Crotch Shot Academy

WC 995

Crotch Shot Academy

By Jack Rawlins

My name is Bomber. I was a very successful stand up comic--until people started telling me to "Sit down!"

Here's what happened: When my girl friend, pole dancer, Silky Lavern, dumped me for another guy, I lost my sense of humor. Nothing was funny any more. It's not like riding a bike, you know. You can forget how to do some things. And I forgot how to be funny because I completely lost my sense of humor.

Well if you're a comic, you might think that's funny as hell. You could probably come up with a fresh routine based on the idea. It's easy. Comedy is truth and pain, and, man, I was hurting. But I could not make my pain funny.

Once I lost my sense of humor, the ridiculous was no longer funny; it was serious. Exaggeration wasn't funny; it was lying. Word play wasn't funny; it was showing off. Puns were not the lowest form of humor; they didn't even rate a groan. Scatological humor? I turned my nose up at it. Innuendo? As far as I was concerned, it was just dirty talk. Topical humor became torpid discourse. Insult humor was just being nasty. Slapstick was abusive behavior. Farce was logical behavior with too many doors. Blue humor? All the dirty words had become dull action verbs and common nouns. Oh, and satire, which was once my forte, became just pedestrian cheap shots. And on and on I went while going nowhere...nowhere except down hill.

When I write, perform, or tell a joke, I absolutely hate the expression, "That's not funny." And my stuff was not funny, and I knew it. My critics were right. They said, "Bomber, has lost it." And I had. The guy who paid his dues and earned a rep for his ability to blow a club to bits with the roar of continuous laughter, now really bombed every time he took the mike.

Some wise man once said, "The truth hurts." For me it was so painful I decided to face the fact: I had lost my sense of humor and I should do something about it. I tried comedy workshops, comedy correspondence schools, seminars, workshops...private lessons. I spent a bundle, which I didn't have. But nothing struck me as funny and I couldn't make myself or anyone else laugh.

Like I said, nothing worked. And I still wanted to be a comic. So I became a crook. Yep. I stooped to the lowest level of a wannabe: I started stealing material from other comics.

It was a desperate decision by a desperate man. And I got caught.

It's okay to tell an old story if you credit the originator. It's even okay to tell an old story if you tweak it and make it sound entirely new. Yes, it's even okay to modify...to adapt...to tweak. But, man,don't try to steal somebody's juice and foist it off as your nectar.

Once the word got out-- and with Facebook, Twitter, and Entertainment Weekly.--..it was out in nanoseconds. I was a scabby leper no agent or club owner would touch. Everybody hated my guts. And that included me.

How could I stoop so low? How could I even consider stealing another comic's material as a way to make a living? I really don't know. I know I did not like myself. Not even a little bit.

I could not afford a therapist. I sped from mild depression to deep depression, to suicidal in the flick of a wrist. I thought self-immolation would get the attention I wanted. But would it make anybody laugh? Hah! That's a hot one!. Not likely. I'm no Richard Pryor. Maybe I could do a routine about the joys of suicide as the ultimate form of sell criticism. But that had already been done to death.

Then in the depths of my despair I had an epiphany. Well maybe it wasn't my epiphany. Maybe I stole that too. But I decided, "Those who can--do. Those who can't-- teach." And that's how I became a comedy coach.

I always believed that everybody has a sense of humor. Some think getting hit in the crotch is hilarious, as long as it not their crotch. Everybody has the equivalent of a crotch shot in their brain that will make them laugh. I had lost my crotch shot trigger. Helping others find theirs and expressing it would be my road to redemption, or maybe perdition. But it was worth a shot. So I gave it one.

It was easy to get students. The world is full of people who think they are funny. They need help in sharing their idea of funny with the rest of the world. And that's how "Crotch Shot Academy," was born.

The strange thing is, some of my students were so bad that I had many opportunities to say, "That's not funny." And yet, their attempts were so bad, they were--are you ready? --laughable. Their ineptitude actually made me laugh. They helped me find the funny again. And I helped them find theirs.

When I started teaching, I rediscovered my mirth mechanism, that twisted thing in a comic's noodle that sparks creativity...sometimes genius. Well, maybe not genius, but good stuff.

Business was so good, I was able to put suicide on hold until it caught on or I hung myself.

So now, I'm back to ground zero. I'm doing open mike nights at sleazy little clubs again. But people are laughing with me, instead of at me. I am finding my funny again. And it is fun.

The first item in my new clip file came from a little weekly in Altoona, Pa. It said: “The Bomber Is Back, “ with a lead that promised, “He's 'A Blast from the Past'' who will make you wet your undies while you enjoy your two drink minimum.”

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