REDUCTRESS LIVE!/Pretty Boys: Austin Sketch Fest 5/26

Pretty Boys will be performing at Austin Sketch Fest on Friday May 26 at the Spider House Ballroom at 8:00 PM! We open for our dear friends at Reductress! If you’ll be in Austin, Texas, you should come out. I’ll be there, assuming my flight isn’t canceled:

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Nice lil’ window to take off at 5 PM šŸ™šŸ»

I want to eat all the Austin food truck things.

Also, next NYC Pretty Boys show will be Monday, June 5th!

Okay bye!

my seat

This morning I get on the train at the same spot I usually do.

I know this is the spot right in front of the trash can where the doors pull right up.

And I step on first. And if there’s a seat, I get it. I need it, because my legs hurt, and it feels good to sit, and when you hurt and things feel good, well that seems like a pretty good option to me.

This morning things didn’t go as planned. This might be a long, ranty post – but after all, I’m a long, ranty guy.

I grab my seat. Unhappily nestled between two broad shouldered manspreaders. The term is accurate, because these men were spreading all over the place. You couldn’t close them to save your life.

I squeeze in like the weird Tetris piece and make it two stops before, shortly after the car has started moving, and elderly woman walks up.

Now, I’ve seen the type before. Old. And a woman. But, I guess I meant to say I’ve seen herĀ other type before. Her eyes dart around expectantly, but it’s on my lower two-thirds that her eyes land. I can hear her thoughts:

This long, ranty man in his $1150 Armani suit and matching frog-skin fedora has had a good life – and much more to come. How young is he, 19? 20? And so successful. And so handsome, my oh my, what a handsome young man. Things have gone so well for this man, perhaps he’ll let me eat the scraps from his table.

But by table, I knew she meant “seat.” I guess at some point, you forget the difference.

“Would you like a seat?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a particularly unstable train today.” This doesn’t make sense, as trains run on tracks and those tend to stay pretty still. I get up and am moving my bags, but she’s wasted no time slipping in past me, like an identical weirdĀ TetrisĀ piece would do. “Please, don’t move your bags. I’ll watch them.” I snatch them up anyway and avoid her eyes. The bag rests at my feet as I loom over her in silence and in headphones, though I don’t listen to anything.

I don’t like that this bothers me. I try not to let it, and I tell myself I’m the sane man standing next to me, who I’m sure would happily give up his seat to anyone who asked him. Every fiber of my beingĀ is telling me what I’ve done is right, and a seat is not the end of the world, and why is it important to have a seat for about thirty minutes?

EveryĀ other fiber of my being was saying, “Hey, sheĀ beat you. She won.”

This is the curse of man. The feeling of constant injustice brought on by a cruel universe. Every moment has the potential to make a man feel that he has been wronged, mistreated, that even though the logic in his manly brain knows that an elderly woman needs a seat, the man cannot stop feeling as though the woman in the seat doesn’tĀ know that sometimes I’d like a seat, and maybe it would benefit her to stand and deal with the unstable train. It bothers me she expectantly sought out the kindness of strangers instead of waiting around for a kind stranger to approach her as they presumably would. I look around at all the kind strangers with their faces down in their phones.

IĀ turn on my music.

Going to work

I wake up that morning and slap the alarm clock unironically and cliched-ly.

“6:34,” it reads in red digital line numbers.

I started setting my alarm for weird times in the morning. I felt like my body wasn’t responding well to the predictable times. 7:00 AM is so predictable. 6:30, better, but half-hours are the full-hours pitiful Las Vegas impersonators. 5:15 AM. What am I, a big stupid idiot? I settle on 6:34, and if I could specify “and 12 seconds” on this infernal thing, I certainly would.

I roll out of bed.

I crawl back in bed.

“2:30” the clock says to me silently and digitally.

Welp, I’ve done it again. Slept in and missed most of my work. I don’t care – they won’t fire me there. You know it costs a company ten times as much money to hire, train, and keep a new employee than it costs to just keep the garbage one you want to hand a pink slip? I saw that in an episode of the American the Office. Or I also read it in The Atlantic. I can’t remember, but I really kind of stuck to that theory regardless.

No time for a shower, I figure. Or… all the time for a shower. I make a face to no one and wonder why I had such a dumb pretentious thought. Am I still drunk?

I pick up a sweater off the floor and dust some Doritos crumbs off it. I throw it over a white button-down, wrinkled everywhere but the collar, but the collar is still good, so why let it go to waste? I put on pants, a pair of dad Wranglers designed to carry the weight of a dozen cell phone belt clips.

I brush my teeth and look at myself in the mirror. My heart is heavy. I’m also heavy. How much weight have I gained? The scale at the gym I went to three months ago said I’d actually lost weight, but I have a feeling from the aching in my wobbly thighs that sitting at that damned computer eight hours a day was just depleting me of all muscle mass. I’m a shadow of a man. A flabby, disheveled, minty-breathed shadow.

