WHY I BECAME A FUCKING COMIC!!! part 2

This is part TWO of 'why i became a fucking comic' and this is the meat, no pun intended, of the story anyway.

Some will find it funny, some will like me more for it, some will hate me more for it, but you cannot dismiss the ridiculousness of this story.

Even Rob Lowe, Mr. Sex Scandal himself said, 'That's the most absurd article I've ever read.' True story.

Anyway, enjoy. It's intensely personal and embarassing, but shouldn't that just be the working definition for 'life?'

CLICK HERE FOR THE FULL MONTY FUCKERS!

Currently reading : The Wisdom of Crowds By James Surowiecki Release date: 2005-08-16

11:43 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Why I became a fucking comic: PART I

Okay.

I get asked this question all the time by fellow actors, interviewers, drunks at a bad show, and my long suffering parents.

The prevailing opinion seems to be that it is a litmus of fuckedupness and emotional immaturity and/or insanity. Although people seem to think that being a 'theatre actor' or a 'working actor on tv' is respectable, say you're a comic and watch their third eye roll.

However, I tend to think it is an art form, one of the truly American art forms, and also one of the most fun and difficult jobs out there.

Whereas DJ's get their dick sucked figuratively and literally for the miniscule amount of talent needed to be a 'DJ,' comics are regarded, in general, with disdain and/or apathy -- the instant assumption being that we're drunks, untalented, broke, bitter, insecure fucks who prey on people's pain in a vampiric symbiotic relationship with damaged souls in the audience.

Okay, that's all true (to a degree), but there's also a nobility to being a comic that often times escapes me in other venues of the entertainment industry.

So why did I become a comic?

Well, other than the obvious missing steps in my Piaget cognitive development, an event happened in my life at the end of 2002 that changed my life forever.

Here it is...

CLICK HERE FOR THE FULL, FUCKED UP STORY!

6:07 AM - 10 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

HOT TIGER SEX!!! with your host Bill Dawes

hey,

i've been shooting these videos based on some of my more 'visual' standup
bits. i shot this one in a day and it's not as bad as being fucked in the ass
by Kobe Bryant, but it's definitely a first effort in a series of 3-4 that i'll
be making this summer.

right now it's posted on youtube.com and funnyordie.com.

the youtube had to be loaded (Hahaha, i said 'load') in low res and funnyordie doesn't DO letterbox so it's anamorphic or some shit and looks all stretched out like a chinee action theatre film circa 1972.

As a result, throughout watching it, i feel like a ninja is about to jump from an elevated location and kick me in my solar plexus.

Anychink, i would love for you guys to follow the link and go to funnyordie..com
and leave a comment and vote funny.

i can't MAKE you and i'm sure some of you will vote 'die' because isn't that fun to do??

BUT... if you vote FUNNY, i swear to GOD will give you 150 k from the royalties for my next book! *

Well, maybe not, but a comment will guarantee you FREE TIX to any standup show
i'm on in new york, la, or around the country.

What happened to my LAST video that got 5K hits on funnyordie in 5 days? why
did it get taken down?

Due to the idiosyncraciesof libel laws, i won't specify.

However, i do have a bit of unrelated advice: allegedly, whenever you're hiring a closeted homosexual to do work for you, and God forbid, you have a disagreement about something, don't ever accuse them of acting 'bitchy.' they will often respond by deleting things from funnyordie.com. and they will do it faster than you can snap your fingers three times in a circle and then sashay to a guilty glory hole in a Westchester
bathroom. Just fyi, for those of you hiring a assissytant.

here's the link:

CLICK HERE FOR HOT TIGER SEX!!!

i'm about to shoot the next one in a week, which will be
black and white with a voice-over by my friend, the uber-talented michael c.
hall.

lemme now your thoughts.

bill


* restrictions apply. offer only good in pesos.

1:15 PM - 12 Comments - 19 Kudos - Add Comment

My penis is coming!

Hey guys,

Sorry I haven't written a blog in a while. The reasons why not are the following:

a) life
b) laziness
c) see a

Also, I got a fancy new IMAC, but for some reason, I can't use advanced editor and ergo have to post in this measly little font without bold type. I guess it's the opposite, so it would technically be cowardly type. For my retarded fans (sorry, I should be PC: fans who are mentally handicapped retards), I apologize and hope you can stick with me through the rest of this.

