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Homeless
Crackwhore And A Two Drink Minimum by Warren Holstein
 It happened again. They let a crackwhore into the comedy club I was performing at tonight. Now for those of you not in the comedy “know”, comedy clubs in NY often reduce or even eliminate the cover charge during the week to fill the room, however, a two-drink minimum is strictly enforced so the clubs still turn a tidy profit.
Logically, there is often a door person in charge of screening out lunatics, drunks and …well
crackwhores. Now occasionally misjudgments are made, although I don’t know how he dropped the ball on this one, as she was wearing classic crackwhore regalia: yellow-tinged 80’s acid washed winter denim jean jacket, inside out gravy stained panda sweatshirt, tattered oversized slacks and grimy blackened white orthopedic shoes with unintentional air vents.
For those of you who have not been lucky enough to attend a show with a homeless crackwhore let me give you an outline of a both unique and unforgettable (although you’d like to) experience.
Somehow the crackwhore always manages to sit in the front row, always alone at a table in the center, often right in front of the microphone. Even before the show has started they are chattering and laughing, often at the same time and in a constant stream, sporadically interrupted by any alcoholic beverages they can get their mittens on (side-note: crackwhores often wear mittens, even in the dead of summer). I conjecture this is to fill the eternal bottomless black void which is left by the present lack of crack.
Now the template of such a show goes as follows:
The MC usually comes out and initially tries to talk over the aforementioned
crackwhore, this, however, is futile and not possible due to a crackwhore’s almost supernaturally superior volume and stage presence. So with no other alternative course of action he is now forced to interact with her. A typical exchange might go as follows:
“What are you on crack or something?”
“Why do you have any…”
At this point there is hearty laughter from the audience, which abruptly peters out as soon as they notice the stream of sweat on her already greasy forehead and upper lip, and suddenly realize where that strange smell is coming from.
Sensing the collective repulsion, the MC begins to panic and awkwardly attempts to ignore the crackwhore and do material. This usually lasts for about a minute and thirty seconds until he heroically bails and brings on the opening act.
Now the opening act is usually affable and non-abrasive so as not to off-put the audience and to ease them into the show, so his instinct is to befriend the cockrock smoker. This is always a mistake, because attention magically makes her powers grow ten-fold, probably due to the lack of actual consideration and affection she got in her childhood (her uncles caresses withstanding), which drove her to the pipe in the first place. So now the crowd is subjected to 10 to 15 minutes of random ramblings, such as:
“Ummm Hmmm!”
“Tha’s Righ Baby!!”
“Ummmmmmmm Hmmmmmmmm!!”
inter-dispersed with spine chilling cackles and gibberish that most closely resembles a Klingon dialect. By now the opener’s brow is as moist as the crackwhore’s and his cheeks hurt from smiling and trying to make it seem like this is the best thing that ever happened to him, a real opportunity to show off his comedic prowess.
In the meanwhile, management has finally realized that they’re out 4 Electric Long Island Iced Tea Bombs and have made two failed attempts via waitress, in roadie scamper mode, to remove the economic liability who’s cracked brain fails to comprehend the polite requests anymore then anything else going on around her.
Now the MC gallantly rushes on the next act, which was previously outside hunched over his set list rocking back and forth like an autistic child. He promptly comes in and bombs his ass off.
Eventually a slightly embittered comic with balls and some type of integrity graces the stage and verbally rips the crackwhore a new asshole exposing the truth and tragedy of the situation, usually to a rousing audience ovation, breaking the illusion of her stranglehold, and sending her scrambling out into the deep dark night for the comfort only a rock in a vial can provide her…that or to another comedy club down the street.
WhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJew!!!
by Warren Holstein
 Packed Show. Friday night. Everyone is into it except this one angry black guy sitting up front, center stage. The comic before me, a gentleman of the African-American persuasion, starts talking about Farrakhan and the Million Man March and the “brother” sitting up front admits he attended both of them. Now everyone went to the first one, sort of a Spike Lee Get On The Bus thing. U-N-I-T-Y!! But no one really showed up for the second one, so I think it is safe to assume he is a tad vigilant. To make matters more fraught, a large group of Hasidic Jews came out to the club that night and were carefully seated around him. And these guys look Jewish: Abe Lincoln beards, funny hats and payos (Semitic sideburns)…probably not his favorite people. Most ironic of all, he is with a white girl. So he’s probably not feeling great about himself. You know, betraying the struggle and all.
