Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

Several years ago, a Swedish comic contacted me and said, “My friend Martin is an actor and he’s looking for a voice coach who can help him speak English with an American dialect. Interested?” Absolutely, I replied. Sounded like fun and easy money to boot.

I met Martin who, like many Swedes, was distractingly pretty. He said he was about to audition for a role in a TV show, an American production being filmed in Canada, having something to do with cyberespionage. The role he wanted was a corporate guy named Tyrell.

“Oh,” I said, “that’s a cool Easter Egg.” Martin looked blankly at me. “Tyrell?” Still nothing. “Blade Runner?”

“I’ve never seen Blade Runner,” he responded. I responded with the same energy men expend when their girlfriends say they’ve never seen The Godfather. Then, taking a breath, I explained that in Blade Runner, androids are manufactured by the Tyrell Corporation. “Ah, cool. I should try to see that sometime.” I flexed and relaxed my fist a few times.

We met a few times in person and had other sessions over the phone. He’d read aloud from articles and I’d jump in now and then to correct his pronunciation, which wasn’t often. As far as I was concerned, he was already next to perfect. He didn’t have what I would call a British accent, which many Swedes have when they speak English. Swedes tend to learn “proper” English when speaking, but American vocabulary. No one here would ever “ring their solicitor” or put a u in a word that doesn’t need it, like humor. Stupid Brits.

Soon it was time for him to fly to the US for the audition. He thanked me and paid me, I thanked him and wished him luck. As I’d hoped, it was fun and easy money. I didn’t hear more from him and it wasn’t long before I’d forgotten about him.

A few years later, my fellow American comic in Sweden – fellow New Jerseyan as well – David T. Weaver and I were talking and he asked me if I’d seen Mr. Robot yet. I said no, he reacted as I’d had when Martin said he hadn’t seen Blade Runner. I’d heard of the show, heard it was supposed to be good, but hadn’t made an effort to see it. Now that I was thinking of it, though, it sounded a lot like the show Martin was auditioning for.

I looked into it and was pleasantly surprised to see that, not only had Martin scored the role, Tyrell is the main antagonist for the first few seasons. I still had his phone number, so I texted, “I see you got the role, congrats! I’d like to think I deserve some credit for that.” “Haha, definitely,” he replied. “Have you seen Blade Runner yet?” “No, been too busy.”

“You know, if I got a role on a hit TV show that referenced a classic film, I would’ve made the time to see it.” “Well, when you put it like that…” As always, being passive aggressive is the way to go with Swedes. I decided to let our chat end on that note and haven’t heard from him since.

The punchline to all this is that, when the pandemic hit and I had nothing but my couch and time on my hands, I watched a few series that I’d heard were the best I’d never seen. Among others, I watched Mad Men, The Wire, and Mr. Robot. Tyrell was Swedish. The producers liked Martin so much, they changed the character’s fucking backstory to justify Martin’s accent. In other words, I didn’t help Martin in the slightest.

So, Martin, if you read this- give me a shout and I’ll give you a refund. [Editor’s Note: I think my money’s safe.]

Way back in 2001, I did a semester of night classes at Emerson College, in what would turn out to be an aborted attempt at earning a bachelor’s degree. In one class, we were given the task of writing on something that was impacting society. As I was working for Nintendo at the time, I knew what I wanted to write about.

The teacher went around the room, asking what our topics would be. The woman before me said, “NAFTA and its impact.” Then it was my turn. “Violence in video games and its impact, if any, real and perceived.”

“Haha,” the woman before me said (actually said, it wasn’t a real laugh). “I’m trying to save the world, you’re writing about video games.” If I’d had enough self-esteem to speak my mind at the time, I would’ve said, “Wow. With one short sentence, you shit on my topic and elevated your own to an undeserved level. I’d say that my paper has an equal chance of changing the world as yours. That is to say, none.” Sometimes, there is some justice in the world; she didn’t turn her assignment in on time and received a failing grade as a result. Meanwhile, my paper was not only well received, I brought a N64 to class and let everyone play Conker’s Bad Fur Day. A month later, I had to choose between continuing classes or taking a promotion at Nintendo. Guess my choice.

Anyway, I was reminded of all this recently as I listened to a few feminist comics discuss the current state of standup in Sweden.

