You never want to be awkward getting on and off the stage as a comedian. You’d look like an idiot. But more importantly, you never want to show fear. If my jeans rip on my ass, or I trip getting up on stage, I’m going to be fearful. As a comic, fear is your enemy. It will only hurt you. Your job is to make people laugh, and nobody laughs if you’re afraid. They can’t. So you can’t show fear. If you do, you’ll be eaten alive.
So if you’re not showing fear then there’s only one other thing you could possibly be showing. Balls. If you’re a comic, you have to have balls. It’s just how it goes. Inherently, if you do comedy, I’d say you have them. Think about it. You’re on a stage by yourself trying to make people laugh. It’s so vulnerable, and it takes some balls to do it. But the next question is: how big are they?
Because let’s face it, you want to have the biggest. This is America. Bigger is always better. If you’re a girl, and I might be biased, but I’d say you have big balls. It’s a big bullshit boys’ club in the stand-up comedy world. Whenever I worked with new comics, there was an unspoken comparison of ball size every show.
And at the gig the night before, I basically lost my balls. The night before was easily the worst show, and experience in comedy, I’d ever had. And trust me, I’d had some shitty experiences. The night before was one of those nights that was hard to explain. But there I was, getting up again, less than 24-hours later, wearing very tight jeans and hoping I would be able to get on stage. It wasn’t because I wanted to perform. It was because I needed to get my balls back. Quickly.
The night before, my manager had booked me a gig at a private party in Long Island. It was going to be a two-man show, and he wanted me to do a good job. The booker, who had set up the show, was going to be there, and if I did well that night, it would mean more
gigs. I was psyched. I loved doing comedy out in Long Island.
The gig was at a restaurant in a private room. When I talked to the wait staff and told them who I was, they took me to this back room and told me to order some food. This guy started talking to me. He had been sitting there shoveling food down. I figured he worked at the restaurant and was on his break. We chatted, and it all seemed nice enough. He told me how he was this big actor and really loved acting. He was an older guy and was sorta braggy, but I acted interested. Typical waiter story, right? I told him I was working the private party and was one of the comics performing that night, and then asked him if he had ever done stand up comedy.
And that’s when the shit storm started. The guy stood up and started screaming. “I’m the fucking headliner tonight! Don’t you know who I am? Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that? You fucking bitch!” And it went on like that for at least ten minutes. This guy went on a crazy tirade. Rage times a thousand. Baked ziti was flying out of his mouth as he cursed and screamed. The kitchen staff ran out to see what the hell was going on. And from me? Silence. I was at a loss for words. I just stood there and took it.
I had tried to smooth it over and explain that I didn’t know he was a comic because he was talking about acting, but he wouldn’t even let me speak. In my entire life, I’ve never let anyone talk to me like that, but I was in shock. I actually let this guy go off on me without a word back. He cursed me. Insulted me. Wished me dead. I finally just went outside for a minute.
Shaken to the core, I tried to get myself together. I was about to call one of my best friends, who was also a comic, when one of the waiters came out and told me I was about to go on. Ball-less and out of sorts, I walked inside and started the show.
TO BE CONTINUED...