Rififi + Veselka - Imusteria = Happy
American schlock media leads us around by the short and curlies. And we blindly follow them to the lemmings edge, rubbing our sore pubes and asking for more. They distract us from what’s important (war, corruption, the fact that not all Popeye’s carry a full menu and they don’t tell you that until you walk all the way over there and stand in that long-ass line) by juggling noisemakers and shiny objects like staged outrage and faux scandals. So Don Imus (whom I had no idea was still alive) called the Rutgers Women’s Basketball Team “nappy-headed hos.” Stupid? Perhaps. Not funny? Oh, yeah. Worthy of all the chest beating? Hardly.

‘Nappy-headed’ is not a condemnation. It’s a salon request. (Ask Stevie Wonder.) It’s no more a judgement than ‘fat.’ And have we forgotten that in this country, we pay young men good money to write and perform songs to and about the ho? And not just regular Springsteen money. Diamond-encrusted toilet paper on MTV Cribs money. So if ‘ho’ is offensive, how ‘bout we start with the biggest offenders and work our way down? Imus is surely near the bottom of that list. Well below where the hair gets really nappy. (Pickin’ up the theme?) Honestly, sometimes I think this is something Imus and Al Sharpton cooked up together to jack up ratings for both their shows. Like Rosie and The Donald did.

Kramerizing Don Imus is ridiculous, and waters down what we should really be pissed about.

So when I was invited out for some comedy Friday night, I was in more than dire need. And that’s exactly how it was proposed to me. “Some comedy.” Generic, no-name, store-brand, discount comedy. Five bucks. Almost guaranteed to be dripping with offensive stereotypes and off color thank-Jah-no-one’s-youtubing-this-stuff stuff. That, and the promise that Demetri Martin had once graced this Friday night stage were enough for me. Met my friends at Rififi in the East Village for The Greg Johnson Show.

The line-up was uneven and seemingly a smidge out of order, but I still recommend it. Highly. Laughed myself tired. And my decades-long record of the comedian always messing with me goes unbroken.

Can’t remember anyone’s name, nor could I recite a joke for you if my rent depended on it. (I truly suck at this blogging thing.) All I can tell you is the funniest comics were Somebody Mintz near the beginning of the show, and Lou Something at the end. And everyone in between gave me something to howl about. I can also tell you to grab a fresh drink from the bar before entering the theater, ‘cause there’s no service in there. One cannot reach the Flying Snot level of comedy show enjoyment without cocktails.

*intermission-y pause*

Just tracked down some names. See how much Mommy loves you? Mike Dobbins and Anthony Jeselnik were a bit challenging. Intentionally. Funny, though. Dan Mintz and Leo Allen, however. Let’s just say both of ‘em likely went home with some snot on their pant leg, ‘cause of me.

Wait. That’s not snot.

After the show, we got our dumpling on at Veselka (home of the most ass-kickety dill salad dressing in 50 states, several of them Baltic). Loaded up on stuffed cabbage and peirogies. Button-popping good. Literally.

Let’s hope the smiley memory of delightfully blue comedy and superlative Polish feedbag fare lingers at least as long as the metal pipe beating to Imus’ shins does.

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