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Thursday, June 02, 2005

 

Fucking Funny

Funny story about Flaming Box of Stuff. A few years ago, the kids from FBoS and I were on a bus together. I won't say where the bus was headed, but suffice it to say that things were getting a little wild. The driver, just some poor random Greyhound employee who got the short end of the passenger stick, had already told Val Bush to put her shirt back on a good half dozen times. Troy Fischnaller and poor little Evan Mosher had just dropped some peyote buttons and were reading an old issue of Shazam! from the '70s. They started running up and down the aisles yelling Captain Marvel's magic word over and over hoping to change into superheroes, as they'd become convinced that an old guy sitting by the bathroom was, in fact, Dr. Sivana. Kirk Anderson was passed out in a puddle of his own sick. Dusty Warren was actually riding on top of the bus, tossing his empties at passing semis. Only Corey Nealy had maintained any sense of decorum. He merely sat in seat 21C, sipping from his brandy snifter.

All of a sudden, a bright light lit the bus up from stem to stern--or whatever the hell the bus equivalents of stem and stern are. The driver shouted in alarm, as he found himself unable to move the bus forward. The door opened, against the panicked driver's will. Two tall, thin figures stepped onto the bus, clothed in shimmering silver robes, their large, dark, eyes looking more through us than at us.

The taller and gayer of the two lisped, "Greetings, earthlings. We come from planet Gopijasdfasfpoin. And
Gopijasdfasfpoin needs comics."

I, of course, was not scared for my personal safety, as I'm not very funny. But I shed a tear or two that these
Gopijasdfasfpoinans might take Flaming Box of Stuff away from us forever. The shorter, butcher alien spoke up. "It is no use resisting, for our comedy rays will force any of you who know comedy to perform it." With that, he pulled a mean-looking gun from his pocket and shot it at the crowd. In jerky, almost-the-Robot sort of movements, the members of FBoS found themselves pulled forward. They stood at the front of the bus now, right under the watch of the aliens.

The taller one minced, "My funny-o-meter shows that you are a hilarious group. Perform, earth-monkeys! Perform! Especially if you have any material about relationships."

Val, Kirk and Corey stepped up. It looked like they were going to do the sketch about the flatulent hooker. Then Val threw up on Kirk, who took a swing at Corey. Dusty leaned in the window and started pelting the aliens with beer cans. The butch alien said, "Aw, shit. They're too hammered to perform. Fuck this." And they left.

Fortunately, Flaming Box of Stuff will not be too hammered to perform one week from tomorrow at 9:00 at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater as part of the New York Sketch Comedy Festival. If you're only going to see one group, you best make it these guys, as they are quite simply brilliant. And mad. I've just bought my tickets. You can too, just follow the link.

Comments:
Your last link, sir, she is broken.
 
Ay-yi-yi! No es bueno!

Okay, I fix!
 
Mm hmm.
 
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