All posts by freddiecomedy

An aspiring comedian and writer from Philadelphia, now living in NYC. Crude but not tasteless with a hint of bacon.

Make The Leap or Pissing In A Sink

Preface: I was going to write an essay about the shameless commercialization and overall cheesiness of the holiday that is Valentine’s Day and the utmost importance of small intimate romantic gestures, but I felt this post (which was long overdue) was more important. And seriously fuck that teddy bear rose bullshit, my heart is a barren rock anyways. But please trust me, that essay will come soon. And with a vengeance that only the Old Gods would know.

Another small tiny preface: Be aware that I will post this drunkenly and on a whim without proofreading.  I am well aware that his post will be a convoluted loose mess. Which is fine because at this point in my life, I am too. I have written these posts as a form of venting and to be truer to myself. Know that I hope to one day alter, perfect and shape these posts to be something coherent that I can compile in a larger collection of my own thoughts at this point in time. That being said, consider this a first draft. Provide me with criticism and I will do my best to turn these pieces from drunken rants into something more…eloquent.



So, the only thing I can say is that it’s all about perspective. The lows or highs you once cherished or lamented will one day look meaningless or oddly symbolic (trust me angsty young ones). There was a very distinct time in my life when a much chubbier version of me stood pissing in his underwear (solely blue Haines for you undie perverts) into an unwashed slop sink in a basement apartment in a decrepit house where the water never ran and rain water dripped through the ceilings. Drunk on whiskey and shaking the last few drips off my dick tip, I would begrudgingly (as I had nowhere to walk) crush the crunchy squishy bodies of the cave cricket horde that bounced excitedly around me (sometimes three to four feet in the air!). After each of their tragic demise I would crouch next to them as the life left their oozing corpses and mutter a vaguely atheist prayer. I apologized for having to kill them and pleaded that in their afterlife they would be kind and forgiving to me in mine. I considered this at one point in my life an all time low. I had recently totaled my car, broken up with my first major girlfriend of two and a half years, discovered my father was fatally ill, and was soon to be evicted. Not to mention I was just beginning to grasp the concept of “game” in my Upright Citizens Brigade 201 Improv class. All in all times were tough. And all in all that last reference was very niche.

I know I got away from myself there and that’s dandy because I find these to be honest words. Although writing them on an excessive of confidence driven by lots of deep thoughts and acted upon by excessive drug and alcohol use is troubling, I find the need to rant therapeutic. So excuse me if I am too wordy, long windy, aloof or “all over the place”. If your oxford sensibilities can’t handle my erratic grammar, please take your left handed (as I’m left handed) and lick your palm nice and moist. Then promptly proceed to, and this is the most important step, stop reading and fuck yourself. Either by violent masturbation or fisting. Whatever suits you.

Christ, do I come off as a snarky and bitter cunt.

Although it could be, the main point of this essay is not depression and bipolar disorder (although anyone that knows me well knows I have a very intimate relationship with both), the point is all about what we perceive as the all-time lows of our lives. They are all very personal and subjective to each person. I mean how many times have we heard the sobs of a sullen drug addict saying he sucked dick before getting high? I mean, Christ, I could often do both of those voluntarily at the same time just for kicks. The point is that it’s different for everyone and very close to the heart. That being said, I will share with you some of my NOW “perceived” lows in the hopes that it may help a lost soul and that I may share myself with you in terms of loving myself.

So, where do I begin? I suppose from the beginning. And please if this whole thing seems a tad too self-indulgent, sign off. But if it seems interesting or if you can relate, please read on. What I consider my first real low was actually combined to my self-confinement in the strange hell that is New Jersey. A colorful but affluent barren wasteland filled with friends, loved ones and the promise (at least to me) of a brighter future in either ‘grand’ city adjacent states away (Philly or NYC).

I don’t currently hold any harsh feelings but with the promise of an easy commute to my dream of comedy (in NYC) I was somewhat duped into moving to northwest New Jersey. A friend of my cousin (fellow punk rocker) convinced me into moving into this massive house beside a creek that was to say the least falling apart. Often the fresh water didn’t run and I had to resort to using bottled water to drink or wash my hands. The shower was clogged up to my knees with gross dirty piss water and my ingrown toenail swelled to unbelievable sizes with infection. Rain water leaked through holes in the ceiling and I lived in a basement apartment (that I unsuccessfully tried to harvest large yields of psychedelic mushrooms in) with large otherworldly insects. Soon, my friend moved out leaving us unable to pay rent and me destitute.

In that year I nearly lost everything including my sanity, moved six times from house to house and eventually found myself homeless. With not many options left I moved into the cold unforgiving attic of a very welcoming family’s house (who had recently lose their mother, god bless them). In this time frame I was a complete animal. I fucked my girlfriend (kinda girlfriend, I really owed her a real relationship. Sorry Katie.) with no regard to her feelings, did pull ups from the beams in the ceiling, pissed in a collection of two litter bottles (not unlike Howard Hughes), fought constantly with a cat who pissed everywhere and popped my air mattress and huddled like a rat in rags with nothing but a space heater to keep me warm. I did copious amount of drugs and held solace in the kind band of sisters (Casey specifically) who would endure me. I thought at the time I was living the dream by attending UCB (the famous Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, founded by the quirky goddess Amy Poehler) and as much as I could commuted to the city to do shitty open mics.

I eventually had to move (at the request of their father) to an even colder house with an unbearable comic, his two dogs, filth and again no run had running water before I finally had enough.

Despite meeting some lovely supportive people and deeply bonding with an amazingly beautiful autistic young boy (I lived with his mother, and to be honest I owe him a post of his own), I had had enough of not being true to myself and trying to actually realize my dreams. As a preface, I just want to say that these times while dark for me personally and my ambitious goals, were not met with great people. Particularly, a fleeting unsustainable romance with a spacey hockey loving star child of a mother (a different one from the other) which I will always cherish. But this lifestyle of grinding and drug use was tiring. My strange complacency of living the lifestyle of an unheard tragic artist kept me from actually moving. It felt oddly justified but false.

