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  1. Valentine's Day Dos & Don'ts

    Saturday, February 9, 2013

    By Lisa Harmon

    Do: Take a shower, put on deodorant and clean drawers, this makes you seem optimistic.
    Don't: Overload with cologne, this makes everyone sneeze.

    Do: Bring flowers or another fun appropriate gift.
    Don't: Give an adult a stuffed animal or a book of coupons where you offer to massage their feet.

    Do: Plan a romantic evening doing something fun and different.
    Don't: Go to a restaurant unless you'd like to wait three hours for a table and pay $32.50 for chicken.

    Do: Shave your face. Are you a gorgeous hunk of man that can get away with three days' growth? I didn't think so.
    Don't: Over-manscape. For crying out loud you have to be hairier than your date.

    Do: Wear clean clothes and smile.
    Don't: Wear edible underwear or one of those g-strings with the googly eyes.

    Do: Bring your sense of adventure.
    Don't: Bring your girlfriend, ex-girlfriend and/or Mom.

    Do: Talk about how great your date looks.
    Don't: Talk about politics, religion, or video games.

    Do: Be a gentleman and you'll make a great impression.
    Don't: Skip my mic on February 13th!

    Happy Valentine's Day! 
     
     
     
     
    I have a little early VD present for you! Lisa's Clubhouse, a brand new open mic starting Wednesday, February 13th! Come to our inaugural pre-VD show! We're at Bamiyan Restaurant at 358 Third Avenue (corner 26th Street). 6 to 8 PM. Email me to sign-up: info@lisaharmon.net or visit my website www.lisaharmon.net

    I really hope you can make it!  And I hope you have a fantastic, sexy and romantic Valentine's Day!




    Posted by Anonymous at 3:00 AM | Labels: , , | 6 comments | |

  2. Uhuh…OK… by Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, February 7, 2013


    What you or I think is SEXY does not make any sense.   SEXY is not rational, it’s chemical.  It’s a trigger word, gesture, feature, or pheromone that ignites a biochemical/psychosexual response, akin to  hypnotism, to which the only proper response is, Uhuh…OK…   

     That's why I hate Sophia Vergara.  She has the power to hypnotize me! 
      
     …
                                                              

    It does not matter that I can’t understand half of what she is saying, my only response to her is, (heavy breathing and) Uhuh…OK...
                                                                                                              




    Hating a SEXY Woman is one thing, but I really, really hate a SEXY Man!



    One day because of a SEXY Man I was on my knees, naked and happy - in a closet.  To this day, I don’t know who owned the closet or why there was a  mini fridge in there.


    But I was in that closet, on my knees, naked and happy, because I'd been hypnotized by a sexy man.

    SEXY Man (in closet doorway):  You want me don’t you?

    Me:  Uhuh…

    SEXY Man:  Crawl into the closet and lean over the mini fridge.

    Me: OK…

    On rainy days, my knees deliver a bittersweet reminder of that mini fridge action.

    I hate a SEXY Man, because I lose time day dreaming what I want to do with/to him.  I lost three days this week just dreaming about holding onto Barack Obama’s ears.


    Sometimes he be looking like a black James Bond,  

     

    and working that leader of the free world, sexy nerd vibe until all I want to say is, Uhuh…OK…

    SEXY POTUS:  You want to hold my ears don’t you.

    Me:  Uhuh…

    SEXY POTUS: Civilians will die from drones I drop on Afghanistan, Yemen, Somalia and Pakistan.

    Me: OK… 

    SEXY POTUS:  You know, I can target by drone, an American citizen for death without justifiable evidence.  

    Me:  Uhuh…

    SEXY POTUS:  Crawl on over here and hold my ears.

    Me (heavy breathing and on all fours): OK…

    SEXY just does not make sense.  It's not supposed to I guess.  Just show me your premature Nobel Peace Prize, sign the National Defense Authorization Act, allow domestic military surveillance of non -“specifically identified” people and I’m down on all fours. 

    Ouch, I need a better pair of knee-pads to love hating this SEXY Man. 

                                                                                             

    Posted by RHC at 4:20 AM | Labels: , , , , , , , , , , | 10 comments | |

  3. BABY FISH MOUTH

    Wednesday, February 6, 2013


    By Helene "Michael Finnegan" Gresser


    I recently had a dear friend talk to me honestly about some of my bad habits. I love this woman like my sister, and have known her since I was in first grade. She is the reason I decided to get my real estate license. She is successful, smart, disciplined, empathetic, funny, sexy, and incredibly generous. I have always looked up to her. And I have disappointed her. The honest talk she had with me came from such a loving place I could no longer pretend that I was getting away with my worst traits.