Forthcoming, there will be a blog about my two favorite subjects -- my penis and comedy. Unfortunately for me, the two things seem to be inextricably linked, but such is life. Rest assured, the blog will be juicy and scandalous and titillating and there will NOT be a plug imbedded in it.

THIS blog however is indeed a plug blog -- a plog.

My assistant (he's cute, 8 years old, and also makes great Nikes) recently put a video on www.funnyordie.com and I really need you guys -- retards and non-retards alike -- to help me out by going there and voting 'funny' and/or posting a comment.

You don't have to watch the whole fucking thing -- that shit is loooooooooooonnnng -- but if you could show me a little love with a view, vote, and comment, that'd be amazing.

My goal is to get some attention from the folks there so I can do what I really want to do and post several short films of mine (i.e., porn)

Here's the link: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c05fc0f7dd

For the helmet-headed tardos (i.e. family members) I will make it blue now:

CLICK HERE WITH THE MOUSY-CLICKY THING MOM!

And here's a special deal for any of you guys who leave a comment -- ANYONE WHO LEAVES A COMMENT GETS FREE TICKETS TO ANY SHOW I'M IN WHETHER IT'S ON THE ROAD WITH JAMIE KENNEDY, AT THE LA LAUGH FACTORY, THE NEW YORKS TIMES SQUARE CLUB, or even MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!!! (come on, The Secret, work your magic, psychic voodoo secret brain waves!!!!)

So, go, click, and vote!

Enjoy and don't vote 'die' or a grandmother baking an apple pie will be murdered with a kitten.

9:43 PM - 20 Comments - 25 Kudos - Add Comment

Whores, handbags, and IKEA: now with OMEGA-3!!!

 Here is the full version, as opposed to the rough draft earlier.

Why am I writing this? Why am I dealing with such a cliche premise?

Simply put, I feel that the blogs on Myspace are, in general, like the DEF JAM of the blog world.

They take cliche premises and make cliche observations in a way that isn't particularly smart or particularly funny or new.

It intrigues me to take something 'HACKY' -- men and women are different/women loves shoes and handbags -- and explore it in a way that hasn't really been done before.

Maybe this might inspire the "top bloggers" like Stephanie to dig deeper into their stinkhole to find at least a twist on a theme or maybe it will inspire an urban comic hearing this as a bit not to hump a stool for 5 minutes as a closer because dumb people like motion and stool-humping.

Probably not.  Oh well, suck it.


CLICK HERE AND TELL ME WHERE YOU STAND

2:02 PM - 7 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Sewth Effreekah, Paaht 3: Disturbin’ the Durbans

The flight to Durban was shittaceous. I'm no fancy meteorologist with a degree from a community college, but the cross-continental air currents seemed as confused as the people. For most of the journey, the plane pitched and shimmied like a space shuttle bursting through layers of atmosphere in a Michael Bay movie. I couldn't help but think that our bumpy ride was a reflection of the turbulent terrain beneath us. The bubbling cauldron of anger and political unrest seemed to agitate the air above it, and we, as working guests, had to fly right through . Stupid theory? Maybe... but has anyone ever experienced turbulence over Switzerland? I'm unconvinced.

The flying waitresses walked around with plastered smiles like it was 'Turbulent Tuesday' at Bennigans, but I was once again utterly convinced I would die a fiery death. To stave off my imminent demise, I turned and lifted my hips depending on how we careened in order to help steer the plane. Although I'm sure my Martin Short Ed Grimley impression (FUCK YOU! I'm not old!!) was effectively the only reason we didn't skid into a field of farming negroes, I also -- as a back up -- used my psychic voodoo brain waves to keep the plane aloft. Even Jamie Kennedy, very much used to my "fagolic" in-flight behavior, leaned in towards me and said, "Okay, we're probably going down. Before we do, just admit that I can get more girls than you."

"You only get more girls than me because people think you're Seth Green," I quipped back, a lonely bead of sweat swelling on my brow before falling and shattering on my rigid forearm.

