It’s one thing to be the class clown. It’s entirely different to be funny and get paid for it. At high school, they tell me I’m going nowhere. At the comedy club, on open mike night, they’re going to tell me that I’m a rising star.
No one is worried that I might be throwing away my chances as night clean-up boy at the grocery store to be a comedian. Maybe, if I had a better academic career, they’d be more concerned about my ambitions. As it stands, the guidance counsellor isn’t beating down my door with post-secondary opportunities.
I can’t help it if I’ve got a rapier wit. Mom hears that and sees a future felon in our family tree. But she, more than anyone, should understand my gift. I’ve made her laugh since I was born—I’ve seen the home movies.
So maybe I’m not going to save the world like my older sister, providing clean water by digging wells in African villages. I have something else to offer: an introspective moment of clarity about how the world works and why we are all screwed. I would argue that both are important. Okay, the clean drinking water issue may be a tad higher on the human needs scale, but can you imagine a world with no laughter. I think not.
A smile has no language barriers—this is good stuff—I’m going to use it in the closing statements to my parents to explain why I need to go to a downtown bar on a Wednesday night and how I may be unable to attend school the next morning, depending on what time I get on stage. Parents love it when you give a mature and rational argument for your actions, especially before the infraction. They’re reasonable people; I’m sure they will see my point and commend me for my aspirations and bravery.
Who am I kidding? They were upset when I mentioned that I was going to wait in line for the latest zombie war game released at midnight three weeks ago. I was throwing away my potential, they said. And since that night, they’ve remarked that for the amount of time I’ve spent playing that game, I could have cured cancer. They don’t understand how the creative mind works. I play video games to release my connection to the outside world in order to channel my intuitiveness. They didn’t buy it. I do keep a notebook and pen handy to write down spur of the moment thoughts that I could turn into jokes. And honestly, most of my ideas come to me while killing a soldier, re-awakened from the dead, who I am chasing down with an AK-47. Every blood spatter is a light bulb going off in my head.
Technically, I don’t need their permission. I turned eighteen last month, so it’s sayonara parental consent and bonjour none of their business. Well, let me make a small correction there. I will need room and board for a little while, until my professional career gets booming—a year or two, tops. I could be the Justin Bieber of the comic world. An overnight teenage sensation from a small Canadian town. Then my parents will be falling all over the paparazzi to say they always knew I had it in me. They’ll show pictures of me when I was two, dressed-up as a pirate, the life of the party. It’ll be sweet.
I'm going to use a few anecdotes from my family to open my act, with Dad giving me loads of material like, “One thing’s for sure, if you can be blessed, then you can be cursed” and a gem he lays on me every once in a while: “Shit doesn’t stick to you, it ricochets off your forehead and hits me right in the teeth”, and, a classic piece of fatherly wisdom: “You wipe your ass with the privileges around here.” If only my parents knew how much material they give me, they’d be even less inclined to support me as I share our private moments with the audience.
But it’s going to all pay off when I’m a gazillionaire who can provide clean water for every village in the world. I’d better rehearse again in front of the mirror; underprivileged children everywhere are counting on me.
