Topical Cul-de-Sac at the Ricochet Lounge

Comedian temporarily loses moral compass en route to Laughville

Welcome to the Ricochet Lounge. I'm Hazelthorpe Aloysius Prescott III -- better known as "Happy" -- and I'll be messing with your mind for the next hour -- as you scarf down the half-priced drinks that are currently being shuttled about the room by our almost disturbingly scantily clad waiting staff this evening. Speaking of which, I've got to have a word with my agent. I only perform at respectable joints, you understand -- and these women are really pushing my moral envelope with these minimalist outfits of theirs. Mind you, I'm not quite ready to label this place a "dive," but so help me, if I see so much as one equivocal leer from the waiting staff this evening (especially directed toward me in particular), I am going to leave in a self-righteous huff. For now, I'm willing to overlook their strapless frill dresses and their boho florals and the (what is that, anyway?) almost straw-like mini dresses that seem to sashay, as it were, now left, now right, as the torso to which they appertain glides (somewhat more voluptuously than might be wished) with a sort of indolent impishness (there's no other words for it) from one table of bug-eyed businessmen to the next. Suffice it to say that I've got my eyes on these young ladies: So if they do one thing -- or rather one MORE thing -- to overstep the bonds of common decency -- nay, if they so much as "pucker up" in my general direction -- I -- I --





But then I don't want to come off like a prudish busybody, so on second thought: shake it like you mean it, ladies -- if only so that no one can blame me for self-righteously cramping your style.





Whew! That was a close one. I almost came off sounding like an officious schoolmarm, didn't I? Of course, I still can't exactly APPROVE of the way that the young ladies in question are now brazenly strutting about the floor, kicking up their heels, and even occasionally lolling over the rounded tables, pointing to their admittedly ruby lips and conspiratorily mouthing such potentially inflammatory words as "kiss me, baby" and the like to the proximate male recipient of their feminine wiles... (wherefore do I shout with at least one part seriousness to three parts hokum: Proximate male recipients, BEWARE!)






Incidentally, if anyone knows where I'm "going with this," as they say, please let me know, because I'm going to be honest with you: I myself have no idea -- I am, in fact, completely lost -- which is bad, because I feel like I've just reached a topical cul-de-sac in which the car of my imagination lacks the space necessary to turn around.





Well, this is embarrassing.





I feel like I should change the subject and start cracking some reasonably inoffensive jokes at this point (some of my classic egghead "bon mots," if you will), but no matter what new topic I think of, its invocation at this point would seem to involve a highly improbable segue, as if a race driver were suddenly to exit a speedway by means of a dust-raising u-turn and then start puttering down Main Street, U.S.A., in strict compliance with the local 25-mile-an-hour speed limit.





On the other hand, I could recklessly continue "full speed ahead" with these (let's face it) increasingly snide insinuations of mine about the (in reality fully-dressed) waiting staff -- but then I'd prefer to leave at least the cheapest of the cheap laughs to the Howard Sterns of the world --



You see my dilemma?





What's that, sir? I could always dilate upon the limitations inherent in... (Mercy on us, he sounds more like a stiltified egghead than myself!)







Here, pass this spare microphone to the wordy bloke so that we can all hear this apparently rather complicated advice of his:

"Ahem. Is this on?"

Yes, the microphone is on, Monsieur le Egghead: Now what was your suggestion?

I was just saying that you could always dilate upon the limitations inherent in the "nothing sacred" humor of today's shock-jock comics.

Oh, I see: So you're thinking that if I wrap up my gig in that way, I'll be atoning to some extent for the unwonted raciness of my previous material.

Exactly.

Wonderful idea. Let's all give a round of applause to the egghead at Table #7. Well done, YOU!





And just in time, too, because the barman back there is signaling me even now that they're getting ready to close the place up.







Unfortunately, I have an absolute horror of getting on any last-minute high horse. (Hey, it's not gonna happen.) I would merely point out that some comedians, under the guise of being candid, routinely emphasize the corporeal and negative aspects of life to the almost total exclusion of the spiritual and the ideal, as if free speech and cynical schoolyard candor were one and the same thing -- whereas I maintain....





Hey, don't look at me like that: It was the egghead at Table #7 that thought this would be a good way for me to plausibly end this routine of mine. He was obviously wrong, but don't look at me like it's MY fault!





Listen, gang, you've been a wonderful audience -- and my apologies to the wait staff, who), to do them credit, were (not withstanding my facetious insinuations above) all more or less adequately clothed tonight -- as far as I could tell, at any rate, with these monstrous white spots in my eyes.





If, however, I overlooked any renegade staff member who was indeed scantily-clad this evening, do me a favor and bring her to my attention after I leave the stage so that I can have a word with her face to face: You've got to deal with these things ASAP and in person, that's been my experience, anyway.





The name is Hazelthorpe Aloysius Prescott III (alias Happy) and I'll be here through Thursday night -- getting more moral each day, I shouldn't wonder -- aye, so you may as well make your peace with me now yes? (especially as the ongoing bad weather makes local outdoor sightseeing an "iffy" proposition at best.)





Night-night, folks. Definite night-night!





(Whoo-hoo!)





Or whatever, of course. Or whatever.

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