In generalized moments of terror like this, my life... lollygags in front of my eyes. The discrepancy between what I want and where I'm at suddenly and sharply comes into stark relief, as if to say 'Ta da? Really Bill? That's what you brought to the table?' I always extrapolate into the aftermath of my demise, picturing the front page of the paper saying:

"JAMIE KENNEDY AND UNKNOWN COMIC DIE IN EXTRA FIERY AND INORDINATELY LONG SPIRALLING PLANE CRASH FULL OF SCREAMING BABIES!"

5:23 AM - 7 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Handbags and Handjobs

No shit.

I get tired of the same old ’men and women are different’ thing, but it’s inexhaustible.

I bet you go back to the stone age, the first almost standing upright comic probably said a gem like this:

"Hey, buddy, you looked woman-hole-whipped!  I bet you’re the gatherer at your cave and SHE’S the hunterer!  Dude, you put the ’sap’ in ’homo sapien’.  You probably hold her leather-hide-holdy-thing while she tries on muumuus!  Haha!  I bet she clubbed YOU in the head and had sex with you when YOU were unconscious!!!  These Upper Paleolithic women got ideas!!!  Hahahahaa!!  (note that this concept entails absolutely no knowledge of actual pre-history). 

So as much as I wince at the whole ’men and women are different’ premise, that and gravity are the most prevailing and consistent and troublesome dynamics that will exist for my entire life.  This is part of the reason why gay comics have nothing the fuck to talk about other Judy Garland and how ’technology is annoying’ -- they can’t delve into the fundamental antipodes of the sexes. 

One mini-aspect that still kind of perplexes/interests/eludes me is the shoes/handbag obsession. 

What’s that you say?  Women love shoes!  Come on, Bill, you can’t steal Jeff Foxworthy’s closer from 1987!

You’re right, person in my head, so let’s start with THAT as a given.

X= Women have a preoccupation with shoes that eludes 99.99% of all men.

The Y is what intrigues me.

When I was living with my ex-girlfriend -- a period in my life I call ’oops’ -- she used to try to enlist me in her shoe fascination.  One of the ways she did this was by showing me pictures on Ebay of sundry shoes.

"Oh my God, it’s a Manolo Blahnik mary jane, but look at the little daisy on the strap.  This is soooooo cuuuuute!  What do you think?"

For those in new relationships, the answer to that question will set the precedent for the next 4-7 years, when, of course, the relationship will fall to shit naturally anyway.

"What do you think?" is a crucial question in the development of any relationship.

Herein lies the rub:  If you act too interested, she is going to turn you from man into gay bff.   She will take you to warehouse sales, sample sales, and you will have to shoe shop with her for the shelf-life of your relationship.  Next thing you know, it’s Saturday afternoon and you’re looking at armoires at IKEA -- the 3rd Nordic horseman of the relationship apocalypse -- and you’re checking your pants, thinking "Where the fuck are my balls?  I swear to God I had them when I got here!"

It turns out that you lost them in the parking lot, after getting out of a car you rented in order to "check out" this IKEA just a quick 50 mile jaunt from your home.  However, you won’t be able to find them.  When you call IKEA lost and found, a recording will say ’PRESS 1 IF YOU LOST YOUR BALLS.’  When you push it, there will just be a looping audio track of an evil Swede laughing in your ball-less face.

See, the ultimate goal of the Swedish overnment is to emasculate all American men so they can fuck our women and continue their stranglehold on the heterosexual porn industry.  The first trojan horse of the Swedes, the meatball, didn’t infiltrate quite as deeply as they’d originally hoped; so IKEA was plan B.  And now you have a fjord between your legs, Mr. Shoelover!

My point is, don’t act too fuckin’ interested in her shoes.

THE FLIP SIDE:  

If you say, "I don’t really care," (i.e, the TRUTH), that will have nothing to do with the shoes and everything to do with your FUCKING ATTITUDE, ASSHOLE!!!  From her shoe-addled POV, it means you don’t care whether or not she burns to death in a fire and she will never trust you again and the rest of your tortured relationship will be you trying to convince her you love her even when, let’s face it, you kind of stopped after the first time you had to ASK her for a blow job.  There is no sadder sentence in the world of relationships than,  "Can I please have a blow job?"  It will be met with a sigh and "accidental" teeth.

