Thursday, April 29, 2004
I've decided to get into a real money-making field: holidays!
I'm inventing a new holiday called "Crassmas." I got tired of hearing about "the crass commercialism ruining Christmas," so I'm creating a holiday that is crass and commercial from the get-go.
In fact, I've already lined up a sponsor: Fanta! That fourth-tier soda drink that nobody loves. I've already incorporated it into my central Crassmas mythos:
And in keeping with the idea that "Everything involving kids must be designed to traumatize them," my Fanta Claus watches little kids very very closely at all times, even in the bathroom, to make sure they're behaving themselves.
If they're good, then Fanta Claus brings them a case of cold, refreshing Fanta.
And if they're bad, then he makes them drink it.
Here's my first Crassmas Carol:
He watches you when you're sleeping,
He watches you when you're awake.
He filmed your parents "doing it"
And he'll make you watch the tape.
Don't you frown,
Don't you whine
Or he'll punish you quick
Fanta Claus don't take no crap from no one.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Don't buy me a greeting card with a unicorn on it.
You might as well buy me a dress.
If you give a guy a greeting card with a unicorn, it might as well say, "I went shopping at the Gay Store for you!"
Greeting cards and romance novels. Those are female porn.
Guys watch porn because they want to escape into a fantasy world where they can have sex with a beautiful woman - and then turn her off.
"Let's talk about feelings!" - click! It's done.
I actually don't watch porn. Don't enjoy it, really.
But there have been times after - how do I put this delicately? - I've just finished "giving a woman the greatest pleasure she's ever know," when she's said something like, "Honestly, what do you want? I mean, what do you really want?"
And the honest answer is - "I really want pizza."
But you can't say that. Because it's wrong, and insensitive, and you want what just happened to happen again some time in the near future.
But my point is - greeting cards let women escape into a fantasy world where the honest answer to that question is - "I want love, romantic candlelit dinners, and carriage rides through the park."
And then you break out into song.
By the way, I am not a mysoginist. I just have issues with greeting cards.
Monday, April 26, 2004
It read "Tiger Cage!"
FAQ about the upcoming Rent Party this Thursday:
Q: Is this a Fund-Raiser?
A: It's a "Fun-Raiser!"
Q: Does the IRS know about this?
A: Ah ha ha ha. Ha. No.
Q: Where does the money go?
A: There are many, many worthy uses I will put the money I raise to:
* A day at a doggie spa for my Pomeranian, Mr. Snuffles.
* Con Ed (not the electric company, but this guy who's selling me land down in Florida)
* This cool new X-BOX game I read about
* A wax job for my Jaguar
* My trip to Atlantic City next weekend
* This Belle & Sebastian 4 EP set (only 60 bucks, quite a steal)
* My "boy's night out" to Naked City
* Bail money for after my "boys night out" to Naked City
* A visit to the VD clinic after my "boys night out" to Naked City
* Money to get the of the pictures taken from my "boys night out" to Naked City
Thursday, April 29th
145 Ludlow St.
8:00pm - $10.00 (1/2 price w/ student ID)
Liam McEneaney (Premium Blend, The Humor Network)
* Sean Conroy ("Late Night w/ Conan O'Brien")
* Christian Finnegan ("Premium Blend," "Chappelle's Show," and a writer for "Tough Crowd w/ Colin Quinn")
* Brian Kiley ("The Tonight Show," and a writer for "Late Night w/ Conan O'Brien")
* Rob Paravonian ("Premium Blend" & VH1)
THE SKETCH COMEDY MAGIC OF
* Andres DuBouchet
* Kevin Maher
* The O'Debra Twins
AND THE MUSICAL STYLINGS OF
A Brief View of the Hudson
Sunday, April 25, 2004
WORKIN' CARD, OR CARD-LY WORKIN'?
The greeting cards secretaries give each other are genuinely disturbing. It's always either a picture of a shirtless guy: "WHAT YOU'RE HUNK-ERING FOR!"
Or it's Cathy with a knife in her hand: "Take a stab at this, boss!"
Forget TV and radio; Congress should be forming a committee to investigate the greeting card industry. It's turning our nation's once-proud secretarial pool into a nation of sex-crazed murderers.
