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  • I have always enjoyed the distinction of being "that funny guy" at work, school, and in social circles. I think quickly and can come up with a quip or quote or a distorted perception to make almost anyone laugh. However, I always wondered if my ability to make others laugh is simply because they know me and have assigned me that role or if I am genuinely funny. This prompted me to take a class in comedy two months ago at Laughing Devil Comedy Club in Long Island City, Queens, and after six weeks of hard work, a blurb in THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS, and a notebook filled with material, I took the stage, the last comic in a graduating class of six. I killed! What follows is the routine I performed for a small audience in a darkened room with only my microphone, mannerisms and voice to entertain.

    WARNING: This material is suggestive in nature! If you are easily offended, please discontinue reading at this point!

    When I was a teenager, I wasn’t quite the Adonis you see standing before you. No, I was an awkward, pimply faced mess. And when I say pimples, I am not talking about a few errant red spots. No. I mean pimples in the Biblical sense of the world. My face looked like the braille equivalent of a phone book! “Johnson, Tim. 555-3435. Johnson, Tommy. 555-5904.” My older friends told me if I wanted to lose the pimples, I had to get laid. I thought, “Oh sure. Just get laid.” Yeah, like it was soooo easy. Like I could walk up to some hottie and say, “Excuse me, are you using that pussy? Can I borrow it for about eight minutes? I’ll wash it when I’m done.”
    Now, I was as horny as the next 15 year old boy. In fact, when I entered our living room, the goldfish became terrified, stopped swimming and hid in his castle. But looking the way I did, there was no way I was getting pussy. I needed a solution. I decided to call one of those 900 numbers in the back of a HUSTLER magazine I kept hidden, hoping that simulated sex might work as well as the real deal. At least she didn’t have to actually see me, you know?
    I wasn’t a discerning customer at this point. It wasn’t like, “Hmm... do I go with grannies who crave cock or teenage sluts?” Hell, the ad may as well have read, “Do you have pimples? Do you have trouble getting laid? Are you 15? Call us.” I dialed the first number I saw, and after a few prompts I was connected to Svetlana, who gave me the greatest one night stand of my young life. I slept with a smile that night thinking it was all over, and it was, until the bill came!
    I could hear my mother screaming from half a block away. “180 dollars?!?” I innocently asked what was wrong, and she exploded about a 900 call that cost 180 dollars. Ironically, this was the 1980’s and 180 bucks could have gotten me two hookers for an hour to suck me off and fuck me. Hell, with 180 bucks in the eighties I could have bought the prom queen two tickets to see WHAM, some blow, and fucked her in the ass in her dad’s car. Unfortunately, hindsight is 20/20. Anyway, being an optimist I thought I could still get out of this. “Mom, it’s gotta be a mistake. Just write a letter to the phone company and tell them it’s a mistake. They will remove the charge. I’m sure this happens all the time.” She wasn’t biting. “No. We are going to get to the bottom of this. I’m not getting screwed!” I thought, that’s what got me into this in the first place. I tried again, “Ma, just write a letter. I’m sure Svetlana is too busy to..” “Who?” “Nevermind.” She told me she was calling the operator and wanted me to listen on the downstairs phone for a witness. What followed was the stuff of nightmares, the catalyst for a lifetime of therapy.
    The operator answered and informed my mother of the exact time and length of the call. My mom insisted no one from this house would make such a call, so the operator offered to call the 900 people for a phone conference. “Mom, just write a letter” I plead. My mom was connected to the 900 folks and their operator offered to play back the conversation for verification. What followed was the craziest 5 way orgy I could ever have imagined; there was my mom, the operator, the 900 agent, me, and a recording of me telling a Russian-voiced woman for 2 ½ minutes, “That’s right baby. I want to navigate your curves like Magellan, you slut. I want to fuck that ass, invade it like the Germans invaded Poland. Mmmmm.”What can I say? I had a history test that day. My mom apologized, hung up the phone, and beat me into unconsciousness. Now, as I took my licks, a strange thought crossed my mind. Was my mother pissed about the 180 dollars or that her son’s first sexual encounter lasted only 2 ½ minutes.
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