So, I've accumulated more information than I had at my last post. I guess that's a little like saying "This is a picture of me when I was younger." It's invariably true. Unless of course, you're either involved in some kind of time paradox thing, or have some sort of brain damage. They're both pretty similar. Time travel, you go through time, meet interesting and exotic people, and do stuff. You get brain damage, you meet interesting and exotic people, perhaps drool on them. You drink heavily, meet interesting and exotic people, perhaps urinate on them, and don't remember any of it. Well, I thought they were related, now that I flesh out the idea in words, it makes less sense.

Oh, and I would like to apologize for insinuating that anyone who doesn't know what auteur theory is is an imbecile. That was not what I intended. I was angry at people who are using the theory as a basis for their evaluation of literature, while I suspect that none of them know what it is. Plus, these people were being dumb. Don't do that... I HATE that. I HATE IT.

Anyway. I found out that the comedy contest is on the 15th of July. Tuesday night. My actual time will be determined randomly on the night in question. I get three minutes. THREE! Everyone gets three minutes. I was worried I'd have to fill like 20 minutes. Oh well, this may help me edit, a thing I am obviously loathe to do. At least, when you consider my longwindedness when expressing menial concepts. So for my act, I'm thinking about the bleu cheese bit and the homeland security bit. I like those alot. If I cut one or both down a little, I might be able to squeeze in a third.

I will post the bleu cheese bit here, for those of you that don't know it.

So when you’re hungry late, you've got Perkins and Denny’s (which is everywhere). Where I'm from there's IHOP and Waffle House. But whatever, the locations of these places in relation to the Mason-Dixon line is another bit entirely. They’re all the same if you get there like 20 minutes before a shift change at around 4 am. There’s one cook, one server, they’re all tired, and don’t give a shit. I could just not order bleu cheese dressing. Because I know that none of these places have it. But I DIDN'T know until I ordered it a few times, and got ranch. Is it just the same word to these people? Or do they think I don't know the difference? I wanna see veins in the dressing so thick I think it's a penis. Don't just throw some creamy white shit on my lettuce and tell me it's bleu cheese, you lying waiting table no tip getting motherfucker. If I don't put my foot down now, where will it end? If you think I can't taste the difference between ranch and bleu cheese, it's not a very far step from just masturbating into my salad, and that will not stand. I ordered the shit, you told me you had it, and all of a sudden I feel like I'm herding cattle in a hidden valley.

This is one of the few bits that I have down really well. As a result, it actually looses something in the text version. Most of my jokes are written to be read (it's a complex problem I'm working on), this one is meant to be heard. The homeland security bit goes a little something like this:

Do you guys laugh during press conferences about homeland security? This is the funniest shit that’s been on TV for at least 5 years. It’s mind boggling. Everyone’s so concerned about Terrorism that they don’t give a shit about anything else. And since there isn’t any tangible threat, they start making things up pretty quickly. People asking questions like: “Mister secretary, can you please explain to us the nation’s plan of action if Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior were to rise again in all his glory next week? Would we be able to step down our alert level from orange?” We’re at yellow now, in case you guys don’t know. I’m sure you feel more secure with that knowledge. What is up with that little warning system anyway? Green, blue, yellow, orange, red? Does it strike anyone else as odd that green is safer than blue? How, exactly does that work? Green is yellow and blue combined, DAMMIT. The whole color scheme is fucked. Bush sympathizers are always searching for evidence of what our president actually does in his office, and I think we’ve finally found some. They let him arrange the colors. Only with George W. Bush could an arbitrary color-coded danger system get fucked up. And NOBODY knows what the conditions mean either, let alone when it should change. They mean nothing, I think they have 7 interior decorators hidden in a secret bunker 40 miles beneath the surface of the moon, and their job is to decide what our state of alert is here. “What do you guys think? Is today an orange day? Gerome? Is orange okay? I’m feeling kind of orange.”

The end of that bit is in a gay voice. Anyway, it's late, and I should retire.