Sorry about the above pun. I watched Saudi Royal Family Spokesman Prince Bandar bin Sultan get a grilling on Meet the Press this morning.
Man, I didn't believe the Saudi government was behind 9/11 until I watched this interview. It was like an episode of Columbo, where the suspect gets grilled and is clearly guilty, giving away even more information than he meant to while thinking he's cleverly proving his innocence.
For instance, he firmly denied the idea that the Saudi government called the 9/11 hijackings the work of Zionists (Jewish settlers in Israel), and then repeated a couple of times the idea that "someone" and "other people" had orchestrated the attacks to drive a wedge between the US and Saudi Arabia, using the "poor misguided young men" who orchestrated the 9/11 attacks.
He blustered, fillibustered, goggled, and stammered his way through an interview, at one point likening the state-sponsored Saudi-TV telethons to raise millions to support Palestinian suicide bombers with US televangelists (who, to be fair, have in the past raised money to support inhumane acts like Tammy Faye Bakker's singing career).
By the way, using government TV to raise money to support murder is quite a hell of a thing to downplay. In fact, at one point, Bandar used a novel debate technique I've never seen before, including the time I watched my Junior High School's debate team performance: When he got stuck on a question at the end, he started replying to a question MTP's Tim Russert had asked previously that he'd had no answer to.
It reminded me of the old "Hefty Hefty Hefty" garbage bag TV ads, where you would see Hefty's Cinch Sack garbage bag compared to the inferior generic garbage bag. That's what Bandar reminded me of: a generic bag of carbage, breaking when pushed to any straining point and bursting with the foulest garbage possible.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Today, my job required me to call executives at big corporations and offer them $25.00 to find out if their confidence in Tyco has been weakened for any reason (like, say, it's CEO is being indicted for fraud for the second time).
I reached the controller of Anheuser Busch. When I got to the part where I offered him 25 bucks for his time, he literally laughed out loud.
I also called Rupert Murdoch.
In case you don't know, Rupert Murdoch's holdings include:
* The Sun, England's Most popular tabloid.
* The NY POST, New York's least popular tabloid
* The White House
* The third through seventh circles of Hell
Rupert Murdoch needs twenty-five bucks the way I don't need twenty-five bucks.
I can't wait until he calls me back.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I read this interesting article in The New Yorker about Hallmark and the greeting card industry, saying that cards are targeted mostly to the woman shopping public.
Which makes sense. If you've ever seen a guy buying greeting cards, it's very very similar to watching a guy buy porn. He kind of roams up and down the stacks, looking furtively around to make sure no one's watching. About ten minutes in, he just grabs the first thing that looks good and rushes to buy.
The only time a guy seriously shops for a card is on Valentine's Day. because that's the one day he knows he'd better not fuck up. Mother's Day, Father's Day, he can show up with a card that says "Happy Secretary's Day" in Spanish and he's fine.
A nice greeting card from a guy sends one message and one message only: "My girlfriend/wife picked this out for me." If a guy isn't in a relationship on Father's Day, dad's getting a six pack of beer. And everybody wins.
Anyway, my point is that greeting cards never say what I want them to say. I've never, ever tried to express myself in rainbows and big-eyed puppies.
I think there should be greeting cards that express things the way I would express them:
"Hey Dad. Uh, yeah. So anyway, I - uh - just wanted you to know that, um. Anyway. How 'bout those Knicks, huh? Oh, and happyfathersday. Gotta go, bye."
"To Mom - My therapist says I should forgive you. Happy Mother's Day."
"To My Darling, Beloved Girlfriend - Sorry I got drunk and tried to get you to make out with your best friend. All I can say is that I really thought you'd be into it. At least, that's the way it works out in those Penthouse Forum letters, and those are all real people writing in. Maybe you shouldn't be so judgmental. You really shouldn't reject an idea until you've tried it at least once. I'm an asshole? No, you're an asshole! Oh wait, don't cry. I'm sorry. I was just trying to say - Happy Birthday."
"To Mom & Dad on your anniversary - Can I borrow a couple hundred bucks until payday?"
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
I don't get guys who wear wifebeaters.
You're either saying, "I get drunk and hit my wife."
Or, "I want to look as cool as a guy who gets drunk and hits his wife."
