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Which of the following statements is not true:
A. I refuse to eat with a big spoon or a small fork.
B. I won't let anyone touch my bellybutton.
C. I love comedy condos.
Obviously, the correct answer is C. But if you answered
A or B, I thank you for your unwillingness to accept my
confounding yet endearing quirks. Although, I would suggest that you take
your sarcasm detector into the shop for some much needed repair.
I hate comedy condos. I hate them almost as much as I hate
somebody touching my bellybutton, but not nearly as much as I hate eating
with a big spoon or a small fork. I first stayed at a comedy condo back
in 1985 when I was only 20 years old. When I arrived, the headliner (who
nameless only because I can't remember his name) was sitting on the couch
shirtless, rolling a joint. I immediately sat in an adjacent chair and
told him about my boyfriend. Even if I hadn't had a boyfriend at the time,
I would have told him about my "boyfriend" anyway. He was,
after all, sitting on the couch, shirtless, rolling a joint.
(Note to my dad: I did not smoke pot with the nameless
headliner. I did, however, take off my shirt.)
If I ever discover which comedy club owner first came up with the
concept of the comedy condo, I'll erect a statue of him in the town square
so all the comics in Comedyville will have a place to whiz. To be fair, I
can understand-- in theory-- why an owner would want to rent a three-bedroom
apartment to house the acts rather than put all three comics in their own
sparkly-clean hotel rooms. Economically, it makes good sense. But, let's
be reasonable. Take a shabbily built apartment building in a questionable
part of town, fill it with Salvation Army furniture and Bud Light Girl
posters, then allow 156 different standup comics per year to live
in it for six nights in a row and you have a recipe for... well, for... a
It is possible to survive for a week in a comedy condo
if you ignore the
hairs, if you ignore the stains and if you count the lack of lightbulbs
as a blessing. If
you convince yourself that what you can't see won't kill you, then you stand
a chance. But, any standup comic who has ever had the pleasure of staying
at a comedy condo understands that there are three very important kitchen
rules that must-- and I mean must-- be followed:
1.Never eat food that has been left behind by the previous week's
comedians. There is a good chance that one of the comics stuck his
penis in the food before he left.
2.Never eat food that has been bought by the current week's MC.
There is a good chance that he stuck his penis in the food while the
middle and the headliner were in the living room watching Late
3.Never put spinach down the garbage disposal. (Ok, so that
became my rule after I put uncooked spinach down a comedy condo garbage
disposal and it sprayed my face like Popeye's water pick. My theory is that
the garbage disposal had been broken prior to my arrival by an act who,
after being rebuffed by a waitress, put his penis down the disposal and
begged the other two comics to "Turn it on, Dude! Turn it
(After reading rule number three, I can safely assume that most
male comics had the same reaction: ":Why were you eating
And you wonder why female comics hate staying at comedy
Some people live to eat, others eat to live. Standup comics
eat so they won't get loopy and say something offensive to the 84-year-old
in the front row. To a performer, food is a necessary evil, yet trying to
figure out when and what to eat on the road is one of the most frustrating
and stressful aspects of our profession. For this reason alone, it is my
humble opinion that club owners should make it standard practice to let the
comics eat at the club for free. A comic with low blood sugar and
a shot of Jack Daniel's is a very dangerous comic indeed.
Most club owners believe that providing comics access to a
the solution to the problem, but figuring out how to cook in a
comedy condo kitchen would make Julia Child want to stick her
penis down the garbage disposal. (She does have a penis, doesn't she?) Some
veteran road comics cleverly solve this dilemma by stocking up on
family-size packages of On-Cor salisbury steak dinners and not
inviting Al and his clan over on Tuesday at 6:45. These are the comics that
the rest of us wind up doing benefit shows for in order to help pay for
their medical expenses.
Cooking in a comedy condo is difficult because there are few
implements or spices to help with the process. If you don't like
your options are very limited. It may take a tender man to make a tender
chicken, but it takes a clever comic to make a meal in a condo that won't
eventually lead to a tragic and premature death. But, yes, it can
be done. So, with that in mind, SHECKYmagazine.com has created the first
ever Comedy Condo Cooking Challenge.
(Attention Comedy Central: This sort of one-joke idea is right
programming alley. Hire an edgy, Gen-Xer as host-- think Kitchen
Confidential guy but without all that icky gray hair-- and we could run
this into the ground for four or five seasons.)
The rules for the Comedy Condo Cooking Challenge are simple:
what you've got and make what you can. The winner of this year's event
receives an overnight stay at a luxurious comedy condo. Second and third
place winners must share a bathroom.
There are only three hours until showtime. You haven't eaten since
Thursday. The owner refused to give you an advance, so you only have $6.75
in your pocket.
Available Cooking Implements
1 dented metal saucepan
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