Then they bring me on, “Warren Holstein”, a 6’4” Jewzilla with a Badge of Israel smack dab in the center of my face (my enormous proboscis). So I start up and the crowds hot, things are going great but he’s staring at me with a look of such hatred it’s searing my soul. Its like he’s emitting a pulse that goes:
WhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJew!!! So I try to ignore it, but it keeps hitting me:
WhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJew!!!
Now let me stop here to say that comedians are wired different then normal people in that, when we feel stressed instead of trying to diffuse the situation, our natural instinct is to escalate it. The more fucked up someone is making us feel is directly proportionate to the inappropriateness which with we want to respond, and when we do it
usually results in an explosion…hopefully in laughter.
So here I am being beamed with: WhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJewWhiteDevilJew!!! Finally I can’t hold back and I say: “Dude what are you so pissed off about you got a white chick!” Half the audience shuts up while the other half guffaws. Meanwhile he doesn’t say word one to me but the pulse intensifies:
WHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEW!!!
So I go onto a bit about how you don’t even see black guys with black women anymore, just Asian women. Then I connect to a piece about the burden of the black stereotype of having a big dick to which his Caucasian counterpart replies “Its no stereotype!” Now everybody is laughing but I still can’t permeate this
motherfucker! He’s more fixated then ever:
WHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEW!!!
So I change the topic and take the focus off him for the next 7 minutes. Things are going swell, but I can’t enjoy it cause I feel this fucker in my spine:
WHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEWWHITEDEVILJEW!!!
Finally I snap! I look at him directly in his eyes and say: “Its cause I’m Jewish isn’t it! Well, I’m sorry! I’m sorry we killed Jesus Christ! We got the wrong guy! I’m sorry we use Christian baby blood to bake unleavened bread with! I’m sorry we control the media and the entertainment industry! As a matter of fact I wouldn’t even be here performing tonight if I didn’t contact my connections at Jew Central! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!! I’M SORRY!!!… And without missing a beat, he stared at me dead center and said “…APOLOGY ACCEPTED.”
Now here’s the rub (I’ve always wanted to say that), that last paragraph never happened. Its what I wanted to have happened, and in some parallel
comedy-utopian-bizarro universe, hopefully did. Everything up to it was an accurate account of what had transpired, but in reality I pussed out and focused on the rest of the crowd instead of letting out the full wrath of what was simmering under the surface. I hollowly accepted their laughter and applause, all the while fulminating inside.
After the show I spent the next 5 hours fantasizing about what might have happened had I acted on my initial impulse. I then twisted the truth, ever so slightly, to make the story I will now tell on stage better and funnier. Cause that’s what comics do sometimes, we get as close as we can to the truth and then, ever so slightly, tweak it to what it could or should have been. All to entertain you fuckers…God bless each and every one of
ya!
Warren Holstein
lankorama@hotmail.com
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WARREN HOLSTEIN’S BIO
Warren Holstein, a rising force on the “New York Comedy Scene,” burst forth 7 years ago from Rutgers University with a degree in Psychology and Cultural Anthropology. Graduating with highest honors and a promising future, he promptly took the next logical step of throwing it all away for smoke-filled rooms (pre-Bloomberg) of drunken hooligans known as the “New York Comedy Scene” and soon began touring the country.
Warren’s unique brand of humor challenges preconceived values and truths and questions our adherence to them. He presents new ways of looking at the world which have been alternately described as
“warped,” “out there,” and “enlightening.”
Warren has contributed writing to Saturday Night Live’s Weekend Update, and has been featured at The Toyota Comedy Festival and The New York Underground Comedy Festival. He currently spends his time headlining at top clubs and colleges all over America.
Check out Warren on MySpace.com
for more information & dates of his upcoming appearances:
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