After the disappointing meal, I went back to the central part of Old Town where most of the bars were located. While walking through a side alley I noticed a sign on a small bar that said, “Open Mic Comedy Night.” I stopped in front of it. A thought crossed my mind—what a great chance to tell people how I felt. I could tell them anything I wanted to under the guise of comedy. It was something I normally wouldn’t have dared to do, but I had begun to care very little about people’s opinions as of late and if they wanted to hate me, so be it.
The bar had an unusual name—it was called Oh My! When I walked inside, I saw that it was small and had the atmosphere of a speakeasy: low ceilings, dark décor, red curtains, a small stage, and various old-style posters on the walls. About a quarter of the seats were filled and there was a young woman on stage.
I went to the counter and ordered a beer and a whiskey. “So what do I gotta do to perform?” I asked the bartender as he was pouring my drinks.
“You want to perform on the open mic?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, no problem. We’re just getting started. Aside from her,” he pointed towards the stage, “two more people have signed up. You can go after them. You’ve got fifteen minutes on stage. What’s your name?”
I gave him my name and he wrote it down on a piece of paper. I then took my beer and whiskey and found a place to sit down in the front row. I left the whiskey for later and sipped on the beer. I listened to the person performing on stage. She went on and on about a bunch of female-specific things I couldn’t have given less of a fuck about.
The next guy wasn’t any better. His inane jokes about Estonians and Russians and bathrooms may have amused the audience, but they did absolutely nothing for me.
I knocked back my remaining beer and went to buy another. More people had walked in during the two acts. The small venue was rather packed by now and I was starting to get nervous about going up on stage. At least there was to be one more shitty comedian before my turn in the spotlight.
The third performer was a sweaty young man with a shaky voice who told jokes about cats, dogs, videogames, and God knows what else, and it was all about as funny as cancer.
After that, they called my name. All of a sudden it didn’t feel like such a hot idea to perform in front of a bunch of random strangers. But it was too late to back down. It was possible that the shit I had to say to this crowd would make them hate my guts. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to hold back. I downed my whiskey, stood up, and walked to the stage.
“Hi there,” I said, squinting my eyes under the bright lights. “Let’s start with a list of things I want to do before I die. Entry number one. Kill myself.” I paused for a moment. “That’s it. It’s a short list.”
The reaction I got was deader than a graveyard.
“Okay. Let me ask you something instead then. Have you ever accidentally dropped your apartment keys on the ground and thought, oh great, I might as well just commit suicide now.”
Again, nobody laughed.
I then put my fingers on the side of my head and imitated a gun blowing my brains out. “Hey. I’ll try anything once.”
“That ain’t funny!” somebody finally yelled from the audience. “Yeah,” somebody agreed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Humor is subjective,” I said. “For instance, I found the previous act about as funny as child molestation.” I could sense the anger in the room intensifying. “But I digress. I guess suicide jokes are an acquired taste. Just like being attracted to little children. So let’s try something else.”
I thought for a moment before continuing. “So I recently saw a video online of ISIS burning two captured Turkish soldiers alive.” I shook my head dramatically. “Let me tell you. Best orgasm I ever had.”
One person chuckled.
I continued. “So I was fucking my mom and I accidentally came inside her. But it’s all right because she was already dead.”
A few people stood up and left.
“All right,” I said. “Moving on to something a bit more complex. So everyone has a mom and dad, right? Or, well, had, if you’re an orphan. But anyway, everyone has or had parents, yes? Even Adolf Hitler. Now, some people like to ask, ‘If you could travel back in time, would you kill Hitler when he was a child?’ And most people would agree that they would indeed. Especially the Jews. Although they might do a bit more than just kill him, if you know what I mean.
“But say you did kill him. What’s to stop his parents from simply having another child? And what’s to stop that kid from turning out to be even worse than old Adolf? Indeed, say you kill Adolf and then go back to the present and then the people that sent you back in time tell you, ‘Yeah, turns out we have to send you back again. This time to prevent you from killing Adolf by killing yourself. I guess we just didn’t appreciate what we had until it was gone.
“So what do you do? It’s simple. You kill Adolf’s worthless fucking parents instead who probably raised him to be a dictator in the first place. After all, it wasn’t Adolf’s fault that he was born, was it? And even serial killers have parents. In fact, some of them even ate their parents. And I don’t mean ate them out, although, to be sure, some of them did that as well… after they first killed them of course. I’m sorry. For some reason, I just can’t seem to stop thinking about corpse-fucking.
“But anyway, why gamble with people’s lives, man? ‘Cause even if they’re not serial killers or Adolf Hitler, or corpse-fuckers, they’re still fucking useless, aren’t they?” A few people in the audience started booing me. I put the microphone closer to my mouth and said, “Especially this audience.”
At this, somebody threw a beer bottle at me. It hit me in the face and bounced off. “Motherfuck—” I held my hand against my face, which was pulsating with pain. Then somebody came on the stage. It was the bartender. “Time to leave,” he said.
“Why? I didn’t throw the fucking bottle.”
“All the same.” He took me by the arm and started forcing me off the stage.
“You see?” I yelled at the audience as the guy began walking me out of the bar. “You people are fucking useless. You only want to hear what you already believe. You’re like an echo chamber. You stupid fucks!”
When we were outside, the bartender shoved me on the ground. “Dude. You need to seek help,” he said. “Seriously.” He then turned around, walked back inside, and closed the door.
“And where, pray tell, would I find it!?” I yelled as I slowly got up from the ground. I looked around. A few passersby were staring at me from across the street. “What?” I motioned with my face. They continued moving.
I pulled out a Marlboro Red cigarette, lit it, and sat down on some steps nearby. Blood was trickling from my eyebrow. I wiped it away with my sleeve. I could still hear voices from the bar. Laughter. They were probably making fun of me. The freak had left the stage and relatable normalcy had returned.
Suddenly I felt awfully alone. Perhaps more alone than I had ever felt in my life. I might as well have been on Mars, I thought. In fact, I wished I were on Mars for I would then quickly suffocate.
I stood up from the steps and flicked my cigarette butt against the bar window, sparks flying off it.
The final joke, as always, was on me.