Reverse Anti-Semite, Doc

This entry is dedicated to Sharon Stone's 1/4" nipples. Can't wait to see them in 'Basic Instinct 2.'

Never, ever, ever again will I go to a doctor who isn’t Jewish. Like Homer Simpson, I like my beer cold, my gays flaming and my doctors hard core Old Testament devotees.

Let’s say I’m looking for a new gynecologist. I’d pick Benny Cuntsman’s House of Slippery Vagina Examinations over Dr. Morten McTitty or Dr. Sheila Willinghore, O.B.GYN any day. My mature medical savvy didn’t begin until I discovered Jewish doctors. They’re the best ever. To think what I’ve been though with the likes of Dr. Bertagni, Dr. Sommers, Dr. Lakso and Dr. Feelgood. Oy!

Why do I feel this way? Why do I insist that my health care be provided by those who observe Shabbes? Off the cuff—don’t scrutinize my policy b/c it cannot withstand strict analysis—I just trust them more. When it comes to bedside manner, there’s nothing like ‘em. They’re so doting, attentive, gentle and accommodating. They’re warm and tender. I don’t feel vulnerable, cold and terrified when I’m naked and they’re pasting leads onto my chest for an EKG. They’re willing to listen to me drone on and on and on about this pain and that weird noise my jaw makes. I like seeing their faces scrunched in empathy. “Poor baby.” When I joke about how I should have been an I.V. drug user because my veins are incredibly visible (my skin is transparent), they laugh like I’m Seinfeld. I have a theory for the origin of their prowess: it’s all about Mom. , I’ve met enough Jewish mothers to know that, in their estimation, the highest level their offspring can achieve, the most holy and revered status possible, is Doctor. And Jews live to make their mothers happy. It’s the WASPS who die trying to impress their cold, withholding fathers. That’s why they’re never happy no matter what loafers they’re wearing or how long their yacht is or how many board memberships they’ve got. There’s a higher rate of suicides amongst WASPS, I’ll betcha. I’d rather be looked after by guilt-ridden yet hysterical neurotics than by uptight, cranky and righteous Aryans. So when I open my mouth to say, “Ahhhhhhh” as directed, I prefer that a Jew be on the other end of the tongue depressor.

This is my solemn vow: Never shall I appear before a Shikseh, Gentile or Goyem wearing a paper gown for the remainder of my days on earth. My kingdom for a Jew in a lab coat!

You Don't Know Me, But We're Perfect Together

This morning I learned that someone I know in a Six Degrees of Separation sense is leaving New York City for the other coast. I’m pretty bummed out about it.

Ever introduce yourself to the same person more than once? Like 2 or 3 times? I’ve repeatedly tried to arrange a clandestine conversation with her. I confess that I barely…hardly…don’t really know this chick, but I am crestfallen over news of her departure. See, um, I’ve nursed a schoolgirl crush on her from afar. And while she couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, I could write a small biography on her. I master the subjects of my affection through arduous, thorough research. It’s not creepy at all, though. Google provided plenty of sources so I didn’t have to do any surveillance. But as fate would have it, she and I move in some of the same circles. We’re both comedians, so I’ve seen her on occasion – four times in the past 2 years. And I never even orchestrated a single one of those rendez vous like I often do when I have the hots for a lady. Destiny did all the work for me. Stand up comedy isn’t the only thing we have in common. We’re practically the same person, or at least seriously kindred souls. We’re both Catholic and furiously love football, too. Here’s the kicker: She’s a lesbian. She’s as gay as I am! I’m not barking up the wrong tree for once. It’s perfection. We’re so compatible! Football-loving, latent lesbian future excommunicatees - two peas in a pod I tell ya! Long have I’ve held the secret hope that eventually we’d get to know each other and a friendship would develop. In no time we’d me making love on a Sunday afternoon during halftime of the Bears vs. Giants game. That would be one of those things we’d do all the time.

But my dream is dead. Now she’s leaving me. I wasn’t invited to her farewell performance. I’m devastated and that doesn’t strike me as weird. In my mind I am suffering from the pain of a loss. I can hear the depressing music already.

