Stagger Lee (Lloyd Price)

Sal’s Italian Too was ready for the annual Blackhawk Banquet. Decorated in black and orange, a long table was set with a buffet and next to it was a cake that had a Blackhawk decked in a football uniform and a Lady Hawk dressed in a cheerleader outfit. Usually held before the first scrimmage in the high school cafeteria, it was the first time the event was a white tablecloth affair.

Our dad, the Whiskey Rebellion Football Booster treasurer, was responsible for this magic. Using his background as a tax lawyer, he balanced the budget and used his power of persuasion to get Sal to close the restaurant for the evening and let The Blackhawks use the space for free. In return, Sal’s Italian Too got a courtesy full page ad in the glossy football program and a mention by the announcer during every home game of the season.

Unfortunately my dad was late because a deposition had gone longer than expected. The food was going quickly, so my mom pre-fixed a plate and sent my younger sister Skipper and I get some tin foil to cover it from the kitchen staff to keep it warm. (Really it was a one person errand but Skipper decided to tag along).

After obtaining the tin foil, we passed Suzette Winklebleck, the varsity cheerleading coach. Her jet black hair swooshed as she walked along swinging her hips. Suzette, as she insisted on being called by her girls, had been head cheerleader at Whiskey Rebellion herself. Try outs for the squad were a mere formality as she always selected girls who who’s family members she shook pom poms with.

There was one loophole for anyone who didn’t have The Old Whiskey Rebellion connection. Every summer, Suzette conducted a week long clinic at the high school where she taught “Lady Hawk Fundamentals.” Like a good role model, she could be seen smoking by the bleachers before camp. Our mom had put Skipper and me in it a few summers before in case we wanted to cheer. At the end of the week, Suzette explained to our mom that Skipper and I weren’t “Lady Hawk material.” We were relieved.

Suzette passed us on heals that were too high to walk on and in hot pink outfit so tight that she hung out like a Pillsbury biscuit waiting to pop. Greeted by her husband Cort, a long suffering and non-descript man, she gave him a cringeworthy kiss.

Skipper, who was ten and tested genius level said, “Those shoes defy the laws of physics. She could fall and seriously injure her head.”

I said, “That would imply there was a head to injure.”

Skipper said, “Maybe she already has. That would explain impractical outfit.”

We arrived at the table and handed our mother the foil. Suzette swooshed by, swinging her hips so wide she nearly hit our brother Wendell in the head. Wendell said, “What an obnoxious safety hazard.”

Mom said, “I’ll tell you what’s obnoxious. The Lady Hawk Boosters don’t donate, don’t plan and yet we have to invite them.” The controversy at the planning meeting for The Blackhawk Banquet had been the budget. My parents, who were doing most of the foot work and realized that they could cut the cost significantly by not inviting The Lady Hawks who never made a monetary donation. The Old Whiskey Rebellion faction was up in arms because this was the way it had always been. Mom and Mrs. Renninger got into a shouting match with my dad and Mr. Renninger had to separate them. After seeing he wasn’t going to get much support, Dad caved. Mom was still bitter.

Suzette swooshed by again. Mom said, “She’s Old Whiskey Rebellion alright, because she is too old to be wearing that outfit.”

Our dad arrived. Feet away from our table, Suzette was hitting on several Blackhawk football players. She flipped her hair and laughed as Cort stood helplessly by her side. Between bites my dad said, “Jesus God almighty! Doesn’t she know this is a family event? Even the girls at The Jefferson Lodge have more sense and decorum.” The Jefferson Lodge was the local strip club in town. Some of the more illustrious Whiskey Rebellion alums danced there.

The lights dimmed and the banquet began. Coach Matthias began to speak in his thick West Virginia accent, “Thank y’all for coming tonight. A special thank you to Wendelin Brucker for gettin’ Sal to cater this event!” Dad proudly stood up like an actor who had won an Oscar and the room rewarded him in kind.

Matthias said, “GO HAWKS! LET’S GET FIRED UP!” Like a tent revival, the room was in a frenzy. Coach Matthias said, “Now I ain’t a thinkin’ man or a talkin’ man so I will bring Coach Stephens.” Relief hit the room as the tall, dark and handsome dream boat of a JV coach approached the mic. The women all silently drooled.

Coach Stephens said, “Now, I would like to introduce the first award, Hardest Worker. This young man only became a Blackhawk this year. He didn’t know the game but he learned it and over the summer improved his bench press and speed. I am pleased to present The Hardest Working Blackhawk Award to Wendell Brucker!”

Tears of joy streamed down Mom’s face as she took photos. Dad beamed with pride. The Blackhawk players chanted, “BRUCKER! BRUCKER! BRUCKER!” Bashfully, Wendell took his award. Speaking softly behind the mic he said, “Thank you Coach, my teammates and my family. Go Hawks!” The room applauded, kindly acknowledging this shy kid who didn’t expect to win.

Wendell got fist bumps from his fellow Blackhawks as well as The Lady Hawks. When he sat down, Skipper and I flashed him a thumbs up. Dad said, “Son, your public speaking skills suck.”

Wendell said, “Dad, I didn’t know I was going to win.”

Dad said, “Growing up, I didn’t have the same advantages as you. Remember that.” Wendell angrily shoved food in his mouth and looked away.

Coach Stephens then said, “Now I present to you, team captain of this year’s Blackhawks, elected by uniamous vote by both his teammates and coaches, Kyle Latham!”

Kyle ran up to the stage with his blonde ringlets bouncing. Like a rapper at a concert, he stood onstage and made the raise the roof sign with his hands. Then he yelled, “Go Hawks! WHOOT! WHOOT!”

Unmoved by the fact Wendell was intentionally ignoring him, Dad pointed to Kyle, “Wendell, now that’s how you command a crowd.”

Kyle jogged back to his seat. Mrs. Latham, who was at the next table, took my mom by the arm, “I don’t know what the hell that was. We made him practice his speech at home!”

Mom shook her head empathically and said, “How about this, we combine Wendell and Kyle and create the perfect kid.” The two women laughed.

Coach Stephens said, “This next young man has been a leader on the field and off. He also overcame adversity but kept going. It is my pleasure to present The Blackhawk Spirit Scholarship to Matt Eichenbrode.”

The room cheered loudly for several minutes. Matt Eichenbrode was inarguably the nicest kid on the team. He had gotten to know Wendell because they both volunteered with Circle of Friends, a group that had lunch once a week with special needs kids at school. On the fence about whether or not to play football, Matt swayed the tide and talked Wendell into becoming a Blackhawk.

This past spring, Mr. Eichenbrode, who drove a truck for Steel City Beer got into a fatal auto accident during a flash flood. Mrs. Eichenbrode worked as a book keeper and Matt worked part time as a landscaper, but that wasn’t going to be enough as he had three younger siblings at home, one which was special needs. In response to the tragedy, The Blackhawks had a fundraising drive for The Eichenbrode’s. Our family, as well as every other Blackhawk and Lady Hawk family, donated.

Because he had lost his own father as a teenager, our dad had gave the Eichenbrode’s a free legal consult. He didn’t practice accident law, but a shark of a colleague owed our dad a huge favor because he had gotten him out of a jam with the Feds. The shark, grateful he wasn’t in prison, got the Eichenbrode’s a huge settlement. The money, while it did not bring back their father, helped solve other problems like paying Mr. Eichenbrode’s burial costs and saving their home from foreclosure until the life insurance kicked in. To thank him, The Eichenbrode’s had sent a huge flower arrangement to our house last week.

As Matt walked to get his award Dad said, “Part of the reason I was late was this kid stopped me to shake my hand and thank me personally, AGAIN.” Then Dad yelled, “GO MATTY!”

Giving Coach Stephens a man hug and taking his award, Matt said, “While my dad can’t be here tonight, I know he is looking down thanking each and every one of you for helping us out. Being a Blackhawk is being a part of a family. Every time I lace up my cleats and step on the field, there is always an obstacle but I always have my team behind me. That way, I can turn a negative into a positive.”

Matt went on, saying he was inspired by his work with Circle of Friends, the team trainers and the hospital staff who tried to save his father after his traumatic accident to help others. With the $500 reward from the Blackhawk Spirit Scholarship, Matt aspired to go to St. Francis University, major in physical therapy and continue his playing career with The Red Flash. When Matt finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house and he got a standing ovation. Dad beamed. The Blackhawk Banquet was as close to perfect as could be.

After Matt went back to his seat and the applause died down, Coach Stephens introduced Suzette. Wobbling in her too high heels, Suzette said,

“Hi Everyone. Quick story. This summer, I saw Matt at the beach.”

I whispered to Skipper, “Beach?! After the last few months he’s had? Is she insane?!”

Skipper shrugged, “Maybe she got her summers mixed up.”

Suzette said, “So there Matt was, shirt off, pecs out and a huge bulge coming from his speedo. And then all of a sudden a potato fell out and landed by his feet.” Mom put her hands over Skipper’s ears. The room gasped in WTF horror.

Al Pender, who was perpetually on JV yelled, “HIS DAD’S DEAD! LEAVE HIM ALONE AND PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, YOU SAGGY, FUGLY BITCH!” Usually no one liked Al, but now he had become the conscious for the room as jeers and obscenities filled the air. Mom’s hands were glued to Skipper’s ears as she shook her head in annoyance. Dad’s eyes were fixed in their infamous death stare. The Blackhawk Banquet had gone off the rails.

Suzette laughed and did a tone deaf hair flip, “C’mon, it was just a joke!”