Now, let me make a few things abundantly clear before we begin. As feminism is the belief that men and women deserve equal treatment, I’m fully on board. I believe that privilege for white men is like an all-you-can eat buffet and it’s good to see that buffet dwindling each year, although I do miss the king crab’s legs. The only reason I don’t call myself a feminist is out of respect for those who actively try to change the world for the better. I care about the environment and I sort my recycling, but I don’t think that qualifies me to call myself an environmentalist.

I’m also all for diversity and inclusion overall and absolutely in standup. I believe that club owners should actively diversify their lineups. I have different reasoning than some activists, but I’ll get into that later.

I could summarize their conversation thusly: standup in Sweden (if not everywhere) is 99% comprised of white men with material that 100% involves rape, racism, sexism, and/or homophobia, whilst those few women on stage (other protected classes sometimes get a mention, but it’s mostly about women) are saying very important things and striking blows against the patriarchy. Let’s break that down a bit.

For the first part, I agree that lineups are too male-heavy overall. I disagree that everything out of a man’s mouth involves rape, racism, sexism and/or homophobia. I don’t even think it’s most of what we have to say. But let’s be generous and say half of everything we say is rapey, racist, sexist and/or homophobic. Why are we saying it? To get laughs. If the crowd wouldn’t laugh, we wouldn’t say it.

I hate when expat comics use Swedish words as punchlines, but they make the crowd laugh. Am I saying that rape jokes are the same as fika jokes? Of course not. There are comics out there who will say shocking things just to get an easy laugh and those comics suck. I don’t tell rape jokes because I know, sexual assault rates being as high as they are, every woman in the audience either knows someone who was a victim or is a victim herself. Me telling a wacky rape joke will remind them of it and that’s not what I would call the definition of a good time.

That said, however, I might someday come up with a rape joke that I think is funny enough to overcome that. I’ve seen it done. A rape joke that can make a SJW laugh is a better joke than one about airline food. Laughter is an involuntary reaction and a joke that gets laughs is funny, no matter the subject. You can say that you never think rape jokes are funny, but you can’t say that rape jokes are never funny.

According to the second part of their statement, all the men are awful and the women wonderful. In much the same way that I don’t understand Christians who support the death penalty, I don’t see how tearing down one side to raise the other is a feminist promotion of equality. I can absolutely be wrong, however, and would be happy if someone could femsplain it to me. I get the feeling that many see the world through a Titanic lens, where Jack has to die so that Rose can live. Wouldn’t it be better if Rose slid her thicc ass over and they both lived?

The women are only saying important things and striking blows against the patriarchy. Sounds noble! Except I’ve seen them on stage, and all they ever say is nonsense. Funny nonsense. This isn’t me saying that feminists only say nonsense or that these comics in particular only speak nonsense. I’m saying that everything every comic ever says is nonsense. Standup is a conversation with the audience and here is how it goes:

Comic: “Here’s some nonsense that, at least at some point, I thought was funny. Tell me I’m right.”
Crowd: “You’re right and funny and brilliant and sexy and unique and the bestest ever and we love you!”
Comic: “I don’t believe you and you’ll never convince me. Well, see you next time.”

We’re not changing the world through dick jokes. Nor are we doing it through diversity on stage. I hear many say, “We need more [enter Protected Class here] on stage!” I never hear, “We need more [enter Protected Class here] in the crowd!” Why? Because we don’t give a flying fuck about the crowd. They came to have a good time, it’s our one and only job to make that happen, and yet I’ve never heard a single comic say their reason to perform is for the crowd to have a good time.

I’m reminded of a Jeff Altman joke. (Trigger Warning: he said it in the early 80s and it’s not especially feminist.) He was talking about the pressure men feel, even when we’re about to lose our virginity, to be good at sex. “Ladies, you don’t have to be good. You just have to be there.” That’s how comics view the audience, as a faceless mob ready, willing and able to accept our brilliance.

I was approached one night after I’d hosted a sausage party by a woman from the crowd who said, “I thought the guys were funny, I just would’ve liked someone I could relate to.” That’s why I think diversity and inclusion on stage are important, not for the sake of the comics, but for the sake of the audience. The stage should reflect the room. Niche clubs with niche crowds can have niche comics, but general clubs with diverse crowds should have diverse comics.