It was only when this comic I lived with (a white man named Eddie Murphy) had financial troubles and I was given a week to move that I made the single most influential and important decision in my life. I was going to be homeless (again) in a week and despite moving several times with the goal in mind had of not having reached the false oasis that was New York City. Disgruntled, I was forced to quit my job and crash on my father’s couch in his apartment in Pennsylvania. Having made in my mind, massive steps backwards. I had tried to save money going back to my days in the attic “dwelling” and had found myself short of what I considered able to move to NYC. I, at this point, said “FUCK IT”, took what little of my pathetic savings I had, scourged craigslist and purchased a Uhaul with all my meager belongings. Within a week of having to leave my last ‘home’, I moved to NYC on a whim ultimately deciding that no time was ever going to be good enough.

And this is my advice for people that want to make that leap and follow their dreams. Those dreams as outlandish as they may be, can seem hopeless and unreachable. But to you I urge to “FUCK IT” proverbially and just go for it.

Make the leap. Trust me, you won’t regret it.

It may seem scary and you may have no idea of what future you may have. It may feel so alien and so unbelievably frightening, but I urge you to just do it. We’ve all heard unlikely success stories of that artist who with nothing but a shirt on their back and perhaps a car trekked to their destination to ultimately find success.  I am in my mind specifically talking about Bill Hick’s journey to Los Angeles.

I am here to say that this particular dream is a dreamy crap chute. You won’t find immediate treasures in your travels (as I didn’t, and still haven’t) but you will have made the first important step in your colorful ‘story’ of having realized your dreams. It may seem like things won’t work out and that you will be a cardboard sign carrying stinky bum asking for change (and in reality I’m not going to sugarcoat the truth, it may happen) but that first step will inspire you and feed the burning hunger in your soul necessary to realize yourself. As sappy as this seems, it appears that lucky fancies the bold and will favor to those who take chances. As much of as a fluke as it is, with no job oppurtunities, I luckily found two very profitable waiting jobs within the first two weeks.

Will you realize your dreams? No, maybe not. But will you rest assured that you made an effort and tried? Yes, you will. No longer will you have to be plagued by the troubling What If’s? Instead knowing first-hand what they exactly entailed.

It’s struggle. It’s hardship. And for an artist it’s anger and loneliness caused by what you perceived as your shortcomings. But trust me it’s worth it. If not for the opportunities you deem ‘important’ but for the comfort that you at least tried to reach your dream.

And I know, I’ve had many ‘lows’ which have been changed by my growing perception and I’ve not gotten to them in this essay (Perhaps I will in a post about depression), but I do have an ultimate point to make overall-

The point I’m trying to make is, Make The Leap.

Do it. Trust me, although it seems like it you might now, you won’t regret it.

My dreams are ambitious but not grandiose. All I want to do is make a simple living doing what I love, telling jokes from my point of view. And I may not be the success story everybody is hoping for, I am still waiting tables in Greenwich village. I am making numerous stand up appearances throughout the city, running my own stand up burlesque show at a prominent (up and coming creative) comedy club and I have now finished UCB’s main long form improv program. I am not the epitome of taking chances, but I am the epitome of a first step in realizing yourself and what you want. And I’m still growing.

So as my father once said ‘Stop Being A Goddamn Pussy” and do it.

Because I wasn’t happy pissing into a sink hopelessly and neither should you.


Upcoming Show Dates For February 2015

Sunday 2/15

FoxandFriendz 9PM (Marty O’Briens 1696 Second Ave, NYC)
Raunchy & Risque​ 10 PM The Creek and The Cave​)

Wednesday 2/18

Greenwich Village Comedy Club 8PM (99 Macdougal St, New York, NY 10012)
The Village Lantern 10PM (167 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012)

Wednesday 2/25
The Lemonade Stand 10PM (The Stand Comedy Club and Restaurant​)

Sunday 3/1

Raunchy & Risque 10PM (The Creek And The Cave)

Sunday 3/15

Raunchy & Risque 10PM (The Creek And The Cave)

Monday 3/16

3 Drink Minimum TV​ 8PM (Livestreamed show)

I’m Bisexual. Go Fuck Yourself. Because I Won’t.

“Hey! Boys Can Wear Dresses Too”

So, if you thought my last essay about my Dad was ‘bad’, read this, And go in with an open mind…or butthole.

As a preface, to any ‘friends’ or ‘family members’ who disagree with what I’m about to say because it’s about me sucking dick and eating pussy, sincerely go FUCK yourself and unfriend. I don’t need you. And if you get offended by me or this article, I don’t need your close minded bullshit in my life. You may say I am generalizing or am a smite against your ‘God’, but to that I say, STOP knowing me. I’m bored with your one lane mindset.  For all the male  “BRUH” bullshit comics, if you don’t find this truthful or interesting or you’re afraid of my truth, let me suck your dick and show you what’s what (not really you guys are disgusting puds). I’m done caring about you. I need to move forward and you’re only dragging me backwards. Also, if anyone knows a good Catholic confession booth I can wheel myself into that won’t suck my dick, please steer them my way. Not for being who I am but for writing an essay on a mix of hookah, alcohol, cocaine, comedic confidence and love.

Therefore, let’s go.

The first time I sucked a dick the only thing I could think about was how it didn’t really taste like anything.

I had gone down on many girls before. My ratio at that point had probably been somewhere between 20 girls to that one singular guy. And my findings were that vaginas could significantly taste different varying from girl to girl. With a sexual organ like that there were so many different things to take into account; was the PH balance fucked up? Did she shower or go running that day? How wet was she from making out first? Had she previously had a yeast infection? It could go a number of ways.

