tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83774530178951005902024-02-20T17:26:53.639-08:00I Seen The Whole Thang! (Stuff that happened once)Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-41524141346587868602010-06-11T00:09:00.001-07:002010-06-11T00:09:42.293-07:00Joe Buck Yourself (By Myself) Part 1I like traveling alone, because I always get into adventures. I recently drove 4 hours from Wilmington to Salisbury to be in my main man American Matt's wedding. Lucky for me, I found out that one of my favorite musicians would be playing in a mountain town that night, just one hour away from the wedding.<br />
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<br />
Once the reception started winding down, I got in the Mustang and drove the hour west to a town called Morganton. I had only ever been to Morganton once, 25 years earlier, to eat steak. (You never forget steak trips no matter how young you were.) <br />
<br />
When I pulled off the interstate and into Morganton, I saw the only thing Morganton is famous for: Broughton Mental Hospital. It was scarier than I had heard. It sits way up on a hill with highways circling around it. It looks scarier than The Shining. It's an old castle looking place with tons of window - windows that are all blacked out. It looked vacant, but I know there were thousands of people inside that were mentally anything but vacant. Hell, I knew that place was full of people with mental over-crowding.<br />
<br />
I kept going and got to a gas station to get directions to the show that was listed as being at a place called "Night Owls." Some short country boy on a moped gave me directions that were hard to here because his voice was muffled, due to the fact that he never took his helmet off. I could tell he told me to take the "Bahh-Pace." (Bypass.)<br />
<br />
So I took the bypass and parked across the street at some auto place. I walked into the bar, and for some reason they didn't ask for my ID or for me to pay to get in. This seemed weird, since everyone else had to pay and everyone else got ID'd and everyone else had to wear a Budweiser bracelet. And one other thing: everyone knew each other.<br />
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I was regretting rushing to the show, because the man I now realized the man I came to see perform would not be on until 2 metal bands went on first. So I bought a 23 ounce Bud Light for $2.50 and seemed to shock the bartender by tipping her $1.50. Apparently in Morganton the beers are cheap, and the customers are cheaper.<br />
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I decided to stand up against the wall in the back to not make myself get noticed. I did this, because I knew that everyone knew that I wasn't from there, and was naturally suspicious of a seemingly normal looking guy coming to Night Owls. This wasn't working.<br />
<br />
If I moved to far to the left, I was intruding on a game at the one pool table. If I moved to far right, I was standing over this hot girl with big boobs in a low cut white shirt. Being low-profile was gonna be tough. As I danced left and right between the pool table and the boob-girl, I became perplexed by the clientele. It was mostly country boy metalheads with bad mustaches and black t-shirts of underground metal bands, and girls that were pretty and seemed to only mild Southern accents, if they had them at all. I decided there must be a college nearby.<br />
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With people whispering too loudly about me, (not rudely, just inquisitively,) I went outside and sat in the grass behind a car in the parking lot and chain-smoked, while cleaning out old voice mails and pictures on my cell phone. I decided I would pass the time until the man I came to see perform went on stage. Then I looked up and there that motherfucker was!<br />
<br />
I know he's nobody to anybody else. But I am a huge fan of Joe Buck. (Not the baseball announcer, the Hellbilly Rock Star.) To see Joe Buck in person was the craziest thing. He does nothing to look scary. He just is. Marilyn Manson can put all the make up on and stupid contacts in that he wants and he doesn't look one-tenth as scary as Joe Buck does in jeans in a t-shirt.<br />
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That's what makes Joe Buck scary. He's being himself. He's about 6 foot 5. Lanky as shit. Pale and freckly. His eyes look demonic white. And he has a loose long red mohawk. The thing is, and this really didn't surprise me, I watched him being the most genuinely friendly redneck to all these Morganton rednecks. You see, he may be Hank Williams III's bass player who gets to live the high life, but when he travels solo, he actually seems most at home in weird towns like Morganton that are only known for mental institutions. He chain-smoked and chatted with the occasional fan that would speak to him in the parking lot. And I noticed he laughed and smiled at the shit they said. This didn't surprise me because most metal people are very nice when they're off the stage, since the get their demons and agression out when they're on it. <br />
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I decided not to talk to Joe Buck. I just don't want to meet heros. And this guy was the only one of my top ten favorite musicians that I had never seen live. I didn't want to ruin the show for myself.<br />
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As I watched drunks coming in and out of the tiny bar to smoke in the parking lot, I noticed Joe Buck mostly stayed outside and smoked. Then it clicked. I suddenly knew he was a junky. A cleaned up junky. He was not drinking, he was obviously sober, and he wasn't disappearing for drug-breaks like most musicians do before shows. I thought, "That's odd. Since all his songs are about drugs and the devil. This man isn't on drugs and he's anything but a devil."<br />
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Finally, the show was about to start. I went inside, and Joe Buck sat down at his drum (he plays one) and tuned up his guitar. Then he started kicking the hell out of his bass drum and started belting out "Evil Mother Fucker From Tennessee," and the crowd formed into a way I've never seen at a show. All 50 of us were only three rows deep, and we were circled around Joe Buck, while he sat below us in a chair playing his guitar, singing, screaming and stomping his bass drum. It was odd because we were, stomping our feet and heading banging and swinging our fists DOWN at him. This 6'5" guy had a circle of regular sized people rocking out over him. We were so up in this scary man's business that I could have strummed his guitar and kicked his drum and he didn't care. When he sang, sometimes his spit would fly at us. And the music is some of the fastest hard rock hillbilly devil music you'll ever here. And forget everything I said about him not being scary in the parking lot. He was now scary again. <br />
<br />
He finished "Evil Motherfucker" which is a song that introduces who he is to those that don't know:<br />
<br />
"MY NAME IS JOE BUCK. <br />
<br />
AND I'M AN EVIL FUCK!!!!!!!"<br />
<br />
Then he broke into "Devil is on His Way." This was was one of my favorites, so I started jumping around and acting as retarded as everyone else - by myself, in a mountain town I didn't know, full of mountain people I had never met. At least during Joe Buck's set, I knew we were all friends and they wouldn't mind me.<br />
<br />
(I'll edit and finish this later. Red Eye is on.)Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-30279265951559508072010-06-11T00:08:00.000-07:002010-06-11T00:08:59.193-07:00Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-82474531414805480972010-05-23T12:24:00.000-07:002010-05-23T12:24:48.897-07:00Me and Her Part 2Me: Awww, shit yes! I am craving some Taco Bell! I'm gonna get me a Meximelt and a Volcano Taco.<br />
<br />
Her: Really? Again? Do you ever learn?<br />
<br />
Me: Learn what?<br />
<br />
Her: Everytime you talk all this shit about how much you love the Volcano taco, as soon as we get to Taco Bell and get our food, you eat everything except half the Volcano taco. And you say, "That wasn't near as good as it looked. Why did I get that?"<br />
<br />
(2 hours later. At a Taco Bell. Me sitting across from her with a tray full of empty wrappers and one wrapper with half a Volcano Taco on it.)<br />
<br />
Her: How's that Volcano Taco.<br />
<br />
Me: Great. I just don't, uh, feel like eating it all.<br />
<br />
Her: Riiiiiiiiight.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-43247787734979167672010-05-23T12:20:00.000-07:002010-05-23T12:20:56.633-07:00Me, Her and a Puddle of Mudd<div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Conversations that will make you glad I'm not your boyfriend.</strong></div><br />
Her: (Pointing to the radio, as a song comes on) Oh, gosh. Is that band with that dude, all he ever does is sing about blowjobs and stuff?<br />
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Me: Yeah, they're called Puddle of Mudd. They are an absolutely terrible band.<br />
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Her: I know! Who could ever like this shit?<br />
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Me: I like it.<br />
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Her: But you said they were an absolutely terrible band.<br />
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Me: They are. And I like them. Nobody should ever listen to this.<br />
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Her: But you do? Even though you feel you shouldn't?<br />
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Me: Yes. I love this song. It's so stupid.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-55332659985715260822010-05-07T00:03:00.000-07:002010-05-07T00:11:53.400-07:00Your Welcome. For your kids punching me in the nuts.I am a parent's biggest dream and biggest nightmare. That makes me sound like some sort of super-wealthy child molestor with an early 20th century English accent and a cane: "I'll pay you one <em>meee-llion</em> dollars for one night with your child!"<br />
<br />
That, of course, is not what I'm talking about. Here's what I'm talking about:<br />
<br />
I am the King of All Children.<br />
<br />
I'm not just their king. I am their earthly deity. For some reason, kids between the ages of 0 and 10 think I am the greatest freaking guy of all time. They think I am so cool. It doesn't matter if I am actually interacting with them or ignoring the hell out of them, they will follow me around and beg me to play every silly game imaginable on earth. I have some sort of magnetic presence that makes kids so hyper that you'd think they snorted 5 or 6 lines of Pixy Styx and mistook the Robitussin for Kool-Aid again.<br />
