Killing me softly with jazz hands…
essays, blogs and other crap I thought was funny.
By Becky Pedigo
Copyright © 2012 Becky Pedigo
All Rights Reserved
This book is dedicated to everyone that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting on my journey thus far… the good, the bad and the ugly.
Especially the latter two, they’re way more fun to write about.
Contents
Mind Your Business Old Woman
And…Sleep
Such A Handsome Woman
If I Should Die Before I Wake
She’s So Crazy
How Dare You
I Knew I Shoulda Made a Right Turn…
Like the Corners of My Mind
No, I Love You More
Killing Me Softly with Jazz Hands
A Rose By Any Other Name
Mac & Cheesy
Trigger Happy
The Honeycomb Hide Out
I Hate Kittens
O-Mar-Goodness
Say It Ain’t So
Who Pushed Me?
Pick A Team
The British Zombies Are Coming! The British Zombies Are Coming!
Hello, Delicious
Share The Wealth
Minty- Fresh Ass Breath
Please Pass The Porn
Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me
Dude Punch
Bountiful
Uh-Oh
Salami On Rye
When the Bullet Hits the Bone
Sour Grapes
Shhhh…
Stupid Girls
Say Goodnight, Gracie
Dr. Almost Feel Good
She Ain’t Heavy. She’s My Brother
It Would Be So Great If You’d
Stop Talking Now
What Are You Looking At?
Long Live the Queen
The Cat’s In The Cradle
Oh, There You Are
Well, Thank You Very Much
Oh - I See
Too Bad. So Sad.
That Being Said…
Prologue
From the time I was old enough to sneak into bars, all I’ve ever wanted to do was be a stand-up comic.
My life changed during the summer of my 19th year on this planet when the comedy boom of the 1980’s hit and Jolly’s Comedy Club opened in my hometown of Amarillo, Texas.
That’s right, the Amarillo.
The one from ‘Route 66’ and ‘Amarillo By Morning.’ It’s actually mentioned in a lot of country songs because it just sounds like the name of a town that you’d hear in a country song.
A dusty, little cow town on the plains of Texas. I-40 runs right through the middle of it, leading anywhere but there…which is exactly where I wanted to be.
I hated small town life. Dreaded the thought of getting stuck there, marrying a feedlot cowboy and then dying. And not necessarily in that order. I just wanted out.
The first time I stepped foot on stage during that open mic night, (Tuesday. June 22nd, 1987, 8:15 pm central time) I knew I’d be okay. It didn’t matter that I didn’t get any laughs. I was saved. No cowboy husband. No job managing the Exxon gas station and convenience store for me. Onward and upward.
I waited about two months before telling my ridiculously overprotective, single mother and older brother that I wanted to drop out of school and go on the road telling jokes. They took it surprisingly well. Probably because I prefaced it by saying “I have something to tell you. I’m a lesbian.”
After a really long and incredibly awkward pause when I thought they both might burst into tears, I followed with “I’m kidding, I’ve been doing stand up comedy.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” was their heartfelt response.
That was when my brother revealed he’d been worried that I might not be straight because my roommate and best friend was a hefty girl who played catcher on my church softball team.
If he’d ever paid attention to the way I played right field, his worries would have been laid to rest much earlier in the season.
As it turns out my friend wasn’t gay either. She was just chubby.
By the way, my family doesn’t think that there’s anything wrong with being homosexual. It’s fine just as long as it’s not one of us, for cryin’ out loud.
I religiously continued to do open mics and not get laughs for another year or so. Then I decided it was time to hit the road. I quit my high-powered waitress job at The Red Lobster even though I’d just gotten my year pin with the diamond chip in it. I knew it was time to move on.
Now when I say I didn’t get any laughs when I first started doing stand-up, I’m not being self-deprecating or modest. I actually mean that I didn’t get any laughs. And the audience members were people I knew. Some of them I’d grown up with, gone to school with and worked with. Yet they just sat and stared at me.
