The Next Lenny Bruce

In my decades-long career in comedy, I have come across hundreds of fellow brothers and sisters of the cult that we call stand-up. It takes a certain kind of person to be a stand-up comedian. One needs to have fortitude, strength and courage. And the person who embodied those qualities most of all was the late Lenny Bruce.

Lenny Bruce was a revolutionary comedian (though the term “comedian” feels too weak for him) who thrived in a socially conservative 1950s and 60s, amidst strict censorship laws that often found him in heaps of trouble. His daring strength inspired generations of brilliant comedians, from Andrew Dice Clay to Nick DiPaolo. However, even considering the strong work of his successors, nobody has put themselves in harm’s way for the sake of comedy as much as Bruce.

Until now.

Yes, I am the next Lenny Bruce.

In the down-time from my Bruce fan-fiction (in which he lives to the present day, performing in HBO specials and commercials for motorized scooters, with nary a public scandal), I have tried to become a social martyr, to sacrifice myself for the sake of the art. Sure, the social climate has vastly changed in the 50 years since Bruce’s death. But one thing remains the same: the need for truth and danger in comedy. And while many modern comedians claim they speak truth to power, I am the only comedian who has actively tried to get arrested for decades.

My first attempted run-in with Johnny Law (the local patrolman) was in 1989, at the Star-hyuck’s in Wichita. I was working on my most recent set on gender differences, a set that included the gratuitous use of cigarettes. After getting laughs upon laughs, I was sitting at the bar heckling the next act. In need of a new beverage, I had an epiphany — the place could burn to the fucking ground, and I would be a cult icon: a man arrested in the name of comedy. Puffing on my cigarette, I requested a Blue Blazer, and make it snappy. However, the menace of a barkeep must have been hard of hearing, and didn’t get to my order for 10 minutes, by which time I had already finished my last stick. The idea was to waste, but it wouldn’t be long until my bright brain had more.

In the next 12 years, I said “cocksucker” more than any other comedian on any bill. I shot up more heroin than I knew possible. I wrote the name “Lenny Bruce” on all of the open mic sign-up sheets I could find. Anything that would bring me closer to his holiness L.B., I would try. But nothing worked. The cops weren’t buying it, and so I floundered in mediocrity, my name unrecognizable to those outside of “the know.”

After the attacks of September 11, something Lenny almost definitely would not have approved of and likely would have spoken out against in his socially conscious manner, people were on edge. Any kind of threat was met with a strong response. There is no doubt that 9/11 was a bad thing, but it did give me some ideas.

Before my first set after the attacks, there was a plethora of tension in the famous El Paso club “Gallagher Presents: Laff Ur Melons Off.” It was akin to the first episode of SNL, when Lorne Michaels asked Rudy Giuliani, “Can we be funny?” To answer his question for me, yes, I sure could. However, before the show, I called the club from across the street, and uttered the words I hoped would get me in worlds of Bruce-esque trouble:

There is a very, very bad boy in your club tonight. Arrest him at once, or else. His name is me.

To this day I am unsure if the person on the other line could speak English or not, because I faced no repercussions other than puzzled looks.

In 2005 though, I had something of a revelation. I rented the film Man on the Moon from Blockbuster. I actually had meant to rent Man on Fire, but I got distracted when I thought somebody in the store recognized me. Despite my mistake, I watched and enjoyed the film (though I found the foreshadowing of naming the character “Cough-man” and then giving him lung cancer to be a bit predictable). I was especially fond of the part when Jim Carrey put his crowd on a bus and took them for milk and cookies.

In an homage to this film, I decided to rent buses for one of my shows in Gary, Indiana’s “Corn-Shuckin’ Joke Barn/Emporium.” After my standard fifteen minutes opening for Jay Mohr, I asked everyone to board the buses. While most of the crowd was hesitant (Gary isn’t a great comedy town anyway), I did get an elderly couple to hop on board for the comedy experience of their lifetime. It was all I needed. I drove them around for hours until Gary Police (the name of the sheriff of Gary) pulled me over and took me in for kidnapping. I was officially a martyr. I was comedy royalty. I was Lenny Bruce.

11 years later, in 2016, I am writing this from the Indiana State Penitentiary. I know that my fans have been protesting and petitioning this travesty, just as they did Lenny. I thank them for their loyalty, and for acknowledging me as the next Lenny Bruce. I will keep fighting for you cocksuckers.