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Thursday, 21 June 2012

Stand up set: cut material.

I do stand up.
I had to cut a lot out of my previous set because, rather appropiately, it works best reading it on a blog (OF ALL PLACES) than actually being vocalised, as it straddles between far too 'wordy' and verbose'.

So here's some stuff I cut out of my last gig if anybody is interested.

So a couple I know had been together for a year, and they did the obligatory facebook anniversary announcements because, you know, originality is dead. And a year seems perfectly fine, I’m not one to judge as my potential romantic encounters have the lifespan of a toddler fighting a lawnmower, so a year may as well be a millennia. But it was the way they did it, they both phrased it like this. “Happy first birthday to us!”.
They had turned themselves into a sentient hive mind of a person, they had literally forsaken proper pronoun or rationality and turned themselves into a cult like collective of a person. Somewhere Jane Austen is clawing at her coffin lid with the decayed angry fingernails as she shrieks like a dying poltergeist in the spirit world, this is what love has become. In whatever realm of the collected afterlife, Buddy Holly, St Valentine and John Lennon are having a fistfight to determine who should be most enraged by this.

I liked this, but really had nowhere to go with it or to add it on to anything, so it remains isolated and a fragment. I'm sure you'll cope.

Here's a bit about TV, that was a prelude to my 'Neighbours' set, again cut for pacing issues and because it didn't get laughs as a spoken piece, which diminished the metaphors and phrasing and...whatnot.

I don’t watch TV, I am not an avid TV watcher as I was when I was a child, years ago I’d obligingly sit in front of the TV, as if it was some enforced Orwellian doctrine, if 1984 had cartoon network. And I’d make no noise or movement, I would remain intensely still and silent, with the concentrated precise self collected peace, I was like an Amazonian tribal boy hunting a jaguar, or that man at the park with no kids but he’s still there anyway. And I’d be so involved with whatever was on the tv on a molecular level, that I pretty much shifted into this loud angry nuclear bomb of an individual. It was a self imposed Jekyll and Hyde case, except I’d transformed from a self loathing teenager, into a self loathing teenager who would explode with white hot rage at any interruption or noise. A moth would die in the corner of the room and It’s last solemn throes of life would pierce their way into my ears like a garish missile of sound and ruin Ed Edd and Eddy for me. If somebody walked in and started talking, whatever the volume, they could move a morsel of saliva from one side of their mouth to the other and I would leap up with incandescent hate, like an enraged mother Ape defending her young. I was to put it bluntly, a bit of a dick.
But, no I hardly watch TV anymore, to the extent that it’s such a rapid shift in my life that I can hardly believe I ever watched it. It’s a juxtaposed scenario probably only experienced by denizens of an apocalyptic world, I am Mel Gibson in the Road Warrior, too busy fighting off bandits with a sawn off  to watch Keeping up with the Kardishians. “I’d love to watch America’s Next Top Model but I’ve got to wander this desolate wasteland searching for gasoline.”
America’s next top model, what a wretched piece of television. Tyra Banks is a horrendous human being, she has the most skewered sense of rationality and perspective matched only by a POW broken after a decade of crude torture. I’m more than certain that Tyra banks is merely a mannequin that is a vessel for all the farts in the world.
Anyway, I’ve started to actually have the TV on these days, if I’m on the Xbox or crying into a bucket. 

Again, rambling poetic nonsense that is completely halved when spoken.

This next bit went before my 'chat up lines' and James Bond section. Again, far too wordy and verbose, and unnecessary. It's as if Martin Luther King spent a minute telling people he was black, or if Hugh Grant told people he was British. It's kind of obvious, I didn't need an entire paragraph about my poor lack of relationship history, so it went to the sarlaac pit of my recycling bin.

Every man in this room, I’m about to blitzkgrieg you with schaudenfreude and re-assurance. No matter if you think you’re terrible with the opposite sex, compared to myself, you are a Mongolian horde of charm and appeal. I have learned from experience I am literally a sentient gas cloud of repellance, I am woefully unattractive and about as sexually attractive as an auschwitz documentary. If my existence had some cartoon esque, theme music then every time I talked to the opposite sex, it would play Creep by Radiohead. 

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