SOLUTION:

Casually look over one shoulder and say, "Yeah, babe, I bet you’d look really sexy in those."  You are then allowed to wait two -- maximum 3 -- beats before slowly backing away from the scene of the crime to busy yourself with something overtly masculine.  If need be, walk around with a wrench and pretend to tighten nuts on the plumbing.

She will think "Awesome, he cares but alas his manly soul has to tend to unfathomably manly things."  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Which leads me to the next talking point in the shoe polemic.

Men are sexual guys;  we literally don’t have the hard-wiring to make the proper synaptic transfers to understand the aesthetic details of a picture of shoes or even when a woman holds a pair out, awestruck, for you to lovingly appreciate.  Hamsters will go into overdrive, bolts and cranks and levers will creak and spin until springs snap, but to no avail -- it will remain Sphinxlike in its inscrutability. 

However, one night the woman will come out with you and you’ll notice that her ass is sticking out deliciously and flirtatiously; you’ll see her boobs are perking up ever so slightly; and you’ll notice the tan and definition in her calves juxtaposed against a pair of 3-inch heeled creme boots. 

You will think ’Fuck yes!’ and you will want to double her over the bar stool.  Only the discerning male will understand that the contrasting color of the creme boots against golden skin and the tilt provided by the heel is the mechanism actually responsible for filling up your dick.

Yesterday, if she showed those shoes to you on a table, you would have looked at them like they were an unsolved Rubik’s cube or the London Times Sunday Crossword.  However, merely placing them on and creating that fertile curve is like performing a magic act for a mongoloid.  We will applaud in a flat-hand clap style and drool like we are a retard presented with a bowl of Jolly Ranchers (retards love sour apple).

Shoes can enhance a woman’s fuckability.  Ergo, men should assume that whenever a woman shows us shoes they want to be fucked.  The more shoes they want and/or own, the more ways they want to be fucked.  Imelda Marcos was one festering Filipino whore.  Carrie in ’Sex and the City?’  That slag had a new boyfriend every week for like 6 years, didn’t she?  See shoes, think ooze.

But what the fuck is up with the handbag?  Handbag on a table; handbag on an arm.  The fuckability factor remains the exact same.  To this day, I can’t discern the difference between a $10,000 Lulu and a Chinee ’$5 dolla, $5 dolla!’ purse made of rich Corinthean pleather. 

So let X =  Women have a preoccupation with handbags that eludes 99.99% of all men.

The only Y I can think of is money. 

Shoes= sex; Handbag=money. 

Newsflash --  Women want money;  even if they are dating a poor emo guy with a heroin habit and baby gap jeans on; deep down, they want to be taken care of and treated like a Princess, although this does, sometimes, run counter to their mothering instinct -- which explains why hot women often end up with little boys and grown men with Peter Pan syndrome coughcough.

How do you reconcile this decrepancy?  One word:  HANDBAGS!  Or maybe that’s two words, who the fuck knows.  You can still date a guy with bed head, skinny jeans and a chain wallet as long as the world sees you out with a Versace snatch purse or even a convincing 10-gallon Gucci knock-off.  You present yourself as rich, you are rich. 

Best case scenario, you go on Ebay and you get a $4,000 Armani for $39.99 plus shipping and you can be your grownup Barbie princess and still afford to pay for chicken soup and cough medicine for your faggy man-boy who’s home unemployed with the sniffles listening to "Bright Eyes."

A girl with a handbag fetish and flats has no real sex drive and wants a sugar daddy (and yes, models wear flats often, so it follows).   A girl with stilettos and a backpack wants to be soundly pounded in the vagina by a dirty boy living on Ramen noodles... while wearing the stilettos.

I cracked the code.  Be grateful.  Happy hunting.

Oh, and handjobs?  Don’t do it, ladies.  That’s a code you’re rarely ever gonna crack.

And that’s why God gave women lips.

(I know, I know, you thought it was for talking, ladies!  Sorry!)

6:07 PM - 65 Comments - 53 Kudos - Add Comment

TITS AND COCKS AND FOOD FOR THOUGHT

I had a first date the other night and, back me up guys, there’s always ONE thing that fucks up first dates:  women.

Recently, I was on a date with a woman who showed up with big, fake boobs.  Not fake like hologram fake, but they were clearly filled with silicon or sand or Mexicans. 