Wendell said, “Sal’s probably not having us back next year.”

A big, bass voice thundered, “GET OFF THE STAGE YOU FREAKIN’ MORON!” Glancing over, we realized it was Sal himself! Taking his large arm, he threw a piece of half eaten Blackhawk cake that landed several inches from Suzette just missing her. Panicked, Suzette screamed.

I said, “Yeah, because Sal will be in prison for killing her.” Dad gave us both the shut the hell up look and we did.

In an attempt to save the evening, Kyle sprinted to the stage and took the mic from Suzette, “Blackhawk Nation, my first duty as your captain is to order you to stop the violence now. We are better than this!” When we became a country I did not know, but slowly the room began to quiet down.

Matt walked up to the stage joining Kyle. He said, “Guys, thank you for having my back. Until now it’s been a great night. Let’s step over this and make it a great night again. Go Hawks!”

Coach Matthias stood up and took a turn at the mic, “Latham, Eichenbrode, thank y’all for making sure the Titanic didn’t hit the iceberg. Now sit down.” Kyle and Matt obeyed. Coach said, “Next to heckle, I don’t care who y’all are, will have to run. That’s not a threat that’s a fact. And Winklebleck, don’t go out for Saturday Night Live.” The room broke out into a much needed laugh break that lasted for an entire minute.

When the laughter died down, Coach Matthias smiled, “Now that’s comedy!” Then he gave the mic back to Suzette.

The evening went on with the Blackhawks giving The Lady Hawks a mix of hostile silence and weakened claps. Embarrassed, The Lady Hawks grabbed their awards and ran. When she was done, Suzette grabbed Cort by the arm and quickly wobbled out the door.

As we left, Mrs. Renninger approached us. Having been a Lady Hawk cheerleading captain herself, she now had three sons who were Blackhawks. Her blonde hair in a bob and her pearly whites flashing she said, “Wendelin, Gracie, you’re right. This is for the boys. The Lady Hawks can embarrass themselves on their own dime.”

Dad said, “Cindy, what she did to Matt tonight was appalling.”

Mrs. Renninger’s said, “Yup. They’re our neighbors. Skip and I organized the meal train for Nadine and the kids after Walt was killed. Between us, Suzette was never really Lady Hawk material. The only reason she got to be captain was because mother was coach. She couldn’t even do a straddle jump.” As we digested this useless information, Mrs. Renninger turned to Wendell, “Congratulations sweetheart. Welcome to the Blackhawks.”

Wendell said, “Thank you, Mrs. Renninger.” Then the perpetual busy body marched away.

When she was out of sight Mom said, “I still don’t like her.”

Dad said, “The night she got into it with your Mom I thought Skip was gonna have to give her a rabies shot. So much for Old Whiskey Rebellion.” Then he took Skipper’s hand and off we went.

Mrs. Renninger took her marching and circulated a petition demanding Suzette Winklebleck be removed. Suzette, in order to save her job got her mother, friends and former Lady Hawks to write letters in support explaining it was just a joke that was taken the wrong way. Suzette was soon to learn the key to good comedy was timing, awareness and knowing your audience. The schoolboard agreed she was batting 0-3 when they sided with the petitioners and fired her.

Suzette Winklebleck was replaced with Senorita Marianne Jonestum, a Spanish teacher from the middle school with a fake tan, fake eyelashes and a brief career as a swimsuit model in West Virginia. Reforming The Lady Hawks from within, Senorita Jonestrum selected her squad based on merit rather than politics. Eager to make amends , Senorita Jonestrum and The Lady Hawk Boosters helped plan The Blackhawk Banquet the following year and made a sizeable donation to cover costs. Sal, happy that Suzette would never be returning, gladly invited the team back where they have been holding the annual event ever since without incident.

Matt Eichenrode had a standout senior season with the Hawks and was admitted early decision to St. Francis. He continued to make magic on the field with The Red Flash and off where he graduated with honors. Moving back to Whiskey Rebellion, Matt now owns and operates the very successful Eichenbrode Physical Therapy where his wife is the office manager. Carrying on family tradition, his twin sons both play for the Mini Blackhawks in the Pop Warner league.

Eichenbrode Physical Therapy takes out a full page ad in the glossy football program every fall. In the center of the ad is a picture of Matt, Coach Stephens and Coach Matthias from that infamous Blackhawk Banquet. Getting the last laugh, Matt has this message for perspective clients, “Physical therapy is turning a negative into a positive. An injury might feel like you just found a potato on the beach. It’s unexpected, but once you peel back the layers, with the help of your team you can do anything.”

Crazy (Patsy Cline)

                                                              

Several years ago I dated George Washington. His mother named him after a founding father hoping he would do great things. At first, I thought the name was appropriate as George was a rising star criminal lawyer who quoted Thomas Paine, loved the opera and prided himself on his knowledge of Shakespeare.

The name was where any similarity ended. George Washington the president could not tell a lie, but my ex George could not tell the truth. While I could not speak to George’s abilities in the courtroom he had the lying part down pat. Classics include but are not limited to: telling people he went to The University of Michigan when he went to Michigan State, claiming he was a studio musician with The Violent Femmes and Detroit Cobras, waxing nostalgic about a storied semi-pro boxing career, sleeping with three famous actresses (famous outside of the US but too famous for the worldwide web), and finally, telling people Jimmy Hoffa was his dad’s godfather.

After three months, while I was willing to give him half credit for the boxing career as he wore boxing shorts, George’s vivid imagination became too much to handle. After a huge fight because he told yet another fibaruski, George and I broke up.

I was sad as George was sweet, smart and looked good on paper, but being with a compulsive liar was kicking up every trust issue I had. The lies still continued to reveal themselves after we broke up. George had claimed to have written a song about me. One day, while listening to the radio, I had discovered Snow Patrol had actually recorded it. Feeling I deserved someone who could tell the truth and who’s constant garbage didn’t stink up my life, I put George’s memory on the curb.

Enter Lizzy Nebowicz. Tall and angular, Lizzy was a musical theatre drop out and aspiring standup comedian who worked the door at a venue where I was a regular. A long Islander who still lived with her parents and took the train to the city, Lizzy wore flannels sans makeup, smoked pot, and performed a pale imitation of a Carlin-esque act where she boasted of a teenage shoplifting conviction and drug experimentation. While her jokes got laughs, the content was hardly original and blended in with every would be edgy lady comic. If anything, Lizzy’s street persona was a mere put on for the 21 year old lost follower.

Offstage Lizzy was affable, friendly, and was a welcome sight at a venue riddled with behind the scenes drama. One day I said to Lizzy, “Find me on facebook and let’s do coffee. I like you.”

“You too,” Lizzy said, “It’s tough to find girls that arent petty bitches.” After that, we high fived rocking out to Nirvana as the club janitor put up the chairs.

Lizzy never found me on facebook and I let it slip from my mind as life became a busy mix of singing telegrams, other survival jobs, road dates doing comedy, first drafts of manuscripts, lovers coming and going, roommates coming and going and my brother’s wedding.

That is, until Valentine’s Day when I got to the club and my $100 poster and $50 post cards were gone. I worked three jobs to pay for those things, and had worked even harder to promote the show running my immune system down. My posters also helped with foot traffic which was at times fifty percent of my audience.

Kirk, the club manager, who was usually a hard ass, contrary to his nature reimbursed me for my stolen posters and post cards in cash. Uncharacteristically apologetic, Kirk not only promised it wouldn’t happen again, but as a good will token booked me in the big room where the national headliners performed, an honor for a little fledging who looked up to those folks.

As my show for my five audience wrapped, Lizzy arrived at the club. Instead of her normal self, Lizzy looked like a shell of a human. Blotchy face and puffy eyes, Lizzy looked like she had been crying. Valentine’s Day was the day for love but the day for loss, so I decided to say hi and to comfort my friend. Lizzy responded by letting out a yelp and running away as if she had seen Godzilla. I scratched my head, what the hell had just happened?

In the back I could hear Kirk tearing into Lizzy who sobbed like an injured animal, “I don’t care if you are dating an asshole. You destroyed property and cost me money! I want to see you succeed. Do it again and you are fired, understand?!” No wonder she was upset, she was having a crappy day. Yeesh.

I didn’t connect the dots as Kirk was usually melodramatic, and painstakingly planned my March show. The show date arrived, and I saw my post cards and posters were stolen yet again, and Kirk apologized and reimbursed me for a second time. I also heard Lizzy had been fired, but Kirk fired people constantly. Shortly thereafter he hired her back, but this was typical Kirk.

I decided to take a break from producing the next month as not only had my things been thrown away by an anonymous hater, but busting my butt to perform for five people two months in a row was disheartening, especially when I was being sabotaged. Plus I had scheduled a trip to the beach with my family.

When I got back from vacation, I ran into Benny, a mutual friend of George’s and mine. Truth is, until I saw Benny I hadn’t thought about George in so long that I barely remembered his last name.

Giving me a long hug on the street that seemed to last an eternity, Benny said, “April! What a pleasant surprise! Hannah and I would have loved to have had you at our wedding!”

 “Then why didn’t you invite me?” Benny had talked about his wedding to Hannah, his NYU Law School sweetheart, constantly. Even to strangers.

Benny struggled to form the words, “We thought it would be too hard.”

“We’re friends and I want to see you happy. Why would it have been too hard?” Now I was confused. Although we hadn’t spoken in sometime, Benny and I had remained friends after I parted with George.

