The Night Cheryl Eviscerated Kennedy

By SoDak

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

Cheryl stood in the middle of her bedroom, relishing the euphoric moment. Glancing around the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror. She was covered in blood; flecks of skin and slices of intestine were matted in her nightgown. A smile of satisfaction appeared, as she contemplated how this moment came to be, wondering if her act would inspire others.

As a mediocre actress at best, Cheryl was mostly known for saying, “Larry.” Her performances were generally forgettable, leaving many to wonder how she ever received acting roles. In December 2011, Larry introduced Cheryl to Kennedy. Throughout the night, Cheryl and Kennedy talked about chemtrails, antivaccination campaigns, HIV/AIDS denialism, raw milk, tanning beds, testosterone shots, and his conviction for heroin possession, for which he received two years of probation. He constantly mentioned that “it’s good to be rich,” as he was able to do anything that he wanted without real consequences, at least for him anyhow. As the evening progressed, Kennedy acted as if he was a rutting elk, grunting between his stories, leaning into Cheryl to bump midsections. Those bearing witness to this emerging courtship, pondered whether one or both had previously been kicked in the head by a horse—this could explain Kennedy’s general stupidity and Cheryl’s horrible acting and lack of awareness that she was falling in love with a jackass.

Following their matrimony in 2014, Cheryl continued to be known, well, for not really doing anything notable and worthwhile. Kennedy seized every platform available to spew bullshit and misinformation, which found an audience as many in the United States embraced reactionary politics. Together, they stood, as Kennedy was sworn in as the Secretary of Health and Human Services, only to systematically dismantle the public health infrastructure and usher in policies that will result in the deaths of fellow citizens. When Attorney General Pam Bondi dismissed charges against Kirk Moore, a physician in Utah, for falsifying COVID-19 vaccination cards (medical records) and discarding government-supplied vaccines, Kennedy proclaimed that Moore should be given a medal for his courage and commitment to healing. Within the inverted world, social murderers rallied around each other, declaring that they were promoting freedom, while they created the conditions that directly led to the premature deaths of the most vulnerable. 

Amidst the ongoing developments of neofascism and rearguard mobilization, Cheryl simply smiled for the cameras and defended her husband. At the same time, she wanted to rekindle her dying career. Most of her colleagues did not want to associate with her given her close connections with the stormtroopers. However, she did get one offer, in which she would play the choir teacher in a reboot of Glee. She couldn’t sing, but that did not really matter, as this would add to the follies, in what was sure to be another subpar series. Nevertheless, Cheryl hoped other acting jobs would follow. She told Kennedy about the offer. He nodded his approval, while chewing on a nicotine pouch, as he prepared to inject some testosterone—he was ready to rut, yet again, so he started grunting indecipherable words, thinking he was a desired trophy.

Several weeks later, Cheryl was excited when she received the script for the pilot. She quickly thumbed through the pages, reading her lines. She paused when she saw that she had to sing a mashup. She was familiar with the Dixie Chick’s “Goodbye Earl,” but thought it was an odd selection for a television series. This song was paired with another by Cannibal Corpse, “Evisceration Plague.” “What is this? What a horrible name? I have never heard of them.” She remained nervous about having to sing, but she was filled with consternation about not knowing one of the songs. Terrified about messing up this chance to be back on television, she decided that she had to learn the songs and practice the mashup.

Cheryl first listened to “Goodbye Earl” over and over, reading the lyrics. She hummed along to the upbeat song, memorizing the words about how the wife, along with her friend, poisons her abusive husband and dumps him in the lake. From time to time, she chuckled, thinking about how the husband was despised by everyone. “It’s kind of clever,” she remarked to herself after practicing it for a week. Cheryl took a deep breath, as she contemplated listening to and learning the next song. She looked up the record online, downloading it onto her phone. She grimaced when she saw the frightening figures on the cover, “what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Hesitantly, Cheryl played the song. The mid-tempo, thick riffs fill the air. She shuttered and stopped the song once Corpsegrinder’s guttural growl started. “What the fuck?” Shaking her head, she paced the halls, “how I am supposed to pull this off? It is frightening.” As she steeled courage, she returned to the song, determined she needed to learn the lyrics, figuring the mashup would involve her singing “normally.” Unable to decipher the vocals, she read the opening lines:

Experimental pathogens, a devil’s design

The dark side of science breeds a weapon of war

Contagious killing and internal distress

Homicide or suicide will be the cause of death.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I've lost control.

