Phil's Scribbles

"When I grow up, I want to be Batman, Mom!"

2012-01-02T12:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Chick with Fake Tits

2011-11-07T10:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Chick with Fake Tits,

Fuck you.

Don’t ever complain about men objectifying women. You havefake tits. That means you had surgery to implant objects in your breasts. So,in fact, you’re the one who’s quiteliterally objectifying yourself.

And you’re messing with my head. That is why you got those big, fake tits in the first place, isn’t it?To trick me into wasting loads upon loads of thick, healthy semen on youruterus, when I could have saved tonight’s precious seed for a young girl ofprime reproductive age with actual bigtits; big tits that could actuallyfeed my many hungry offspring for years to come. How do you sleep at night?

And notice that you didn’t spend those thousands onimproving your personality or intellect. You probably could’ve earned a wholesemester’s worth of continuing education with that money. But apparently you don’tneed to continue your education, because you’re already smart enough to knowthat one semester ain’t gonna teach you nothin’ you won’t learn with a nice,big, fat set of fake tits.

Like how to win friends and influence people. Make moremoney. Or convince me that you’re more than capable of bearing and nourishing my brood. Because a degree might persuade my heart, but that killer ass, your deliciouship-to-waist ratio, and those big, beautiful, mouth-watering, fake tits will reign over my circuitry.

So fuck you, you hot piece of ass,

Phil

My Worst Weekend Onstage

2011-10-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

In May of 2008, during the highest gas prices I'd ever seen, I bombed an entire weekend while featuring for Roz G at The Laughing Post in Kalamazoo, MI, which is no longer with us (coincidence, I hope).

The night before I got there I did my first industry showcase at Comix (also no longer with us) in New York City, and I absolutely killed it. My set couldn’t have gone better, even closing with a huge applause break where I'd never gotten one before. (Though, like many successful showcases since, it did nothing more for me than perhaps expose me to more "people in the biz." But, like Bill Maher writes in his novel about comedy, True Story, "in [t]his profession, it [takes] a lot of events that [seem] sure to change your life before one actually [does].")

So the next day, after an overnight drive, I arrive in Kalamazoo with tons of confidence…and proceed to bomb horribly at each show, getting progressively worse as my confidence deteriorates and I begin to fear the next show, becoming more and more convinced that I’m just totally unfunny and have no idea what I’m doing up there. I try to adjust at each show, but it just gets worse. It was one of those moments where you question yourself and start thinking you’re crazy and not one single person agrees with what you think is funny.

Finally, before the very last show of the weekend, the manager switched me and the MC, which is the only time I’ve ever been demoted. (I have since been fired once - from a dinner theater-style venue in Port Charlotte, FL, home of the oldest people in America, all of whom are still hoping to see Sinatra; but I wasn't surprised because, adequate as my performance actually was* and despite following the owner's many restrictions, I knew he had a history of firing comics and so was prepared - and relieved - to be among them.)

Anyway, the manager explained that the next show would be a black audience, which would be very difficult - hence the relegation. It was very demoralizing, but I couldn’t blame him. It actually ended up being my best set of the weekend, but still nothing special. Afterwards, I wondered if the manager would pay me, and I thought I wouldn’t complain if he didn’t. He did, and I felt so embarrassed to take the check. He also said something I rarely ever heard: he asked me to email him my avails in a month. I couldn’t understand why. I figured maybe he personally thought I was funny or felt sorry for me and was trying to be nice. Or maybe he just knew the club was going under.

*Although, one old prick would definitely disagree. While others pleasantly thanked me and even bought some t-shirts on their way out, he came up to me with a harmless enough demeanor (despite his stern, Baron von Trapp-like appearance) and chatted me up, asking if I had a day job or anything. I said no, and he caught me off guard with: "Well, you got a lot of work to do. That wasn't even close to funny." I bring this up and quite rightly call him a prick because, however awful he might have perceived me to be, this sort of confrontation is really a reflection on him and his joylessness of life. If I saw what I considered a terrible performance, I would never approach the guy and berate him; if anything, I'd feel sorry for the poor fuck. Or maybe I'd recognize that there are people around me who are laughing, so - terrible as their tastes may be - maybe it's just not for me. But some people work in absolutes ("I don't like it, therefore it's bad") and feel the need to proclaim their uninformed opinions as fact. I hope he's dead now.