Either way, I applaud the use of a wifebeater. Because it's an Asshole Uniform. You're letting the world know, "Hey, I'm an asshole and not afraid to show it."
In fact, I think there should be other kinds of shirts for other kinds of assholes:
* The Answeringyourcellphoneduringamovie Baby T
* The Cockblock Hoodie
* A Talktooclosewithbadbreath Sweatshirt
* The Classic Drunkdialingat3am Button-Down Dress Shirt
* The Ever-Popular Fartinacrowdedroom Undershirt
* The Sniffmyfinger Pajama Top
and of course:
* The A-Rod Jersey
Coming back from a show in Hoboken last night, I accidentally discovered that if you want a really good view of Ground Zero, just take the PATH train from Hoboken to the WTC. It's like a Disneyland tram ride through hell.
Walking through the large, empty space that used to be the lower mazzenine of the World Trade Center was a kick in the ass. I literally looked over at a wall with a photo mural and thought, "That used to be an Sbarros."
If you had ever told me that I would be nostalgic about a former Sbarro's, I would have laughed right in your eyeteeth.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Over there's the television. The remote is over there, bolted to the nightstand. The lamps turn on and off. There's stationary, under that organ donor card. You can dial 6 for room service until 9:00. And someone will be in later to horribly murder you. Now, in the bathroom, you'll -
What? Oh. I said, you can call for room service until nine. After that, you'll have to -
Oh yes. Horribly murder you. That's right. It's a service we provide.
"Why?" Well, we can't expect you to horribly murder yoruself, now can we sir?
Don't want to be horribly murdered? But, it's our biggest service.
Well, you should have thought about that before you checked in.
Yes we do, sir. It's on a big sign outside the hotel - "WE WILL HORRIBLY MURDER YOU." Right under the FREE HBO.
There is a sign. It's prominently displayed out back, behind the dumpster. And speaking of which -
Well, we did used to have it in front, but we found it cut into our business.
Look sir, it's a simple service. Some time around three in the morning, a trained employee will break into your room, quietly creep to your bed, gently lift the covers, softly shake you awake, and then -
Of course he wakes you up. Do you think he'd murder you in your sleep? What would be so horrible about that?
Yes sir, you would have to tip him.
Sir, we horribly murder all our guests. Why do you think we make you pay in advance?
One more thing. Would you like to be drowned, garroted, chopped to pieces with an axe, or -
Well sir, that's why it's called a "horrible" murder, not a "happy fun-time" murder.
All right sir. We'll surprise you. In fact, I was just kidding.
That's right sir, no murders. Just the hotel's idea of a joke. Ha ha. Ha.
No, no, no need to worry. Right.
Wake-up call? Sure, whatever. You got it.
Oh, uh the time. Yeah. Hold on, let me write this down.
(takes a piece of paper from his pocket, and starts writing with an imaginary pen)
What time was that? Yes I am. I am - sir, I am holding a pen.
(looks at his hand, which is clearly empty)
(Fishes a pen from his pocket, clearly scribbles)
Now what time? Nine? Oh, six.
Yeah yeah yeah, whatever.
(crumples the paper and throws it over his shoulder)
Oh, I'll dismem- remember. Good night sir. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
A while ago I wrote a fake job list posting for the most humiliating job I could think of. I got probably five hundred replies from people who wanted the job.
My job list posting was included in a Time Out NY Craig's List round-up, and I just discovered that it's been put up on The Best of Craig's List. Yay me.
Also, you have to give this woman points for honesty. Right?
The kind that can only be cured by an exorcist.
But lesbians who make out in public are a close second.
I don't know if I'd consider a dog my "best friend." First of all, I'd hope my best friend had better breath than that.
I've had some pretty close friends in my life, but I've never seen my buddy take a dump on the sidewalk and think, "Well, I guess I'd better pick that up now."
At least, not when I was sober. I mean, we've all been to college, right?
Also, I don't think that if you put a leash on someone and made them eat their food from a bowl on the floor, you should consider yourself a "friend."
You should consider yourself "a guy getting paid two hundred dollars an hour to tell a businessman he's a dirty little boy." And believe me fellas, there's nothing wrong with a girl making a little extra spending money to support her comedy career.
