Settling For Less Than Less

July 27th

He and Blanche arrived home in good spirits.  He planted himself on the couch with confidence.  "Guess what?" he said.  The suicide pact is a go, I thought.  But no, it was not to be.  Apparently, he was at a comedy club with Blanche and he had been heckling the performers the entire time with one-liners so delicately crafted he might as well been lobbing a ship-in-a-bottle onto the stage.  Perhaps a fully-rigged 16th century galleon replica in the form of "You're gay!"  The owner pulled him aside afterwards and told him he was the funniest kid in the joint, and decided to give him a slot at the next open mic night.  He invited me to go, and I might, if only for the slight chance that his set turns into the only funny thing it could ever be: a shattering mental breakdown on stage.

It's his big night.  His name is announced by the owner reading from a crumpled piece of paper.  Stanley pops up from his seat, the last weak jello shot sliding down his gullet, and runs up the aisle high-fiving the crowd like a pro-wrestler.  He hops up the stage steps in a single bound, his gelled hair tearing through the thick club air like the like the nose of an F-14.  He slaps the owner on the back and grabs the microphone, pulling it out of the stand and swinging the cord behind his feet like a seasoned veteran.  He pauses, just for a second, nodding to the guy manning the spotlight, and Begins:

"My room smells like cat poop."

And sobs weakly into the microphone until he's pulled off stage.