I’m going to try to be quick and glib and probably not the least bit funny. I’m tired and have a headache and think crawling between the covers with my video iPod, Jon Stewart and The Daily Show would be mighty fine.

Tuesday night, to now be referred to as fucking awful Tuesday, I did an open mike at a suburbanized shithole British Pub. The host is a nice enough guy with whom to have a convo, but the fucking douche introduced me and the other chick doing the show that night as “vaginas.” What the fuck? Oh, right, that’s why I get to call you a cock, peckerhead, dink, dickwad fuckface.

Anyway, the show was excrutiatingly painful in all the ways open mikes can be. It started out with people whose thoughts are amusing only if you make fun of them, segue-ing into a dude who I wished I knew the other comics better, so I’d be comfortable saying, “That’s just fucking racist, right?” Ultimately, several people who I’ve seen before and are genuinely funny comics just went down in flames.

Honestly, what’s the point in struggling against a lousy sound system and disinterested drunks just watching you die and enjoying the schadenfreude. I drove home thinking this is just the fucking stupidest thing I could do with a night. Comedy is ludicrous, why bother, really?

Today I had another show, and I could only feel dread. Fucking dread at walking through another fucking lame as lame can be painful night, standing with microphone in hand wondering “Why? Why the fuck am I here? Why the fuck am I doing this?”

But, then I got to the place and there was audience. Real people knowing perfectly well what was going to happen in the little back room into which they had crammed themselves. Better yet, everyone who performed had something to say. Not every joke knocked my knickers off, but a hefty percentage had me laughing. Out loud.

I walked in with less than zero expectations and left pleased. Better yet, I asked the host to mention my vagina in my introduction. So, I joked about the dick the night before introducing me that way. It felt all shivery-like empowering, you know, a black guy reclaiming the N, yankee doodle dandy, sticks and stones can break my bones, blah, fucking, blah, I owned the words.

Afterwards, a chick about my own age paid me a compliment and said something about my shit being smart. The coup de grace, I got in my car with $20 extra in my pocket from tips.

I wants to quit the bitch, but the bitch makes it hard.