Bill is an actor, writer & comic in Los Angeles. Read more...

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Going to The Maul: Conclusion

‘Maul her,’ he said.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Wait until she has to go to the bathroom. After about a minute, go by the entrance. When she comes out, just maul her.’

He went back to eating. He said it like he was explaining where the frozen food section in the grocery store was located. I got the feeling my interaction with Rob was going to be short – i.e,. he didn’t seem like he was dying to talk to me about something he considered obvious – so I lasered in and demanded he proffer more information.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She comes out, grab her by the back of the head and kiss her. Push her up against a wall if there’s one. Just maul her.’

I laughed. This was sexual assault. He was fucking with me. Right?

‘What if she freaks out?’

‘There’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll smack you. But anybody would play those odds in Vegas.’

Then he winked and went back to work on his penne.

Going to The Maul, Part 1

“Women like confidence! That’s why when I’m at a bar and I see a girl I like,
I say, ‘Hey, let’s take a look at that snatch!’
They’re always like, ‘Wow, you’re confident. Ok, what do you think of this?’
‘Hmm, looks a bit gamey, but I’m in a pinch, so saddle up, Seabiscuit!’”

— Daniel Tosh (from ‘True Stories I Made Up’)

– — — — –

When I did “Burning Blue” – the play from which I was fired for being patriotic and having a large penis – I worked with Chad Lowe. At first I bristled at the prospect of this once-upon-a-time TV star coming in as the lead. I’d been doing theater professionally for six or seven years by that point and not only had he never done a play but, judging by the first few rehearsals, he’d never learned how to memorize lines. A few weeks into the process, however, my tune began to change. Chad, I discovered, possessed the one personality trait I find most endearing in the people I encounter in my daily life:

Chad Lowe was fucked up.

Don’t get me wrong, he struck me as a good man, always tryng to live right and do the right thing; but when I knew him, he was tortured, confused and drowning in a vexing marital quagmire that quickly dissolved into divorce. On top of that, and despite growing up with all the trappings of an upper-class lifestyle, Chad is the quintessential recessive gene sibling. Even before I knew him, I felt bad for him. Sure, he is an exceedingly charming, funny, intelligent guy, but it’s not hard to notice that his DNA’s spiral staircase is missing a few more steps than his brother’s. I always imagined his would be difficult shoes to walk in. I have two older brothers who were “valedictorians” and “certified geniuses” and “loved by my parents”, but they aren’t fuckin’ Rob Lowe. I never had to see MY brothers bang two hot underprime girls on primetime TV.

Once we got comfortable enough with each other to talk about personal things, I asked Chad the obvious question: “Hey, was it tough growing up with a brother like that?”

Chad chuckled and replied, “Wait until you meet my dad.”

Why I Became a Fucking Comic, Part 2

(Why I Became a Comic, Part 1)

I got fired from ‘Burning Blue,’ ostensibly, for calling a woman a ‘cunt.’ But that’s not all the calculus in the equation.

Let’s three-arrow-bloop-bloop-bloop TiVo rewind from the dropping of the cuntomic bomb to the previous night, where I got another anonymous and petty note, this time about my underwear.

The costume designer had quit the show several weeks ago, so we actors, for the most part, were left to our own devices in terms of wardrobe decisions. Considering I’m naked and/or half naked throughout, I bought a pair of goofy American flag boxers to wear in the second act as a comedy call-back to silly Smiley-Face boxers I sported in the first act. “Shit, I’m stripping and naked and wet in November, the least these fuckers could do is let me have a little fun with my underpants,” I reasoned. Again, the bookended boxers got a big laugh plus they completely worked with the irreverent mischievousness of my character. However, it wasn’t written in the play, hence the note that Thursday – despite the fact that I had been wearing them the whole week.

The new directive confused and frustrated me, so I asked the stage manager why I couldn’t wear them. He didn’t answer; he simply smiled sarcastically and left in a spritz of gay smugness. When I went to my dressing room, I was further chagrined by the fact that my underwear had literally been HIDDEN from me.

I don’t want to go TOO DEEP into the specifics of the firing, but let me just say this: apparently, some women get offended when you call them ‘cunts’. I seem to find, In particular, that cunts think it especially offensive. Although I understand the catastrophic power of the ‘c’ word, I think when used appropriately it can accurately describe the heinous behavior of a woman (or man) better than anything else in Webster’s. Now there are some people who liken it to the ‘n’ word, and those people are ‘STUPID cunts.’ The ‘n’ word is a racial epithet, while the ‘c’ word strictly connotes behavior. In order for someone to get the label of a ‘c’, their behavior has to be ‘c’ – worthy, and it has nothing to do with color of skin or type of genitalia the person possesses.

This woman was ‘c’ – worthy, to say the least.

Without instructions about WHAT drawers to don and not having any other options provided by the production, I retrieved my funny boxers and wore them onstage the following night. As I came offstage for a quick change in the dressing room, the assistant stage manager – let’s call her Twatty McStinkybox — barged in and verbally accosted me in front of the entire cast for wearing the aforementioned boxers… loudly… during a show. Did I mention it was during a show?