Frankly, I hate fake boobs.  They run counter to an intuitive sense of fertility and reproduction and they feel old Stretch Armstrong dolls.  Possibly, I am bitter about the fact that I was a formula baby because of my mom’s drinking.  Despite some of her issues with parenting, she was smart enough to realize that her breasts were basically kegs and her nipples the tap and babies shouldn’t be drunk except at birth. 

As a result of my refrigerated, preservative-laced sustenance, I think I am forever looking for the real thing and chemical mammaries give me Similac flashbacks or something.

The only thing I miss about 70’s porn, other than the tendrilled masses hair, was the jiggle.  Even as a young boy, poised cock in hand in front of the scrambled Skinemax show, I was appreciative of the kinesthetic awareness exhibited by porn star bosom.  When sucked, they reached like pulled taffy; when rammed, they flopped like basset hound ears.  It was like a science fair demonstration of Newton’s third law -- for every reaction, an equal and opposite reaction.  It was what I jerked off to in my formative years.

So when Botox McTeflon tits showed up with her cartoon boobies that would take two seconds to follow her around a corner, defying all laws of physics like a Coyote/Roadrunner cartoon (come on -- that rock would fall faster or slower than Wile E. depending on which velocity would better demolish him upon landing on the desert floor), I sighed a sigh of French existentialism, knowing that this was going to be a long night.

Not only did she purchase these zeppelins, she advertised them by wearing a Baby Gap half shirt.  It wasn’t really even a half-shirt; it was more like a scrunchie she took out of her hair and wrapped around her areolas. 

When she showed up, I felt like I had to address the pink elephants in the room, so I looked at her and said (jokingly) "Very nice to meet all of you."   I could have said, "Nice tits" or "MAAAMAAAA!" but I took the high road with a cute joke.

However, she got mad!  She said, "I’m sick of the way men sexually objectify me!"  

Um, if someone pulled up in an overpriced, oversized yellow Hummer with spinning rims and I said, "Nice car!"  I don’t think his reaction would be "I’m sick of the way people objectify my car... it’s got a motor, you know...."   I think his reaction would be "Dat’s right, cracka!"  Okay, okay, there is a slight chance the guy could be an Italian from Jersey.

So, why is Pimp-my-Tits getting her thong all twisted up in her dingle berries?

Furthermore, women objectify men a MILLION times more than men objectify women.  It’s true.

If a guy hooks up with a girl and sees his buddy after, the conversation goes something like:
"What happened?"  "Boned her.  High five!  Let’s eat."   Guys don’t say shit about the woman or the act.

If a girl hooks up and sees her friend the next day, it’s more like this:
"Sue, what happened?"  "Oh my God, his penis was really wide at the bottom, narrow at the top, had a five degree curve to it, a bump right here, he shaves his balls -- oh yeah, I brought along a short film I made last night while he was sleeping to illustrate.  If you notice my laser pointer, right here we have the KAKAKAKKAKAKAKAKAKAKA and if you notice this vein running north-south KAKKAKAKKAKKA..."

If you meet your girlfriend’s friends for the first time and they are like, "Hahahaha... Teehee... gigglesnarf...nice to meet you!"  THEY ARE LAUGHING AT YOUR DICK! 

That’s a true story.

And no, I’m NOT speaking from personal experience.  I’m not.  I have a nice dick.  Nice and long.  I don’t even call it a ’dick.’  I call it a ’richard.’  I do. I have to, by law. 

Needless to say, I was turned off.  After that night, I refused to have sex with her again.

Kidding!  Of course, I had sex with her again.

Double kidding!  FOR THE RECORD, I WOULD NEVER HAVE SEX WITH A GIRL WITH IMPLANTS!!!! (i might let them blow me however)

Comments?

Currently reading : The Big Book of Boobs By Martin Sigrist Release date: 01 April, 2005

5:42 PM - 54 Comments - 60 Kudos - Add Comment

While You Were Out Raping...

For the record, I didn’t cheat. Over a hundred people wrote me with their suggestions, and not one of them picked both jokes. Although some came close. For all you poor-guessing losers out there, don’t feel so bad. Only the Mighty Kreskin could have won that contest.

