Chris Schiappacasse is San Francisco Bay Area comedy personified: persistent, weathered, overlooked, underrated, unpredictable, unfiltered, endearing, revolting underdog. Chris garners immediate assumption and judgment. People discard him, discourage him and dismally view his constant presence. Pale skin and black clothes (so his dandruff shows), Chris is a reverse zebra. Overweight, fringed haircut and a hook nosed, Chris is Marlo Brando playing Julius Caesar. Reflective black aviator glasses, shining like fresh obsidian, hide steely-fierce dark eyes. His appearance is hard to decipher. Then Schiappacasse opens his mouth to unleash rusty-razor blade, grating pig-English glittering with chauvinism and aggression. This is also off-putting and alarming to the outside perspective. The one universal fear of most human beings is that of the unknown and when you look into the abyss, Chris Schiappacasse stares back.
Christopher Fernando Schiappacasse was born to Chilean aristocrats from a once royal family with many silver spoons. He breast-fed on a number of peasant girls until the age of seven when he had his first marijuana cigarette. It prompted an enjoyable nap.
Schiappacasse is a formidable figure in the Bay Area comedy scene. He’s hit a lot of stages, made a few friends, and made a few enemies. He’s been crippled, criticized and championed. He’s the comical equivalent of Daniel Johnston
and 2 Live Crew
combined together surgically. Alongside Vahe Hova, Chris co-hosts “Hanging Out With”, which continues to be the premier video series for the Bay Area comedy community.
Chris believes that comedy is war. He believes that every show is a boxing match between him and the audience. This holds true in the sense that Chris comes out George-Forman-clubbing regardless if the bludgeoning is deserved; be the audience polar bears or seals. Chris is out for blood (and Coca Cola from the bears).
By the age of ten, Chris had punched twelve homeless people in cold blood. He was well liked by the demon dogs of the Chilean underworld, but other wise, he was quite the hellion. A hellion with an ascot. He spent his time on picturesque beaches wondering of far away lands.
Inflated by delusions of grandeur, Chris throws his weight around. He’s been known to use seniority and support to justify absurd claims like the ownership of a 13-inch penis. If a young comic asks Chris for advice or criticism they’ll usually be greeted with such: “What about you? Nobody gives a fuck about you man. What about Chris? What about me man,” said the Bizarro Dangerfieldesque comedy bully.
Chris F. Schiappacasse is an avid listener. He once held a twenty-minute conversation with a former reformed woman of the clergy. Chris concluded the quaint conversation with the “c-word”… (cunnilingus)
Women typically hate Chris Schiappacasse. His act is crude, chauvinistic, racist, offensive and grotesque. Some nights it sounds like ear-rape in a whale’s stomach: the “p’s”, “c’s”, and “s’s” of “Schiappacasse reverberating loudly off the rib cage hall walls.
On holiday at the age of 25, Chris sailed the world on the S.S. Santa Cruise. There he met a beautiful Japanese woman holding an umbrella. They made love in the moonlight on a bed of cherry blossoms and pupusas
Men typically love Chris Schiappacasse (behind grimacing smiles). Chris represents the balls lost in emasculating relationships. Schiappacasse is an oddity in the politically correct Bay Area thunderdome: his machismo comes with no charm filter or cunning additives. Chris’ 13-inches of comedy hits with blunt force trauma and is swung with absolutely no mercy. Thusly males can live vicariously through the thrashing asshole that is Chris Schiappacasse who counters the charming assholes that bed women in bulk.
On a bamboo raft, Chris won a pistol duel. The opponent flipped into a school of piranhas.
On the train home it all melts away. With his sunglasses tucked in his shirt and nobody around, Chris becomes human. He goes back to Walnut Creek as a near-middle-aged man, a protagonist in an independent film directed by Larry Clark and written by Mike White that’s rife with comedy of errors. He walks home from BART still loving hip-hop and still feeling disjointed in the youth-obsessed culture that threatens to smother him. Very rarely does the more endearing Chris show up on stage, the down on his luck divorcee on disability: these are signs of weakness and Chris don’t need your pity man.
Tragedy befell Chris when his French bulldog insulted the Prince of Zimbabwe. Chris had to give up his dukedom that he won on the barge “The Lady Luck” and suffer exile to America
What Chris Schiappacasse does need is comedy. It’s frightening to imagine Chris without the warm bosom of the microphone. Strip away the persona, the filth and personal opinion and you’ll recognize that Chris is an undeniable funny being. All day he thinks of funny things to say. Every conversation is a set up for his punchline. Every ticket, every mile, every pair of sunglasses, every black Los Angeles Angels hat, every list, every thought, every ounce of Schiappacasse’s energy all goes into the comic cosmos. Look up at the comic cosmos where Groucho lights cigars on supernovas and Carlin tells seven dirty words to Taurus. Comedy is undeniable, unmistakable, inescapable and as Chris has once said: “It’s my life.”