I Killed: True Stories of the Road from America's Top Comics

I Killed: True Stories of the Road from America's Top Comics

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 030738229X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The biggest names in standup comedy reveal the howlingly funny, completely shocking, and disturbingly bizarre moments they've experienced on the road.

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The Blue Riband: The Piccadilly Line (Penguin Underground Lines)

Simon's Cat: Beyond the Fence (Simon's Cat, Book 2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gear. Dan made two trips in a cargo van before Bob settled into his suite. Dan had dealt with a few arrogant and unapproachable stars, so he was happily surprised by Bob Hope's talkative, friendly nature. Not only did Dan move all of Bob's luggage, he also ran a few errands for the star. He definitely anticipated a huge tip when at the end of the day he said, “Well, ya know, if there's not going to be anything else, I do need to be going along.” Bob Hope knew what Dan was intimating and palmed

“I love you, Tony Montana, I love you!” Steve slammed the guy, and I laughed, but then realized that in a club slamming a guy is funny, but in his own house it just seems rude. The dog walked out and Steve was trying to do his closer. Sweat Suit was now so in the bag he got up and hugged Steve, who was by now covered in flour. “I love you, Tony Montana! I love you!” Steve sat the guy down. “Great. I love you, too. Now sit down and shut up.” The guy was quiet for about thirty seconds, but then

“Oh, fuck you. You're the one that started arguing.” They were getting heated, so I asked them to calm down. They stopped for a minute and then jumped right into “Yeah, you fucking bitch.” “You cunt.” “You fucking bitch, you.” “You fucked up this whole job.” “Fuck you—I don't have to take that shit.” Next thing I knew, the one in the back threw a punch at the one in the front. Soon I was driving down whatever interstate it was with two women pulling hair and punching the shit out of each other

Blaine Capatch called it, “Pack o' Hacks.” This drunk braces me and says he wants to propose to his girlfriend. I say, “Yeah, great. After the last comedian, I'll—” “I want this done firs' thin',” he slurs. “Um, it's better if we do the show first, and then—” “THE… CUSTOMER…IS …ALWAYS … RIGHT.” He spaces out the words and says them loud, like important people in the movies. Then he sits back down, in the front row. The show starts, and I manage one joke before he heaves himself to his feet

exciting. When we finished fishing, dad removed a small rock from the stone embankment that bordered the river. Inside that hole we stuffed the roll of kite string and our makeshift hook. I listened carefully as he explained that one day we'd come back. Periodically, I dreamed about his promise. But Dad and I never went back. Fast-forward sixty-five years, when a friend and I had occasion to go back to San Antonio. This time I was invited to speak on a panel about the Stooges. The park where

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