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They give me new names. They make me play impromptu games that they are inventing as they go along. They hand me musical instruments that I don't know how to play, and beg me to create songs. They even insist that I pick them up and throw them into things that aren't safe to be thrown into.<br />
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I know you think, "Oh yeah, Kids make me play with them, too." And I'm sure they do. But not to the degree that they harrass me. I don't even have my own kids. But damn, when somebody throws a family party full of people my age and a bunch of kids, my girlfriend has to explain to any of the adults we've never met, "Look, Roth Wriscey is not going to be able to talk to any of you much tonight. It's not his fault. He's like the Elvis of children. He could try to run from them, but they'll only tackle him. If you get more than one minute to speak to him tonight, you'll be lucky. He can't tell them to go away. They won't. You can't even tell them to go away, AND THEIR YOUR KIDS!"<br />
<br />
And they never really believe her until about half-way through any party. And that's great. Because for the first half of the party, those parents always give me these boring tired-out jokes like, "Hey, if you're gonna wind up my kids, you should have to take care of them tonight when they won't go to bed." Sure, they sort of laugh, but they're really irritated with me. I try to explain to them that I don't have a choice: That the little girls are going to make me spin in circles with them, learn hand-slap games and let them climb me like a jungle-gym. And that the boys are going to shoot me with imaginary machine guns, throw every damn toy on earth at me and punch me in the nuts. I don't stir them up on purpose. I could never even acknowledge the existence of these children and they'd still think I'm the coolest guy of all time and scream their lungs out in my honor. I know I can't stop them. I've tried! So I've learned to just accept my role on earth as a real-life SpongeBob SquarePants and enjoy it.<br />
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Get this, I am not allowed to go to my girlfriend's house between 6 p.m. and 8:30. Why? Because she lives at her best friend's house. And her best friend has a 7 year old girl and a 4 year old boy. They love me so much, I could talk them into killing you. (Yes, you, you reading this.) And those kids don't even know you. And they can't drive. But if I asked them to do it. They'd google your address and steal their mom's keys and stop at a gun shop along the way to finish you off. All because I said to. They also think my name is "Mr. Potato Head." And Mr. Potato Head here had to ban himself from visiting his girlfriend during those hours of the evening, because that's when those two disciples of Mr. Potato are supposed to eat dinner and go to sleep. And if I even set foot in that house and try to walk straight to my girlfriend's room - Yeah, that'll be the day! When I do that, those kids run up and latch on to each side of me and beg me to eat their food. Not because they don't like the food, but because they think it would be so cool if Mr. Potato Head honored them by eating something that once touched their plate! Yes, they think I'm that cool. And once I'm there, those kids won't eat or go to bed no matter how much their poor mother threatens the life out of them.<br />
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So just know this: If I'm ever at a party and get your kids so wound up they won't go to bed after you get home, just remember one little thing. You got to have fun at a party full of adults for the first time, without being constantly interrupted by the taps of your kids telling you that so-and-so called them a name. They didn't bother you at all. They were too busy punching me in the nuts. You're welcomeRoth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-52879322903256164332010-04-30T01:38:00.000-07:002010-04-30T01:38:23.838-07:00You, get off the stage. You, get on the stage.I did stand-up tonight for the first time ever while sober. I thought I'd be all like "Wow, I'm so much better sober!" Or maybe, "Wow, I'm better at this drunk!" No, it's entirely the same. And I'm entirely the same guy.<br />
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I didn't get into a habit of doing comedy drunk because I needed alcohol for courage. It just happens to be staged at a bar, and I lived down the street from that bar and could walk home. So getting drunk was just easy. Now that I live 25 minutes away from the club, getting drunk is not an option. But being funny was just as easy. I'm not saying I'm great. But I'm self-aware enough to know I can tell a dick joke and usually get the reaction I intended. That being said, let's get away from me and get to the others. Here's some crap I hate about the comedy club on each and every open-mic night.<br />
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First off, a lot of these guys who perform every week sit at the bar while the other comedians are performing, and they hold a pencil and stare at a paper and scribble over their own comedy notes. They had a freakin' week to prepare! If you feel the need to bring a Number 2 and yellow pad, then you shouldn't feel the need to get up on stage. You're not ready. And besides, it's just downright rude to be staring at a paper full of your own ideas, while ignoring a colleague who is making a fool of himself on a stage 20 feet away. In fact, I time my smoke breaks and piss breaks around guys who do this. If they can't watch some other guy, I can't watch them.<br />
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I also cannot stand these nerds who work their act out on me without my permission, while I'm sitting at the bar trying to drink and watch the guy on the real stage. I don't do that to my friends. Don't do it to me. I can understand running a joke by someone to see if it bounces; but to actually perform your act like you're on the stage to me, when you're not on the stage, and some other guy actually is, is fucked up. And I certainly wouldn't do it to other comics... especially while at the comedy club! That's like a musician singing a song to another musician in his dressing room, when the other guy didn't ask. Gay. Cut that shit out. Plus, my fake laughs are obviously fake. Don't make it awkward for both of us.<br />
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About half of these dorks base their whole routine around how they can't get girls. Let me tell you: if you can't get girls, then I can promise you one thing: you're not funny. It's a myth that funny guys don't get laid. Funny guys get laid all the damn time. In fact, some only ever get girls because their ugly ass is hilarious. Maybe they don't plow every girl on earth, but by at least some girls on earth. Give some ladies some credit: some of them are ready to wiggle, just so long as you make'em giggle. So if you really can't ever once land a woman, then get off the stage.<br />
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The other half of these dorks base their whole routine about how much pussy they get. That's even less funny than a guy who talks about how he perpetually strikes out. No one finds a guy funny who is up there talking about random girls. Don't get me wrong: dirty can be funny. I'm always dirty. But a guy who gets up there acting like a conquestor of coochies is boring. Not just to me, to everyone. The guys that do this are actually usually pretty good looking guys. They should realize that is why they get laid. Not because of their stagecraft. Get off the stage, you unfunny Adonis.<br />
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Some of these tards get up there every week and do the same five minute routine. Look, if you make a living at this, or are trying to perfect your act, I can understand that. But, if you're gonna do that, shop that shit around to different clubs. Don't do it to the same audience at the same club, every seven days. If you ignore my advice and still do, 1/3 of the people will step outside to smoke, another 1/3 will sit there and ignore you, and the other 1/3 will fakely polite-laugh. If you have lived your entire life and can only find five funny minutes of your existence to talk about, please get off the stage.<br />
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Now, by my bitching, you'd think I'm a rude asshole to other comics who struts around the place like I'm some big shit. Not at all. I'm actually one of the nicest people there. And I know I'm not big shit. I mean, it's jokes, man. Jokes. There's no need to be petty. I only ever compliment the other guys or keep my mouth shut if they blew chodes. But some of them, some of them, are catty little girls. If you do well, they will ignore the shit out of you or even try to make you feel unwelcome at the club. They do this to me all the time. I've even been shoved by other comics who acted like they didn't know they were doing it. How silly. I want all these dumbasses to do well. But many of them think that if one guy does well, that will dig into their own success. Not true. And if you think that, well, I won't ask you to get off the stage, since some of the petty little bitch boys are actually the funnier ones. But seriously, grow up and cut that junior high shit out.<br />