The key to figuring out which jokes piqued the wrath of the venue promoters in Johannesburg lies in a glitch in the matrix of South African culture. It manifests itself, sadly, in the cuntrosity of the people. And by that, I mean the white people.

South Africa is a puritanical country with a long history of institutionalized disenfranchisement that many of the white people there arrogantly defend with a Gestapo-esque blind sense of nationalism. Kind of like America... 70 years ago. Except Americans spent the better part of the 20th century struggling through the WEB Dubois’ "Color Line" so that at least the fair-minded crackers among us can admit, "Oops." We can at least discuss the possibility of reparations (as long as black people agree to stop Martin Lawrence from making another Big Momma’s House).

In fact, we have come so far that we--a country comprised mostly of honkeys!--might elect a black president this year! Granted, South Africa beat us to the punch here. They already have a black president, but that’s only to the severe chagrin and/or embarrassment of every white South African I met. Whenever I mentioned the opinions and politics of the incumbent president, it was uniformly met with an eye roll and a nervous laugh.

As a result, racial humor seems to work differently in these two bizarrely analogous yet distinct societies. In America, most racially insensitive/potentially incendiary jokes work on two deeply psychological levels:

1. Deindividuation. There needs to be a large group of people to buffer the possible personal nature of racial jokes. In other words, smaller crowds become a much trickier forum for anything edgy, particularly regarding race, sex, and religion. If the joke is thrown into a ribald crowd of people who feel anonymous, they will laugh from their gut without feeling singled out.

2. White Guilt Delay. Even in large crowds, ’white guilt’ is a hugely important factor in the reception of jokes about race. White people will look around at whatever race is the subject of the joke to see their reaction before they will allow themselves to laugh. Once they see that, they might laugh, approximately 5 seconds after the joke has landed. Mike Vecchione calls it the ’5 second white guilt delay.’

8:00 PM - 26 Comments - 21 Kudos - Add Comment

Sewth Effreekah, Paaht 1

"We've had quite enough of YOU!"

The words came booming over the God mike, conspicuously ordering me off stage in front of over a thousand similarly confused audience members.

Where the fuck was that coming from? Some bitch, somewhere tantalizingly close, was being conveniently obscured by night sky, spotlights, and the vast network of speakers arrayed across the courtyard of the Montecristo Casino in Johannesburg, South Africa.

I whipped my head around like a Greaser at a knife fight, to no avail. There were neither Jets nor Sharks behind me to shank or save my ass. On the fringe of conscious behavior, I jammed the microphone into the stand and did the Project Runway/just-pooped-my-undershorts shuffle of shame off-stage. To say that my current international tour was starting out inauspiciously is an understatement.

It was my first international set since the Camp Liberty gig in Baghdad and, once again, I had managed to create some controversy. At least in Iraq, the USO let me finish offending them before they summoned me over the next day with an index finger and an, 'Um... not so much.'

As I tentatively walked -- with my back to the audience -- up the 30 foot length of jutting catwalk offstage in the lingering pin-drop silence, I did a 4 bloopbloop TiVo rewind of my half-hour set to track down the precise moment I crossed the line. I imagined there must have been some unseen maelstrom in the recesses of the courtyard that precipitated my ouster. For the life of me, though, I couldn't hone in on the joke, or jokes, that caused it. I reached the end of what felt like the never-ending corridor in Poltergeist, and the speakers suddenly crackled to life again: "Sorry about that! Now, are you ready to get the show moving along with your headliner?!!!"

I stood backstage in my best pissed off white boy stance -- arm akimbo, necked jutted forward, mouth agape, eyes overtly bugged. "What the fuck was that?" I asked, first to myself and then to the sundry embarrassed unknowns hovering backstage. I looked around for an answer, but people avoided me like I was the kid in the cafeteria who dipped his fries in mayonnaise. "What happened?" I pleaded to everyone, to God, and to no one in particular. I mean, I have had incidents before where I made bad judgment calls. For instance, once during Jay Davis' very popular "Life of the Party" show in Los Angeles, I did a joke about fisting a kindergarten teacher. In front of his church group. Oops. But I was utterly bewilderbeested as to why the South Africans were offended.

TO READ THE REST OF SEWTH EFFREEKAH, PAAHT 1, GO TO BILLDAWES.NET

10:42 AM - 18 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment