Category Archives: Stories

For reasons I’ve discussed before, I hate strip clubs.  That’s why I wasn’t too pleased when I found out that one of my good friends was holding his birthday at an “exotic dance bar” called Jumbo’s Clown Room.

Now I was under the false impression that Jumbo’s Clown Room was a strip club where the women dressed up as clowns — which would have been amazing.  Who knew that there was a place that played to my fetishes?

No, but I definitely had my expectations: instead of a Champagne Room, I assumed they’d have a Seltzer Room.  I imagined they’d make balloon animals with prophylactics.  Stuff like that…

* * *

So I show up to Jumbo’s Clown Room, and the bouncer outside’s like –

Bouncer: {deep, gravely voice} “You got enough ones?”

I was like –

Josh: “I’m a writer.  All I have is ones.  And one of them.” {then} “Besides, I’m not really planning on making it rain in Jumbo’s Clown Room.  Nor can I.  If anything, I’ll provide a light spritz.”

So I get inside, and it is nothing like I thought.  In fact, it’s the saddest burlesque show I’ve ever seen.  The woman onstage is only half-naked, she’s a good thirty pounds heavier than most strippers, and she’s dancing to “Karma Police” by Radiohead.  She’s also mid- to late-50’s, bleeding a little from the nose, and covered with stretch marks.

The performance was like Requiem for a Dream as a strip show.

Anyway, I’m losing my social filter, and I make the mistake of verbalizing my thoughts.  I say –

Josh: “Well this is depressing.”

Right as I say it, though, the music goes silent.  It’s clear to me that everyone has heard me, especially when the stripper gets down from her pole.  Her arthritic knees cracks as she moves toward me and yells –

Stripper: “Then why don’t you go to a real strip club?”

(This honestly happened.)

Then she goes on a five-minute rant about how happy she is with her life, how much more money she makes than I do (which is obviously true), about how my judgmental tone couched in false compassion is the epitome of the word “hypocrite” — she was really articulate, actually.

I have no ending to this story, but I am no longer allowed in Jumbo’s Clown Room.

I told the following story to a few good friends of mine, and they urged me not to turn it into a stand-up bit because it sounded “uncharacteristically evil” of me.  I won’t, but I still feel like it’s worth posting because someone may relate to it.  Or someone may find it funny.  Or I’m evil.  Whatever.

* * *

I was dating this girl a while ago, and we had a big argument about condoms.  She said she was on the pill and that my use of condoms showed that I didn’t trust her; so, I stopped using them and put myself at risk for getting her pregnant — just to avoid an argument.

Flash forward a couple of weeks into the condomless sex.  She texts me, “We need to talk — period.  In person — period.”

My mind immediately went –

Josh: “She’s pregnant.  I’m going to kill myself.”

There was no mention of pregnancy.  My mind just jumped there.  And the suicide thing, I’m not sure what the logic was.  Avoid responsibility,  sure, but I think it was also that I know how shitty my genetics are — everyone in my family suffers from depression or arthritis or…other Jewy things — and I do not want to give half of my reject DNA to someone else; so, I reasoned that if I killed myself, it might encourage her to get an abortion because she wouldn’t want to raise the kid on her own.

Brilliant!

Meanwhile, she waited two days to meet up with me.  It was like –

Girl: “I might be pregnant, keep it, and ruin your life forever.” {sing-songy} “But I won’t tell you for 48 hours…”

By the time I met up with her, it was like –

Girl: “You remember what happened last week in bed?”
Josh: “Yeah, you said, ‘Cum inside of me — but remember I’m on the pill and if I get pregnant, I’ll 100% get an abortion.’  Right?  Was that it?”
Girl: “No.  After we made love, I turned to you and said, ‘I’m falling in love with you,’ and you said, ‘Heeeeh…’  I feel like I love you more than you love me.”

It was a vulnerable moment, and I knew I needed to say something sensitive.  But I was so angry that she put me through two days of turmoil that I said –

Josh: “That’s it?!  I thought you wanted to talk about something important — not your feelings.”

So my roommate texts me a couple of nights ago saying he’s going to have the girl of his dreams over…which is weird because it’s a girl I dated in the past who dumped me.  Anyway, he subtly asks if I can go stay at someone else’s place.  He’s like –

Dick: “Hey Josh, would it be all right if you, um, stayed at someone else’s place?”

How my roommate is good with women, I have no idea.  The dude is scrawnier than I am, has a high-pitched voice, and looks like a rat with just a liiiittle less hair.  So I give him some advice before I head out.  I say –

Josh: “You don’t want to get your hopes up, Dick — because then you might get disappointed.  That happens to me all of the time.”

* * *

Now I’m bad with women.  Like sit-com character bad.  Like I could teach a Learning Annex class on how to screw up with women.  It would just be me as the bad example, like –

Learning Annex person: “Okay, Josh, you have the girl back at your apartment.  What do you do now?”
Josh: {nervous} Um…  I put myself down, hoping she’ll come back with a remark that validates me?”
Learning Annex person: “FAILURE!”

Twenty-six years old and I still don’t know how to win over a girl.  I’m always trying to get that movie scene to happen where we get in a pillow fight or stop painting the walls for a minute to smear paint on each other…

Girl: {re: the paint} “Joooosh!”
Josh: “Ha ha ha…  We don’t care at all that these fumes are toxic!  Let’s have sex!”

I actually have a squirt gun from my childhood that I tried to use with a woman once — but the water fight didn’t work very well.  I shot a stream of liquid at her, and she was like –

Girl: “Ah!  That thing really hurts, Josh.”

Also, I only have the one gun, so we had to trade off.  You ever try to have a pillow fight with one pillow?  Kind of takes the fun out of it.

* * *

Anyway, my roommate is consistently successful, so I agree to exit my apartment because the thought of him actually pulling this off — sleeping with “the girl of his dreams” (who, remember, is a girl who rejected me) — literally nauseates me.  I decide to spend the night at my female friend’s place and try to have sex with her.  Long story short, …I don’t.

She wouldn’t even let me sleep in the same room with her.  She was like –

Female friend: “Why don’t I put a blanket on the couch for you?”
Josh: “It’s a Lay-Z-Boy recliner.  You can’t even lay down on it.”
Female friend: “Look, you want the blanket or not?”

The highlight of my night was that I accidentally grazed her boob with my hand.  I was like –

Josh: “Thanks for letting me touch your boob inadvertently.  I’m awkward.”
Learning Annex person: “FAILURE.”

I couldn’t sleep for a good portion of the night, so around 5:30 the next morning, I give up and drive my destroyed body back to my apartment.  By the time I get back, it’ll be 6:00 a.m., I think.  Either that girl who dumped me is gone by now or she and my roommate are sleeping.

Thirty minutes later, I’m opening the door to my apartment.  As I walk into my bathroom to shower, I suddenly hear the loudest sex I’ve heard in my life.  A girly voice screams –

Girly voice: {screaming} “Ah!  Oh!  Ah!  Aw!”

That isn’t necessarily what I think it is, I assure myself like an idiot.  Then there’s a clear slap on the ass sound, and the voice continues –

Girly voice: {screaming} “Ah!  Oh!  Ah!  Aw!”

And I realize, Yeah, that’s Dick’s voice all right.

If there is any doubt in my mind, Dick then adds –

Dick: “I am slapping you on the ass so hard.”

– to which the girl replies –

Girl: “This is the best sex I’ve had in at least nine minutes.”

This immediately builds to –

Girl: {screaming} “Make me squirt!  Make me squirt!”

And at first I’m thinking, Are they playing with my water gun?  …but it’s still in my bathroom.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had sex in about a year, but I suddenly feel like they’re having sex to spite me, like they know I’m in the bathroom next door.  She’s going –

Girl: “Yeah, I’m sucking your dick.  I’m sucking your dick so good.”

And he’s saying –

Dick: “You are sucking my dick.  Yes, you are.”

Like, it’s not even hot!  It’s just this sort of emotionless football commentary.

Dick: “Yes, indeed, you are sucking my dick.  Hear that, Josh?”

And they’re banging to one of my favorite albums of all time: Daft Punk’s “Discovery.”  I’m in the bathroom, like –

Josh: “No!  Do not ruin ‘Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’ for me.”

And over all of that noise, I hear my stupid voice from the night before –

Josh: “You don’t want to get your hopes up, Dick.”

* * *

Once I’m done showering, I go to open the bathroom door to leave my apartment — but the second I do, the girl comes out of Dick’s room and tries to open my bathroom door to get in.  And she’s really trying to get it open — like she has no clue that I’m on the inside…or apparently how locks work.  And now I realize: they didn’t hear me come in, hear me shower, or hear me crying.

