Hey, do you know about the monthly show I do with Ben Roy and Andrew Orvedahl called The Grawlix? If not, you should. It rules. We’ve done it in Portland, New York and we’re about to head out to do it in LA and in Seattle. But, as always, you can see it at the Bug Theater in Denver the last Friday of every month. In fact, if you come to this next show and get there early, you may just get a free copy of the above poster! Which we will all sign! For thirty dollars, Jose Canseco style. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, fools!

I'll show them

Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction, then, is exactly what it sounds like. The brain-child of my good friend and sworn mortal enemy Bryan Cook, the show has comics write erotic fan fiction, read said fan fiction before a crowd and then the audience votes on which story they liked the best. Bryan asked me to be a part of the show and the rest is history. Perverted, hilarious history. The show was a smash hit, one of the best, most talked about shows of the festival and my hat goes off to Bryan Cook for the concept. Here, then, is my entry which I read at the show, a tale from one of my favorite shows, “Friday Night Lights.” Please enjoy. And a warning: this is not for the feint of heart. It is, however, for the strong of dick.

Dillon, Texas

The lights had long been extinguished at Texas Stadium on the state’s 5A High School Football Championship game, but in the visitors locker room a team of despondent, taut, nubile, inner-city, young football players refused to leave. By “inner-city” I mean that they were black. A team of despondent, taut, nubile, black young football players with huge dicks refused to leave. They just couldn’t. They were still in too great of shock. They’d had one hell of a season, these East Dillon Lions, Coach Eric Taylor had served not only as an instructor, but as a mentor, as a father figure and helped them all overcome so much – problems with the law, gangs, drug-addict mothers, absentee fathers, those dickhead, rich Dillon Panthers across town, and their shit-head QB Joe McCoy. Fuck that little Joe McCoy. Coach Taylor had steered them through all of it with his mantra, “Clear Eyes, Full Heart, Can’t Lose.” But now they had lost, on the biggest stage in all of Texas nonetheless.

It just didn’t seem fair.

“Hey y’all!” Tami Taylor intoned in her buoyant, Southern drawl as she walked in through the locker room doors. Her massive flesh pendulums heaved against the thin, wet silk of her game-day blouse. It was still moist from the downpour that had dominated the second half. So was her hair. Her lips. Her skirt. Her vagina. That skirt clung to her thick thighs stubbornly, climbing towards aforementioned vagish with every step. She coyly pretended to pull the skirt back down again but she knew what she was doing. Tami Taylor always knew what she was doing.

Tami

The players were shocked to see her. Many of them ducked for cover, clad as they were only in towels, having just returned from the showers where they washed their giant, black, game-day cocks.

“Now I know y’all are feeling pretty low right now,” Tami drawled. “But I want you to know that y’all played a great game.”

A few rolled their eyes. Correspondingly, Tami rolled her tongue around the O of her pursed lips.

“Still, Coach Taylor and I have always believed actions speak louder than words…”

She slowly began unbuttoning her blouse. Across the room, already large pythons swelled to anacondas. None of the players knew what to do. This was Tami Taylor, after all, not just Coach’s wife but their school’s guidance counselor. This was no end zone. If they crossed this line there would be consequences beyond six points.

Tami began playing with her giant breasts, exchanging lingering eye-contact with every boy in the room and brazenly listing nouns she found to be like her breasts, mouthing words like “bowling balls” “cantaloupes,” once “jugs like you would play in a back-woods jug band” which the boys found oddly specific but kind of accurate when viewed from the side. Still none of them acted, as she pinched and pulled at her areola, occasionally lofting a giant mammary into her own mouth, and sucking feverishly.

“Oh come on,” Tami protested, bitchily. “Are you boys really gonna be losers twice tonight?”

Fucking dis!

With that she dropped her wet skirt and stood before them, completely naked. Huge, awesome 80’s bush. There she was, in all her glory, Coach’s wife. Their guidance-counselor. Tami Taylor: fuck-siren

QB 5

Vince Howard was the first to take the field. QB 5. Born leader. He took the ball like the First Team All State player that he was. Tami, in turn, received him like the innumerable crack wide-receivers her husband had coached. Eric wasn’t the only Taylor who knew how to take a few yards. Never ones to let their QB do battle alone, the other boys joined in with fervor, a zealous drive matched only by Tami Taylor, who showed an insatiability that years later, when they were locked in their loveless marriages, with blown-out knees and backs and failed NFL dreams and bills they couldn’t pay, every young man in that locker room would remember with appalling clarity. She always had been good at multi-tasking and this tryst in the locker room was no exception. Each of her hands snapped around a cock like a Lego figurine around a sword. Her mouth, filled with two, three swollen members at a time, while her vagina, pucker-hole and the space between her Texas tits proved fertile nesting grounds for migratory dicks. Tami Taylor made sure every young second-place player in that locker room was satisfied. They, in turn, treated her orifices like a whack-a-mole.