“Jesus Christ, what is this about.” She started to sweat, wondering if she could pull this off and what it would mean for her career. After a few passes through the lyrics, she settled into the rhythmic delivery and started to hear the words within the song itself. She nodded her head to the chugging riffs. With renewed confidence, she returned to the script to see how the mashup was put together. The writers titled it, “The Evisceration of Earl,” starting off with the Chicks, leading to Cannibal Corpse, with a little back and forth at towards the end. Musically, the mashup primarily followed “Goodbye Earl,” but it was more foreboding and got more intense, as the song progressed.  

Mary Anne and Wanda were the best of friends

All through their high school days

Both members of the 4H Club

Both active in the FFA.

After graduation, Mary Anne went out

Lookin’ for a bright new world

Wanda looked all around this town

And all she found was Earl.

Well, it wasn’t two weeks after she got married

That Wanda started getting abused

She put on dark glasses and long-sleeved blouses

And make-up to cover a bruise.

Well, she finally got the nerve to file for divorce

She let the law take it from there

But Earl walked right through that restraining order

And put her in intensive care.

Right away, Mary Anne flew in from Atlanta

On a red eye midnight flight

She held Wanda's hand as they worked out a plan

And it didn't take’em long to decide

That Earl had to die.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I’ve lost control.

Beg for your life, you won’t escape the knife

Your fate was sealed today

Disease has spread, you pray for death

Evisceration plague.

Stabbing compulsion overwhelms my mind

Terrorized screaming follows the thrust of my knife

I wrench the blade from the chest to the crotch

Organs and entrails fall to the ground.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Unable to be seen but with visible effect

Virulent disease causing outbreaks of violence

They tear themselves apart, offal covers the ground

Viscera torn forcefully from the abdomen.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Intestines slick with blood cannot escape my grip

Surgical incisions give way to frenzied carving

Delirium has taken hold, disembowelment is complete

Horror grips my mind, entrails are in my hands.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Aw, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Na-na-na.

By the time of rehearsal, Cheryl knew every word. With renewed confidence, she embodied the song, making the performance visceral. She found that she was singing the song when she was not at work. She mauled over the arrangement and words, thinking about her husband; it was as if the veil had been lifted. “He truly is a piece of shit—a horrible, disgusting human being.” At the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, he did not give her a second thought, as he was rushed to “safety,” leaving her “unprotected.” That evening, he took a blue pill and some testosterone, grunting at her, thinking his erection was a cure for her displeasure. Turning her back, she walked down the hall to lock herself in a spare room, pondering what to do about the “fucking pig” she had married.

Over the next several months, she filmed the pilot, impressing all who saw her act. However, the truly impressive performance was at home, where she pretended to care about what her husband had to say, nodding along to his rambling. On the night when the episode was to air, she skipped the viewing party with the cast. Kennedy and Cheryl snuggled in bed, watching the show. Following the mashup, Kennedy was worried. What would his powerful chums think? Why was Cheryl so passionate in this performance? Why was she mouthing the unsettling words while they were watching the show? What was this song advocating? He turned to ask Cheryl why she agreed to take this role. He was startled to see her smiling, and then he felt extreme pain, as Cheryl drove a knife into his torso, running it “from chest to the crotch,” repeating the action several times as “organs and entrails” fell “to the ground.” With each cut, she sang “Goodbye Kennedy (na-na-na-na-na).”

How John Prine’s Death Broke Me

By Jack Rafferty

I discovered John Prine’s work around 2017, with the track “Angel from Montgomery,” and I still remember that moment well. I was working in the field at the time, and my crew lead put this song on while we were driving through the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. We were navigating a two-track road amid really tall sagebrush, and a jackrabbit darted across the path as the song played. I was floored by the honesty and originality of it, and I knew that I had to seek out more music from him as soon as I could. 

