My Stand-Up Routine

This is a script I had to write when I was trying to be a stand-up.  As you can plainly see, there's a reason why I am not "killing" at packed clubs around the country.

Having a strange name can cause a lot of problems.  My given name is Andrew Jacob Anthony Tomczeszyn.  Kind of a schmorgasboard of biblical names.  John?  No...Ezekiel?...No...I'll have a side of Jacob, hold the St. Patrick.  

The worst part has to be my last name.  It's spelled TOMCZESZYN.  That's ten letters and only 2 vowels.  I had loads of trouble at St. Ambrose grade school with that Husky pencil and that Big Chief Tablet.  My name took up three sheets.  Kids would be heading out to recess and I'd still be sitting there writing.  My teachers thought I was slow, because by the time I finished with the second sheet, everyone would be heading back inside.

If you've got a strange last name, people always seem to take it upon themselves to mutilate it.  "I don't know how to pronounce this...is it Tomcheeseandcrackers? Is Mr. Tomskeezzix there?  I'm looking for an Andy Tomjacobjingleheimersmith, his name is my name too?"  

My teachers weren't any help in this area.  "Who can answer this question?  Mr. Eye-chart do you know the answer?"  I had one math teacher who went so far as to make my name an algebra problem..."What is the probability of running across the correct pronunciation of Mr. Alphabet's last name?"

I went to college to get away from all of this...to make a new start.  But it didn't help.  I attended the University of Texas.  Big, liberal, open campus.  But even the Chinese exchange students were making fun of me.  "You have no vowels.  You are an inferior American dog...consonant boy."

I didn't last long at Texas.  There were two factors at play here 1) I lived in a Co-Op and 2) I got dumped.

The Co-Op thing was my own fault.  I had never lived amongst hippies before.  Waking up to the sounds of the Grateful Dead and the aroma of marijuana brownies wafting through the air is an experience.  One I highly recommend for getting nothing academic done.  "No, Dweezil, I don't want Jell-O Shots with my pancakes...Yes, I'm sure."

The other thing, the dumping, was a little harder to adjust to.  I got the Dear Tomjohnavich telephone call, the "I just want to be friends" talk, and the "I'm gonna need my tapes back" letter.  It seems she needed someone she could talk to (and screw behind my back) and I expected too much, like her not screwing people behind my back.  She wanted to be friends.  I think she was scared of the last name.

I'm just glad it didn't scar me.  The three years without a date is purely a coincidence.  Honest.  I think that's my problem with women.  I want a commitment and they won't even learn to spell my last name.

Since I've been dateless for so long, people with dates are starting to chap my ass.  Like my friend Juli.  She's going out with a guy named Owen, like the breakfast meat, only bigger.  They're in love.  They go to dinner.  They go to the movies.  They go to concerts.  They share bodily fluids.  They make me sick.

You know what else?  He has a normal last name.  Crow.  Short, sweet, to the point.  Typical.  A nice ethnic name...a name with character...gets passed over for a sausage eating blackbird.

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