Sit-Down Comedy: Transmission Two
Observations Without Answers | Curtis Winkelmann
Digital Burgers
On some clear-skied Summer evenings when the Earth’s purple dome starts to gather a crop of distant stars, I’ll sit back and think, How many videos of burgers being made have I actually watched? And why is the answer probably more than a hundred? Is this an illness of some kind? I mean, every video is the exact same. It’s a burger like…
The Birth of Consciousness
You know that whole thing about the brain naming itself? Why didn’t it go for something like Chad Broadhammer, Stone Lightning Bolt, Mercy Largecock? I mean — Brain? Come on. It just looks like you misspelt Brian.
Happy Halloween, Man. Sincerely.
Halloween has become scary again. As I write this, I take refuge on my living room floor with every single light in my house turned off listening to the swarms of over-hyped children slam their tiny bodies into my front door. They’re trying to crack the glass with their bare fists. They’re screaming, crying, whining as my dog goes absolutely fucking mental over the fireworks that explode above and the doorbell that’s held pressed to produce one unbroken alarm. We had clamped the gate shut with a bike lock. This did not stop them. They chewed through the rubber. They are here for blood.
Don’t Skip This Ad. If You Just Give Me Five —
Swear to God, if YouTube tells me one more time to “Build wealth by trading with 212” or that my workouts are ineffective because I don’t know what body type I am, I’m going to go insane. Or worse, pay for premium.
Junk
I love how that email folder is called Junk. They didn’t go for something like ‘Less Important’ or ‘Not Sure.’ Just Junk. Like as if my computer reads my incoming emails and thinks to itself, “Yeah, this is fucking junk.”
I like the idea of an invisible and extremely prejudiced bouncer standing at the door to my inbox. Some huge bald A.I. saying “Sorry random brunch spot visited once five years ago when access to free wifi was needed, looks like tonight’s just not your night.” Or maybe, “You should go grab a coffee platform unsubscribed to seven years ago but whom still sends me monthly newsletters, you’re in no state to enter this man’s main inbox.”
Note to self: The Junk Folder is an excellent name for a club/bar. Although, in truth, my junk folder would be the saddest club to ever exist. I mean, just imagine it. A very clinical white space playing no music, serving no drinks, and filled only with conversations about job application rejections, thesis extension requests, and detailed information about every 4am Uber I’ve ever taken. Not sure what the opposite of a rave is, but this sounds about right.
Overheard Viking Splash Tour Guide:
“When I die I want to go peacefully in my sleep.”
Hope
I have never been the person who says “Well, cheers everyone!” Nor do I want to be. That person has never known true pain.
Live Amateur Theatre
Absorb the following idea via ears if you wish:
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It’s pitch-black. The thin foldable seat holding up my ass is a whole new world of uncomfortable. I cross my left leg over the right to try and achieve some levelled sense of comfort. In the act I kick the back of the seat in front of me and whisper "Shit, sorry." The person next to me glances over. I stare dead-straight ahead like I don’t even exist. The person behind me coughs twice. Once because they have to and then again to clear the remaining goop and nonsense. I feel or imagine I feel the cough hit the back of my neck. I shift my body forward and ever so slightly turn my head as if to say, That’s fucking horrible. You’re fucking horrible. A draft of dry ice floods the air. I really like the smell for some reason and so I inhale deeply. This causes me to cough twice, once because I have to and then again to clear the sweet chemical fog from my lungs. The person in front of me shifts their body forward and ever so slightly turns their head back as if to say That’s fucking gross. You’re fucking gross. Fuck him, I think. I can’t help it. The lights come up. A few paces away there’s a person lying across the stage wearing a bedsheet tied in the shape of a toga. I wonder if he’s supposed to be dead. His chest is clearly moving up and down, but I’m pretty sure he’s meant to be dead. My contact lens shifts to one side of my eye. I jab my finger into the socket to reposition it. My vision blurs for a moment before the world racks back into focus. It’s now that I realise I’m far too close to the action that’s about to unfold. I’m in the second row. And it’s also now that I realise the stage isn’t a stage at all. Rather, it’s the ground. The same level as us, the audience. I un-cross my legs and firmly plant my feet on the floor. In the act I kick the back of the seat in front of me and whisper "Shit, sorry." The person on the stage-like area then sits up and begins to speak. They do not have a microphone. Their voice sounds weak and distant. I’ve already been taken out of the fiction. The actor paces from one side of the stage to the other becoming increasingly sweaty. He pauses, letting what he’s just said hang in the air. I can hear a thousand mouths breathing around me. A tear rolls down the actor’s cheek. A text alert rings out from the back of the theatre. Someone in my row sneezes. The actor, still crying silently, looks directly at me. I wonder if there’s an issue or if this pause is a part of it. I stare at the actor’s feet to avoid making any eye-contact. I’ve got to piss so fucking badly. Another person coughs.
Curtis Winkelmann
Curtis Winkelmann is an overworked joke that’s beginning to sound forced.
NS Sit-Down Comedy
Humour can come in many forms. Ideas, jokes, half-thoughts, observations, questions…
Think of Nothing Serious’ Sit-Down Comedy as a comedian’s notebook. Scribbles that hold vestiges of both sincerity and complete irreverence.
These are ideas in raw form. Cerebral launch pads. Psychic dead ends.
If you wish to contribute, transmit your own ideas below:
i liked the absorb via ears option. Sometimes i forget about them.