A man shoves me to get a seat on the train. He realizes the seats are all taken and he instead stands directly in the way of the door. I ask him to move and he doesn’t hear me because he has headphones in. I’m irate and don’t want to be decapitated in the train doors so I nudge him out of my way to step into the train car.

“ExCUSE me, I pay $150 a month to ride this heap of junk to work and back, you have NO right to push me!”

“I just wanted to get past you.”

“CUCK.”

That was a big jump, but I have a Facebook feed that informs me this kind of thing happens all the time. I get off at my stop and, despite being late, go three blocks out of my way to the local Subway. Now, you may not know this, but they have some pretty phenomenal breakfast sandwiches at Subway. Did you know that? They just keep it a secret, like they want an exclusive clientele or they’re really bad at advertising or people go really upset at that Jared ordeal. Regardless, it’s good and there’s never a line.

The problem is that it’s well into the afternoon, as I’ve forgotten. Am I still drunk? I feel awkward and sweaty as the sandwich artiste stares me down, so I order a “chicken bacon ranch” which is three arbitrary words thrown together but if you say them in sequence at a Subway they actually make you a thing to eat.

I bring my sandwich to work and reach into my wallet at the door. I realize I can’t find my key card.

How in the world did I lose it? An infinitum of cards that tie me to a separate but just as important infinitum of responsibilities, and I somehow don’t place the card that helps me pay for all the other cards in my wallet?

I look at a puddle outside.

It’s me who’s the key card.

I get on a bus.

The Comedy Central Roast of the All-Knowing Orb [VIDEO]

Sometime in April or May my sketch team realized that we had about six or seven weeks to write a show for our slot at Maude Night instead of the typical four weeks. Because of that, we decided to take a shot at writing something different. Instead of writing a sketch show of separate, unrelated sketches, we decided to try to meet and work together about twice as many times in person and pretty much live on Google Hangouts in order to write one cohesive 25 minute show. After our first meeting, I pitched the name “The Comedy Central Roast of the All-Seeing Orb” as an idea I’d been kicking around and wasn’t sure what to do with, and the video above is what came of it about 6 weeks later.

Please enjoy the Comedy Central Roast of the All-Knowing Orb, written and produced by Pretty Boys.

yelp lady

I work in a restaurant and I don’t like to talk about my job a lot, but a woman ate at my restaurant about a month or so ago and gave us a 1-star review on Yelp. For most restaurants nowadays, Yelp reviews can get service industry employees fired if their name is mentioned. It causes business owners undue stress that causes them to tighten reins they don’t understand on their employees they don’t know or trust, 99% of whom have made no mistakes in the first place. They put management in a predicament where, instead of focusing on providing proper service and experience while meeting a bottom line and employees are provided for and supported, they instead have to give virtual blowjobs to these sick fucks regularly in order to get them to stop holding our restaurant hostage with a less-than three star review. Yelp is a gross, gross company that has infiltrated not only our small businesses’ well-being but has placed a mighty scepter in the hands of many a sad, sad person with a huge sense of entitlement and, worse, a desire to practice their 6th grade vocabulary.
This is a woman who came into a restaurant, who went on Yelp to find us, saw that the majority of visitors’ experiences were positive, and decided a fair warning should be given to the masses that she thought her hamburger was, and I quote, “gummy.” These are the kinds of things you read and, if you’re me, you have to see more about this person who feels compelled to say this in a public forum. Her page, filled with 120+ individual reviews of separate businesses (9/10 of which are negative) is adorned with her profile picture: an innocuous copy of The New York Times with, in the background, some kind of colorful cocktail. So you know this lady KNOWS some IMPORTANT SHIT. I read through most of her reviews, finding a pattern of what appeared to be a love for being contrary; a negative review for a restaurant most people seem to love, but a 5-star review on the local Safeway grocery store people “just aren’t giving a chance.”

I then arrived at the core. This woman’s soul. Her self inside herself. This lady had reviewed LaGuardia Motherfucking Airport. And not only did she rate an enormous international airport which will operate well after she is dead regardless of her opinion on it, she has rated it a whopping three stars. Three. Dead center, please, world-pay-attention-to-me-breifly-as-I-explain-to-you-what-is-essentially-my-indifference-and-lack-of-opinion-on-a-huge-municipal-entity, three stars.

How much love or lack therof does it take to create such a gross, needy, unfortunate person who is allowed to walk through the world living in a bubble of thinking her opinion is important, matters, or needs to be heard? Mark Zuckerberg’s mission statement for Facebook essentially says that a more connected world will ultimately make for a better world, but I sometimes don’t believe that is the case, or at the very least it will be made better in spite of the unfortunate side affect that this lady gets to make me spend 45 minutes writing a social media post about how awful she is.

This woman is probably an otherwise fine lady, and probably has a family that counts on her, and has responsibilities and dreams she hopes to achieve despite having to work a job she doesn’t love, but because I’m in a bad mood and want to feel like I am important and not just a little bug on the windsheild of existence, I give this lady 1-star.