Riggins' Rigs

In a way all of East Dillon, Texas grew up that day. As Tony Lucca’s cover of Daniel Johnston’s “Devil Town” blared over sweeping, hazily lit cinematography that the series had become so renowned for, we saw Tim Riggins, crushing beer cans on his forehead, but sensitively, while four, maybe even five just-turned-18-year-old-seniors took turns sucking his dick. He looked out over a green, Texas field, pensively. “Texas Forever,” he said to no one in particular. We saw Landry, now a freshman at Rice University, tying a belt around his neck and dropping his pants, as he was finding new, more adult ways of jerking off in his college dorm room. Match cut to a shot of Laila Garrity fingering herself like a sex-crazed fucking lunatic. Ditto Tyra Collette. God, why would they do that? It seems so superfluous; we hadn’t seen those characters in so many episodes! Still it’s nice to catch up with those characters, and a sweet move by the creators to then match cut to virtually every good-looking girl that’s ever been on the show, lying in their beds fingering themselves, except for the ones having insane lezbo strap-on sessions in college dormitories, attacking new lovers with aplomb and then lifting them off the bed and fucking them while walking across the room so that the duos formed human plus signs.

Welcome back!

So nice to see all those characters again.

And as the song swells to a crescendo we see the football players putting their clothes back on, and Tami wiping the cubic gallon of cinnamon roll icing off her face and we know that these boys will leave this locker room men, and never forget the best day of their life. The day they lost the state championship, but the day they won all the glory.

Just then Tami’s daughter, Julie Taylor, enters the locker room. She’s fed up with that pussy Matt Saracen. She’s divorcing him. She wants to stay in Texas. She wants to be like her mom. So she drops her skimpy sun-dress. Her tits are also enormous. She too is rocking a huge, awesome 80’s bush. She has become a woman. Just like her mom. Tami smiles and nods, still dripping donut glaze from her mouth. It’s go time. Round two.

All growsed up

The camera zooms in on her lips, a close-up. She whispers.

“Clear eyes. Full heart. Can’t lose.”

Homer, Alaska, Kachemek Bay, Gangster

Back when I worked at the local alt-weekly in Denver I had the opportunity to interview Mitch Hedberg. I started doing stand-up right around the time I started writing for the paper, so naturally I tried to interview all the great stand-up comics making their way through town – see if I could pick their brains a little bit about the craft. But Mitch was the one I flipped for. I had first learned of him a year prior to the interview, when I saw him open for Dave Attell and Lewis Black at the Fillmore, and I became an immediate fan. I bought “Strategic Grilling Locations” that same night, listened to it compulsively, then I bought “Mitch All Togeter” and pretty much burned a hole in that album too. And now he was coming back again, this time headlining the Fillmore himself, and I got to interview him! I was beyond psyched. I was so pumped for the telephone interview that I reserved the forty-person conference room all to myself. I didn’t want to sit at my desk in a bullpen full of other desks, distracted by the sounds of telephones and other reporters doing their phone interviews or clacking away on keyboards. I just wanted to talk to Mitch Hedberg. Alone.

“I’m going to interview Mitch Hedberg in a half hour!” I remember I fan-boy gushed to my managing editor that day.

“Who the fuck is Mitch Hedberg?” his reply.

Unfortunately, five months after the interview pretty much everyone would know who Mitch Hedberg was, comedy and non-comedy fans alike, as his death made national headlines. Tragic comic dies too soon. It was a story people had heard many times before and unfortunately, it was one that was now forever associated with Mitch. That was seven-years ago this week. So I figured as I still had the tape of that interview with Mitch just gathering dust in my closet, I might as well share it with whoever cares to listen. It’s not the most ground-breaking interview of all time, particularly in this era of comedy podcasts, but we had a great conversation and Mitch was just very forthcoming and sweet. Early on in the interview I tell Mitch that “I’m a comic too,” which is just so goddamn hilarious as I had been doing it only six months at that point, but Mitch didn’t give me any shit about that or point out the vast, vast discrepancy between someone of his stature and a first year open-micer, he was just cool with me. Eight years into the game I appreciate that now more than ever.

