Stand-up blasphemer

I've known a few people who've taken (or are about to take) classes in stand-up comedy. I would offer to teach, but my one experience left me dazed and bowed. No more open mics for the Malcontent.

It started well enough, in that most everyone who took the stage before me was horrible. So I had that going. Eschewing preparation, as I typically do, I felt confident that my routine would fly. My mocking impression of Al Pacino as Huey Long ("call me Gov. Scissors 'cause I'll cut through that red tape") was sure to please the crowd.

But then the lights hit my eyes, and I lost my way. I was revealed as a bad mimic, and the audience grew restless. Fortunately, I had a standby: Ronnie Sproles, a.k.a. gay redneck. He loves NASCAR and he loves dick. Ronnie's gotten me out of uncomfortable spots before, so I turned to my Daisy Dukes-clad alter ego and worked toward a reprieve.

Which was happening, until I tried to build on an ongoing joke about oral sex. Once I said it, I knew I had crossed several lines. The groans from the jaded L.A. audience were proof.

No repeating it here, but if I said it about Muhammad, chances are I'd be hanging from a tree.