This led me to listening to his self-titled debut in full, not long after, and falling completely in love with it. This is one of the few nearly perfect albums that have been made, in my opinion. The fact that it was his first album is all the more impressive. For about six months, it was the majority of what I listened to, just putting the album on repeat back-to-back as I traveled to Tucson, when I was digging holes in the desert heat for work, and when I was at home, sipping whiskey under a chitalpa tree. I listened to his albums one by one, some better than others, but I always found something to love on each of them. 

Three years later, in the early months of quarantine during the COVID-19 pandemic, John’s songs were what got me out of bed in the morning. I would wake up and grab my phone from the side table to pull up one of his songs, just so I could listen to it while staring at the ceiling trying to find a reason to start the day. His equally serious and unserious approach on the common struggles that humans face, and the humorous yet deeply empathetic way he had of conveying his struggles in his unique songwriting, gave me the strength that I needed to face those hard days. Songs like “Sour Grapes” and “Summer’s End” reflected my overall mood so well that I would simply sit on my porch and play them over and over, while some of his more lighthearted songs, such as “Spanish Pipedream,” “Pretty Good,” “Fish and Whistle,” “Aw Heck,” and so many others were at times the only things that got me through the day. 

I was in a dark place then, as many were. I was waking up and drinking liquor as early as nine in the morning. I was lucky, in that I was able to work from home, and still had a steady income to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Nevertheless, the myriad simultaneous social and ecological crises that worsened daily coupled with the deep alienation of having to quarantine alone for months on end put me in perhaps the worst mental state that I had ever been in. John’s music wasn’t just a minor reprieve from all this, it was an anchor tethering me to humanness in a time of unprecedented isolation and inhumanity. 

I can’t really put into words how hard the news of his passing hit me on April 7, 2020. The fact that he died from COVID made it even more painful. It felt like a close friend who had been holding my hand through all this hardship suddenly slipped away and was gone before I could turn around to see them disappear. I had never felt so emotionally tied to someone I hadn’t personally known before, and I’m sure my mental state during this time compounded this feeling, but I was inconsolable for days after this. I would stand at the kitchen sink and stare out at the sun setting through the city haze, thinking about everything and nothing at once. It was around this time I wrote a poem, which had the lines “windows above the sink / become dull mirrors for unkind thought” as I would spend hours just looking out of that window, until the light became so dim that all I could see was my sullen reflection staring back at me. 

Over the course of weeks and months, I wavered between better and worse, and kept listening to John’s music throughout. It seemed like time stopped having any meaning, and everything started to blur together. I tried to ground myself in little things, in morning coffee, in watching birds, staring at the clouds, short walks. It was only when I connected with my partner later that year that things really improved. The dread of what was happening in the world was still there, but at least I had her. 

I’m very grateful that I made it through this point in my life, and that I was able to stay relatively healthy when many others could not. It is strange to feel like the world has just moved beyond this happening, our employers all clamoring to get us back in the office, back to the rat race, when none of us have had time to properly process or heal from such a collectively traumatic occurrence, which in truth has not fully ended, and has only been swept under the rug to maintain the unending death march of capital. 

I’m in a much better place now, which I owe to my loved ones and community. I still listen to John all the time, practically every day. No matter what is going on in my life, his music is in the background in one way or another. Thankfully, it doesn’t often serve to remind me of those awful times, and rather continues to inspire me to keep my sense of humor, to treat others with kindness, and to have a gentle disposition. When I’m seeking to still the feelings of bitterness and hate that form because of so much in the world that feels like it rips my heart out daily, I turn to John’s music to remind myself of the importance of not losing myself in those feelings, and to remember my love for the people and the natural world. John reminds me to continue being human in conditions that seem increasingly hell bent on tearing what remains of that away from us. John says in “Angel from Montgomery,”

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go 

So I guess this piece is mostly my way of saying thanks to John for giving me one thing that I could hold on to, in a time when I needed it most. 