I understand if anyone reads this as, “Ooooh, thank goodness, a middle-aged white man’s take on feminism in standup.” Instead, I hope people can see me not for what I have between my legs- I’m up here, thank you very much- but as an avid fan of standup and supporter of diversity. To give credit where it’s due, I do think that comics of any minority are striking a blow against norms simply by being on stage. They may inspire others of their kind in the audience to give standup a try themselves. Meanwhile, the last thing I want to do is inspire white guys to try. We don’t need encouragement.

It was a wonderful night at Maffia Comedy Club this summer. I’m there often, working as host, and there can be nights when it feels like a job, when I have to pull out every trick I have just to get the crowd to unfold their arms and do more than crack smiles. This wasn’t one of those nights. The crowd felt warm before I took the stage, they liked everything I had to say, they liked everything everyone had to say in the first half. Easy money and fun besides.

Then it was time for the break. As I stood in the entrance, people from the crowd filed past me to get to the bar, and one guy stopped to talk to me. “Great show!” he said. Immediately followed by, “Why don’t YOU do standup?”

I knew right away what he meant. There was nothing mean-spirited or ironic about the question. In fact, it was, oddly, a compliment. “You’re really funny, why aren’t you a comic?”

Musing on the difference between hosting and performing is hardly a new subject for me, but this particular incident gave me a new perspective on previous thoughts. While I’ve complained about comics getting more attention from the crowd than the host, the truth is that I’ve had just as many compliment me after hosting as they have after doing sets. It’s just the nature of the beast to be complimented as a comic when I do a set and as a host when I host.

I think the reason I reflect so much on the difference between host and comics is that, when I host, I feel like an outsider. I share the stage with the comics on the lineup, but I’m not one of them. It’s not even my job to be funny. I just need to hold the show together and keep the crowd warm for the actually funny people on the lineup to do their jobs.

I’ve heard it said that it’s worse to have an okay gig than to bomb and that the best you can expect from hosting is an okay gig. While I see the truth in that and also that it’s not the host’s job to be funny, it’s still a reductive way of thinking. A few weeks ago, during yet another Maffia hosting gig, something distracted me while I opened the show. I fumbled, briefly, but recovered quickly enough that I doubt anyone noticed. It wasn’t until I left the stage that I understood what the distraction was: I’d forgotten to say half the things I usually say when I open a show. I didn’t have to. The crowd was lit and ready to have a good time and didn’t need me to tell them to laugh at jokes.

With a goal of doing as little as possible as host to ensure a good night, with a mindset that I should get out of the comics’ way as fast as I can, it’s no wonder that I’m not as visible as the others on the lineup. I’m always cognizant of hypocrisy and would never let myself become a host who thinks the show is all about him. I can’t tell the crowd, “Never mind me, check out these comics!” and also whine that they don’t see me as one of the comics.

What am I saying? I’m Swedish. I can always complain.

Sometimes, I wonder aloud despite knowing the answer. “I feel like I should say something,” I said.

“You don’t need to be the joke police,” replied my kid. Which made me laugh, not just because it was a funny retort. One of my quirks is that I enjoy imagining conversations before they happen, if they ever do, and when I’d imagined this particular confrontation, it began with me saying, “Hey, I don’t mean to be the joke police or anything, but…”

At issue was that I had recently seen a comic perform a meme several times. There’s parallel thinking – where you simply get the exact same idea as someone else – and cryptomnesia – where you get an ‘original’ idea, forgetting that you’d heard it somewhere else – but I didn’t think either applied here. It was a large block of text that this comic was reciting word-for-word. There was no way they didn’t know they’d stolen the joke.

Or maybe I was wrong? It happens a few times a year. I was 99% sure I’d seen that exact text shared on Facebook multiple times, but maybe I was imagining things yet again. A quick Google search turned up not just the original meme, but fucking t-shirts. The comic was using a stolen joke and now I was itching to say something.

Being firmly (and likely finally) in a nihilism phase of comedy has its benefits. Every time I asked myself, “Should I say something?” the answer was a firm, “Why bother?” I’ve blogged long ago about cost/benefit, investment/return. How should I approach this? Be aggressive? “Stop doing that joke or I’ll punch you in the face.” Obviously not. “Stop or I’ll expose you.” It wasn’t even a joke stolen from me. I cared enough that it bugged me, but that’s not saying much. I know others would care even less.