But when I put that extra three dollars into the bill acceptor in the jerk off booth at the back of the porno shop, and my friends dick came through that slot in the sliding glass door and into my mouth, the only thing I could think was-

“Hmmm. It doesn’t really taste THAT bad.”

I don’t know, maybe he was really into his grooming and the pampering of his member but to me it kinda didn’t taste like anything. Something like a fleshy pulsing warm meat popsicle. But not necessarily bad. Then again, it was the first dick I sucked (they can taste bad like anything else). And to go further, it’s not the actual sucking part that tastes bad, it’s what comes at the end. When he comes. Which to be honest, ladies, you’re over exaggerating.

I mean to be honest I’m not opposed to tasting cum. Being on a long distance relationship with a long term girlfriend (an exoctic Puerto Rican goddess, you know who you are), I once ate my salty baby batter on a dare on Skype. And to be honest, I’ve tasted many off putting vinegar-y vaginas, so how is that any different?  I ate pineapple juice so it tasted sweet!

If any of you know me, you’d know that I am pretty openly bisexual (and if you don’t we need to be better friends, or I don’t care to know about you or me). Not that I identify myself as bisexual per se but when it comes to brass tax and defining things in terms of black and white instead of abstract and grey, I have to sometimes assume a label. (Because you assholes make me, Auntie I’m looking at you).

I tend to define my sexuality in terms of the Kinsey scale, which states that no one is sexually fully straight or homosexual. Homosexuality in my mind is in terms of gray and deviations. Do I typically seek out long term relationships with women? Yes. Do I want to have sex with women? Oh my god yes. Almost to a fault. Do I want to have sex with men? Yes, almost to a fault. I am addicted to sexual attention and even more to attention in general. It’s a fault in me that I want to be wanted. I want people, not just women, but everyone, to want to have sex with me. Is it wrong of me to purposely be sexually obtainable? In a basic sense no, but in an overall sense, yes it is. It’s an addiction.

If somebody doesn’t fuck me in a week, I get antsy. I get the shakes,

I want people to fuck me because in the end not only do I want to be desired but I am also helplessly addicted to sex. The euphoric rush of getting my rocks off no matter the sex is a fault, a treasure and an addiction of mine.

I hope in writing this small confession that I secretly with a small spitefulness hope that my extended family is disgusted. I know in the end some of the more open minded ones will understand but that the majority will just assume I AM GAY. Which isn’t true. Not in the least. Just ask all the women I’ve fucked senseless (or for the women who don’t think so, I fucked half hearted on a drunk or coke addled dick). Looking back I wish I had more viagra.

If they (my old punk bandmates Shaughn or Jack, my cousin who I hold so dear and love) ever reads this, I hope they fully understand although I hope they do. And to that point I hope my so called “gay” friends, who are so eagerly judgmental (and the whole community) of my sexuality come to appreciate and understand a truly bixexual person. It’s not an identity.

And please to all my biphobic friends (gay and straight) please understand that I don’t want to fuck all of you. Gross! I mean, in all reality, I’m sure you’ve met a woman or man, you’ve never wanted to fuck. Just because you’re a man(sexuality excluded) doesn’t mean I want to throw myself down and suck your dicks and just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean I am in capable or don’t want to give you my mouth.

I’ll lick that pussy up. (I sincerely hope my gay friends gagged at this).

How short sighted and shallow. Please, get over yourselves. You may be fuckable to some but just like everybody else you’re not fuckable to me. And to my gays, for a community, who knows the sting of close minded conservative communities, a large portion of you (more of my friends than I’d like to admit) have been hurtful and close minded yourself. I understand being “bisexual” to many of you was a transitory phase, but not to me. I live in this beautiful greedy reality.

It’s wonderful! Amazing even.

So, if you feel this way, please stay away (homo or hetero), I don’t want you to change or “turn” me to what you feel is the appropriate “side”.  I am happy with myself, my sexual orientation and my identity. So please accept, or sign off and kindly leave me alone. I’ve gotten enough ‘testimonials’ from both sexes telling me I changed their ‘mind’ or made them ‘believe’. And to the last few ‘girls’ who told me they couldn’t believe I was a ‘real man’. Fuck you. Weren’t your legs shaking I do recall? (Not that I am a sexual pariah, which I am not, but who made you cum?) Answer is..ME.

That aside, I will disclose to you which is a very personal experience to me and many others, the experiences in which I identified my love for others and the experience in which I embraced it.

So I’ve always acknowledged my bisexuality on a numerical sense. Being a young awkward overweight kid obsessed with science and statistics, bisexuality on paper doesn’t seem too outlandish. With nearly seven billion people on the Earth it seems somewhat crazy to assume that not one handsome man might be your soul mate. The odds are theoretically against you. To assume out of that many people that a man might sweep you off your feet is scientifically irresponsible.  Just accept it homophobes there is a guy out there who can make your knees weak.

That being said, the first real time I came to this realization was ironically tripping (on 6 hits) of LSD with my girlfriend at the time in her parents’ house (where we lived). It was an incredible and sublime experience (and my intense love affair with hallucinogenics will have to be for another post). It was the season of fall (my absolute favorite) and amongst watching the leaves change color and die, we were riddled with drugs.

We stocked up on pumpkin flavored beer and fresh sashimi from the local Japanese joint. We bunkered down and watched Finding Nemo (which was wondrous) and The Nightmare Before Christmas and Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory (which were less than ideal suggestions; seriously that sequence in the boat with the Grim Reaper Mowing were made for us!). We had a wonderful time until my girlfriend at the time spewed her guts upon the bathroom mat. Being somewhat cognoscente I made the choice to rush downstairs and throw it into the washer while speaking falsities to her mother whose head would not stop swelling and moving.

“Yeah! You’re right. It must have been the sushi that made us sick.” Heh. Lies.