“George said you were so distraught over the breakup that you tried to kill yourself,” Benny said. Shocked and flabbergasted at this ridiculous claim, I burst out laughing. Sure, the year and a half leading up to this was filled with struggle and getting my teeth kicked in more times than I could count, but I would be Goddamned if I gave up. It was also a relief to leave that relationship.

I said, “Benny, honey, sweety, tell George the only place I was distraught was his dreams. So while I did not try to commit suicide, George’s credibility just did.”

Benny said, “April, just so you know, George has a new girlfriend?”

“Is she real or made up just like his cancer was?” Shortly after we broke up George was facing discipline from the legal board for trying to punch a colleague. He told everyone he had cancer, but in six weeks he had been cured, curiously in enough time to save his legal license.

“April, no need to get bitter….”

“Bitter! The ass hat lied about having cancer and just tried to kill me off!”

“True, but the girlfriend is real. I met her and she’s also a comedian and she knows you,” Benny said.

“What’s her name?” I said, curious to know who this broken creature was.

“Only met her once. I think it’s something like Julie but I know that’s wrong. She’s real young, like 21 or something….”

While I knew I should have cared less, morbid curiosity had gotten the best of me. Going home, I logged onto facebook and went to George’s profile. He was in a relationship with guess who? Lizzy Nebowicz. I thought my head was going to explode. First he has to rebound by dipping his dick in my pond. Second, I knew I was looking at the girl who ripped down my posters. Now everything made sense. Maybe George had lied about me trying to kill myself, but if I saw these two in person I swore to God I would murder them both!

I was livid, but my friends tried to talk me down. One pointed out perhaps George had changed, but if so why was his girlfriend destroying my property? Others told me I had no proof, but sometimes a woman’s intuition is all the proof you need, especially when the man involved is a walking shit pickle. The majority of my social circle assured me that Lizzy had George which was punishment enough and I should just work hard, ignore the ass hats, and soldier on like I always did. Instead of picking up a felony I chose to do the latter.

I wanted to move on to a bigger venue, but Kirk reeled me back in by pleading that he needed content and by personally promising that my stuff would not be stolen. Kirk, despite his flaws, was a man of his word. Not wanting to risk Lizzy’s moods, I invested in a simple $20 poster in case it ended up in the trash.

When I arrived at the club to drop off my poster, I discovered Kirk had sent me a text. His father, a movie theatre mogul, had a heart attack. Kirk needed to drop everything and head to Jersey. Like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, Lizzy there to greet me.

Not in the mood, I eyed the back entrance. Too late. Smiling like she was about to kill herself and take six people with her, Lizzy ran up to me and gave me a long hug. Picking me up, Lizzy twirled me around giving me the easily some of the most terrifying ten seconds of my life “April, I missed you!!!!”

“Missed you too,” I said, as Lizzy set me down, my head still spinning from the unwanted twirling and surreal experience.

 “We need to have that coffee and talk about boys!” Lizzy said jumping up and down, her unwarranted excitement coming from no where.

“Speaking of boys, you seeing anyone?” I knew the answer to that.

Lizzy now swayed nervously, “Yes, a lawyer in Queens!”

“I was seeing one of those too. Lied like the sun came up. But it’s probably not the same guy,” I said, hoping to plant it in her head the next time she felt like destroying my things. While I could tell she knew she had been caught, I also pitied her as George was the best she thought she could do. I didn’t want George back, but I wanted to work and mind my own business so right now I had to stand my ground.

 “Yeah. But seriously, we need to get that coffee and talk about boys!” As she spoke her tone mellowed which made me second guess myself. Maybe I was overreacting and George had changed after all.

“It was weird, you never hug your man’s ex,” I said to Sally-my palm reader friend-as we both shared a cigarette on her stoop.

Sally said, “April, she was hugging you because she wanted to strangle you. And she trashed your posters because he still talks about you. And she is going to take them again.”

“Kirk promised…..”

 “Hell hath no fury like a jealous woman. You don’t have to be a psychic to see that,” Sally took a puff of her cigarette, “April, you want out of there anyway. This place annoys you and pays you shit to begin with. You have better things coming. Just cancel the date now and move on.  I’m tired of hearing about those assholes.”

Sally was right. Two days later, I found out from an inside source my poster had been trashed again. I scratched the date fibbing about being double booked. Kirk however had seen the poster in the trash and fired Lizzy. While the hands of justice made me happy, I had also gotten another opportunity that would serve me better in the long run. All and all, this was for the best.

George and Lizzy became an after thought until one night I was walking down the street. George looking shriveled and tortured like a gremlin who had given up on life, skulked behind Lizzy who was wearing a dress that resembled a garbage bag. Pulling him along as he dragged his feet, the coupling resembled a man being marched to the gas chamber rather than two people in love. I tried not to snicker, but this was karma in all it’s splendor.

Later that year, I filmed for My Strange Addiction with my puppets. As a result I got a job hosting a web show, was cast in a horror movie, got the chance to model, record music, and had international magazines interviewing me. As fan mail from all over the globe poured in, I had my pick of future ex husbands and ex wives from all over the world. George again became a blip on the radar.

That is, until I logged onto facebook Lizzy appeared on my feed. Instead of the mousy brunette or badly dyed whatever, Lizzy was my exact color of blonde, which would have been a lot of expensive salon visits to get to. Unlike the woman I had known previously, Lizzy who never wore makeup, was now wearing Sephora shades similar to mine. This didn’t strike me as odd as performers change their look, especially at the urging of managers, all the time. Lizzy was also kickboxing and auditioning for reality TV, again performers go on trendy fitness kicks and reality TV was a quick way on TV. Then I I saw Lizzy signed up for a puppetry class. This was single white female come to life!

Whenever I posted a video on facebook, Lizzy would post one of her own within the hour. One day I posted two and Lizzy did the same. While her singing voice was better than mine, it creeped me out that she was watching my every move. She had her own talents, why couldn’t she just focus on those? When the platinum was growing out of my hair, I low lit. Within a day, Lizzy proceeded to low light her hair, too.

Some friends thought I should be flattered and told me my “psycho girl stalker” officially made me famous. Others suggested I strip naked, shave my head, smear myself in chocolate, and run down the street screaming to see if she would do the same. I needed the laughs, but it was also apparent Lizzy was deeply disturbed.

Through the grapevine, I heard George, was telling people he was the infamous fiancé from My Strange Addiction, the one who made me choose him or the puppets. George would lament that my love for ventriloquism ruined our relationship, but he was proud of me and had become a fan. My friend Rick said, “April, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your ex-fiance a different asshole?”

Yes, Rick was right. My ex-fiance was a different asshole, but asshole George was gaslighting Lizzy and now she was sucking me into their codependent abyss. More sad and pathetic than anything, I gradually got better at ignoring her.

Shortly thereafter, George moved Lizzy into his Queens pad and got her a cat. Once cohabitated, Lizzy announced on facebook aspirations to teach high school English, and then plans to attend law school and clerk for Justice Ginsberg. While this was shocking for someone who bragged of never attending college, studying or reading, Lizzy was focusing on positive goals and leaving me alone and that’s all that mattered.

That fall, I released I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl. This meant being profiled by Mensa, signing at Brown University, and pitching my ideas to network TV. These opportunities were hard won after writing the first draft the two summers before in an apartment without air conditioning coupled with endless hours of revising that I thought would surely kill me.

One day, after submitting a writing packet to an editor, I got a call from a blocked number. I ignored it figuring it was spam, but the number called again and again. Figuring it might have been in regards to my writing packet, I picked up. A woman’s voice on the other end screamed, “STAY AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND, POLLY POCKET!”

Immediately recognizing the voice I said, “Better Polly Pocket than Lizzy Borden, Lizzy.” CLICK.

Like the alien monster the crew thought they slayed, Lizzy had not in fact died but was back for the sequel. Recommitted to her resentment towards me, Lizzy created a blog of her own. Using her virtual blank canvass, Lizzy penned angry poetry directed at me. According to Lizzy, I was her sworn “psychotic enemy.” She ranted about how I was mean, told lies about her, tried to break her and George up, lacked talent and was delusional in regards to my goals. I would say the poetry sounded like it was written by Lex Luther, but Lex Luther’s understanding of rhyme would have been better, metaphors more original and he definitely would have used spell check.

Lizzy, not wanting to limit herself merely to poorly written poetry, branched out into the personal essay. Opining about the pain of being bullied as a teenager, struggling with her weight and battling cystic acne, the words sounded so familiar it was as if they were mine. Then I realized they were, because Lizzy had plagiarized my work!

Part of me wanted to beat the hell out of her, as plagiarism is a capitol crime in the writing world. I also wondered why she couldn’t write about her own shitty life, I mean she did sleep next to George every night. Ranting about her as I always did my friend Sally said, “April, block her now, she is making you as crazy as she is. And you are becoming just as obsessed with her as she is with you, and you are making yourself sick over this bullshit person and that’s what she wants,”my friend Sally told me.

“But that bitch is trying to pass my work off as her own!”

“Let her. She can’t write, she’s a marginal singer, and she looks terrible trying to be you. Lizzy is better than any joke you could ever write,” Sally said.

Taking Sally’s advice I blocked Lizzy. Redoubling her efforts to cause chaos, Lizzy told anyone who would listen that I was “a mentally ill drama queen” who cyber bullied her because I was jealous of her relationship with George. Lizzy also claimed that I had plagiarized her work in parts of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Those who knew me knew this was ridiculous as I was guilty of being married to my work and had little time for flimsy flame wars. Even people who disliked me would give me that. However, Lizzy successfully managed to manipulate those who had either only known me in passing or had never met me at all. I had people confronting me in person or sending me nasty messages online, and each time I said, “I have no idea what a Lizzy Nebowicz is.”