I often say that one of the million reasons I love standup is that we get a relatively tiny amount of our lives on a stage where we can say anything we want, be anyone we want. This comic chooses to use their limited time to get laughs from a stolen joke. Call it komedy karaoke. What would be the outcome of me confronting them, even in a polite way? “Thank you so much, O Wise One, I now see the error of my ways”?

We all have our influences, but I know another comic who is basically a cover act of an established comedian. The jokes are original but the stage presence, delivery, even use of certain phrases are all copies. It’s like they went to ChatGPT and said, “Give me an original set in the style of so-and-so but, you know, not nearly as funny.” If it was someone who was just starting out I’d probably look the other way, but they’ve been around long enough for me to say to them, “This thing you’re doing, it may have been a crutch when you started but now it’s an anchor keeping you from ever finding your actual voice.” I would say that to them if I understood why I should bother.

I remember a comic who had a joke that went something like, “I heard someone say, ‘Having sex with her was like having sex with a dead fish.’ Couldn’t they’ve said, ‘Having sex with her was like having sex with a dead person’? Why involve fish?” I was standing next to him a club one night, watching a woman on stage who then did his joke, word for word. We looked at each other and my eyes said, “What the fuck?” He smiled and his shrug said, “What are you going to do?” I find myself in a what-are-you-going-to-do frame of mind, even when I sometimes hear my jokes coming out of someone else’s mouth. I can always write new jokes, although I must admit I get a little self-conscious when we’re in the same club. Makes me a little less likely to say something on stage I actually care about, for fear that it will be taken, unconsciously or otherwise.

Even if I wanted to act as a comedy guru, it’s not like I’m in much of a position to do so. Career-wise, that is. I do alright but I don’t have my own club, I don’t perform in many places or grind or bother with the TikToks and the whatnots. Certainly I know my shit but I can’t and don’t expect anyone to look at me as any kind of authority. I’m also less motivated these days to help others, but that’s a big enough topic for a future entry here, so I’ll just leave it at that for now.

If comics choose to perform karaoke instead of original material, who am I to say boo? I might start wearing one of those t-shirts to the clubs, though.

One thing I’m pretty happy about is that I got into the habit of going to the gym five days a week. If I’d known as a teenager that my arms would blow up if I just exercised on a regular basis, I would’ve held a dumbbell more often than a Nintendo gamepad. The other day, though, as I started my routine, I could tell I just wasn’t feeling it. My energy wasn’t there, a headache was threatening. I knew there was no point in forcing myself through it, so I called it early and headed home. You have no idea how bizarre it is, for me, to feel disappointed by leaving a gym early.

Another thing I’m happy about is that I got into the habit of updating this blog once a week. While I have no idea how many people read it, I’ve often been pleasantly surprised by someone telling me that they do. It’s been a solid run for quite awhile, but I’ve felt a bit off in the past month or so. After a few weeks off, I started an entry about being a humble narcissist, but gave up on it halfway in, dissatisfied. A week later, started an entry about my recent gig in Norway, but gave up halfway, again.

For whatever reason, I just haven’t been feeling it, and I don’t see an upside in forcing it. Maybe it’s the lovely weather, the lack of nicotine, or my decision to play Dark Souls 3 for the 1000th time (hey man, at least I’m playing as a Pyromancer for the first time, and not as yet another STR/DEX tank). So I’m going to take a little break, enjoy my summer, note any potential blog topics as they come to me, and get back on the horse in the Fall.

I won’t be entirely unproductive, however. Two years ago, I taught myself how to produce a podcast, and did a limited series called Deus Ex Comedian, interviewing comics who had quit or at least quit the grind. I haven’t done anything with it since, but I just started recording a second season, with a new theme. It means having to re-learn everything I learned two years ago, but it’s a fun challenge, so stay tuned for that!

Went to see Jim Gaffigan last week in Stockholm. He was very good, much better than his latest Netflix special, and the subject matter was surprisingly lacking in food. He had a few chunks on the Bible, though, and I get the feeling that comics hit the Bible when they’re having a hard time filling out an hour. I saw Louis CK do the same thing last year.

And that’s all I want to say about Gaffigan. This post is really about his opening act. When comics visit Stockholm from overseas, they sometime bring opening acts with them, or just go without. Sometimes, the promoter will book local talent as an opener, and this adds a little sting to those of us in the crowd who are comics. Not only are we not on stage, we know the person who is.