    I have always been disorganized. I am often late. I do not prioritize well. And my focus – well, let’s just say that I am all over the place. The bad habits started around the time I reached middle school. Maybe the habits were always there, but it started to affect my schoolwork when I became involved not only with several extra-curricular activities (Student Council President! Drama class! Voice lessons! Ballet! Track! Cheerleading! Basketball!) but also when I became highly interested in pursuing the opposite sex - such fun distractions from boring old research papers with first drafts and notecards and such. I had always been an excellent student, and I was suddenly “not achieving my potential.” 

    Apparently I tested well in all those weird IQ-like Scantron tests (number 2 pencils only!) and I was supposed to be excelling at everything, except maybe math, which flummoxed me since we started fractions in fourth grade. But I was not excelling. I was all over the place.
    It got worse in high school, though I hid my failures well by being a class president multiple times, joining every activity I could, and speaking easily in the classroom discussions during Literary Criticism and Anthropology. I could always improvise like a motherfucker. I was confident speaking publicly. I was in every play and musical I could get into. But I was getting Cs and Ds and failing Algebra. By the time I was a senior, as my close friends were contemplating which ivy league schools they would attend, I was left with two choices for college, the University of Wisconsin because I was in-state and it would be fairly inexpensive, and Bowling Green State University, where my dad was a professor and I could get tuition waived. I wanted to go to Brown, or Amherst, or Dartmouth and study literature and psychology and theater alongside my peers. But we were not rich, and my grade point average was C+. I was not getting a scholarship anywhere. I went to BGSU.

    I got into the Honors program because I tested well and was able to skip Freshman English. I had some terrific professors. I auditioned and got leads in plays. And I was forever late with my homework, last to memorize my lines for a show, failing Biology twice (it was an 8 a.m. class!) and getting so many Incompletes that by my second semester Sophomore year I had a zero GPA. ZERO. I had been stupidly signing up for 18 credits worth of classes a semester, being in every play and musical, and working three jobs since my grades were poor and my dad said I’d have to pay for my dorm and board and books myself until I proved that I was serious about school. I was all over the place.

    I took a year off of school, worked as a nanny in Chappaqua, New York, and then quit that job so I could be in Manhattan and see if I could pursue acting, my passion. But I had to work so hard at waitressing and babysitting that I had neither the energy nor money to take classes or audition. I naively interviewed with the famed Sanford Meisner to see if I could attend his Master Class in the Virgin Islands. Lord, what was I THINKING? Meisner looked at me, at my silly headshot and college theater resume and said into his voice box machine (he’d had a tracheotomy due to throat cancer) “Go back to school.”

     I went back to BGSU after a year in NYC, buckled down and got better grades and then blew up my world around graduation by breaking off with my loving fiancĂ© and moving to Athens, Ohio to live with a guy I thought I loved and who wrote me nice poems. He was a grad student at Ohio University. I worked as a waitress and had a near nervous breakdown when I realized that my new relationship was doomed the minute we moved in together, and I could not go back to my fiancĂ© because he got married very suddenly, six months after our break-up. I was a mess. In this flailing state, I decided to audition for the MFA program in Acting at OU. I was an alternate choice, but I got in.

    Grad school was three years. Three looong years.  I was psychologically torn apart by all my fuck-ups, and grad school did not help. I did not memorize my monologues, was never chosen for mainstage plays, and was criticized for my lack of discipline and focus. My acting teacher told me “You have a fear of success.” I feared everything. I did not want to get up in front of my studio and show my audition pieces, I was so afraid of being judged. I skipped a rehearsal for a small play I was in to drive to Cleveland and say goodbye to a man I had fallen for (and who was not in love with me,) and I was put on academic probation. Until my final year, an internship at Cleveland PlayHouse, I was sure everyone thought me a real fuck-up. A New York actress playing Anne Frank (I was playing the thankless role of Margot, her sister,) took me aside and said “You deserve to be on this stage. You could be playing Anne. Don’t think you don’t have what it takes. You do. Believe in yourself.” I did not.

    Somehow, I graduated with my MFA. I moved to NYC. I had no idea where to start, how to get an acting job, and had no money. But I endured, got a well-paid job at a financial firm, kept getting raises, and happily left that security for a touring children’s show. My audition had apparently been good enough to have me called back for nine of their shows. I had validation at last. I had my Equity card. I toured eight times. I made little money, saved none, but I was working as an actress.