When Road Comics Attack

2011-10-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

Awhile back, I parted ways with a small-time middle America comedy booker, thanks in part to the assistance of a road comic who, for lack of a better term, “ratted me out.”

In short, the booker (who was not present at the show) accused me of saying the C-word onstage. Putting aside the absurdity of nightclub word usage being raised in the first place (particularly when the "crowd" consists of ten hicks), let's just focus on the accusation.

I say this because, sure, I might've employed the P-word, the T-word, and even the G-word ("gash"). But not once did I utter the C-word. Since I record every show on a Flip camera, I happen to have video evidence of my innocence.

Of course, this wasn't good enough, because, as the booker explained, the road comic himself "confirmed that the 'C' word was used [presumably by me, Phil Mazo] more th[a]n once." I found this curious; what kind of comedian(!) would do that? The answer is: a road comic.

I know because I decided to call the booker's bluff (or so I thought) and ask the road comic myself. Below is the email exchange. Tempted as I am to annotate the entire thing, I’ll leave the editorializing to you.*

From: Phil
To: Road Comic

Hi [Road Comic],

[Booker] stated that you mentioned that I used the word "cunt" more than once onstage. Can you verify if this is true?

Thanks,

Phil

From: Road Comic
To: Phil

Dude not only did I tell her that you said that, I also told her that you said Pussy, made fun of blacks and Mexicans and that you were NOT FUNNY, it took me 10 minutes to get that crowd back and even I found you offensive. I don't usually pick on other comics. If you wanna be that way cool for you but DON'T FUCK UP MY SHOW...wait till your a Headliner and then go FUCK UP YOUR OWN. Had you stuck around after your set I would of told all of this to your face. You give Comics a bad name. That type of bull shit has no place on stage. You may think I am a pampas ass but I can live with that. At least I know you wont screw up another one of my shows. Learn to work Clean...you will get more work.
[Road Comic]

From: Phil
To: Road Comic

Fair enough. But I never once said "cunt."

*Okay, I'll just mention that his opening bit is acting out the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song. (I had to leave for an overnight drive directly after my set, so I'm afraid/thankful I can't comment on the rest.)

"On your mark..."

2011-08-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

"How many times do I have to tell you, Wendy? We don't mix with water!"

2011-08-01T16:12:00.001-07:00

2010 Resolution to Not Masturbate: Satisfied

2011-01-01T22:12:00.000-08:00

As with every year, this December was a month of celebration. And though I’m neither religious nor generally interested in holidays, I’ve been celebrating myself. Because December 2010 marked the one-year anniversary of the last time I masturbated. (So I guess I should say I myself have been celebrating, since I haven’t been celebrating myself.)

Of all the unhealthy habits I’ve dropped, I consider masturbating to have been the most significant. It’s amazing to discover how many hours there are in a day. Not that I masturbated an unusual amount (though everyone has their weak weeks), but I could easily invest a lot of time in one session. Because “I can’t finish on this porn scene – it’s so unoriginal. Not this one, either. Hmm…this one might be good, but let me make sure first. Yep, that was good, but now I’ve seen it, so it’s too late. How’s this one?...” You get the picture (that you can no longer get out of your head).

Moreover, the time I’ve saved not masturbating is time I’ve used wisely. Because when you’re not masturbating, the last thing you want to do is just sit there and not masturbate. In fact, it’s very hard to do. Go ahead and give it a shot: just sit there and try not to masturbate. See? Because if you’re just going to sit there, you may as well masturbate; and if you don’t, you’ll sure be thinking about it.

