“My God… We’re Normal!”:
Christopher Titus’ Portrait of a Dysfunctional America
Christina Mastrangelo
Norman Rockwell captured the zeitgeist of twentieth century American culture better than any other artist of the time period. His iconic illustrations of young boys embracing their youth, families gathering around a hardy meal, and diligent men and women at work have become timeless, posh models for the average American. Rockwell’s works have become classic pieces of Americana that speak volumes, specifically emphasizing the classic American lifestyle and the nuclear family. In Christopher Titus’s Norman Rockwell is Bleeding, Titus explains the evolving mental illness “epidemic” and how it is affecting families in modern America. Today, Norman Rockwell isn’t bleeding from a scraped knee after a clumsy fall off his Schwinn bicycle; he’s bleeding from the razor cuts on his wrists. Today, maybe Norman and the rest of America should have taken their Xanax pills like the therapist prescribed.
In his hour and a half 2004 stand-up special, Titus explains America’s newest qualm. The Los Angeles Times reported a whopping 63% of families are considered dysfunctional. For Titus, this means that for the first time in his life he is a part of the majority. Raised by an alcoholic father and a myriad of step-mothers, Titus recalls his time growing up on the West coast constantly facing adversity. Titus takes the time to recount every blip in his upbringing as he shares stories of erratic poverty and adolescent stupidity. The stage is set up with a single wooden chair in the center with the backdrop of what looks like the inside of Titus’ dilapidated childhood home. Titus recounts the number of times he watched his father get cleaned out by his step-moms and how popular his house always was afterwards for sleepovers because of the supplementary blow-up raft in the barren living room. Titus speaks swiftly in jumbled sentences. He crams phrases together and constantly restarts his thoughts, mimicking his short-lived and desultory childhood as his verbally abusive father forced him to “quit bein’ a wussy” at an earlier age than most. Titus’s sporadic movements on stages and colorful language takes you back in time to his fast-paced California home in the 70’s and 80’s where every new day was a new opportunity for fatherly negativity, crazy women, and haphazard horseplay. Norman Rockwell is Bleeding is Christopher Titus’s personal account of what it takes to grow up in a shitty family environment and perhaps also a demonstration of what the hell happens afterwards, too.
So it seems that because of every syndrome and disorder we’ve invented in the last twenty years, the Los Angeles Times reported that 63% of American families are now considered dysfunctional.
My God….
That means we’re the majority.
We’re normal!
It’s the people that had the mommy and the daddy and the brother and the sister, little white picket fence; those people are the FREAKS, man!
My parents divorce settlement involved a bar tab.
They had a big court battle over who got to keep me.
Mom won.
She made me live with dad.
And dad collected things for me: step mothers.
Till I was ten I thought women were rent-to-own.
I’ve got five step moms.
My dad’s been approved for a marriage license gold card.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” *pretends to swipe credit card* *CASHINK*
“Sign there, bottom copies your’s.”
My father: a hard drinking man from the seventies.
We actually have no pictures of my dad where he is not holding a beer.
Weddings, funerals, water skiing, parent teacher conference. *pretends to hold a beer with his arm around a child*
When I got sick around him as a kid growin’ up, he’d always warm me up a shot of 100 proof whiskey.
Never got sick.
That I can remember.
If I had a cough BOOM!
Shot of whiskey.
Got out of hand though.
One day woke up in a field on my big wheel, naked.
Strange Pampers on my head.
First grade show and tell, taught the class to mix long island ice teas.
From scratch.
I love bein’ from a screwed up family, man.
We have everything in my family: prescription drug abuse, mental illness, one of my uncles is a Mormon.
*shudders* *twitches in disgust*
And people get so weird about mental illness.
It’s like anything else: you follow the rules.
You don’t put a heart patient on a rollercoaster, you don’t put a mental patient on a hunting trip with ya.
My mom’s insane.
Of course I don’t mean my mom’s insane! *all giddy and silly*
I mean “We the jury find the defendant.”
When I was a kid she was in a mental care facility, or as dad so eloquently put it:
“She’s shacked up in the wacko basket!” *pretends to open beer can* *TSSSHHH*
“SLEEP WELL, BOY!”
Actually comforts me to know that when I was in kindergarten gluing macaroni to paper plates, my mom was in therapy gluing macaroni to paper plates.
I used to put her projects on the refrigerator.
*Audience creates a lull with faint laughter, making the joke somewhat awkward for Titus*
You better lighten the fuck up ‘cause we’re going a lot further than that tonight.
You know little kids can’t draw; they draw you a picture and you have to guess what the hell the picture is?
My mother had so many Rorschach tests by the time I was three she knew exactly what I drew every single time.
“Well, honey, tree, ducky, bunny, train, and those are the aliens that planted the microchip in my head. You wanna feel it?”
“No…”
“That’s a pretty good call, mom, I was goin’ for ‘doggy’ but okay…”
But I want you to know I love my mom and I owe her everything cause without her I don’t exist.
Without her I wouldn’t be doing this for a living.
Without her in four states it’d still be legal to kill a man with a cappuccino machine.
She touched a lot of lives.
Diagnosed manic-depressive schizophrenic.
Actually it was pretty cool as a kid cause I never knew who was comin’ to dinner.
But I was pretty sure they were gonna be bummed out.
Used to piss my teachers off when my permission slips had different signatures on them.
“Okay, Mister Smart Ass why don’t you stand up. Who’s this one supposed to be?”
“Ugh… It’s my moooom’s.” *mops to the teacher but then begins to chuckle*
“Call her!”
“But let me listen, let me listen, let me listen!”
I bet my lunch money she’s Weezie Jefferson today.
I love bein’ from a screwed up family cause nothin’ bothers me anymore, nothin’ bugs me!
Once you’ve driven a drunk father to mom’s parole hearing what else it there?
Bring it ooon!
Normal people scare the livin’ shit outta me.
Normal people — that’s cause normal people haven’t had enough problems in their life to know how to handle problems when they come up.
Somethin’ little happens, they just snap. *pretends to have a mental breakdown*
“Toilet backed up…”
“IS THERE NO GOOOOD?!”
“Oh, I’m gettin’ a pickaxe and I’m goin’ to Burger King.”
Look at every serial killer we ever caught in this country.
Catch a serial killer, get his family on television.
What does the family say?
“He was so normal. He was an Eagle Scout.”
His neighbors: “Yeah, he was really quiet. That boy always said hi to me though.”
So if you guys got a neighbor bein’ real cool, always sayin’ hi, take him out.
That’s him.
Love screwed up people though.
I’d hang out with screwed up people forever.
Screwed up people are great ‘cause screwed up people have been through some stuff.
They know what can happen.
They know the problems cause if you’ve been through a lot of shit in your life, you know every time you see the shit just about to hit the fan, you step to the side of the fan.
That’s right.
And all the poor little normal people:
*shit-hitting-the-fan noise*
“Heh, ya learned something, didn’t ya?”
“Uh uh… you got something right here.”
Glad I was raised by my father instead of my mom, too, cause women in general suck at raising kids.
That’s right I said it, who wants some? Come oooon!
Here’s what I mean, ladies:
You see a kid put a penny in a light socket, what do ya do?
“Oh my God! Stop it! You smack that little hand. Well there.”
Well when that kids five, gettin’ smacked in the hand is no big deal anymore.
Father sees that exact same child puttin’ a penny in a light socket and goes:
“No wait, wait… SSSHHHHH!!”
“Well go on.”
*BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZGGGGGGTTT*
“Weeeell you’re not gonna do that again, are ya?”
“Yeah, yeah I know it hurt; shot your ass about eight feet, I saw. “
“Come on, get up. Yes, your eyebrows will grow back. Come on!”
See, a mother will just give you knowledge.
A father makes you earn knowledge.
My dad never taught me dick my whole life.
“Just go do it!” *cracks open a fake brewsky*
“You’ll screw it up but sooner or later you’ll get it right. Just go do it!”
Certain things that method should not be applied to though like your first break job.
“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA” *mimics audience*
My first car was a 1977 Oldsmobile Delta 88.
Uuuuugly car; more ugly on this car than a Rolling Stones group photo.
And it was huuuge car.
Optional roof rack helicopter pad.
Fill it with gas, back out of the driveway, fill it up again.