Think about the person you consider your best friend.
Now what would he do if you said, "Here's an idea. I'm going to put a collar on you that says I own you. I'll get you food, but you have to sit up and beg for it. Now jump in the car and we'll go cut your balls off."
That's not your "best friend"; that's your "husband."
Thursday, April 15, 2004
But I do love practical jokes.
That's why sometimes, I'll go to a hotel bar and find a travelling salesman. And I'll buy him beers all night until he's really drunk.
Then I'll take him up to his room and put him in a huge tub filled with ice. And on the bathroom mirror, I write the words: "WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF AIDS!"
And after he wakes up and freaks out, I jump in and yell: "HA HA! SURPRISE! Just kidding. But seriosuly, you owe me $500 for the anal sex last night."
Some Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on my door the other morning to spread the Good Word of the Lord.
Why does God need door-to-door salesmen?
I think God's done a pretty good job getting the word out.
I've never had this conversation:
"Yeah, you ever hear of this 'God' guy? I just read about him Rolling Stone. Apparently he created the Universe. I wonder why I never heard of him before."
You know that saying, "He wrote book on religion"?
He literally wrote the book on religion.
God doesn't need a street team. You know who needs a street team? Ludacris. The rapper.
I don't think God is going on tour with booty girls doing blow in the back of a limo.
Liam sez: OK, maybe this isn't as blasphemous as you'd expect from me. But it would be nice if I wrote a joke that has a chance of doing well on the road.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
I was born with a terrible, terrible handicap - my parents were poor.
I hate people who try to sound like they're complaining, but what they're really doing is bragging.
"Oh my job is sending me to Paris for two weeks. They don't even want me to do anything, just have dinner with clients really."
Really. So when I strangle you, it'll be a mercy killing.
"It's hard dating a model. All these other guys hitting on her all the time. I mean sure she's pretty, but looks aren't everything."
Yeah. You know what else is hard? Not punching you in the throat.
So now, whenever someone does that, I just say:
"Oh by the way, I have cancer. Anyway, you were saying your Porsche goes too fast?"
Monday, April 12, 2004
Do you have those friends who only tell you how bad something looks after you've gotten rid of it?
Like, you look in the mirror and you realize you have a terrible beard. So yo ushave it, and the next time you see your friends, they say, "Thank god you shaved that thing! You looked like an Amish hobo! We were all like, 'Prithee good sirrah, mightest I have a lift to the next barn-raising?"
Why didn't you tell me it was horrible?
"It was too funny."
And you're just like, Okay, what else are they saying behind my back?
These are the same friends who start talking shit about your girlfriend the second you break up with her.
BECAUSE WE ALL DO IT
We all hold our tongue while our friends ar dating someone horrible, because you know - you know - that all the things they praise about them now are the same exact things they're going to complain about once they've broken up.
"I love her because she's so honest with her feelings."
Post breakup, that becomes, "She never shut up about her feelings."
And, "I can't believe I found a woman who loves sports as much as I do,"
becomes, "I think she was gay, dude."
And, "I like a woman who sticks up for herself,"
becomes, "It was embarrassing, being the only guy at the Battered Woman's Shelter."
Saturday, April 10, 2004
1.) I'm sitting with my friend Claudia at the Yaffa Cafe on St. Mark's Place. I start "riffing" on how creepy my patchy non-beard looks.
ME: Seriously, this beard makes a statement, and that statement is, 'Don't pick me up hitchhiking!'
CLAUDIA: Liam, no matter how creepy you think you look, I'm sitting across from you and all I can think is, 'That guy looks like he's thinking up Onion headlines.'
2.) I'm walking up Queens Boulevard. I come up behind an odd couple; an old woman, bent over one of those rolling walkers (is that a legitimate phrase?), tumbling along like the only thing that keeps her going is the will to annoy her grandkids.
Next to her is a 30-ish Mexican man wearing the outfit of all deli workers; white shirt, white apron, and the forced smile of one wishes he were anywhere else, dealing with anyone else, at the moment.
As I walk past, the woman is saying: '...and I'm going to sue the Weather Bureau. They're working with Dr. Atkins' people. (PAUSE) THEY know what they did!"
