Inside Darby’s Head: End of November Edition

I don’t even know what to right write now.  Oh fuck I did it again.  Damn you, dyslexia!!

What’s on my mind right now?  STAND-UP COMEDY.

Although I am sitting down right now.  So “stand-up” isn’t exactly in my immediate capabilities.  But still.  Comedy.  And more specifically, my comedy set from last night:

COULD USE IMPROVEMENT.

That’s all I’ll say, but I know that my jokes need structure.  I can’t just pick 5 topics and go up there and freestyle the whole thing.  I need to be savy, and swift through my set ups, and deliver the jokes like artillery, like wah-POW POW!!

[steps away from desk]

[returns 15 minutes later]

Goddamn I am blazed as bejesus.  That’s one of my favorite ways to say:

High on PCP.

Wait a minute what is PCP exactly?  It was always like the perpetrator’s drug of choice in 90’s cop movies.  Like, “he came running right at me, high as a fucking kite!  It took 47 bullets to put him down, Johnson!”

Anyways.

I hope you weren’t here expecting any type of enlightenment.  This is just myself ranting out loud.  Well, out on paper.  That is to say, digital paper.  That is to say, digital killed the radio star.  As in that song.

Don’t tell me that’s not what the song’s called either, I heard like 4 1/2 times.  The 1/2 was when I was banging your mom and your dad walked in halfway through the song and I went diving through the bedroom window, which I would soon find out was located on the third floor.  I fractured both of my wrists in the accident but my erect penis prevented the rest of my torso from colliding with the ground.  That’s how hard it was.

That was all because of your mom.

And if you don’t like “your mom” jokes, get a fucking funny-bone, you stiff sack of faggot cake.

And if you think the word “faggot” should be banned from usage in modern day vernacular, I say, “Nay!”  And also: “What are you, a tranny??

And if you think the word “tranny” should be exempt from saying, ever, than let me ask you a question: are you sick of this joke already???

I need to find a way to tap into my writer voice on stage.  That’s what’s going to make me leap boundaries ahead in the comedy world.  I get my chance at testing myself tomorrow night at the Fanatic Salon open mic near my house.  Do I need to change my jokes?

No, my jokes are solid.  I have 5 topics:

1. Babies.  Fuck em.  You should be able to cover their little stupid mouths up when they are crying.
2. Nothing fun about “fun-sized” girls.
3. We should build an underground city for homeless people.
4. Sometimes I wanna be an asshole to myself, and that’s usually when I eat at Denny’s late night.
5. How technology will change the future of sex.

Now that I’m looking at that list, I don’t have jokes for all of those topics.  Which means I should probably cut one out, add another one.  The one I think I’ll add is about how I speak Spanish with a gay accent because I learned Spanish from a closet homosexual doing youtube videos named “Senor Jordan”.  That’s just objectively funny, and once I do my flaming gay Spanish speaker guy they’ll be under my whole motherfucking command.

Perhaps.

I could be delusional.

This might not be a typewriter I am typing on right now.  But I’m most sure it is a typewriter.  It says “highly explosive” on the front.  That must be the name of a typewriter company in the 20’s.  It does sound like a “roaring 20’s” kinda thing.  I’m just not sure why it makes a ticking noise each passing second.  Like a clock.  A ticking clock, counting down towards something…

[Massive explosion]

[Darby dies]

[Computer is inherited by his daughter]

Hello.  My father is dead.  I am sad.  Not because he is dead—I never met him, my mom told me it was for the better—but because he only left me this stupid shitty fucking computer in his will!  What a terrible father, right?  He banged my mom in a hostel in Peru called “Kokopelli” and then disappeared the following week.  What a piece of garbage he was.  Rest in Hell, absent father.

At least black dad’s are there until they hear their lady got pregnant, before they go off disappearing.

…

And we’ll end it with that!  A joke about how black fathers are never there for their kids.  Which is clearly false because Martin Luther King was there for his kids.

(The first three)

For the fourth kid and onward, MLK took a oath to stop raising “some many o’ deez greasy little thangs” and stopped paying child support to all of those kids baby mama’s.  That’s right—all 38 of his baby mama’s stopped getting paid at once.

In fact, that was who shot MLK.  It wasn’t Lee Harvey Oswald.  It was one of the baby mama’s.  She took that halt to her child support hard.  She couldn’t get her hair done no mo’, so she acted a foo’ and shot that boy up.

…

Okay, now we’ll REALLY end it there.  A revisionist-history joke featuring all of the black stereotypes.

Take it easy.  Black people have a terrific sense of humor.  Because they are the funniest race, by far.  We’re not even going to go into the style, dance moves, and well endowed sex organs.   See that?  Positive racism.  Get some of that in your life.  And if you don’t have a black friend that let’s you say “nigga” around him, then you are missing out.

…And speaking of out, I’M OUT BITCH-IZZZZZZZ.