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Humor July 2013

Wit and Grit

Bombing My Way Through a Comedy Routine

By Mary Stobie

My throat tightened. I wouldn’t be able to make eye contact or connect with that many people. But this could be my break into senior-age stardom, I thought. I could be the next Betty White or Maggie Smith.

 

Back in my 20s, I performed comedy routines at the Comedy Store and Improvisation Nightclub in Hollywood, and the Comedy Works in Larimer Square. Then I stopped and continued to write columns for newspapers.

But this year I got the performing bug again and have performed routines for the Robert Benchley Society Awards Dinner, the Clement Senior Center, and a friend’s birthday party. My routines got laughs with material based on newspaper columns I’ve written, and jokes borrowed from Steven Wright.

So when my childhood friend Claudia said recently she needed help with a dinner she was putting on for the seniors in her condo complex, I listened.

“Do you think you could do a comedy routine for the dinner?” she asked.

Opportunity knocks, I think to myself. “How many people are you expecting?”

“About 75.”

My throat tightened. I wouldn’t be able to make eye contact or connect with that many people. But this could be my break into senior-age stardom, I thought. I could be the next Betty White or Maggie Smith.

“I’ll need a microphone.”

“Sure thing,” Claudia said.

Then I wondered what I’d choose for material. I still think of myself as younger than I am. (A trick of the mind). In spite of my delusions, I concentrated on the truth of my being a “mature woman.” This didn’t help.

I worked up a routine.

The night of the party, I find out to my horror I have to go on first, at 5 p.m. before the people have had drinks or food. I feel queasy. The room is lit and full of dressed-up adults waiting for food. Hungry people could be edgy I thought.

They aren’t expecting a comedienne. I test the mike — the people at the front table look at me like I’m an alien just landed from outer space.

When I begin, they laugh weakly at my first few jokes. Then they start pounding their silverware.

“We want food,” one says.

“How long are you going to be up there?” a man yells.

My knees feel weak, but I pretend to ignore the man. But I get more tense until my jaw won’t move. Then I pop out a Steven Wright joke. “I fished with a dotted line. I caught every other fish.”

“I’ll take a fish dinner with potatoes!” a man yells.

At the end of my routine I said a ridiculously, “You’ve been a great audience.” They laughed at that because it was a total lie, and they knew it. I felt alarmed; I had flop sweat; I was bewildered, petrified and embarrassed.

Darn it, I knew I’d used the wrong material and hadn’t been real. They would have liked it if I’d told them about my true experience with a plastic surgeon when I went in about a tiny suspicious lump on my eyelid.

The doctor looked at me under a bright light and said, “You need your eyelids lifted. We’ll take care of your lump while we do it.”

“Great. How much is that?”

“$3500.”

I gasped.

“But if we just do your eyes, you’ll have young eyes and old cheeks. We should do an entire face lift.”

Shocked I asked, “How much is that?”

“$10,000 All together eyes and face: $13,500.”

“If I’d wanted a con job I’d have gone down to the local prison,” I said bitterly.

Yes, that’s the true story about me they might have laughed at.

Next time I get a gig, I’ll tell the truth, the absolute truth.

I’ll confess the hilarious secrets about what it’s like to be me.

 

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