I was going high, but Lizzy, being the ultimate succubus, was determined to drag me right down to her hellish level. Posting a comedy sketch she had filmed with her friends on a site she knew I trafficked, a character named April, described as “a fame whore,” had was jumped and beaten up junior high style by Lizzy and a group of girls. I reported the video and it was taken down. However, Lizzy had crossed the line from shrill annoyance to dangerous stalker.

I had repeated nightmares that Lizzy broke into my apartment to kill me. My stomach began to have issues and I could barely keep food down. On the street I feared running into her, so I found myself snapping at strangers. Focusing at work became a challenge because her harassment was sucking all my mental energy. I was being bullied, it wasnt fair and I was honestly scared of this woman.

I had worked hard and was reaping the rewards, yet I was always having to apologize to this real life gorgon who’s mental state was threadbare. Instead of ending her dysfunctional relationship with George, the thing actual causing her pain, I had become the scapegoat. Sick and tired, I took to my blog, a place I knew she compulsively visited, and let this boundary allergic chicklet know the next time she tried to contact me for any reason I would make sure she broke out into handcuffs.

I found out through the ever open gossip channels what triggered Lizzy’s latest burst of fury was George was growing unhappy in their relationship because Lizzy refused to work, drank all day and terrorized him nightly when he got home. As a result of the stress from Lizzy’s behavior, George developed migraines and a twitch. I couldn’t feel bad for him because he had created this monster. Desperate for better times, George was vocal, saying he wished he had been better to me because maybe his life would be different. An avid reader, George purchased a copy of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Lizzy of course found it and went ape shit.

 Interestingly enough, I was not the only ex of George’s that Lizzy harassed either. One-a law school sweetheart of George’s who at the time was clerking for Ruth Bader Ginsberg-wrote Lizzy a cease and desist letter. Another, a high school English teacher in Lansing, was so upset that her husband called George angrily and threatened to drive to New York to shoot him if Lizzy ever contacted his wife again. While Lizzy’s ability to multi-task was impressive, it sucked to know I was no longer special.

Shortly after I put my foot down via blogosphere, George decided to commit to Lizzy for real in a surprise wedding ceremony at the courthouse. This took Lizzy off of all of our collective hands thus ensuring peace and quiet in all the land. As an added bonus, Lizzy abandoned all of her literary endeavors which was a victory for all humankind.

Lizzy and George left NYC and moved to his uncle’s pig farm outside of Dallas. He no longer practices law and plays guitar while Lizzy sings live in bars local bars. George manages Lizzy, so George might just get the music career after all, and Lizzy gets to use a gift that her own. To pay bills between gigs they shovel manure on the farm, which means they are both knee deep in mutual shit, but the most important things is these soul mates are doing it together.

THE END

Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order)

There are some people you meet in life that are in the chorus of your story and they remain there indefinitely. Such was the case with Mikki Luckinbill for a time. I didn’t like her because she was irritating and was clearly shtuping her way to the middle, but didn’t dislike her either because that would involve caring.

Mikki was the quintessential divorcee who’s therapist suggested she try comedy. It was because Dr. Finkelstein, her Park Avenue shrink, was tired not only hearing about her successful Columbia psych professor ex who was bopping a TA, but about the crabs she got afterwards. According to her “act,” after the affair Mikki moved out of their Riverside Drive apartment and back into the home of her parents: a doctor father who emigrated from India and a debutante mother who went to Radcliffe when it existed and was “rather disappointed” when Mikki was rejected by all the schools she applied to and could only get into her safety, Skidmore.

Whenever she graced the stage, Mikki’s act was a monotonous monologue that couldn’t even pass as tragedy, because alas, tragedy is interesting. Listening to her after one minute made you consider slitting your wrists, and after five minutes you wanted to draw up a warm bath and then throw in the toaster.

Sucking onstage is one thing, but sucking off stage is another, and Mikki was the master at both. A student of Jed Kemp, a one time rising star who coked his comedy career away, he assured Mikki she would be the next great female comedy superstar next to Chelsea Handler. It wasn’t because Mikki had talent, it was because she was sleeping with him and would tell anyone who listened.

As his star student and paramour, Mikki was all over Jed’s website, giving testimonial videos clad in low cut dress that her melon breasts hung out of. Acting as his ambassador, she tried to recruit other comedians to be a part of this “school.” Then Mikki would try to get these students to sign their friends up for a discount, thus creating a pyramid scheme that exploited hopefuls. After a while, she said she wanted to dump Jed because he could only get her so far and wanted a bigger fish.

Mikki was hard to stomach, but we also never had a bad encounter. When I could I avoided her because she was annoying. If I saw her on the street we would exchange a quick hi and kept it there, because that’s how you treat a chorus person in your play, right?

However, Mikki was soon to be upgraded to guest star in a dramatic arc lasting several episodes. Enter Isaac Rabinowitz, my on again/off again flame who I had recently decided burned me for the last time. After a series of events the complicated relationship had lost it’s luster and appeal. Finally, to the relief of everyone around me, especially my mother, I ended it with Isaac once and for all.

Isaac did not take it well. After a text where he accused me of being “cold”, we had a long two hour phone conversation where I was forced to hear about Isaac’s feelings, and I kept telling him to eat shit and go to hell because I was sick of his mind games. Isaac said he wanted to be a part of my life as my friend because he liked me as a person, and I believed him because I felt some of the same.

Despite our differences, when it came to my comedy and my puppets Isaac was always in my corner. As a comedian, every joke writing instinct he had was completely and utterly wrong, but he had a sixth sense as to what bookers would like my act, how to approach them, and ideas on how to guide my career. In return, I was always gung ho to guest host his shitty open mic  if he couldn’t make it. All and all, it was an awesome development, or so I felt.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, Isaac could be a pick but at least he was an honorable one. Extending the olive branch, he invited me to do the guest spot at his open mic which meant I didn’t have to pay $5 to perform. Arriving at the club on that sweltering August day, it was a record breaking high. Not only was the place jammed with sweaty hopefuls, but the air conditioner was broken and the fans were going at full blast. To add to the ambiance, the place, which usually smelled like rotten urine, had an extra pungent odor.

I was icky and grungy, because in addition to the smelly scene the subway had broken and I was forced to trek thirty blocks with May Wilson in tow. My makeup was messed up and my clothes were stuck to my body. If that’s not a way to greet your most recent ex I don’t know what is. That’s when in walks Mikki Luckinbill with her jet black hair styled just so and wearing a low cut white dress, generous bosom bouncing with each step looking better than ever.

As his eyes caught site of her, Isaac ran over and was stuck to her for the rest of the night like Gorilla Glue, leaving his usual hosting corner so he could sit next to her. Smitten with his new squeeze, Isaac auspiciously placed his hand on her leg. I wanted to vomit. Why did it have to be her? On the other hand, it was making me realize I had done the right thing by ending it. I knew better than anyone how Isaac could be. Now he was Mikki’s problem.

Sunday Isaac texted me to have brunch as friends. My instincts told me not to go because the breakup was not only still fresh but I had just started seeing a new guy, Sean, two days before. Isaac and I were just friends, and if I wanted this friendship to work I had to give it a try, right?

I met Isaac at a diner in Murray Hill around the corner from his apartment that his millionaire father financed. As we ate, we talked comedy and our favorite mutual subject, The Marx Brothers. Bruch turned out to be more fun than I thought it was going to be. I said, “I forgot how much fun you were to hang out with.”

Isaac said,  “Me too. I am glad we are friends, April. It’s weird because we used to date.” My instincts had been right after all, “Come on, April, you can’t just pretend we didn’t used to date.”

“I am doing it right now. It’s not that hard, Isaac,” I said.

“How can you say that? I still care about you.” Isaac said.

“Just stop with the games,” I said, angry at myself for not seeing this was the usual Isaac trap of him reeling me back in, me taking the bait, him hurting me and then the cycle repeating.  

“Just so you know, I don’t want to get back with you anyway. I am seeing Mikki Luckinbill. We were talking about you. We both agreed you are self-absorbed, immature and are completely ruthless when it comes to your ambition.”

Now I officially had enough, “I think Mikki is a better match for you. She’s not funny and neither are you. And as for immature, I am looking right at him. So I am going to be the adult and end this once and for all. Have a nice life, Isaac because you are sure as hell dead to me.” I got up, threw my napkin down, and walked out onto the busy New York City Streets free of Isaac and his bullshit.

Two weeks later, Sean and I became engaged because why settle for a love triangle when you can have good old fashioned soul crushing codependency? Upon hearing about my engagement, Isaac became more determined than ever to win me back. He began texting furiously, telling me he was only with Mikki because he couldn’t have me, and if I said he the word he would dump her for real and we could be together. I ignored him and even went so far as to block his number.

To no ones shock except my own, Sean turned out to be a terrible fiancé. Even on it’s best day, the relationship was text book dysfunctional. Controlling and jealous, Sean made me choose between him and my puppets, and I chose him feeling it was time I forget my dreams and become a good wife. When Isaac heard about this development through mutual friends, he confronted Sean and the two nearly got into a fistfight.

Isaac blamed himself for this development in my life. He told anyone that would listen that had he been a better man to me I would never be engaged to Sean. Of course as usual, Isaac was making everything about himself. My bad decisions were my own and my own alone goshdarnit. Meanwhile, Isaac was still seeing Mikki who was growing to steadily resent me.