Thanks, everybody.
It’s not easy growing up in a town where nobody roots for you to succeed or “escape.” It hurt my feelings at the time, but after all of these years I’ve finally figured it out. It wasn’t that they didn’t want me to try to better myself because they didn’t like me. No, that wasn’t it at all.
They didn’t want me to do well because it meant that they too would have to try. And who wants to do that? I don’t blame them. Trying is hard. Don’t let anyone kid you. It’s nothing like not trying.
Oh trying, why so hard?
And so began the journey… July 3, 1988, I quit my day job and hit the road in my 1974 Canary Yellow Ford Pinto.
I was 22 years old, had zero money in my pocket and even less of a clue about how the world worked. I know what you’re thinking: awesome game plan.
I feel like I was raised twice in my life.
First, in a small town by a nice family who didn’t drink or smoke and a Grandfather who was a Methodist preacher.
Then raised again in green rooms, showrooms and comedy condos across the country by comics who drank, swore, did drugs and fornicated with waitresses in the room next to mine. I have to tell you, it’s made for an interestingly boring life.
These stories are about a life lived on the road, written by a comic just killing time, in lieu of killing herself.
Mind Your Business Old Woman
If asked to describe my intellect, I’d have to say that it lies somewhere between a rocket scientist and George from “Of Mice and Men.”
Believe me, nobody is putting me in charge of sending a cosmonaut to Mercury. But on the flip side, I do know to stop hugging the baby before he turns cornflower blue.
I don’t pretend to understand E=mc2, nor can I fathom how people with no job seem to always have beer and cigarette money, and also a dog.
But I know what I know.
For example: I know I need to pay my bills on time and, more importantly, I think I know what’s funny. Usually it’s not funny to everybody, but I do know what’s hilarious to people of a like, fucked up mind.
It is for these folks that I write my silly stories and jokes.
They don’t judge. They just laugh, because they get it. They understand that I wouldn’t really hug a baby to death… even if I wanted to.
And…Sleep
I just spent the weekend in Palm Springs telling jokes and fighting bikers. Where should I begin?
First, let me say if you ever need a beautiful gay man or a very tan senior citizen, Palm Springs is the place. If there’s a more abundant supply elsewhere, then I’ve not found it.
My goal for the week was to record every show and then make a CD for both people who have asked if I have a CD that they can buy.
It’s so cute when I set a goal because “This time I’m really going to do it!”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t my crowd. It seemed as if they were waiting for me to get off stage so the MC could bring up Red Buttons.
And so I ended every show by saying, “Enjoy your headliner.”
Even though I was the headliner.
My favorite thing about the road is napping. Oh dear, do I love to nap. It’s the highlight of my day. I plan it during my other highlight, my morning coffee.
The hotel they put us up in wasn’t the greatest, to say the least, but sometimes that can make napping even better. Because when you’re asleep, you don’t have to look at stuff and wonder where things went wrong.
So Saturday afternoon I was getting ready for my beloved nap.
Here’s how it works…
Air-conditioning set to 32 degrees below zero.
Phone turned off.
Blackout curtains drawn so the room is pitch black, except for that one comforting stream of light coming through the bullet hole in the curtains.
And…sleep.
Then I usually wake up a few hours later, have more coffee and go to work. Beautiful!
Not this time.
About fifteen minutes in, I heard the roar of motorcycles.
Then I heard a woman who had smoked a lot of unfiltered Camels in her life say, “Get some ice.” Nap over.
The gang of hooligan bikers that had just checked in to the room next to mine stood in front of my window, drinking beer. I think they were having a “Who has the best fake laugh” contest. (And for the record I would just like to say that I think they were all winners.)
Luckily, it only lasted about two and a half hours.
What happened next?
Nothing. I just waited. At about 3am, when I heard sweet little drunken snores through the paper-thin walls, I called their room. When they answered, I hung up. Then I waited for about twenty minutes, so that they could fall back asleep and I called again.
