Don't Piss On My Floor - By Julian E. Clayton

Editor's note: Since the publication of this article, the performer written about has asked to be revealed. Check out the sick fuck known as Paul Hooper by visiting his website: www.paulhoopercomedy.com

Before I even get started, I am not ripping off Mr. Goguen by sharing a little road story of my own. If you’re not a comic then you should know this is just what we do. We leave the house, fuck up, then tell everyone (except my wife) about it later.

With that said it’s time the Cringe community is introduced to a friend of mine (who will remain nameless) that has become a road legend. The “road” is a place outside of NYC where two things happen. New talent is nourished while it sleeps on the couches of those who are either willing to help, or desperate to learn… and old talent dissolves as it attempts to squeeze one last dime out of a 15 year old act that’s been performed for the last 25 years. Once you’re out on this road it’s hard to visit a club where someone in the room doesn’t have a story about my friend. John Fox called me one afternoon to tell me his. That in itself is an accomplishment that warrants legendary status. Everyone has a John Fox story, but when he has one about you, you’re a fucking man.

I have endless stories about this fellow. I am prohibited from writing about most of them either because his mother begged me not to, or my signature is on some sort of legal document that also contains the seal of a local, state, or federal law enforcement organization. One story that managed to slip thru the crack in the urinal begins at my old home club, the late Funny Bone in High Point, NC. I’m featuring for him all week in a club where quite frankly, if you’re young and edgy, you can do no wrong. For 6 nights in a row, we owned this fucking place. After our weekly Tuesday night showcase show, which was usually nothing more than a chance for Josh Goguen and I to fuck up the other guy’s set in front of 50 people, we are informed we have radio the following afternoon on location in a steakhouse parking lot with the local attempt at shock jockery, “Train Wreck.” This gentleman, known on the air as Crash, earned the name Train Wreck when he MC’d for another local comic and Bobcat and failed to introduce either of them. He simply walked on stage hammered. Looked at the crowd, raised his drink, slurred, “hey I’m Crash.” Then dropped the mic and walked off stage. Combine that reputation with my friend’s and the fact that the Steakhouse is giving away beer, and this will be radio that is remembered.

We show up for our afternoon of radio hostility to learn that we are sharing our spotlight with a “Kiss ass for Kiss tickets” contest where two small donkeys are subjected to fat redneck women licking their nostrils for a chance to sit in the front row of the 4th level of the Kiss concert coming to town in 3 to 4 months. Just before we start to realize that in 20 years therapy will help us determine if this is the day where we could have fixed it, the asst. mgr. of the club brings us a tray of booze. This is pre-Janet’s boob, we’re getting drunk in a parking lot with farm animals and a microphone that can be heard 50 miles away. What could go wrong. Well for starters when they give us our own mic my friend describes to the people in radio land how unfortunate he thinks it is that they won’t let him in the mule pen so he can show these animals just how bad he wants to take those tickets home to his mama. I follow that by thanking beastiality.com for sponsoring this contest and asked Trainwreck to spin the donkeys around and let my friend prove his point. It was at that point we learned where the line was, and that in a mere 25 seconds we had snorted it. It’s worth mentioning here that our little on air stunt brought people out to every show for the rest of the week.

Cut to Friday night when the staff at the Funny Bone decides it would be fun to get Julian and his friend drunk after the show and take them to the high class strip joint just down from our hotel. Before we leave the club we learn that our MC for the week is a complete homophobe, and unfortunately for him doesn’t seem to have his own transportation to escape this evening. As we are escorted to the VIP area my friend suddenly notices that his penis is still in his pants and proceeds to show our MC how he plans to remedy this situation. The next few hours are spent with an MC who is determined to spend his last dollar to prove he is not a fan of cock. 

The next afternoon, while discussing how we are going to convince our MC that a man will be fucking him this weekend, I learn that next week I am working with my friend in Atlanta. Fuck it, we’ll leave here and ride together… again, what could go wrong. The first night we return to the hotel in Atlanta I figure out that the hotel key has to be used to open the lobby doors, and this key must be pushed in until it snaps before the doors open. I use this information to convince a drunken buddy that due to the anti-mugging system the hotel has in place the doors won’t open if two people are standing in front of the sensors. I position him just far enough away so the doors will close before he gets to them, and he is forced to wake the lobby clerk to open the doors for him. This works for 3 nights in a row.

Up until this point this story may seem like just a couple of average drunks tooling around comedy clubs. I felt is was necessary to begin with the average so you’ll understand the reputation my friend has to live up to. After all, this is a guy who is on the security list of several major casinos in Las Vegas, who purposely pushed Bobby Slayton over the edge in the lobby of a Double Tree hotel, and who attempted to purchase a tray of shots for the 3rd shift road crew working on the sidewalk beside the patio of the bar we were frequenting that evening.