They have no idea I’m here.

But this dumb girl is still pulling on the bathroom knob.  And I don’t want to say, like –

Josh: “Umm…ocupado!”

– but I should have because she assumes that no one is in the house, and as I put my ear to the bathroom door, waiting to hear her go back into Dick’s room so I can make my escape, Dick comes out of his room — and the two of them start having sex again in the hallway outside of my bathroom.  I know that this is happening because I hear –

Girl: “Yeah, we’re having sex right outside the locked bathroom door.  This is amazing sex.  And you have a giant cock, Josh’s roommate.”

(I may not be remembering her words with 100% accuracy, but whatever.)  Then I hear –

Dick: “Oh yeah.”
Girl: “Fuck me hard.”
Dick: “Oh yeah.”
Girl: “Fuck me hard.”
Dick: “Oh yeah.”
New girl: “Fuck me hard, too.”

There are three of them!

Meanwhile, I’m just staring at my sad, sexless face in the mirror for half an hour.  As I go to bash my head into the mirror from frustration, the sounds of hot sex stop, and I hear what sounds like Dick’s door close.  The coast must be clear.

I open my bathroom door to rush out — like I’m the one that needs to be embarrassed in this situation — but as I do, I find all three of them lying naked by my feet.

Everyone stares at one another, frozen in shock.

One girl looks horrified.  The other girl clearly recognizes me as the guy she dumped.  And my roommate gives a cocky smirk like he knew I was in there the whole time.

For a split second, I debate going back into the bathroom to “hide,” but I just kind of step over all three of them, say, “‘scuse me…” and make my way out of the apartment.

* * *

Dick never apologized for what happened.  In fact, just a few weeks later, he told me –

Dick: “I almost had another threesome last night — but then a fourth girl showed up!”

I performed stand-up comedy on a live streaming show a while back, and during my performance, some dude on the Internet actually wrote, “You’re not funny.  Kill yourself.”

So I wrote back, “Wanna start a pact?  Seriously, dude, you’re watching no-name comics on the Internet on a Friday night.  You are way more pathetic than I am.”

And c’mon, this guy wants me to kill myself over a poorly constructed joke about hotel food?  What does he want the guy to do who rapes babies?

Or a baby.  I don’t know why I made it plural.  Made it sound like a hobby –

Acquaintance of Lenny: “Yeah, that’s Lenny.  He plays soccer, bakes cakes, rapes babies.  Strange amalgamation of hobbies.”

Final thought on this whole “kill yourself” thing: the username of this individual was “BigAssNutz.”  Not only am I not going to take advice from anyone on the Internet with this username, but I also hope that this dude has a rare condition where his testicles are on his ass.  That’d teach him.

A few months ago, I went to Medieval Times.  I hadn’t gone since I was about six years old.  The only memory I had was that our side won and the jouster came into the audience to take his princess.  I didn’t understand that it was an act, though; so, when he came up to my sister and took her hand, I was like –

Josh: “Wait.  You’re taking her?  I kinda like her.  Well, I guess she’s going to a better place.  I mean, white knight, right?  This is literally what women dream of…”

* * *

Right before the performance, a man proposed to his girlfriend.  Who gets engaged at Medieval Times?  I’ll tell you who: a couple that you KNOW is going to stay together.  It warmed my heart to see two people who were clearly…okay with settling.

Through all the applause, you could almost hear everyone in the room thinking, Good for you, nerds.  Just don’t procreate and make someone else who has to get engaged here, too, okay?

* * *

Ultimately, though, Medieval Times makes me uncomfortable — because my people did not fare well.  Several times during the performance, workers came up to me like –

Worker: “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to move, Jewboy.”

I was like –

Josh: “They are really being accurate, I guess.”

No.  I feel uncomfortable because they separate the audience by the color of their jouster, and it feels weird when you’re rooting against another team by going –

You: “Get the black guy!  Get him!!!”

…and that jouster’s wearing yellow.

My manager’s dog has cancer.  (“And the award for worst opening to a funny story goes to…”)  Anyway, he does.  And it’s sad.  I’m not gonna make a joke about it.  BUT…I sent my manager a script a month ago, and my writing partner just said to me –

Kyle: “We never heard from him.  You think he hated the script?”