Doctors, friends, family, aliens and my cat have said that I’m 100% out of my mind. “Shannon is prone to inventing elaborate scenarios about anything (real or imagined) all the while believing that the practice is completely normal.” Thankfully, there are moments when I remember that I can blame all kinds of psychotic shit, delusions and insane reactions to people, places and things on being a nutjob.

But…doesn’t everybody do this kind of stuff? You see someone on the street, think they’re cute and in 45 seconds you’re married and picking out an Audi with ample space for the twins’ hockey equipment.

Life Lessons From Brigitte Bardot

Want to age well? Love your homosexuals. Just look at what happened to this famed French screen siren and animal rights activist.

NBC/Universal and USA Networks is holding a special Showcase at the New York Improv.

Saturday, April 22nd @ 5pm, an NBC film crew will record the show, and NBC producers will attend. The showcase will air on the NBC/USA website. Additionally, NBC and the USA network may choose to air clips of my act on one of their networks. Viewers also will be asked to vote for their favorite comics.


This show will sell out very quickly. It’s imperative that my people make reservations waaaaaay in advance. Someone can and will take my spot if I don’t guarantee the numbers. In fact, there is a waiting list of comedians hoping my peeps don’t call. Please help me ensure that no one is given my spot by default. Call the reservation line 212.631.1159 as soon as you’re humanly able.

Saturday, April 8th @ 7pm is the warm-up gig for the Big Show and I need peeps to make reservations for this one, too. The reservation line for that show is 212.465.3128

One more thing...talent scouts for the New York Comedy Expo will be at both shows.

R.S.V.P. to shannoneennis@hotmail.com

Oh My God! They Killed Dana!

'The L Word' can bite me. They killed off my 2nd favorite character—all props to Alice, ‘yo—in the last episode. I stared, mouth agape, at the television for what seemed to be 5 minutes or so. Well, I had NO IDEA THAT WOMEN GET BREAST CANCER. Until they did this ground-breaking story line, I honestly DID NOT KNOW THAT SOME WOMEN DIE FROM BREAST CANCER, and that apparently, as far as cancers go, IT HAPPENS FREQUENTLY IN WOMEN, and IT DOESN"T MATTER HOW OLD YOU ARE OR WHETHER YOU'RE IN SHAPE OR NOT. BREAST CANCER AFFECTS ALL OF US. IT COULD HAPPEN TO ANYONE YOU KNOW; YOUR MOM, AUNT, GRANDMOTHER, BUS DRIVER, O.B. GYN, MARY HART FROM TV’S ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT, ANYONE. WOW! Thank God at least one show had the courage to tackle the subject. It’s about time.

The writers, directors and producers must be told that the L WORD isn't ever going to get an Emmy nod. Leisha Haley will. Stop frontin’ like your show is high drama...it's a serial, or as the colored girls say, “Do Do Do Do Do Do Do…a soap opera.”

Here are a few genius suggestions as to who should have died instead:

• Jenny
• Jenny and Max, her creepy pre-op boyfriend played by a gorgeous herm
• Jenny by a truck. I’m not fussy about this one. Either she gets struck by one that’s out of control or she’s in one that flips over, or driving next to one that’s hauling some deadly gas.
• Jenny by a tragic fall in the shower. Must involve an errant razor, you know, for the fun of it. Ex-cutter dies while shaving her armpit.
• Angus so we don't have to have the Angus/Kit storyline b/c it sucks worse than another appearance of BETTY
• Dana's parents in a car accident on the way to the hospital
• Anyone who works w/ Shane in that "how do they make any $$ to run that place, whatever it is" skate shop/salon/mini-half pipe/hang out local du jour
• Carmen's mom after their little "Mamasita, I am un lesbianico esta Shane, my lesbianaca girlfriendo" conflict.
• That waitress girl from the PLANET (who obviously won some kind of walk-on raffle) who told Kit that some dude was pissed about his hamburger. That was 27 seconds of brilliant television.
• Jenny, by suicide
• Jessica Simpson, during a cameo appearance where an enraged fan pumps her full of bullets on a "very special episode of The L Word." Celebrities who perpetuate the dumb blond with big tits ideal deserve to get shot.
• Tina’s new boyfriend b/c he’s just so nice. His kid has such curly hair he may as well be mulatto just like Angelica. Bette and Tina could raise him as though Pop was sperm in a jar just like his little sister’s daddy.
• Jenny, by a horrible accident of gravity and her iPad
• That old lady at the bus stop who liked to yell. She could wail as the bus pulls up and runs over her foot. An 80 something year old lady would surely die from a bus/foot collision.
• Jenny by any means necessary.