    September 11th happened. I was in NYC rehearsing what would be my final tour of Charlotte’s Web and one of our cast members lost his father in the towers. I was grateful to be out of the city a couple of weeks after the disaster, but my being was shaken to the core. I was afraid of everything again. Afraid of noises and orange alerts and planes flying low. And after the tour was over, there was no part-time work in the city. Since that time I have had several jobs, few of them paid acting gigs. I started doing stand-up to have an outlet, but I had no plan. I once went on a date with a man who asked me what my “five-year plan” was, like a damn job interview.  But I’ve never had a five-year plan. I was stumped. And I felt like a child.

    People who make a success of themselves have plans, focus, drive, discipline, and usually talent.

    I think I have talent. But that doesn’t mean shit if you don’t have a fucking road map and gas in the car. My beloved friend from grade school was telling me this: Get your shit together, girl. Stop with the excuses, the fumfering around and drive the damn car in the direction you need to go to get to your destination. Quit waiting for a magic carpet to sweep you up and away because that ain’t how it works in this world. Decide what you want to do, to be, and work hard at it, every day.  And if your heart isn’t in it, don’t do it. Do something else that will give you what you need. Find your purpose. Look at the horizon instead of the ground as you go.

    Time to grow the fuck up, even if that means I decide to pursue something completely new. Or if I decide to take my creative pursuits seriously, then just DO IT. Do something resembling ANYTHING.

    Oy.

    Begin again.





    -hmg



    Posted by Spleen at 7:26 PM | Labels: , , , , , , , | 5 comments | |


  4. It Looks Like My Penis-Free Era Might Be Continuing in Full Swing

    by Mindy Matijasevic

     

    How does a healthy libido become dry pussy?  Well, for starters how about centuries of being referred to as a bitch, slut, whore, old lady, ball and chain, ruined, damaged, girl, babe, broad, chick, hen, cow, old bag, hoe, heffer, cunt, and old maid. 

    Moist yet?   
                                                                               
    Courtship:  Call me.

    Foreplay:   I said I’d make you an omelet in the morning and even throw in a lunch.
    Clit throbbing?  Mine neither. 

    Possible solutions?  Gee, one might be he facing his fear of genuine closeness.  Another might be perusing the drug store aisles for some vaginal stimulator product to fix everything.

    The bright side:  Though it took a long-ass time to get it right, when it comes to human interaction, I listen to my body.  And in this instance, I mean I obey it because it has always tried to steer me right.  Whether a pounding heart or a lump in the throat or a tense stomach or a disappointed vagina, I listen. It’s a matter of honoring that primal intelligence.  It tells me when to hold my heart and keep walking.  It tells me when not to swallow what someone is serving.  It tells me when I’m letting in toxicity.  I’m not perfect, but I have a lot less regrets now. 

    So fellas, when I take my heart and my mind and walk away, my vagina comes with me.  If you just want a vagina without the attachments, they sell them in the store.  They are inflatable and, better yet, deflatable for your needs.  You don’t even have to pretend to like them once you’re done.  Just go to your local adult store and treat yourself to a woman you can’t hurt.  They should be right next to the roofies. 

    Happy Valentine’s Day.

    Posted by Mindy Matijasevic at 12:30 AM | Labels: , , | 4 comments | |

  5. Checklist

    Monday, February 4, 2013


    By Samantha DeRose

    My parents just celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary.  FIFTY-FIVE YEARS!  Weird, right?  I think I can attribute much of their marital success to their ability to laugh.  All the time.  Mostly at my expense...but in a good way.

    As a kid, I always envisioned that I’d have a relationship like theirs when I grew up.  They’re loving, considerate, well-read, patient, kind, and loads of fun. When the going got tough, my parents got goofy.  My father’s twisted humor combined with my mother’s silly nature made for the perfect childhood environment.  Don’t get me wrong.  We’ve had our ups and downs as does every family, but they gave me the gift of love and laughter… the key components to a lasting relationship.



    My marriage to my kids’ father was rather short-lived.  We have two great kids together and that’s where I’ll leave it.   But as my marriage came to an end, I wondered if I’d ever find a relationship that would live up to what my parents have.  Was I fooling myself into thinking that I’d ever find this type of happiness?

    And then it happened.  I met someone who filled every item on my checklist.

    Relationship Checklist:

    Laughs at my jokes...ok most of my jokes.  They’re not all winners, you know. Check.

    Makes my kids laugh, usually at my expense...but in a good way. Check.

    Makes me laugh, usually at my expense...but in a good way.  Check.

    Has a twisted and sometimes, ok, mostly inappropriate sense of humor. Check.

    Would do anything for me and kids. Check.

    Doesn’t mind that I wear the same clothes every day over school breaks because the clothes really only become very comfortable by the 4th day. Check.

    Well-read. Check.

