A man’s home is his castle. My current home is a teeny-tiny apartment in Brooklyn that I share with two jazz musician roommates, an army of millipedes, a few families of mice and I think once I saw a seagull. Disgusting, I know, but they refuse to try rock and roll.
This makes my castle kinda the sucky kind of a castle, like those dumb ones made of sand (what are they called again? Dirt-turrets? Mud dungeons? It’ll come to me). Nevertheless it contains my room, where I do most, if not all, of my late-night carousing with loose women. Yeah, late-night carousing sure is great, though I would carouse 24/7 if it were up to me. Wouldn’t we all? Carousing is dope.
Speaking of carousing, as an open-mic comedian who specializes in non-sequitur one-liners and long drawn-out conceptual bits, I’m sure you’ve assumed that I meet my fair share of groupies. Usually the groupies coyly make their intentions known to me by making the first move. Like the the adorable way they trip me from being passed out right there on the sidewalk, although sometimes these groupies are asleep on the floor of the subway when we meet-cute. Oftentimes it takes a little memory jog to find out where they know me from (Is it from my longtime patronage of the Build-A-Bear workshop? Are you one of those hardcore fans who know my earlier work with the Rainforest Cafe?) but they almost always refer to me by my name: Mister.