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Tuesday, February 21, 2006

No Laughing Matter

I might get fired. Soon. There's that ol' familiar sinking feeling that you get after you crash into the BMW belonging to a well-known mafiosi/ a surface-to-air missile takes off one of the wings of the jet fighter you're piloting/ while you cower in fear on the bathroom floor as Jack Nicholson starts using an axe to hack apart the door from the other side. That feeling you get the moment you shoot a 78-year old lawyer with a shotgun while on a quail hunt and realise that this "just might" make the evening news.

For those who can't get enough of Dick jokes here is a jpeg of Vice-President Cheney looking perplexed as he hunts for "quails"

Last December I was approached by a few comediennes to host their show at the Amethyst Bar for the upcoming Melbourne Comedy Festival. It seemed like a good idea so I passed the details to "Roy", the owner of the bar. Now he was supposed to get back to the ladies in a week or two which in Royspeak usually means never so when they asked me again how I thought he'd reply I naturally thought: 'An hour of comedy between 7 and 8, won't cost us anything, we'd get extra customers- why the hell not?'. It would be a full 48-hours later when he'd say that he was dead against the idea after all.

I think I was hoping to change his mind somewhere along the line and had promptly forgotten about it until a week ago when Louise, one of the comediennes, informed me that all the press stuff was due to come out in the papers in about four days.

Cue: Slow Gripping Sensation In The Testicular Region.

Although I've worked for "Roy" for a number of years and generally he's a pretty reasonable guy, he does have a tendency of firing people depending on what he had for lunch that day. I remember that we had a guy called Shane who had been working at the bar for about two years who was likable, competent and intelligent. He broke a bottle of Midori while cleaning the bar one day and was sacked a week later [1]. I think arranging a three-week comedy gig behind Phil's back somehow tops that effort.

My other shirt is Mithril

[1]. Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc!


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