After our last show of the week in Atlanta my buddy meets two lovely young ladies. The blonde appears to want to blow him in showroom, the tall one wants us both dead. Julian you’re married, she hates you, be my wing man. As I attempt to make small talk with a woman I have no intention of having sex with she informs me I can cut the shit. “You don’t want to fuck me, I don’t want to fuck you, lets just leave it at that and drink our fucking beer while they molest each other on the couch.” Fantastic. She gets it. Now that the tension is gone we actually start to have a conversation as I notice my friend has just gotten the shit slapped out of him and the blonde is running towards us. I jump up to ask what the problem is and he informs me she got him worked up and now he needs to get laid. For some reason he determines these young ladies must leave the bar for him to accomplish his goal, so he leans in between them and asks, “Are either of you bitches fucking me tonight?”

“No.” they reply.

“Then get the fuck out so I can find somebody who will.” I start to giggle like a drunken school girl because I know this is just beginning. As the girls are leaving we realize the bar is closing, and the door close to our car is locked. We now have to walk what seems like two miles around an entire shopping center to get to our car and wouldn’t you know it, the girls are parked right beside us. What is amazing here is that during our short walk my buddy annoys the young ladies to the point where they decide the only way to fix the situation is to return to our hotel room with us. While all four of us walk thru the lobby doors, I watch the dumb look on my buddy’s face as he remembers the previous three nights waking of the lobby clerk.

About 20 minutes after we sit down in his room, it’s obvious the bitchy tall one is one short of her quota of fucking drunken comics, and my friend is her last chance. I get the signal to leave with the blonde and we exit the room. Now I’m married, but aside from that I don’t trust anyone I don’t know in my hotel room. It’s now my job to make up 30-45 minutes of excuses on why we can’t go in my room. Just as I think I’m running low the tall whore runs out of my friend’s room wearing nothing but a towel and asks for a lighter and a cigarette. I ask why she’s naked and she informs me they are not having sex, they are just playing a game. In hind site this probably wasn’t as hard as she made it look. I decide if they are smoking they’re done and I open my hotel room door. As the blonde asks if she can come in and nap for a minute, I whisper no as I slam the door behind me. I think it was about 2 seconds before I heard a knock on my buddy’s door. Another 3 minutes of bitching and crying before they left. And about 15 seconds after the elevator doors closed wouldn’t you know it, there’s a knock at my door. I am informed that the cigarette was not for post sex activity, it was merely to help get the taste out of her mouth before rest of the night continued. I laugh at what I now consider a victory in fucking my buddy out of getting fucked, and say, “Good, it’s 2:30, we can crash now and get up early to leave.”

At 4:30 I wake up to a loud knock on the door. As I’m walking to the door I hear, my friend yelling “Wake up Julian, there’s a naked guy in the hallway.” As I open the door I get to see that someone is naked, and it’s him. I slam the door and go back to sleep. At 5:30 another knock. “Don’t worry, I’m not naked but I am drunk so open up or I set this hallway on fire.” Against my better judgment I open the door, and crawl back in bed. He proceeds to tell me how I should have just brought the blonde back to my room so he could get laid, then he sets two beer bottles on the night stand. One to ash in, one to drink from. I switched them in hopes he’d get pissed and leave. As he walks to the bathroom to spit out the ashes he decides he has to take a leak. But since I apparently need to learn my lesson, he takes a full piss on the carpet in front of the bathroom… and laughs his ass off the entire time. I have to pull the comforter off the other bed to walk on just to throw him out. 

At 8:30 I wake up and assume he’s probably had 1-2 hours sleep. The perfect time to wake him up and tell him I’m leaving in 10 min. I use my key to his room (you learn early on it’s always good to have a key to his room when you travel with him) but he’s put on the chain (apparently he learned too). I can see in the mirror that he is unconscious, sitting up against the head board in a position resembling the victim of a mob hit. I couldn’t be this lucky. I scream at him to wake up, nothing. I call him from my cell, but his doesn’t ring. I go back to my room and call his room, nothing. I let the phone ring, open his door, squeeze my arm in and turn on the hair dryer and drop it in the sink, scream as loud as I can until a family down the hall decides they should check out now. “Sorry sir, “ I smirk, “I stole his medication and I’m checking to see if he’s dead yet.” After 45 minutes and surprisingly no response from hotel security, he wakes up. As he lets me in to watch him pack, I notice a half a pint of Wendy’s chili beside his luggage. While he showers I wrap up this pint inside a pair of swim trunks that I’ve never seen him wear, and bury them both in the bottom of a very large suitcase that will be on the road for the next 5 weeks.

One month and one week later I get a phone call. “Hey man, any idea why my suitcase, my car, and now my apartment smell like a dead fetus?” 

“It’s probably because you pissed on my floor.”