I was in Kentucky. I won’t say where. I was doing a run of stand up comedy gigs that consisted of biker bars, “gentlemen’s clubs”, a few dive bars, and a couple of actually good comedy clubs and colleges but mostly shit rooms. There was one room that I will never forget.
To call it a dive bar would have been a compliment. The sound system was not much more than a Mr. Microphone with about three feet of cord connected to a DJ booth. There was maybe twenty people there mostly sitting at the bar getting hammered. They were not there for comedy. They didn’t want to watch a comedian. They wanted to drink and talk about where they lost their teeth and which cousin they had sex with, and stuff like that.
The two opening acts went on stage. The crowd tolerated them. Then the host of the show brought me up on stage. I cant remember the name of the town, it’s too many years and two many whiskey shots behind me now, but for the sake of the story, we will call it Bumfuck USA. It seems that Bumfuck had a lacrosse team that they were very proud of. I have two observations about this:
- I was glad the town of Bumfuck had something to be proud of besides crystal meth.
- I had no idea hillbillies even played lacrosse!
Unfortunately for me, the Bumfuck lacrosse team that the townspeople were so proud of had just won a big match and halfway through my act walked into the bar and started celebrating their victory by pounding shots, being loud and disruptive, and interrupting me every five minutes with comments and heckler lines. I tolerated it as much as I could but then I snapped.
“Who are you assholes?” I asked.
“We’re the Bumfuck Lacrosse Team, man! And we just won a big tournament. We’re here to celebrate! We didn’t know it was fag comedy night.”
I had enough.
“Well I have a minute or two left. How about I do some lacrosse material?”
It got very quiet. I was angry. I was angry at the drunk lacrosse players, I was angry at the shitty sound system, I was angry at the asshole who booked me on this shit gig, and I was angry at the manager of the bar for not kicking these jerks out a long time ago.
“Here’s some observational material for ya! You ever notice that Lacrosse isn’t even a real sport? It’s what you play when you don’t have enough athletic ability to play any real sports. I didn’t even know there was a men’s league in lacrosse. Might as well sign up for women’s gymnastics. Lacrosse is so lame that soccer players make fun of them. That’s bad. Fuck lacrosse. It’s boring too. I watch lacrosse when I’m battling insomnia. Works every time. Like ping pong with big silly looking rackets. For years my dad thought I was gay because he found a lacrosse video in my room. I’d rather watch pro golf. I once had a rectal examination and the doctor decided to use the whole fist. That was the second worse thing to ever happen to me. do you know what the first was? Having to sit through a game of bumfuck lacrosse. Did I mention FUCK LACROSSE? Now you boys go play with each others sticks. Fuck you, fuck lacrosse, and fuck this whole town! Good night!”
Everyone was laughing and cheering except the lacrosse team. they were not laughing. At all. For some reason they did not seem to appreciate my particular brand of humor.
I grabbed my guitar, walked off stage, got directly in my car and took off. I didn’t even stop to get paid. I figured I’d try to settle up through the booker later. I was OUT OF THERE.
As I pulled out of the parking lot I noticed a few of the lacrosse douchebags getting into a truck and peeling out to catch up with me. I am not too macho to tell you that I was more than a little scared. They followed me for miles. I couldn’t believe how long they followed me. At one point they pulled up right next to me and showed me that two of them had baseball bats. Looks like they played more than one sport! Hats off to them!
I was really scared. As fate would have it, I was very lucky that night. I had just happened to fill my gas tank. Miles and miles went by. Every time I looked those headlights were right behind me. I was sweating. And I had to pee. It sucked. Then, I’m not sure if they were low on gas, or if they just got bored, but the headlights pulled off at an exit and I drove the Hell out of there.
This story brings me to my point: God bless the makers of the Honda Accord and it’s dependability and great gas milage. If not for them, I might be typing this from a hospital bed with a lacrosse stick shoved firmly up my ass. Here’s to you, Honda Motor Company. Here’s to you! I will ALWAYS drive a Honda!
