This story happened at one of my favorite comedy clubs in Dallas, The Backdoor Comedy Club. To make this story all the more interesting, myself, Mark Agee, and Aaron Aryanpur, all of us comedians, wrote about this disastrous, incredibly hilarious event from our unique perspectives of the night. We were all there. We all saw it from totally different perspectives. Enjoy.
-- MY PERSPECTIVE (www.myspace.com/paul_and_oates)
[DISCLAIMER: This story occurred on Saturday, June 23rd, 2007. While many people viewed what went on that night, three of us decided to blog our memories of the night, from our own perspectives. Consider it our tribute to Tarantino. Jackie Brown meets any episode of Cops. The links to their views on the night will be listed below. Enjoy]
Anytime I go to any open mike or comedy club, I always check out the audience to see what I can expect.
Gray hair and oxygen tanks = Raucous and rowdy (fans of a good dick joke)
All Indian crowd = Love any jokes related to gravy and/or NASCAR
Three people in the crowd = Prop comedy and sing-alongs
So when I stumbled into the Backdoor Comedy Club on Saturday, June 23rd, I noticed an (the next nine words are an understatement) incredibly intoxicated, trashed, smashed, and smoking hash bachelorette party. I could go on about the age range of their group but it's best summed up if we compare them to cereals.
They went from Fruity Pebbles all the way to Cream of Wheat.
One had no teeth. One admitted to being an ex-stripper who worked in drug rehab. All were so drunk that I'm sure their collective blood alcohol levels beat my SAT score.
The bachelorette was toting around a nicely sized pink inflatable penis.
(No, I'm not going there .. yet)
She was so happy to be sporting that thing. I think it would've been much funnier to fill it with helium just so she'd have to tie it to her wrist. If drunk was New York, this lucky lady was orbiting Jupiter. She stumbled while sitting. That's shit-faced.
It was like a white trash Joy Luck Club, where instead of meeting to play MahJong, they met to smoke meth and make Toby Keith puff paint t-shirts.
That's when the comedy gods looked down upon the scene at the Backdoor Comedy Club and saw that it was not good.
With the swiftness of a Zeus lightning bolt, the bachelorette retreated to the bathroom where she remained until her friends came to rescue her. The bachelorette, a hefty girl ..
* Nothing wrong with that at all, it's just that I'm a lightweight and this would come back to haunt me later on in the night *
..anyways, this hefty girl gets dragged into the lobby of the Backdoor Comedy Club (214-328-4444; Shows on Fri-Sat; Doors open at 8; Show's at 9. www.backdoorcomedy.com) where she sits on a couch then proceeds to slump over face down onto the floor, where she begins to spit up over and over and .. that's right ..over again. It wasn't more like she was spitting up, more so than her head was hovering above the floor, and her mouth was open and dripping like a leaky faucet, except the water coming out of that tap was filled with tequila, Xanex, and countless community college classes.
Now the rest of her group is panicking. Why you ask?
Well the guest of honor is damn near passed out and whimpering in between gurgles. So now the task falls upon some some nice people (One person alone wouldn't be able to complete the impending task) to carry her and her booze-filled burden to the bachelorette party's truck.
Wait a minute .. they have a truck?
You don't say.
Keep in mind, I am not the biggest person in the world. In fact the only way for me to ever be the biggest person in any room is if that room's filled with AIDS patients and crack babies. Even then it's kinda shaky.
But the task falls upon me and Mark Agee (He's in my top friends list) to tote this poor girl (who will now be known as BBB: Big Bitch Belgrande) .. because alas, "Her Chariot Awaits!"
We each grab one hemisphere and pick her up.
Have you ever been swallowed by an armpit?
Which is when Captain Crack Whore tells us, "If you touch sumthin', don't wurr 'bout it."
Yes, she said "wurr" not "worry"
So as we're re-enacting this trailer trash version of Weekend at Bernie's, I try to break the awkwardness of the moment (since this bitch already broke my will to live, my desire to ever drink again, my attractions towards women, and my clavicle) by asking her "So do you want to be my friend on MySpace?"
I thought it was funny.
Nobody else laughed.
Of course they probably all still use phones that rest on the top of telephone poles.