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The final person I hate is the guy who week-in and week-out tells me how good he'd do if he got up there. Fine, I believe you. (Not really.) Some non-performers show up every week and brag about how great they would be if they ever felt the need to share their fucking amazing observations. To these over-confidant armchair-comedians, I beg you: Please get on the stage.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-64461781636497701222010-04-15T20:36:00.000-07:002010-04-15T21:00:16.890-07:00Blowing Blows.New Post: The entire story is fictional. Totally fictional. So let's just go with that one, okay? Otherwise, I'm not writing the shit.<br /><br />A certain dumbass went to the Down/Melvins show back in September. The show took place in Myrtle Beach 1.5 hours from the dumbass's home in Wilmington, North Carolina. Due to the fact that he lived in a tourist town, Dumbass forgot that this was a holiday weekend. Shit - every weekend is a holiday weekend in Wilmington. Dumbass also forgot that the authorities announced they'd be doing DWI checkpoints all over the area.<br /><br />So the show was great. It was great because Down rules, the Melvins rules, and Dumbass drank about 2 vodka tonics and 7 Miller Lites in three hours. The amazing thing about this dumbass is that he can drink a lot and not become legally drunk. (Two or three police tests over a lifetime have proved his incredible alcohol processing abilities.) Unfortunately, this streak of incredible metabolism was going to come to an end... by a hair.<br /><br />Dumbass and his co-hort, Girl Who Knows She's Always Safe When He's In Control Of Anything Including A Car, saw a checkpoint at the state line. They dodged it. Unfortunately, another tinier, po-dunkier town was running a separate checkpoint. Dumbass wisely tried to turn around and hide at the Food Lion, but a more pussified citizen got behind him and wouldn't agree to turn around as well. This forced dumbass to go through the checkpoint.<br /><br />Dumbass was the last person to get arrested. And arrested he was! And the chivalrous cops packed up and left the girl sitting alone in a dark parking lot in the woods by herself! Real men. Who wouldn't leave a skinny young blond girl in a skirt and tank top all alone locked out of a car and refuse her a ride to a safe place?<br /><br />Dumbass doesn't regret driving. Dumbass regrets getting caught. The world was not spared an unsafe person that night. He even told law enforcement he could do backflips during their stupid test that he was ace-ing, despite the fact that he had never done a back flip in his life. Despite his bravado, Dumbass was charged with being .01 over the limit. (An amount that used to be legal to drive under.)<br /><br />Fast forward 7 months later.<br /><br />At court date 3, Dumbass's Attorney said to him, "You know that female officer that wrecked her car hot-dogging at 100 mph when she was trying to race her fellow officers who were on duty about two months ago?"<br /><br />Dumbass said he was familiar with the woman.<br /><br />The well-connected Southern Attorney said, "Since she administered your blood test, and now she's out with serious injuries and probably has lost her police career, I'm going to ask for a dismissal."<br /><br />Dumbass said, "A woman never tested me. A big fat guy did."<br /><br />The Attorney said, "Yes, she did."<br /><br />Dumbass privately asked his passenger (who came to court) if she remembered the woman giving him a test. She said, "The only woman there that night was me. A big fat guy tested you."<br /><br />Then dumbass realized that his attorney had a scheme that he needed to not sabatoge. Dumbass also noticed that the other officer in the case had suddenly disappeared from court... for the day. He said he "had a meeting he forgot about." And then the judge made jokes about the female officer's driving skills and dismissed the case while everyone in the court laughed (except the lone female officer who barked out defenses of the woman.)<br /><br />Then dumbass realized that his expensive attorney's fees were being spread around. Thank God that some officer who couldn't drive and wasn't there to testify was the convenient excuse for everyone in the court system to distribute dumbass's money to each other and let him go free.<br /><br />Acquitted and enlightened. Dumbass will never again bitch about dirty attorneys - they'll keep you clean.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-59109727879164062492010-04-02T16:37:00.001-07:002010-04-02T16:37:55.019-07:00Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-65693559562470163432010-03-30T21:17:00.000-07:002010-03-30T21:52:00.417-07:00article 2.Trust no one today, no one. If you are reading our weekly edition of the Topsail Advertiser on the first day it comes out (Thursday,) then you are likely to avoid tragedy. If you are reading this after Thursday, then we are so sorry for what may have happened to you. Before I tell you why you need to trust no one today, let me tell you what happened to some other people who ignored the warning of the day.<br /><br />The things that can happen you today can range from the mildly inconvenient situation to the most embarassing debacle. Every year on a day like today, a local woman named Mindy asks her husband, Baxter, to fix her a glass of water. But when Baxter turns on the faucet to fill up the cup, the nozzle doesn't pour water into the cup, it instead sprays water all over Baxter's shirt and face. Inexplicably, a piece of plastic-wrap taped over part of the spiggot had caused the drenching. But no one is sure why. All that is known is that things like this happen on this particular day.<br /><br />Water-faucets accidents are just tip of the iceberg when it comes to bad things that can happen to you today. One time, my friend Yvonne ran into the bedroom of her older sister, who was sleeping, and yelled, "The house is on fire!" Since her sister wasn't wearing clothes she wrapped herself only in a towel and ran out wearing next to nothing. But the house turned out not to be on fire! And the neighbors were actually in a good mood, since they were laughing at the poor girl that was now standing in the front yard nearly naked. Why would Yvonne say the house was on fire when it wasn't? Nobody knows. All that is known is that things like this always seems to happen on days like today.<br /><br />When I tell you to trust no one today, I don't just mean people you encounter in person. I mean people that call you on the phone, people that you hear on the radio, or even people that write articles in publications. On a day like today, individuals aren't the only ones that can fall victim to the strange phenomenon that is today, sometimes large portions of the public can have an unfortunate incident. You may remember an article written in Sports Illustrated in 1985 (on a day much like today) about a baseball player named Sidd Finch. The article claimed that the previously unheard-of New York Mets pitcher could throw a baseball almost 170 miles an hour. This excited several of the most skeptical people on Earth: New Yorkers. Still, the day would win again, when for some reason, it was revealed that not only could Sidd Finch not throw a baseball that fast - Sidd Finch wasn't even a real person. No one knows why such things happen on a day like today; but if you'd like to hear more about why you need to trust no one today, come out the annual Topsail Island April Fool's Day Parade and I'll explain it to you. The parade starts at 4 p.m. at the Surf City Community Center. See you then.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-40441063511372475822010-03-30T20:00:00.000-07:002010-03-30T20:57:04.040-07:00newspaper article incompleteMy word perfect is broken so I'm just writing on this program and saving it from time to time so I don't lose it. It's a terrible article I'm throwing together at the last minute for my newspaper, so please disregard it.<br /><br />This Sunday, thousands of people in Topsail, and millions around the world, will be celebrating Easter. The holiday will be begin with sunrise services for some, and visits from the Easter bunny for others. Some families will be remembering Jesus dying on the cross and his subsequent resurrection, while others will be dying Easter eggs and hiding them in the backyard. For many, the day will consist of a little bit of both. The following is a fun quiz with a variety of trivia questions spanning the topic of Easter.<br /><br />1. Most people may remember that Linus, the Peanuts character, had a strong belief in "The Great Pumpkin," in an animated holiday special, but do you remember the person he spoke of during a Peanuts Easter special. Was it:<br /><br />a) The Easter Beagle<br />b) The Little Redheaded Bunny<br />c) The Great Sleeping Peep<br />d) Mr. Hanky The Easter Present<br /><br />2. It was an passover tradition for Pontius Pilate to free one prisoner during passover. Instead of freeing Jesus, who did he choose to set free?<br /><br />a) Barnabas<br />b) Barabbas<br />c) Hanna Barbara<br />d) Barney Frank<br /><br />3. The White House Easter Egg Roll is held each year on which day?<br /><br />a) Ash Wednesday<br />b) Good Friday<br />c) Easter Monday<br />d) Two-fer Tuesday<br /><br />4. Not all denominational organizations officially celebrate the Easter holiday. One if the following groups does not. Which one is it?<br /><br />a) Presbyterians<br />b) Southern Baptists<br />c) Methodists<br />d) The Religious Society of Friends (also known as Quakers)<br /><br />5. The Cadbury Bunny is a bunny that has been used in commercials advertising Cadbury Creme Eggs for decades. Which animal does the bunny make sounds like?<br /><br />a) A chicken<br />b) A bunny (Duh, he's a bunny!)<br />c) A rooster<br />d) A tortoise<br /><br />6. Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus by turning him over to the Romans for 30 pieces of silver. How did he spend it?<br /><br />a) He had a temple constructed in honor of himself.<br />b) He threw it away.<br />c) He bought a donkey.<br />d) He donated it to an orphanage.<br /><br />7. Sugar, Corn Syrup, Gelatin and Carnauba are the main ingredients in what.<br /><br />a) Chocolate Bunnies<br />b) Vanilla Bunnies<br />c) Peeps<br />d) Something I never want to eat.<br /><br />8. Who rolled back the large stone covering Jesus' tomb?<br /><br />a) Peter and Paul<br />b) Mary Magdelene<br />c) Atlas<br />d) An Angel<br /><br />We here at the Topsail Advertiser wish everyone on Topsail Island a fun and fulfilling Easter. Please check our Church Announcements section on page ? for information on local Easter-related events. Happy Easter!<br /><br />The answers are as follows: 1-a, 2-b, 3-c, 4-d, 5-a, 6-b, 7-c, 8-d.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-48865046456977487332009-12-05T02:20:00.000-08:002009-12-05T02:45:24.880-08:00We're Fucked Because We Are Fun (Or "Fun King, deal with it.")I wish I could be so good at something that I could be as amusing of a motherfucker as Axl Rose. Then again, I could never pull an "Axl." Don't get me wrong, I can be a dick, but only when being a dick is justified. I'm actually a nice boy. Maybe I'd make more of a Howard Hughes. Then again, I think he was a dick, too. Plus, he was a billionaire. And I'm too fun to be even a millionaire.<br /><br />You ever thought about that? You always say, "If I was that rich, I'd be awesome!" And you're right. But that's why you're never gonna be rich: because you're too awesome to focus your crazy ass down and make money. And that's why billionaires are never fun: because they are too busy earning money to lay back and lick a frozen utility pole. Fun people can't focus. And focused people can't be fun.