Happy New Year Post Mortem
Following is a WSVN-FOX transcript from last night’s New Year’s Eve performance by the MVB Standup Comic at the MVB Lounge in Little H. As you will see, it didn’t go too well and we apologize to all of those who were offended and want their money back. However, if you had read the fine print on your ticket stub you would have discovered, refunds are prohibited due to the incendiary nature of the act, which will invariably offend those living in a hypersensitive community such as Miami anyway. Plus, you were also notified via the fine print that MVB couldn’t be held responsible for any bodily injury or mental anguish as a result of the act, caveat emptor, yada, yada, yada.
MVB Standup Comic (leaning on mic stand with a mojito in his hand): Hello! Hola! Happy New Year! Thanks for supporting my habit. (Sips mojito).
(Applause, whistles. The Comic shields his eyes to look at audience)
MVB SUC: Pardon me, but are there any Cubans out there?
(Shouts, whistles, applause, and lots of Spanish)
MVB SUC: Well, welcome to Miami!
HECKLER: 'Welcome to Miami'? We OWN the place, gringo!
(Lots of laughter, applause)
MVB SUC: Then you must be American.
HECKLER: Yeah, Cuban American!
(More laughter, whistles, and applause)
MVB SUC: Like the Irish own Boston. I can dig it. What would Miami be without its mojitos, cafe cubano, and big butt Latinas?
(Unrestrained applause, laughter, pounding on the tables, accompanied with shouts of joy as some big butt Latinas stand up to shake it all around)
MVB SUC: Yeah, baby, shake it this way! Anyway, a while back before they strung up this chain link fence between you and me and began offering a complimentary free mojito with every performance--.
HECKLER: Hey, without the mojito, man, no one would come!
MVB SUC: Ain’t that the truth. It’s like the drink is the second half of a comedy team, Mojito and Me. Hell, it even gets top billing.
HECKLER: It deserves it!
MVB SUC: Yeah, maybe I can get Bacardi to sponsor a tour.
HECKLER: There you go, gringo!
MVB SUC: Anyway, before the fence and the mojitos, I was pretending to interview this affordable-housing-Cuban-guy-developer who was in trouble for not developing which is to say he had taken millions of taxpayer dollars for everything but—including building himself a 14,000 square foot house—which he revealed was really a “Country Club for the Homeless.” Anyway, the interview begins with him picking up his cell phone and responding to my first question with “Si.”
(Abrupt silence, butts cease to shake. The Comic, surprised, looks around)
MVB SUC: What? I can’t use it? That’s exactly the kind of reaction I got the first time I used it in my act. Do I have to get written permission from somebody’s mother first? What gives?
HECKLER: Do you speak Spanish?
MVB SUC: No.
HECKLER: Then you can’t use it. It offends us.
MVB SUC: It “offends” you?
MVB SUC: I don’t get it. Why?
HECKLER: It implies that there is an anti-Hispanic undercurrent to your joke.
MVB SUC: Are you kidding me? The guy is Cuban, for crise sakes. You can bet if he was Italian, I would have thrown in a few “fagedabouits.” Hey, wait a minute. That sounds exactly like the message I found on my blog criticizing me for using “Si” in my act. You must be—
HECKLER: That’s right, I’m Anonymous!
MVB SUC (looking him over): Hell, man, I’d thought you’d be taller.
HECKLER: And I thought you’d be funnier.
(Heckler throws the first bottle of the evening at the fence)
MVB SUC: Whoe, dude, relax. Can’t you take a joke?
(The heckler, screaming, spittle flowing from the corner of his mouth, throws himself against the protective fencing but he can’t get at the MVB Standup Comic)
MVB SUC: I guess not.
(The MVB Standup Comic walked up to the protective barrier and hit the heckler’s hand with his microphone, which got the guy cussing in Spanish, the sound system screaming, and everyone grabbing their ears. As he fell back from the fencing, his big butt wife caught him and, swinging her big caboose, cleared the mojitos from the tables around her as she tried to calm him down. When he pushed her away and went for something under his coat, MVB’s B.S. Detector moved in, grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back before shoving him up against the chain link and chrome doming him. When he fell limp, the Detector grabbed him by his jacket’s collar and dragged him unceremoniously across the slippery mojito strewn floor toward an exit door with his fishtailing big butt wife clearing a path of destruction through the club that would have made General Sherman envious.)
MVB SUC: Watch out for that ass, buddy—Oh, man! Sorry about that. Poor bastard. At least he went out with a smile on his face.
(This brought on a chorus of boos, shouted Spanish epithets, and a smattering of applause and laughter)
MVB SUC: I see I got a mixed group here tonight. Love me or hate me, you still paid good money to ring in the New Year with me.
(Someone threw his or her Cobb salad at him and it stuck in the chain link)
MVB SUC: Hey, why doesn’t someone toss me a mojito, man? I could use one.
(Someone tossed his mojito and the souvenir New Year’s Eve glass with the MVB logo exploded against the fence, scattering MVB’s drink of choice and slivers of glass over the Comic. After flinching, the Comic wiped his palm across his forehead and licked his fingers. Blood ran from beneath his backward Kangol and down his face)
MVB SUC: Thanks. Like I said before: mojitos, cafe cubano, and big butt Latinas; what more could you want?
HECKLER 2: How ‘bout a good joke?
MVB SUC: How ‘bout an audience with a sense of humor?
HECKLER 2: Fvck you!
(The Comic shaded his eyes to look out into the audience)
MVB SUC: Whoe, now it looks like I pissed off the Americanos.
HECKLER 2: I’m Cuban, you mamapinga!
MVB SUC: You’re “Cuban”? Does that mean you’re working for...FIDEL?
HECKLER 2: ¡Resiñate!
(At that point, the biggest, meanest, fattest bastard you ever saw stuffed into a guayabera rushed out of the shadows and threw himself at the protective fencing. The Comic stepped back just in time as it came down in front of him)
HECKLER 3 (running toward the stage): ¡Mate a comico! ¡Mate a comico!
When the Comic saw the fat bastard in the guayabera getting up and what looked like the whole audience charging the stage, he ran like hell for the nearest exit screaming “Castro’s dead! Castro’s dead!” as if that would save his raggedy ass. Where the angry mob got their torches and Cuban flags is still a mystery. Perhaps, as the Comic has suggested in earlier routines, they never leave home without them. In any event, the Comic escaped further injury thanks in part to his conditioning and the fact that he is one giant chocha.
(End WVSN-Fox transcript)
What Fox didn't know was the mob caught up to the Comic a block down Calle Ocho when he tripped over one of those giant chicken sculptures and promptly beat and kicked him to a pulp. He is now recuperating at Jackson with broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Also, he keeps asking for his mommy in a voice that makes you want to cry.