The trick is you’ve got to occupy your mind; you’ve got to release that energy elsewhere. How about exercise? I mean, if you’re not going to masturbate, you certainly want to make sure you’re getting laid, and exercise doesn’t hurt in that department. In fact, I found that more women were attracted to me in 2010 than ever before, and I get the feeling not masturbating has a lot to do with it.

Part of that is because I think you become more persistent with women. Whereas before you might have been talking to a woman and thinking, “Worst case, I can always go home and masturbate,” now you think, “It’s either this or nothing.” And nothing is not an option, so you better make it this.

Also, after not masturbating for awhile, you’re not as oversexed anymore. Your body is no longer addicted and doesn’t think it needs to have an orgasm on demand. And when you don’t seem overly horny (i.e., desperate for sex), women respond to that, because they’re cruel.

The quest to not masturbate also leads to dropping other unproductive habits. You want to avoid anything that might tempt you, even something as sweet and innocent as hardcore pornography. So I stayed away from that, too. Over time, after I’d gotten used to not masturbating, I found I could watch porn without getting too worked up, almost as just a silly, crazy form of entertainment. But then what’s the point: that’s like watching Schindler’s List while refusing to cry.

Now that we’ve slowly slid an inch into 2011, I think I’ll continue not masturbating. And I suggest you do the same. (Unless you’re a woman, because then it’s awesome and truly a positive reflection on you, and I’m not kidding.)

P.S. I also think my penis got a little bigger.

P.P.S. If you know me personally and felt uncomfortable reading this, keep in mind that all I’ve said is I don’t masturbate, which is more than I can say for you.

Quit Complaining

2010-09-14T12:51:00.000-07:00

I’d like to take a moment to complain about your complaining. Please stop.  

Dealt with a lot of traffic? At least you have a car.   Tired at work? At least you have a job.   Don’t have a job? At least you can sleep in.   Oh, but you have kids to feed? That’s quite literally your own fucking fault. No one put a gun to your head and told you to offer your hungry, quivering vagina to his rigid, pulsating penis. (Believe me, sometimes I wish someone would.)  

Yes, the line at the post office sucks…but complaining about it won’t make the line go any faster. And thank Allah, the One and Only God, Creator and Sustainer of the Universe, for that! Can you imagine if complaining did solve inconveniences? We’d be a world full of children, and nobody likes children (see previous paragraph).

Why do you yell at customer service reps? Do you honestly think the person on the other end of the line has anything to do with your problem? He has his own problems, and they are probably way worse than yours. Don’t believe me? Go watch Slumdog Millionaire.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re simply feigning anger to get your way, and maybe I’m just not very good at acting. But that make no sense, as everyone who’s seen me act knows I’m brilliant. Don’t believe me? Go watch this video of me acting like I’m masturbating:

A Private Moment with Phil Mazo - watch more funny videos

You’d think my parents would be proud of this performance. (They’re not.)  

As an American, you have little reason to complain when you consider how life in, say (to pick a place I know nothing of but hear a lot about), Darfur is. And I’m not making an America-love-it-or-leave-it argument. I have no problem with you loving America and leaving, or hating it and staying, or just pretending to love it to get in its pants. The minute a country that serves my interests better comes along (I’m looking at you, Slutsylvania), I’m there (which, if I’m not mistaken, is the very reason people came here in the first place).  

My point is that living in this country (or any First World country) more or less eliminates the survival equation of life. Even if you’re homeless, you’re going to be fed if you allow yourself the assistance. As always, I haven’t done my research on this, but the plethora of living homeless people I constantly hear yelling outside my window in Venice, CA alone makes me think their survival needs are met – and I’d appreciate it if they survived a little more quietly.

Complaining seems to be the luxury of the un-needy. You have all this idle time to bitch and moan while there are people in the world who are too busy surviving. I say leave the complaining to people who didn’t have the choice for their station in life; there’s always someone worse off than you. Maybe I’m 5’5” and tiny and not beautiful…but you know what, I’m lucky I turned out this way. It’s the repulsively hideous girl who’s blowing me because she thinks I’m a ten that I take pity on. But you, the guy who has to support a wife and five kids when you’re only earning minimum wage…that was a choice.  