The Obituary of Charlie Kirk’s Corpse: June 31, 2026-July 4, 2026

 

By Chastity Morgan

It is with great sadness and heavy hearts that we announce the rising of Charlie Kirk’s corpse on June 31, 2026. According to the official White House calendar, Charlie Kirk rose from the dead at the end of the government fiscal year to celebrate the United States semiquincentennial. Kirk’s resurrection was about a month and a week shy of Jesus’s 40 days on Earth before ascending into the clouds. After only four days (depending on which calendar you follow), Kirk’s corpse’s soulless bag of rotting flesh descended back to the 8th circle of hell with all the other hypocrites and false witnesses following a not-so-freak deliberate act during a Civil War reenactment.

On September 10, 2025, Charlie Kirk exited this world the first time with a bang in Orem, Utah. His death caused massive uproar, especially amongst the pervert right who used his assassination as an opportunity to double down on their obsession with American teens and their genitalia. The transgender community became a target, once again, of Kirk’s hateful rhetoric even in death. Media outlets in search of one of the millions of reasons for Kirk’s assassination fanned the flames with their inability to sort out fact from rumors. 

Following Kirk’s death, employees in private and public industries throughout the country had their First Amendment rights violated. Roughly 600 people were fired or suspended after their social media comments about Kirk were characterized as “disparaging of his legacy.” A year later, spineless universities like the University of Tennessee—Knoxville settled lawsuits for the wrongful termination of its professors. This outcome reminds us that it’s perfectly acceptable to call a person an asshole in life and death.

Kirk’s death wasn’t dismal for everyone. Turning Point chapters started popping off (no pun intended) in colleges and high schools. As the male loneliness epidemic runs rampant, Turning Point promises a camaraderie based on misogyny, purportedly “Christian values,” and a weekly circle jerk. Erica Kirk is also living her best life with her organic sweet almond cream decaf matcha venti lattes with a shot of espresso. There are even talks amongst the pervert right of making Erika Kirk J.D. Vance’s running mate for the 2028 presidential election. 

Just this weekend, on the 250th anniversary of the Fractured States of America, Charlie Kirk’s corpse descended back into its fiery inferno after being staked through the other side of the neck by a Robert E. Lee reenactor. A Ulysses S. Grant reenactor relayed the events preceding Kirk’s corpse’s death. According to Grant, Kirk’s corpse was ranting on about poverty being a byproduct of low moral character and women’s only purpose being for procreation. After about 15-minutes of incessant rambling, the Robert E. Lee reenactor picked up a wooden stake and stabbed it through the non-hole side of Kirk’s corpse’s neck. Lee was relegated to the only weapon he had, a wooden stake, because according to the National Civil Association, “The possession of live ammunition, either period or modern and/or the possession of modern weapons in camp are prohibited.” When the Lee reenactor was asked why he did it, he simply said, “His values were too conservative for the Confederacy.” In an unlikely turn of events, the Grant and Lee reenactors shook hands over the corpse’s corpse because stabbing Kirk’s corpse was the only thing these two could agree on throughout the whole war. 

In lieu of hate speech please consider donating to Planned Parenthood (https://www.plannedparenthood.org/get-care/our-services/gender-affirming-care).  

Two Gallants, “Waves of Grain”

By SoDak

Patriotism is nauseating. But it is particularly sickening around the Fourth of July. Homes are adorned in red, white, and blue bunting; Old Glory dangles from flag poles; and the song “American the Beautiful” is played over and over. The image of Mount Rushmore flashes across television screens. The President holds his hand over his heart. This display of romantic glory—this conception that fortune has been bestowed upon the United States—is empty. This settler nation was forged through genocidal practices and chattel slavery, expropriating lands and lives. As an imperialist country, it expanded its reach overseas through the Spanish-American War. The U.S. empire rolled on imposing widespread death and destruction around the world. Lest folks dismiss all this as being in the distant past, despite the ongoing bombing of other nations, it is worthwhile to read David Michael Smith’s Endless Holocausts: Mass Death in the History of the United States Empire, where he uses established sources to document the mass deaths and various forms of social murder that can be attributed to the United States. “Between 1945 and 1980,” Smith writes, 

Major U.S. wars in Korea, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia killed twelve million people. Washington also shared responsibility for the 1.7 million people who died during the rule of the Khmer Rouge, and the U.S. proxy war in Afghanistan led to the deaths of at least 1.5 million. U.S. support for the Guomindang in the second phase of the Chinese civil war, for the French campaign to reconquer Vietnam, for the anti-communist exterminations in Indonesia, for the Biafran war, and for the Pakistani government during the Bangladesh War implicated Washington in the deaths of almost 11 million people.

