Insults for Charity

[Star]

Stop staring, yo. You. Creepy.

"At least I could find the colored crayons," he answered with a smile. "That whole emo thing? So, like, junior high. But, hey, maybe that's not your fault? Your momma was so broke she probably gave you burnt toast crust and called it a crayon -- so you only had black and white."

That's right. She started it. Yo Momma? All in.

He took another swallow and shook his glass at his opponent. "Darn skippy I'm drinking for courage. Your momma's my sugar momma and we've got a date after this. She's so ugly she's got a Gold card from the sperm bank, but after her first kid," he waved the glass at her again, "She figured out they were selling her junk from some hairless albino cat. Great wig, by the way. Unless your mom did that? The bowl and scissors look, I see it, work it girl. And, yeah, I've got a napkin. It's full. It's for your mom later. You probably don't know anything about that, I'm guessing you call your weekly visit to Emo Anon at Hot Topic speed dating. Pro tip? Wrist cutting with a friend isn't really exchanging bodily fluids."

A pause, and a curious look.

"Where'd all the five dollar words go, Jo-Jo? Run out of fancy words you cribbed from a thesaurus to make you sound smart? I've got a word for you: poseur. Take that played out emo act and Scrabble dictionary off my stage."

[Brownlee]

Falstaff stretches: his arms, his legs, his hamstrings--as if he were about to run a race. "Don't let the coke-bottle glasses fool you--Eric's vision is actually fine. It's just his you-know-what is really small. He needs the lenses to see it. Can't piss outside during the day though. Magnifying glass plus sunlight equals burning ants, if you know what I mean."

He does a few jumping jacks, and then shakes his body loose. "Didn't know there was a costume contest tonight, but you're sure to win with your Egon, Ghostbusters bit. Ladies,"--Falstaff breaks into song--"If there's something strange, in the neighborhood . . . who you gonna call?" He starts in on ankle rotations. "But seriously, the guy's more of a ball buster than a Ghostbuster. The only ghosts around are the ones from the mood he kills. Speaking of moods, his only sexual interest is on the principle in his savings account. There's no bondage like savings bonds, eh?"

He does arm circles with his free hand. "I hear auditors get sexual pleasure from torturing themselves with math--math-ochists. Eric, here, can stick a roll of quarters up his ass, blindfolded, and tell you the value in yen. He gets his calculator, uses it to add his I.Q. and his credit score, and then jerks off to the 'Error' screen." Falstaff does lunges in Ermac's direction, and then hands him the mic. "Love you, buddy."

[Brownlee]

Falstaff is not surprised to be outsmarted by his . . . smarter. And thus, having seized the element of surprise, he decides to switch tactics, insult himself. Ermac will never see that coming, will have no idea how to react. It's just like Bugs Bunny with the duck season, rabbit season.

He slips out of his platform shoes. "I have to reach for the low-hanging fruit--what other fruit can I reach?"

He takes his wig off--shock effect. "My face is so ugly, my hairline is in retreat. That goes to show what happens mistake the Nair you use on your back for the shampoo bottle."

"Seriously folks, Eric punched some buttons on a calculator, told me I was worthless. I asked, than what? I'm so broke I eat cereal with a fork so I can reuse the milk. When he told me prostitution was a hole-sale business, I got excited--I thought I could buy in bulk."

He smiles, satisfied, shoeless and wigless, wonders how anyone could react to a self-beating like that . . . he tells himself it's like Fight Club when Edward Norton beats himself up in front of his boss and gets his way.

[Josephine Sterling]

"No, I have not run out of words. I just happen to be using the ones that you'll be able to understand. Although I might have misjudged you. You clearly know some rather complex ones. Like necrophilia. Without that odd little predilection, you most definitely wouldn't speak about dating, or getting sugar, from my mother. Hence the black I'm wearing. Dear Mamman passed away not long ago. My brother, too. Which is interesting, because he passed away not long after meeting your mother. From what the coroner said, I can only assume your mother has more clap than this auditorium will ever know. Not that that's what killed him, of course. I'm afraid that was your mother's cooking. It's no wonder you think dead people are sweet, if you grew up eating what came out of her kitchen," Josephine replied, a bleak mirth alighting in her eyes.

[Star]

"Bad news, Jo-jo. Your mom's still alive. She just got so sick of your whiny pretentiousness she faked her own death. I'm calling shennigans on your brother, too. My guess? He died from whatever you've got. Tapeworm? Anemia? STD? Oh, snap. We know you miss him, but part of the grieving process? Acceptance. Own it, girl. Just like you did his junk."

When did his glass get empty?

"Although, seriously, do you have any relatives still alive? Girl, you get around. Family tree like a telephone pole, but it looks like one branch is rotten." He held out the hand that he'd dapped her with and shook it. "I should wash. How long do I have? You're so hard up to get some your STD probably starved to death. Your last date was from Madame Tussaud's, matched pair. You're so desperate you're counting my drinks, but I'm not that drunk yet. You're not accusing me of being a necrophiliac, you're hoping I am. The last guy you slept with probably called the coroner. You go to the morgue to speed date, and hope you don't see any of your exes. You probably have sex like you do stand-up: a lot of staring, a lot of words, and the other person can't wait for it to be over."


Over? He was done.

[Brownlee]

Last round: got to keep him guessing. What's the last thing anyone expects at an insult competition? Compliments.

He takes the mic. "This guy does more good in a single day than Santa Claus. Charities make donations to him. He's so smart, he writes them receipts for tax deductions, and then charges them a service fee. He's so far-sighted that ladies in China close their window shades. He's so organized that Staples has him on tour signing file folders. The anti-virus on your computer is based off his immune system. The song 'Wrecking Ball' is about him."

Falstaff replaces his wig and shoes. "He's got balls bigger than the national deficit . . . circumference at a perfect 2-pi-R. Instead of saying grace, he recites the preamble to the constitution before meals. This guy saved Private Ryan. He was George Washington AND Mother Teresa in past lives. Justin Bieber has posters of him on his wall. And Chuck Norris crosses the street when Eric's coming up the other way. The Ninth Wonder of the Modern World is how he's single."

Falstaff clears his throat. "When he visits Yellowstone, they put up another sign: Young Faithful. And he's got so much Faith, he believed in me. He's my best friend. I forfeit, because I'd rather be wrong than against him." Falstaff drops the mic on stage, leads the audience in applause, and then walks off.

He cackles as he leaves. Nobody saw that coming!