And I walk past. I'm tempted to stop and window-shop long enough to let them pass me by, so I can find out who THEY are and what THEY know that THEY did. But alas, the only store I'm passing is Sprung Monuments, and I don't care who you are, window-shopping for headstones just doesn't look right.
Sometimes women are surprised by a guy's behaviour. That's because they don't understand that what a guy says is what he means. Do you get the premise here yet? If not, let me spell it out for you:
I am about to provide a guide to the difference between what a guy says and what he really means:*
GUY SAYS: "I had a great time tonight."
HE MEANS: "I'm never going to call you again."
GUY SAYS: "Let's do this again some time."
HE MEANS: "I'm never going to call you again."
GUY SAYS: "I am definitely going to call you this week."
HE MEANS: "I'm never going to call you again."
GUY SAYS: "Let's do something this weekend."
HE MEANS: "I'm never going to call you again."
GUY SAYS: "Hey, I was just about to call you."
HE MEANS: "How awkward. I never thought I'd run into you again."
GUY SAYS: "I was just about to call you."
HE MEANS: "When I didn't call you, I didn't think you'd actually call me."
GUY SAYS: "I dated that girl once. She was crazy, though."
HE MEANS: "When I didn't return her call, she called me again to find out why."
*Yes, I have read MAD Magazine. Why do you ask?
Thursday, April 08, 2004
I'm still single.
But I'm here to tell you; being broke ain't exactly helping.
If money can't buy love, how do you explain Steven Hawking's marriage?
I mean, sure, he's a smart guy.
And I know a lot of women are attracted to a guy for his mind.
But generally, they want some kind of body attached to it.
I've never heard a woman say, "Sure he's a nice guy, but he moves around too much. I'm lookin for more of a doorstop."
PunchLine Sam Sez: "I've heard of husbands who were doormats, but THIS is RIDICULOUS!"
I've never been to a prostitute. Mostly because going to a prostitute is basically paying someone to give you a disease.
I can get the clap for free, if I try.
Escorts are like prostitutes, but you pay them to go on a date with you first.
I have never wanted to pay a woman to date me.
Once or twice, I wanted to pay a woman to stop dating me...
"Here's $300. Stop telling me about your childhood."
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
I'm checkin' out an Irish comedian named Dylan Moran.
I was watching SNL with my friends Nick and Diane on Saturday (of course!) when this commercial for Victoria's Secret came on. I noticed the background music was a Dylan song I really liked called Love Sick.
"Hmm," I think, "I didn't think Dylan sold his music for commercials."
Then they cut to a shot of Dylan singing the song. My friend Nick was looking away from the TV, and all I could do was point, gape-mouthed at the TV, as if I was at a revivalist meeting and Jesus had descended quietly behind the preacher, holding a box of Trojan condoms and smiling a salesman's smile.
Why is Dylan in a Victoria's Secret commercial? Does he need the money? Can't he get a home equity mortgage loan on his house in Malibu?
And why Dylan selling lingerie? Sure he's a genius, but if there's something less sexy than a 60 year-old man leering at a model in her underwear, I wouldn't like to know what it is.
Sorry that this is one of those boring self-indulgent diary entry-type blog entries, but there you go.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
I am the dark avenger. I am the masked protector of the night. I live in shadow, and wear the night as a shroud. Evildoers the city over quake in fear at the rustling of the shade, for they know that I am as close as their breath, and as dark as their conscience. And I'd like to be put on the comp list for tonight's Kill Puppy Kill concert.
No, I can't tell you my name.
Because, my identity must remain a closely guarded secret. Were this city's various villains to find out my true identity, they would seek vengeance against my closest and most-beloved.
I understand your point. But even though I am a dark and mysterious enigma, I still would like to get in to tonight's Kill Puppy Kill show. I'm writing a review for my 'zine.
No, you don't need to know my name. Just know this; that as long as there is injustice in this world, I will -
Are you deaf, or just retarded? Look, when my wealthy parents were killed by evil goons thirty years ago, I made two vows:
One; that I would use their vast fortune to tune my body into the ultimate martial arts killing machine, and carry out a dark and bloody vengeance against all those who would commit the same kind of wrongs that got my parents murdered.
