Better Off Drunk

Chocolate and cookies will be the death of me. Fucking desert.

Before I got sober,2 1/2 years ago, I was wholly uninterested, more like unaware, of the post-meal indulgence known to many as desert. While my dining companions proposed, "If I get the double pecan cheesecake brownie a la mode, would anyone share it w/ me?" I ordered another Black & Tan or Sierra Nevada or anything decent on tap. And I never asked anyone to share with me. Get your own pint, pussies. Usually, I wouldn't really eat much either. A sliced cucumber marinated in soy sauce and sesame seeds filled me up. I could get by on a slice of pizza as lunch AND dinner. My caloric intake was all barley and hops unless I was fighting a hangover w/ a bacon, egg & cheese sandwich at 11:30am as I rolled into work a tad tardy. Beer and grease, two of the lesser respected food groups.

I put the booze down and picked up a spork. The world opened up for me. I've turned into a card-carrying member of The Clean Plate club, A.K.A kind of a fat ass. I actually dragged a friend into the Applebees in Times Square because I had a hankerin' for a hunk of brownie sundae.

Which is the greater evil? Waking up with a shiner & discovering my cheekbone is busted without a clue as to how or why I did that to my face OR justifying a Snickers jones with the following statement, "Dude, it's got peanuts. That's protein."

Flirting Blog Style

"Hey, can I add a link to your site from my site?"

Land at Me, Return to Me For the Night

I love to Google myself. It's like looking at a mirror repeatedly assuring yourself, "Hey, Superstar!" via the internet. Soothing the ego feels great. I often get a few hits for myself, but I also get shit like this:

In November we're considering driving to the Cliffs of Moyer upon landing at Shannon, and return to Shannon for the night.

A "Shannon Ennis" search will yeild all kinds of Ireland-related travel links.

My first name, SHANNON, happens to be the name of a major river in Ireland as well as the name for one of Ireland's 2 primary airports. Shannon Airport is the gateway to the West of Ireland servicing many destinations throughout Europe and the US. And the River Shannon, Ireland's longest river, divides the West of Ireland (mostly the province of Connaught) from the east and south (Leinster and most of Munster). The river has been an important waterway since antiquity.

My last name, ENNIS, is the county town of Clare. Situated on the River Fergus, it lies north of Limerick and south of Galway on the main N18 road connecting these two cities. Good to know in case you get lost wandering from pub to pub.

That's the U.S. equivalent of being named Mississippi Montpelier O' Hare. (Psst! Ireland doesn't have states, dipshit, they have counties. Ennis is basically a capital city Ireland.) I'd laugh my ass off if someone handed me that I.D.

I'm Shannon Ennis, yes the real Shannon. All you other Shannon Ennis are just imitating. So, won't the real Shannon Ennis please stand up? Please stand up. Please stand up!

Are You a Good Bitch Or A Bad Bitch?

The Shan is on Cloud 9 (x 40,000) this morning. Last night I had one of those rare, incredibly validating shows where it seems to me I may be pretty good at this whole 'stand up' business. And here I am at work after having slept maybe 4 hours, wearing my corporate garb and wondering what the fuck I'm still doing here. The 9-5 gauntlet continues to wear me down, day after day. Monotonous is too sweet a word for office life. It's slow and painful, and resembles torture in a way. Sure, I'm not being hung from the ceiling by hooks implanted in my toes. (Is thay what they do? I have to call my peeps at Guantanamo and get back to you.) But metaphorically, that's exactly what's happening.

This morning, however, I could give a rat's ass, a flying fuck; I could, beyond a shawdow of a doubt, care less. I'm operating on 3 or 4 hours sleep. My subconscious mind is calling to me, "Go back to your bed, little blond girl. Leave your desk. Follow your dreams." Thankfully, I recognize that voice. It's my Bad Girl. She's the one who always encouraged me to get wasted, to avoid handing in papers on time, to make bitchy remarks about lesbian midgets (great story for another day) and to litter. She's fun but she'll leave you behind bars and empty your back account.

Believe it or not, my Goodish Girl says things like, "Eh, fuck 'em all. Who cares what they think? But remember to treat everyone with love and kindness. Assholes, Freaks and cranky, miserable, poorly dressed Meanies need love, too. Feel free to talk plenty of smack, though."