And again.
And again.
Who’s the winner now? Huh, pussy bikers?
Such A Handsome Woman
Sometimes when a gig isn’t going my way, I’ll try to do something that makes me feel better about myself. I give myself a special treat to lift my road weary spirit. Something that will make me stop questioning my career choice and not take it personally when the old lady in the front row with a cane hanging off her walker says to me, “Shame on you.”
(“No, shame on you, ma’am. Shame on you,” say I. Hah! I said it twice. Take that, you old bag.)
So one day (I can’t remember what town I was working in, so let’s just call it Crap town) I decided to go to Walgreens and treat myself to a new pair of socks. Hope it doesn’t seem like I’m bragging, but I was making that kind of money and needed a little kick in the pants to make it through the last two shows. Vodka can’t be expected to do everything for me, that just wouldn’t be fair.
Here’s what happened. It was mid morning. I hadn’t showered, wasn’t wearing any makeup and was wearing a baseball cap. (I’m sure that I looked and smelled awesome.) When I walked into the store, I said to the 70- year- old woman behind the counter, “Could you please tell me where the socks are?”
She said “Sure. The men’s socks are on aisle three.”
(Awkward pause)
She thought I was a man. (That’s always good for a girls ego.)
But honestly, it didn’t bother me because I am really tall and had the hat on. And she was very old and (hopefully) had cataracts. So I just ignored her and went on my merry way.
The men’s socks were on one side of the aisle and the women’s were on the other. So I was just standing and looking at the woman’s socks, when all of a sudden from across the store, the woman behind the counter started screaming at me, “Other side!”
She was totally freaked out because she thought I was a man who was looking at women’s garments. Apparently it had suddenly dawned on her that I wasn’t just some random male shopper, instead, I was one of those “freak boys” who thought he was going to buy himself some ladies stockings and then hit the town.
Well, she was not having any of that. Oh no, my friend, not in her store, by God, and not on her shift. She just kept screaming “Other side!’
Then everyone in the store started staring at me and I got mad.
I was thinking, “How dare she? She doesn’t know who I’m buying these socks for. These could be for my wife. Screw her.”
I was really angry. Until I finally realized that it didn’t matter, because I’m a girl.
But by that time I was so mad that I didn’t even want the socks, so I just bought a jock strap and left.
And now that’s where I keep my socks. In my jock strap, where they belong.
If I Should Die Before I Wake
I am a hypochondriac. Worry is my middle name. If I wake in the morning feeling happy and peaceful, I will immediately do my best to put a stop to it.
Be it 'new freckle' or 'cramp in my thigh', I love to jump to the worst-case scenario.
Last week I thought I was going blind in my left eye. Turns out, I should take my eye makeup off before going to bed.
This personality quirk can be traced back to age eleven, when, before going to sleep one night, I had a long, tearful good-bye with my dog. Just in case one of us didn’t wake up.
We both survived the night, but things were never really the same between us after that.
She’s So Crazy
I'm not sure why, but mentally ill people are very fond of me. During the years I've spent on the road, there have been many interesting encounters.
Perhaps it’s that they pick up on the turmoil brewing just below my calm outward appearance.
Or, maybe the voices in their head can hear the voices in my head muttering, "just breathe.” Over and over.
I don't know. But I do know that whenever people are telling their crazy people stories, I usually win.
Years ago I was working in Colorado. The gig started with a one niter in Grand Junction at a Sheraton Inn Hotel lounge with the rest of the week at a real club in Fort Collins.
After the first show, I was sitting at the bar with the other comics when a man sat next to me and wanted to talk, which is fine. But after about 10 minutes of polite, post- show small talk, I'm done. But he doesn’t get it. Because crazy people never do. It never occurs to them that perhaps a complete stranger really isn’t interested in the medication they're taking or their theory on black helicopters. They have no clue that they're bothering you. Which I find strange, because I think I bother everyone, which proves that I'm totally sane.