And one day the breaks started makin’ this high pitch grinding noise and I was sixteen so I listened to the noise…
For about ten weeks.
I finally said “Dad, man, the car is makin’, like, a noise.”
*cracks open a fake brewsky* “Well then you should, like, fix it.”
So I backed the ass end of the car into the garage but I leave the front wheels on a 22 degree sloped driveway and I jack up the ass end.
*audience realizes Titus’ mistake and begins to gasp intermittently and giggle*
Yes, I’m about to get a lesson in gravity, aren’t I?
And I know my father was in the living room window goin’ “Wait, wait, wait.”
So I’m under the car tryin’ to make it stop better when I notice it start to go.
And my buttcheeks, thinking quickly, walk me out from under it.
And three tons of vehicle went SSSHHHH BOOM on the garage floor.
Now I ended up on the other side of the car, my dad couldn’t see me but he came running out of the house.
“CHRIS!! OH MY GOD, CHRIS!!”
And I thought, you know, I should probably tell him I’m okay.
But that little thing in my brain said, “No wait, wait.”
“Daaaad….” *trying not to die under the car*
*hacks up what sounds like a hair ball* “Oh God, get it off meee…”
He went: *TSSHH* “You ain’t dead get it off yourself.”
“And don’t forget to put my God damn tools away.”
“And quit bein’ a wussay!”
Oh yeah I heard that every day of my life; quit bein’ a wussy!
My dad didn’t mean it like a lot of parents mean it when you kid hits his head on the coffee table, quit being a wussy.
My father meant if I got my arm ripped off by a combine in a cornfield, my father would find the arm, get some duct tape, strap the arm back on.
“Alright go play, quit bein’ a wussy.”
“Thank you, father, I’m so much better now.” *flailing his duct tape arm around as he walks*
“Nevermore a wussy shall I be!”
“I can still try out for the soccer team! Although not goalie.”
I’m glad I was raised by my dad for other reasons.
You can learn stuff from a father as a son that you can NEVER learn from mom.
Special things, important things. Like never challenge dad to a fistfight.
*Audience chuckles and Titus mimics hesitantly* Ha ha ha ha ha…
Cause fighting dad’s not a fight.
Fighting dad is “HI! YOU’VE JUST INSTIGATED YOUR OWN MUGGING! Come on dooown!”
Guys, what is it about that last post-pubescent burst of male hormones?Cause one day you’re fine with your dad.
Next day you wake up, sixteen, look across the room and all you can think is:
*stumbles around and waves his hands like he’s frustrated*
“What does he do, man? Look at him! Just sittin’ there, couch growin’ out the back of his head.”
“Oh, I bet I could kick his ass.”
Thought my dad was lazy, turns out he was just resting up.
Yeah, we had been havin’ one of those real deep, philosophical father-son arguments, ones that always ended “I DID NOT LOSE YOUR CRESCENT WRENCH, YOU’RE SUCH A DICK WAD!”
We got louder and louder, my step mom jumped between us:
“HEY! BOTH OF YOU! No clinching, no hitting below the belt. Go.”
Then I decided to cross that man-boy line.
Got right in my dad’s face.
“LOOK!!”
By the way, great way to fight. Arms down, face presented.
“Yeah! You know what? I’m tired of your crap.”
*Redneck kung fu poses* “Whooo AaWWwww”
“I got some moves now, huh? I’m not seven anymore, am I?”
“Come on! Me and you, old man!”
Except I only got out “old muUUACCHH”.
I woke to an EKG machine beeping.
Dad standing over me:
*TSSHHH* “Not gonna do that again, are ya?”
*pretending to be his father, Titus pours beer over his passed out body.*
“You wanna fight like a man you better start drinkin’ like one.”
“Quite bein’ a WUSSJJAAAY.”
Course then, here’s the weird part.
After I fought my dad, all the sudden we’re buddies now.
Like he’s my friend, now.
We start hangin’ out, but we’re still the same people.
So we’d go out on Sunday, ya know, just be hanging out.
Then he’d, like, pick a guy and we’d just go beat the crap out of that guy as a team.
Ahh… memories, huh?
Kicked ass at the father-son picnic, too.
We didn’t win the blue ribbon, but we have it in our possession.
I was a bad kid.
I deserved to fight, though.
Bad kid, cops in my neighborhood knew me.
Cops in my neighborhood had my dad on speed dial.
*BDUUURT* *Titus picks up an imaginary phone* “Mr. Titus? Yeah, do you have a federal mailbox in your living room? No we figured just leave the boy out front, we’ll be by.
And I wasn’t an evil kid, I just pulled a lot of pranks that happened to be felonies.
Anyone look back on their high school career and just shudder at the crap you got away with and didn’t die?
I remember goin’ on Highway 1 Northern California, the coast highway, goes like this *weaves hand in a zig zag motion*
We’re over 100 miles an hour in Dwain Olsen’s 69 Mustang Mach 1 four door 28 Cobra jet.
And we are hiiiiiiigh.
*audience laughs, but Titus reiterates it was not funny how high they were*
HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH…
I can no longer hold my body upright HIIIIIIIIIIIGH.
And Beastie Boys “License to Ill” is playing at a soothing billion and five decibels.
Yeah, a bunch of California white boys singin’ “No sleep till Brooklyn, yeah!”
We rock…
I got the rear seat in the car, this is pathetic, I got the rear seat of the car laid down flat.
I’m layin’ on my back looking out the window at the sky, just trippin’ on the sky goin’ by.
And you have those moments of clarity when you’re screwing up your life?
I hear myself say out loud to my friends:
“Guys, man, there’s a cloud up there that looks like an evil mouse snow skiing, man.”
And they were so high they pulled over and got out to look at it.
Yearbook voted me “Most Likely to be Scraped From an Off Ramp by a Puking Fireman”.
Cause I was a kid in school whose friends would give him extra alcohol just to see what he was gonna change into.
We were drivin’ around on a Saturday night, someone noticed a hotel roof within fifty feet of the hotel pool, they would just stop the car.
*REEEEERT* “Hey Titus, can you make that?”
*Pretending to be a younger version of himself, Titus examines the gap drunkenly by sticking his hand out in front of himself*
“Two more beers.”
I finally stopped drinking when I hit seventeen years old.
Yes, imagine the fuck-up I must’ve been?
Stop drinking cause it’s not really good for your health, and I fell into a bonfire.
*Audience chuckles and Titus mimics hesitantly* Ha ha ha ha ha ha…
Yeah you’re done drinkin’ then, you don’t need AA.
Falling into a bonfire is a one step program.
Big huge beach party, middle of the night, whole school is there, ya know.
Party’s windin’ down, everybody’s paired up except for loser moi.
And we’re burning a telephone pole.
I don’t know where we got a telephone pole.
I do know it’s pretty high up there on the drunk theft scale though.
And I’m walkin’ around the bonfire, get my feet caught in this blanket and I fall in and as I fall in I’m so drunk I say “Who the hell brings a blanket to the beach?”
And the flames are now right here. *waves hand in front of face*
And I am aware “That’s close to my face!”
Then I see my hands in this burning ember and I exclaim:
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
And Scott Carnithan gets up out of nowhere and does this full speed runnin’, jumpin’, drunk Jackie Chan leap-flip thing over me in the fire, grabs me, throws me into the sand.
Although my palms stayed right on the log.
Then my drunk friends proceed to stomp me out.
“Hey man you alright?” *Titus pretends to stomp himself out, beer in hand*
“Get his hair, get his hair…”
“DUUUUUUUUUDE!!!… Haha ha haha haha ha… I’m not laughin’ at you, man, but you are wasted. Hey sleep it off, man, you gotta drive to Taco Bell.”
So by now the whole school has gathered around me because they’ve seen the steam rising from the beach and then I’m gonna be the story to tell on Monday.
“You wouldn’t believe what Titus did, man!”
And they know I needed medical attention but it’s way too early to end this party.
“Tony! Dude, man, uuuhh…. Oh, go to the ice chest and get Titus a cold beer for each hand.”
Great, now they’re performing drunk triage on me.
They take the offending blanket, put it over me, and just leave me there.
And during the night my hands were just burning up so I just put ‘em in the nice cold sand.
Ya know, then I walked out and put ‘em in the nice soothing salt water.