<br /><br />And don't give me this shit about how people like Richard Branson are fun. Guys like him are posers. Sure he may build these mega-awesome hot air-balloons to play in, but he never plays in them; he's busy sitting in the damn thing on his cell phone making acquisitions and other boring business shit terms that us fun-ions could never understand. The same way your fun ass sits at your cubicle pretending to be smart, but you're really just playing Minesweeper. And who the hell plays minesweeper? It's not 1994. And who plays in hot air balloons? It's 2009.<br /><br />So in conclusion, fuck super-rich people... because they're never fun. And fuck our fun asses, because we'll never be rich.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-50954943975487463732009-11-22T01:43:00.001-08:002009-11-22T01:54:33.657-08:00Fun w/ a dear friend's divorceMy friend looks like she is most likely about to go through an unexpected divorce after an otherwise great three year marriage. Her stupid husband is about to getted steam-cleaned because she makes, and always has made, all the money. He had a good life, but he's wanting to run. When she told me about it, she said, "Roth Wriscey, I am so annoyed by all the pity I'm getting. It's not pity time - it's business time. Just promise me you'll be the one person to make me laugh about this and not give me all that bullshit about how bad you feel for me."<br /><br />I agreed to her demand - on one condition. I said, "I won't give you any obnoxious sympathy, since you asked, as long as you do know that I do want to."<br /><br />"Deal!"<br /><br />So I listened to her for a while and she said, "I gotta get this done. There's no time for me to grieve."<br /><br />I said, "You're damn right! Cuz grievin' is for Steven. And last I checked, your name ain't Steven!"<br /><br />She laughed.<br /><br />A minute later, as she talked about how she had to drain the bank accounts of all the money that only she earned, she said, "I don't even have time to cry."<br /><br />I said, "Yeah, cuz cryin' is for Brian. And last I checked, your name ain't Brian!"<br /><br />She laughed again.<br /><br />Then she said, "I'm sorry if I'm moaning about this."<br /><br />I said, "Shit, you're not moaning. Moanin' is for Conan, and thank God, your name most certainly isn't Conan."<br /><br />If you've got any other good formulaic name-things to go with this divorce, please share. And if your name is Brian, Steven or Conan; please forgive me. Your names are just conveniently comedic for my friend at this time. And if you still have a problem with it, quit crying, grieving, and moaning, because she isn't.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-31894517051621010112009-11-17T19:35:00.000-08:002009-11-17T20:08:13.898-08:00We're not gay. We're radio guys.A few years ago, the two main morning show guys I worked with made a "bet" on the air. Charles bet Buddy that the Seahawks would beat the Steelers in the Superbowl. The loser would have to shave his legs in the 5th Avenue fountain in front of morning commuters the next day. I put "bet" in quotations for you because this bet was fake. Yes, I'm sorry. A lot of radio is fake. We call it "Theatre of the Mind." Let me explain how this bet was faked.<br /><br />Off air, during a show-meeting, Charles told Buddy that it would be funny if one of them lost a bet and had to shave their own legs in public. However, Buddy was too much of prideful redneck to be willing to do that. So Charles said, "Fine. On Monday morning's show, the day after the Superbowl, me and you will reminisce on-air about the Superbowl bet we made on Friday. Even though, we never actually made the bet on Friday, most people don't listen to an entire show for four hours. So if I say, "Aww, man, Buddy. I can't believe I bet on (whoever turns out to be the loser) against you on Friday! Now, I gotta go shave my legs in public," people will believe that we really made that bet last week, just not when they were listening. That way, no matter who wins the game, I'll go out and shave my legs."<br /><br />So that Monday, Charles said on-air, "Aww, man. I can't believe the Seahawks lost! Now I have to pay. I'll take Roth Wriscey with me to the 5th street fountain so he can describe the scene for the listeners on-air while I shave my legs."<br /><br />So we took the big tacky country radio vehicle into the historic district in downtown Wilmington. However, we had to park about a block away from the old fountain that was in the middle of a busy four lane road.<br /><br />We approached the fountain and Charles got in and started shaving his legs while I called into the studio and did the play-by-play from a cell phone live on-air. I chatted with Buddy (who was still in the studio) about the mayhem we were causing. A couple of hundred listeners had obviously altered their morning work routes to drive slowly by and cheer on Charles as he slid a razor up his legs.<br /><br />Then the cops showed up.<br /><br />Three or four of them parked to the side of the road and turned on their lights. They said, "All right boys, outta the fountain."<br /><br />So I said into the phone, "I think we're being arrested."<br /><br />The cop said to me, "And you! Hang up the phone."<br /><br />They told me and Buddy that we were both facing a big fine and a trip to jail for standing and shaving in a public fountain. Then they started focusing on Charles more than me, so I slipped away and said into phone, "Folks I think we're going to jail. I know Charles is. I might be off the hook!"<br /><br />Then the cop yelled out to me, "Get off that damn phone, and get back over here!"<br /><br />I started to explain what was happening to the listeners, but the host in the studio said, "Don't worry, Roth Wriscey. They already heard the cop. We know what's going on. This is hilarious. Call us back whenever you're free."<br /><br />So I hung up the cell and went to get cuffed. Just as they were starting to arrest us, one of the cops said, "I mean, what the hell are yall just trying to prove anyway?"<br /><br />When we told him we had nothing to prove, another one said, "Wait, ain't this some sort of gay protest?"<br /><br />When we told him no, another one said, "Oh, we thought yall were doin' some sort of homosexual activist stuff by shaving your legs in the fountain."<br /><br />I was like, "Huh? We're not gay! We're radio guys. This was an on-air bet being honored. We thought ya'll knew that."<br /><br />And the cop said, "Oh, hell. We didn't know that, we just thought ya'll was doin' some gay protestin'. All right, this changes everything. Just give us a minute to figure out what to do with yall."<br /><br />While the cops stood at their cars alone and figured out what to do with us, I went back over towards the radio van and tried to covertly get back on the air through my cell phone. When the host put me on, I whispered live on the air, "Okay, folks. There was a misunderstanding. Now that they realize we're not gay, we may not go to jail. However, I'm not sure. I'm actually still supposed to stay off this phone, but I'm so far away those cops can't see my phone and they can't hear me talking to all of you. Nothiing could stop me from putting this on the air."<br /><br />At that moment, one of the cops that was standing around a patrol car with the doors open yelled at me, "Hey, Dummy? You know, we DO have radios in our cars! We can hear everything you're saying! Get off that phone and get back over here!"<br /><br />At that point, I went back to once again get arrested. At that point they were laughing at me and said, "Man, you 'bout the dumbest guy we ever had to detain. But look, since ya'll ain't gay protestors; as long as you promise us yall'll never get back in this fountain, and you give us some of those Country Coolers ya'll have been giving out all summer, we'll just call it a day."<br /><br />So we accepted their solicitation of a bribe and gave them their prizes and got the hell out of there and went back to the studio. And we never mentioned on the air that the cops made us give them a payoff. To do that would have just been gay.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-28352574025145846152009-10-31T17:28:00.000-07:002009-10-31T17:33:20.614-07:00The Celebrity My Friend is DatingI can't write this on my facebook page, so I'll tell you 7 people.<br /><br />My friend sent me this text: "Guess who I'm dating? But it's only a fling. I'm having so much fun with him though!"<br /><br />Get thisL my friend is a super sexy 21 year old and she lives in California. However, she is seeing the grossest B-lister in his 50's known for dating young women.<br /><br />And get this! They're on a date tonight and he took her to the cheesiest place where the tabloids say he always likes to hang out: The Playboy Mansion. Any guesses? I'll give you a hint. It's not James Kahn.<br /><br />It is a liberal Jewish political "Comedian. Guess now, answers at the bottom.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ooh, Gross! You're right. She's dating Bill Maher! Vomit! C'mon, -----, you're better than that! But you're happy, so I won't say it to your face. Nas-teeee!Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-23609668177805737092009-10-29T16:43:00.000-07:002009-10-29T17:19:10.472-07:00Proposition W-9Radio sales people are almost all across-the-board stupid. They will sell anything to anyone who will buy, even if it so obvious that the promotion ultimately won't work. Even if it is obvious that the audience you're targeting for an event doesn't listen to your station, and the audience you already have doesn't give a shit for what you're pushing on them and will be pissed when you try. All sales people see is the check in front of them. They can't see anything else. This was the case with Festival Latino.<br /><br />We, as the pop-country morning show, got forced by the higher-ups to dedicating the entire show to Festival Latino - a get together in the park for Mexicans and whoever else wants to come out. That's fine. But those people didn't listen to our station. Us on-air people knew that because we fielded phone calls from our listeners and shook their hands at every damn event in town. And our listeners were generally two things: 1. Not Mexican. And 2. Not interested in Mexican festival. Forgive us for knowing our crowd, but we did. Our sales department didn't.