Green Acres IS the place to be.
They open the doors of the truck and she sees the car seat and falls headfirst onto it, then cries. I mean sobbing. I mean like a Baptist youth group after watching Passion of the Christ. But her southern hemisphere is not in the car. It's the ugliest 90 degree angle you've ever seen. Mark gets in through the other door and tries dragging her by the arms to pull her completely in the truck. I lift a leg. I try to lift the other one then remember that "That's right. I enjoy having full use of my hips." She quits crying for a second to crawl the rest of her half into the backseat and we slam the door as if we just successfully crammed 10 extra pairs of pants into a suitcase.
Mission accomplished. Bones broken. Horrific visuals burned into memory
Sadly, the ding-a-ling balloon got left behind, thus signifying the importance of a penis to marriage. I was tempted to chase after their truck, inflatable instrument in hand, but cooler heads, and the visual of a skinny Indian kid running down Ross Avenue with a 2 foot pink penis balloon, prevailed.
After a few hours of the comics passing around the balloon to insert their own hacky dick jokes to one another, the balloon was quickly deflated by a woman who had watched the show and was now leaving and, to be honest, was not incredibly scrumptious to the eyes. (Let's just say that every date she goes on is a "blind" date because whenever anyone dates her they immediately poke their eyes out) .. Well she begins deflating the penis balloon. She joked with all the comics, "I'm taking it home!"
Which is when a comedian whispers into my ear, "That's not the only erection she's ever deflated."
ROLL CREDITS...
-- MARK AGEE'S PERSPECTIVE (www.myspace.com/markagee) --
There's a phenomena I've never grasped that involves bachelorette parties being drawn to comedy clubs. I've never understood it. They use one of the most memorable nights of their lives with their friends to come to a comedy club, where they are supposed to remain quiet and attentive. Then they come in shitfaced, talk through the show and yell nonsensical things at the comics. I think it would be less disruptive to drape the audience in balogny and release a live tiger.
Bachelor parties are almost never in comedy clubs. They go to titty bars. But bachelorette parties always show up. That right there is the difference between the sexes: Men like titties; women like ruining things for men.
Last Saturday night, we had what would have been the bachelorette party from hell if they would have survived past 9:15. They were the trashiest of white trash. I mean Marlboro Red smoking, leathery drunk bitches from like 3 generations in the same trailer park. They spent the little time they were there outside smoking. The most social one told us that she used to be a stripper and then was a drug counselor, until the stories made her sad. Now she does urinalysis.
Anyway, by 9:15 the bachelorette is passed out. I mean dead. Her ass was on one of the seats in the lobby, but her face was on the floor. Ex-stripper: "She's fiiiine. Don't worry 'bout it." What do you mean 'don't worry about it?' The bitch was upside down and her ass was wet. I still don't know if she sat in something or pissed herself. My money is on both.
Eventually, they decide to try and get the 220 lb. bachelorette into the 4-door pick-up the 6 of them were riding in. But her legs aren't functioning. Several douchebags volunteer to to help, but then wander off. That leaves me and Paul, who is the size of one of the betrothed's thighs. (BTW: When the two of us are the "nice ones" in a group, it's time for a good plague to thin the population and put things in perspective.) Aaron was laughing too hard to help, and anyway doesn't touch women unless they are covered in glitter and dollar bills. Paul maneuvered around to the ficus tree in the corner so he can get under her starboard flab and then we squat-thrusted the bitch until she got her legs under her. She wasn't much help, but just resting her cankles on the ground saved me a hernia. My favorite part was the Ex-stripper telling us: "Don't worry 'bout it if you touch sumthin'." Great. My first date-rape coupon. How many Chuck E. Cheese tickets for a titty? I'd rather have the cap-eraser.
Acting out our own little version of "Weekend at Bernice's," we get her to the backseat of the truck and shove her in face-first. I go around the other side and pull her in by her arm-jiggles while Paul tries to hip-check her ass up into the truck. From the back, it must have looked like he was doggy-styling a road-kill hippo. We were stuck for several minutes trying to figure out how to get this line-backer bitch into the seat when Anthony Perez seriously suggested tossing her in the bed of the truck like a sack of potatoes. (I think he had done this before.) Meanwhile, the rest of the gaggle of truckstop-waitress lookalikes were arguing over whether she was "too drunk" or "just fiiiine." According to one, "She couldn't be that drunk. She ain't dranken that much." I think maybe she might have had a pill or three, as the ex-drug counselor had raved about the awesomeness of Vicadin.
