What would Eminem do? I thought to myself as I sat wedged next to a man wreaking of urine and tap water in the back row of a comedy show that was, ironically, lacking jokes. Sure, a few of the opening acts had tried hard. A for effort! I suppose. One guy, who should have clearly been the headliner, killed it and then was immediately followed by a girl who had to stop after every. single. joke. (I'm being generous here) to find her punchline, I thought, but in actuality she was just catching her breath from laughing at... herself. She was that funny. Her signature line? "ANYWAAAAYS!" Yeah. That.
I didn't have spaghetti for dinner nor did I feel like puking it up but I did know that if I were Eminem (and let's face it, the similarities are not that far off - male, female; 40-ish, 30; recovering drug addict, full-fledge coffee addict - I could go on) I would grab the mic like a vandal and bust out some lyrical genius for the people who forked over their hard earned $10 that night.
(By the way, Daryl, I owe you $10.)
Yes, somehow comedy and freestyle rap became fused and once the show everyone came to see ended it was time - at least in my mind - for the real show to begin. There the mic still sat, lonely on the stage, calling my name. Or maybe that was my friend who needed me to group-bathroom-trip-it with her, I don't know, but what I do know is my body gravitated toward the mic, removed it from its stand and that's when my inner Eminem shivered in sheer joy to realize the damned thing was still on, full volume, and I issued my challenge to the comedy show host to come throwdown with me.
And so we did.
Well. I showed up with my lyrical madness and he just kept mentioning "Megan from the Internet" like I was some sort of web porn star who had been on Rachael Ray. (Don't be surprised if you have to pay to subscribe to this website beginning tomorrow, I might as well milk that little rumor for all it's worth; mama has bills to pay.) His material was lacking and frankly, I expected more from a "comedian." I, on the other hand, had plenty of zingers to hand out and doled them out one after the other with a swiftness even Warren G could appreciate.
At least, that's how I remember it.
The throwdown went on for many loops of horrible beat tracks ghetto-blasting from his DJ equipment and Mac (Whatever happened to mixed tapes? Can we talk about this tomorrow? The world was a better place then; I'm sure the two are connected.) until four police officers stormed the place and we both look at each other like "Wha? Are we that bad? Because, dude, I was OWNING YOU until Beat Track #6 just screeched to a halt. That thing I said about you selling water? That was funny, right? RIGHT?!"
Turns out the police were just looking for a stolen car and the guy who did it. I am still holding a grudge against that dude for ruining my 8 mile moment which because of his illegal activities only reached approximately 3 mile. Or something.
When this highly lucrative blogging career of mine fails me (at some point, we all have to fall, right?) I figure I can segue way into stand-up comedy/freestyle rap with very little disappointment. It's always good to have a back-up plan, right?
P.S. You know how you get into a confrontation with someone and in the moment, you say this or that but the next day you're like DAAAAAMN, how I wish I had said THAT or THIS? Well now you know my misery. The lyrics? They just keep popping into my head. I can't stop them. This is how Beethoven must have felt.