<br /><br />So to make things fun, since we had to promote Festival Latino that morning, we decided we would over-promote it. We played fiesta music in the background all day and it was my job to intro each segment with a high-pitched "FestivallllllllllllllllllLLLLLLatinooooooooo!" That wasn't the part that was going to get us in trouble. We would get in trouble for keeping it too real.<br /><br />We said on the air to anybody listening: "Hey! Since it's Festival Latino day, we've decided we are only taking calls from Latinos. Real, live, actual Latinos. If you're one of our regular callers who isn't Latino, call us tomorrow. But for today, it's "Latinos Only" on our phone lines. We want to learn about you. But most of all, we want to see if any of you listen to this station, because none of us here think you do. So call us, Latinos. Call us now."<br /><br />Nobody called. Nobody called for the first two hours. So to make it fun, we'd answer the phone and say "I think we've got a Latino!" And then we would play the sound of crickets chirping. Then we would remain postive on the mic and say, "We're sure we have SOME Latino listeners. You're probably just being shy. Call us, we'll give you a prize."<br /><br />Then the phones lit up. But every damn caller was a cacausian listener (most of whom we knew by voice - it's small town radio, you have no idea how many people we knew by the first syllable they spoke.) So as soon as they would speak, we'd interrupt them and yell, "No white people! We said Latinos only!" And we'd hang up on them. Sure, we were pissing them off. But we were pissing them off to prove a point. We actually wanted them to be pissed off because we felt for them. Why should we be forced to alienate the supportive listeners who keep our lights on and our gas tanks full, just to appeal to a group of people who weren't even there? We didn't feel they deserved that, so we gave them that, so our management would see how stupid they were to force that bullshit on us and our listeners. Look, I didn't even really like country music, but I would fight for that audience when they were getting fucked, because they were for the most part really good people who took enough beatings by the world, they didn't need their only radio station doing that to them, too.<br /><br />So, finally during our third hour we got a call from a guy who said he was a Mexican. We asked him what his favorite country song was, and he said, "Honestly, I've never heard of your station. I'm here on the job sight and some country boys told me the DJ's were begging for a Mexican to call. Here I am!"<br /><br />Our first question was "Are you legal?"<br /><br />Him: Nope. I snuck in when I was a kid. That's why I don't sound Mexican.<br /><br />Us: What's your name? Nevermind. Don't tell us. We don't want you to get deported on our account. We're just glad you called.<br /><br />Him: It's okay. I'll say my whole name and where I live. They won't come get me. They don't care.<br /><br />Us: Do you want to become a citizen?<br /><br />Him: I thought about it, but that means I'd have to drive 4 hours to Charlotte. I really get nothing out of it, and no ones gonna deport me anyway, so I'll stay illegal to save myself a drive. ---------------------------------<br /><br />But boy did trouble come. Not for the illegal guy. For us radio guys who dared ask questions. We were put through hell by our management and the Festival organizers for daring open up the phone lines to their people and asking a few questions that they didn't have to answer. And of course, we had to make an appearance at the festival, and not one station listener was there. It was all Mexicans and us three guys who the Mexicans had never heard of, nor cared to know. That whole event (at least our involvment) was a waste of everybody's time.<br /><br />I think they should all be deported and forced to live among the hell that is each other's company. Oh. What? I'm not talking about Mexicans. I'm talking about salespeople.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-67418440439541228532009-10-05T22:57:00.001-07:002009-10-05T23:24:16.201-07:00Glascock.One time our morning show guy was giving a tour of the radio station to a bunch of young school children. I freaking love kids. And kids really love seeing the radio station. However, opening up a radio station to children can be such a roll of the dice, when you consider their behavior.<br /><br />I'm not talking about the behavior of the kids. I'm talking about the behavior of the staff! Kids are actually so mesmerized by seeing the inside of a radio station, a place they thought was only in their mom's car speakers, that they actually behave on the tour and listen to everything you have to say.<br /><br />Radio people, on the other hand, can be some of the tackiest and most clueless people on earth. If you don't warn the staff that the school kids are coming to tour the station that day, you will no doubt expose to the kids to a knockdown dragout cuss fight in the hall between maybe a shady salesgirl and, say, a lazy on-air guy. And once a radio fight starts, the presence of boy scouts in an orderly line won't stop some hungover redneck skank, who is still wearing last night's pantyhose, from threatening the life of some fat hairy mid-day guy (who quite possibly may also still be wearing last night's pantyhose. I'm not saying names. But there was one.)<br /><br />Since salespeople are the most unrefined of all people in a radio station (I know, even worse than guys who do those morning zoo shows,) me and our morning guy Charles decided that he and I would take over givin any scheduled kids' tours. And, most importantly, we decided that we would only schedule them to come in before 8 a.m or after 5 p.m. That way, they wouldn't meet salespeople during work hours. We thought we had our bases covered.<br /><br />One day, Charles was giving an early morning tour of our four stations to a group of kids that were all about 7 or 8 years old. After showing the kids our four studios, Charles decided to give the kids a preview of our soon-to-be fifth station. The company was constructing a new studio to put a hip-hop station in. Charles led the kids to the door and opened it up to show them the construction. He knew he'd be showing the kids construction. But what he didn't know was that, as an added bonus, he'd be also be showing them Glascock.<br /><br />As Charles opened the door, and let the kids file in, he said, "This is going to be a rap station called Coast 97 that will be on the air in a few months. And that over there sleeping in a sleeping bag is Glascock. Who apparently lives here now. Say good morning to the kids, Glascock! He'll wake up. If you kids have ever listened to the radio in this town, you've no doubt heard Glascock. But today, you get to SEE him... in what looks like his new home."<br /><br />Yes, apparently Glascock had recently gotten evicted from his apartment and didn't have money to find a new place. So without telling anyone, not even Charles, he had been sneaking into the Coast studio at night and making it his home, and he had been sneaking out every morning before anybody came to work so no one would know about his radio-squatting.<br /><br />Unfortunately, on this particular day, Glasscock had overslept; most likely due to all the empty beer cans that surrounded his head on the sawdust floor while the children watched him wake up. Oh yeah! It was beautiful. I wish I could've been there that morning to see the look on the face of the teacher that came with these kids only to be shown a 40 year-old burnout with long gray/blond/brown hair still drunk and sleeping with his glasses on. Yes, this was the day that Glascock was quite the cock, while sleeping in his classes.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-53779041044087940202009-10-02T03:51:00.000-07:002009-10-02T03:58:09.980-07:00I guess I'm sexist towards medicated menI'm drunk, so I can't type you a good story. But here goes the synopsis. I told my one good roommate (not the midget we just kicked out): "Dude, you suddenly suck at being drunk!"<br /><br />He started to argue with me, when I said, "What did you think of the clowns we drank with last night?"<br /><br />He said, "A lot of people were assholes last night. How could I know which clowns you were talking about?"<br /><br />I said, "No, you dumbass! We drank on the street of a hookah bar with five actual circus clowns. In full make-up! If you don't remember clown drinking, you might need to rethink some shit!"<br /><br />He said, "Sorry. I just went back on Zoloft."<br /><br />I'm tolerant.<br /><br />I grew up with women. Ya'll are all on something. But he's a dude. I guess I'll pretend he's a girl and give him a pass.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-77554680303921051982009-09-30T12:50:00.000-07:002009-09-30T13:25:31.842-07:00They're the fags, and I'm the one with a naked dude on me.I used to be on a morning show with two guys we will call Charles and Buddy. (I can't use their real names so we're gonna borrow from a 1980's Scott Baio sitcom.) Charles was the goofball and Buddy was the more normal one. I was their occasional third guy who they would send out to do morning show stunts in public while on the air. What sucked is that, while we were three hell-raising sons of bitches, we had to tone that shit down on the air and act somewhat wholesome since we were on a station that played twangy bullshit new country music. You don't know how many of our crazy show ideas were squashed by one of us saying, "I agree, this is an awesome idea. However, our audience hates awesome, so we're not gonna do it. Think of something a little less entertaining that will amuse your average soccer mom. I like when the show goes to the locker room, too. Hell, we're all three great at doing locker room. But that's not who we're trying to appeal to. Come up with some gay ass shit like American Idol humor instead. And not that hilarious "Clay is Gay" shit. These women that listen to our station, cling to the belief that Clay might fall in love with their daughter. They pay us to be those kind of guys."<br /><br />Yeah, it was hell sometimes. But when we went out on the road, that was a different story. We were out of control. Anytime there was a station event, we would all three pile into the tacky Country Station Ford Explorer and go wherever they wherever anybody would pay us to kiss babies, dance like monkies and give out lame prizes.<br /><br />Rather than tell you about what happened at one of these stupid "Three Hours Giving Out Pizza To Listeners at a Car Lot" deals, I'll tell you what happened once on the way back.