I had no idea if Gaffigan would have an opening act or not and my jaw dropped when I heard the announcer say, in heavily accented English, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for Jim Gaffigan’s opening act: Flakrim!” I’ve known the guy for years and, seeing him on stage, felt one part jealousy and two parts pride. His full name is Flakrim Fejzullahu and I’ve advised him for a very long time to adopt a stage name, so I chuckled to myself that the announcer didn’t even attempt to say his last name.

Gaffigan is a rare bird these days, squeaky clean, and I assumed- correctly, it turned out- that someone had told Flakrim to be clean as well. He did his set in English and didn’t even say as much as bitch. He did a 9/11 joke, however, and I was impressed by the size of his balls that he would try to pull that off and happy for him that it worked.

I met him five years ago when I went out deep into the west of Sweden, to do a spot at Karlstad Komedi Klubb (which is called KRP and not KKK, for some reason). He was hosting that night and my immediate thought was, “Oooofff, I guess this counts as good in Karlstad.” Not to put too fine a point on it, he was TERRIBLE. Talking to him later, though, I found out that, not only had it been his first time hosting a show, it was the second or third time he’d been on a stage at all.

Eventually, he made the move to Stockholm and hit the grind hard. He proved himself very quickly as someone who could be counted on, on stage and off. I saw him very often at Power Comedy Club and, one night, he told me he was jealous of the thickness of my beard. I told him that mine used to be thin until I slathered my face with honey before going to bed. I could tell he didn’t think I was joking and that, if I didn’t say anything more, he’d give it a try, so after an hour I told him I was just fucking with him.

After Gaffigan was done, I caught up to Flakrim in the lobby. As we were talking, an older American woman stopped as she was walking by to tell him he was good. She asked him his name again and, after hearing it, replied, “Flakrim?” with a scowl on her face. She said it like, “Seriously? That’s the stage name you’re going with?” It’s a curse, being right all the time.

He’s a good dude and still practically a teenager, so I’m glad it’s going well for him. But since it’s going much better for him than for me, I kinda wish I let him go to bed covered in honey.

Ok, now over two weeks without snus and hopefully the worst is behind me. I went through nearly a week solid of depression; last Monday, as I wrote the last blog entry, I was in the middle of it, which slightly explains the whining. When I’m at my worst, I like to imagine what I would say to someone who really pissed me off, and how they would respond. And how I’d respond to that. And how they’d respond to that. And on and on until, twenty minutes later, I’m furious about an imaginary conversation that will likely never take place. I love my brain sometimes.

By last Thursday, I felt lighter than I had in a week, and since I had a shift at On Air anyway, I asked for a spot at Big Ben after. Man, I’ve been to Big Ben more this year than the past two or three years combined. As I don’t like going to Big Ben unless I’ve got new things to work out, the fact that I’ve been there so often the past several weeks really says something.

I’ve got 99 problems and being a snob is one of them. I’m really trying to lighten up but I can’t help myself and I think I’m getting worse, or maybe it’s just because I’m not used to hanging in the open mics as often as I used to. Sometimes, I’ll see a rookie onstage and my chest hurts. I wish I could be laid back enough to just be happy for anyone who wants to use their time to do whatever they want instead of judging comics who have just said the exact same joke the exact same way for the thousandth time or the new guy spending over a third of his set on anal sex or literally dozens of other reasons.

Then again, maybe it’s withdrawal that makes me less patient. I did bark at two other comics who decided to have a long and not particularly quiet conversation during someone else’s set. Fortunately, they both thought I was kidding and also stopped talking so much, so win-win.

My main goal was to try a new approach on a new bit. I mentioned in the last entry that I have a new bit about race that I really like but, unfortunately, it didn’t go the way I’d hoped the first few times. Long story short, it starts off about Black actors cast in traditionally white roles in TV and movies. My first crack at it, I complained about Rocky being replaced by Creed and it did okay, but the crowd wasn’t very comfortable with a middle-aged white man talking about race.

I tried a new approach last Thursday, this time directly attacking white people who are upset about “Blackwashing.” Just one problem- I didn’t like this version as much as the original and I think it showed. This time, the crowd was just as uncomfortable at the start, but I didn’t get them back at the end like I did the first try.

