the Texas Rangers, the ATF and a couple of S.W.A.T. teams to
spoil their fun.
Apparently, the State had several problems with what these people were up to at their compound.
First of all, the members of the FLDS are staunch polygamists whose
male members are allowed and even encouraged to take three or more
wives. The State had a problem with this I suspect largely because it
was jealous that the FLDS had been able to convince its women that this
was okay.
I don’t want to die; in fact the very idea that the world could
possibly go on without me is difficult for me to comprehend. Were I to
suddenly cease to exist, who would watch my T.V.? Who would annoy my
wife on a daily basis? Who would be able to tell the Greatest Dick
Jokes in the World?
I constantly speculate about the way I will eventually shuffle away my mortal coil.
I might be struck by lightning. No really. I’ve studied extensively
about it and whenever I’m outdoors when a rainstorm is approaching I
have the demeanor of a gazelle who has stopped at a watering hole for a
drink and thought she might have just heard a lion. I am wary and ready
to sprint at a moment’s notice.
I’m just a guy. A guy who occasionally does incredibly heroic things.
For it is because of my rampant heroism that two baby deer are safe
and well with their mother today. I rescued them single-handedly and
purely by instinct with absolutely no regard for my own safety.
Well, almost no regard for my safety.
My wife Becca and I were walking our dog yesterday when I happened
to look at a stonewall enclosure near our home. It’s a square
surrounded by a wall that is about five feet high and runs 40 feet by
40 feet.
I noticed an adult female deer that was clearly agitated as she
repeatedly jumped in and out of the enclosure. When I looked closer, I
noticed her two fawns who could not have been more than a week old.
They were both about the size of a housecat and were doing that
wobbly-legged, trying to learn how to walk thing. They clearly had no
chance of jumping over a five-foot rock wall.
Dr. Samuel A. Mudd was the physician who set the leg of Lincoln's assassin John Wilkes Booth...and whose shame created the expression for ignominy, His name is Mudd.
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