Comedian Brett Erickson

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Don't forget to pick up a copy of Brett's NEW CD, "Another Perfect Show"

Buy it for $15 including S&H HERE!

Samples
1. God Is Pro-Life
2. Jesus Is Coming
3. Real American Heroes
4. Git R Done?

UPDATE

"You do comedy?" You're a stand-up comedian? Wow. Cool. Where do you play, like the Improv? Comedy Central? Well, I just played "Froggy's." A dance club in a farm-machine shed next to some railroad tracks by a strip club in Paducah, Kentucky. A few months ago in Lexington, Kentucky I heard Doug Stanhope decry the boring sameness of it all and wonder where the lost Kentucky hillbilly had gone. Paducah, Doug. Paducah.

It did not go well. The audible squish of their eyeballs the only sound save for the occasional whirr of the frozen-drink machine. Afterward, a guy tried to give me the "It could happen to anyone" speech, but was terrible at it.

"Don't worry about it, man," he said. "Do you know Todd Yohn? He was just here."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Did he eat it too?"
"Oh nooooo, but he's good."

Later, as I waited for the owner to get back from the strip club to pay me in singles and fives, the manager attempted to console me. "I thought you were funny," he said, stressing the "I" implying that these other cretins just weren't up to our intellectual level. "Here's one you can use," he said.

Oh boy.

"Would you suck my dog's dick if he were named, Nobody?"
"Ummm, no?"
"Well, who's dick would ya suck then?" he gushed.
"Hmmmm, let's see...nobody's?"
"Ha! You just sucked my dog's dick, dude!"
"Oh man, I did, didn't I? Phew, got me."

Only one guy made any sort of sound while I was "on stage", and that only the frequent random bursts of drunken thoughts. These are my favorite characters from the comedy road bacause they all have one thing in common. A tragic back story. You're a freshly-sprung ex-con who just lost his girlfriend or a mildy retarded hardresser with alcoholic parents and abandonment issues. Whatever. Somethin' happened to you and then I said something and that made you think of somethin' else and then, what with all the whiskey and Prozac in your head, phew...it was just too much and you had to let it out. I get it. OK.

About midnight, this guy stumbled toward me and the other comic who had his cds splayed out on the pool table in a rainbow shape. He was trapped. Just like a back-alley hooker has to hear about her john's lackluster lovelife, the comic who sells is forced to engage. I pretended not to be listening. He told a few jokes and passed on the cd, telling the comic he'd spent his last dime on his best bud...Weiser! Then he said this, "You know, the only difference between me and you is you get paid fer yer funny shit."

My comic friend became indignant. "Hmmmph," he laughed. "There's a lot more than that different between us, buddy. Let me tell you." He moved on to me. What the hell. I didn't have anywhere to be. "You know, the only difference between me and you is you get paid fer yer funny shit," he said. I laughed when he said it too, thumbing the wad of ones in my front pants pocket, but I laughed because I knew he was right. "That's a good one," I said. Crying.

UPDATE

E-mail received from Disgruntled Clown:

Brett- You fucked with my show. WHO the FUCK are you? Look around front and back because i will be there .You Don't know me,and the madness I've Been through. you had your chance to be Friendly last night but NOOOOO you had to be the "MAN" in Front of the Girls. Now we will see if you're the Man. You should have NEVER fucked with someone you don't know, least of all, ME.

G.F.C.D - God Forgives Clown Doesn't

Have A Good Show
And a nice Day
Your BIGGEST fan, see you soon

The Disgruntled Clown Posse

As the clown's fists rained down upon my beautiful face the white grease paint from his knuckles mixed with my blood and left an odd, metallic taste in my mouth. The full weight of his 325 lbs pressed hard onto my chest and held me flat against the sharp gravel of the parking lot. I clearly wasn't going anywhere for awhile, so it seemed like a good time to reflect on what I had done.

His props had seemed to be calling to me. "Fuck with us, Brett. It'll be hilarious," they seemed to say from the dark, lonely stage of the Jukebox Comedy Club. Looking back it was probably the Jagermeister doing the talking and the Red Bull doing the prodding, but as the grown man in make-up and bright colors continued to pound his normally balloon-tying fists into my gorgeous moneymaker that really didn't seem to matter much. His props had been fucked with and I was the one enjoying the post-coital satisfying smoke. Yep, it was me. There was no denying it. I had rearranged the lettered blocks he stood in front of nightly while wowing audiences with a littany of brilliantly constructed anectdotes about southerners and children who need to be beaten. Instead of spelling A-B-C as the comedy gods had intended, his blocks now spelled out S-E-X. Which, ironically, was something I wasn't going to be having much of anymore if the giant clown continued to dig his size 28 EEEs into my groin.

"I thought you were SUPPOSED to be disgruntled. I thought that was your schtick," I reasoned through cracking teeth.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he spat back punching me one more time in the middle of my face making my nose as red as his.

"That's not irony," I wheezed. "Irony would be if you were called the Agreeable Clown."

"Fuck you!" he hissed through clenched teeth pummelling me more. I closed my eyes and took it. My medicine. Clearly I'd been warned. GFCD (What is it with this guy and letters?) "God Forgives Clown Doesn't!"

As I drifted toward the comforting light of unconscinceness, I remember thinking how odd it was that a man who dressed like him believed in God. Didn't matter. My mind wandered to other mistakes. Other beatings. The time Carrotop donkeypunched me for filling his suitcase with Bill Hicks cds. The time Larry the Cable Guy skullfucked me for filling his Skoal can with Skoal. The time Harry Anderson raped me for coating his ping pong balls with butter. The time Gallager sledge-o-maticked my ass for calling him Ron. The time Carlos Mencia knifed me for not calling him a Mexican. They all hurt. They were all embarressing. But this, this was the worst. To be beaten nearly to death by a grown man in a clown suit was something that no amount of Jack Daniels and rationalization could make OK. This was something I would never shake. Something I was going to have to learn to live with. This would be my legacy. Brett Erickson was dead. The Disgruntled Clown's Bitch was born.

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Samples

UPDATE

UPDATE