Mind you, I tried one approach twice and another once. This isn’t nearly often enough to demonstrate the worthiness of either, but I hope I’ve been in standup long enough to trust my instincts. If we don’t enjoy our material, if we don’t believe in it, the crowd can tell. Not only that, we have to believe in it enough to really sell it, to go the extra mile to prove to everyone that it’s funny.

Based on these experiences, I have a third approach to test this Thursday at Big Ben, if I can. In theory, I like this approach even more than the first version, and that should help. Or maybe it won’t and I’ll just have to accept that I’m not talented enough to overcome my whiteness when joking about race.

Anyway, last Thursday’s set was thoroughly average, which didn’t help my grumpy mood. (It was also in the aftermath that I barked at the Chatty Cathys sitting near me.) I felt like going home, but at another club several days before, there was a visiting comic from LA and I didn’t stay for her set. She was also at Big Ben that night, so I decided to stay and watch.

She started with, “The Swedish word for kiss is ‘puss’ and for pee is ‘kiss’?! What a country!” and I could not leave Big Ben fast enough. Snob, as I said.

As of this writing, I’m ten days snus-free. That first weekend was rough, but I’m glad to say that going cold turkey has worked out well for me so far. I say so far to be safe, but I feel confident I’m done with that shit. I’m an all-in kind of guy.

As for mood swings, they seem to have calmed down, although I have been pretty fucking irritated the past few days. Okay, week. I’m not always the most patient of men at the best of times and maybe nicotine was a helpful aid while dealing with nonsense.

I’m currently annoyed with audiences. I’ve been in a creative mood lately and have a lot of new material but, sadly, little opportunity to work it all out. That is actually a bit of a blessing though, as it forces me to prioritize what I want to do on stage. I have a new bit I’m very excited about, where I complain about Black people appropriating white movies, like replacing Rocky with Creed. “I know it’s unrealistic for a white man to be the heavyweight champion of the world… but couldn’t we have that? Movies are fantasy! Is it so much to ask that, in the movies, white people could still be good at sports?”

It goes on from there (and gets funnier). In reality, I’m making fun of white people who unironically cry cultural appropriation because the Little Mermaid is Black now. I’d like to do the bit with subtext, with things between the lines. Problem is, I’m a middle-aged white guy, and the second I bring up race I can feel every asshole in the room tighten. I’ve tried the bit twice now with the same result- as the bit continues, the crowd understands where I’m taking them and they relax, but I don’t want to bomb for ninety seconds just for them to finally catch up.

Since I care about the bit, I’ll have to lead off by saying I hate when white people cry about Black versions of white movies. I wouldn’t have to do that if this was the Eighties. Hell, I could even throw in a few n-words with no worries. Goddamn sensitive crowds these days, forcing me to write better material and be a better comic.

My annoyance with comics continues as well. Not all, mind you, but more than I’d like. I wrote several months ago how my patience had run out with comics who constantly complain and I can’t say dumping tobacco has helped my state of mind in that regard. A big part of the problem is that, while I try to limit my attention on social media as much as I can, I still see more than I did even a year ago. And there’s so much whining going on. My hate-favorites are, “Waah, I get booked at every club except one or two,” and, “I’m not afraid to tell the truth!” but only about things that directly affect them.

I’m also increasingly irritated by comics who suffer from, let’s say, Reverse Talent Dysmorphia. There’s always been and always will be comics who either can’t honestly evaluate their own talent or simply refuse to do so. Hell, I might be one of them. What I don’t do, however, is yell from the mountain tops how amazing I am while posting clips and material that illustrate the opposite. It could just be that I’m extra-sensitive these days, but it feels like that subculture of delusional comics is getting larger.

Thing is, being in the upper echelon of success as a comic in Sweden, it’s not like it counts for a whole lot. That is, you could be a very successful comic and it more than pays the bills, but it doesn’t mean you’re a household name. When I think of all the comics I’ve seen obtain at least a little mainstream success, there’s only one I would say managed to achieve that by latching onto more competent comics. But hey, it takes skill to successfully pull off being a Pilot Fish to someone else’s Great White. Anyway, very few of them spend any time whining on social media.

Get busy living or get busy whining, I guess. Don’t worry, the irony of blogging about whiny comics isn’t lost on me. Give me a fucking break, I’m going through withdrawal.