Regardless, following this sobering incident, we resorted to hanging out in her room while she was absorbed in being a ‘psychedelic kitty”. She zoned out while I ranted about quantum mechanics and blackholes. With nothing to sound of from as she was in a state, I reached a startling and daring realization.

I came to this strange idea that perhaps in an alternate dimension that we were the same sexual being but split in this reality. Her being the female portion and me being the male form. We were the same perfect person but split in unfair gender definitions. I gripped my penis (rather harshly) and wondered why I couldn’t wear a pretty dress if I wanted to.

Why was this lump of flesh dictating my behavior and everyone’s interpretation of me? It all seemed so incredibly unfair. I REFUSED to allow my physical body to ever decide my feelings or intuition again.  If you wondering you savages, we fucked. And she came. It was great. Not that I condone drug use (But I do, but I’ll get to that another time).

Why couldn’t I do what I wanted to? Not that I wanted to wear a dress or lipstick and fuck men, but more importantly why couldn’t I if I choose to? Being a libertarian, why wasn’t I free to do as I please? Especially to my own body? I have the right to do and act as I please. As long as it doesn’t involve animals or children. Which my mother always said. But that’s a whole different essay.

This sudden thought process shattered my idea of gender roles in our society from which it never recovered. I may try to glue the pieces back together but the cracks never evaporated.

It never made sense again.

This same girl years later (as much as I love her as a person and fellow druggie) when confronted about my sexuality despite being an adventurous psyhconaut seemed mystified.

“Why would you want that? When you can have this?”

She asked in my mind seemingly groping her body for clarification. As if her intense womanly form would every dissuade me from my conclusions. Her interpretation seemed childish and small minded when my own mindset would never remain the same. Perhaps she was struggling with the idea that the man that once fucked and ate her out to orgasm could ever even accept the otherworldly ‘unnatural’ alternative. My father when my brother confessed the details came to him came to me surprised, disgusted and appalled. As we folded clothing, he asked –

“But you sleep with girls right?”


“You fuck beautiful girls. I’ve met them.” Weird thing to say. Thank you, Pops for saying you want my girlfriends,

“Yes, and?” I replied.

“I just don’t get it. Why would you want to fuck a man?” He asked relenting.

And so to my dear drunken Papa, you don’t have to. I don’t expect you or anyone else to understand. I’m just asking for you to accept it. I am attracted to and fall in love with amazing beautiful people.

The COCK is a sleek and sturdy amazing piece of work. The VAGINA both comforting and outwardly floral. Both are beautiful. If you believe in a ‘God’ (which I don’t), they made them both this perfect fleshy form of fucking. Therefore why cannot I appreciate the craftsmenship in either? Although they both tend to leak in anticip-

Pation! Even though one bleeds. Which I don’t really mind. Seriously, just put a towel down. Stop being a pussy. I still like you regardless.

People still aren’t able to understand. And so to explain things I resort to pandering and give this explanation.

I’ll leave you with the experience in which as a bisexual, I truly felt beautiful and free.

I was at a pretty popular bar and club. Fuck disclosure, it’s the uptown Dream Hotel in NYC.  Unfortunately it’s the one that houses jock stereotypes and cheap beer. I was with a hetero friend named Eric (I’m sure he wouldn’t be upset being outted) and we regaled in guessing the relationships of partners, being analytical as we do. A gorgeous muscular man named Greg (which I came to find later) was dancing with an insatiable sleek red head woman (whose name I don’t remember). They danced to and fro so seductively and precise.

Eric was convinced they were a couple but I disagreed and I was sure by Greg’s movements (I could just tell). And so I made a bet with Eric that they were plutonic. I bet That Greg was just a friend and that his illustrious freckled companion was a trained dancer (she was really good and graceful). To prove my point, once they stopped dancing, I made a point to pony up next to Greg and gather information. Lo and behold judging by his demeanor and voice I could tell he was part of the ‘family’ (which in hindsight isn’t fair and prejudiced in itself, but I just knew). Greg and I hit it off and I gave him my number to meet up later.

A fellow comedian friend of ours with a slew of gorgeous Korean girls and a filmmaker decided it was best for us to head to a very popular hotel to an expensive rooftop for drinks. Being broke as shit, I obliged. Wearing a punk rock t- shirt and cut off jean shorts (which were against dress code) I got us into the expensive club where a bottle of vodka was at minimum four hundred dollars (I wasn’t paying). I smooched my way into the club with my dare I say boyish charm past the beautiful dark skinned Maitre’d. To impress my new friends, I invited Greg and his gorgeous fire headed friend with hopes of sleeping with either of them.

The excitement proved too much and the striking view of midtown Manhattan somewhat startled them. I really wanted either of their immaculate bodies but alas the dancer had a boyfriend and seemed disingenuous. But I didn’t care.

Because I was caught in a liberating win-win situation. I would get in with her gorgeous gay friend and fuck her, and if it didn’t wouldn’t work out, I would just fuck him. Not that he was a second choice as he was an Adonis.

In the end, she wasn’t interested and he was. In the dreary rooftops of an expensive hotel dimly lit by paper lanterns, I asked if he wanted to go home with me. Thus initiating my first real gay experience with a nine inch cock.


We drunkenly went back to my house where I recited some half ass terrible poetry and he fawned over me. And after a long discussion over who would fuck who (which I came to learn is a common disagreement in that community), I fucked him sore with my ass.

He came quickly telling me my ass was tight (I hope my father faints at this), and after we both went to sleep. He left that morning abruptly, and I resorted to a slippery asshole (from the lubed condom) and a very gratifying shit in which I voided my bowels with ecstasy.

That being said, I have slept with many desirable women (most than more  you douchehating fucktards can attests to) and men (beautiful studs) that both have left my legs quivering.