So quit your whining, and I’ll quit whining about you, because none of these little things matters. To me, the only thing that’s life-and-death, is life and death. And I’m not even sure if that’s life-and-death.

I drew a cartoon this afternoon.

2010-08-29T15:33:00.000-07:00

How I Didn’t Lose My Virginity – Part 1

2010-08-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

Here’s one example of a failure to lose my virginity that’s haunted me:

I was at the bid party of the fraternity I was to pledge, when I saw a cute little brunette sitting by herself on the stairway. In an uncharacteristically bold move (for me at the time), I came right up to her and said something about her looking lonely. She lit up when I sat beside her, and I gathered that she had just broken up with someone. Perfetto!  

Within no more than three minutes of small talk, she said it was really loud and asked if there was a quieter place we could talk. Again, in an unusually intuitive moment, I pointed upstairs to where the bedrooms were and said, “I think it’s quiet up there.”  

That’s the thing I’ve since learned about girls: all they need is an excuse. The subtext is, “I think it’s quiet in the location where we fuck,” but just by taking out the “fuck” part, it makes it okay. She must have been pleased that I got the hint, because we immediately got up and went to the third floor, where I led her into one of the bedrooms. If only it were always this easy.  

Unfortunately for both of us, that’s where my smooth moves stopped. Because while Phil Now would’ve immediately put the moves on her upon entering the room, Phil Then was still too naïve and timid to be so audacious. Instead, we both lay down on the bed and talked. I may as well say, “The End.”  

You see, we just lay there, on our backs, beside each other, and talked. And talked and talked and talked…while I waited for the perfect time (and she waited for anytime) to make my move. Then she said something: “I’m so drunk.”

Perfect! That’s exactly what I needed! An excuse to not make a move. Because in my dumb, ingenuous mind, that meant I couldn’t make a move; because it could be considered rape if she’s drunk. She obviously has no control over herself, and her reasoning skills must certainly be impaired – even she knows she’s drunk! She must’ve known, because she kept saying it over and over again.  

What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was girl code for: “Have your way with me. I’m primed and vulnerable. And I won’t feel slutty, because it’s the booze, not me. I had no choice.” But I’d already made up my mind that this can’t happen. I’d been taught not to do this by every Sex Ed class I’d ever had (and there were many – each more debilitating than the last), and that education was not going to waste tonight.  

So I did the next best thing: I continued to talk. And talk and talk and talk. That’s another thing: Phil Then didn’t grasp that eventually the talking part had to end, and the sex part had to begin. He just figured that as long as he kept talking, eventually the sex part would take care of itself.  

So of course she eventually saw that this wasn’t going to happen and made up some excuse – probably the ubiquitous “I have to go find my friends” – to rejoin the party, and we got up and did just that. And I guarantee you she found some other schmuck and fucked his brains out in a way that only the desire to feel wanted again can cause a girl to do.  

Now that she was no longer within reach to initiate contact with at my leisure (“when the time is right”), I was pissed. I might’ve been the “gentleman” before, but now I knew I blew it, and some other bitch was about to pay for my mistake; and her name was Every Girl Thereafter.  

To be continued…

The First and Last Time I Said the N-word Onstage

2010-07-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I went to a party in Santa Monica thrown by a comedian I know from New York. Toward the end of the night, he reminded me of the time he chewed me out after a set I’d done in the back of a restaurant on 45th and 9th called Charlie O’s. It was probably the first and last time I ever said the N-word onstage. Probably.  

I should’ve known it was a bad idea when the audience consisted of six people: five white people and one black guy. It was my first or second year doing comedy, pre-Michael Richards, and I didn’t think the joke was that big a deal – particularly since I was delivering it through a character and laughing at racism.  