R.I.P. Dana Fairbanks. Subaru would like to thank you for helping them corner the gay market.

Some people take this way too seriously.

Erin Daniels, mainstream Hollywood would like to thank you for your sensitive portrayal of a semi self-loathing professional tennis playing lesbian, for removing your clothing on several episodes and leaving loyal viewers with lingering serve & volley-centric fantasies, but don’t go thinking that you’ll ever work in this town again. As my friend Terri noted, you’re just not cute enough to get more work in Tinsel Town. Best of luck to ya, though. We’ll really try and make it to the screenings of any indie films you do. It would help if they were featured in real festivals, not just the handful of homo ones.

On a serious note, breast cancer is nothing to joke about. Have someone feel you up or do it yourself in the shower. Oh, and Katie Couric would like to shove a camera up your ass so she can immortalize your colon.

CBC, Chem 7, 6 mgs of Ativan, Thorocotomy Tray, Stat!

For the past 3 to 4 weeks I've been having night sweats. I'll wake in the middle of the night and my body is dripping wet. One night I rubbed my lower legs together and it felt just like it does when I ride my bike for 9 hours in 434% humidity. Hear ye perverts, these night sweats are not caused by any activity other than sleep. I usually go back to sleep b/c short of shooting myself in the face, nothing will disturb my sleep. It's a gift. But when I get up in the morning to begin riding my snooze alarm like Pegasus, my clothing is damp and cold and I am freezing.

So I went to the doctor. Apparently there's some weird shit going on. They took blood samples and they're gonna spin that around really fast in that thing that looks like the gravity ride at carnivals, only instead of dirty children it's got test tubes of my O+ whipping around at 100 mph. But they're checking for other stuff, too, b/c whatever is causing The Shan's Sweatin' is probably freaky.

I may have Tuberculosis. How f'ing cool is that? Who gets TB these days? Me, Goddammit, me! I got a PPD test this morning. "PP whaaaat?" you ask. Luckily, that full ride scholarship I got from Fat Johnny's Southside Medical Academesis comes in mighty handy for occassions such as this. We in the medical community know that PPD stands for purified protein derivative. It's an antigen used to aid in the diagnosis of tuberculosis infection. While at Fat Johnny's I performed a fair amount of PPD tests. Maybe more than a fair amount. I don't remember. Blackouts where my specialty. Here's the basic proceduric process for performing a perfunctory PPD. :

The test site (usually the forearm) is cleansed. I told my P.A. (physician's assistant, like Genie Boulet on ER), Valerie, to skip it. At Johnny's we were taught the Lickit Method, which is where you lick a couple of fingers and then rub them in a circular motion on the place where you're gonna stick'em. (Test site is fancy talk the kind of shit Al Gore would say. "I invented the internet by determining said variations on the previous proactively conservation of test site localizations.") Valerie insisted on following her 'infection prevention' routine. Whatever, Val. Hurry along fancy pants. Incidentally, I was put at ease by Valerie's clearly unshowered state. My kind of gal - greasy, threatening harm with a needle. Oh yeah, so the PPD extract is then injected into the most superficial layer under the skin resulting in a blister on the skin. It's a dermal balloon type thing, like a pop-luscious zit without a head on it.

Because the reaction will take 48-72 hours to develop, I'm gonna have to go 'back to the lab' within that time for a proper evaluation of the test site. This will determine whether I have had a significant reaction to the PPD test. A reaction is measured in millimeters of induration (hard swelling) at the site. I'm praying for no hard swelling. Get it?

