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TheyCallMeCunt (Click here for Part Deux!)
There are many ways for a guy to bring
a woman down a peg or two. They can be
condescending, tell her she's fat, fuck her
up the ass. Oh yeah, there's also calling her
a cunt. But for that to happen, sheíd have to
make the guy really, really mad. Due to my
great abilities to ire, I have been called
a cunt on more than several occasions
and I can tell you from these experiences,
it's not as fun as being fucked up the ass.
I can't possibly list all the times
behind my back or bedroom doors that I've
been referred to as that wondrous female
body part, so I've sufficiently narrowed
the list to the times I've been called a cunt...
in public... in a comedy club. The top five times
I've been called a cunt in public in a comedy club.
#5: "You will never play
either of my clubs-- ever!--
It was the infamous Toronto comedy festival.
Jim Carey was... supposed to be there. He was
on all the posters and everything. Whatever.
I was a new comic, eager to have the opportunity
to hang out with industry big wigs like
Howard Lapides and Mark Breslin.
It was after a show, we were all drinking.
Me: Kokanee beer. Them: black Russians.
I was gettin' my schmooze on. It was very late.
Harland Williams and Jeremy Hotz had long hit
the hay when one of the guys (his claim to fame
was owning the most comedy clubs in the Canada
with the exception of Mark Breslin) said,
"Sweetheart, all you have to do to get on
at one of my clubs is suck this"
and he pulled out a wad of shriveled pink something.
Well, the other guys went crazy, hollering
and whooping it up about that, but what they didn't
know was that I still had a bullet left
in the ol' pistol. I smiled smugly
and I said...
Let me just stop the story right here
for one second and say that at this point
I was young, I didn't know I was a natural cunt.
I didn't know that I didn't need to work it to
get a rise out of a fat old man. Okay, lets resume.
He said, "suck this" and I shot back:
"I'd rather lick Lillian." Now, fatty
club owner woulda won the ugly contest if it hadnít
been for his wife Lillian. Apparently she never
showered or at least thatís what a dozen
black russians will make your husband whine
about in public. Little did I know that they were
in the middle of a bitter divorce and rumors were
circulating that she was having an affair
with a woman. I knew something was wrong pretty much
immediately because there was no whooping
and hollering for my retort. Just all those
horrified looks. The club owner pointed
his finger in my face and roared,
"You will never play either of my clubs--
ever!-- you cunt."
#4: "I wrote your whole act,
Toronto again. Same year. I was renting a room
in the back room of this comicís apartment. Now,
I should point out that I wasn't the first
out of town comic to do that and I wasn't the last.
But I was the only chick and from the get go
this guy acted like I was his mail order bride
and he was my supreme comedy mentor constantly
offering up gems like, "Ironic observations
never get a laugh."
It was a nightmare.
Why didn't I move out earlier? I'll tell you why.
On principal. Yeah. I thought I had a right to
be there without fucking him because I was
paying rent. See how cunty my thinking was,
even back then?
But it gets even more complicated. I wouldíve
just stayed in my room the entire time but all
I had in there was a futon on the floor
and there was a crack under the door like this big
where mice had in/out privileges. Yes, mice.
If I didnít hear them rustling around at
the foot of my mattress, I heard them getting
snapped in the trap in the kitchen. It was
a crazy time. No matter how many we killed
there were always more mice. I never got
a good nights sleep. Never. Instead, I'd lay there
fantasying about my future when I'd have a bed
with legs and a bedroom door that went all
the way to the floor.
Turns out it takes about three months
to get sleep deprived enough to tuck down
with a roommate who repulses you just because
he does have a bed with legs and a door
that goes all the way to the floor. My gratitude
went well beyond the requisite blow job
but for a few hours in the early morning, I slept.
Well, you can see how thatíll cause problems
the next day when youíre trying to get it back
to the way it was.
I moved out while he was MC-ing an open mic night.
Not too many nights later, I had just finished
my show at Yuk Yuks and was self- medicating
with beer and tequila when he lumbered in,
waving my head shot over his head yelling,
"Sheís a lesbian!" He lit the picture
on fire and ran around the club with it chanting,
"She's a lesbian! Sheís a lesbian!"
And, at that time, back in Canada, being called
a lesbian didn't have the cache it does here and now.
Plus I kind of took pride in my blow jobs.
I was mad. I threw my drink at him.
Later I said it was to put out the fire
but it wasn't. Cunty? I think so.
Then I yelled "fuck you" and he yelled.
"I wrote your whole act, you cunt!"
Here are the top three times Iíve been called
a cunt in a comedy club. Of course, there have been
other times Iíve been called a cunt in a comedy club.