<br /><br />We were driving back to the station from some event in Burgaw where an Auto Parts Store payed us to host a pig pickin'. It was actually really fun. We ate a lot and coaxed redneck skanks into doing that barefoot dance where they pull their skirts up over their ankles so they don't trip. It was a fun little hoedown in a parking lot. As we approached the end of East Bound I-40 we hit the first red light. (Yes, the road runs from 2500 miles from California to North Carolina with no lights, and then turns into a traffic jam when the name changes from I-40 to College Road.)<br /><br />As we sat at the red light (Me driving, Buddy beside me, and Charles behind Buddy in the back), Buddy spotted an ambulance up ahead in the right lane. He said to us, "Fuck those motherfuckers. They're all a bunch of faggots. I hate that company. If you work there, you suck." (Oh, Buddy moonlighted as a paramedic, that's why he cared so much about other ambulance companies.)<br /><br />Immediately Charles said, "Well, Buddy, an enemy of yours is an enemy of mine! If you don't like those guys, then I don't like those guys! Roth Wriscey, pull up beside them first chance you get and I'm gonna moon the fuck out of 'em. They're gonna get more of my ass than they ever wanted. This is for my pal in the passenger seat. I'm gonna do this for you, Buddy! Because I know you'd do it for me. Actually, I know you wouldn't. So the real reason I'm doing this for you is so you know that I'm a better friend to you than you are to me. Since I'll moon on your behalf and you won't moon on mine. So really, I'm gonna moon these guys so I can own you, you asshole of a friend! I'm gonna tell everybody on the air, too. I'm gonna tell them you suck. Roth, get up beside that ambulance!"<br /><br />So as I approached the ambulance in the lane beside us up ahead, Charles was pulling his pants an underwear down and getting his butt ready to be smooshed up against the backseat passenger side window of this easily identifiable Explorer, to gross out the guys in the ambulance that Buddy hated.<br /><br />As I pulled up beside them, Charles got his ass right up in the window, but but the EMT's hadn't looked over yet. So Charles said, "Honk the horn at'em!"<br /><br />I honked the horn at them. And just as they looked over, while we were riding beside them, the light in front of us turned red. I had to slam on the brakes. And so did the ambulance. So we were slowing down together at the same time for the light.<br /><br />Unfortunately, I had to hit the brakes so hard that something crazy happened. (And I know this is gonna sound impossible, but I saw it. It happened. I don't know how it happened, but it happened.) When I hit the brakes while Charles was mooning an ambulance from the back, he went flying over the back of Buddy's chair, over Buddy, and into Buddy's lap. I'd have to say, that's the first and only time I've ever seen a naked morning show guy accidentally sitting naked in the lap of his partner. I'm sure it's happened somewhere on Earth but I had never seen it.<br /><br />And I remember, while Buddy was sitting there stunned and embarassed with a naked Charles in his lap, as those ambulance guys were sitting there laughing at us for looking like a bunch of country homos who ruined their own prank by pranking themselves, Naked Charles just looked at Buddy, and said, "Hey, there Buddy! I've been waiting a lifetime for this moment."<br /><br />As Buddy scrambled to get Charles out of his lap, he was like, "Dude, get the fuck out of here. I hate those ambulance motherfuckers. They're the fags and I'm sitting here with some nekkid dude on me in front of them. This ain't cool!"<br /><br />It may not have been cool, but it was funny as shit.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-70168930697356173732009-09-25T20:34:00.000-07:002009-09-25T21:04:38.793-07:00Who in the hell flies to Myrtle Beach?I am tinkering with the idea of writing a book of compiled radio stories - and by radio stories I mean things that I have witnessed with my own eyes during my on-again off-again radio career that has spanned 11 fucking years. (Wow. That went by fast.) I also plan to include tons and tons of stories that were told to me by all the old school radio vets.<br /><br />You see, I can proudly say that I have one awesome characteristic: I learn from the mistakes of others. I avoided a lot of pitfalls by asking the older guys to tell me about some of the radio messes they made for themselves back in the day. All those other dumb kids never thought to listen to these wise old fuck-ups. (Sorry, the beloved jadedness that comes to me when talking about anything radio causes me to cuss a lot. It just comes out naturally. Please forgive. We are rough bunch. OMG, I said "we." I try not to associate myself as "one of them." I don't even socialize with other radio people anymore. It's better that way. Two radio people together is too much. I learned that the hard way. I don't sleep with, drink with, or even go to a movie with other radio people anymore. Life is better that way. Trust me.<br /><br />Still, I love this salty business. And in that year and a half that I was out of the business, I learned a couple of things about myself. I learned A: I can absolutely live without a microphone. Life is managable without a big megaphone to let everyone know what the fuck I think about fucking everything. And B: That being said: I do love access to the mic. I enjoy having a big megaphone that let's everyone know what the fuck I think about fucking everything. In conclusion, I prefer the mic. But I can live without the mic.<br /><br />Here's what I was getting to, before I got all distracted by my self: because I was smart enough to inquire the thoughts of all these radio vets, I learned a lot of funny stories along the way. As a result, I think I could compile a funny book of radio stories. However, I don't want to get knee-deep in an endeavor only to find out that it is only funny to me and other radio people. So, with your help, I plan to write ten straight totally true radio stories. And your job is to tell me if it's actually funny, or just funny to me. Thanks. Here goes. I'm gonna pull a tale out of the bag.<br /><br />Here's a true story that was told to me by my delightfully Jewish-turned-Christian production guy friend from Wisconsin. He's about 50. I will tell it as if I'm him.<br /><br />"I've seen a lot of radio contests screwed up by a lot of people... but never by the actual contest winner. Until we encountered "THE GIRL." Oh, I still dread... THE GIRL."<br /><br />"It was back in the 1980's when I worked at Rock 92.3 in Greensboro. We busted our butts to put together this really big promotion with a really big prize. It was two first class airline tickets to anywhere in the world... on our dime. Anywhere, sir. I'm talking anywhere. So this girl won the contest. And we interviewed her live on the air. Our jock said to her, "So where do you want to go? Paris? Brazil? Italy?""<br /><br />"And do you know what her answer was? Do you know what THE GIRL'S GOD DAMNED ANSWER WAS? It was this: "I'm going to fly to Myrtle Beach to see my boyfriend."<br /><br />"She said, "I'm going to Myrtle Beach to visit my motherfucking boyfriend!" Do you know how bad she screwed us. She had a chance to go anywhere in the world for free! And she took the wind out of our gigantic sails by saying she was going to take a thirty minute flight on us... for the weekend! That dumb bitch could drive to Myrtle Beach in 4 hours! A flight takes just as long when you consider check in and check out. She could've gone to Hawaii!"<br /><br />"And this girl who had two tickets to anywhere had the nerve to ask us if she could us the two tickets separately! Both for herself, so she could make two flights to Myrtle Fucking Beach to see her stupid, stupid boyfriend. ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD!"<br /><br />"And this burn she gave us had only begun. Think about the after-glow we had to do. In case you don't know what the after-glow is, the after-glow is where you pat yourself on the back and brag in commercials about the big fucking prize you gave out to a lucky listener. The intent is to make the listeners think: "Next time it could be me! I'm gonna keep listening to this awesome station."<br /><br />"We had to send off copy for our voice guy to read that said: "Rock 92.3 is your contest station. We've always got the best stuff for you! For example: just last month we sent THE GIRL on a flight to anywhere in the world!!!!!!!!! And now she's living it up in.... MYRTLE BEACH!!!!!!! YEAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!11 ROCK 92.3 IS YOUR CONTEST STATION! MYRRRRRRRRRRRTLE BEEEEEEACHHH!"<br /><br />"Sir, take my advice. Never do a contest to anywhere in the world. Never give the listeners control over their own destiny. They will screw you everytime. If you are gonna send them somewhere, you tell them exactly where they are going to go. You say: "You're going to GD Paris whether you like it or not!" Otherwise you got a voice-guy that thinks the copy you sent him was a prank. Who in the hell flies to Myrtle Beach?" Oh right! The Girl. I still hate the Girl.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-51118706060881318782009-09-16T01:31:00.001-07:002009-09-16T01:38:18.758-07:00Tomorrow's BoothMe and my roommate are going to set up a booth downtown tomorrow night to make money off of drunk people. We will be running a two-man booth with your choice of two amazing products.<br /><br />K-Max is going to draw caricatures of people for a dollar - stick figure caricatures. Give him a dollar, and we will draw you... as a stick person. He promises to give nice girls big boobs, and rude girls big hips.<br /><br />For my part, I am going to be selling plagiarized celebrity autographs. You name the celebrity, and you tell me the message you want to them to send you and I will totally right that on a piece of paper and sign their name to it. You want a piece of paper with Brad Pitt professing his love to you? I can make it happen - you know, sort of.<br /><br />I know what will happen. Mark my words. Whenever I just try to have fun and brighten this town up with something like a silly self-admitted fake autograph table, the powers that be get all mad and put me in handcuffs. I don't know how a comical side-business can lead to that, but when I'm involved, it always does. I think it's because I have pretty teeth.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-74257994093679457172009-09-13T23:32:00.000-07:002009-09-14T00:44:52.044-07:00Poor Guy Never Had NothingMy dad's friend Skipper died on Friday when he crashed his own plane somewhere in North Carolina. Skipper was a very rich man that I never met once. But I always wished for the chance, so I could thank him for making me feel as rich as him on an annual basis when I was a kid.