This is how my arm looks right now, post PPD.:

If I am fucked, my arm will look like this in 48 hours:

And that would be a disaster. I don't want to have to get a chest X-ray b/c the technichians stare at my boobs and say degrading things like, "Nice tits, toots." Or, "Even if you're crudded up, I'd still grab those melons." Also, I am worried that I'll end up like Dana on the 'L Word,' dead for no reason. Lump in breast one episode, bald and bitchy in another and dead in the next. Dianosis Dead Dana. Not me, tho. The Shan's not going down like a punk.

Lastly, I cannot imagine what's causing my poor health...

Today's lunch.

Ass-thetic

Can you hear that? It's me wading in my own shallowness. But c'mon...that's what I call a boot beeeeeeaaaaaattch! Check it out! God is a mad deadly DJ and a shoemaker in Italy! These are them. Here they are, the Rocco P boot that I blogged to excess about last week. Or was it this week? Who knows were the time goes when you're selfish and self-centered? Tee hee hee.

Note: I highly object to the whole "beeeeeeeaaaaaatch" thing b/c it's about as hip as tucking your jeans into your 'Solid Gold' squishy leg boots...What? No way! That's back?No one is feathering their hair, are they? Shut Up! Fuck me gently with a chainsaw! Gag me with a spoon! That's so gay!

I'm sorry. I thought I heard you say, "Show me different angles, Shannon! For the love of Christ, show me 360 degrees of mutha fine shoes!" I ain't got soul, but I got sole. (I kill me!) Every woman should have a pair of Come Fuck Me shoes, whether they're boots, stiletto heels, patent leather stripper shoes, strappy open-toed Oscar night shoes, it doesn't matter. Little black dress? Check. Moisturizer? Check. At least 1 pair of New Relationship panties? Check. Nearly flawless haircut? Check. Tight ass and buoyant tits? Can't win 'em all. Come fuck me shoes? Check plus, beeeeeeeeaaaaatch! My black Rocco Ps do double duty. (Say that 3x fast, "do double duty, do double duty..." I kill me!) They're Come Fuck Me boots AND Fuck You, Fuck Off, Fuck It, Fuck Everybody boots.

While I'm being shallow, which is, um, always, but indulge me with a quick beauty story, will ya? My cousin, Mary, who was in town this past weekend, worships at a church called MAC. We spent a chunck of the Sabbath paying homage to MAC. There I was, a bull in a china shop, a dyke in Fredrick's of Hollywood, scoping out all that aging cream, all that consealer, liner, bronzer, blush, lip puffer, shadow brush, brow brush, blush brush (Say that 3x fast.) and sparkle. I don't know whether I like matte or glittery lipstick. Don't make me care! Leave me alone! Then I stepped in a huge pile of dung. One clever, murmured crack about how inept I was at makeup, and my cousin seized the opportunity to play Tell Her She's Pretty. Four seconds later I'm in a chair with a stranger telling me to "Close." They traded secrets back and forth, like it was a tupperware party. They said something about foundation, which surprised me b/c apparently there's some layering process involved. Who knew? It is like construction. There's a fucking primer! I am dry-wall! About 10 minutes into this process, after I surrendered to the touching of my face, Mary's gift for color selection and application prompted me to ask, "How do you know so much about this stuff?"

She said, "Remember all those books were were supposed to read in High School?"

"Yeah," I responded.

"Well, when you were doing that, I was doing this."

I Has Jazz

I feel real fancy listening to Dinah Washington tunes. Like I got some class. I forget ever eating green beans out of a can, that I ever said, "The good fer nuthin' toilet in this trailer will be the death of me!"

Remember when Chevy Chase is on the plane in "European Vacation" and the stewardess asks him if he'd like his Coke in a can, and he goes, "No. I'll have it right here." Guess he didn't listen to any Dinah Washington.

Mel Torme's version of 'Too Darn Hot' is smooooooooooooooooth. Supper Club, dirty martini, tux-worthy jazz, ya swingin' hep cats.

You have to have a partner to dance to 'Too Darn Hot.' Let's say you two dance all close and real fast, break a sweat and hold that eye contact all night pretty soon it's 'Too Darn Hot,' am I right?

TODAY 'HO

Dear Katie Couric,

I loathe and depise you. I wish you would shut up.

Sincerely,
Your Smallest Hater