Post by distortia on Jan 22, 2014 0:45:30 GMT -5
=/= Some comedy clubs can boast that their alumni are recognized as some of the funniest people on the planet, then there are others that barely keeps their doors open but for those desperate souls hoping someone might one day acknowledge their brilliance and those who just don’t seem to understand that they’re just not funny.
‘Last Laugh’ comedy club fell into the category of the former- neon lights flickering erratically above the door, casting their glow on the occasional down trodden individual dragging their feet as they pass by. A beacon in the night for the scum looking to complete business, for those intoxicated beyond physical control looking for just one more drink without judgement and for those seeking a place of quiet solitude away from prying public eyes.
Cheap wooden tables scattered across the linoleum floor, the glass paneled bar was possibly once the height of the trend now stood cracked and dirty- more of an eyesore against the wall. Bottles of various liquors stood still half full, collecting dust and attended to by a bored looking blonde 20 something who seemed to be more preoccupied with contemplating just where her life had gone wrong to end up here.
Her heavily mascaraed eyes drifted from the couple of patrons, to the stage where a sad looking regular was half way through his mediocre act and back to her iPhone clutched between fake neon nails.
Those who’d decided to take solace in this lowly place looked to be a sad lot themselves, an older African American gentleman who seemed to have been hitting the bottle a little too hard- sat with his glasses askew, silver hair ruffled and his once immaculate business suit stained in places with dried vomit and bourbon and his head buried in his arms, a vain effort to stop the world spinning so violently. Two shady characters in hoods sat huddled at another table, whispering feverishly between themselves as though they were trying to avoid attention they’d never receive, bartering over goods and occasionally shooting crude looks of sexual interest at the girl behind the bar.
The table closest to the shoddy looking stage was occupied by a woman, the only person in the place seemingly half interested in the comedy/tragedy taking place before her. Thick crimson hair pulled into a side plait, her black leather jacket illuminated a ghastly shade of orange from the defective neon lights nearby, aqua like eyes watching intently as the man on stage floundered helplessly with each failed punch line and the corner of her mouth curled into an amused smirk.
She stubs out her cigarette into the ashtray on the table with a soft crunch, enjoying the fact this was one of the few places in town that would let their patrons smoke inside- a sign they’d do anything to keep them here as the comedian on stage wipes his forehead for the umpteenth time.
Watching his eyes frantically try to connect with anyone in the room, hoping someone will throw him an emotional lifeline but no one takes the bait. Discouraged, the man soon finishes up his act with a lame joke about politics and promptly leaves the stage unnoticed by everyone except for the woman and takes a seat at the bar immediately demanding a shot of the strongest liquor the bored bartender can muster.
Stage empty except for a microphone sitting on a rickety stool, caught in the incessant glare of neon that would be more appropriate across the walls of seedy strip club called ‘Nibbles’.
Slowly the woman gets to her feet, one would assume to leave seeing as the ‘show’ appears to be over but instead she makes her way towards the stage, her black converses sticking to the floor where numerous drinks have been carelessly spilled over months to years.
A soft thud of footsteps marks her step into the glare, she gently rocks the stool to check its stability before taking up the microphone in one hand and kicking the stool to one side- catching the brief attention of anyone still sober enough to recognize where the noise was emanating from.
Tapping the microphone to check if it’s on produces another turn of weary heads before their attention is turned back to things seemingly more important. =/=
“Well, isn’t this just the buzzing crowd”
=/= Her haughty voice echoes, the blonde bartender ss momentarily before turning her attention to the two hooded figures eyeing her off hungrily. =/=
“For all those who don’t know me, my name is Amber- I also go by the name “Distorted Angel” or “crazy psycho bitch, put that knife down before we tazer you” but I think Amber is a little easier to remember.
Now this isn’t my usual scene so I ask that you bear with me- how about we start with a joke… Everyone loves jokes right?
So a horse walks into a bar, the bartender goes ‘why the long face?’ the horse; who has no understanding of human language promptly shits on the floor and leaves.”
=/= Amber chuckles to herself, shaking her head. =/=
“Ah, I love that joke. Never gets old… Here’s another joke that you’ll love- ‘Harold Jones’… Okay so that wasn’t funny, surprise? I think not.
Here we have a guy whose name evokes the image of a middle age man wearing a toupee cause he won’t admit he has a receding hairline problem but in reality is some young buck, stand up asshole who suddenly wants a career change cause its finally dawned on him that be to be a comedian you actually have to be funny to begin with.”
