My First Stand-Up Routine – For Comedy Writing

I had a very intense childhood. There was lots of violence, lots of tears, drama, sex … of course that was before my parents finally started disconnecting the television antenna before they went to sleep.

I was a really horny kid, hell, I still am, but when you’re at that age everything is heightened. It was a kind of constant horniness that never seemed to go away no matter how many times I jerked off.

Though, you can only blow your load to so many Sears Catalogue underwear models before you need something a little more risqué to appease your growing sexual appetite.

We had a video store in my hometown where I was forced to get my carnal excitement. There was a soft-core section that was labeled “thriller” … and I got kicked out of there pretty quickly.

So naturally, I went to the library. I took out books on anatomy to start. Those books didn’t really raise the suspicion of the librarians. But then I upgraded to “photography” books. Those were pretty awesome. As I gradually got more courage I began taking out instructional books on sex. Or at least I attempted to … the librarians never let me take them past the counter.

“A little young to be interested in stuff like this aren’t we?” (nasally, grating voice)

If I’m old enough to cum, I’m old enough to be interested in sex.

So I gave up trying to take them out and just took them to the library washroom and jerked off in there.

Don’t act like you haven’t done it before!

Yah, I was obsessed with sex. And violence. But what pre-adolescent boy doesn’t like violence? I mean, Power Rangers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? God, I remember Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Especially the way I used to beat the shit out of my brother after I watch it. I would get all pumped up during the episode and then when it was done I’d grab whatever I could use as a weapon, this one time it was the long, thin, wooden stick, you know those ones that hold up large house plants, and proceeded to smack my brother around, pretending I was Donatello and he was Baxter, or BeeBop, or Rocksteady.

I played really rough with my brother. I look back and find it amazing that I didn’t kill him in my irrational, imaginary adventures in which he was always the villain I have to beat the snot out off.  There was one time that I thought I did though, we’d been playing in the sandbox outside our house and I was making a sandcastle and I guess my brother had knocked into or damaged it in some way, so … logically … I took a little plastic boat beside me and hurled it at his head. The shape of the bow caused the skin in his forehead to peel back as the boat impacted. He collapsed on the ground screaming as a sea of blood began to trickle out from under his crippled form.

I rushed into the house screaming to my mom: “Oh my god, I killed Jordan. I killed Jordan.”
Fortunately I didn’t. But he remembered.

It wasn’t long after that, maybe a week or two, and he got me back. I was sitting in front of the television, watching whatever the fuck I was watching, Darkwing Duck, Full House … two people fucking … whatever it was. So he comes up behind me, ever so quietly … with a massive decorative ceramic pot from downstairs.

I was fully engrossed in whatever I was watching and didn’t even know he was behind me until the pot connected with the back of my head. The whole thing shattered and I don’t remember much else of what happened except being in the hospital and having the doctor tell my parents that they couldn’t stitch me up because all of the cuts were so small that I just had to put a huge cloth over my head and put pressure on it until the blood clotted. So I had a full scalp scab.

That was lovely.

I’m sure there’s some file somewhere labeled, “possible child abusers”. Our family was always going to the hospital. There was nothing salacious or malicious about it, we’re just fucking dumb!

Like one night my brother and I were having a bath, I was maybe 5 which would make him about 3, and my Dad was supposed to be watching us, but he was tired and drinking some tea in a mug at the edge of the bath. He went to put it down and he didn’t put it completely on the edge and the mug tipped over into the bath. He went to catch it but ended up swatting it faster into the tub. The mug shattered explosively sending bits of ceramic mug into our little soapy bodies.

Another trip the hospital.

When I was 3, our family lived briefly in Rankin Inlet, in the Northwest Territories, what is now Nunavut. It was fucking cold and for parts of the year the sun never set or set extremely late in the evening. So, being a 3 year old, I couldn’t sleep if it was bright out. That just wouldn’t make sense!

So my parents put plastic bags on the windows … but we knew … we knew.

One night, after three stories, two false bathroom alarms, and a night snack, my Dad was beginning to get frustrated with us.  We had bunk beds, I was the top bunk … of course … but we’d been reading stories in my brother’s bunk. After the final story my Dad said: “Alright, no more stories. Get into your bunk.”

I didn’t move.

“I’m gonna count to 3 …”


“2 …”


“1 …”

I mean fuck it, I still had another second, I knew he was going to say zero!

And it was about a millisecond before he said “zero” that I finally started moving. He gave me a playful tap on my behind as I tried to get out of my brother’s bunk and that was enough to cause me to lose my balance and fall forward, onto my arm.


So they took me to the hospital in Rankin Inlet, but they weren’t equipped to deal with a broken arm … uh, what? A fucking hospital is not equipped to deal with a broken arm? What the fuck ARE they equipped to deal with?

“Uh, … we have band-aids” (dopey impression)

So they charted a medevac flight to Winnipeg and I went to the Health Sciences Centre.  My Dad had to stay with Jordan so it was only Mom and I. When we finally arrived and they put a cast on my arm they pulled me into a room by myself and asked me what happened.

In my little 3 year old brain my Dad did it. ‘Cause I mean I was getting out of bed, he swatted me and I broke my arm. So I told them: “My Daddy broke my arm.” (smiling impression)

The Ostrich – a joke

A man walks into a restaurant with a full-grown ostrich behind him. The waitress asks them for their orders.
The man says, “A hamburger, fries and a coke,” and turns to the ostrich, “What do you want?”


“I’ll have the same,” says the ostrich.


A short time later the waitress returns with their orders.


“That will be $9.40 please.”

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out the exact change for payment.


The next day, the man and the ostrich come again and the man orders a hamburger, fries and a coke. 


The ostrich says, “I’ll have the same.”


Again the man reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change.


This becomes routine until the two enter again.


“The usual?” asks the waitress.


“No, this is Friday night, so I will have a steak, baked potato and a salad,” says the man.


“Same,” says the ostrich.


Shortly the waitress brings the order and says, “That will be $32.62.”


Once again the man pulls the exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table.


The waitress cannot hold back her curiosity any longer.


“Excuse me, sir. How do you manage to always come up with the exact change in your pocket every time?”


“Well,” says the man, “several years ago I was cleaning the attic and found an old lamp. When I rubbed it, a Genie appeared and offered me two wishes. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything I would just put my hand in my pocket and the right amount of money would always be there.”


“That’s brilliant!” says the waitress. “Most people would ask for a million dollars or something, but you’ll always be as rich as you want for as long as you live!”


“That’s right…Whether it’s a gallon of milk or a Rolls Royce, the exact money is always there,” says the man.


The waitress asks, “What’s with the ostrich?”


The man sighs, pauses and answers, “My second wish was for a tall chick with a big ass and long legs who agrees with everything I say..”