In fact, just a mere three days ago, another
individual joined the illustrious group of cunt
callers in a comedy club. This time, a female
who was to go onstage later that night. Her exact
words: "Youíre a cunt but youíre funny."
Why she said this to me is still a mystery, however,
watching her set I can only assume she wanted to be,
at the very least, a cunt.
#3. "You are all style, no substance, you
New York. Two years later. I was in
the comic strip. Iíd just bombed. (You'll notice
that's also sort of a running theme.) I was drinking
my second free domestic. One before to sooth the nerves,
one after to sooth the ego.
As I sipped it, I watched fellow comic Mark Maron
holding court with a couple of young wannabes.
He was talking about how hard it was in his day.
When he was doorman at nightclub in San Fransisco
in the eighties and you could do coke off a chick's ass
right there at the coat check.
Big Dog Dianne -- a club kid comic who sported a dog
collar for every performance -- came in. She looked
at them and looked at me and I said, "War stories."
Like that. "War Stories." I didn't even think
I said it loud enough for Maron to hear me, but he
did and he got pissed. That's the thing about Marc,
he doesn't let anyone walk all over him. He ran insults
up one side of me and down the other but all I can remember
is that he dramatically tossed his scarf over his shoulder
and belted out, "You are all style, no substance,
#2: "You cunt! You cunt! You cunt!"
Los Angeles. Mike Renolds. Infamous for
the Bike Rentals bit and using coupons at the
ALL NUDE ALL THE TIME. I lent Mike Renolds money.
I know. You don't lend Mike Renolds money.
You give Mike Renolds money.
Anyway, one night Iím at the Improv showing off
for my William Morris Agents who are checkin' in
with me all the way from New York City. Mike Renolds
approached and nearly knocked me on my ass with his
whiskey and valium breath and, without any provocation
from me, disclosed that he did not have the money
he owed me.
Aware of my super human powers to make men yell
cunt at me, I just nodded politely and went
back to my NY guests, not wanting to start anything.
Mike Renolds took seven dollars out of his pocket
and threw it to the floor. I bent, picked it up,
put it in my pocket and turned back to my agents
like nothing happened.
Then I just tried to ignore the fact
that in front of William Morris Agents, Mike Renolds
was repeatedly yelling, "You cunt!"
#1. "You just want to fuck me to get a job,
And my #1 time I've been called a cunt in public
in a comedy club: Los Angeles. My agents are now
Paradigm -- thank you, Mike Reynolds -- but I donít
invite them down to the World Famous Improv. Ever. No.
I am now fully aware that at any given time, someone
could yell 'you cunt' in my direction, most likely
at me. Even with this knowledge however, it is always
a shocking occurrence. Even when all the elements
are there staring me in the face, I find I am still
surprised when it happens.
This particular night, the elements were Ron Zimmerman,
five of his best friends, and a shitload of alcohol.
They were at the Improv to celebrate the birthday of one
of Ron's friends who at the end of this story gets hit
accidentally in the face by a comic who is defending
my honor. He means to hit Ron but the birthday boy
drunkenly steps into the fist of the boy martyr
and mayhem ensues. Eventually the cops get involved.
But at that point, believe you, me -- I am long gone.
Let me catch you up. Zimmermanís friends were
all sitting at Budís table which either means they are
very important or Bud doesnít have any say at who sits
at his table any more.
I sent up a round of tequila shots thanks to my favorite
waiter who rustled me up a deal where I didnít have to pay
a cent and I could still look like a big shot and maybe
even get some of the fellas to come into the showroom
and catch my act.
It didn't really work out as well as I had planned.
Bill Maher thought the shots were a little radical.
"We're old men," he whined. "We don't
do shots." And not one of them came in to catch
my show, which was actually good because, yes,
that's right, I bombed.
After, Ron sidled up to me at the bar and we started
talking about his job on the shitty sitcom he was
working on and I asked him a zillion questions about it,
none that he seemed to take offense at until I queried,
"How many women writers are there?" At that point,
he freaked out and told me in no uncertain terms that he
could not get me a job there. I was baffled. "Iím not
asking you to," I said. He didnít believe that for
a second. I defended myself the best way I knew how,
by saying, "I donít even have a spec!" -- which
I do now if anybody wants to read it. But the more I
defended myself, the more belligerent he got. And finally
he yelled, "You just want to fuck me to get a job,
Maybe Iím a cunt.
What have I learned from all this? Well, my mother
would say, "If it keeps happening to you,
maybe itís you."
Maybe Iím a cunt.
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