I'm Dying Up Here

Previously on "I'm Dying Up Here"...

Tourists?

Comics. From Boston.

What do you think of the place?

We'll take it.

And listen, this is the closet to my room out here.

So, if I'm in there with Maggie...

- Who's Maggie? - She's my girl.

By the way, hands off.

Took my kids to the circus, the Mexican circus.

You know who Edmund Hillary is?

He risked everything to reach the summit,

and when he finally stood on top of the world,

do you know how long it was for?

Fifteen minutes.

Guys, I'm trying to hear Clay.

- Come on over. - He got the couch.

I'm jealous. Every Merv, Johnny,

or Dinah fucking Shore appearance

another comic makes is one more that we didn't get.

That's a motherfucking

2:30 in the morning pancake speech right there.

Fuck you, and fuck you.

Without you even realizing it,

life just bends you over and tucks it straight up your ass.

Johnny feels bad, but I just think we need

to book some more established comics for a little while,

see how it all shakes out.

I been doing open mic for over a fucking year now.

You want Carson? You got to mingle for Christ's sake.

I said I know who you are.

Why don't you quit while you're ahead, huh?

Think I should try to book a church?

Fuck, no. We're in one.

Are you having a good time, ma'am?

Really? All right.

Tell your face.

Guys, Vietnam's coming to an end.

That means what?

Comedians are coming home...

from Canada.

I used to do a lot of handyman work,

growing up.

Mostly because my dad was in the business...

of breaking shit.

Well, what are you doing in here?

That hooker in the trunk ain't gonna bury herself.

All right, thank you, folks.

You've been a...

slightly above average crowd.

This room is toast.

Yeah.

Ooh.

My fellow Americans,

let's make one thing perfectly clear.

His sister was so ugly

people went out on Halloween,

dressed as her.

That was Nixon insulting my sister.

Hey. You cutting it close.

- I'm sorry. I'm sorry. - Come on.

Anybody here like magic?

Oh... oh, my time's up.

Thank you, Mr. President.

Come on.

All right, coming to the stage next,

a regular here at the open mic,

give it up for Mr. Adam Proteau.

- Twinkle. - Mm.

Whoo!

Yes, that's right, I am a professional amateur.

I used to do a lot of handyman work growing up,

mostly because my dad was in the business...

of breaking shit.

"What the hell's wrong with this toaster?"

Well, Dad, did you try to plug it in

before you threw it against the wall?

It's just a question. It's just a...

Where the fuck did you get another toaster?

Like, my dad used to break everything,

not just normal stuff, everything...

Appliances,

TVs,

laws.

But it's okay, you know,

'cause now I know how to fix everything.

How to fix a door that's been kicked in.

I can plaster up a hole that's been punched into a wall.

Fix a pane of glass that my head

may or may not have been pushed through.

One thing I can't fix

is the relationship with my dad.

Hey! How about a shine, my brotha?

"How about a shine"?

Okay, are we talking about your shoes or your dick, sir?

Your mama took care of my dick.

I gave her 50 cents.

Well, seeing as how she only charges 25 cents an inch,

I wouldn't scream out that dumb shit too proudly, you know?

Now, if your mama sucked my dick

for 25 cent an inch, she'd have enough money

to send your ass to Yale, Harvard,

and Shut The Fuck Up School,

which is on the corner of I Need To Be Noticed

and My Date Thinks I'm An Asshole.

Fucking dick.

Hey, you can't let 'em get to you.

This is seven-card stud.

Low spade in the hole splits the pot.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm.

Shit, and shit!

Jesus, is this a game of chance or no chance?

Don't let the sun catch you crying, baby.

Mm-hmm.

So I heard Johnny had Rickles on the other night.

That's fresh.

Oh, Christ, don't get her riled.

Get me riled? What? I love Don.

Yeah, doesn't exactly sound like all the calls

I've been getting from you lately.

You say don't get her started, then you get her started.

Come on, R-Rickles, Hackett,

Professor Irwin Corey, I love 'em.

But you can't get any more "dog bites man" than that.

I told you. We're bringing the kids back.

Oh, papers cleared Clay over a month ago.

Be nice if you guys could keep up with yesterday's news.

We just need to leave the window open a little longer.

Send 'em our way.

We love the kids at Midnight Special.

I tried calling your producer... Butterman.

Yeah, said he can't be reached.

He's fly-fishing, for two months.

We're fly-fishing now?

I think it's a euphemism for invading Syria.

Thank you for making the world right side up again.

Whatever it's a euphemism for,

I'm having lunch with him tomorrow at noon.

Expect a call around one.

Well...

just for that, Bob, I'm gonna tell you...

Mitch here has a pair of aces.

You're a real asshole, Goldie.

What, it's my fault you got the wingspan of a condor?

Hold your cards closer to your vest next time, huh?

What's up, my man?

Mm.

No, I wouldn't want your job,

not for all the bananas in China.

My girlfriend dragged me here.

Some douchebag at her office thinks he's Rich Little.

Got to cut these guys some slack, man.

It's open mic, all newbies.

No shit?

Good thing I'm here.

Liven this motherfucker up.

It's hard.

You know, comedy's all about timing,

which takes a while to learn.

Bullshit.

You're either funny,

or you're not.

Now, Bill Cosby...

he's a funny spook.

Yeah.

But that spook got funny

by learning timing.

Know your audience!

Know when to wait for a laugh.

Timing is motherfucking everything!

Now, see?

Half hour ago, this wouldn't have been funny to me.

But now it's motherfucking hysterical.

Hey, floor's wet.

Hey. You want to buy some weed?

Tweety?

All right, let me hear it.

Hear what?

You only smile like that

over brownies, blow jobs, or a new bit.

And since we're all out of brownies and blow jobs...

Why are we always running out of blow jobs?

Why can't we run out of Wheat Thins or yogurt?

It's always stuff that I like.

Joke, please.

You know that Picasso just died, right?

Good.

What do you got against Picasso?

Four of the women he was with...

Two committed suicide,

and two he drove insane.

So you're saying the guy has a type.

Can I continue?

So I'm reading Pablo's obit.

You know, the guy's a famous artist.

He's got nothing to prove,

except, apparently, how much pussy he got.

Listen to this.

"Picasso, 91, died in a villa in France