*Shakes his hands furiously and jumps around showing his acknowledgement of his poor decision*
I passed out at shore level. Waves lap against my head till morning.
6 AM in the morning: my friends wake me up and take me to some emergency center near the beach in Santa Cruz.
Emergency center… it was like an emergency shed.
There was a doctor, a weedwacker, and a fuckin’ rake.
And my friends don’t wanna be involved with this dumb ass thing that I did, they don’t wanna be in the story at all.
So before I go in to get medical attention they stop me in the parking lot.
“Uh Titus, dude. Uh look man,” *pretending to be his jive turkey friend, Titus turns around and yells “Shut up I’m tellin’ him to the rest of the imaginary possy*
“Uh look man, we talked about it. Aaaaand here’s what happened. Uhm. You’re a homeless guy and we found you on the beach.”
“Okay. I’m a seventeen year-old burned up homeless boy with new Nikes wearing an alligator shirt, okay.”
So I go in, and the doctor’s pissed off.
I’m not the first dumbass teenager he’s ever met in his life.
And I got, like, twelve beers in me from the night before.
This man decides to shoot me full of pain killer.
Yeah, nothin’ like that Demorol-Budweiser cocktail to start the day.
I was in this phase where everybody looked like a lizard for a while.
Then, and there was this Stanley Kubrick Charlie Brown cartoon, man.
Cause everybody was spinnin’ and goin’ *WUA WUA WUA WUA*. *making the famous sound of an adult talking in Charlie Brown*
And the doctor finally goes “What happened to you?”
“Well, O reptilian one, I fell into the bonfire… ha ha ha ha…” *acting dazed and confused*
“So when ya fell in, son, did ya breath in or did ya scream?”
*High on the pain medicine, Titus examines his charred hands and shows them to the doctor*
“I screamed. What would you do?”
And instantly the dude’s right in my face, he’s right here, he’s got my chin in his fist and he goes:
“GOOD CAUSE IF YOU WOULD’VE BREATHED IN, SON, GUESS WHAT THE HOT AIR IN THE FLAMES WOULD HAVE COLLAPSED YOUR LUNGS AND YOU WOULDA DIED.”
“Well now you look like Jesus.”
“And, Jesus, you need a Tic-Tac.”
Then the man takes out the stiffest brush I have ever seen in my entire life.
*audience cringes, knowing the stiff brush will be used to clean his soft, supple, charred hands*
Don’t push out on me now!
And this green soap, which I don’t think was soap. I think it was a piece of lava rock spray painted green with barnacles and glass stuck to it.
And I have so much pain killer in me I don’t get to feel but I get to see and hear TCCHHHH TCCHHH TCCCHH. *pretending to clean his burnt hands as the doctor*
“That’s gonna hurt tomorrow, huh?”
He bandages my hands, leaves the room and comes back ten minutes later.
He said, “I called your father he said get your ass home, quit bein’ a wussy, and hung up.”
So my *stops to try and remember something* Carolyn, Lynn, Pat… Fifth step mother came to get me.
And this is the worst trouble I’d been into up to this point in my life.
I wasn’t even supposed to be out .
I was grounded.
I went sixty miles to the beach.
Snuck out my window.
So on my way home, my dad didn’t even know I was gone till he got a phone call from the doctor.
So on the way home I’m so freaked out and drugged up in the car I start leavin’ notes for other relatives.
*pretending to hold a pen in his mouth and writing* “I’m not in military school. Look for the body.”
“Ken Titus is the killer.”
And we pull up in front of the house and my step mom, ya know, really helpful:
“You and your dad have a nice talk, I have something to do away.
*pretending to drive a car, the step-mom speeds away from the scene to avoid the aftermath*
I’m on the curb by myself I got these big white boxing glove bandaged hands.
Sand has been rammed into every orifice from lying on the beach all night.
My hair is east, and I’m hiiiigh.
And the front door opens.
And my father had turned into the burning bush.
But I was so pathetic looking, he couldn’t hit me.
I had gone one step beyond getting my ass kicked.
Yes, he still snapped, he just didn’t hit me.
He opens the door and goes “AAAA — “ *fist paused mid-punch*
“You mother — AAAA — MMM Ya — ” *Acts in complete disbelief at how trashed Chris is when he gets to the door*
Whales musta been off the coast: “What the hell is that noise? Ya hear that?”
And as I walked past him his head just kept getting bigger and redder and I’m thinking “Oh God, if he has a stroke, I’m not grounded.”
Cause I always got grounded.
Not locked in a room grounded.
My dad would actually take a battery cable and ground me to an engine block.
Always got the drunk driving lecture, too.
“Oooh gonna get the drunk driving lecture… probably because I fell into a bonfire.”
Course my dad drank and drove all the time.
Maybe it wasn’t a lecture.
Maybe it was helpful tips from the master.
Comes to drinkin’ and drivin’ my dad’s Obi Wan Kanobi.
He busted me once for drinkin’ and driving.
Woke up 6am Saturday morning ‘bout two months into my senior year just hungover, just hammered.
I wake up to my father standing over me, ya know, wearin’ a robe, holdin’ a beer.
*TCHH* “HEY!! Why don’t ya get up and explain to me how come the car is parked at such an odd angle. On the porch. Across the street.”
He then decided to pull my driver’s license for six months of my senior year.
Yeah, nothing screams “Prom Night” more than helping that date down off the handlebars, huh?!
*pretends as if he’s riding the bike*
“WOOOOOOO!!!!” *ching ching*
“Partay!”
*EEERRRT* “Hold up guys, my tuxedo’s caught in the chain!”
And I hated him for that cause he always had beer in the car, man, since I was a kid he had beer in the car.
For thirty years my father had beer in the car; sometimes on tap.
But then I found out that there is a God and karma does work cause Memorial Day a while back my father had a starring role at a drunk driving checkpoint.
Ha ha ha ha
I saw it, I wasn’t there, but our local tv news crew happened to be.
It was Memorial Day, whole family’s at the house.
Everybody. Aunts, uncles, all waitin’ for my father to come home, start and eat BBQ chicken.
We’re goin’ “Where the hell’s dad?”
We’re watching the four o’clock news.
My father pulls in behind the reporter out on location live at the check point.
Here’s my family: No one said “Oh my God, we’ve got to help father!”
My little brother Dave gets in and goes, “GIVE ME A TAPE! TAPE! GIVE ME A TAPE!”
I have my dad getting busted on high quality stereophonic VHS.
For a while, every Christmas reunion, I just rented a big screen TV.
And at dinner when he got some wine in him, started in on me cause by the way, everybody has a relative somewhere that remembers the worst story about you, the one you never want said, and will retell that story at every family gathering until they die?
That’s my dad.
*pretends to be his father, who’s clearly intoxicated*
“How’s it goin’ Christopher?”
“Mr. Smart Ass comenenian… comedinian… You know what I’m tryin’ to say, Goddamnit.”
“What — SHUT UP I’M TALKIN’ TO MY SON! I mean… Merry Christmas, Grandma.”
“Everybody, hey. Everybody, hey. Everybody, hey. Everybody, hey. Everybody, hey. Heeeey everybody. Hey. Look at my boy, huh PFFFFFFFT. When he was a kid, he was a screw up. Please. Nobody build any bonfires after dinner.”
And the first drunk he got busted, I took it.
Second year I waited twenty minutes and said “Grandma hit the lights. Let’s go to the video. Okay!”
“Everybody meet me in the living room. Get a piece of pie, you’re gonna like this. Is everybody here? Okay, excellent, good. Okay.”
“Okay. Here we see dad weaving into the checkpoint. Two wheels on the sidewalk. Dad, ya think that might cost ya? Oh now the cops want dad to step from the vehicle. He opens the dooooor… And the nice officers help him right back to his feet! Oh now he’s attempting the touch your nose test… Let’s stop it right here.”
“Hey dad, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to put the beer down first.”
“…Ha ha ha! And touch your own nose.”
“Hey has anyone else seen a cop that pissed off?”
“OOHHH! Dad, did those sticks hurt?”
I’m never letting that story slide, man.
We don’t have home movies in my family, it’s peoples’ exhibit A.
And don’t get the wrong impression.
My dad, great man. Really. Great man.
Sober he’s a saint.
