Twizzle While You Work

*WARNING: SOME MINOR DETAILS IN THE LAST ANECDOTE OF THIS POST MAY NOT BE ACCURATE, BUT IT'S WORTH READING ANYWAY. SO DO IT. AND IF ANYBODY ASKS YOU, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I DO AT NIGHT AND YOU'VE DEFINITELY NEVER HEARD ME MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT READING CHICKEN SCRATCH ESSAYS.*

At my job I have a lot of time to think, dwell, and go through vast mental files of word associations and memories. I shouldn't actually have this time, since grading middle schoolers' essays should be taking up 100% of my brainpower. However, I have recently noticed my possession of a special power. I can keep up witty banter, conduct a deep inner-dialogue, and accurately score 7th grade chicken-scratch written exams (on topic development AND conventions) all at the same time. They call me the "Unascorer" (like Unabomber) because every so often I put my sweatshirt hood up and go into "the zone." I click the mouse so fast it's like little bombs going off in the mail to various adversaries. . . I guess. That's when the deep inner-dialogues usually begin. Every few minutes I or someone at my table will temporarily pop my bubble to read out loud something funny that a kid wrote and, if I wasn't the one to share, I usually pop out an amusing comment or two until I feel my table is adequately entertained, then put my head back down and start scoring again. Today, the guy who sits next to me got this in a paper:


"I use a sniper. I also stab people and dinosours in the head."


You don't need to know the context, and I'm legally not allowed to give it to you. But it's damn funny either way. Last week the same guy got a whole paper that said things like "I get to tune up the cat," "My dad spends hours working on our cat," "I can't wait to ride my cat all day long" and "My uncle waxes cats for a living." It really was not until the end of the paper that I realized this child, for whatever reason, confuses his r's and t's. I snorted, chortled, and disturbed the workplace around me for a wonderful 20 minutes. After sitting for hours in very uncomfortable chairs and learning click by click to hate our nation's youth, any respite is welcomed, even by the "bosses." Each table seems to have a never-ending supply of Twizzlers in hopes that the sugar will keep everyone from going batshit crazy. This works until about 9:30pm. The last hour is always the punchiest.

Another favorite misspelling of mine is "raper" instead of "rapper."

"When I get to be a famous raper, I am going to take my mom on tour with me."


While in the middle of a taxing argument about what the hell I'm going to do after college, my mind instantly wandered and my guts just wouldn't let me keep the story I was reminded of to myself. It was a story I had just learned about my comedy mentor, Mike Irwin, who is actually pretty sick right now. There's going to be a benefit show for him in the middle of June at Proctor's.


When Steph was here for the weekend, we stopped by The Comedy Works on Friday night because Rich Vos was doing the show. We got there just in time to watch Vos be miserable as usual and do the last 20 minutes of an hour and 20 minute set. It was bonkers. Also present were John Briggs and Deric Harrington, two local comics whom I enjoy immensely. Whenever I'm in the audience, Briggs tells my favorite joke of his no matter what:


"*blah blah blah talking about the lastest corporate scandal* I haven't seen this many white people in a jury trial box since To Kill A Mockingbird!" Hey, you'd be surprised how many people don't get it.


It was Briggs who told me this hilariously gruesome story about Mike Irwin.


Mike was on a rather lengthy tour with another comedian whose name I don't remember. NoName and Mike were driving together through about 15 states, stopping in each place for one night. It was a colleges and club tour. Mostly colleges. Every night after the show, the two would go off in different directions, Mike and NoName would go out, or Mike would go back to the hotel while NoName was left to explore the cities' nightlives by himself.


As they drove around on the tour, it seemed like every local news station in each town they visited had broadcasted a story about another college girl being raped. After doing the deed, the rapist would make his victims pray with him after. In hindsight, as Mike recalls, he remembers finishing a show in a lifeless Colorado college town. There was nothing to do in this town at all, not even a bar. There was literally only the school.


"Let's head back to the hotel," Mike said.
"I can't, I have some stuff to do." NoName replied.
"What could you POSSIBLY have to do?" Mike inquired.


Well, the news stories kept piling up and finally a police officer in the next place on the tour had heard of the previous stories and realized how similar they all were. It looked like the same person had been traveling around and committing these crimes. Mike Irwin had started and completed an entire comedy tour with a serial rapist.


NoName was not caught until he stupidly tried his schtick in his hometown at the end of the tour.


Like my sassy grandmother whom I never got to meet used to say: Never shit where you eat.