I have never felt so desirable and fuckable in my life, and I’ve never felt so free in my life. In a weird twist I pity you ( both gay and straight) because I can do whatever I please liberated from social norms and the homophobic gay/comic community. For the gay men who say I should just convert (try me) and for the women who feel I am in incapable of screwing you into a coma (try me) or meeting their needs ( I will eat you out until the sun comes up), please call me. I am not a faggot, or a fancy. I am a MAN (first), who regardless of your gender or sexual orientation finds you beautiful. Also I may be a sex addict. Seriously, call me at 267-694—

(My editor asks that I refrain from using my real number because he gets jealous).

Stop Being A Goddamn Pussy

“Stop Being A Goddamn Pussy”

I was 21 years old when my father sat me down on my grandfathers patio and told me he was going to die.

I don’t mean in the poetic sense that we are all going to die someday, I mean in the sense that he was going to die within the next 8-10 months. At this point in my life, both emotionally and financially I was struggling with the terms of being an adult and what that means (and still am). I was working at a crappy burger franchise in New Jersey, struggling to make ends meet in a cave cricket infested basement apartment and commuting into New York City to do open mics. I had not really spoken to my father in months instead resorting to hanging up on him angrily and being a generally angst ridden melancholy mess. But when I received a troubling voicemail that I needed to make the trek back to Pennsylvania to my grandfather’s house to be told something strictly in person by my father, I was a little concerned. I could hear a strangeness in his voice that seemed alien to me; sincerity. And considering my father only seemed capable of expressing cynicism and anger, I was intrigued to say the least.
At 21 years old most people aren’t concerned with mortality. But I was obsessed with it. I think it all started when my maternal grandmother, after battling a long line of health issues and eventually becoming a double amputee, passed away from an infection that caused liver failure. I can remember being forced by my mother to kiss her cold mannequin forehead by my mother. That side of the family always made us do this as funerals. Kiss the forehead of the dead. I can remember the wetness of my lips wiping away her makeup to reveal that her skin had almost turned a sickening black. This awakened a strange morbid curiosity deep within me as a young man. I immediately began researching the possibilities of the paranormal and particularly of ghosts. I became fascinated in watching specials about plagues and archaic torture devices. This digressed in age with me engaging in what my friends referred to as Old Jewish Mother conversations.
“Who died this week? How? Ah, figures. Sad bastard.”
When I arrived at my dad’s parents house in Newtown (where he was living), my father was hesitant to talk about what was bothering him. In fact everybody at the house was. My dad’s mother well into her bout with Alzheimer resorted to laying on the couch and babbling to herself while my grandfather read the paper over a cup of tea. My father for once in my life seemed more interested in talking about what was going on in my life, which to me came as a surprise. He asked about the novel I was working on at the time, and after reading him a lengthy passage, he actually told me for one of the few times in my life that maybe I had a future in writing. Well, he didn’t actually say that word for word. I think what he actually said was something along the lines of –
“I think you got something there son.”
After much annoyance at small talk and prodding, my father took me outside to the patio and forced me to sit down for the news. He confessed to me that he had seen a doctor after feeling weak. After some tests, he was told that he had severe liver cirrhosis of 76% (so exact!) and that he had roughly 8-10 months to live. I was floored but after seeing him it began to make sense. My father was a severe alcoholic and since the last time I had seen him he had lost about forty pounds. His skin and eyes had turned an odd tint of yellow. As he lit a cigarette and deeply exhaled, I began to see my father for what he actually was. No longer was he this barbaric savage man I had known but instead a weathered and meager one. He grabbed me roughly and made promise not to tell anyone of his little secret. The family didn’t need to worry about him. Not quite knowing how to react to this or knowing what to say I suggested we grab lunch somewhere close by.
My father took me to his favorite pub. We begrudgingly sat at the bar and after much convincing he forced me to order a pint of beer over a hearty fattening beef sandwich. Not feeling too hungry himself, my father didn’t order any food but instead choose to order over the course of lunch 4 double vodka sodas. Which unsurprisingly to me he was able to finish before I even finished my pint. I begged him not to drink around me especially given the circumstances but all my father could say was –
“What difference does it make now?”
Welp, I guess he was right. Bottoms up.
At one point he stopped the bartender, a very cute brunette girl around my age, and told her of his strapping handsome boy who was a big shot comedian in New York City (which was false on both accounts). I was surprised. My father was not well known for dishing out compliments.
Truth be told my father was never a compassionate man growing up. Upon coming home from work my fathers favorite passtime activities usually consisted of shouting obscenities at the TV during a hockey game or toiling away on some remote controlled toy in his shed away from the family. This man talking me up at the bar was the same man who once pulled me aside in my bedroom as an awkward teenager and confessed to me that my problems didn’t really matter as I didn’t have a mortgage yet. This was also the same man who used a straight razor and a mirror to cut out his hemorrhoids himself when he was my age. So the fact that he even went to a doctor for feeling weak baffled me to no end.
Feeling uncomfortable sitting in a bar knowing he was about to kick the bucket from years of sitting in bars, I suggested we do something else. Since my father instilled in me a love of comic books and cartoons, we decided to go the movie theater down the street to see The Amazing Spiderman. I had to drive his iconic black 2002 Dodge Dakota as he was too drunk.