Smith indicates that it is also necessary to account for other deaths for which the United States has direct or shared responsibility given its policies and actions. He concludes that during this period, the United States contributed to the deaths of over twenty-nine million people. Of course, the horror and atrocities continued. Smith explains,

Between 1980 and 2020, two U.S. wars and sanctions in Iraq and the U.S. war in Afghanistan killed more than two million people. Washington’s proxy wars in Angola, Mozambique, Rwanda, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Syria resulted in roughly nine million deaths. U.S. military interventions, support for client states and rebels, and related famines in Sudan, South Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, and Nigeria cost the lives of another five million people. The U.S. Empire’s role in the collapse of most socialist regimes made it partly responsible for well over seven million deaths.

Given other U.S. military actions abroad, between these years, it is estimated that the United States is associated with causing more than twenty-five million deaths between 1980 to 2020. The death toll is staggering, and it increases each year. Since 1991, the United States has launched over 300 military interventions/actions, solidifying its recognition as the “most warlike nation” in human history.

In 2006, during the protracted American war against Iraq, the Two Gallants closed their record What the Toll Tells with “Waves of Grain,” a nine-and-half minute haunting mediation on how American citizens had become complicit in the devastation that was being waged upon the world. The Two Gallants sing about how the tragedies continued to culminate, yet they were hidden behind jingoism and religious piety. The plaintive voice, filled with cynicism, marks each word, making sure that they linger, as if begging listeners to comprehend what type of world was being created. As the music builds and the voice is more strained, the song seems as if it is trying to lift us up to act, to resist, to fight for the future. The song is unsettling and powerful.

Pray betray the deceased

Such an infamous freedom

Such a militant peace

How dare they distrust

Do they know who we are?

And your progeny’s brave

Their track houses waiting

Pre-plucked and pre-paid

To the ends of the earth

Wife, kids and a car

But oh no no

I see them falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And your children are reared

By panic and fear

But what when all your fields are rotten?

Your waves of grain

Amber waves of grain

And your word is yet done

Inbreed us ‘til we’re all the same

And your collection of tongues

Keep framed in your parlor

With your bibles and guns

The fetus of Christ

With a fistful of scars

And your vision is clear

While you blind your own kind

In a curtain of fear

Your words twist skywards

Distracted by stars

But oh no no

The sky is falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And you pour out your prayers

And weep ‘cause you care

But what when all your fields are rotten?

Your waves of grain

Amber waves of grain

And you hide the dead

While my friends had to die in your name

And this playground is yours

Spoke God when you met

Behind closed doors

Gesture your hand

And the pond shall subside

And though you play alone

You never get lonely

But oh no no I see them falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And even I can’t pretend

We’re not near the end

But what when all your fields are rotting

Your waves of grain

And the waves of grain

When your days are done

I hope you’ve had fun with your game

And you accept it as fact

Behold a white horse with you on its back

A bow in your hand

And a crown through your head

And the oceans shall rise

And slap on the shores of mountainsides

Great waves of progress shall wet the air

But oh no no the sky is falling

Let’s all pray for rain

Let’s all pray for rain

And you fools in the back

With your heads in your hats

What when all your fields are rotting

Your waves of grain

And the waves of grain

And my words won’t be done

They’ll never be done till the end.

This Fourth of July, the 250th anniversary of the United States, I will listen to this song many times, contemplating the sham of the day. In my hometown, Rapid City, South Dakota, unfortunately characterized as the City of Presidents, statues of U.S presidents can be found on the corners of many of the downtown streets. It is a truly despicable display, as if Washington DC took a giant shit in the middle of the country. A proper accounting of history would involve hanging a placard around the neck of each of the statues with a list of the crimes against humanity committed by each president—the lists would be very long. The statues are there waiting for this artistic and truthful presentation, rather than the nationalist claptrap that generally takes place among those who travel to the Black Hills to see Mount Rushmore. In the meantime, strike a match and burn the red, white, and blue, as they are unfortunately plentiful this time of the year. 

