I will now attempt to woo you with live radio comedy. After several of these attempts over the past year, I feel as if, on average, around four of people actually follow the link, play the radio show, make it to the bit, and that two of those people laugh. Conversely, people hear and enjoy the bits in real time. I usually get several complimentary e-mails from total strangers in the days that follow the call(s). As for those that follow my orders and demands by way of this site, I’m we could have a gesticulating production in my living room, and Puppy Bowl II would not be the topic of discussion.
On Sunday, after batting around the high points of Puppy Bowl II through instant messages, Tom and I landed on the idea of the ref as a call-in character. A man annihilated by the fame. The wrong man for the job. We exchanged a few ideas, and I filled out the concept with notes (or a non-linear script of sorts) thirty minutes before the bit.
My cell phone was acting up, forcing a call back from a land line. This was worked into the bit with a painfully lukewarm joke.
My (MY) gradings:
Concept: 10
Execution: 6 - 7
LISTEN TO IT HERE.
The show was strong as a whole. Wurster’s call is a killer (it happens around the halfway point). Listen to the three hours while you clean or cook or stare at each other or what not. My bit starts at 2:32:35 (including flubbed bad connection intro).
Here are the notes:
CLIFF GIVENS
How could you say those things? Is that how it looks to you? Simple? Cheap? What do I know about Puppy Bowl? I was the ref. You saw me, right?
I’m so glad that it was a relaxing situation for you.
I need to set the record straight about Puppy Bowl, and if anyone’s qualified, it’s me.
You make it out to be some cakewalk, man. I’ve been on a downward spiral ever since we shot the show, and to add to that, after the continuous loop ran on Sunday, I got mobbed on the street yesterday.
I was wearing my ref’s uniform, a bomber-style jacket with “Eukanuba” across the back, I was carrying the Puppy Bowl sign, and a pet transporter with one of the puppies inside, but I don’t think that’s why the women walked up to me.
I see we have differing notions on “getting mobbed.”
I couldn’t handle it, man.
The smell was overwhelming. I don’t even really like animals. They really creep me out. I don’t like how they look at me. I’m really not used to even being around them.
They said I could just wear the uniform and stand in the corner, but I got to the shoot, and all of the sudden, I had to refill the water bowl, I had to place the toys, I mean I wasn’t operating the camera or anything like that, THANK GOD, but it was so intense, worst of all, I had to lift the dogs into the ring, I had to lift the cats into the ring….
(freak out and shiver at the thought of handling the animals)
They have dead eyes.
We had to shoot the Bissell Vacuum Cleaner Halftime Kitty Show four times. The kittens couldn’t get the finale right. One kitten fell asleep. We only landed two pieces of confetti on another kitten. It was a disaster.
(whisper) I haven’t slept in a week. I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN A WEEK.
That “Puppying Around” joke? Not very funny.
The only thing I have to look forward to……..
I get seven dollars on every DVD copy.
It’s not going to repair the damage….
Jeff Jensen and myself made a few mistakes with Just Farr A Laugh. We learned very little from these mistakes, but one ALL-CAPS item on the Just Farr Another Laugh to-do list will be to make sure the tracks are digitally-named (if that’s the terminology) during the manufacturing process. Because we forgot (or did not know) to do this with Just Farr A Laugh, a happy patron took it upon himself or herself to name the tracks in their media player (probably realPlayer). I first noticed this in 2003. Maybe. Being the first to brand my comedy with their stupidity, the happy patron’s distinctly unfunny track titles are now tattooed on Just Farr A Laugh, and I occasionally field the blame for the unfortunate sense of humor. Someone please answer this possibly ignorant concern: Renaming the tracks in my player will be a futile move, right? So, on to what happens when your music machine grapples with Just Farr A Laugh.
(Disclaimer: Even as I’m about to do it, I hesitate to post these track titles. I want to expose the dunder-headed nature of the attempt. If you are reading, Mr. Faux-Depraved Funnyman, make yourself known in the comments section. Also, I’m in no way upset or offended by any of this.)
(Note: Just Farr Another Laugh will be out by the end of 2006. If not, I will drive my car into a lake.)
Artist: Penis McFuckwit and the Penetrators
Sample Track Titles:
“I Smell Cat Pussy”
“Give Me Gonorrhea”
“Your Face Smells Like Donkey Dick”
“My Hand Is In Your Intestinal Tract”
“Please God Take My Dog Penis Away”
“Why Not Fuck A Hamburger”
“Spooge In Your Ice Cream”
“Excrements In Decrements”
“Eat A Bowl Of Dicks”
“Maybe I Fart On Your Face”
“You’ve Got Semen In Your Nose”
I’ve got some guesses towards your identity: Embittered former member of Alice Donut? Mr. Bungle fan? A.C. fan? Kevin Smith fan? Close?
Guilty Pleasures. The syndrome, as a whole, can and should be erased. Making references to, or believing in “guilty pleasures” is not an incurable social or pop-cultural blight, nor are we all “guilty” of it. “Liking something you should not” is counterintuitive to music love and research, and has been a reliable crutch since music criticism became saturated with indie rock and post-indie rock music geeks (essentially late-80’s until today). Music critics from the 1970’s did not feel the need to apologize for what they liked. The fear and self-referential, defensive babble that might precede a statement like “The Little River Band wrote some songs that were catchier than the Beach Boys” proves a bigger insincerity, a real personality flaw. If you like it, you like it, if you derive real pleasure from it, guilt is evidence of a dishonesty with one’s self. Also, the guilty pleasure syndrome provides an easy route to pedestrian humor for writers or conversationalists. Differing from the practice of simply laughing at bad art, it is bolstered by the sturdy backbone of self-deprecation. With music, it is the equivalent of droning, “You know what, I saw that movie in the theater.” To exemplify the flimsiness of guilty pleasure status, look no further than the genres of music that were once labeled as such, then went on to become very hip and accepted, such as metal (usually “hair”) and new wave, two past genres that traveled from “guilty pleasure” to underground credibility, and then on to relative mainstream success (in a retro-savvy fashion).