An open letter to the lady that threw up on my jacket at the Jake Johannsen show last night at Helium . . .

"Well, why did you do it? Are you some kind of jerk or something?"

It was my favorite jacket. And why did you leave? Did you think I would have put my jacket on and maybe, MAYBE, put my arm down on the table and suddenly think to myself, "Well, I just put my forearm down on some puddle of vomit that was apparently on my table the whole night which I didn't even notice. Shame on me for my obliviousness." Or maybe you were hoping I'd simply go to some other bar and think, "Gee. Someone else threw up on my arm. It couldn't have been the comedy club"

But you also got it on my friend's jacket. Much more of it, too. What's worse is, you just left. And neither you nor anyone else who sat at your table of ill-manners apologized for such a disgusting action. And you used the good natured sounds of a room full of riotous laughter to disguise your quiet call of the walrus. Deception, in its foulest of forms.

We heard you laughing kinda funny all night. Something was amiss. A little screwey. Strange even. But who are we, as other people, to judge another person's laugh? Some people guffaw. Some chortle. Yours was a wheezing hysterical laugh. Some people wheeze and some people are hysterical. Had we known it was the international warning sound for an oncoming projectile of sick, guess who would have moved their seats?

But why didn't you acknowledge it? You remind me of the man I once saw at a Border's who calmly bent over and threw up by the magazine section as he held his cup of coffee, stood up, and slowly walked over to the Dvd section where he did the same thing, just as calmly. And then he did it again. And again. Do you two belong to some sort of secret shameless spewers club? Was George H.W. Bush it's founder? Did it all start one January back in '92 at a formal dinner in Japan. "What a rush! I have to find some more people who know the joys of a good barf and bolt. If only I could have cloaked the evacuation of all I ate in secrecy. That's where I went wrong. Skull & Bones be damned! These are my people and this, THIS, is my society."

Next time review your menu in the bathroom. They have them in the club, I know. Two, even. One for men, one for women. Maybe you could have asked for sawdust from a utility closet or even, I don't know, made your way out onto the street. Walking in someone's unswallow is a lot less gross than wearing it.

"Well, well, what were you thinking? JERK!"

"Some kind of cupcake expert . . . "

Hey, check me out, all using de-intensified urban hues for my cartoon of Dana Gould and stuff. I thought he'd be easier to draw so cut me some slack, a'ight?

When I was a kid of 19 or so and the local cable company finally got the Comedy Channel or Ha! before they merged into Comedy Central, I was really into comedians and comedy in general. I remember watching "Evening at the Improv" late on Sunday nights when it used to be an A&E staple. Well, maybe not staple. More of a fastener with one busted prong.

I remember trying to make a homemade version of SCTV with some friends back in high school (freshman year). Ah, to be young and not understand that such things as life experience and learned knowledge can only help comedy as opposed to hurt it. While I was busy doing silly impressions or phony commercials for John Liebrand's video-camera or over-dubbing episodes of Mr. Rogers (complete with many an off-color joke about my German teacher Mr. Wagner), most kids were outside playing basketball and football or . . . um . . . playing football and basketball. Maybe some of those same kids tried to incorporate their love of the two by creating new games combining both. I wonder if they would have called it "basket-foot." Then again that was the nickname for this nearly blind girl that had the biggest mane of curly hair and a gimpy leg.

One of the funnier commercial parodies we did was a spoof of Oreo cookies called "Oleo cookies." Yup . . . it was exactly what you'd think it was: a cookie stuffed with margarine. My buddy Phil had the honors of eating it on camera while the remaining group of freaks and geeks watched on in giggling horror (more Uncle Floyd than SCTV, come to think about it). Another staple of our brand of young comedy (aside from grossing out friends) was appropriating, borrowing, or stealing jokes from comedians. The more obscure the comedian, the more likely you got away with it.

My favorite comedians were (and still are) Dana Gould and Jake Johannsen. I didn't dare take their jokes and/or observations partly out of respect and partly because I'd be found out quite easily. Not because the majority of my friends would know their bits and routines, but their material was so advanced it'd have been quite obvious the jokes were not mine. As I got older, I stopped stealing jokes and tried to think of my own for homemade comic books and comedy magazines (shout out to Urban Lunchmeat, the finest National Lampoon wannabe that never really came to be). My favorite article would have been "Death of Henry" asking the question that was on everyone's mind: whatever happened to the silent comic-strip star Henry. He just disappeared and my friends and I speculated with glee. The other was a satire of diet books which never saw print.

Okay . . . enough reminiscing. I finally got to see Dana Gould last week. Saw him at Helium, a comedy club, in Philly. He was just as sharp and hysterical as I remembered. He even spoke to me from on stage during his set since I had a seat at the very front and was just sitting down as he started. It was one of my greatest nights ever. Going with someone I think is the cat's pajamas didn't hurt either. That was one helluva red scarf, by the way. Do cats wear pajamas? I know monkeys do especially when their owners wear banana hued fedoras.