Gene Pitney, “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valance” (1962)

By SoDak

Sometimes when I run my tongue along my teeth, I recall the chipped “baby teeth” that I had when I was young. These teeth were jagged and sharp from sparing with my neighbor Matt, when we were six years old. Neither of us were tough—then or now. For some reason, his father had two pairs of boxing gloves, which we found in the basement. We figured, what the hell, let’s box. We timed the rounds by playing forty-fives, which had two- to three-minute songs per side, on the record player. One of our favorites was “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valence,” sung by Gene Pitney. We stood on opposite sides of the room, waiting for the needle to drop and the song to start. When the strange violin part in the opening sounded, we stepped forward holding up our gloves. As the slow gallop started, the match commenced with playful jabs. Whenever the triumph chorus arrived—“many a man would face his gun and many a man would fall, the man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance, he was the bravest of them all”—we would throw a few punches. The chorus occurs twice, so we had a couple dynamic moments each time the song played. The occasional punch bloodied a nose and chipped a tooth, but there was never any malice. I think we mostly enjoyed listening to old records, as we would hum and sing along, as we “fought.” At the time, we did not know that the legendary Burt Bacharch and Hal David wrote the song; we did not know who Gene Pitney was. We just relished listening to the song. I still get excited every time that I hear this simple song and get to sing along to the chorus. 

New Faces Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

I headed to Denver to compete in The New Faces Competition at Comedy Works. The annual New Faces competition receives over 200 applicants and accepts 168 people. Over 6 months or so, the field is whittled down to the top 40 comics for the semis. Then, there is the finals and finally the crowning of the champion. This was my third year competing, and my sights were set low because the comics competing are top notch.

What song was on the radio as I drove down to Denver from Loveland? “Honky Cat” by Elton John.

Elton John, what to say? I’m not sure I’m the biggest Elton fan, but I’d have to admit he has put out some incredible songs. I read his autobiography, ME, and it sure was interesting. Perhaps with a bit of serendipity, he decided to partner with songwriter Bernie Taupin—otherwise he probably would have been relegated to a life as a session piano player or a lounge act. In his early twenties, he was the biggest pop star in the world. Another interesting tidbit in the book was that one of his rock bottoms, before he decided to get sober, was a night of pounding martinis with Duran Duran, which sounds like quite the evening.   

My favorite Elton songs are probably “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters,” “Amoreena,” and the obvious “Levon” (choice lyric, “Jesus wants to go to Venus”). There’s another three I might list on a different day, as they’re all filled with passion and presence. My favorite track of his was the one with minimal piano on it, “Philadelphia Freedom.” This song was a tribute to the tennis superstar Billie Jean King, who started a new tennis league trying to get women paid fairly, sponsored by Virginia Slims cigarettes! It is a big groovy pop song, especially awesome to have him paired with an orchestra. While Elton had some duds (see the album Caribou recorded in a studio outside of Nederland, Colorado), overall, he’s a genius musician with an epic career.  

But let’s come back to “Honky Cat.” I guess it’s about a redneck who was trying to navigate upscale New Orleans? He realizes he needs to “get back to the woods.” At one point, he mentions “he’s read some books and magazines”—yeah, that’ll show those upper crust ladies! Let’s bring back the term “Honky Cat.” It sure is a crack up as far as white monikers go. This is a song that really gets stuck in your head. Elton nails the ragtime piano better than Scott Joplin or Jelly Roll Morton ever could.

What song should I have played as I drove down? “Philadelphia Freedom” by Elton John. 

There’s a bit of time to kill before the show. I parked in the garage across the street from Comedy Works around 6 (you must check in before 6:30), and the show wasn’t going to start until 7:30. 

As I sat in my car, what song did I play to get ready? “N.Y. State of Mind” by Nas.