=/= Amber paces across the stage as she speak, her footsteps creating almost a rhythm as she speaks. =/=
“What irks me is when a guy fails at something, like comedy, then suddenly pulls on a pair of tights and thinks he’s a wrestler. No, it doesn’t make you a wrestler- it makes you look like a sad bastard in spandex.
It’s like someone who chucks on a cape and suddenly calls themselves a superhero- now there’s a career idea for our friend Harold, you know, while you’re at it why don’t you climb a building and see if you can fly.
Oh don’t you worry, superheroes don’t need nets or anything…
So ‘Headliner’ what have you ever headlined? The college newspaper for taking your ugly second cousin to the prom only to be caught making out with her behind the bleachers? Perhaps the elementary school newsletter about adults really needing to toilet train their kids before Grade 5, or maybe- just maybe you came along into a shithole like this, standing exactly where I’m standing in front of an empty room and telling jokes about your own homoerotic experiences.”
=/= Amber steps off the stage, instead taking a seat on the edge, ignoring the suspect stains on the carpet beside her. =/=
“You know Harold, many a man has sought solace in the industry hoping that it’d be the thing to turn their lives around, the thing that would finally get them noticed by more than their suspicious looking co-worker in the next cubicle over.
Men with dreams of making it big, of being renowned world over for their prowess between the ropes. You know what? Most of those men- their dreams lead them only to heartache and disappointment, cause things didn’t quite turned out how they imagined.
Funny that, right?
So then here you come prancing in, wind in your sails and a head full of delusions- just like every other poor sucker that’s walked through the doors thinking that because their name is on a card in a high school gymnasium that suddenly they are worth something.
Truth is? You are out of your league. We’re talking like bottom of the barrel college team suddenly facing off with the winner of whoever the fuck wins the Superbowl kinda out of your league…
You still with me? Good.”
=/= Amber rummages about in her pants pocket for a few moments before freeing a slightly damaged cigarette and orange lighter. Slipping the cigarette between her lips, fumbling with the lighter briefly, she manages to produce a flame long enough for the cigarette end to catch.
She takes a quick drag before allowing the smoke slowly trickle out and dissipate into the stale air, curiously watching the two hooded men trying their best moves on the blonde bartender who seems enthralled by the attention. =/=
(To be continued in Part 2)
‘Last Laugh’ comedy club fell into the category of the former- neon lights flickering erratically above the door, casting their glow on the occasional down trodden individual dragging their feet as they pass by. A beacon in the night for the scum looking to complete business, for those intoxicated beyond physical control looking for just one more drink without judgement and for those seeking a place of quiet solitude away from prying public eyes.
Cheap wooden tables scattered across the linoleum floor, the glass paneled bar was possibly once the height of the trend now stood cracked and dirty- more of an eyesore against the wall. Bottles of various liquors stood still half full, collecting dust and attended to by a bored looking blonde 20 something who seemed to be more preoccupied with contemplating just where her life had gone wrong to end up here.
Her heavily mascaraed eyes drifted from the couple of patrons, to the stage where a sad looking regular was half way through his mediocre act and back to her iPhone clutched between fake neon nails.
Those who’d decided to take solace in this lowly place looked to be a sad lot themselves, an older African American gentleman who seemed to have been hitting the bottle a little too hard- sat with his glasses askew, silver hair ruffled and his once immaculate business suit stained in places with dried vomit and bourbon and his head buried in his arms, a vain effort to stop the world spinning so violently. Two shady characters in hoods sat huddled at another table, whispering feverishly between themselves as though they were trying to avoid attention they’d never receive, bartering over goods and occasionally shooting crude looks of sexual interest at the girl behind the bar.
The table closest to the shoddy looking stage was occupied by a woman, the only person in the place seemingly half interested in the comedy/tragedy taking place before her. Thick crimson hair pulled into a side plait, her black leather jacket illuminated a ghastly shade of orange from the defective neon lights nearby, aqua like eyes watching intently as the man on stage floundered helplessly with each failed punch line and the corner of her mouth curled into an amused smirk.
She stubs out her cigarette into the ashtray on the table with a soft crunch, enjoying the fact this was one of the few places in town that would let their patrons smoke inside- a sign they’d do anything to keep them here as the comedian on stage wipes his forehead for the umpteenth time.
