Throwing Poo

Lately, my life has been a real mess.  My new job is totally fucked, and I’ve been scrambling around like a crack-baby on an Easter-egg hunt for the past two months to try to find anything that might improve my situation.  As such, I have entirely neglected my poo-throwing doodies.

Anyway, it finally looks like I might have a new job.  However, I don’t want to mention anything because I don’t want to jinx it, and because they do a thorough FBI background check.  Last thing I need is for a potential employer to find out about this festering dung heap, if only to keep my horrific grammar skills concealed a little while longer (“I am an excellent communicating-type of communicator person-guy with speaking and word-writing stuff and all that kind of shit. Next interview question, please!”)

So to celebrate, last Friday Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I went out to Sullivan’s, our favorite Irish Pub, to celebrate.  The party was just getting started when, half-way through my second pint of Smithwicks, some middle-aged man with and ill-fitting t-shirt, a microphone, and a cubic ton of fucking nerve suddenly interrupted my drinking.

Apparently a local progressive church had finagled its way into my Irish Pub to host a “clean, Christian comedian” to “enlighten through entertainment” all us unsuspecting heathens who were searching for answers in the bottom of a bottle. (One of my favorite life moments was when my friend Mark was drinking heavily – as he is wont to do – and I half-jokingly suggested that maybe the answer wasn’t in the bottom of the can.  Without missing a beat, he killed his beer, looked in the can, tossed it away, said, “You’re right,” cracked-open another can and continued, “I guess it must be in the bottom of this one.”)

First of all, if ever I heard three words that don’t fit together, it’s “clean, Christian comedian.”  That’s like “fun, painless colonoscopy” or “happy, lasting marriage.”

Second, who thinks it is a good idea to have an impromptu comedian perform in an Irish pub, clean, Christian or otherwise?  I can understand assuming that the patrons might be interested in a little Celtic music, potato juggling, assisted-suicide, or, I don’t know, drinking in fucking peace.  But an impromptu comedian?  Pull your head out of your arse.

Finally, does this then give me the right to stop by and cock-block their Sunday church service with my own little show starring an evolutionary scientist, an airport lounge stripper and Barney Frank?  

Even if I did, these proselytizing pricks would still have gotten the better of me, because they could just get up and leave.  Regardless of how unfunny, unpleasant, or intelligence-insulting a “clean, Christian comedian” might be, there is no way I’m leaving a half a beer on the table.  That would be sacrilegious.