Back at the ranch, Mikki was not only becoming increasingly jealous of me, but tired of Isaac and his wandering eye. Sloppy as usual, Isaac left his laptop open. This led Mikki to discover that in addition to trying to win me back, Isaac was also seeing two other women: one was Emily, a childhood sweetheart, and the other was my former friend Sharon, who he would later go on to marry, and referred to her in their exchanges as his “girlfriend.” To compound the drama, Mikki had introduced Isaac to her family at Thanksgiving the week before. If this is making you dizzy reading this, try living it.

Mikki’s frustration came to head when she was onstage one night at a show Isaac had produced. Unable to contain her age any longer, Mikki exploded at Isaac confronting him about me, Emily, and Sharon. In front of a free comedy show audience, Isaac denied the accusations. This infuriated Mikki further as she laid into him about his epically small penis size. When her verbal assault was finished, she hopped off the stage, slapped him across the face, burst into tears and ran into the night. While I was not there to see it, witnesses claim this was the funniest thing either had ever done.

I eventually dumped Sean, picked up my puppets, and recommitted myself to becoming a professional ventriloquist. Fortunately I was able to shake that mistake, and it got me a Daily Mail UK article that went viral before COVID made it cool. Each of the other players in this dramatic story faded into the background.

That is, until years later when I saw Mikki at an audition. At first I was shocked because it had been so long, but I was also glad to see she was still in the game. She still looked the same, except the low cut clothing was replaced by an all black motif that most first year drama students wear to look tortured and emotive as they wax nostalgic about Shakespeare and Chekhov.

Because time plus distance equals comedy, I had developed a sense of humor about those painful early days and regarded them as coming of age follies. When I gave her the big hello, she looked at me as if I was the Baby Ruth that invaded her pool party. She said, “I will have you know that I am doing well. Really well. I have an MFA in Acting.”

Before I could respond back she snarled and  stomped off.  For the heck of it, I went to her facebook page to see what she had been to later that day. In a five paragraph rant, she talked about seeing “the ghost from her past who was the succubus who seduced her boyfriend once upon a moon.” Then she called me “fame hungry” and said I was used, “as a regular Method substitution for an evil person.”

In honor of the completion of Mikki’s MFA in Acting I will quote he late, great William Shakespeare, “Life is a tale told by an idiot. The sound and the fury signifying nothing.” With that, I logged off the computer and relegated her back into the chorus of my story.

Election Fatigue

Flashback: Little April, age 13. It’s a fall Friday night in Western PA and it’s been a late one. My brother Wendell’s football team is playing against some other team who’s name escapes me but you get the picture. It’s the fifth overtime, and one of the coaches keeps stalling the clock. The temperature’s dropping, the fans can see their breath and it’s starting to rain. The fans are apathetic, the cheerleaders do a half assed herky, and the players are running into each other for the sake of shoving someone. Finally one side cares less than the other, a final touch down is scored and the game ends. The victor is a blur, but we have all lost because these are hours of our lives we will never get back.

Cut to TV room. We eat Wendy’s as we watch the scores and late night TV, my dad switching the channel every time it gets too dirty. Wendell looks like he has just escaped from dramatic torture. My younger sister Skipper and my mom nod off. I scribble down some angst ridden death poetry that sounds as if Mystic Spiral wrote it.

The room is silent because there are things unspoken. Wendell is on special teams, which means while he will be on the starting lineup in a year or two he is not there yet. This means he will head out with the JV squad tomorrow bright and early. Instead of the stadium they will play on the muddy practice field and it will be even colder and even rainier. As a bonus, the rest of the family will be forced to come. Will it never end? The horror! The horror!

Fast forward several years. This is how I feel about the election. Instead of a high school football coach, it’s Trump yelling, screaming and trying to stall. Rather than a never ending Friday night under the lights it’s 2020, and specifically a very charged election season. I look at Yurick, my pet skeleton on my book shelf. We will look like him when the election results are finally revealed.

I voted for Biden. Really and truly I wanted Liz Warren. I didn’t get Liz Warren because sometimes you don’t get the pony you want to get. I spent a lot of the election season explaining this to fellow Democrats who swung for Sanders and/or Warren and were disappointed. When I wasn’t doing that I educated Trump supporters who couldn’t pass a basic civics test giving them free history lessons on social media. To quote Shakespeare, “Life…..is a tale, told by an idiot. The sound and the fury signifying nothing.”

I watch CNN for updates although at this point I feel as if they are just the pretty person teasing all of us. John King is at his magic wall, but I think he pulled a finger muscle because last night they had his JV replacement who’s name escapes me because no one cares about the JV at the magic board.

Dana Bash looks mad as hell at her ex, John King, everytime he is at the magic wall and thinks, “Damn that magic wall. He cared more about it than me and it ruined our marriage!”

Anderson Cooper thinks, “I am the son of Gloria Vanderbilt. I could have ridden my bike, lived off my fortune, and Rick Santorum would have been forced to be my butler.”

Van Jones thinks, “Well, I haven’t slept, and I am sitting next to this racist Rick Santorum. The first time he met me he thought I was Anderson Cooper’s butler.”

Gloria Borger thinks, “I picked this week to stop smoking, I hate Rick Santorum, and I wish I had a butler.”

And then there is Rick Santorum, the shart in the pants of my home district who’s greatest hits are talking about man on dog sex and sex with his mother in law. Prior to being a talking head on CNN, Rick was out of work politician and father of 8. The idea of being Anderson’s butler was pretty good until the network offered him a gig. They told him it was to bring balance, but really it was to do what he does best, say crazy hurtful things and wear high top shoes, a secret revealed when the camera gives a wide shot. Rick is as tired as the rest of the panel because now he is making sense. The world is in fact ending.

If Trump wins I get four more years of bad jokes with Donald J. Tramp. If Biden wins I get four years of new bad jokes with Joe Bidentime. I got a puppet. This girl is ready. My mental health and sanity, maybe not.

As a collective, we have had it. Twenty-twenty has been the high school football match up from hell with too many overtimes and time outs. At this point, I am done vote shaming. No one is on a winning streak. No matter which team you are on, I am reaching my hand out like the players did after the battle on the grid iron was complete. To you, I say, “Good game.”

Alana Petridge

Everyone has encountered one in their lives, someone you need to watch your back around. I was still new to comedy when I met mine. Alana Petridge was the real life version of Reese Witherspoon from Election, except she had pitch black hair. However, it was the same manic smile and the same façade that secretly bubbled with evil underneath.

In the unairconditioned basement of an open mic where most dreams go to die, Alana was convinced hers were being made. Sweat dripped all over our bodies as terrible punchlines were being slung from the stage. This was in fact the first layer of hell.

We were soon transported to the second when Alana Petridge marched onto the stage. Her huge smile showing off rows of pearly whites, she stated she was from Oyster Bay, graduated from Boston University, and was working at MTV with dreams of being on SNL. Translated, she was a nauseating cliché and she hadn’t even started her act. Next she began what was her act, a series of jokes that involved drawings on a poster board. Some jokes were okay, others were lame.

As she did her bits, I noticed the first signs of laughter from the catacombs. Looking over I saw a tribe of people dressed in white, WASP refugees from the Hamptons. Then it clicked, Ms. Desperate had brought her entire family. Yes, it was mom, dad, a reluctant brother and sister, and her grandparents. Mom was filming this disaster. I told myself not to be so hard on her. My parents were far away and maybe I was just jealous.

After the show, I decided to introduce myself as she was another woman, and maybe very lost. I walked over to her and the WASP refugees and said, “Hi, I’m April, good stuff.” It was a half-truth, some of it was decent.

“Alana,” she shook my hand in a way that felt like she was snapping it off, “Listen, do you book shows?”

“No…..”

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, big fake smile flashing. This encounter confirmed my instincts, steer clear.

Over the next month, I crossed paths with Alana at least twice a week. She brought her WASP refugee entourage dressed in white, and they always sat through the shitty open mic sitting silent until their princess took the stage. Alana always did the same routine, never varying, which meant she wasn’t writing. Each time she always re-introduced herself hoping I was booking shows, and each time I would curtly remind Alana we had already met. Finally, she got the message, I had nothing for her therefore I was no use to her.

Alana was vocal about wanting to find management and soon found it in the arms of none other than my ex Isaac Rabinowitz. A trust fund kid, Isaac was fulfilling his lifelong dream of opening a comedy club he christened The Universe. His father, a real estate mogul, spent a small fortune on billboards to attract big name talent. Isaac, a self-proclaimed impresario, was dipping his fingers into talent management, his first client being “the beautiful and talented” Alana Petridge.

As I saw the social media post, I marveled at both Isaac’s hubris and the ability to think with his dick. The fact she thought he was going to make her a star and the fact he thought he could were the funniest thing either of them had ever done. In the time I had dated Isaac, he had run a theatre company into the ground, managed to alienate every woman he ever encountered, and every joke writing instinct he had proved to be completely and utterly wrong. Isaac couldn’t even manage himself, oh what a gas.

The Universe opened, and despite the musing of big names the only headliner was Alana Petridge. Each night, she did 30 minutes, 5 which contained the tired bit with the picture board, and 25 written by Isaac. Comedian friends of mine told me tales of the utter horror and bloodshed that occurred onstage. I will say part of me delighted in this trainwreck, because these were two people I disliked immensely.

In the early fall I got my chance. Isaac, eager to make amends for all the crap he pulled when he was busy messing with my head, and as an olive branch offered me a spot on a show at The Universe. Despite our tricky past, Isaac had always cheered me on when it came to reaching the next level with my comedy. Plus again, I wanted to see the trainwreck for myself, so I confirmed the spot.