    Well-rounded (i.e, enjoyed the movie Jackass -1, 2, 2.5, 3D, 3.5 -  as much as The King’s Speech). Check.

    Ambitious. Check.

    Can laugh at oneself – especially when thinking that Gary Busey’s name is “Gary DeBussey” Check.

    Doesn’t get angry when slipping on a cat turd. Check.

    Finds the word “turd” as funny as I find it.  Check.

    Does get angry at having to clean dog vomit, but we’ll give a pass to that one.   Check.

    Isn’t repulsed when I occasionally “crimp off a breakfast biscuit”.  OK, it’s more than occasional.  Check.

    Shares cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping (buys junk food that I like), and laundry responsibilities. Check.

    Doesn’t have a problem with my large, unladylike feet. Check.

    Bought a helium tank just to inhale it and talk all day long.  Check.

    Entered a Super Bowl pool one year, thought they won a LOT of money after the game only to realize that they had been rooting for the wrong team throughout the entire game.  Check.

    Also thought that Beyonce's song Halo was "Hate Love."  Check.

    Originally thought that Beyonce was pronounced "Bay Once."  Check

    Tolerates my every whim… i.e., coloring, singing stupid song parodies, crafting, painting, playing guitar, playing piano, behaving like a deranged person in public, watching Downton Abbey marathons. Check.

    And the list goes on. Check.

    It’s amazing how things fall into place in life when you find someone who fulfills your checklist.  When the going gets tough, and it does get tough sometimes…we  certainly get goofy.  And that makes all the difference. Thanks for the most essential life lesson, Mom & Dad.

    …and thank you Lee

    Posted by She So Funny at 12:00 AM | Labels: , | 3 comments | |

  6. Game Day!! Who Cares?

    Sunday, February 3, 2013

    Big game today.  You ready?  Or do you even give a shit?  I used to.  Now I care about things like, is my dog going to live a few more weeks, or, do I need to give  my sister money for her insurance this month.  I used to be that nutzo fan that would actually cry after a loss.  I grew up with a football crazed dad who used to quiz me on player stats (that was our "bonding" time).  I used to be a huge 9ers fan.
    One of my favorite memories is of when my dad took me to see the 49ers play the Redskins at RFK (that's what the stadium was called then.  I don't know which shithole corporation sponsors the stadium/field these days).  Our seats were in the middle of the Hogettes and I talked 9 year old shit to all of those men.  They thought it was cute, but, I was really ready to throw down with any of those men.  I was insanely aggressive at such a young age.  A fantastic characteristic that I picked up from my dad.  Anyway, the 49ers won and I talked so much shit to anyone/everyone in Redskins attire.  So darling!!  Daddy's little girl.  According to my dad, I was a 49ers fan because, "Joe Montana has pretty eyes".  It's total bullshit that I ever said anything like that at 9 years old.  I was a raging feminist and could care less what a dude's eyes looked like.



    So, today is the day that we care about the NFL.  Today we forgive the players for all of the rapes, shootings and general crimes they have committed /are committing.  Today we care if Ray Lewis will  cry.  Today we will wonder if Kurt Warner will thank Jesus (I know that he is not playing.  But, he just does love him some Jesus.  Remember that weird, "Thaaaaaaank you, Jeeeeeeesus!!!!"  he screamed after winning the Super Bowl with the Rams.  It was looney tunes).  Today we will wait in anticipation of the half time show.  Will Destiny's Child get back together?  Will Beyone lip sync and show her titties?  Today we care.  Today's the day of all days.  An epic day.  A day that starts at 7am and ends on Monday.  A day where grown men wear jerseys with other grown men's names on them (no homo).  A day that is the biggest day of domestic assault arrests.   Today is the day that we stand together as proud Americans.  Fuck you,  the rest of the world!  If  you ain't 'Merican, you ain't nuthin!!!





    I will be watching Dowton Abbey.

    Posted by Amy at 6:58 AM | 2 comments | |

  7. DON'T BE A DICK ON YOUR FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY

    Saturday, February 2, 2013

    By Lisa Harmon


    Way back in the 70's I was a little kid growing up in my grandparents' four family house. Two apartments were occupied by family. My Mom had her place and my grandparents had their place. My brother and I stayed in my grandparents apartment. They were retired and both of them were usually home after school.  If not both, then one.  There was always someone home when we got back after school.

    Honestly I can only remember this one time no one was home. When I got to our front porch, the upstairs tenant let me in. She was a nice lady named Manushag (or Violet if you can't pronounce Armenian names) who had two sons while living in my Pop's house. Her family came downstairs to hang out with my grandparents all the time so we were pretty friendly.