Drunk, Saaataaannnn.
And it was weird because we didn’t get deprived as kids.
I mean we’d go do stuff.
We’d go water skiing.
Dad, he gets up.
“COME ON KIDS IT’S MORNIN’ LET’S GO WATER SKIING WOO HOO!!”
Then we’d go water skiing all morning then about noon, or beer o’clock.
Yeah that joke never stopped bein’ funny for twenty fuckin’ years.
He would just start slammin’ ‘em down and it was weird because he’s got the same problem with alcohol I have, his personality just flips.
And, like, he would just change and I was five when it started happenin’.
I had no idea what the hell was wrong with him.
I just thought he had an alter ego.
You know, like he was a super hero.
The most negative superhero on the planet: Anti-Dad!
“Wherever there is hope, I will stop it! Where self-esteem rears it’s shinny head I will be there to kick it in the testicles!”
“Hey dad, I got a B on my report card!”
“But it’s not an A, is it son! Now that the smile has left your face, I’m off!”
*Anti-Dad pretends to fly off heroically to stage right*
“Hey dad, I graduated high school.”
“Graduated high school, huh, well you didn’t come close to valedictorian, did ya loser? When you’re confidence returns, so will I.”
“Hey dad I got my first job.”
“First job, huh? Well you ain’t manager yet, are ya fry boy?”
“Hey dad, guess what. I finally made manager.”
“Manager, huh? Well a real man would own his own business. Now leave me alone. I’m off to destroy your brother.”
“Hey dad, guess what. Couple years ago I started my own business. Called Deranged Entertainment. We produce shows for national television and I made more money per week last year than you made in a fuckin’ year. What do you think about that, HUH?!”
“I think without me pushin’ ya boy, ya never woulda’ made it. And that shit got cancelled, didn’t it?”
Oh yeah… Oh yeah…
Never mess with Anti-Dad, man.
My father never missed a drink in his life.
Or a joint. Or a party. Or a chance to get laid.
He also never missed a day of work. Or a house payment. Or a car payment.
I never went hungry although he did a couple of times so I wouldn’t.
*Audience gets quiet as Titus shares the most serious characteristics of his father*
Yeah this is the man that survived four heart attacks.
Doctor revoked his organ donor card.
Issued him a hazardous waste decal.
Well he actually had three heart attacks and a heart episode. *air quotes around ‘episode’*
Cause his last heart attack he was with an HMO.
Yes, and it seems that if they write down heart attack they have to admit you.
But if they write down heart episode they can give you Robitussin and send your ass home.
Dad finally had a defibrillator implanted in his body.
No “CLEAR!” *pretends to shock someone* he had a little one right here. *points to chest*
Ironically the size and shape of a cigarette pack which used to crack me the fuck up, man.
Cause he smoked for forty years.
Now he’s got a permanent little square right here.
“Hey dad ya got a cigarette?”
“Yeah, hold up.” *pretends to be his father grabbing at his defibrillator in his body
“Is that funny ya little son of a bitch?” *pretends to be his father glaring at himself*
And this thing, if my dad’s heart was below a certain beat or above a certain beat, it would zap him.
So you could be mid sentence when my father, he’d just go MMMYYAAAAAAAAH. *pretends to get electrocuted*
“Dad, you okay? Hey, shot your ass about eight feet, didn’t it?”
*long audience applause break for the full circle joke*
*pretends to drag on a cigarette
“Your not gonna do that again, are ya?”
My dad also survived five divorces and the women he married cleaned his ass out every time.
I used to think my dad got divorced ‘cause he wanted new furniture.
At one point in my life, all we had left was a wooden box, twelve-inch black and white TV, and a four-man rubber raft for a couch.
And yet, I was the coolest kid in third grade.
“Mom, can we have a sleep over at Christopher Titus’s house? They have a raft in the living rooooom! We can just row to breakfast in the morning. I can actually be Captain Crunch.”
And ya wanna know the weird part about growin’ up like that?
Whenever my dad’s normal friends would come over to the house they’d always, like, pull me aside out of earshot of dad and say the same thing:
“How’s it goin’ little guy? You doing okay? Your dad’s pretty screwed up, huh? How do you handle all the problems.”
*pretends to be little Chris Titus*
“Uhm, I didn’t realize I had any problems until you fuckin’ brought it up. Hey, hey, you’re standin’ behind the fan.” *sound of shit hitting the fan, kinda like a fart sound*
My mother is crazy.
Also 180 IQ, concert pianist, spoke four languages, and qualified for Miss California in the 1960’s.
You know how God balances most of his good and evil right about there *pretends to be a scale, tipping just barely in the middle*
Mom was waaay the hell out here, man. *swinging his arms all over the place, scale out of whack*
Thanksgiving kicked ass.
Thanksgiving was her time.
Thanksgiving, man, she gave everybody that turkey high.
Ya know that big meal of turkey?
Get done, sitting in front of the TV.
“This is gonna be a great game! *ZZZZZZZZ*”
Next time you wake up, you’re covered in your own drool and one of the nephews has stuffed a HotWheel track up your right nostril while you’re sleeping.
She’s amazing.
Twelve different homemade candies.
Little pilgrim cookies with amaretto chocolate suits and hats.
Women just stopped coming over on Thanksgiving ‘cause they were tired of getting shown up.
“I’m not going. NO!! No, the bitch is crazy and her stuffing kicks my ass. I’m not going.”
Throw one of mom’s turkeys people wake up around New Years.
*wakes up from what seemed like a very long nap*
“Did you guys have the turkey?”
“I can’t feel my legs!”
See I believe life is about balance.
My mom, brilliant, but manipulative.
Beautiful, but more voices in her head than the Wu Tang Clan.
Loves her kids. Killed her last husband.
I say last husband because you don’t get another one after that.
Yeah, they take you out of the husband wish book at that point.
Cause it’s a hard personal ad to get answered.
“Wanted: Loving, caring man who can take a bullet.”
Now we all have a relative somewhere when you get a phone call at 3AM from the police about them it doesn’t really surprise ya.
Bet it’s not your mom.
6AM, day after Thanksgiving while back the phone rings.
By the way 6AM not a really great time for me.
Ya know, I’m a comic.
I get off work at 2AM. 6AM I’m a little grumpy.
6AM I’m a little P.O.’ed.
6AM I’m like a vampire with a paper route.
So I picked up the phone:
“URRRRGGGGHHH MMMMGRRRUUGH MMMFFFRRRRREEEEGH *cough* Hello?”
Voice says “Hello Mr. Titus, this is Iris Stevenson.”
“… AND?”
“Well, Sir, I’m your mother’s lawyer.”
“Ugh. Aaaand?”
“Well, Sir, your mom’s in prison.”
*very agitated now, thinking “get to the point”*
“AAAAAAAAND?!”
“Well, Sir, she’s killed her husband.”
“Oh. Okay, that’s a new one.”
Mom had moved to Idaho and married this hardcore, redneck, oil rig worker.
My mom was one of these women.
My mom had this innate ability.
Whatever town my mother moved to, the second she walked into town she would instantly attract the alpha loser of that town.
This guy was not a good guy.
This guy was half OJ Simpson and half OJ Simpson.
Scott Peterson sprinkles on the top.
Little side of Robert Black.
Ya know, not a good guy.
And on Thanksgiving day, mom had one of her turkeys on the table at 4:15pm.
Well this man thought it should hit the table at 4 o’clock.
So he picked it up, threw it across the room.
So my mom countered with a boiling pot of potatoes.
As was her right!
Ahh, I looked it up in the domestic violence desk reference.
Now at this point, man’s throwin turkey, mom’s throwin’ potatoes.
In a normal family, someone might have stood up and said:
“Thanksgiving food fight! Oh God bless us everyone!”
But in this case this man got up, beat the crap out of my mom and crushed her face in.
Yeah, so she went upstairs and got a gun, came down and shot ‘em three times ‘cause she didn’t want him to do that again.
And years later my sister told me as the guy was lyin’ there gut shut, she turned to mom and said:
“M-m-mom! Should I call an ambulance?!”
And my mom looked at the guy and went:
“No. Wait, wait wait.”
She went to trial, got acquitted, and got the guys hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy.
*audience breaks out in applause*
Yes, yes!
She was insane, not crazy.