Watching his eyes frantically try to connect with anyone in the room, hoping someone will throw him an emotional lifeline but no one takes the bait. Discouraged, the man soon finishes up his act with a lame joke about politics and promptly leaves the stage unnoticed by everyone except for the woman and takes a seat at the bar immediately demanding a shot of the strongest liquor the bored bartender can muster.
Stage empty except for a microphone sitting on a rickety stool, caught in the incessant glare of neon that would be more appropriate across the walls of seedy strip club called ‘Nibbles’.
Slowly the woman gets to her feet, one would assume to leave seeing as the ‘show’ appears to be over but instead she makes her way towards the stage, her black converses sticking to the floor where numerous drinks have been carelessly spilled over months to years.
A soft thud of footsteps marks her step into the glare, she gently rocks the stool to check its stability before taking up the microphone in one hand and kicking the stool to one side- catching the brief attention of anyone still sober enough to recognize where the noise was emanating from.
Tapping the microphone to check if it’s on produces another turn of weary heads before their attention is turned back to things seemingly more important. =/=
“Well, isn’t this just the buzzing crowd”
=/= Her haughty voice echoes, the blonde bartender ss momentarily before turning her attention to the two hooded figures eyeing her off hungrily. =/=
“For all those who don’t know me, my name is Amber- I also go by the name “Distorted Angel” or “crazy psycho bitch, put that knife down before we tazer you” but I think Amber is a little easier to remember.
Now this isn’t my usual scene so I ask that you bear with me- how about we start with a joke… Everyone loves jokes right?
So a horse walks into a bar, the bartender goes ‘why the long face?’ the horse; who has no understanding of human language promptly shits on the floor and leaves.”
=/= Amber chuckles to herself, shaking her head. =/=
“Ah, I love that joke. Never gets old… Here’s another joke that you’ll love- ‘Harold Jones’… Okay so that wasn’t funny, surprise? I think not.
Here we have a guy whose name evokes the image of a middle age man wearing a toupee cause he won’t admit he has a receding hairline problem but in reality is some young buck, stand up asshole who suddenly wants a career change cause its finally dawned on him that be to be a comedian you actually have to be funny to begin with.”
=/= Amber paces across the stage as she speak, her footsteps creating almost a rhythm as she speaks. =/=
“What irks me is when a guy fails at something, like comedy, then suddenly pulls on a pair of tights and thinks he’s a wrestler. No, it doesn’t make you a wrestler- it makes you look like a sad bastard in spandex.
It’s like someone who chucks on a cape and suddenly calls themselves a superhero- now there’s a career idea for our friend Harold, you know, while you’re at it why don’t you climb a building and see if you can fly.
Oh don’t you worry, superheroes don’t need nets or anything…
So ‘Headliner’ what have you ever headlined? The college newspaper for taking your ugly second cousin to the prom only to be caught making out with her behind the bleachers? Perhaps the elementary school newsletter about adults really needing to toilet train their kids before Grade 5, or maybe- just maybe you came along into a shithole like this, standing exactly where I’m standing in front of an empty room and telling jokes about your own homoerotic experiences.”
=/= Amber steps off the stage, instead taking a seat on the edge, ignoring the suspect stains on the carpet beside her. =/=
“You know Harold, many a man has sought solace in the industry hoping that it’d be the thing to turn their lives around, the thing that would finally get them noticed by more than their suspicious looking co-worker in the next cubicle over.
Men with dreams of making it big, of being renowned world over for their prowess between the ropes. You know what? Most of those men- their dreams lead them only to heartache and disappointment, cause things didn’t quite turned out how they imagined.
Funny that, right?
So then here you come prancing in, wind in your sails and a head full of delusions- just like every other poor sucker that’s walked through the doors thinking that because their name is on a card in a high school gymnasium that suddenly they are worth something.
Truth is? You are out of your league. We’re talking like bottom of the barrel college team suddenly facing off with the winner of whoever the fuck wins the Superbowl kinda out of your league…
You still with me? Good.”
=/= Amber rummages about in her pants pocket for a few moments before freeing a slightly damaged cigarette and orange lighter. Slipping the cigarette between her lips, fumbling with the lighter briefly, she manages to produce a flame long enough for the cigarette end to catch.
She takes a quick drag before allowing the smoke slowly trickle out and dissipate into the stale air, curiously watching the two hooded men trying their best moves on the blonde bartender who seems enthralled by the attention. =/=
(To be continued in Part 2)