We finally scrunch her up like a Popple, so two other fat bitches could fit on either side of her. The last thing Paul says to the dead girl: "Are you on MySpace?" As they drove away with the pregnant one at the wheel -- being pregnant, she had only had a couple of drinks -- Aaron shouted: "He's a lucky man."
A lucky man, indeed.
-- AARON ARYANPUR'S PERSPECTIVE (www.aaronaryanpur.com or www.myspace.com/aaroncomedian) --
Saturday night was packed at the Backdoor Comedy Club, and packed with the right people...it was one of those nights where no one comic could suck. This can be a blessing as well as a curse, as it encourages some that it probably shouldn't.
In attendance were a few bachelorette parties (no strangers to the comedy show), one of which will be the focus of this post. This was the sloppiest, drunkest, white-trashiest bachelorette party in the history of drunk bitches trying to ruin a comedy show (this is based solely on their actions, however, because they seemed nice enough when talking with them)...fortunately for all comics, the party excused themselves twenty minutes into the show.
Five minutes into the show, a few of us comics are standing outside, and one of the party-goers joins us to talk while she smokes. Depending on the angle, lighting, and alcholic intake she could have been attractive at some point in her life or she could have been the Crypt Keeper. Perception's weird that way. She's wearing a medical boot, she's slurring and incoherent...she's just Dustin Ybarra's type.
She tells us that they've been drinking since one o'clock that afternoon. While we're joking with/at her, she mentions her checkered past and brings up her time as a drug/alcohol counselor. She told us how depressing it was and Waylon says, "Yeah, it could drive you to drink." She earnestly agrees.
She says she's been sober, but everything else about her is calling her a liar. She loves to laugh and her mother (a more skinny, more severe, a more 'crypt-keeper-y' version of her daughter) is at the show. They're staying at the Hyatt. Big weekend.
Comics are taking turns coming and going so that they don't have to be around her long. It's an artform, really, being able to excuse oneself and leave the other guys to suffer the drunk girl, homeless loon, or shitty comic on their own. I have yet to master it.
She returns to the show. Life goes on.
...Until fifteen minutes later when there are a bevy of chunky broads making some noise around the "ladies'" room. Next thing we know, the bachelorette is escorted to the foyer by her friend, and she collapses on two of the ottomans. She's built like a wounded T-Rex, bottom heavy and wobbly. She is out, then she's up, she sobs and then goes silent again. Her friends swear she hasn't had that much to drink. Her friend with the history of drinking and pills is
mysteriously quiet.
The plan is to carry her out to the car...meanwhile, all of the sensitive, compassionate comics are giggling and/or taking pictures with their phones. I don't participate, mostly because I have a crappy phone.
They ask if any of the comics can help walk her out...I stay outside because I refuse to get roped into this crap. I abhor that kind of reckless behavior and there's no way I'm lifting a drunk, sloppy T-Rex. I have a joke about getting suckered into lifting heavy things because of my size and apparent strength, and this resentment also keeps me away from such tasks.
Young, chubby Dustin steps forward and one of the girls says, "Not you." Funniest shit ever.
So while one of them heads out to get the Dodge Ram 1500, the two comics they get are Mark (which is understandable as he's been training for months for just such a feat) and Paul (?). The sight of stickly Paul under the limp arm of this beast was the next funniest thing ever.
They maneuver her out to the four-door truck. Paul is pushing her in one door while Agee is pulling her in through the other. And she's totally passed out, not helping for anything. From my angle, I see the door and two pairs of feet: her big ass flip-flops planted firmly into the asphalt, and Paul's struggling Sketchers inbetween.
One of the girls says, "Don't worry if you touch nothin'." Paul is pushing so hard and she won't lift for shit...Paul thrusting from behind a passed out beauty is exactly how I pictured his prom, and that image was the funniest shit ever.
-- The End --