<br /><br />You see, my dad was the electrician to Skipper's Mercedes dealership. The two of them were acquiantences first, but then became friends. Now let me eventually get to telling you what Skipper did for us.<br /><br />Every year in the 1980's, my dad would round up a team of 13 of his redneck friends and they would head to a town in the Mountains called Newland for a softball tournament. We would stay at a ten dollar a night hotel called The Shady Lawn. An old man and old woman owned the place and lived in the place. It was so 1970's with it's astroturf outdoor hallways.<br /><br />No women were allowed on the trip. No kids were allowed on the trip, either - except me. It was just me and all those blue collar men who were between the ages of 18 and 40. I remember all those dudes like it was yesterday. I remember there was Skinny Thomas who worked on a DOT crew. Monte with the Perm and Big John who looked like The Brawny Man, both of whom worked at Maintence Supply. (Big John would soon die at Maintence Supply when he was to fall through a skylight. I saw that man get buried in his softball uniform. I remember wanting to have the urge to cry, but I was afraid John would sit up in his casket and tell me to shake it off.) There was Allan the Dropout. Emory the Guy No One Liked. Mickey The Guy Who Never Got His Uniform Dirty. Donald Keith: The 20 Year Old Man with 80 Year Old Farts. Kimmett and Rodney Wilhelm. Kimmett was the big brother who was little. And Rodney was the little brother who was big. They were nephews of the Hall of Fame Baseball Knuckleballer Hoyt Wilhelm. There was the pitcher, Billy Winecoff, who I never saw drink wine and I don't remember having a cough. And there probably would've been Kevin McIntosh, but he got killed in a car wreck by an insurance agent around the time of the first trip. (We got a playground built at our church in his honor, because they said he loved kids so much. Which was ironic since my strongest memory of Kevin was the time he purposefully scared my 7 year old ass by laughing and driving down Rocky River Road at 95 miles per hour. Even more ironic, when he got around to actually dying in a car, it wasn't his fault. There was also this manly redneck named Jimmy Gurley. And there was my dad.<br /><br />Thr only reason I got to go on the trip was because I had a job: I was the bat boy. The trips were awesome, but they weren't as debaucherous as you'd think. Mostly, the men just hung around the hotel at night and drank whiskey and beer and played poker in Big John's room and looked at porno mags that I could never quite get to. I even had a job in the poker game. It was to look out the window for any cops in the parking lot, since we had the door open. I also learned how to pinch pennies for money. Those rednecks taught me early that if you gamble, you might lose your money. They wouldn't give it back to me when I lost. A few of the guys would go out to try to find bars and chicks at those bars to screw, but my dad and Big John made it clear to them that they were to keep that shit out of our hotel. It was the old "If you're gonna bang'em, bang'em at their place, and make it to the field by game time" order.<br /><br />The first year we went to one of these weekend tournaments was in 1985 and we were Team Tim Richmond. Yes, that Tim Richmond. The hottest guy in NASCAR at that time. The guy who had AIDS but nobody knew it yet. The reason we were sponsored by Tim Richmond was because Allan the Dropout's fiance was Tim's personal secretary. (When he died of AIDS, Allan said something like, "Thank God Melanie's a good girl. Or we mighta' both had that shit, too.")<br /><br />When we arrived that first year for the first game early on a Saturday morning, there were like 200 locals there to watch the game. They were all staring at our team - and only our team. Then one of the older more decrepit ones spoke up:<br /><br />"Whar's Teee-yum?"<br /><br />Where's Tim? What?<br /><br />We were all confused. Then Murph came up to me and my dad and pulled us away and said something to us privately. Before I tell you what Murph said, let me tell you who Murph was. He was my dad's best friend since they were 5. The only reason we ever came to this mountain town was because Murph was in charge of it. He also worked at a local newspaper.<br /><br />Then he smiled and gave us a not-so-sorry apology. He said to my dad: "I guess you noticed the big turnout, Bill. Well, you see, it may or may not be because I may or may not have written an article in the paper hinting that Tim Richmond may or may not come to Newland to watch the team he sponsored play softball."<br /><br />My dad and laughed and was like, "Murph, you fuckin' piece of shit! Hey wait, don't these people know he has a race this weekend?"<br /><br />Murph was like, "I guess not. Just be glad you have a crowd. And they're probably gonna pull for you guys. Or kill you. I really don't know. Good luck!"<br /><br />I remember that we didn't win that tournament. We made it to the second day, but that was it. And I remember that I couldn't believe these people were making such a big deal over us being the Tim Richmond team -especially since some of our guys played in blue jeans. All he did was give us cheap red t-shirts and cheap red trucker hats with his name on it. It couldn't have cost him over $200.<br /><br />Some time between that tournament and the next one, Skipper got wind that the Tim Richmond Softball Team wasn't outfitted as well as it could be. So he decided to sponsor us instead. For 1986, we were to become The Beck Imports Team. We were sponsored by a freaking Mercedes Dealership. And we had these bad freaking ass black shirts with individual silver numbering and the dealership name on the back. And we got these nice hats. Real baseball hats. Not those cheap mesh-backed trucker hats that Folgers Boy used to give us. And pants! We all got pants! They were top-notch silver pants. We were the only team with full uniforms And I even got a uniform and I was just the bat boy. Very few teams had a bat boy. And only ours had a uniformed bat boy. Hell, I even had stirrups. We looked so good, that we actually played pretty good.<br /><br />But it wasn't the uniforms that I always wanted to thank Skipper for. It was the car. Every year it was the car. You see, Skipper went on to sponsor us for 3 or 4 years. And every year, he would give my dad a brand new car from Beck Imports to take to the mountains. You'll realize how much this meant to me when I tell you that my mom and dad never once had a nice car. We always had the ugliest car in town. It was perpetually an outdated Malibu Classic. Our cars were never worth more than 100 dollars. We were some of the poorest white people in the snobby town of Davidson. I constantly got ridiculed by all of the snooty Davidson College professor's kids due to the ugliness of my moms cars. I didn't care to impress them. But I also didn't care for being picked on. And our car always got me belittled. But for one weekend a year, I would be in a brand new Mercedes. Just me and my dad. We would get the car on Friday, drive two hours to the mountains. Stay the night in the hotel. Drive to the game and park the car in a prominent place for all to see (Dad felt he should do that for Skipper since he was hooking us up.) Then we'd find any excuse to drive it around after the game. And then back home on Sunday.<br /><br />And while the Mercedes Benzes were nice. One year, Skipper really did us nice. He gave us a cherry red brand new Porsche 944. I have never felt so rich and awesome in my life. I remember my dad, who wasn't that daring, driving the hell out of that thing a couple of times. And I remember it had all these electronic gadgets on it. And radio that didn't have old push buttons - it was something called digital. And I remember lots of hot young women looking at us at stoplights. And my dad would laugh and say, "They ain't looking at us, son. They're looking at this car. Still, it ain't so bad, is it?" No, it wasn't. I always knew Sunday would come and our Porsche would turn back into a pumpkin, but I never thought about that until Sunday.<br /><br />And that's why I always wanted to meet Skipper and say thank you. He was a rich, rich man. He had golf courses, and sports teams, and car dealerships, and even got to be the biggest client busted in a high-profile prostitution scandal this year. He got to hang out with Michael Jordan and he got to golf with Tiger Woods. And I'm sure he got to have just about everything he ever wanted. But the one thing he never got to have was nothing. But because I had nothing, every time he loaned us a car for the weekend, I felt like I had everything.<br /><br />Thanks, S.B.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-87593136909416619102009-09-07T00:12:00.001-07:002009-09-07T00:12:38.863-07:00All Hail King BuzzoI went to see Down the other night and they were as awesome as I figured they would be. That being said, how come nobody ever told me that their opening act, The Melvins, would be one of the most badass things I would ever see on a stage in my entire life?As soon as I saw this chubby middle-aged freakazoid with a grey 'fro, I knew they were going to rule - I just wasn't sure how they would rule. Nobody told me this same bizarre being named King Buzzo would come out in some crazy wizard suit all descended from somewhere in one of the awesomer parts of outer-space and own the place. I've heard of the Melvins, since they've been around for 25 years, but damn! And that song that began with just the two drummers pounding two tiny cymbals for two minutes? And the way King Buzzo would turn around and act like he was fixing his guitar when he was really just letting his drummers have the spotlight? It was awesome. And the way he never spoke to the crowd or evern acknowedged us? It actually worked. That dude was too cool to acknowledge the crowd. And his mirrored guitar made it look like he was playing faster than he was. But my ears did not decieve me, he was actually playing better than he was (which doesn't make sense except when referring to King Buzzo. He is better than ever himself. He's that good.)I always figured because of the wacky hair and timid band name The Melvins would be a bunch of fags. But those dudes were some of the most badass metal I've ever seen. And if you want to argue with me that they aren't really metal, I don't care. You can call them whatever you want, but I know this: whatever the hell they are, The Melvins are from some other place and it's a better place than anywhere I've ever seen. And I hate all of you for not having told me during some time in the last 25 years.