And two, that I would also produce the most kick-ass 'zine about the New York rock scene ever produced.
No, I can't tell you the name of my 'zine. Because, I am the mysterious stranger who patrols the rooftops, in search of evil wherever it may lurk. I am also a rock reviewer much in the old-school mold of Lester Bangs. Anyway, I'm not even coming to see Kill Puppy Kill. I'm coming to review their opening act, Tastes Like Chicken. I pride myself on having a nose for the most up-and-coming of the up-and-coming indie rock bands. I knew about the Old 97s before anyone ever heard of -
The Old 97s? You know, one of the most - God, why do I waste my breath in argument with defective minds like yours, when I could be patrolling the city in search of injustice wherever it may be found. So just put my name on the comp list like a good boy, and -
Hey! Do I stutter? Are you hard of hearing? Do you have a dick in your ear? My 'zine is one of the top 17 most influential in the entire city! And also, I am the dark eye that watches all that goes on in the streets, ensuring that average citizens such as yourself remain safe from the kinds of animals that roam the urban jungle!
So I'm going to need a plus one.
Hello? Hello? I'm gonna kick that guy's ass.
Monday, April 05, 2004
"The Liam & Becky Fun-Time Happiness Hour -Liam McEneaney and Becky Donahue designed their new monthly show with comedians in mind, something of a rarity in the two-drink minimum mindset of conventional comedy clubs. The result is a relaxed, comfortable, and decidedly non-traditional showcase of emerging and established acts who are collectively more inventive than typical headliners at showier venues. Here, McEneaney and Donahue will be in good company, with the distracted humor of Tom Shillue..."
Tuesday, April 6th
The Becky & Fun-Time Happiness Hour
At the PIT Theater.
154 W 29th St
RESERVE: 212 563 7488
8:00pm - $10.00
Special guest Tom Shillue (Conan O'Brien, Premium Blend, The Daily Show)
* Chris DeLuca (writer, Spike TV; The Slammy Awards)
* Becky Donahue ("Premium Blend," "Tough Crowd w/ Colin Quinn")
* Val Kappa (Cartoon Network, "Home Movies")
* Shauna Lane (credits pending)
* Liam McEneaney ("Premium Blend")
* Jeff Mac (credits pending)
* Pat O'Shea (credits pending)
* Amber Tozer (Luna Lounge, others)
Whenever I do find myself dating a woman, I get terribly insecure when she has a crush on a celebrity. Usually because said celebrity has certain qualities that I lack; good looks, money, a thriving career, drive, ambition, etc. You know, the little things that shouldn't be important to women, yet for some reason are.
But I know it's kind of impossible to ask the ladies I date to get a crush on a celebrity. That's why I've decided, as a favor, to make a list of celebrities that the women I date are allowed to have a crush on. No need to thank me ladies - it saves a lot of trouble and stress for all of us.
GUYS THE LADIES I DATE ARE ALLOWED TO HAVE A CRUSH ON
* Michael Jackson
* The kid who played banjo in Deliverance
* The late William Howard Taft
* Star Jones
* Carson Kressley
* Kamal from The Jerky Boys
* The Giant Vagina Monster from Gwar
* Cheng and Eng, the Siamese Twins
* Captain Kangaroo
* Boxcar Willie
* Patient Zero
* Vern Troyer
* Rebbe Menachem Schneerson
* Little Billy from The Family Circus
* Ted Bundy
Friday, April 02, 2004
I was walking up the street the other day in Rego Park, and I noticed a large sheet of cardboard on the grass held down by a giant cinderblock. On the board, the owner of the adjacent house had written (I'm paraphrasing from memory here):
"ON WEDNESDAY, MY CAMERA CAUGHT A YOUNG LADY WALKING A DOG, LETING DOG SHIT ON SIDEWALK AND NOT CLEANING UP. TAPE WILL BE HANDED OVER TO SANITATION DEPARTMENT. DO NO LET YOUR DOG SHIT ON THE SIDEWALK."
The funny part - someone had strategically let their dog talk a dump on the right-hand edge of the sign.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
(For those of you who could give two shits about this, there's an actual comedy entry below)
We're coming up on second year of the Emerging Comics of New York Awards (The "Emergies"). Apparently, comedy isn't competitive enough; and my life isn't complete unless I'm getting Spam from everyone I've ever met saying, "Go to this web site and nominate me!"
