Exclusive: “So… I Quit Comedy”: A Journal by OJ Patterson

I quit comedy on July 7th 2014. It was glorious. Upwards to twenty people underlit by candles in a Mission-Protero eatery: the Rite Spot Cafe. Despite years of yearning, I had never played there, so, I reached out to my friend, hilarious rapscallion Trevor Hill, and he put me up to, ostensibly, put me out. I did well on a show chocked with loved peers and luminaries. The room was rough all night but I got them, I fucking got them. 

I had played the Rite Spot the week before. I did terribly. I tried to work “new” jokes to a sleepy, sparse audience. The next comedian, super smooth Gary Anderson, had the set of the night. I felt horrible. 

Good thing I had a contingency show. My farewell show. 

Comedy years are like dog years. After six months you feel like pro, after two years you feel grizzled. That grizzle refreshes. It’s a license to complain, to spat, to tell tired jokes, to side-eye newbies and hope-eye clouted colleagues. You can burn yourself out on that. Not me. I went bonkers. I was ubiquitous. I was jubilant. A sprinting, spewing, evangelizing, all-encompassing embodiment of my absolute desire. 

Like all great things, something changed. A lot of things changed. Hard comedy living was my post-collegial grad school (where I basically did all the things I should have done as an undergrad). I laugh at the idea of “maturing” through the most juvenile time in my life, but I did. In the midst of growing, I felt a shift, a push. I fell in love. I dove. I cannonballed. 

I don’t know who I am anymore. When you elect to lose yourself in somebody, you indeed, by my experience, lose yourself. It’s amazing.

It’s also frightening. My identity as a comedian was forged longer and spoke truer than any other ideology in my life. After a while I became less and less (less mics, less supporters), changed more and more (new job, new apartment) and then, BOOM: I’m not the comedian I want to be, not the comedian that puts in the work, not the comedian touring on planes, trains and automobiles, not the comedian hanging in the back, hanging at the bar, hanging at the house party, not the comedian producing shows, or hosting mics, not the comedian spreading the most accurate information (shouts to Matt Gubser). Most of the aesthetics I covet as a comedian requires a lifestyle I no longer have (or, arguably, no longer need). So, in order to claim my chaos, to protest my irrelevancy, to break the cycle of weekend warrior compromise, I said goodbye. 

I quit comedy on July 7th 2014. It is liberating. I love telling people that I quit. It bums a lot of fellow comedians out. I love seeing them squirm at a maniacal reflection of their creative mortality. No, I will not covet your stage time! No, I will not do your show! No, I will not cover for your mic! No, I will not roast you! No, I will not be rejected by your comedy club or your festival or whatever else inspires semiprofessional jealousy. No, I will not be the characteristic laugh during the awkward folly! I will not! I will not! I will not! I’m dead! 

Three things makes “quitting” the funniest thing in the world. One, fuck me, right? Who gives a shit—in a macro sense—about San Francisco comedy as a lifestyle. Two, in comedy, you HAVE to quit. Most people fade out, few make a show of, and those who do are (usually) using a false finish as a promotional stunt (shouts to Justin Scales). Three, it’s a legitimate satire. The great times were good, but the good times weren’t that great. Comedy is self-righteous suicide. I killed myself thrice over to chase the dream, but, in a city with little industry, having no transportation, little capital and less business sense, I got as far as I could professionally/financially. Maybe that’s good enough. 

I’m committed to this. I’m prepared to be the Sammy Obeid of burying my talents in the backyard. 1001 Days of Tragedy. Still, I miss it; miss more than the stage, or the rush, or the definition.  Comedians are my family, my tribe. They speak my language, I’m understood. Maybe I should get therapy, do yoga, start a hobby. Maybe I should find a balance, figure out a cure for my innate tunnel vision. Maybe you’ll see me around, maybe not, maybe later, maybe tomorrow.

[I dunno guys. Is zat cool?]

[EVERYBODY’S LOOKING FOR LOVE! While I was witness to this date, I particularly enjoy the disdain for Papp Johnson’s invasive crowd work]

[One of my finest collaborations.]

Blog Love!: Vice’s “How to Have Terrible Sex” by Alison Stevenson


Sex can be bad sometimes :(

Last week, a Spanish couple got caught having sex in a bank booth between an ATM and a glass panel. By “caught” I mean pedestrians were walking by and couldn’t help but see a naked body wearing black socks atop another naked body wearing black socks through very clear glass, and then ruining the fun by tweeting and calling the cops.

At first glance this seems uncomfortable and overly risky. On second thought though, something motivated this couple to have sex in the foyer of a bank for all the world to see. Maybe payday came early, or there wasn’t a withdrawal fee even though they bank with someone else.

Even if you think bank sex is a horrible idea—and I wholeheartedly agree—it’s just not as bad as some of the awful sex we have in our homes. We already told you how to have better sex this year, but that’s not enough. Some of the things we associate with sex really ought not be, because frankly they’re weighing sex down. If we put an end to some of these practices, maybe even the ATM couple will find a more sensible path to ecstasy.   

Sex in the Shower

Hey, you know what’s better than sex on a comfortable bed? Sex in the cold, cramped corner of the room where you also poop. Sex in the shower is never fun. There are no comfortable positions, and it feels worse because water decreases lubrication. There’s also a very good chance you’ll slip and crack your head open and then get made fun of on endless blogs for dying during shower sex. Or, even worse, you’ll live and TLC will reenact it. Even when shower sex is basically working, at some point you’re going to notice that the water has been awkwardly blasting the same part of your body for too long, and it’s getting red and sore. 


We’re all so used to chuckling every time we hear 69 that it’s easy to forget that the integer itself is connected to something, and not just two intrinsically hilarious digits. It’s a sex number. A sex number that, for straight couples at least, signifies the absolute worst sex position of all time. When I’m getting eaten out I want to actually enjoy being eaten out. I don’t want a dick in my face while it’s happening. I can’t focus on my own pleasure if I have to work on pleasing someone else while it’s happening.

Calling it “69” never made sense either. I personally would have gone with “sad anchovies” or “tragic conjoined twins who won’t survive.”

Actually Eating Edible Underwear

Photo via Flickr user Big Blue Ocean

Edible underwear might have possibly started as a joke, but people took it seriously, not knowing that anything sex-related that you can buy at Spencer’s isn’t meant to be used as anything other than a bachelorette party gift, or a frat prank. Edible underwear least of all. If you really must eat while getting hot and heavy just go with the more classic and cost efficient whipped cream. Or do what I do and hide a sandwich under your pillow.

All types of edible underwear are made of foods only children normally eat, creating associations with more innocent times, which is tons of fun because who doesn’t want to think about their childhood while someone is licking sugar off their ass?

There are two basic kinds: The more popular kind is gummy and resembles Fruit Roll-Ups, harkening back to school lunch. Oh my God. Remember the 1990s? The other kind is a candy necklace, but an underwear-shaped necklace that tastes like chalk. The real disadvantage to the candy necklace kind is that if you don’t shave your pubes completely, any loose hairs will get tangled in the lattice of candy and elastic cord, and then be ripped off when you remove them, or just move at all.

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