N: What is your favorite comedy song of all time?
P: “Honey” by Bobby Goldsboro
N: Who do you admire most?
P: The father, son and holy ghost
N: Do you have any tattoos, and if so what and where?
P: The last supper on my daddy parts
N: Would you rather lose an arm or a leg?
P: I just lost an arm and a leg
N: Favorite place to eat?
P: On the couch
N: What’s your favorite TV show?
N: Most embarrassing moment?
P: This interview
N: If you had to pick one car, which would it be?
P: The closest one
N: Why did the chicken cross the road?
P: To answer this question
N: What was your last thought?
P: The answer to the last question
N: Favorite fruit?
P: Elton John
N: Which is worse? A bad laugh or a bad cough?
P: A bad laugh that turns in to a bad cough
N: Are you a cat or a dog person?
P: Most folks think I’m a dog
N: Do you shower every single day?
P: 3 times a day… I can get very dirty
N: Walking past a beggar, spare change or ignore?
P: Don’t you mean walking past another beggar?
N: What is your favorite food?
N: Do you read Harry Potter books?
P: Do you? I’m sorry that was a little defensive… yes
N: What is your favorite place?
N: Have you had a beer in the last week?
P: Does my probation officer read this?
N: What do you do on Fridays?
P: Make drunks laugh
Instant song inspired by this Patton Oswalt tweet.
@PattonOswalt “Drink Myself To Sleep, Shit Myself Awake” — you’re welcome, country music songwriters. Have at it.
I’ve had at it…
Drink Myself To Sleep, Shit Myself Awake
Trying to numb the pain of another bad heartbreak
How many of these mornings, can I fucking take?
My stomach’s all in knots, I have the worst headache
‘Cause I drink myself to sleep, shit myself awake
I haven’t had a solid sit down, since she broke my heart
The alcohol and late night food rips my guts apart
I was dreaming of a better time, kissing by the lake
But now I drink myself to sleep, shit myself awake
This airport hotel has seen a lot these many years
Why’d I have Taco Bell after 27 beers
I’ll apologize to the maid, ‘cause that ain’t chocolate cake
Drink myself to sleep, shit myself awake
I’m in the process of writing the memoir/novel, “Journey To The Center Of Attention”, and found this very short essay called, “My Next Wife” in my 2006 Bits & Pieces folder. All you need to know to make this a better read is that I met my wife in 2007, she’s 23 years younger than I am and a nurse who’s primary field of care is treating the elderly. Enjoy!
My Next Wife
My next wife is a lovely woman, 20 years my junior, who works full-time as a nurse and her primary field of care is treating the elderly and infirmed. She’ll want children someday but I’ll tell her to wait 30 years and I’ll be all the big baby in diapers she’ll ever need.
My next wife is an orphan who can afford her own maid and a full-time chef because she’s independently wealthy, due to an insurance settlement from her parents’ unfortunate accident a week after we met.
Her hobbies are listening to my music, editing my comedic essays, and quick, one-sided romantic encounters. She doesn’t mind moderate drinking, turns a blind eye to heavy drinking, doesn’t mind when I fish on weekdays, and loves the smell of cigars.
My next wife, who prefers to be called Mrs. Godwin, is a soft-spoken gal with a hearty laugh, who can quote all 39 episodes of the original Honeymooners, HATES The Honeymooners movie with Cedric The Entertainer and thinks Caddyshack is hilarious, even though I find it dated and corny… it is our only argument. When she edits these comedic essays I spoke of earlier, she allows a little poetic license for run-on sentences, sexist humor and endings that don’t… go… anywhere. The end.
(I found this bit in a notebook and thought it was silly enough to post. I never did it on stage for obvious reasons)
I recently joined “The Gambler” Anonymous because I’m addicted to all things Kenny Rogers… the songs, the beard, and the delicious chicken (available in only a few select states).
My family has starved while I’ve traipsed around the country to see him perform, without even a leftover Kenny Rogers Roasters chicken wing in my bag when I got home.
I recently hit rock bottom when I realized that I was thinking about getting plastic surgery that would make me virtually unrecognizable. Thankfully, I was stopped by friends and still have the love and support of my wife, because… she believes in me.
