12/30 the com.

a joke:
so this salesman is in a diner in small town south USA and he asks the waitress, 'this is my first night in town. is there anything here worth doing?'
to which she replies, 'oh yes, you just have to go to farmer jacks chicken show.'
'chicken show?' he asks.
'yes, it is a tap dancing chicken.' she says.
'well i do have to see that.' he says
so she takes out a napkin and writes the directions to the farm. the salesman pays his bill and drives through the wilderness and dark for about twenty minutes, until he comes across a farm house with a sign that reads 'thunder the tap dancing chicken'. he goes to the door, pays some old lady two dollars and walks inside.
the farm house is full, of what appears to be every person in town. kids are celebrating their birthday in one corner, men are standing around talking sports in one corner and woman are in the middle keeping an eye on everything.
suddenly there comes a clank of a cow bell and the farm house lights flicker causing everybody to go to their seats.
the salesman watches, as outsiders tend to do, and ends up with a corner piece of bench in the front row.
there is a red curtain on the stage that parts and from out behind it comes a chicken dressed in billowy white open at the throat dress shirt, his pants are tight lycra connecting to polished to shine black tap shoe.
the chicken stands at attention. someone in the crowd whistles. then the music starts. as the drums begin to thunder the chicken begins to tap dance.
the salesman is immediately taken aback. it moves in perfect rhythm to the drum. the chicken moves, not as a wild thing unknowingly typing hamlet but as a professional. it's chicken head bopping to one side then to the other as the dance dictates. the animal does not make the cluck of a chicken but keeps quiet wings tight to it's sides shirt perfect in the movement.
the dance lasts for thirty breathtaking minutes. as the curtain parts and the chicken disappears people are hollering and applauding wildly. someone stands and throws feed at the stage causing others to do so. the salesman is so moved as to wipe a tear from his eye.
never had he witnessed such random strokes of genius.
as the crowd begins to thin out he makes his way back stage where farmer jack is standing beside the caged chicken and a group of other farmers all talking weather and news of the day.
'excuse me.' the salesman asks.
'help ya?' spits farmer jack.
'i just have to know how you trained that chicken to dance,' says the salesman pointing at the bird that is now clucking and chickening about the cage.
all the farmers look at one another knowingly and smile.
'well son, it's real simple. lean in close and i'll tell ya.'
the salesman leans in until he can smell the tobacco on the old man's breath.
'yes?' said the salesman.
the farmer takes a quick glance about the room then says, 'you don't take your dick out of 'em till your finished.'

real time:

i am at the kitchen table, my face soaked, my head soaked in gasoline. it is near two in the morning. desperation has pushed me to this. when allowed we push away our dreams, we become sidetracked. we fear and curse and move away from the path.
in my hand is a burlap sack with the eyes cut out. in front of me is a table of pain killers. i must burn for awhile. on the table is bottles of booze. i must be left with no choice. like moses face covered to hide the scars of the kiss of god, as i deliver the word.
gone will be the hours of the cubicle. gone will be the put off of open mics and the writing sessions to television. if i must be homeless, i will be homeless, if i must starve, i must starve and if i must die i die.
i am a comedian.
i am talking into a tape recorder.
i am a comedian.
in my hand is a burlap sack.
in my hand is a lighter. it makes a clicking sound as the fire comes off and on.
faith requires the sacrifice of everything to the glory of the goal.
we have fire. we have heat. we have no turning back.

2
introducing...the comedian. the soap box.