The theater itself was considered one of the oldest in the country and was preserved by the historical society of Newtown. It didn’t have a sprawling concession stand or a massive screen and it sure as hell didn’t seat 500 people. It sat maybe fifty, and one guy gave you a small bag of popcorn and a can of coke. His name was Steve. The theater was old and simple, not unlike my father.
I don’t remember much of the movie. To be frank it bored me and I was a little too preoccupied to pay attention. I remember it being ungodly cold, despite it being summer and I resorted to pulled my legs up to my chest and shivering. At some point my father disappeared to go to the bathroom. For about forty minutes. When he returned he reeked of Newports and vodka. I’m still now sure where he was able to get more alcohol but at that point I didn’t really mind. I had given up on trying to help him fight his addiction for the evening. Truth be told, at that point in my life anybody could tell you I had my own issues with drinking and abusing substances. Hell, even know I’m writing this in my room smoking from a two foot tall hookah and drinking a twenty ounce sugar free Red Bull.
The only thing I really do remember from the movie was right at the ending. Just as Peter Parker resigns himself to being Spiderman and saving the city, he remembers that iconic speech Uncle Ben gave him. Everybody knows it, the one about how with great responsibility comes great power but this reboot added something a little more. Uncle Ben talked about how Peter had a special gift inside him that he owed the world to express. I immediately began thinking of my father subtly praising my writing and began to get emotional. It was as if the movie was speaking directly to us. I reached my hand over and comfortingly put it on my father’s trembling knee. I looked up at him, and for a brief moment we stared at each other. Just as tears began to well up into my eyes my father said –
“Stop being a goddamn pussy.”
And we both laughed at each other.
We drove home in silence and I helped my stumbling father up the driveway of his father’s house. I tucked him into bed and he confessed that he loved and was actually proud of me.
I told him to stop being a goddamn pussy and he drifted off to sleep.
I returned to New Jersey with this immense secret like bile trying to work its way out of me. I wanted to tell somebody but couldn’t out of respect. I became irritable and isolated at work. It eventually got to the point where I nearly suffered a nervous breakdown and had to be excused to cry in the nearby food court of the mall. I attempted to uneasily stomach some cheap Bourbon chicken while contemplating that this past Father’s Day with my dad might be the last I get. And that I had chosen to work, serving heart clogging burgers and endless fries instead of taking my dad out for a fishing trip. The man had taught me how to gut and clean a fish after all.
I eventually fell into a heavy depression that strained my relationship. My timid sweet girlfriend felt helpless trying to console a moping lug like me who could do nothing but watch the movie Big Fish on loop. The entire situation seemed helpless. Even if my father could find a matching liver donor, nobody in their right mind would donate with his extensive history of alcoholism, multiple DUI’s and stints in rehab.
I had to tell somebody. I didn’t care what he said. I had to. It was driving me insane, but who could I tell? My sister only being ten at the time obviously couldn’t know, and I certainly couldn’t tell my mother. Being consumed in a bitter divorce proceeding, she would use any evidence against him in court to gain leverage. Even this. So, I resorted to telling my younger brother instead.
My brother and my father had a rocky relationship to say the least. They hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in years. They just simply did not get along and the most mundane of conversations ended in a heated debate with name calling. They were fundamentally very different people. My brother was an opinionated liberal and my father was a staunch Republican. My brother was an atheist and my father was a devout Catholic. My brother was openly homosexual and my father was an ignorant asshole. His simple minded 70’s machismo wouldn’t let him validate that lifestyle. Actually it’s no surprise as to why neither my brother nor I got along with him. He wasn’t the most supportive of people.
When I dropped midway out of a biochemistry degree in college to pursue my lifelong dream of writing and stand up comedy my father was less than thrilled to say the least. Often telling me to just give up and work a 9-5 job in a warehouse or garage to help him support the mortgage. Maybe he never dreamed big or maybe he was just a jaded realist, I don’t really know. When my brother got accepted into Columbia University, my father couldn’t even tell you where my brother was living or even what his major was. I’m still not sure he knows exactly where I live.
Regardless I felt like I had to tell somebody. I can distinctly remember shivering on the driveway of my mother’s house one night after dragging my brother outside. I told him everything. The sickness, how he looked and acted, how he actually showed remorse. My brother simply rolled his eyes and proclaimed –
“Well, I bet he has a lot of regrets now, doesn’t he?”
I for once truly believed he did.
Not even two weeks later, my father was driving home from work well into his third plastic pint of vodka when he fell asleep at the wheel. The truck collided with an electric pole knocking it over and careened into a ditch only stopping when it wrapped itself around a hefty tree. The force of the impact caused all of the windows to blow out and the cab of the truck to be blown off. The truck had been completely totaled and when the ambulance arrived my father had to essentially be pulled from the car with the jaws of life. He sustained no injuries with the exception of a bruise and a loose tooth. The luck of a drunk, I suppose.
I had to pick him up from the hospital. I remember pulling a nurse aside to ask her the extent of his injuries. He appeared fine but was there any internal bleeding, broken bones, a strained neck, anything? No, she said. With some strange suspicion building up inside me I had to ask. How is his liver? She said that although no extensive tests had been done, his levels all appeared fine. Had it all been a lie? Was he really as sick as he professed? Or was this some strange ploy to get his children to speak with him again because he felt lonely?
I’m not sure I’ll ever know for sure. But what I do know for sure is that my father almost three years later is still alive. Somehow. Still drinking like a fish. And I still rarely return his phone calls.