It’s a wonderful program, and I checked in to see what condition my condition was in. There’s only 2 rules… hug everyone at the beginning of the meeting and put away the chairs at the end. Because, like we say at “The Gambler” Anonymous, “You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.”
I am trying in vain to get our Divorce finalized. Time and time again you’ve told me that since you are a lawyer, you would do the paperwork- and so I wait. You have asked me to sign credit repair documents to explain my responsibility on bills that were in your name- and still I wait. I’ve sent you my share of the filing fee as per your request and guess what? - I’m still waiting. What should have been a no brainer, no contest divorce has turned in to a no way, no win situation. I can’t imagine that you gain anything by staying married to me and since we are both in long term relationships with other people, it makes no sense.
During the course of writing and mailing this letter I realize that I list your phone number and address under the name Wolverine. It’ s a little dishonest, but I do that to avoid any problems with my current girlfriend- a very beautiful, albeit jealous 18-year-old Japanese girl named Sake Mykocky (I met her while getting my ass waxed). With no malice or ill intent I picked the name Wolverine and never thought about the irony until I was watching The Animal Channel one night. These nasty sharp-toothed creatures were used as a form of torture during the Civil war. The soldiers would put the poor POW in a big burlap bag, throw the Wolverine in, Tie the bag tight and the furry heathen would claw the poor bastard to death in mere seconds. Well at least it was quick and easy as opposed to long and drawn out.
Speaking of long and drawn out, this August 30th will be our 9-year wedding anniversary. Can you believe we’ve been together that long? - And they said it wouldn’t last. We should write a book! Let’s call it “Staying married while living with other people for over five years and avoiding the responsibility and pain of getting divorced ”. I haven’t a clue what to get you this year, but I do know what I’m getting- a big basket of meaningless oral agreements, notarized chicanery, cute little excuses and to top it off a card that reads, “Go f*ck yourself Pat Godwin”.
Enclosed are copies of the current paper trail and a lock of my thinning hair for your voodoo experiments.
Sincerely someone else’s
J. Patrick Godwin
Probably, Gangsta Folk.
No matter what you think an ultrasound is, perhaps from movies like “Knocked Up,” “Juno,” etc., no film nor preconceived notion prepares you for this kind of drama. It’s very Shakespearian (hopefully not Macbeth) and can be a little Greek tragedy (definitley not Oedipus). You think you’re just gonna breeze in, check out the health of the baby, the growth of the baby, and quickly and ultimately, the sex of the baby… but that’s not what happens.
What happens is, you enter a dark room with a technician (ours was female), an examination table, two glowing monitors, and your future heir or heiress to the throne hanging in the balance. My wife was calm and cool, my nine year-old daughter was distracted, and I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my whole life. By the time we got started, I realized I couldn’t hide behind my spoken feelings of just wanting the baby to be healthy. I wanted a boy, dammit… put a stem on that apple! A spittin’ image of me, minus the internal issues… someone to carry on the family name, no matter how tarnished I’m handing it to him. Surely the 3 females in the room could see right through me and my transparent longing for a penis. I hope that last sentence never gets taken out of context.
When you’re nervous you make jokes. When you’re nervous and you’re a stand-up comedian, you make funny jokes, albeit inappropriate ones. As the woman shot goo all over my wife’s belly, I said quickly and without thought, “You know, if I did that, we wouldn’t be here.” My wife laughed, my daughter tilted her head like the RCA Victor dog, and the technician acted like she didn’t hear it… tough room. She then very matter-of-factly took the transducer probe, rubbed it over my wife’s abdomen like a magic wand, and voila! Up there on the screen unsure of what I’m looking at, appears to be a prehistoric bird. We’re having a pterodactyl… I hope it’s a boy.
I don’t know what I’m listening to, or what I’m seeing up on the screen. It sounds like a submarine and looks like that thing that came out of the guys stomach in “Alien.” She spends a laborious amount of time carefully measuring oblong shapes, pointing to a pulsating image she says is the heart and a spine that looks like a sea horse. I assumed she was going to get to the genitalia soon, and if I squinted my eyes, I was pretty sure I could see something, but she says nothing and as she continues to point and type I think to myself, “A boy or not a boy. That is the question.” After what seems like an hour of this, even though it was only twenty minutes, she asked if we wanted to know the sex of the baby. “Yes” flew out of my mouth before she even got to the “ex.”