And yet, here I am saying, "Go to this web site and nominate me!"
And why am I doing this? One reason and one reason only: Pure Narcissism.
Last year I asked my readers to vote this Blog for Best Website, but since most of the people who read this blog aren't New York comedians, they didn't know who to vote for. This year I'm asking you to vote, and I'm including below a quick guide to other people you can nominate for various categories.
And please note that I'm doing this in about five minutes, so if you're a friend of mine and I forgot to include you it's nothing personal; I just decided not to spend too long on this:
Best male standup comedian:
Best female standup comedian:
Best Sketch Comedy Group
Satirized For Your Protection
Best Comedy Writer
Liam McEneaney (www.kidliam.blogspot.com)
Bob Powers (www.girlsarepretty.com)
Kyria Abrahams (Jest magazine)
Best One Person Show
Tower of Babble
Best Variety Show
The Giant Tuesday Night of Amazing Inventions & Also There Is A Game!
Best Comedic Duo
Christina McGrath & Claudia Cogan
Best Host of a Variety Show or Comedic Event
Bob Powers & Todd Levin
This is irrelevant
Best Improv Group
Best Comedic Website
The Liam McEneaney Experience (www.kidliam.blogspot.com)
Best Musical Comedy Act
A Brief View of the Hudson
I am leaving this space blank in protest
I'm on a Lubavitcher mailing list. Lubavitchers are an extremely Orthodox sect of Judaism; they believe that their Rabbi, the late Rebbe Schneerson, is the true Messiah and is going to return from the dead any day now to lead his people to the Promised Land (Valley Stream, Long Island).
The Clever Son asks: "Why is Liam on a Lubavitcher mailing list?"
A few years ago, some joker signed me up for an Orthodox Jewish singles dating service. I get a ton of e-mails and brochures about dating events that will let me have absolutely no danger of interacting with anyone outside the Orthodox community.
I've been tempted for years to go to one of these events (like the recent, cleverly-titled "Sushi in the City" get-together) just to see the horrified looks on their faces when a guy named Liam McEneaney shows up looking for a bride. If you're a bigot who wants to commit a hate crime, find a religious Jew and fall in love with their daughter; you won't have to lift a finger, they'll die on their own of mortification.
Anyway, I got a mailing from the Chabbad of Rego Park about Passover. Apparently, if I contribute as little as $36.00 (Double Chai), they will send a Rabbi to my apartment to cleanse it of all Chometz.
EDUCATIONAL SIDE-NOTE: Chometz is leavened bread - bread made of grains; barley, grain, spelt, etc. Passover is a celebration of the passing of the Hebrew people out of bondage in Egypt. When they fled through the desert, they didn't have time to bake bread and let it rise; they only had flat-bread that baked a special way. So during the the eight days of Passover, devout Jews may only eat Matzoh and special Kosher-for-Passover foods.
So the point is that this Rabbi will come to my apartment with a little broom and dustpan and sweep away bread crumbs and scour my apartment of all leavened bread. For only thirty-six dollars! This is half as cheap as a Broadway show, and twice as funny.
In fact, it's a lot cheaper than hiring a maid. I should just break up a loaf of bread and hide the crumbs in all the dirtiest places that need cleaning. Crumbs on my dusty TV, a loaf behind my couch.
"Sorry Rabbi, I just remembered I left a sesame roll behind the toilet. Tell you what, while you get that, I'll get out the vacuum so you can start under my bed next."
If I send them Triple Chai, maybe they'll send a Rabbi dressed in a little French Maid outfit.
I hate to talk about deals I've got in the works, but I'm in negotiations with Chabad of Rego Park to be their celebrity spokesman. Here's my ad:
Mah nish-ta-nah ha-lailah ha-zeh me-kol ha-leilot?
Liam, the Simple Son, replies: "Because thanks to Chabad of Rego Park, I can actually see myself in my super-clean dishes!"
Why are we reclining on cushions tonight?
Liam, the Simple Son, replies: "For the price of Double Chai, I was able to sit back and let Chabad of Rego Park do all the work! Thanks Chabad of Rego Park!"