So check out the interview below. It’s about twenty minutes long. I hope you enjoy listening to me interview Mitch Hedberg as much as I enjoyed talking with him.

My jokes weren't any better than that.

Welcome to another installment of Local Flavor, a sporadic column wherein I write about dining on the road as I crisscross this corpulent nation dancing my funky dick-joke dance for college students of every shape, size and intellect. This time around we’re stopping into Tacoma, Washington for what’s known in the business as a “day-gig,” or, more accurately, for what I will now forever refer to as “the reason why I no longer do day-gigs.’

Enjoy!

Quick, what’s the fastest way to get to Tacoma? Interesting query, and one that is certainly debatable. But you know a stance that few rarely take in said meditation? A cross-country flight from New York’s JFK to Seattle. No, no one ever takes that plucky horse in the race. Tack on a two-hour-and-forty-five-minute sit on a runway before ever even taking off for that six-hour flight, and you’ve got yourself a real bonafide loser.

Seems a wall of storm clouds across the mid-west was the problem. That and the fact that our router in Atlanta – or, “Hotlanta” – and our air-traffic-controller in New York – Condescendlanta – could not agree on a new route for us to take to avoid the inclement weather. A Yankee and a good-ole-boy unable to see eye to eye? Get the fuck right out of here! And so we sat. And sat. Then we were gifted waters. Then we sat some more.

Those are my legs in the foreground

After nearly three hours we finally got route approval, and so off we soared into the night. A mere six hours later we touched down in Seattle – Rainlanta – and after renting a car and making a circuitous drive through the narrow, choked highways around Sean Kemp’s former playground, I arrived at my friend’s house a mere twelve hours after having left another friend’s house in Brooklyn earlier that day. Business men reach Bangkok in less time. And they’re greeted with lady-boys. I had cold pizza and spooned with a dog named Morty. Which was actually kind of nice.

No matter, a good night’s sleep and I was back on the road in fine spirits, piloting my pimp-shit Ford Focus rental Tacoma-way, to entertain a community college at 11:30 a.m. A day-time respite for students busy studying for finals.

People always ask me, “Adam, what’s the secret to a good college gig?” And I always tell them, “Four words: Packed, indifferent, cafeteria, noon.”

Then those same people often ask me, “Adam, do you really mean that?” And I always tell them, “Three words: go fuck yourself.”

Because no I don’t really mean that. Comedy very rarely works in the day, period. But a show during the day in the middle of a crowded cafeteria? Imagine for your own damn self how fun that’s gonna be. Better yet, see for your own damn self.

The room looked like this:

Can you find your country's flag? No? Doesn't matter. Because you better believe I desperately tried to make that funny for seven minutes.

Those empty chairs in front? Those filled up with about nine people. The tables beyond, however, filled up with I’d say conservatively forty people, various study groups preparing for their finals in a vast array of languages, none of them English, the vernacular in which I was attempting to yell jokes at them. Now imagine beyond them a crowded cafeteria, filled to the brim with people ordering fried diabetes with frosting. Going through the line, barking orders at the chef, paying at the register, the whole process unfurling in the back of my comedy show. Picture the loud, whirring machines that produce such gilded diabetes. Imagine the noise. Then imagine a cross-fire of traffic directly in front of the stage, one row going towards the bathroom, the other directly towards the exit. Envision a stream of foot-traffic. Add to that delectable mix a half dozen parents with their small children darting to and fro and ask yourself, would you want to spit an hour of material into this melee?

Of course you wouldn’t. But then you didn’t choose this career. I did. So don’t cry for me. Just know that I manned up and did my time like a goddamn employee of the month. At the end of my “show” the dozen or so people in the room who realized that I had been talking for an hour applauded my efforts. Then I ran out a backdoor into the rain and told myself, you deserve a good goddamn meal.

Better know that.

That’s when Yelp was all, “Girl, what you need?” And I was all, “How about some Thai?” Then Yelp was all, “Royal Thai Bistro is close as hell; plus it got four stars and a gang of dope-ass reviews! You in on this motherfucker or what?”

And I was like oh fo sho.

I got the lunch special, the Holy Ginger Basil. I figured this was a safe choice because the secret to eating Thai is to only go to places or order dishes that have the words “Thai” “Basil” “Garden” and “Ginger” in them; and my lunch offering had two of those buzz-words. Which had to mean it would be doubly delicious. Plus, for $8.95 the meal came with a coconut soup, jasmine rice and pad Thai. How could I lose?