She asked us what we wanted and what we thought it was, and I gave her my standard answer, “We don’t care as long as it’s healthy. You know, ten fingers, ten toes.” Then I whispered, “And one penis.” It took her forever to ask her next question, which was of our daughter, “So what do you want to have, Avery?” And I thought, “Get on with it, already. Penis, vagina; boy, girl. Let’s end this little slideshow and finish this movie, for Christ’s sake.” Avery responded, “I want a sister.” The tech smiled, and I had no idea what that meant. She then drew an arrow, pointing to what looked like a Rorschach blot and proceeded to type, “It’s a…”
My heart was beating as fast as my unborn child’s on the screen… 164 beats per minute. I know because she told us ten times. And as she was typing it, she said it: “Boy. B-O-Y!!!” I shrieked like Kate from “Taming of the Shrew”, then jumped and fell into the wall, and at first, the tech thought I had fainted. What happened next is a blur, but I was told that I kept saying, “It’s a boy, it’s a boy,” then cried and danced in the other team’s end zone. I should have got a penalty for excess celebration. I gathered myself and immediately felt guilty for the way I reacted, and then went right back into my, “Hey, as long as it’s healthy. You know, ten fingers, ten toes” mantra.
I hugged the technician, maybe a little too long, and thanked her profusely for it being a boy, something she had nothing to do with. I’m surprised I didn’t tip her. As we left the office and walked through the waiting room, I recall raising the scroll of pictures over my head and singing the “Theme from Rocky.” Afterward, the girls and I went to lunch, but I didn’t do much eating. I called and texted everybody. One of the best responses I got was from my friend Tom Griswold, who texted back, “It’s a boy. Congratulations. Here’s an Irish toast I wrote:
“May the road rise to meet you, at his birth’s celebration. Let’s hope he’s endowed with the enormous Godwin manhood, which I hear skips a generation.”
Joseph James Godwin… see you in November!
[Editor’s note: Jimmy was born on November 17, 2010 and is now a healthy 17 month-old crazy-boy!]
As I was driving in to Lima, Ohio for a show, I heard the radio station advertise that a “Tom Goodwin” was performing at a place called “Waldo and Stiemy’s Sports Bar and More”. How they got “Tom Goodwin” out of “Pat Godwin” is beyond me, because I sent the proper promotional material months in advance. Why I’m at such a place is not beyond me… I booked it. The commercial went on to say that this “Tom Goodwin” was hilarious and making quite a name for himself so you’d better get your tickets fast. Since I was doing a door deal with the club (I get paid a percentage of the tickets sold), I panicked. It’s hard enough to pack a place with the right name, let alone one that’s off by 4 letters. John Mayer draws a crowd; Tim Mayek does not.
Thinking that this may be the radio station’s faux pas, I pulled in to the nearest gas station and got one of those weekly entertainment papers and sure enough, there it was: Appearing tonight at “Waldo and Stiemy’s Sports Bar and More”-Tom Goodwin. It was then and there I realized that I’m not really in show business. I may think I am, but I’m not. I get paid for making people laugh, put on a show and do some business, but I’m not IN show business. I don’t have a manager or an agent. I don’t schmooze well or do any of the necessary things that shape a career. I wake up, write, practice, perform and repeat. That should be enough but it’s not even close.
People in show business have representation that looks after tiny details like not working at a place called “Waldo and Stiemy’s Sports Bar and More” and getting the performer’s name right. My friend Daniel Tosh from Tosh 2.0 is in show business. Tieve, the one-armed plate spinner I saw on “America’s Got Talent” is in show business. Hell, even the elusive and enigmatic “Tom Goodwin” is in show business but “Pat Godwin” is not.
Next week the More part of “Waldo and Stiemy’s Sports Bar and More” is comedian Costaki Economopoulos and guess what? His name is spelled right on all the advertisements. Costaki Economopoulus is in show business.