I recently discovered Nas, and what a fantastic find. His album Illmatic is killer; it kind of reminds me of early Ice Cube records. It’s one of those simple rap albums; lay out a great loop/beat and let Nas do his thing. He was in a great headspace on this one, perhaps in a “N.Y. State of Mind”? I played it a couple of times and got it stuck in my head; I was there—this audience was going to be rocked.  

I checked in and paid my $20 entry fee. I shot the breeze with the comics loitering at the club and then walked around in Larimer Square. I was trying to stay loose and not get worked up.  Around 7, I sat in the back, watched the patrons file in and get seated for the show.

What song were they playing? “Don’t You Evah” by Spoon.

I really like Spoon. They were one of the Austin bands that caught the 1990s wave of indie rock and have been riding it ever since. Much like the bands The Shins and Built to Spill, they have a super unique sound and vibe. They kind of remind me of Jeff Buckley’s music, well, maybe, if Jeff Buckley had lived long enough to start an indie rock band. I would say Spoon would be the top for me in this genre, whatever it’s called. So many cool tracks, especially on the album Gimme Fiction, which included the gems “I Turn My Camera On” and “The Beast and Dragon, Adored.” Thanks Spoon for the music, nice to hear you tonight while getting set to rock this room.

What song do they play when they start the show? “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” by Tomoyasu Hotei.

Almost every show at Comedy Works starts with this song, at least the ones I’ve attended anyway. It is probably most remembered from the Quentin Tarantino movie Kill Bill: Part 1. It is certainly a good one to start a show. The song is used in the movie when the Bride is preparing to take on O-Ren Ishii, as O-Ren is entering the tea house with her gang. The scene devolves into a pretty epic blood bath/battle scene, which goes on for about 30 minutes and the blood never stops spewing across the screen. I guess this is a good song to set up a comedy show as well?  Killing and crushing on stage is pretty awesome, albeit less gruesome. 

Tonight was the first night for group A, and twelve comics were going up with a five-minute set. This year I was equipped with the ultimate pro tip; my buddy was going to give me a light at four minutes. Comedy Works doesn’t light for the contest, so the timing can be problematic. If you go over your time, your mic is cut. This can be especially challenging, as the room is red hot and most comics aren’t used to the long laugh breaks, which can mess up your timing. Five comics in my group got their mic cut, missing their closer, which is usually their best joke.  

Going up fourth, my set was going great. I settled in and was relaxed. The pops were popping.  The crowd was on my side. I was able to ad lib and get into the moment. I even had time for my trademark deadpan comment “It’s a fun crowd out here tonight.” Then one more joke, and into the closer, no problem—hit just like it should. It felt great, but I thought my chances were slim.  The competition was tough. I watched the rest of the comics and the headliner. It was time to hear the winners, so I headed backstage. We milled around. The judges announced the wild card winner. Then they put forward two other winners, which were no surprise—crushers with great sets. It was time for the last spot. They called my name; I advanced to round 2! I took the stage a bit lightheaded with a loopy smile. 

After they took the winners picture, I headed out hitting fist bumps and heard the compliments along the way. I walked to the parking garage and some guy got the door for me and said, “Dude you are fucking hilarious!” I got in my car, yelled, and cried a little bit. “You fucking did it!” As I paid for my parking, I was laughing a strange looney laugh. I turned down Larimer Street and stopped at the light. I put my window down—still smiling. I saw some people from the show at the street corner waiting to cross. I hear one of them exclaim, “Hey, that’s the guy,…there he goes.”

What song was on the radio? “Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?” by Chicago.

Chicago was such a cool band. They embraced a location with the band name, much like their colleagues Boston and Kansas. Of the three, I would say it’s a close race with Boston, but Chicago probably wins by a length or so. They just have a deeper range and overall better songs, but let’s not forget “Carry On My Wayward Son,” which is a great Kansas song. Between the horns, the super creative songwriting, and Peter Cetera and Robert Lamm on vocals, Chicago nailed it. With a perhaps bit of synchronicity, the choice lyrics in this song punctuated tonight’s experience for me—“Does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?”