You wanna hear the funniest part of that story?
When my mom, ya know, shoots and kills a man.
When they moved to Idaho the guy had two acres of land and he was the one taken’ my mom out, taught her how to shoot.
Ha ha! What a dumbass!
Here’s a tip for ya, guys.
If yer gonna beat her, don’t teacher her how to fire the weapon.
“Ya ain’t holdin’ it right! *slaps pretend wife across the face*”
*in shock over being slapped, the wife winds her neck and gets in firing stance*
“Just needed a little incentive.”
Now most young men when they get out on their own will try and find a woman kinda like the one that married dear-old-dad.
But in my case, I did the same fuckin’ thing, man.
Oh God, I got out on my own and just started just hackin’ my way through this briar patch of psycho bitches. My Gooood.
My last girlfriend: Case #246-B was a NUT!
Our last fight was because she thought I was watching the Double Mint twins commercial too intently.
Snap man, eyes went jack-o yellow, start speakin’ Latin backwards.
“HE MO LAY AH!” *Latin song chanting*
Came out of it like an hour later, said this to me:
“I’m sorry! I have a sugar imbalance!”
No, diabetes is a sugar imbalance.
You are an estrogen molotov cocktail.
Yeah, I wish I’d said that.
Almost spent a night in jail because of that woman.
But they don’t let you stay in jail just cause you’re afraid of your girlfriend.
Aw man, I still gotta see here every year at the annual restraining order renewal breakfast.
See, she had a little quirk, a little glitch.
We’d get in an argument.
I would present my side of the argument.
Her retort would invariably be to punch me in the face.
Twas a sugar imbalance.
I started carryin’ Twix in a holster.
“It’s two for you, none for me.” *cowers back in fear of her sugar imbalance*
And the weird part is, this girl had; you know how people have a build to anger?
She had no build to anger.
Like you notice how you’re fightin’ with someone:
“Oooh they’re getting really pissed, man. I should only piss ‘em off a little more then I better stop.”
Ya know? She had none of that, man.
She had two speeds: “I love you” and *HHSSSSSS*
And the only hint I ever got she was about to snap was the second before she would snap, the room would smell like ozone.
Her and I had a fight Christmas Eve watching Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer where I ended up calling the cops.
Yeah that earns me a white trash black belt.
Oh man, the thing is we didn’t fight about Rudolph.
We were just, ya know…
We were at my dad’s house; we’re half way through Rudolph.
We’re snuggled; we got a blanket on us. An afghan for God’s sake.
Ironically the most peaceful of all blankets.
So we’re watchin’ Rudolph, ya know.
Hermy’s gonna be a dentist.
I’m stoked.
And all of a sudden… *sniff sniff ozone*
She goes “What kinda loser watches this crap?”
I said “Hey! Twix?”
Punch me in the face.
So, I picked up her $200 Vera Gomma shoes, went to the front door, opened it, winged ‘em across the street.
Yeah cause I knew they’d get her ass out of the house.
She was that kind of woman, man.
Chase a designer label like a fat man guy after a Velour jogging suit.
But I’m so afraid of her the second she leaves I start locking doors and windows like I’m Anne Frank.
Then I sit down to watch Rudolph, God damnit.
When all of the sudden there arose such a clatter.
I sprang from the couch to see what was a matter.
I went to the window, tore open the blinds and there was my girlfriend quite out of her mind.
And I’m just standin’ there, heart poundin’ with fear.
She’s banging on the glass door with a vodka bottle.
Filled just ‘bout to here.
And I knew the window couldn’t take it.
And she screamed, “OPEN THE DOOR, YOU BASTARD! I’LL FUCKIN’ BREAK IT!”
Well I couldn’t let her do that, twas my father’s place.
So I cracked the door and she PUNCHED ME IN THE FACE!
So I summoned my manhood from bottom to top and I screamed like a little girl, “I’M CALLIN’ THE COPS!”
So I go dial 911, she grabs her stuff and bails.
Now by the way she was a five foot, 100 pound Jewish girl and I still haven’t forgiven the Jewish people.
But the cops show up and I get to explain how this five foot 100 pound girl has been beating the crap out of me.
They’re takin’ down my statement like I’m a drunk UFO abductee.
“OOooh, yEEeAAaahh mmm… ooOOOoOhhh… Woooow”
And I’m just soundin’ stupider and stupider.
“Man, I know she’s this big. She gotta hook you wouldn’t believe, dude. She’s just fightin’! It’s like fightin’ a gopher on crank, dude! She’s just gets in on ya!”
“Yeah, we believe ya, Mr. Titus. Think we’re gonna get Mulder and Scully in on this one.”
“Yeah, they’re not doin’ anything ‘cause Fox cancelled them, too.”
Cops leave, phone rings. It’s her.
She goes: “I took your father’s camera and all of his lenses. If you don’t come to my house right now you’re never gonna see that camera again.”
Huh, I just wanna break up with this bitch, now it’s a hostage situation.
About that time my dad comes home from a Christmas party.
“How ya doin’ Christopher? I’d like you to meet your new possible mommy.”
I tell my dad what happened, he said:
“Screw it! You didn’t need that witch anyways.”
I said: “Daaaad, she took your camera.”
“Well you best apologize to the young lady, then.”
So I went over to her house and she apologized to me, wearing the camera, red four-inch stiletto heels and nothing else.
So I moved in with her.
I’m behind the fan but the booty is good.
Well I moved in with her, ya know.
People aren’t all bad.
She didn’t have — ya know, she wasn’t all bad.
She had some good things.
She had the one good thing, ya know.
Like, ya know, at the time I was datin’ her I was a struggling comedian and, ya know, no matter how hard I struggled she always just really had that well paying job.
I was a man-hoe for a couple of months there.
And look, she was moving to Los Angeles, ya know.
And I thought “Oh I’ll go with her.”
Ya know, and we get to LA and I gotta tell ya man, once the relationship — the geography changed, my God.
IT WAS A FUCKIN’ NIGHTMARE!!
Except for one day. In three months we had one good day.
Kind of day where the sun shone a little brighter, birds sang a little sweeter, and I didn’t get punched in the face… before 6PM.
We were at Malibu beach all day.
It was just great, man.
Blanket, no sand on the blanket, music was kickin’, man.
Everything was perfect, man.
And I get home and I’m just feelin’ good about myself.
I look in the mirror and I realize:
“Hey, I’m 6’2”, I’m blonde, I’m tan, I’m wearin’ white pants. I’m a very pretty man.”
So I decide to build this bookcase.
Bought this really, really nice particleboard and plastic wood grain decal bookcase.
I start buildin’ it, ya know, I get done, I put my books in it.
First edition books. Stephen King, but first editions.
Don’t judge.
And I get done and all the sudden *sniff sniff ozone*
She goes, “WHAT ARE YA DOING!?”
“It’s a book case. That’s a book.”
She goes, “Where the hell are my books?”
Well she had a 180 IQ.
Oh wait a minute, mom had a 180 IQ.
Oh God…
She was working for a computer company at the time.
Big computer company which I can’t say ‘cause they will sue me.
And I said, “Hun, all you got is those tech manuals. No one’s wanna come over the house, grab a interesting and amusing tech manual, just start flippin’ through the hil-aaarious tech manual.
She goes “That’s cause your friends are too fuckin’ stupid to read my books!”
*WHAM* And cracks me in the face
I said “HEY! Not all my friends are that stupid. That’s it. I’m out of here.”
I grab my clothes out of the closet.
She rips ‘em out of my hands, stomps on it, cracks me again.
I said “I’M CALLIN’ THE COPS!”
I go dial 9–1–1, she reaches over me, hangs up, cracks me again.
I dial 9–1–1, she reaches over me, hangs up, cracks me again.
So I grab the front of her shirt and I hold her at bay, whatever the hell that means.
*breathing heavy, holding girlfriend back, very slow speech.*
“9–1–1”
“Hello? Hi, this is Christopher Titus. There’s a domestic violence — ya know let me just talk to Rick.”
“Hey man what’s up? Yes, she’s doing it again. Alright, I’ll see ya in a minute.”
I hang up the phone, let her go.
*WHAM*
She cracks me again.
Now I don’t think a man should ever hit a woman.
Until the fifth time she’s cracked him in the face.
Cause I smacked her.
