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

The Blog

Funny or Die

Hey guys,
Sorry I haven’t written a blog in a while. The reasons why not are the following:

a) life
b) laziness
c) see a

Also, I got a fancy new IMAC, but for some reason, I can’t use advanced editor and ergo have to post in this measly little font without bold type. I guess it’s the opposite, so it would technically be cowardly type. For my retarded fans (sorry, I should be PC: fans who are mentally handicapped retards), I apologize and hope you can stick with me through the rest of this.

Forthcoming, there will be a blog about my two favorite subjects — my penis and comedy. Unfortunately for me, the two things seem to be inextricably linked, but such is life. Rest assured, the blog will be juicy and scandalous and titillating and there will NOT be a plug imbedded in it.

THIS blog however is indeed a plug blog — a plog.

My assistant (he’s cute, 8 years old, and also makes great Nikes) recently put a video on and I really need you guys — retards and non-retards alike — to help me out by going there and voting ‘funny’ and/or posting a comment.

You don’t have to watch the whole fucking thing — that shit is loooooooooooonnnng — but if you could show me a little love with a view, vote, and comment, that’d be amazing.

My goal is to get some attention from the folks there so I can do what I really want to do and post several short films of mine (i.e., porn)

For the helmet-headed tardos (i.e. family members) I will underline it and make it clickable:


So, go, click, and vote! Don’t vote ‘die’ or a grandmother baking an apple pie will be murdered with a kitten.

MIAMI IMPROV: May 30 – June 1

Like Cain, Willie Nelson, Jack Kerouac, and early 90s Dave Matthews Band, I am on the road again. This time I am in Miami, at the Improv, for three days with Jamie Kennedy dropping pina colada soaked humor bombs on five shows worth of sweaty, multi-ethnic Floridians. Here are the particulars:

WHO: Jamie Kennedy and Bill Dawes
WHAT: Three Days Worth of Funny
WHERE: Miami Improv, 3390 Mary Street, Suite 182, Miami, FL 33133 USA
WHEN: Friday May 30th, Saturday May 31st, Sunday June 1st

If you are anywhere near Miami (this includes the Cubans and Haitians floating in the Keys on rafts made of tires), you should definitely make your best effort to come by and watch some Funny Ha Ha. And, of course, since this is South Florida, I’ve set up a translation of this post for all the Cubans and Haitians.

Mother’s Day Weekend! Times Square Comedy Club! Jamie Kennedy! Bill Dawes! Everything Must Go!

This coming Mother’s Day weekend marks the 2-year anniversary of my working relationship with Jamie Kennedy. I told myself I wouldn’t cwy! The traditional gift for the second anniversary is cotton, so I plan on giving Jamie my underpants.

To celebrate, we will do five shows over three days at the newly-monikered Times Square Comedy Club. It’s just like the old Laugh Factory that the building used to house, which is just old like the old Show World strip club that the building used to house.

It’s still glitzy, seedy (literally… that was a sperm joke people), gauche, and ghosts of old strangled strippers haunt it … but in a fun way. (um, also literally. A stripper was murdered in the back dressing room shower about 9 years ago. I’m amazed they don’t try to promote that more when they sell tickets to the comedy shows.)

Here are the particulars in an easy to swallow Halloween candy-size packet:

WHO: Jamie Kennedy & Bill Dawes
WHAT: It’s Comedy, Stupid!
WHERE: Times Square Comedy Club (303 W. 42nd St., NY, NY 10036 — corner of 42nd and 8th)
WHEN: Thurs 5/8 8pm, Fri 5/9 8pm and 10pm, Sat 5/10 8pm and 10pm
WHY: Why not? And how many times can you see ‘Iron Man?’

Anyone who is a fan or a friend or a low-grade stalker HAS to come! This is going to be awesome. There are very limited FREE tickets and discounted tickets. So hit me up ASAP ( if you want some of that shit. Otherwise, pay for it and support the arts, you fucking jew…

and I say that in the least anti-semitic, most slumping-consumer-confidence way possible. So please, loosen your grip on those shekels ya’ schmendricks!