I was like –

Josh: “I hope not.  I hope it’s just that his dog died.”

…which is a little insensitive, but you understand where I’m coming from.  Unfortunately, I said this at a party where no one else knew the context, so the conversation sounded like –

Kyle: “Josh, we haven’t heard from our manager in a while.”
Josh: {forcefully} “I hope his dog died.  Fuck him.  Fuck animals.  I’m an asshole.”

Years ago, I took a stand-up comedy class with a nineteen-year-old named Kevin.  From the start, Kevin got a ton of laughs; unfortunately, almost all of them were at his expense.  Kevin would step onto the stage and immediately become sweaty.  From here, he shook and stuttered through a jokeless five-minute set.  We didn’t laugh because Kevin was awful; we laughed because Kevin thought he was incredible.  He’d tell a joke that bombed, then say –

Kevin: “Thank you for laughing.”

* * *

For a long time, I thought Kevin was performing as some sort of delusional character.  In reality, he was just delusional.  The teacher would often stop Kevin in the middle of his act, like –

Kevin: “My mom said I was a mistake.  That must be why she gave me crayons.” {OFF silence from the audience} “Thank you for laughing.”
Teacher: “Ho-hold on, Kevin.  Hold on.  What is the most important rule of stand-up comedy?”
Kevin: “Be funny?”
Teacher: “No — although that’s important, yes.  The most important rule of stand-up comedy is to focus on your relationship with the audience.  And right now, your jokes aren’t landing with them.”
Kevin: “I was rocking the house.”
Teacher: “Well, that’s — all right, but remember: if you completely lose the relationship with the audience or something goes horribly wrong, just say, ‘Thank you,’ and walk off the stage.”

Kevin nodded.

Kevin: “I finally found something I’m good at.”
Teacher: “And what’s that?” {OFF Kevin’s look} “Oh, you’re talking about stand-up.  Okay.”

* * *

I didn’t know a lot of comedians when I was starting out, so I performed with Kevin more frequently than I would have liked.  Every time he performed, he bombed — but also every time he performed, his mother would show up.  Kevin introduced her to me one time.  He said –

Kevin: “This is my mom.  She thinks I’m funny.”
Josh: “You have a very interesting son, Mrs. Rodriguez.”
Kevin: “She doesn’t speak English.”
Josh: “Ah.  That makes sense.

* * *

After we had been performing for a few months, Kevin and I entered ourselves into a stand-up competition.  We were both amateurs and I didn’t expect to win, but Kevin was sure he would.  Backstage, he paced back and forth for a good thirty minutes, sweating through three layers of clothing.  Finally, they called his name.  Kevin walked onto the stage to tepid applause.

Kevin: “Thank you for laughing.”

He looked out at the rather large audience and immediately threw up onstage.  He froze for a moment, said, “Thank you,” then walked off the stage.

Moments later, Kevin’s mom applauded.

I live across from a preschool, which I love — because when women come over, they immediately think, Well, at least he’s not on Megan’s List!

Anyway, the other day, I was watching the kids play — which, I know, not helping my case… — and this little kid started crying.  Suddenly, this fat boy ran up to him.  I was thinking, Oh, this is going to be bad, but the fat boy just hugged the crying kid — which was incredibly sweet.  Then a few other kids ran up, and they hugged the crying kid — and it was amazing.  And then a final kid ran up, and he…punched the crying kid in the mouth.

All of the little girls were like –

Little girls: {scolding} “Todd!”

– and the second that bully walked away, those three girls followed him.  Even in elementary school, the douchebag wins the girls.

I wanted to jump over the face and be like –

Josh: “Nerd’s revenge!”

– and punch the bully kid in the face.  But what was I gonna get out of that, a bunch of preschool girls following me around?  That wouldn’t be good for my image.

Friends of mine told me the following stories, all of which I found pretty funny.  I’ve tried to replicate them exactly as they were told to me…

* * *

#1 — “The Car Ride”

“I had been dating this girl for a long time, but I didn’t feel a spark anymore, so I decided to break up with her.  I drove to her apartment one night to tell her, but when I got there, I didn’t have the courage to follow through.  Hours later, I managed to give the big break-up speech, but I realized as soon as I finished talking that we were at my apartment, and I would have to drive her back home.

