One Saturday night in the early nineties, I got drunk in New York City and stumbled into a small comedy club where Jackie Martling was performing. Martling, better known as "Jackie the Jokeman" from the Howard Stern radio show, demonstrated an uncanny ability to transform old, tired puns into something uproarious.
Then again I was hammered, so in reality he may have been awful.
But during his 90-minute set (the man had stamina), he told a particularly vile "joke" involving rape and babies. Not only did no one laugh, there was a general uncomfortableness that filled the room. So instead of stepping over the carcass of his flat-lined funny, he just kept hammering at it until some people got up and left.
On their way out the door he screamed at them, literally SCREAMED into his mic: "Fuck you! Hahahaha ... that's fucking funny! Get a sense of humor! Hahahaha ... fuck you!"
Now that? That got laughs.
That's what I was reminded of last night on RAW, when the decision was made -- by adults -- to have a man seek favor of a woman by poisoning her boss, who would then in turn vomit all over her employee while said man scurried off to claim his prize.
It was sick, cruel, and totally WWE.
As expected, there wasn't much celebrating on Twitter in the moments that followed. No CAPS LOCK guffaws, no intestinally-branded hashtags, nothing. Just a bunch of pro wrestling fans wondering aloud why they watch WWE and what lunatic rubber stamped that segment.
It was Vince McMahon, of course.
Sure, he has people to do most of the heavy lifting, but I think it's common knowledge at this point that not much -- if anything -- gets onto the airwaves that hasn't first been molested by McMahon's vision. And last night, that vision was puke. Lots and lots of puke.
And puke is contagious.
Art often imitates life and classic movie fans will recall how "Lardass" started a "barf-o-rama" at the pie-eating contest in Stand By Me, simply by tossing his crust. And just like yawning begets yawning, lots of folks will empty their bread baskets at the mere sight of vomit.
Last night, I had to run for the bucket as my kid turned green.
Crisis was averted, much to the chagrin of Stanley Steemer, and I thought we had escaped with nothing more than a bad segment from a bad show.
I guess word got back to
Ming Vince that most folks were unsettled by his little skit, so instead of taking it out behind the tool shed and putting a bullet into it, the decision was made -- once again by adults -- to keep it going for as long as possible.
This has been sitting on the WWE.com homepage for most of Tuesday:
Forget your step. Watch your click.
Once you get inside, they have the GIF on a loop, so you can stare at Vickie Guerrero as she gets hosed down by the McMahon brown. Speaking of which, WWE cameras were sure to follow Stephanie backstage to document her stomach troubles.
One of those "Dot Com Exclusives."
There is something wrong with these people. Which is a shame, too, because for the most part, I enjoy their product. I also admire the organization's work with charities like Special Olympics, Make-A-Wish, Susan G. Komen, and countless others.
I did a lot of eye rolling last night, but I'm not sure I'd say I was overly mad about it.
There are things I will stand on my soapbox and yell about -- quite loudly -- but the vomitorium, along with the billion-dollar poo face, the brown Carrie, or whatever the latest round of awfulness is, at least it's done with unwavering conviction.
It's just too bad we can't get that same gusto behind some of those other ideas.