Laughter is the Best Aphrodisiac. Or Something Like That.

In my book, a sense of humor goes a heckuva long way. It can turn the most ugly of frogs to the most charming of princes, a short bald dude into the cutest thing I've seen since Furbie. And I'm obviously not alone--most comics have totally hot girlfriends. However, being in LA, the mecca of self-medicating, I've learned that comics can also be the most self-destructive, insecure, fucked-up maniacs on the planet. And despite my best efforts to maintain the funny guy fantasy, it can come to a crashing halt right quick. Case in point, I met this dude, Eric. He was a struggling comedian, just starting to make the rounds of open mike nights, etc. But man, he was a crack up. I'd nearly wet my pants every time we hung out (I said WET MY PANTS, sickies) with his hysterical stories. Then he asked me to one of his shows. I was flattered and put on my best groupie/slutty comic arm candy outfit I could find and went.
Well. Eric did a good job, but he closed with this routine about his ex-girlfriend that was so sick and twisted I briefly considered running for the exit. Something about two blow-up dolls, a plunger, a midget and the Special Olympics. All I could think of was, He...thought THIS up? How long before I start fielding these kinds of requests? Needless to say, I thanked him for his performance and politely asked him to never call me again. All you Dane Cook lovers, keep that in mind.