The Hamster Rant or Addled Adderall Asinine Aggresively Apathetic Rants

So I found this recently  on my computer from when I thought I was apparently the poor mans  Bill Burr, Bill Hicks and Doug Stanhope. I call it the HoBurraHicksAHopelessHomelessAStan. Can you tell I like like alliteration? Anyways, and now for the humiliation.

Full Disclosure I may or may not have written these completely stoned and tweeked on Adderall. Allegedly.

Hamster Rant

You see we’re just hamster’s carrying AK-47’s.

Weddy to infwiltwate wif cuteness sir!

Let me explain. Too many people. Not enough stuff like food and water which you need to not be dead. I recently saw this Vice documentary about this terrible little Indian slum where people were living out of plastic barrels and kids were grinding away in shops making Walkman. And that’s not even the worst parts! Oh, No! People don’t even use them anymore. They’re inefficient and cost fifty cents. They’re inefficient and they don’t even know!

But in the distance the tallest skyscraper in the city is like eighty stories tall and is the house for the richest guy in the town. Let me just repeat that, he has so much useless shit that he has to put it all in a skyscraper. With a full staff, who just kinda watches and organizes he endless collecton of what I can only assume is reruns of the Kardashians, hair gel and gold chains. And he drives Lamborghini’s around in the street with the common folk! Next to like a dude with like a bag of a couple thousand plastic bottles on a moped and he’s carrying a rooster and a donkey. And they’re carrying scrap plastic too.

African Overload
Imagine this bull fuck of a monstrosity but on a tiny blue moped from the Cold War. 

And you could see the reporter with almost tears in their eyes asking the plastic people making george foreman grills, how they could deal with that guy in town? And you could almost see, it was hard for them, to just to not say “Oh Frank, we’re all about to murder that guy.Yeah at midnight, Phil, the gang and I are pulling this greasy Armani wearing fat ass, and probably spit roast him. Because he is more nutritious than mud crumbs out of an old Fritos bag.”

“Welcome to my humble abode peons…” Seriously go fuck that guy with a platinum plated jeweled dildo.



cute hamster
So friggin’ cute. And fluffy! Just like people before they grow up.


See I think people are kinda like hamsters, if there’s one or just a few they’re pretty adorable. Just imagine one day you’re in your house and these adorable little two inch tail people just show up. They’re precious and dance with all these little ideas. But they’re procreating like hamsters, and everything is covered in hamster people. You’re wading through the litle bastards. Pretty soon you’re like there’s too many fucking hamster people! I can’t shower, or lay down, or move or jerk off with out feeling guilty. They judge me! Oh, my god is that one smoking crack and suicide bombing the other one? Is that one taking pictures of the other one’s naked ass to break the internet? They have to be stopped! Next thing you know you’re punting them into walls, and putting them in blenders, making meat smoothies, just curb stomping all those little mother fuckers into the furry oblivion from whence they came from. You would be so angry at how shitty and plentiful these hamster people were until you begin screaming I am become Death! The many headed god of hamster apolcalypse! Feel my wraith Mr. Snuggles! That’s kinda what I think of people. Worthless little fluffy things with AK-47’s. They were cool when it was just started. But now they’re kinda lame.


“They got too big for their own good. I knew them before they were cool.” -Hipster Hamster Dude circa Williamsburg












Which brings me to next bane of my existence and solution to my sanity, I’m talking about World Star Hip Hop. Which is essentially Youtube for morons. I would say they should be sterilized but in most of the videos they doing it themselves with nutshots. Who is more dangerous to society twats pulling out each other’s weaves in a McDonalds lobby while holding their babies? Or methed out rednecks 9/11 illumanti truthers firing RPG’s in the woods and screaming ‘Murica? Answer is neither. They’re equal.

Please consult this music video for further advice.

Sometimes I seriously feel like with every video I watch of someone doing the Nay Nay, I lose a chapter from Ulysses that I read. Like after hearing people fascistly chat “World Star! World Star” for a few hours, I lose brains cells and memories. I’ m like “Damnit! I lost my first kiss! Just lot that one. Shit, yep. All my Anchorman quotes are gone! Milk was a bad choice!” But there is a flipside if you will. A silver lining. With every douche that bites it accidentally parkourking off a construction site or leaping into the tiger pit at the zoo, I feel the human race getting a little stronger. Natural Selection. The dumbest are weeding themselves out for fame and paving the way for my curdled gene pool. Now I’m not saying every life doesn’t matter, I’m just saying most of them don’t.
The way I see it my pudgy pale nerdy CHUD-looking offspring might be able to live fulfilling lives. Lives without weirdly innapappropriatedren beauty pagents, homophobia, mysogngy, the band One Direction or police officers killing unarmed people. If we keep ourselves learning and let these scat munching caveman dude die out, we might just make it. World Star Hip Hop has inspired my hopes for books in the future and for humanity. It has also inspired my hopes for more twerking asses. Lots of twerking asses.












Somehow it’s cuter when puppies do it.
Look at these bitches go!
They fell in puppy love in a boneless place.
These puppies are just doing it to get back at their stepdad, Chad! You’re not our real dad!
Look at these Thotweilers!


Alright, that’s all I got.


Oh Yeah, I Run a Show Now: Raunchy & Risque!

And you should like totally check it out by clicking the banner below:







It’s at 10pm on the 1st and 3rd Sunday of every month at the lovely The Creek And The Cave Comedy Club (10-93 Jackson Avenue, Long Island City, NY 11101) (718) 706-8783










Here’s a little bio about the show and a small mention in the Village Voice:

“RAUNCHY RISQUE is the brainchild of comedians Freddie and Charles Stunning. Bringing comedy back to its vaudeville and cabaret roots, R & R is a no holds barred strictly R-rated comedy variety show. Proudly featuring filthy stand up and story telling acts sandwiched between some of the hottest burlesque acts in the city. If you want to be shocked, disgusted and slightly turned on, then come out to see one of the most outrageous shows this city has to offer.
Featuring the insatiable sultry vixen Charles Stunning who is part of the hilarious Afterbirth Monkey comedy musical duo (known for their many comedy festival appearance and award winning music video It’s Raining Dicks) and Freddie Heinemann (UCB graduate and NYC comedian).”

And from the Village Voice (click for article):

Raunchy and Risque

The Creek and the Cave, [Sunday], 10pm, [Free]

Don’t bring your mother to the Creek tonight. This new show is trying to inject some old-school vaudeville and cabaret salaciousness into stand-up comedy. Strictly R-rated, it blends dirty joke-tellers with morally liberated burlesque performers.”

Here a few pictures to gaze your lovely vision balls upon from our Christmas 2014 show:

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Pretty sexy eh? I know. Schnazzy as fuck. Anyways, check out our next one, which is tonight! Click the poster below for more info:

New poster

Added Another Show!

