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I live in a really small town in North Carolina. And, I perform with a really small improv comedy troupe that was, this night, performing in a really small independent coffee shop on, you got it, a teensy few blocks of a quaint historic Main Street. Between the folk painted long-eared goats and the banjo pickers in front of the courthouse, there we are, comedy troupe extraordinaire, Gag Order.

As you might guess, with improv sometimes your hot and sometimes you are really, really, really not.Needless to say, I’ve had some less than uplifting performances. Until tonight I thought my worst possible gig was one in which an unexpected acquaintance appeared in the audience and for some reason– maybe it was the scowl of distaste upon her face– I froze like a deer in headlights, and then I froze like a deer in headlights, then I made a crass joke, and oopsy, I froze like a deer in headlights again.

Compared to tonight’s suicidal massacre, however, that was nothing. NOTHING! The only experience that could possibly be more mortifying than tonight’s experience would be if Bear Grylls (yeah, that hot British survival artist from Man vs. Wild on the Discovery Channel) strolled in while I was attempting to climb the rope in gym class. (You don’t even have to ask. I was one of those pathetic losers who just clasped their arms and legs around the rope and swung and swung and swung until the gym teacher had had enough ego-boosting for one day and let me free fall to the foamy safety mat below. And, yes, I was also the one who held up all the other kids in the safety bus drill because I was afraid to jump out the back of the bus and into the arms of the awaiting fire dept volunteer. Look, I’m not proud. But I do have to tell it like it is.)

So,what you ask, could be worse. Think you can’t imagine anything. Well, think again, my pretty. Because it can get worse.

Oh yes, yes it can.

In the midst of possibly one of the most lethal comedic train wrecks of this century, one in which the already seemingly sedated audience was begging for mercy, in walks, you won’t believe this, Stephen Fucking Colbert!

I am not kidding you. As he casually walked from the back of the shop to a table near the stage I kept thinking “gosh that man looks an awful like Stephen Fucking Colbert”. After staring in the way that your mama has taught you again and again not to ever stare at anyone, I realized that the man sipping his latte and watching, with furrowed brows, the brutal comedic massacre unfolding before him was in fact Colbert. The Colbert! Only one of the most ingenious comedic master minds of our time, sitting right there, in front of me, in his brilliant, lust-provoking flesh.

Just as Colbert (no really, it was Colbert) settled in to enjoy his latte and a little local nightlife, I was called upon to play the undesirable part of “duck woman” in one of our more inventive actor’s twisted psychodramas. Yes. Duck. Woman. Not only did I not have any idea what the scene was about– I was too busy choking on my own drool to pay any real attention– I hate, absolutely hate, playing any sort of quasi-animal character whatsoever. So I did what any too-cool-for-school 15-year-old gang banger might do, I stood as if being in this troupe meant about as much to me as having my legs amputated and I let out an unconvincing, sarcastic “quack” and then tried to sit back down. But that wasn’t enough. Oh no. Duck Woman was called upon again and again and again. So, as I stood scowling and quacking and hitting my fellow actors in the face (really I had no other recourse…), Colbert lifted his still warm to-go cup and walked, ever so silently– without offering me an autograph or a night of mad passionate extramarital lovin’– away. Leaving me with nothing but the faint orange glow of:
Colbert.

Colbert.

Colbert.

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 16th, 2008 at 12:17 am and is filed under Brushes with Greatness, Favorite Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.