So I tried it out: “I heard you have to take a test to join the KKK.” (So far, so good.) “I wonder what that looks like.” (Then I went into a Southern accent.) “Niggers are: a) good...b) bad…or c) why are you at ‘c’?”  

The temperature of the room immediately changed – to b) bad. Nothing was said; it just got really uncomfortable. Painfully uncomfortable. Dead silence. My face felt hot and red. I wanted my set to be over, to get offstage as soon as possible. It was the first time I ever felt that way. But my time wasn’t up. I was thinking, Didn’t the other comedians see what just happened? Don’t they feel how uncomfortable the room is? Why are they not sending the MC in to signal me to stop and cut my set short?  

So I went into my next joke: another black joke. I don’t know why; I was flustered and my mind was elsewhere, going a mile a minute. Maybe subconsciously I thought it would show that I’m not scared, not backtracking, that it’s okay because they’re just jokes.

“I love listening to hip-hop music in my car.” (Oy vey iz mir.) “But when a black guy gets into my car, I’m faced with a dilemma.” (You can say that again. I’m sure at this point I’m thinking, What the fuck am I doing? The tiny audience was getting more and more uncomfortable. But I already started it, so I couldn’t back out now.) “I can either a) continue playing the music, but then he might think I’m doing it for him, or b) switch to the classic rock station, but then I’m not being true to myself. That’s why I generally choose c) don’t let black people in my car.”  

Now by itself, this is a pretty decent joke. It did, after all, make it into my album, Pervert. It was even published in The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Jokes – and one would think they’d be especially reluctant to include a racial joke if they didn’t think it was steeped in irony or funny enough to be okay. But after just offending an audience of six by saying the N-word, this bit is probably one of the worst things you can follow with. It’s like rubbing it in their noses: “Hey, remember how I just said the N-word and we didn’t laugh? Well, guess what: I really am racist – so here’s more of that!”  

After faking it the best I could for the remainder of my set, I got offstage and left the showroom, joining the other comedians who were now at the bar. Even they were shaken up; just quiet, not knowing what to say, not making any eye contact. Except for two comedians.

One – the guy whose party I went to in Santa Monica this weekend – said to me: “I think your jokes are racist, and I don’t find you very funny.”* I remember thinking, Is this guy for real? He seems dead serious, but he could just be fucking with me. It’s unlike a comedian to be that stern or deride you for saying something inappropriate onstage. Whereas it’s very much like a comedian (at least, for me) to say something “serious” with a straight face and not mean it. But he betrayed no irony, so I took him for face value.  

The other comedian who confronted me was sitting in the audience during my set, and apparently the black guy was in his party of three. He actually apologized to me for what I had to go through and said the black guy was an asshole. I didn’t quite understand how the black guy was personally at fault for anything, but I think the comedian was suggesting that he should have laughed or given some sort of gesture of acceptance to make it okay, rather than being offended by a joke and making it weird for all of us. (Although, for all I know, it may have been everyone else who was offended on the black guy’s behalf, which is often the case.) Whatever his point, it did make me feel better that not everyone hated me.  

At this time I would have taken off, but I still had a late show to do. I made myself scarce as the small crowd I’d just offended shuffled out, and then off I went to Times Square to bark (i.e., hand out flyers in exchange for stage time) for the second show. As I walked alongside another comedian, I tried to talk about what had just happened and how awkward that was, but I sensed I was getting no sympathy from him, that to him it’s a no-brainer that you shouldn’t do material like that.

I remember feeling like what I’d just said onstage was written all over my face, and that the multitudes of black people passing me by in Times Square all knew. I was paranoid and worried I was going to be confronted. Needless to say, I never told that or any other joke with the N-word in it again. At least not onstage.  

P.S. When the comedian brought it up this weekend, I finally got to ask him: “So were you serious when you yelled at me?” “Yes,” he said, “At the time I was.” I left it at that, but I got the feeling he was saying that maybe he overreacted and didn’t understand me or what I was trying to do. Which is: make people laugh…at the expense of others.

*I later included this quote on my website’s “testimonials” page.