Come check me out on:

Tuesday 7/29

8PM The Creek and The Cave (10-93 Jackson Ave, New York, NY 11101
(718) 706-8783) For Nick Vatterot’s show!


And at my most recent show opening for the Internet Disagrees!

Sunday 6/8

10PM The Creek and The Cave (10-93 Jackson Ave, New York, NY 11101
(718) 706-8783)  To do stand up for the hilarious The Internet Disagrees show!

Alright my friends, my peeps, my cohorts, my noun for friends! I have a couple shows coming up! Hooray!


Come check me out at:
Wednesday 5/27

8pm Stand Up NY (236 W 78th St, New York, NY 10024

(212) 595-0850)

Sunday 6/1

8PM RAPTURE LOUNGE (34-27 28th Ave, Astoria, NY 11103
(718) 626-8044) for the incredible Afterbirth Monkey show!

Sunday 6/1

10PM The Creek and The Cave (10-93 Jackson Ave, New York, NY 11101
(718) 706-8783)  To do stand up for the hilarious The Internet Disagrees show!

Monday 6/9

7PM Casual Showcase (448 E 13th St, New York, NY 10009
(646) 746-1357)

Wednesday 7/16

8PM StandupNY (236 W 78th St, New York, NY 10024
(212) 595-0850)

The Day The Girl Left And Another Came In

The day Brenda left me I found myself aimless. I trudged into work completely defeated. My bones ached with every step like a rusted automaton and my body reeked of filth and cold sweat. My facial hair was a little longer than it should have been and my shirt was wrinkled. As I neared the top of the steps I stammered for a moment and the hostesses laughed asking if I was still drunk from the night before. I grabbed myself a cold glass of ginger ale and tried to ease my burning stomach. It didn’t help.
Right after I greeted my first table I rushed to the bathroom and vomited all over the toilet seat.
Looking in the mirror I agreed that despite my dark purple bags that I was still quite a catch. Stacey was thankfully not there that day to reprimand me but Tim threatened to write me up for my appearance. I knew as spineless as he was that he would never. So I drifted tabled to table taking orders and halfheartedly trying to make small talk. My crushed demeanor didn’t make many upsells but did surprisingly grant me with large tips.
The entire shift became a blur as tables whirred past. Customers, I mean guest’s faces became unmemorable. The same table asking for extra biscuits became the same table asking for hot water to clean their silverware. In between helping guests I looked out longingly at the window facing the avenue and watched as countless hordes of people went about their lives. I admired them so seemingly unaware of anything around them.
Thankfully, Fitz wasn’t there to annoy or get a rise out of me and I coasted apathetically.
As the shift neared to a close and the last tables began to leave I began to scarf down a half-eaten overcooked steak a table had returned. Gus, one of the forgettable servers, came in to tell me I had a one top left to deal with right at closing. With a groan and a mush of meat in my mouth I slammed open the doors to the dining room to greet them. I stared at the almost empty dining room so close to victory, when I saw a bright pink head of hair sitting by herself. I immediately spit out my cold dinner into a trashcan and marched over.
“What are you doing here?” I asked coldly. She didn’t stare up from her book.
“Can I please get a hot cup of Earl Grey, Alex?” She asked authoritatively.
“Sure. You didn’t answer my question.” I asked standing over her. Calmly she placed a bookmark in her copy of Ulyssess and stared up at me. Her icy blue eyes gave a shiver down my spine. I straightened instinctively.
“Is this how you treat all of your customers?” She stared at me defiantly.
“If so, I wouldn’t expect a good tip.” She stared solemnly.
“I thought you already read that book.” I asked pointing with my pen.
“It’s a good book. What can I say? I deservers a second read. Don’t you think?” She asked smirking.
“Only got half way through it. It was difficult to read.” I responded.
“Oh was it? Sounds like someone I know.” She chuckled.
“Very funny.”
“Are you going to bring my tea or not?” She asked tapping impatiently on the table top.
“Right away miss.” I walked away annoyed. As I prepared her tea slamming things down on the counter, Gus came over to calm me.
“What’s wrong?” He asked innocently as he put the expired milk cartons away.
“Fuck off.” I replied angrily as I walked away. I plopped the tea on the table causing the water to spill over.
“Thank you. I always enjoy a nice hot tea at this hour.” She said smiling.
“I know.” I said without walking away. She removed her bookmark and began reading again as I stood over her threateningly. When she realized I wasn’t going to leave she looked up.
“Can I help you?” She asked with her sweet misguiding doe eyes. I took the seat opposite from her. My apron bunched up uncomfortably and I winced.
“What do you want?” I asked staring at her. She splayed her hands out on the table defensively.
“I thought you were going to take this town by storm.” She asked looking for a response but my tired eyes had none.
“When you left me you told me you were moving away to this big city to follow your dreams. You were going to hit it big and forget about the rest of us back home.” She stirred her tea as I remained silent. She looked up at me as she added sugar.
“Isn’t that what you said?” She asked calmly.
“I did.” I confessed. “But things don’t go as you plan.”
“Tell me about it.” She said as she took a sip looking at me the entire time.
“What do you want?” I repeated frustrated. She sighed satisfied as she finished her long sip.
“I have a proposition for you.” She said as she laid the cup down with a clang.
“Listen. Don’t speak. I’m going to leave you my number. Tomorrow at three I want you to text me. You follow?” She ordered. I nodded numbly. She scribbled a note down on a napkin and grasped my hands tightly in hers. Her cold eyes never broke focus.
“Today is the last day you feel unimportant.” She said and she winked and slowly got up and began to walk away book in hand. Her slinky hips swayed in those striped leggings I used to adore.
“What about the tea?” I asked.
“It’s on me.” She called out with a wave as she disappeared.