The night of the show The Universe was packed. Planets painted on the walls with glowing decals of stars lined the room. Sure, Isaac was Isaac but I had to admit I was impressed. The emcee was a skinny Jewish kid named Bobby Greenbaum who warmed the room up and they were ready to go. He sat in the back with my friend Paul Thompson, a cynical divorcee turned comic, and myself.

“They are great,” I said.

“Oh, crowds here are always.” Paul said.

Overhearing us, Bobby interjected, “That is until…..”

The three of us tried to muffle our laughter, “That bad?”

“I would rather spend time with my ex wife than see her do comedy,” Paul said. Wow, that said a lot. Paul’s ex wife had tried to run him down with her car.

“I call her Tel Aviv because it’s the only place where anyone could bomb that bad,” Bobby said, as he then turned to give the comic onstage the light. As Bobby ran to the edge of the stage, I could see Alana on Isaac’s arm like a Dollar Store Christmas Ornament, glaring at us. I flashed her a fuck you smile in return. After all, I wasn’t the whore no one could stomach.

My name was called, and the set was insane. May Wilson went off script and flashed the audience. They were drunk and off the wall, but it was helluva fun. Bobby gave us the light and we were sad to go. He gave me a pat on the back and whispered, “Get ready for Tel Aviv,” and then made an exploding sound.

Reluctantly, Bobby took the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, your headliner has been on MTV. Please put your hands together for Alana Petridge.”

Paul whispered, “MTV. I didn’t know it became a TV credit when it was just your foot.”

“Then you could use that Subway Commercial,” it was true, Paul’s foot was in a Subway Commercial. It helped get his SAG card.

Alana started her set. It was 5 tragic minutes of the poster board and drawings. Without her band of WASP refugees dressed in white, the jokes got pity laughs. From there, she went into the material Isaac wrote and then was greeted with awkward silence. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact she was tanking or the fact it wasn’t even with her own material, “If you’re going to blow someone, blow someone funny,” Paul said.

As this big wet abortion went on, several audience members began to leave, always a bad sign. Finally, one super drunk dude who I loved during my set yelled, “Hey Baby, show us your tits like that puppet did! That would be funny!”

“I had no idea the puppet tits were funny,” I said to Paul.

“Puppet tits are always funny,” We both tried to muffle our laughter. Upon hearing this, Alana looked at the audience, tears in her eyes, and then burst out crying and ran offstage. Everyone looked at each other, baffled as to what the hell had just happened. Then suddenly we all burst out laughing because we were apparently sick and unsympathetic fucks.

The drunk yelled, “Now that’s funny!”

Barely out the door Alana countered with, “FUCK YOU!” which made us all laugh even harder.

As Darlene the waitress was dropping checks she passed us and said, “Good, that girl’s such a pain in the ass.” Damn, when the waitstaff doesn’t like you that says everything. Stick a fork in her, she’s done.

Walking out at the end of the night, I heard Alana screaming to Isaac, “You promised to write me jokes! Your jokes suck! Just like sex with you!” Damn, Isaac was who he was but this was way harsh.As she continued her assault on Isaac, I passed.
Alana, full of venom screamed, "And fuck you April Brucker! You and your unfunny puppet drained the crowd and ruined my night! If it wasn't for you, I would have had a good set!"
Looking at her, May Wilson in suitcase, I said, "Tomorrow, I hope to be funny, but you Sweetheart, will still be shrill and obnoxious." Then I gave her the bitchy smile matched with the bitchy wave and departed into the night.
As I walked away Alana yelled, “I HATE YOU APRIL BRUCKER! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

The next morning I woke up with a message from Isaac apologizing for Alana and telling me he had severed all ties with her. I told him not to worry, things happen, and I looked forward to performing at The Universe again. Days later, the buzz on social media was that Alana’s big time lawyer father was suing Isaac for both sexual harassment and breach of contract. The suit was ultimately thrown out of court, because Isaac’s brother was a big time lawyer, too. While The Universe Comedy Club would stay open a while longer, Isaac retired from personal management forever which was for the best.

After that, Alana went off her birth control, entrapped a successful writer, and tricked him into marrying her. Everything went bust after that, and the divorce was a shitshow. From there it was radio silence until I decided to look her up on facebook.

Alana is living with her parents back on Long Island. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. She, her family, and her son are all dressed in white, smiling as a group of WASP refugees happy in their hive. In another post she announced after a long break and a lot of therapy she wants to return to comedy. Part of me wanted to encourage this, because I wanted a sequel to the shit show she had given me for free so many years before. Than I thought nah, the world has enough depravity and sadness as it is. 

Miss Google

This was about the 4^th or 5^th time I was ever onstage, and it was in one of those dank basements that smelled of mildew, and the nights I spent there and in other establishments like it probably made me immune to coronavirus. There was a young woman crouched in the dark corner of the back of the room where the comics hung out. The show had not started yet, and I had met everyone else but her.

She had brown hair that was so greasy it could have been dipped in a vat of olive oil, and was twisted in an uneven something or other that made it look like she went to the Helen Keller salon. Her face had minimal makeup, and while the lip gloss was okay coverup would have helped hide the patch of stress acne. While of average build, she wore a potato sack that masqueraded as a dress, an outfit that would have flattered no body shape. The expression on her face was one of a person tricked into swallowing an entire patch of Sour Patch kids. Despite the fact she looked crazy and my gut told me to run like I saw Godzilla, I went over and said hello. I said, “Hi, I’m April.”

At first what seemed like a minute passed, I didn’t know if she heard me or was ignoring me. When she finally did look up she rolled her eyes as if she merely tolerating my presence, “Where did you go to college?”

At first this didn’t strike me as an odd question, as maybe she was in Cinema Studies or some other department I didn’t interact with as much. Or maybe she had been a graduate teaching assistant in one of the lecture classes I attended, and this was her big trip out of the library, “NYU. Do I know you?”

“No. I went to Barnard. But I suppose NYU is almost good enough.”

This person with substandard hygiene who looked like she stole her outfit from an Idaho potato field was letting me know I was almost good enough. So I just said,  “And your name is?”

“Cara Seymour. I am an expert on complicated things someone like you would have to Google.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said before just walking away. Shaking my head I felt angry. Sure, I was educated but I would never dream of talking to someone the way she did to me. I also wanted to tell Cara Seymour that while Barnard was a wonderful school and while it was across the street from Columbia, they were not Columbia, her shit still stank. The rest of the lineup seemed tethered to the Earth in a meaningful way, so at least that was a relief.

The show began, and the kid emceeing was a dorky would be Seinfeld who’s claim to fame was being passed for late night at The Comic Strip. The next was a angry white kid who ranted about his ex girlfriend who nearly made me pee my pants. After him was a really funny black woman. Then after her was a middle aged white divorcee dude talking about dating again, and he too was funny. Then came Cara. The host introduced her as having been on MTV and Comedy Central, so while she was a complete canker sore my hopes were high. She began, “Hi, I just want everyone here to know I graduated from Barnard and I am smarter than every other comic you have seen tonight and am probably smarter than you. If you don’t know my references, Google it.”

The crowd gave her that light laugh, a mix between nervous and pity. I hoped what we were seeing was Andy Kaufman inspired performance, and this was all just an eccentric overcommitted to her craft. Cara then began to talk about War and Peace. The pity laughs quickly vanished and turned into uncomfortable silence. This had turned into a pathetic PhD thesis defense, and the free comedy show these people were lured into had morphed into a priceless shit show. Five people, unable to stomach the comparison to the Cherry Orchard, left.

The comics in the back were biting their tongues as not to laugh at this car wreck for all the wrong reasons. The emcee said, “Wow, what the fuck is that?”

The angry white dude said, “I don’t know, but shoot her and put her out of her misery.”

The black woman said, “I was a literature professor. I taught War and Peace and the Cherry Orchard. She’s not even close. Let her live. It’s a bigger punishment to have someone wander this world an idiot.”

The divorced dude said, “She reminds me of my ex wife that tried to stab me.”

Finally, the emcee decided to take action and after five grueling minutes ended the bloody torture that was happening in front of us. From there it was the Herculean task of trying to revive a room that had the energy sucked out of it. Then my name was called. The rest of the comedians gave me a look of sympathy for having to follow that.

Going up with May Wilson, my longtime ventriloquist companion on my arm I began, “We’re a ventriloquist act.”

May said, “If you don’t know what that is, Google it.” The crowd let out a huge laugh, and the comics in the back nearly fell over. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t that funny but there was so much bizarre tension in the room everyone needed relief. While the whole room laughed for what felt like an entire minute, the one who found no humor in this was Cara, who scowled and stormed out of the room, loudly slamming the door. From there, the rest of my set was a rung above horrible as I was still very green, but May Wilson will tell you how amazing she was.

As everyone left for the night Cara stood outside pouting, saving the biggest snarl of the evening for me as I passed. It wasn’t just a snarl, it was something akin to Cerberus but alas, even Cerberus was more likeable than she was.

As I was thinking of this story, I decided to look Cara up on facebook. Apparently she is no longer doing comedy, which is an act of God. Instead, she is now a counselor for troubled youth and is actually quite successful. I can only imagine her approach. Her teen clients walk in and see her with her unwashed hair and potato sack dress and she starts to talk about War and Peace and they run out screaming, “Yes! Not only am I cured of my Daddy issues, but you have showed me life can truly be worse!”