Handbags and Handjobs

I cannot tell you how tired I am of being told that “men and women are different” every time I have a conversation that revolves around one of the numerous gender-based double standards that invariably result in me not getting deep-throated in an anonymous, consequence-free environment like the men’s room at Laugh Factory! If only I had a nickel…

Anygag, the double-standards are inexhaustible.. I bet you could go back to the Stone Age and the first almost standing upright comic probably had a bit that went like this:

“Hey, buddy, you look woman-hole-whipped! I bet you’re the gatherer at your cave and SHE’S the hunterer! Dude, you put the ‘sap’ in ‘homo sapien’. You probably hold her animal skin-holdy-thing while she tries on skimpy animal skin foot coverings! Haha! I bet she clubbed YOU over the head and had sex with you when YOU were unconscious!!! These Upper Paleolithic women got ideas!!! Hahahahaa!! (please note that this joke endorses absolutely no previous knowledge of actual pre-history).

Unfortunately, as much as I chafe at the whole idea of men and women being fundamentally different, like gravity to physical movement, it’s been the most consistent, immutable, restrictive set of rules governing my entire life. It drives me fucking crazy. And it’s part of the reason gay comics have nothing to fucking talk about other than Judy Garland and how ‘technology is annoying’; they can’t delve into the antipodal nature of the sexes.

Take, for instance, the perplexing female obsession with shoes and handbags.

What’s that you say? Women love shoes?! Come on, Bill, you can’t steal Jeff Foxworthy’s closer from 1987! You’re right, person in my head, so let’s start with that idea as a constant.

X= The female preoccupation with shoes that eludes 99.99% of all men.

Now, let’s solve for Y(the fuck these bitches love shoes)..

When I was living with my ex-girlfriend — a period in my life I call ‘oops’ — she always tried to recruit me into her cult of footwear fascination. One of the ways she did this was by showing me pictures of shoes on ebay.

“Oh my God, it’s a Manolo Blahnik mary jane, but look at the little daisy on the strap. This is soooooo cuuuuute! What do you think?”

Sewth Effreekah, Paaht 3: Disturbin’ The Durbans

The flight to Durban, South Africa, was shittaceous.

I’m no fancy meteorologist with a degree from a community college, but the cross-continental air currents seemed as confused as the people. For most of the journey, the plane pitched and shimmied like a space shuttle bursting through layers of atmosphere in a Michael Bay movie. I couldn’t help but think that our bumpy ride was a reflection of the turbulent terrain beneath us. The bubbling cauldron of anger and political unrest seemed to agitate the air above it, and we, as working guests, had to fly right through. Stupid theory? Maybe… but has anyone ever experienced turbulence over Switzerland? I’m unconvinced.

The flying waitresses walked around with plastered smiles like it was ‘Turbulent Tuesday’ at Bennigans, but I was once again utterly convinced I would die a fiery death. To stave off my imminent demise, I turned and lifted my hips depending on how we careened in order to help steer the plane. Although I’m sure my Martin Short Ed Grimley impression (FUCK YOU! I’m not old!!) was effectively the only reason we didn’t skid into a field of farming negroes, I also — as a back up — used my psychic voodoo brain waves to keep the plane aloft. Even Jamie Kennedy, very much used to my “fagolic” in-flight behavior, leaned in towards me and said, “Okay, we’re probably going down. Before we do, just admit that I can get more girls than you.”

“You only get more girls than me because people think you’re Seth Green,” I quipped back, a lonely bead of sweat swelling on my brow before falling and shattering on my rigid forearm.

In generalized moments of terror like this, my life… lollygags in front of my eyes. The discrepancy between what I want and where I’m at suddenly and sharply comes into stark relief, as if to say ‘Ta da? Really Bill? That’s what you brought to the table?’ I always extrapolate into the aftermath of my demise, picturing the front page of the paper saying:


I try to short circuit these morbid fantasies by redoubling the quickness of my hip movements in my seat and the strength of my psychic voodoo brain waves. After all, I want an obit with a fuckin’ picture next to it at least when I die! I need to book at least a CSI or two, even a syndicated reality show; something that would hypothetically earn that type of posthumous treatment. Maybe one great supporting role *coughcough* in one great independent feature film, who knows? Whatever the formula for New York Times canonization and semi-immortality is, I want the variables from my life to plug in and work. I just really don’t want to be a footnote to a footnote when I die.