Open handed.
And I regret it.
Cause it wasn’t as hard as I could of, oh man, I could —
She goes: *GASP*
*Titus’ girlfriend immediately become very sexual, as though she is fulfilling a little girl fetish *
“You hit me.”
To which I replied, “AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”
And like a real man, locked myself in the bathroom.
Now, cops show up ten minutes later.
I come out of the bathroom.
She goes, “THIS SON OF A BITCH HIT ME!”
I said “SHE HIT ME FIRST!”
Which didn’t work in the third grade, not gonna work on the LAPD.
And they cuff me ‘cause it’s a domestic violence law now.
And it’s a great law.
What used to happen was cops would show up, break up a guy and a girl:
“Hey, wow, hey, wow, hey, wow, hey, wow, hey, wow, hey, wow, heeeey. Now you guys work this out. We don’t wanna have to come back. *finger guns*”
And then they’d have to come back because those two had worked it out, but the loser was dead.
So they cuff me.
She realizes how serious it’s getting.
“Officers, officers, officers, officers. I have a sugar imbalance. And I just made it up, he didn’t really hit me.”
And the cops go to uncuff me and I said:
“MAN, I HIT HER! I SWEAR I HIT HER! I KNOW MY RIGHTS! I’ll wait for you guys in the car.”
They take me to prison.
I’m 6’2”, I’m blonde, I’m tan, I’m wearin’ white pants.
And I realize I’m a very pretty man.
So I made some new friends.
And I made bail.
And I broke up with her.
Cause I don’t take any shit.
Oh man, had to move back to my father’s house after that.
Ugh, there’s a proud day in a young man’s life.
Cause at seventeen I moved out like a bad ass.
“I’m on my own now!”
“M-A-N, read it!”
“Yeah I don’t need you anymore, da — I mean, Ken.”
“Now take a good look at that, man, cause that’s the last time you’re ever gonna see me.”
*slaps his own ass*
Four years later:
“DADDYYYYYYYY!!! My key doesn’t work in the door anymore…”
*Titus tears*
“I have laundry…”
“I’m out of ramen noodles!”
*TCH* “Weeell, couldn’t hack it in the real world, could ya boy? I’d offer ya somethin’ to eat but ya seem to be chokin’ on your pride right now.”
“Tell yea what though: Daddy loves ya and he’s gonna let you move back home, but Ken’s kinda pissed and your payin’ $400 a week rent.”
*Titus takes off in his Anti-Dad pose*
But sometimes when life is suckin’, the best things happen.
I actually met the girl who’s gonna be my wife, and we had actually gone to high school together but at that time, she was in the hot lookin’ babes group and I was in the outcast losers who fell into a bonfire group.
Very exclusive group.
And she had just ended an abusive relationship and I had just ended an abusive relationship.
Now both of us are, God, just wanted a relationship where we can make somebody else fuckin’ pay.
Except we couldn’t fight ‘cause we’d been through so much crap with other people, the fight, it’d start, and we’d both just go, “DON’T HIT ME! PLEASE DON’T HIT ME!”
Which helped us ‘cause we survived, like, six months, man.
And then I decided to move back to Los Angeles, take her with me.
Except she had never been away from her parents before.
So I took her from the womb, to Los Angeles.
City of drive-bys, riots, fires, floods, earthquakes, and producers.
And she would just cry every night.
And I would hold her.
“Hey, come on. Hey, QUIT BEIN’ A WUSSY!”
But I understood it was tough.
So I hung around, ya know, till she totally had the city wired, and then on the fourth day, I had to go make a damn living.
So I call her every night from the road.
“How ya doin’, baby? Doin’ okay?”
“No, you bastard! I got shot at Hoy’s Wok and Chinese Food. You suck! You’re an asshole casserole! I never wanna see you!” *clink*
And she would break up with me.
And I’d call her back and I’d talk to her for, like, fifteen hours and she’d be cool for three nanoseconds and then she’d break up with me again.
And this went on day after day after day and I’m thinking:
“Man should never break up with a woman this upset until the fifty-third time she’s broken up with him.”
Cause I finally said, “Is that the way you want it? I heard you say yes. Is that the way you want it? Better be careful with those yeses. FINE!”
*commence Titus tears*
And I was so upset that I went to drown my sorrows in a 19 year old waitress.
I know, awww…
Ladies be clear, “we’re broken up, I don’t wanna see you anymore” means something to us.
And we don’t have the three-day “eat-cookies-and-cry” period that you ladies have.
We have a five minute “I’mma find a girl that looks just like her; I’m gonna fuck her just to prove I don’t need you” period.
And we’ll feel bad while we’re doin’ it, too.
“I miss her so much.” *pretending to sadly bang some imaginary look-alike*
I know, I’m not sayin’ we’re right; I’m sayin’ we’re stupid.
So I was with that girl three days and on the third day I get her into bed, she starts to cry.
I’m like a mental illness magnet at this point in my life.
So I literally jump out of bed, head to my next gig in Florida and I get to Florida.
There’s a box waiting for me this bag of cookies, and cards, and cologne, and flowers, and love letters, and poems from my girlfriend, ‘scuse me. Ex-girl friend, she broke up with me.
But I spent a couple hours and I read her beautiful words and I started to realize I owned her ass.
And I get home, for like four days, I’m a pimp, man.
“Hey hun, could you get me some grapes. Ugh-ugh, could ya peel ‘em?”
“Could you scratch my foot? Ugh-ugh, it’s sexy when you crawl. Oh yeah…”
End of the fourth day I come home from the store though and her mood has changed considerably.
She’s sitting in the middle of the living room, has a phone — best I can describe the phone, felt like it was aimed at my head.
And she says two words: “Who’s Tiffany?”
I had it, I was like, “Hey, she’s f-f-farmbland fa-may… fffuuuuughhh ha ha ha. You broke up with me.”
Man, I’ve never been so stone-cold busted in my life, man.
“You’re a loser, you’re a slut, you’re a liar, your dad is right — “
“Wow, wow, wooooow.”
And I couldn’t say anything.
End of the fourth day, though, we moved to the next stage of making up where I have to prove I love her every three seconds.
“Honey, I need some water.”
“I’m on it!”
“I need a tissue.”
“Got it!”
“I’d like you to punch yourself in the temple as hard as you can.”
“Left or right side? ‘Cause I love yeeeeeew.”
That night the phone rings.
“Don’t move! Hello?”
“Yeah, is Erin there?”
“Who’s this?”
“Hey man, why don’t you shut the fuck up and not worry about who this is? Let me speak to Erin.”
“Uhm, well before I ‘shut the fuck up’, I gotta tell her who it is.”
“Huh… Alright, tell her it’s Randy. She knows who it is.”
“Hold please.”
“Honeeeey! Pumpkin! Randy!”
And my wife, who’s about as devious as Don Knotts on sodium pentothal, grabs the phone out of my hand, looks at the phone, looks at me and goes SLAM and I said “AH HAAAAAAA! WHO’S RANDY?”
And we fight for four more days except now I’m a contender.
“SLUT!”
“LOSER!”
“WHOOOOOOOOOOOORE!”
“Yeah, well Randy’s a body builder.”
“Oh yeah, well Tiffany is a waitress!”
“Yeah, well Randy made love to me on a table so hard and I never orgasmed like that with you.”
*Titus stumbles back a few steps as if he’s taken a fast blow to the gut*
“Yeah? Well I made Tiffany cry.”
“Yeah well you’re not funny.”
*another devastating blow for Titus as he falls to the ground*
“Yeah, well since we’ve been dating, you’ve gained seven pounds.”
“Come on…”
And we didn’t stop.
Know when you’re in a relationship and you don’t wanna start a fight by sayin’ something you should say?
Fuck it, we were there.
And we started.
I think my first insult was I think she has cottage cheese thighs.
Yes, HUAAH, oh yeah.
She, uh, counters with the hygiene.
I pick my nose, my feet stink, and my penis is small. The classics.
And then I went after her crack head family, ya know.
And then she tried to make fun of my mom but I was like “PFFTT SO?”
And we were just dualin’, man.
And nothing was — no one was winning except one time she rattled me.
She goes: “You got a dinosaur head!”
“Nu-ugh.”
And we didn’t stop.
I’m talkin’ this fight rained.