Clearly I had not been paying attention to the past twenty hours.

“Isn’t pad Thai its own dish?” I asked the waiter.

“Yes but here it’s also a side!” he almost shrieked.

More power to ya, Royal Thai Bistro. Who says only Chinese food restaurants can serve dishes by the scoop?

My meal looked like this:

Thai Ginger Gluttony Garden Spice Basil

It was decent. Not great. Kind of bland, super heavy, and enough of it to kill a lady-boy. Interesting coincidence: the amount of pad Thai it takes to kill a lady-boy? Turns out it’s the exact same amount it takes to give Adam Cayton-Holland violent diarrhea in the SeaTac International Airport. Who knew?

Let’s tally up the score, shall we?! All measurements are on a scale of one to ten.

Taste: 3. Insipid, schlocky, pounds of Thai feed.

Pride: 7. I know what you’re thinking: how could your pride be so high after you just bombed your way through a fucking nooner in a cafeteria? Because I had never done that before, that’s why. Ask any comic who plays colleges and they’ll tell you a similar story about barely keeping their head above water in some impossible comedy setting because that shit just happens. Part of the game. And now I had my story. And I had survived it. I was no worse for the wear. And at that moment I felt a weird sense of pride in that. Call me a masochist. All comics are.

X-Factor: 5. The hostess at Royal Thai Bistro was smoking. There’s just no getting around that. Like, high-end-lady-boy hot. So-hot-that-for-some-reason-I-didn’t-want-her-to-see-me-eat hot. Capable-of-inflicting-irrational-momentary-eating-disorders hot. And I needed that at that moment. When you’re drowning, you’ll take any life-saver thrown your way. That hot hostess was a sign. A sign to over-tip for my gobs of Thai gruel, get back on that highway, and get the fuck out of Tacoma. So she got a 10.

But then there was that whole vomit out of my asshole thing. Which is a definite – 5 points. Which brings us back down to five.

Total Score: 15. Out of 30. 50% An F. Fail. My only hope is those hard-working Tacoma students do better on their finals.

Onwards and upwards, gang! Until we eat again.

Unless you’ve been living under Dwayne Johnson The Rock you’re probably already aware that my comedy cohorts and I often make short videos of the comedic sort. Then we hype said videos and the comedy short viewing public either lauds us through the form of back-pats and clumsy, bourgeoisie hand-jobs or they audibly sigh, roll their eyes and then really snarkily say something like, “Yeah, nice work, guys.” And half the time we don’t even know if they mean that or are being sarcastic. And then we kind of plummet into these just pathetic downward spirals where we stop caring about our bodies and get sour cream and guacamole with every Chipotle burrito and drink way too much. Sometimes we even revert to drinking 40s in those dark spells. And it sucks. But you know what doesn’t suck? Being one of the featured videos on the front page of Funny or Die. That doesn’t suck at all. And that just happened with our video, “Selective Outrage Card!” Please watch:

Did you enjoy the video? Of course you did. Know how I know? Because you haven’t sighed once and I, consequently, haven’t once felt the urge to guilt-binge on chocolate malteds and deeply, deeply cut my forearms. Hahaha, I’m an artist! But you want more, you say? You want to experience the Selective Outrage for yourself? Well that’s no problem whatsoever, girlfriend! Below is your very own handy-dandy selective outrage card! Simply print out the card, write your personal information and get out there and start ignoring the world’s big issues while becoming outraged about the minutiae. It’s not that hard, you’ve been doing it your whole life, now you just have justification. So come on, America, start sweating the small stuff!

Make us proud.

For just $25 more you would have never needed to start a podcast

And what’s so wrong with that?!

Nothing.

The South Stands Denver Fancast is no exception, but at least they talk about sports! What kind of sports you ask? Um, the best kind! The sports from my hometown of Denver! Yessir, the South Stands Fancast was voted Best Colorado podcast last year – no small feat as they were up against a podcast that discussed various forms of bovine feed and a blog that just had an audio of “Rocky Mountain High” that played over and over again – and the boys are taking the title and running with it. And by running with it I mean drinking forties of Coors Light while discussing Neutral Milk Hotel during recording breaks. Like I said, no exception.

The gang was nice enough to have me on the podcast this week and we had a blast talking sports, comedy, Vespas and old-school Mile High advertisements. Give her a listen. I bet you’ll enjoy. And if not, at the very least, you’ll be reminded that pitchers and catchers report to spring training in twenty days.