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-92214939786352012542009-08-30T03:22:00.000-07:002009-08-30T03:38:57.041-07:00Why did I take advice from an idiot?I accidentally learned a lesson from the last person I ever thought I'd learn a lesson from: my self. I know! It's crazy. Here's how it happened:<br /><br />I was writing for no good reason (two blogs ago) and I wrote about what I had learned from doing stand up comedy four times in my life. But I didn't realize until later, I hadn't really applied what I had claimed I learned. Then, the next day, I got up and stage and I fucking nailed it. Don't get me wrong, I did pretty good the first three times. And my fourth time wasn't a total bomb. But still, I had to take a week off to did my tail out from my legs and regroup.<br /><br />And when I got up two nights ago on that stage, I fucking controlled the universe. I may never do that again, but I might. Either way, who cares. For eight minutes of my life, I ran that show. I could've convinced those 40 people to kill for me. I realized two minutes in, "Holy shit! This is different. This isn't just doing good. This isn't just doing great. This is owning these people! I can't do wrong tonight."<br /><br />And I was right. I went nuts. I had them going nuts. I was making people bust their guts in a way I used to always think was impossible. And it was because every bit of what I wrote was fresh in my head. The voice in my head was saying "See, if you had listened to yourself all along you could'v'e been doing this shit sooner! Dumbass! Oh well, better now than never!"<br /><br />I had those people laughing. I had them in suspense on the next thing I was going to say. I had them wanting nothing more than more me. I had them.<br /><br />Now, don't get me wrong. Don't get confused. I don't need other people's approval. Sure, approval is nice. I'm man enough to admit that. But I enjoy my life just as much when I'm annoying the shit out of everyone. Approval is not what it's about. However, when it comes to doing stand-up, the laughter is the gauge of how good you've done. And after that night, I had a brain-buzz going for 36 hours. So why , you ask? If it wasn't approval, what was it? It's this.<br /><br />I've never been good at shit. I've always been jealous of people who had a tag. You know, a talent tag. "That's Melinda - she's a gymnast." "That's Eddie - he's an auctioneer!" I only ever got, "That's Roth Wriscey - he's, ummm, cool."<br /><br />Then I got decent at writing late in life, at 28, and that was a minor tag. But still, that's been pretty much it. So when I recently found that I can (even if not always) be a hilarious comedian, I'll take it. I love being "That's Roth Wriscey, he's good at being a dumbass on a stage."<br /><br />Even if I just figured out how to clown around like an idiot with a microphone a little later than most. I'm still glad that in this stage in life, I found my way to the stage.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-67275222234347623112009-08-27T16:54:00.000-07:002009-08-27T17:05:25.784-07:00Free HamburgersI wonder if people can hear that I sometimes do the radio news in my bathing suit. My friends can tell when I'm hungover on the air, but no one else does. Most every radio guy I've know has talked a girl into giving him a hummer while he talks on the air and acts normal. It's a right of passage and also a challenge. I've never done it. However, I've never known any girls who tell their boyfriends, "I want you to eat me out while I'm giving the weather report." Girls are so annoyingly respectable sometimes. (Except the ones that give on-air hummers to radio guys.) Don't give hummers to radio guys. They're all poor. They only thing you get from them is that you're hanging out with a guy that everybody knows. Still, that doesn't mean you're hanging out with a guy that everybody likes. Most radio guys overestimate how funny they are. (Except me. I'm hilarious. Yeah, I'm not one of them. Never! Just kidding. I suck like the rest of them.) I have learned a lesson though. I barely socialize with other radio people this time around. My first gig, we all hung out so much that if one of us would've gotten crabs - all of us would have gotten crabs. Screw that. (By the way, I never actually got crabs.) I'm just saying, I love the people I work with now. But I don't want to hang out with them outside of work... because I love them.<br /><br />Radio sales girls are weird. 7 out of 10 of them are in some one-sided relationship with some loser who doesn't make any money if he even has a job. Don't feel sorry for these girls though. They like it this way. Since they control the purse, they control the man. And sales girls love to fuck men that are not the man they are dating. They make his loser ass watch the kids at night so they can "attend a business dinner." Yeah, something's getting eaten but it ain't dinner.<br /><br />The sales people I work with now seem to be an exception. They actually mean it when they say hi to me. They aren't just suddenly remembering my name so I can do something shady on the air to bail them out of an account they neglected. That kind of salesperson has some nerve: "I screwed up. Will you risk your career for no reason but to keep me undeservedly rich? Thanks."<br /><br />I love radio. But sometimes I hate the radio business. These days, I'm with a great crew and making better money, but getting less hours. I'm in it because I love the medium. And also because I love the free hamburgers.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8377453017895100590.post-71984844711672434332009-08-26T18:41:00.000-07:002009-08-26T19:04:31.564-07:00Comedy Club Lessons I've LearnedI interviewed a writer once for a newspaper article, and he told me that he doesn't allow his students to use writer's block as an excuse not to write. He said, "Pounding those keys, is better than not pounding those keys. You better write something anyway. You can't wait on the lightning to strike, because what if it never strikes?"<br /><br />As a result, I will be writing every day for thirty days, no matter what. Today, I will write about what I've gathered from doing stand-up comedy on open mic night four time in the last six weeks at tge Nutt Street Lounge. (That's actually the name of the street. How convenient.)<br /><br />I have learned that if you are gonna get up on that stage, you better damn well WANT to get up on that stage. If you're not sure you belong there, the audience will sense that and ask themselves the same question: "Why the hell is he up there?"<br /><br />If your stuff isn't funny, it's not the audience's fault... even if it is their fault. Who cares if you are so funny they aren't smart enough to get you? (That's what lovers and spouses are for.) It doesn't mean dick if you're too advanced for the crowd. In the end, they are the judge. If they don't like your routine, you better fix it. Or at least don't expect them to like it if you keep doing the same shit that never made them laugh at you the first time. They aren't there to be taught. They are there to laugh... or not. It's really up to you.<br /><br />If you are bombing, acknowlege it. The crowd knows when you're blowing it. You know when you you're blowing it. But most importantly, they know that you know that they know you're blowing it. Go ahead and acknowledge the elephant in the room. Get it out of the way by making it part of the act (or the RE-act in this case) and then get things back on track.<br /><br />Be yourself. Don't try to be what they want. That sounds like it conflicts with something I said earlier, but it really doesn't. What I'm saying is: be yourself, but craft yourself into a package they can laugh at. If you're only trying to be what they want, but not who you really are, they will smell it. People are dumb about a lot of things, but this is not one of them. I learned I do my best even if I'm saying outlandish stuff they don't support, because I at least get a laugh from those who say to themselves, "Wow! I can't believe this crazy fuck believes what he says. And I even more can't believe that he would have the nerve to say it. But he must believe it if he's dumb enough to say it. Who would lie about something so unpopular? I'm intrigued by this dude. He's kind of funny."<br /><br />Always listen to the other comics that go on before you. It is amazing how sometimes a comic you don't know will talk about the same bizarre shit you were planning to joke on when you get up there. You need to listen, so when you get up there you can acknowledge that you're retreading some guy's topic, and then you have to show them why your take is different and why it's still worth hearing.<br /><br />The lights are bright. It makes it hard to see the crowd sometimes. Don't acknowledge this. The crowd doesn't see it and the crowd doesn't care. Just pretend you can see them, and make your hearing more acute so you can work off of the noise.<br /><br />Don't get so hurried that you talk over the laughter you've created. They'll stop laughing when they're ready. But if you talk over it, they will stop laughing to hear your next words and you have ruined the natural flow of the conversation. Yes, it's a conversation. Their part of the dialogue is the laughter. If you talk over it, you are interrupting them and it subconsciously offends them and the laughter will stay smaller. (I need to listen to myself on this point. I'm so bad at this, because I'm nervous that if I stop I will lose them. It's actually the opposite.)<br /><br />It's okay to catch a buzz to calm your nerves. But don't get too drunk. The lights will make you dizzy and you'll be all over the place.<br /><br />Try to look at everyone from time to time. If you pay attention to only one side, you will lose the other. Make individual eye contact with as many people as you can. But only do it at points in your act where you are so comfortable you won't lose your place.<br /><br />It is okay to laugh at yourself. In fact, the number one thing I have found wins the crowd over is when you truly, truly believe that what you're telling them is funny, too. Not in a "Hey, I'm so damn funny way," but more in a genuine, "I know! I can't believe this shit is true, either!"<br /><br />There are my tips from the amateur comic that is me. Maybe I should listen to myself. Then again, I've met me. Maybe I should ignore everything I just said. And maybe you should, too. I'm a dumbass.Roth Wrisceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07085699995441107646noreply@blogger.com1