Sleep fifteen minutes, fight four hours, sleep fifteen minutes, fight four hours.
Went on for days. It was like four-five days in.
None of us were smart enough to leave.
We just kept fightin’.
We ran out of crap to say, started repeatin’ ourselves.
“Dinosaur head, I got it, I heard ya. Big headed with a small penis. I got it!”
I know why I stayed.
I was raised by Anti-Dad.
I mean I’m an insult-Navy Seal.
But this woman took everything.
I mean this woman took the C word.
*audience gasps at Titus’ audacity to call her a ‘cunt’ and also her ability to shrug it off*
I know!
I was like, “My God! … She’s perfect!!”
We’ve been married thirteen years.
Yep, we don’t have a phone anymore but I’ve purchased a real sturdy table.
She’s not gonna do that again!
*gyrates hips side to side while waving hands in the air, pretending to fuck on the table*
We can do that again.
That’s how I make love. It’s kinda weird.
Probably need to get a book or somethin’.
She’s amazing.
My wife, Erin, my God.
Most amazing human being.
Most hyper-happy human.
If you guys showed up at our house, before you hit the door my wife would be on ya.
“OH MY GOD! COULD I GET YA A SODA YOU WANT A SANDWICH COULD I GET YOU A BLANKET HA HA HA HA HA!”
But because she’s like that it really made me, ya know, get her urine tested a lot more frequently.
Came back with Care Bear DNA.
She’s everything.
If I’m sick, she makes me better.
If I’m sad, she makes me happy.
She’s everything.
Like a Swiss Army wife.
She wants kids, we’re talking about kids, I want kids, I want kids, I want kids.
I think I’d be a pretty good dad.
“No timeout in my house. Come here, here’s a penny. Go play.”
Tell you what, man, raising kids, I’m not gonna do what my father did, man.
My God, my dad.
Like on a family trip, we had to sing every family trip.
Like you had to sing.
You couldn’t not sing.
You were in trouble if you didn’t sing.
It was like some horrible Vietnam psychological torture in the back.
“Hundred bottle of beer on the wall *mental crying breakdown*”
Dad’s in the front seat keepin’ up with the song.
*mimics his father, one hand on the steering wheel and the other quickly throwing back beers*
Got a call from dad a while ago, said:
“Got some news about your mom.”
“Ugh… And?”
So she’s living in Missouri in a trailer ‘cause I guess when you move to Missouri they give you a trailer.
I said “aaand…”
He said “Well, she married another abusive guy.”
“Ugh, and?”
Had one of her episodes.
Took a Duraflame log and put it through the local sheriffs front window.
And I said, “Wow, that’s another new one, huh, dad?”
‘Cause we keep a list by the phone.
And the sheriff in the town knew my mom, didn’t put her in prison.
He put her in this hospital.
She had to go to some crazy therapy like every day for a year and I said, “Pft… and?”
He said, “So she started seein’ her life different.”
I said, “and?”
He said, “She took responsibility for all the crap that had happened.”
I said, “and?”
He said, “She realized it was her and not us that caused it.”
And I said, “and?”
He said, “She got out, and she killed herself.”
*the audience gasps as Titus sits quietly mourning his mother’s death*
“And?”
Cause I hadn’t seen her in like fourteen years, ya know.
Didn’t really faze me.
My dad goes, “Come on, Chris, don’t be like that.”
I said, “Dad, I’m right.”
And I hung up the phone.
Then I called him right back and said, “Dad, she take anybody else with her?”
He said, “Ya know that was my first question.” And he hung up.
And I didn’t deal with it, ya know.
I said, “I’m just gonna take this pus-filled ball of pain and put it over here, wait twenty years then cut out that piece of colon with a tumor in it. No big deal!”
But I had forgotten that your friends and relatives and people that truly love you can truly be a pain in the ass ‘cause no body would let me forget this and move on.
They’re like, “Dude, man, you gotta talk about it, man. It’s your mom.”
“Dude, back off. I’m cool.”
“No, man. I’m not gonna back off, man. You’re tweekin’.”
“Naw, dude. I’m not tweekin’. Back off.”
“Naw, man. I’m gonna say this, man. You are in denial.”
“LOOK, DICK HEAD. I AM NOT AND NEVER HAVE BEEN IN DENIAL! NO!”
“Well see, you feel a little better now, huh?”
And I didn’t deal with it.
And about four weeks after it happened I was on this airplane to Lansing, Michigan to do some shows.
I’m on the plane and the cuisine is being served from a wheeled metal cart like most great cuisine.
And the stewardess put this tray in front of me and it was this Thanksgiving turkey platter ensemble.
And whatever part of your brain kicks off memories, when I smelled it, it kicked off every memory about my mom at, like, one time.
It was like: *beginning to cry by whining incoherently*
In an airplane today, not a real good place to have a nervous breakdown.
Ya know, I’m not worried they’re gonna think I have a bomb but I don’t wanna scare the idiot actually carrying the bomb.
So I flip the tray up and I just ran into that airline bathroom, and don’t do that ‘cause those walls are angled, and you slam right into it.
Now I’m lying on the floor in a fetal position and I’m cryin’ and I don’t mean cryin’.
I mean snot comin’ out my nose, booger bubbles burstin’ all over the place.
And this is just about the time of the unibomber and the stewardess’ are freakin’.
“MR. TITUS, ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE?!”
“UUUGGGGHHH YEEEEEEEEEESSSsssss… I’d like some complimentary peanuts, please.”
And I cried for almost an hour.
Fifty-three minutes.
I was wearin’ a watch.
And I gotta tell ya, I felt better.
Like it was weird, I felt like “Okay, I needed to do that, I felt better.”
And I walk outta the bathroom but I don’t wanna talk to anybody.
There’s always that one guy on the plane: “So, are ya flyin’ away from home or ya flyin’ to ‘em?”
“Shut the fuck up or I poke your eye out with this plastic fuckin’ spork.”
So I grab a Newsweek outta the magazine storage.
And I sit in my seat and I’m just hidin’ behind this Newsweek.
Ya know, right.
I’m not lookin’ at it, I’m just flippin’ through it.
I just don’t wanna talk.
I’m just flippin’ through the Newsweek.
And I stop on an article titled “Mental Illness: Genetic?”
*breaks out into a giggling fit, pretends to show the article to the passenger next to him*
“I have an excuse!”
And the whole — people who saw me go into the bathroom crying are now watchin’ me in my seat hysterically laugh.
The whole plane went for the call button at the same time.
And the article said: “If you have a history of mental illness in your family there’s a high probability between the ages of 18 and 35 that it’s gonna happen to you.”
So I traced my family history.
Check this out.
In the twenties, I had an uncle back east who killed six people.
No one ever told me that shit at Christmas dinner.
That’s a story I wanna know.
My great grandma was a nut.
She screwed up grandma.
My grandma on my mother’s side was so insane, she tried to sleep with my father a week after my mom and dad got married.
She screwed up mom almost totally whacked.
So after I read the article, I couldn’t do anything, man.
If I went to dinner with friends I couldn’t use the fork.
‘Cause I just thought I’m gonna snap in the middle of dinner.
“How you guys doing? How’s the baby going? AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! AND I COULD’N’T FIGURE IT OUT! HOW COME I’M NOT CRAZY?? HOW COME I’M NOT PSYCHOTIC??
I tried therapy.
I went to three sessions.
The therapist I was seein’, uh, she had a famous case where she was treating two people who’d killed their parents.
Yes, ‘cause when I go to see a therapist I don’t like to fuck around, ya know?
I don’t wanna see a guy who’s treatin’ an executive who’s, ya know, tryin’ to deal with his fear of success.
Ya know, I wanna talk to a guy who’s dealin’ with someone who put a twelve gauge to his father’s throat.
There ya go, that’s a therapist.
And I went to see him and I told him all the stories I’ve told you guys tonight and after every story he would look at me and go:
“Interesting, Christopher. What do you think? Good, let that out. Tell me what you think. Good, excellent. That’s healthy. What do you think?”
“Uuuhm, okay, well. Uhm. I’m payin’ you $150 an hour, I kinda wanna know what the fuck you think.”
He said, “Ah, well, you’re dysfunctional.”
I said, “Okay what’s that?”
He said, “Well you don’t quite function correctly.”
