Pregnant or...???

On stage, a lot of things are said spontaneously, or “off the cuff.”  It’s part of the job.   Sometimes these quips are the funniest part of your performance.  Other times they are the most awkward, embarrassing, non- sensical, or regrettable statements to fall out of your mouth.  It’s like the pitcher who throws the wrong pitch and knows it as soon as it leaves his hand, but can’t get it back.  Sometimes, one can put his foot in his mouth. 

If there were ever a stand-up comedy handbook, I think the first entry under the “don’ts” category would be “never ask a woman if she is pregnant” Anyone can make a mistake.  Hopefully they learn from it.  In my case it had to happen twice.

Incident number one:  I am working a club, second show Friday.  These are traditionally the worst shows of the week as audiences are as tired and as drunk as they can possibly be.  In many cases, these shows are not all that well attended either.  The case is usually this; the smaller the audience, the more we try to interact with them.  It’s pretty hard to just rattle off your material when there are fifteen people sitting in front of you at 11:30 on Friday night.  What I usually attempt is to weave bits in and out of the crowd play, try to find someone in the audience who can relate to the topic, and turn it into a conversation.  This particular night the topic was children; having kids, pregnancy, and parenthood.  I launch into a piece about how difficult pregnancy was for my wife, Beth.  I notice a younger woman nodding in agreement with a faint smile.  She “appears “to be about six months pregnant, average in size everywhere but the mid section, a bit of a disproportionate protuberance just above the beltline.  I motion to her, “you’re pregnant?”  She shoots me a cold stare.  I feel the air being sucked out of the room.  Things become awkward.  Even “late show Friday drunks” are picking up on the terror that is unfolding.  There is silence.  My mind races for a solution.  Then I take a shot, “I’m sorry, they just told me that there was someone here who was expecting a baby.  I thought that since you were playing along that it was you.  Where is the pregnant woman?”  Just then, as if God had decided to check out a late show at the Chuckle Hut, I heard a voice from just behind the lights, “It’s me,” she said.  I was saved!  I turned my attention to her, finished the parenthood piece, and satisfied the pissed off patron whom I’d incorrectly diagnosed.  Bullet dodged, Lesson learned.  I told myself then that I would never ever assume any woman to be with child, regardless of how she looks moves, speaks or behaves.  I should have listened.

Incident number two:  Another late show.  Another small crowd.  It’s mid-summer, ninety some degrees outside and the air conditioning is not functioning in the club.  They are tired, they are drunk, and they are sweating their asses off.  Seated up front, a few couples out on the town and dead center, an attractive lady in her early thirties sits uncomfortably in front of me as I labor through the set.  She is shifting side to side, up and down, fanning herself with her drink menu and noticeably not at ease.  She is on the thin side, except for a perfectly round ball under her shirt.  She has one arm over the back of the chair, and the other down at her side, bent at a ninety degree angle with her hand resting on the rotund belly, like an NBA All-star palming a Wilson.  This was unquestionably a mother to be, right?  I head down the same road, and when the topic of pregnancy is raised, and I feel the rest of the group is looking sympathetically at the young lady up front, I nod in her direction, you’re expecting?  As if to overstate the obvious.  After a long pause, I find myself on the receiving end of the dirtiest of dirty looks, “NO” She replies indignantly, and the tension fills the room.  I try to remain calm.  I recall the previous occurrence and play the same card that paid off some three years prior, ““I’m sorry, they just told me that there was someone here who was expecting a baby.  I thought that since you were playing along that it was you.  Where is the pregnant woman?”  Silence.  “Where is the couple that’s having the baby?”  Nothing.  The tension grows as I realize I have no more tricks in the bag.  I start to nervously ramble…with no support from the audience and certainly none from my fellow comedians who find this to be the most hilarious show they’ve ever witnessed.  “Maybe it’s me” I utter desperately.  "Boy, that would surely be hilarious." I  continued to run at the mouth hoping for another divine intervention.  “Hey remember in I Love Lucy when Ricky Ricardo was trying to find out who the pregnant lady was?  Remember, they gave him a note on stage and he started singing” I nervously transition into my best Desi Arnaz, in song, “We’re having a baby, my baby and me.”  As I continue to sing away, I’m thinking that maybe they’ve never seen that episode, “You see Ricky had to walk through the club and as he approached each woman she’d shake her head no to let him know it was not her.  Turns out, it was Lucy!  Can you belive that, ladies and gentlemen?  It was Lucy!  The joke was on Ricky!”  Nobody was going to let me off the hook as the Lucy/Desi comparison went over like a lead balloon.  I could hear the crickets as I tried in vain to escape the quicksand that had become my portion of the show.  I never got another laugh that night.  I slithered off the stage to a smattering of pity applause and made certain not to make eye contact with the lady up front.

This time I mean it.  NEVER AGAIN!  Never will I ever assume such a thing.  I don’t care if the woman in the audience has her water break at the waitress station, her husband is timing her contractions, and if I can see the head of the baby from the stage.  My comment will not be, “are you pregnant” but more something like “Excuse me but can you please keep your table talk down to a minimum?”  and for the record, It was a pretty damn good Desi Arnaz impression if I do say so myself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UPbOtpM5OQ