I quietly told her to address it “after the show.” She said, “Fuck you.” I told her not to speak to me “like that in the middle of a performance.” She repeated, “Fuck you.” Target activated, C bomb dropped. Tada! Simple math.

Why I Became a Fucking Comic, Part 1

In October of 2002, I was doing an Off-Broadway play called Burning Blue, a melodrama about gays in the military. Specifically, navy fighter pilots stationed on an aircraft carrier who may or may not be playing ‘stealth bomber’ in the bunks.

For a change, I got cast as one of the few straight characters in the play (straight? Was I losing my looks?) and got the feeling, early on, that THIS was the role that was going to launch my career. It seemed custom fit for me. My character, Boner, was a hayseed from Arkansas who never took shit too seriously, and loved, loved, loved swinging his hickory stick and romancing the ladies. It was Matthew McConaghey with a flysuit, a buzz cut, and deeper drawl.

In the midst of the hurly-burly of the tortured gayness within the play, I played the much-needed comic relief and, in turn, got some of the most glowing reviews of the Off-Broadway season.

However, and not surprisingly, the play got hammered in the press. The predominant grievance of the critics was the overly dramatic writing and the hackneyed subject matter. When the play was written in 1994, the controversial ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy instituted by William Jefferson Clinton was (probably) a great centrifuge for the debate spinning this drama into action. But in Fall 2002, just a year after the attack on the Towers, the issue seemed quaint. “Oh, how cute, gays and their rights. Remember that?”

The feeling amongst the arguably deluded director and producers was ‘Hey, this gem worked in London, it must be the cast’s fault.’ Subsequentially, everyone got micromanaging notes about their performances, because GOD FORBID it was the fault of a mediocre play or an emotionally unstable director going through a divorce… nah, couldn’t be. So, despite getting my peestick sucked by every reviewer in town for my work, I was similarly henpecked and hampered by insubstantial and often pointless notes.

The flap of the butterfly wing that started me off as a comic was the following:

During the run of the play, I noticed that there was a line that never seemed to work. When a military investigator asks my Arkansas hayseed character if one of his shipmates is gay, my character’s ostensibly funny retort is “Well, he never copped my knob.”

I’ve always been pretty thorough as an actor, so my accent was spot-on. It wasn’t southern, it was Arkansan. One of the things Arkansans DON’T do is aspirate, or ‘pop,’ the ‘T’ sound in a word like ‘copped.’ For example, a British guy or, I don’t know, an asshole, would pronounce it ‘cop’t,’ which is technically the correct pronunciation. Trailer trash from Arkansan Ozarks would never hit that ‘t’ sound. Furthermore, the line seemed like a mixed metaphor. Whatever the case, it just never really got the laugh the playwright clearly wanted, ‘t’ sound or no ‘t’ sound, and I never felt comfortable with the consonant conundrum. In short, ‘copped my knob’ sucked donkey dick.

Immediately after saying that line (which got feeble chuckles), the investigator asks my character if he has ‘ever had sexual relations with a member of the communist party, the same sex, or a small animal?’ Boner, a consummate sensualist and self-avowed cow fucker, takes a lengthy beat and says, “Define small?”

Huge laugh. Aaaaaaaand end of scene. The lights quickly go black, which serves to redouble the laugh – almost like a theatrical rimshot.

Who Wants to F#$% a Tiger?! Me, Apparently

My second video is up on FunnyorDie. This one isn’t stand-up and doesn’t involve shameless flirtation from the stage with women of color. This video is what we in “The Business” call a comedy short, which is industry code for I’m too poor to make a feature.

I’ve been shooting these videos based on some of my more ‘visual’ standup bits. I shot this one in a day and it’s not as bad as being fucked in the ass by Kobe Bryant, but it’s definitely a first effort in a series of 3-4 that I’ll be making this summer. I’m about to shoot the next one in a week, which will be black and white with a voice-over by my friend, the uber-talented Michael C. Hall.

FunnyorDie doesn’t DO letterbox so it’s anamorphic or some shit and looks all stretched out like a Chinee action theater film circa 1972. As a result, throughout watching it, I feel like a ninja is about to jump from an elevated location and kick me in my solar plexus.

Anychink, the point is to watch it on FunnyorDie, leave a comment, and vote Funny. I can’t MAKE you and I’m sure some of you will vote Die because isn’t that fun to do?? BUT… if you vote FUNNY, I swear to GOD will give you 150k from the royalties for my next book! *

Well, maybe not, but a comment will guarantee you FREE TIX to any standup show I’m on in New York, LA, or around the country.

What happened to my LAST video that got 5k hits on FunnyorDie in 5 days? Why was it taken down?

Due to the idiosyncracies of libel laws, I won’t specify.

However, I do have a bit of unrelated advice: allegedly, whenever you’re hiring a closeted homosexual to do work for you, and God forbid, you have a disagreement about something, don’t ever accuse them of acting ‘bitchy.’ They will often respond by deleting things from FunnyorDie faster than you can snap your fingers three times in a circle and then sashay to a guilty glory hole in a Westchester bathroom. Just FYI, for those of you hiring an assissytant.

* Restrictions apply. Offer only good in pesos.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die