    She said “Are you hungry?” To which I replied “No, thank you.” Well you know that never works, so she made me a liverwurst sandwich. You heard me.
     
     

    I had never had liverwurst and I didn't know what it was but I was pretty scared of it. Because the name said it all – worse than liver. That's all I needed to know. I never had liver either, but the name said it all: liver. Gross!

    She was so kind and gracious, and I know I didn't hear the front door open (indicating the arrival of my Pop and Gram), so there was no escaping downstairs to their place. I was cornered and I knew it. I think some prepubescent sweat may have popped out on my upper lip at this point.

    What's a polite girl to do? Smile, say thank you, curse your grandparents for not being home and take a bite!

    I have to say the name describes it all. It was the worst thing I ever ate. I thought it tasted like a sweat sock sandwich. It was horrible and I'm so stupid, I ate the whole thing. It never occurred to me to eat a bite or two, then say I had a big lunch. I ate that whole yucky sandwich just to be polite!

    Fast forward close to forty years and I did it again! Let me just say, right now, I was raised to be polite. Polite beyond normal polite. Many, many times I've heard that my brother and I are the most polite people someone knows. We say please and thank you a lot. We never take the last appetizer. We won't show up at your house empty-handed. Great skills for making it in cutthroat society, by the way. But that's a story for another blog.

    I was on a bar show not far from home in Queens. We comics were told it was the bartender's birthday. The bartender was expecting all her friends and it was a party, and most importantly (to the comics) there was going to be food.

    I had just eaten a large dinner to make up for not eating all day, so I was pretty full.

    We arrive at the bar, and there are only about ten patrons there. After a while we get the word that the bartender is very upset that her friends haven't shown up. Also that she spent the whole day making beef stew for everyone. This woman seemed on the verge of tears. She was beside herself. I thought her friends were pretty shitty.
     
     

    She gave a bowl of beef stew to my buddy that booked me. She came out ten minutes later with another bowl. Walks right up to me – its just us two and he's already eating, and says “Who wants a bowl?” I go “Me! I want a bowl!” I'm thinking, at least its not liverwurst! Though I'm not a big fan of eating home-cooking of people I don't know well (everything I make has a generous helping of cat fur in it, for example), sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet and make a fucking birthday party.
     
     

    So I eat and I'm so stuffed its not even funny and I'm trying to make a dent in this giant portion of beef stew and mashed potatoes that she gave me. I'm like the guy with the wafer thin mint in Monty Python. I'm going to die any minute. I ate the beef and the veggies and a couple of spoons of potato and I swear I couldn't take another bite. It was like Thanksgiving, but more.

    All us comics had a bowl of stew, the booker listened to her fuming over her friends, and I think it was the worst birthday party, ever. It was even worse than that time at my barbeque where the grill broke and the burgers ended up in the driveway. Yes, the famous Lisa Harmon anti-freeze burgers.

    This poor bartender gave us glasses of water, instead of selling us bottles of water and I just felt so bad for her. Anyway another comic and I tipped her. I said, I have to get change, I want to tip her. The other comic said he would tip her too, because every time he was there, she was so nice to him. He gave her a tip and she hugged and kissed him. Then she hugged and kissed me. I said “Happy birthday.” I asked for change. I gave her a tip. She kissed me again.

    I was so stuffed I couldn't sleep. I waited till two o'clock in the morning and I was still too stuffed to sleep. I tossed and turned and digested. I was hot! I'm never hot! Never am I hot, in the winter, in my frost-bitten bedroom. You could bring polar bears to that room and you'd have to turn on the space heater because they'd feel too chilly.

    It was a terrible night, the kind of thing I don't do anymore (overeat till I'm uncomfortable). I had to learn that, believe it or not. I'm a lot like a goldfish that will eat everything you give it, and then it dies, because it ate too much. I don't do it anymore. I don't want to float to the top of the tank then get flushed down the toilet.

    I did it for this lady. I hope that others would do the same. Show a little compassion. People can be such jerks. I don't know the story with this lady, but I know she was expecting her friends and they let her down, on her birthday, which seems kind of shitty.

    Having us comedians there didn't take the sting out of that, but we were there, enjoying the food she made and giving her something to do and someone to talk to. It isn't much but its something. I could have said “I don't want any stew.” but I just didn't have the heart to do it. It would have been so mean after knowing all she was going through. That must be my compassion chip, which I've found out, you can only remove if you also remove your stupid vagina.

    Be nice. Life is short. These are human beings so treat them as such. And don't be a dick on your friend's birthday.
     
     

    Posted by Anonymous at 3:00 AM | Labels: , , | 5 comments | |