“So I’m payin’ you a bill and a half an hour to tell me I’m broken.”
I was angry.
So our last session I kicked him in the groin as hard as I could.
“Now you don’t function correctly. No charge!
And I walked out of that session realizin’ I was slowly becoming one of those people that goes around, walks through life, ya know, just blamin’ his present on his past.
We all got that one friend when you’re sittin’ around tellin’ stories will tell the same lame ass tired story about why his life hasn’t worked out.
“Yeah man, I didn’t get that good job. You know why? And I had to go to a good college, ya know why? I’ll tell you why — ”
“Dude, don’t tell me again. And I want you to know somethin’, man. We all feel really bad that when you were in troop 182, the scoutmaster rubbed your butt at the overnight jamboree. But what are you, like, thirty now? You got life on backwards. Here, let me flip it. There, see? Now your past is behind ya! What’s say you climb down off the cross, use the wood to build a bridge and get over it.”
Oh yeah.
But I got friends that love their pain, man.
I got friends that loooooove their pain.
Just stay behind the fan the whole time.
Ya know, it’s like: *pretends to get splattered with shit from the fan*
“I’m comfortable here. I know it’s gonna happen!”
“I think he still loves me!”
“Dude, man, she spent the night but she swore she didn’t sleep with him.”
So to cover up that damage we gotta be normal, got fit in, right.
Gotta buy the right albums. Gotta buy the Brittany or the Christina, man.
Whatever your pop sensibility is.
Gotta fit in, gotta buy the Lincoln Park, gotta do it.
Gotta, gotta fit in, man.
Gotta buy the cellphone with the GPS, Bluetooth and nuclear launch capability the size of a fuckin’ dime.
Gotta do it, ‘cause I gotta be normal.
No one’s gonna know I’m jacked up, man.
My cubicle at work’s gonna look just like my boss’s cubicle, ‘cept I’ll have a picture of my wife in my cubicle.
Course, my boss has a picture of my wife in his cubicle, I find that odd.
Screw normal.
Ya know why?
Cause if you’re normal the crowd will accept you but if you’re deranged, the crowd will make you their leader.
I can prove this.
Martin Luther King. What’d he say?
“Alright here’s what’s gonna happen. They are gonna come down. They are gonna shoot us with fire houses. They are gonna beat us with sticks. I don’t want anybody doin’ nothin’. You just keep on marchin’.”
“Is that the whole plan?”
Ghandi. “The Muslims and the Hindus are killing each other. I am not going to eat until they stop.”
Ha ha, swingin’ a big bat there, Little Guy.
“Hey stop the war! Ghandi’s tummy’s a rumblin’!”
But it worked.
It worked, man. So how come?
How come mom’s crazy and I’m not.
Well it’s possible my mom could have got up every night in front of this many people, talked about all the crap in her life and those people sat around and laughed with her. Would have meant nothin’ and she could have moved on cool.
It’s also possible she could have taken out the whole front row with a large caliber weapon.
You don’t know, she was like “WHOOOO!!”
She was out there.
But maybe, maybe if the NAPA State Mental Facility had an open mic night things would have been different for mom.
Ya know.
She’da got her own tv show and you’d rewrite me in the enquires as her heroin addicted son.
Oh, we can dream.
But whatever success I’ve had aside, this right here I’ve been doin’ since I was eighteen.
This right here is a difference between paycheck and medication at bed check.
That’s right.
And don’t get me wrong. Hey, I wanna hear your pain, for God’s sakes. Just put it in joke form, that’s all.
Dysfunctional. I’m not dysfunctional; I’m evolving to the next level.
So people, be proud you’re screwed up.
Be proud of it.
Don’t get too proud like me.
I got into an argument with a guy at a bar.
Bet him $50 I was more dysfunctional than he was.
And he raped me.
So I tipped him.
I am very competitive.
And you normal people listen up.
Stuff’s gonna happen in your life.
Bad things are gonna happen that you’re not used to that us screwed up people, it’s happened all ready.
And you’re not gonna know what to do.
You’re gonna go, “Oh my God! Waaahh!!”
And you’re gonna freak out.
And if somethin’ bad happen in your life where you think your life sucks so bad, you needa take a gun like my mom did, put it to your head and pull the trigger.
Before you do that, do me a favor.
Take a minute, put the gun down. Take a deep breath.
AND QUITE BEIN’ A WUSSY!
Yeah! Hell yeah! Yeah! Ha ha! I know, I know, I know!
Can you believe I got fired form the suicide prevention hotline?
My boss walked in, “Titus, man, you gotta go. No, we haven’t had any complaints, exactly.”
Oh, man.
And you normal people, hook up with some screwed up people.
Make us your friends.
You need us!
Who do you want takin’ your keys away at a party after you’ve been drinkin’ all night?
Ya want some normal guy who’s never had a drink before: “Steve! Are you okay? Can you drive? Should I get you some coffee? Do ya want me to tickle ya?”
Or do you want the guy with the ten-year chip from AA?
‘Cause when that guy asks for your keys you’re gonna go, “Damn, I’m wasted. Naw, dude, you’re the man!”
People say junkies have no place in our society.
I say we spend some money, clean up some junkies, and make ‘em all go work for the Red Cross.
You have to give blood at the Red Cross, little paper-hatted trainee kid just stickin’ ya full of holes.
“Golly gee, this is why harder than a deep dryer! How does this work?”
You get an ex-junkie in there, BAM BAM.
He’s gonna find a vein.
You’re in, you’re out. You got a sugar cookie and your happy.
Los Angeles Times reported 63% of American families are now considered dysfunctional.
Good. ‘Cause that means when Armageddon really happens, 37% of this population is gonna lose their mind.
“OH GOD, THE WORLD IS OVER!”
Us 63%, we’re gonna go, “Hey! There’s nobody watchin’ the Lexus dealership.”
“WE’RE GOIN’ TO THE APOCALYPSE WITH LEATHER AND A CD PLAYER!!”
You guys have been great, thank you.
Norman Rockwell does not come up once in Titus’ special, yet his name is in the title that defines the entire stand up. Norman Rockwell is credited with recreating the American image by simplifying it to near perfection; his iconic illustrations of young boys embracing their youth, families gathering around a hardy meal, and diligent men and women at work. Norman Rockwell is America. Or at least his paintings were. In reality, Norman Rockwell was a man who married three times. In between weekly visits to a marriage councilor, he was making psychiatric stops at the renowned Erik Erikson’s office to treat his depression. The man meticulously cleaned his studio three times a day and often joked that by the end of his art career, that would be all he would ever do. His multiple contemplations of suicide failed him as he died at the over-ripe age of 84 from a long-lasting bout of dementia. Perhaps he just forgot about all of his anxiety.
Norman Rockwell was no less dysfunctional than Christopher Titus’ family. When people admire the successful Rockwell’s classic works, no one notices his personal dysfunction in his paintings. Titus’ success as a comedian creates an identical veil of accomplishment. Titus isn’t viewed as some slob in a trailer; he’s a competent, successful, hysterical, and eloquent orator of comedy. No one’s perfect, not even those who attempt to portray it best. By sharing his struggles and achievements alike, Christopher Titus helps the audience realize that while his family kind of sucks, so does everyone else’s on occasion.
Christopher Titus proves in only ninety minutes that he has more than just life to thank his parents for. Norman Rockwell is Bleeding is not just a lucrative comedy stunt for Titus; it’s a tribute to his mother’s maladjusted social skills, his father’s sub-par parenting dexterity, and how both have sculpted his personality. Titus gives homage to his dysfunctional upbringing as it has molded him into becoming the man that he is; the man who knows when to step to the side of the fan when the shit starts flying. It is through Titus’ unorthodox rearing that he has gained what he considers to be some of life’s most valuable knowledge. Abusive girlfriends taught him when a fight just wasn’t worth it, a hard-ass father taught him there is always something that could be better, and a criminally convicted mother taught him the worst moments in life are just as fleeting as the rest. Titus presents a gleaming, new perspective for the audience about dysfunctional people and their families. He himself is an example of how one’s upbringing cannot determine one’s future, making his stand-up more of a subjective fable than a comedy routine, the moral of Titus’ disheveled life being:
“I’m tired, but proud.”
— Norman Rockwell
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