May Wilson Tells You To Wash Your Hands

Ghosted

Isaac Rabinowitz had just broken my heart again. Enter Preston Hutchinson, the angry, white, chain smoking import from Dallas, Texas. Before moving to New York, Preston had toured Texas and even opened for Ralphie May. This meant he was a big deal in Texas, but like every other transplant hoping to make it in a big market he was relegated to the role of open micer.

Preston’s comedy was raw, edgy, and funny, easily eclipsing the competition, even the so called “pro” comedians with TV credits. To add to his appeal he was very good looking in that bad decision kind of way. The thought of talking to him produced sweat under my arm pits and butterflies in my stomach, so I just avoided it.

After about a month of playing the role of bashful schoolgirl, I found myself flyering for stage time with him at a watering hole that’s now closed. Preston was getting grief from Will, the producer, about his drinking. When we joined me on my corner I finally got the guts to introduce myself, hoping I wouldn’t puke on his shoes. Although it might not seem the case now, in those days I was extraordinarily shy. As I struggled to even say my name Preston stopped me, “You’re that girl with the Bride of Chuckie Doll!”

May Wilson thought this was just as funny as I did in case you are wondering. I laughed and said a ton of stupid things as Preston did make me weak in the knees. Then the show began, and I worried I blew it because I talk too much when nervous.

When May Wilson and I went up, we were marginal at best as most barker comics are. May will say she killed, I know we were substandard. Note, she will blame it on me.

Preston went up two comics after me, and killed it right away. Part way through his set he said, “Okay, Bride of Chuckie, I see you. Come and get me with your devil doll!” He then pointed back at me, leapt offstage, and then began to chase me around the room. I had no idea why this was happening, but I was having fun and the audience was dying with laughter.

After the show, Preston and I shared a cigarette as the late March night surrounded us, trying to warm up while still seeing our breath. Preston let me share his glove as I took a puff from his menthol pack. We talked about comedy, punchlines, and what a dick Will the producer was. When 1 AM hit, he walked me to the train and kissed me goodnight.

When the train brought me home, I dreamed nasty dreams where Preston and I had lots of wild monkey sex. Waking up, I had a serious case of the giggles. Just as I was about to walk on air, I saw Isaac Rabinowitz had texted me. Curses, could he sense I was happy? The text read, “Sorry about last week. I made a mistake and miss you. Can I have another chance?” DELETE. Sorry cowboy, there’s a new romantic obsession in town.

The next day, Preston and I crossed paths again in the same dingy watering hole for another show. He motioned for me to join him in the back of the room. Splitting a glass of Jack Daniels straight, we shot the breeze. Preston lamented that he was tired from working so much. When I asked where he worked he said he was a waiter at LaGuardia. I said, “Oh,” as I had never met anyone who worked as a waiter at the airport. I didn’t think anything about the response as the liquor was starting to hit my system.

Preston apparently viewed my response as an affront because he said,  “What, am I not good enough for you?” Shocked by his reaction, I quickly apologized puzzled as to what the hell had just happened.

All was quickly forgotten as we ordered another glass of whiskey and Preston chased it with a beer. After my substandard set, Preston was very encouraging, telling me I had the goods to go all the way. This was flattering as he is still one of the funniest people I have ever shared a stage with. It was nice to meet a guy who wasn’t threatened by my drive. After our second drink and shared cigarette, we went back to my place to hook up.

On the train ride back to my place Preston said, “I want to dress you up in a clown suit and kiss you all night long.”

I laughed, but Preston again didn’t find this funny. He said,  “I share my feelings and this is how you treat me!” He was near tears. Quickly I apologized again, puzzled as to what I had done. I shook it off, no one was perfect, right?

What happened between the sheets was hot. Then again, mentally unstable people are always top notch in that department. Laying around afterwards, Preston and I talked about people we had dated. While I didn’t want to talk about what wasn’t even a comparison, I mentioned Isaac. Preston told me his ex, who was ten years older than he was, pushed him to quit comedy and get married. When I called her a crazy bitch, Preston said, “Not really. We were living together and she was paying my bills.” I went to laugh hoping this was a joke, but Preston gave me the look, he was telling the truth.

The only thing to do after sweating it up in bed is to get some food. While we ate greasy diner food, Preston dropped the ultimate truth bomb, “Do you ever get a rush off of stealing something small, like a pack of gum?” That is when he told me he had not one but two shoplifting arrests, and gave me a small trinket he had stolen from a store in the airport. In law enforcement they call these clues, and Preston had been dropping them. Something told me to run out of there as I had just been given stolen property as a gift, but I was still stuck by being hit with his loser love wand that I stayed put. (Yes, they wanted to charge me as an adult). My spider senses told me not to accept the trinket and when I refused it, he told me he didn’t take it personally and wanted to buy me something nice when he had the money.

After he left, Preston kissed me goodbye and promised to call me but never did. At first I assumed he was busy and didn’t want to be “that girl.” A week later I saw him flyering, and when I tried to talk to him he was short, cold, and avoided me. When I saw him he was in the back of the room sharing a glass of whiskey with a rachet would be female comedian who had no punchlines but swore for shock.

The subway ride home was spent crying. One week before Preston had made me feel hot, now he made me feel cheap, dirty and used. What did I do? Was it not accepting the stolen trinket? It was stolen property for Godssakes! Was the rachet girl the one he wanted all along? Was I not pretty enough? Was he still in love with the woman who paid his rent? Granted, I knew I had dodged a firing squad but the heart wants what the heart wants.

Days later I made the decision to stop flyering with said show. Will, the producer, called me to give me inane notes and acted like it was some sacred duty to flyer for his shitty bar show. Plus I was visiting my family for two weeks and wouldn’t be around anyway. Then there was a move and a new job where I would no longer be available. While Preston wasn’t a factor in the decision, not seeing him would be a relief.

When I got back from the visit to my parents and was making my way through the airport, I saw Preston working at his waitering job. I waved, he ignored me. It hurt, but it was also a lesson that if I kept expecting him to act like a human he was only going to keep hurting me. I didn’t want to know why he did what he did and I no longer cared because figuring out someone who makes no sense was a waste of  time. That’s when I filed him under, “Jack Daniels: This Was All Your Fault.”

Of course Isaac texted me again wanting another chance, and I jumped right from the fire back into frying pan because I had to get burned one last time. After one last humiliation from Isaac, I found myself doing another shitty show in the same venue. Outside I heard Preston’s voice and felt as if the universe was mindfucking me again. It was getting late and I needed to get home.

Sneaking out, I tried to skulk past Preston when he said, “Bride of Chuckie, how have you been?” Before I could keep it short and exit he gave me a huge bear hug as if he hadn’t been a complete asshole and dogged me the way he did.

I was polite, telling him I was fine. That’s when he said, “You know, I had a great time with you. I want to hang out again, do you still have my number?”

“Yeah, we should totally hang out,” I said crossing my fingers behind my back, fighting off every nerve to tell him he was a useless fuckwad and loser. Part of me wanted to tell him to get tested for amnesia, but I marveled at the this straight, white, cis male who thought I should just fall to the ground and worship him. After giving him another hug, one which I wanted to strangle him really, I walked into the night. Before I got on the train I got my phone out and deleted his number. Maybe you ghosted me, but I am about to disappear yo ass! BAM!

Days later, I met Sean, the shitshow who would become my former fiancé, giving me 5 good standup minutes and a viral headline. While I lost track of Preston, I found out he was banned from the watering hole for his drinking problem and got fired from his job at LaGuardia for stealing. He moved with friends to LA to try to do comedy, but the drinking problem morphed into a drug problem, getting him kicked out of his apartment and living on Skid Row.

Ultimately, it was the same old girlfriend who put the burn on him to get married that ended up being his savior, driving to LA not only to rescue him but put him in rehab. She took him back to Texas where he got clean, they got married, and now have a 6 year old. Preston no longer does comedy, works at a car lot his wife’s brother owns, and his chain smoking angry white boy bod has been replaced by an out of shape dad bod. All that could have been mine.

I don’t hate Preston, but rather I pity him. To this day I will admit he is probably still a better comedian than I will ever be, but through bad decisions, addiction and self-defeat he squandered his gift and the opportunities he could have had. I truly hope he has found peace and happiness in his new life and is holding his demons at bay. While it hurt at the time, Preston did me a favor. If he stuck around, he would have only ruined my life. Getting ghosted sucks, but trust me, it’s always for the best.

Live From Las Vegas

I live in Las Vegas now, which makes me a Las Vegan even though I am hardly a vegan as I had bacon earlier at the buffet. For over ten years, I was a New Yorker. My colon and my mouth were as dirty as the subways I rode. I would call the subway quick and dirty, but when the trains are being rerouted it’s slow and dirty. The thing about New York that most people don’t understand is millions of different people from different backgrounds are crammed so closely together it’s a miracle folks don’t flip their shit and kill each other. In the summer when it’s sweltering, it’s not just a mere miracle but rather an act of God.

Being a Las Vegan, I now take a car. No, I don’t drive. Hell, I don’t even have a license because ten years in New York I didn’t need one. Instead I am the mooch who gets rides from other people. I’ll do them a favor in exchange for the ride. The thought of learning how to drive is scary and exciting. I haven’t been behind a wheel in a minute, but New York has made me testy. Someone cuts me off and I just go on a blue streak. People out here don’t swear as much as New Yorkers though. Maybe they will have a bleep button handy.

