I Want to Be a Comedian

I want to be a comedian. Being a comedian has replaced my dream of being a rock star. Comedy Central is mostly responsible for this. I see a lot of funny people on there, but there are also plenty of not-so-funny people. I think that I would fit right above the not-so-funny people and somewhere below the super-funny people. This seems good enough to start out with. Then I can get funnier as I hang out with the super-funny people and also observe why the not-so-funny people aren’t so funny.

I wouldn’t tell jokes. I’ve always been really bad at that. I can’t remember them, except for a few I learned in Jr. High. I would just give my observations. My observations are mostly very funny. People would laugh. I would get paid. Sounds like a great job. The first thing I have to do is write some material about my observations and try it out on my friends and coworkers. Sometimes when I do this, they look at me funny, but I’m not worried about this since we’re not in a comedy club when I’m sharing my observations with them. The way I see it, being in a comedy club will make my observations funnier, since people are already going there with the intention of laughing. Which means that I have to be extremely unfunny to fail at this. I can’t remember a time when I was extremely unfunny.

After I get some material together, I need to go to an open-mic night somewhere. This will be frightening, but I have dulled down the fear somewhat by practicing a new activity – talking to people on elevators. I’m the only one I know who talks to everyone on the elevator every time I’m on one. I say funny stuff, like, “Here we all are, packed in an elevator. I’m glad we all showered.” Interestingly enough, this is not really funny, but the people in the elevator think it’s great. Some of them do get annoyed with me when they’ve been on the elevator with me for a while and I say the exact same thing every time someone new gets on. They don’t laugh as hard when they hear it for the fourth time. But this elevator experience has been great. I have learned how to work some tough crowds, and I’ve only used one bit. (Bit is a comedy term.) The one about the shower.

Now that I’ve acclimated my psyche to hostile elevator audiences, I think I’m ready to hit the stage. I will try to go on late after everyone has been drinking, but not so late that they’ve been drinking too much. I need to go on at the point when they’re really starting to have a good time, and quite a while before they realize they might be getting sick. This will also help me avoid the violent-drunk heckler types. I’m not sure I’m ready for heckling, as no one has heckled me in the elevator yet.

After I conquer the local clubs on open-mic night I’ll get an agent. At this point I’ll be making a few bucks off of my wit, and this will make me feel really good about myself. Everyone should have a job where they make a living with their mind. Most of us make a living by just showing up, mind optional.

My agent and I will argue some, but get along most of the time. I want my agent’s name to be something Italian like Vinnie. I will constantly pester Vinnie about getting me better gigs in bigger cities. Vinnie will probably be only capable of getting me something in Cleveland or maybe Oshkosh. I will fire Vinnie and hire someone that Vinnie has told me many times that he doesn’t like.

With my new agent, Mikey, I will probably be scheduled on Leno and Letterman, and possibly get my own special on Comedy Central. This will freak out my kids. I mean really, how funny can your dad be? But they will like the increased quality and volume of Christmas and birthday presents, and I will bring them on stage occasionally and embarrass them. Not on purpose, but because it’s always embarrassing to be on stage with your dad.

The next stage in my career will require a jet. I might have to lease it at first, but will eventually buy it after my first CD goes triple platinum. They will probably roast me on Comedy Central around this time. I will laugh at all the jokes, but mainly because that’s what you’re supposed to do at a roast. I think it would be really funny to be getting roasted and look completely angry the whole time. Or maybe start crying. I will pioneer this method of being roasted. It will break comedic barriers that haven’t been broken.

I will not cuss in my routine either. But I might use a lot of double entendres, because those are really funny. Double entendres allow you to be racy without cussing.

I will wear nice clothes, but probably not a tie. Ties are not funny. I don’t want to risk wearing something that’s not funny, in case I have an off night where it’s important that my outfit is not working against me.

I will appear on lots of radio shows when I fly into a new town. DJs will laugh really hard at my stuff, because I’m a comedian and they know that they need to laugh really hard or their show seems boring. They will say how funny it is that I look angry and then start to cry when I’m being roasted. They will want to know where I came up with it. I’ll tell them it’s just an overflow of my natural comic genius.

After my career is over and I’m no longer flying around in my jet, I’ll go back to elevator comedy, except this time, I’ll be famous, and no matter what I say, people will laugh. I’ll talk about being old, and that I really need to take a shower. Hilarity will ensue.

I’m serious about this. Serious about not being serious for a living. Seriously.

If you know an agent named Vinnie, have him call me.