BAD, BLOGGER! BAD!

The show is TONIGHT, bitches. Come out, come out whoever you are! Gather yourself some rainbow flag-wavin' spirit and get yer ass to THE IMPROV.

A bunch of Southern bible thumpers are using the church next to my house as a community center. On Fridays, they have these free BBQs where you can get as many hamburgers and hot dogs as you want. You just have to listen to New Testament stories while you scarf them down and go home to watch porn. They have taken to writing in chalk on the sidewalk, too. The little promoters. One square reads, "Hey y'all! Jesus loves you." The rest should read, "But there are certain exceptions. You commie, Planned Parenthood supporting, flesh peddling faggots know who you are."

"GAYDAR" at The New York Improv

GAYDAR at The New York Improv

Tuesday, June 20th - PRIDE WEEK

***9 p.m.***

$12 & two drink min.

Featuring Maggie Ferris, Jason Scarlatti, Gloria Bigelow and More!

With a VERY SPECIAL SUPRISE GUEST!

Oh yeah, and me, Shannon Ennis

Headlining. Headlining? Headlining.

I'll have a flyer and a link posted soon!

Get It?

I’m tired of doing shows in Midtown. Fuck ‘em. Last night at The Improv, my clever--borderline genius--set was wasted on Finnish ppl who spoke NO English. They sat in the first row and winced as though a serious bout of diarrhea could strike at any moment.

What respectable city guide recommends a visit to a comedy club to tourists? Nothing is funny when it's said in a language you can't understand! Only Americans point and laugh at people whose customs and culture is strange or different from ours. But in the minds of foreigners, our whole country is a joke! They have only 200 years history and think they're number 1 best! Ha! Ha! Ha! United States = people who elected George Bush. Ha! Ha! Ha!

I did stand-up for Hanz & Franz. Part of my act involves satire based on the evolution of lesbians in popular culture. Those wooden-shoe-wearin' fuckers had no grasp of the difference between Sleater Kinney and Janice Ian, between ‘The Well of Loneliness’ and ‘On Our Backs,’ between Portia deRossi and Martina Navratilova. Below 14th street, that shit kills! And in Brooklyn? Don't get me started. (Hey Netherlanders! That was a shout out to Molly Shannon's hack comic character from SNL.)

I began to think about a life void of allusion. Would I have to invent another tool to assert my intellectual prowess? It's my raison d'etre, my life's blood, my credo! Dennis Miller has made a living out of it and he's an asshole. Think about how well received his schtick with attitude would be if it came in a cute, blond, tiny and charming little package adorned in J Crew. For my first HBO special, I'd communicate using lyrics of 70s sitcom theme songs. My career would be over if I weren't able to get a laugh by tossing a MacBeth bone just to patronize anyone who catches it, "Oh! Good for you!" I'd wither and return to dust. See, it's the cool people get me without explanation. We've read all the same books and magazines. There's a catalogue full of McDonald's commercial jingles in our grey matter. We've all spent countless hours in front of a glowing TV. We're special and I need them to make me a star! I mean, Salt N' Peppa are right. This song ain't for everybody. Only the sexy people. That's how I pick my friends! If I say, "I hate you and your ass face!" and you don't recognize it from Waiting for Guffman, there is no potential for a relationship between you and I. Are you unable to name the theme song from the Living Daylights installation of the 007 films? How about who performed it? No? Get outta my ass face! Pop culture snobbery is the basis for all of my relationships. I would be lost without it. The concept alone stirs sadness in the soul I wish I had.

So, methinks my struggle to entertain without employing techniques like ‘think lowest common denominator,’ 'men and women are different, 'work sucks,' a little misogyny never killed any body,'or ‘copious sex and fart jokes’ has arrived at its end. Last night I actually caved toward the end of my spot and did this old fart joke that I haven’t done in 2 years. It earned the biggest laugh. (Don’t get me wrong. Even if you’re a Rhodes Scholar, falling and farting are the funniest subjects ever. And if you can fall AND fart simultaneously, you rank atop Buster Keaton in my opinion.) Bottom line: I have decided to lower the bar and acknowledge the sound defeat. Good for you, dummies. You win. I will write material specifically tailored to amuse TOURISTS and RED STATES and the G.E.D. set. Jokes for the painfully un-savvy coming up!