I am used to the subway. When it’s crowded there is the downside of the germs of strangers all over you. Upside, when it is cold those same germs and halitosis keep you warm. In New York there is constant entertainment on the subway, from folks practicing their craft to homeless people with a creative hustle to get a dollar. We have street performers in Vegas, but the homeless out here aren’t nearly as creative. Not knocking someone’s right to exist but the homeless in New York work on those pitches and they know how to deliver. If I had my druthers, I would bring some of them into a network meeting with me to sell my ideas.

The subway is also a good place to reset. I have cried on many a New York City subway after a bad audition, bad set, and bad breakup and I have had more of all three than I want to admit. Most people leave you to cry alone anonymously with the circus inside your head. Every once in a while someone says, “I know you are having a bad day and I hope it gets better.” That moment of kindness makes you realize your misery is temporary and mostly self-brought, and if you stop being such an idiot it will get better.

Back in the day when I lived downtown I would jog across the Brooklyn Bridge and the subway would rumble next to me. The Throwback at Noon on Hot 97 blaring out my ears. My feet would hit the pavement and the angst would leave my system. Angst that I would never be a good ventriloquist comedian, angst that people would always laugh at me and shut the door in my face, angst that I couldn’t conquer New York or do this adult thing for real, angst over some moron I had the hots for. Yes, and they wanted to charge me as an adult.

The subway next to me always brought me back to reality, the reality that the bridge could collapse and I would die upon hitting the East River. Neuroses aside, it made me take a breath. It made write notebooks filled with bad jokes after my run. It made me shower and hit an open mic where I often bombed, but kept getting up to eventually craft a routine and my hard work started to shut a lot of idiots up. I channeled some of my angst into an online blog on a now defunct site for comedians where I overshared and sometimes lacked humility but was never without brutal candor when it came to myself. People read it and complimented my writing. They also let me know the adult thing is overwhelming forever and it is. You just learn not to take it personally. As for the morons I thought I had the hots for, all were bullets I dodged that were dumb enough to marry women who make them miserable. Hey, we all get what we deserve.

Now here I am in a new city with new challenges. So far there is no place I have found where I can cry anonymously. Sure, there is no one on the sidewalk and that dream can become a reality, but then there’s sunshine and scenery and so much for the anonymous cry. Then I can’t anonymous cry at my house because I live with four other people. Sure, I could shut a door but then two dogs come and sit by me, forcing me to pet them and then give me doggy kisses filled with love. Then I realize it’s useless to anonymous cry because I am feeling a sensation I don’t think I ever felt in New York City……..happiness. So then I decide to scrap the anonymous crying and focus on the future that feels as bright and warm as the sunshine surrounding me.

I have gained 6 pounds since moving here, the buffet and bacon not helping. However, I feel better than I have probably ever. I had fun debuting my new one woman show, April Unwrapped, and am ready for more adventures. Driving is scary but it might also be fun. It will be a new way to see the world and if this happy thing wears off and I need an anonymous cry, the car might be a good place to do it.  But as I mentioned this happy thing might stick. I did a show last night and no curse words. Maybe both happy and Las Vegas are going to stick.

Regardless, the sun is out for a short time and two doggies wanna play. While I’ve had fun talking to you, I gotta go play with my four legged friends and be HAPPY. No anonymous crying today. 

All In the Draw of the Cards (Kim Carnes)

One of the survival jobs I have had over the years is I am a palm/tarot card reader. Most recently, I scored a gig where I read for a few hours a few days a week. For the most part it's pretty chill and I like most of the people I read for. Actually, it has been an honor to read for several who just inspire me to continue to follow my dreams even in slow season because they ask me about the future of theirs. It has also been a reward to help people remember they deserve love and happiness. But then we get people who probably need more help than I am qualified to give.

Enter Virginia. This woman, who apparently has been to every psychic in the store, wanted a reading with me because we had never met. A life coach with her own business, Virginia has blood red hair, probably dyed from the blood of an ex or her cat that she killed.

Virginia: Ask the cards, what is the future of my business? It's been slow. Will things turn around?

I turn the cards. It is a bunch of cups, swords, and death.

Me: These aren't great cards, but it means things could still turn around if you have a new strategy like a marketing plan and also budget/save your money. That way you have resources for a rainy day.

Virginia: When will money come in?

Me: The cards don't give dates or times but soon. Summer is going to be over, people will come back from vacation. The cards are telling you to make a business plan. There is a lesson in all of this.

Virginia: I can ask my Sugar Daddy for the money. Will Ike my Sugar Daddy give me the money? We are in a sub/dom relationship. He says he is getting sick of bailing me out financially.

I turn the cards again. Cups are in the middle which according to the cards means yes. Outcome isn't so great but hey.

Me: It shows your sugar daddy will give you the money, but you mentioned him before and he seems like a jerk honestly. Why not look into a marketing plan because this seems to be a pattern. I'm not just saying it but the cards are too.

Virginia: I don't have time for that. I need a solution now. You know what I can do. I can do magic, that's what I can do.

Me: I don't think you need to do magic. I think you need to wait the slow season out and relax. The cards are telling you that and so am I. See, no magic necessary.

Virginia: I have done magic before and it has worked.

I nod unsure of what to say/do.

Virginia: You don't believe me? Well I can do magic! Trust me, I can do magic and it has worked many times. Lady, I can do magic. I can do magic so good I am better than David Copperfield.

I nod still unsure of what to say or do.

Virginia: I can do magic. And if you don't believe me ask the cards. They know my magic works. Cards, should I do magic?

I ask the cards. We get a bunch of swords which aren't good news. The cards agree with me. This idea is cat shit crazy.

Virginia: Oh I know the cards and these aren't good. Ask them again if my magic will work. Hey, you haven't seen anything until you have seen me do magic.

I flip the cards. Note, in old Gypsy tradition it is said if you ask the cards the same question twice they get mad.

Cards: Did we stutta mutherfucka? And who would go to life coaching from you. Bitch, you cray cray.

Me: The cards are saying you can do magic and they apologize for doubting you. I also apologize for doubting you too.

My buzzer goes off.

Me: Your time is up. Pay out front.

Virginia: Oh I can do more time.

Me: Great.

Cards: NOOOOOOO!!!!! Haven't we suffered enough.

To Be Continued

The Democratic Candidates If They Were Movie Characters

There are so many Democratic candidates for president who the hell can keep track. To make it a little easier, I decided to break the Democratic candidates down as if they were movie characters by the roles they would play.

Note: This is a spec script at best and have no idea what the actual plot would be. BUT.....dear readers (whoever the freak you are) show yourselves and give me some plot lines/scenarios. I am asking you with the confidence of a straight, white, cis man. You know, the fellow who looks in the mirror and sees a stud, a genius and the BEST PENIS EVER!  (Give me the confidence of such a stereotype).

1.       Elizabeth Warren- Mayor and boss bitch. She dumped her husband and is having the time of her life. Her twitter handle is colorsofthewind2020

2.       Bernie Sanders- Old ranting man who yells at strangers. His only friends are his long suffering sheep dogs. Twitter handle is marx4life2020

3.       John Hinkenlooper- Bernie’s first sheep dog. Twitter handle imjustasheepdogididntaskforthis2020

4.       Michael Bennett- Bernie’s second sheep dog.Twitter handle rescuetherescue2020

5.       Cory Booker- Self-proclaimed player and author of the self-published manual, “How to Get Pussy Without Really Trying.” Twitter handle playa2020

6.       Amy Klobuchar- Twice divorced Avon Lady who might have killed one or both of her ex husbands. Does not have twitter handle. Got thrown off for angry rant at twitter staffers. 

7.       Joe Biden- Creepy old man who’s inappropriate with women and uses his dead wife as an in cause hey, why not? Twitter handle hairsmeller2020

8.       Kirsten Gillibrand- “One time at band camp” girl. Frequent target of Joe Biden’s creepy advances. Twitter handle onetimeatbandcamp2020

9.       Eric Swalwell- Nice guy who swoops in to defend women from creepy Joe Biden. In return, he always gets dumped. Twitter handle stereotypicalnicedude2020

10.   Kamala Harris- The local sheriff who frequently arrests Joe Biden for hair sniffing and Bernie Sanders for vagrancy. She takes pity on his sheep dogs. Twitter handle throwyoassinjail2020

11.   Julian Castro- Dishwasher repairman who is secretly studying to become a member of the FBI. Twitter handle notfidel2020

12.   Bill de Blasio- The weird guy in the neighborhood who brags about converting lesbians to his team. Twitter handle typecasting2020

13.   Pete Buttigieg- Owner of the gay bar “Pete’s Gloryhole.” Running a tight ship, he frequently sees Republicans leading a double life having anonymous sex and has to eject Bill de Blasio on Sapphic Saturdays. Twitter handle Totaltop2020

14.   Tulsi Gabbard- Bouncer at Pete’s Gloryhole and foe of Bill DiBlasio. On the side she teaches self-defense to women, Amy Klobuchar is her best student. Twitter handle smackdown2020

15.   John Delaney- Assistant Regional Sales Rep. (For life and eternity). Twitter handle DunderMifflin2020.

16.   Jay Inslee- Local yokel often mistaken for Gary Busey. Pretends to be Gary Busey to get chicks. Twitter handle garybusey2020

17.   Tim Ryan- The stunt double to Beeker from the Muppets. Twitter handle beeker2020

18.   Marianne Williamson- The crazy cat lady at the end of the block who uses healing crystals and brags of practicing the dark arts. Twitter handle notmariannebutzool2020

19.   Andrew Yang- The IT programmer who has a hot wife. Twitter handle imstillsmarterthanyou2020