Hope springs eternal.

CLAP-CLAP    CLAP-CLAP-CLAP    CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP    TULO!

To whom it may concern at (insert name here) hotel, inn or resort,

If you are receiving this letter, then congratulations! That means you have made it onto Adam Cayton-Holland’s short list of reputable, coveted caravansaries in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area! Please pause for a moment in reading this to pat yourself on the back.

But who is Adam Cayton-Holland? Great question. Adam Cayton-Holland is an up-and-coming stand-up comedian who will be coming to LA in February to participate in that glorious pre-vernal ritual known as “pilot season!” But what is pilot season? Surely you jest! I needn’t explain to you, the finest hoteliers of the City of Angels, what pilot season is! Perhaps you are asking on behalf of some of your employees who may be new, or foreign? Fair game then, chaps, you equal-opportunity employers, you, I shall explain!

You see all year long the most talented minds in the United States dutifully slave away on television scripts that are as groundbreaking as they are inspired. Then the networks purchase these precious bundles of innovation and, come late January, early February, set about casting them. And that’s where people like your boy Cayton-Holland come in. He’s been working hard for years to hone his chops as a stand-up comedian. And why has he been doing that? Because he knew that eventually, if he got to be a good enough comic, he’d be eligible to audition for “Love Interest Number Two,” the roguish bartender who’s studying for the LSAT, on Fox’s newest offering, Girl Talk – or, as it’s known on UPN, Gurl Talk.

Huge influnce on "Gurl Talk"

And so, much like a confused migratory bird meandering off its arduous journey across the ocean, the first two weeks of February will find the resplendent North American Cayton-Holland Bird in Los Angeles, where casting directors, much like obsessed birders, will flock to him, to study his curious, non-native plumage, then add the aberration to their life lists. Or at the very least indifferently grunt, “Next!”

Which is where you come in, LA squires. You see normally Cayton-Holland would just stay on a friend’s couch for such a temporary sojourn of wayward ambition, but that’s when it hit him: why not offer a local business an invaluable opportunity? An opportunity to have a comedian champion their establishment! Think about it: businesses spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on slick, witty ad campaigns promoting their product. Why not save a few bucks and have a comedian sell you? Who’s more slick and witty than a stand-up comic? Christ, those guys practically invented blazers! And brick walls. And Cayton-Holland is no exception. Did we mention that he has ordered a sandwich on ABC’s Happy Endings? Well he has. Twice. Which brings us to the rub.

Keeping alternative weeklies alive

Should you, (insert hotel name here), put up Adam Cayton-Holland from February 1-February 14, he will promote your establishment the entire time he is in Los Angeles. Subtly. He’s not going to go out there like some door-to-door Jesus peddler, annoying everyone he comes across, he’ll be casual about it.

Example: Hey, can you tell me how to get to central casting? The guy at (insert hotel name here) gave me great directions, but I’m afraid I already forgot them. See there’s so much on my mind right now – mainly all this incredibly natural, witty dialogue from the pilot I’m auditioning for. Yeah, I’m a comic out here for pilot season. Whole process is pretty trying actually. Thank god (insert hotel name here) has room service all the way till midnight. Fuel for the fire! Anyway, back to those directions though.

See how organic that was? And if you want Cayton-Holland to step it up on the viral tip, he can even tweet to all 1535 of his followers!

Example: @CaytonHolland: LOL! Totes just got water up my nose in amazing, heated pool at (insert hotel name here).

@CaytonHolland: Another day at (insert hotel name here), another elevator ride with Marta in housekeeping. All smiles that one!

@CaytonHolland: Guys, LA has THE MOST convincing trannies! Thank god for (insert hotel name here) security! ROTFL!

See that’s underground, that’s guerilla, that’s some real deal world of mouth ish, right there. You can’t buy that kind of buzz. You can only barter for it. With two complimentary weeks of lodging for Adam Cayton-Holland.

In closing, we’d like to thank you, (insert hotel name here), for the opportunity to work with you. Anytime you can match an exciting, up-and-coming commodity like Adam Cayton-Holland with an established, reputable business such as yours the outcome is sure to be beneficial for both parties. We eagerly look forward to hearing from you, so please don’t hesitate to contact us with any and all questions at adam.caytonholland@gmail.com.

]]> http://adamisfreakingoutrightnow.com/2011/12/29/nerdist/feed/ 3