“So we get in the car — and she’s crying — and obviously I don’t want to talk anymore, so I turn on the radio.  First song that comes on the air?  Bonnie Raitt’s ‘I Can’t Make You Love Me.’

“Now I can’t turn it off because then it would validate that it’s about our relationship, so I just had to sit through four and a half of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life.”

* * *

#2 – “The Wedding”

“A couple of years ago, I flew to Georgia for my friend’s wedding.  I met up with the bride-to-be the day before the ceremony, and I overheard that she requested there be no straws at the wedding because she has a weird fear of being poked in the eye.  She told me how embarrassed she was that I heard that; so, in order to make her feel less uncomfortable, I told her one of my weird fears: being strangled.

“The next day, the wedding is about to happen, but someone comes rushing in to tell the bride that the groom isn’t coming; apparently, he left the state that morning.  There’s this long silence, then I turn to the bride, saying, ‘Oh God…  I am so sorry.’  The bride doesn’t know what to do, though, so when I go to hug her, she starts strangling me.  And now I don’t know what to do, so I just start poking her in the eye over and over.  It was a mess.”

* * *

#3 – “The Surprise”

“Last year was my 23^rd birthday, and I knew my family was planning a surprise party for me.  I kept calling them, but no one was picking up — and it became even more obvious that there was going to be a surprise when two of my family members called and said I should come to my mom’s place around 4:00.  So I go over to her house all excited, open the door, and yell, ‘Surprise!’ but then everyone’s just sitting in a circle of chairs.  I’m like, ‘What is this?’ and they’re like, ‘An intervention.’  I’m like, ‘Intervention?  It’s my birthday!’  And my mom, without missing a beat, goes, ‘…which makes it even more of a surprise?”

* * *

#4 – “The T-Shirt”

“I had this super masculine roommate in college.  One time, he bought a T-shirt online that said, ‘Taste the Rainbow,’ thinking it was some kind of ironic Skittles reference.  But as he’s unpacking the shirt, one of my gay friends was over, and he was like, ‘Oh, that’s a homosexual shirt.’  ‘Taste the rainbow.’  It’s a euphemism or something.  Now my roommate’s pissed off.  He’s like, ‘Goddamnit.  This generation is killing me.  If you’re gonna make a gay shirt, it should be more blatant, like, ‘I’m gay.’’  Anyway, he still wasn’t convinced that my gay friend was right about it being a ‘gay shirt,’ so he decided to wear it out.

“That night, he goes to a bar with the shirt on, and a guy slides up next to him.  The guy goes, ‘Hey there!’ really flirty, and we all notice that in big block letters, his shirt says, ‘I’M GAY.’”

* * *

#5 – “The Porn”

“I had this buddy in college — he would always watch porn on his laptop before going to sleep.  So one night he watched some video, finished, then closed the top of his laptop.  The next day, he goes to the library and opens his computer, which immediately brings up the porn again.  And the library is silent, but the porn is loud as shit; so, he slams down the top of the laptop to quiet the moaning or whatever — but somehow the sound keeps coming out.  Then he opens the laptop again, thinking he’ll ‘X’ the computer window, but now the screen has frozen — and these orgasm sounds are still coming out.  Everyone’s staring at him, of course, so the poor guy ran out of the library in shame and actually removed the laptop’s battery.”

“Art” is difficult to define.  For some, “art” is a holistic experience that moves you emotionally and provokes intellectual thought; for musical group Death Grips, it’s writing the name of your album on a dude’s erect penis.

Here it comes…

I downloaded this album the morning it came out and then went to the gym.  When my iPhone happened to land on one of its songs in shuffle mode, the cover art filled my phone’s screen — and the man on the treadmill next to me looked horrified.

I didn’t know what to tell him.  Part of me wanted to take Death Grips’s side and say, “It’s art, you philistine!”  Part of me wanted to admit, “I don’t get it either.”  And part of me wanted to say, “I’m not gay,” which would raise a lot more questions than it would answer.  (Do I think that gay people have their own genre of music?  Do I think that gay music needs to have at least one dick pic on the cover so gay people know what to buy?  Do I have latent homophobia?)

Anyway, in the half-second I had to think about it, I landed on this –

Josh: “Oh.  Yeah, it’s not penis music.”

* * *

Good, Josh.  Cleared that right up.