Ahh, nostalgia.

It’s been awhile since I had gastrointestinal distress before a comedy show. But, last night, for old time’s sake, my colon processed a treat.

Perhaps my organs in spite for insisting last week we not go to the cheap Chinese victualers that I swear made me a wee bit ill one time conspired against me. For the week I was what you might call irregular, and you would mean constipated. No big deal, makes for quicker mornings anyway.

But at dinner before the show, my time had come. Again, no big deal, I thought, because better than at the comedy club.

I hadn’t performed in a while, though, so I hadn’t taken into account getting nervous. During dinner I kind of had that butterfly, appetite-losing experience. No big deal, I had a good-sized lunch.
Then, at the club, I went into the empty green room and went into the “comics only” bathroom. Suddenly, well, lets just say “shit happens.” A lot. I hadn’t felt like that since wrist-slitting nights at open mikes in the neighborhood Howard Johnson’s lounge now years in the past. There was a lot to make me sick then. Not the least of which was some pretty terrible comedy, some of it my own.

My mortification was that as I was in the tiny bathroom, the crowd of other comics on the show had filtered into the green room. No one really noted whether I had come through the door or out of the bathroom. At least I hope they didn’t, because a couple of beats later after joining them, one of the other comics started commenting on someone having dropped a bomb in there and shut the bathroom door.

I was the only chick on the bill that show. So much for the often referred to, completely unoriginal, horribly cliched (and wonderfully redundant, like this sentence) jokes I’ve heard that start, “My wife/girlfriend/broad I’m banging never farts…”

Crushing stereotypes, by any means necessary.