I’m in the business of listening to and telling stories, one on one, all day long. I’m a Colon Hydro-therapist, which means, very simplistically, I give people enemas, lots of them. Because our body stores emotion in our tissues, this therapy allows my clients to let go that which does not serve them. As one of my regulars, with a PhD in forensic psychology, recently told me, “this is better than Sigmund Freud’s couch, if people can talk about their lives while releasing it from the other end, there is no better therapy.”
I love my job and in my secret fantasy world, if I could choose any profession, I’d be a rock star. Telling stories through music to thousands of people who are beaming love right back at you must be incredible. Being that I never played a musical instrument (do tambourines and cow bells count?) and I can’t sing, it’s a good thing I believe in reincarnation. Perhaps my complete lack of musical ability is a blessing because the reality of that life – sex and drugs, lack of privacy, people drooling on you while stealing your money – would drive me nuts. On second thought, in my next life perhaps I’ll be a chihuahua with a master who goes to rock-n-roll concerts and keeps me tucked away in her rhinestone purse.
I’m in a small room all day with no windows so there is a part of me that needs to get out and express myself. Since I have a potty mouth (the puns are endless in my line of work) and I’m not afraid to make an ass of myself (see?) I decided to sign up for a standup comedy class. At the end of the first class the instructor gave us our homework: “Next week you will write and tell three jokes. Try to stay away from the following topics that get an easy laugh because they make people uncomfortable- body parts, the f-word and poop- see if you can be more creative than that,” he said in a condescending tone.
Next class, I volunteer to go first and start by saying, “I’m a f-ing Colon Hydrotherapist with a vagina and you can kiss my ass” all Rosanne Barr-ish. I thought I was hilarious! The other students were shocked and looking for the teacher’s reaction to decide if they should laugh. No, they should not. He was pissed off – red-faced and you could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. I proceeded to tell a couple lame jokes and sat down in shame.
In preparing for the next class the words began flowing onto the page – eleven pages of funny material to be precise. I was ready. I would redeem myself. The teacher, who liked to hear himself talk and I believe was using his students to test his own material, didn’t call on me until the very end of class. It was 9:28pm, class was over at 9:30, I was exhausted. He looked at his watch and told me I had two minutes (everyone else had had up to ten). So, I picked out page five which had one of the funniest stories and told. It got some laughs but not from the teacher. He said I needed more one-liners. I explained that if I had more time I would be able to set up this “joke” and follow it up with a conclusion and it would be funnier.
One of the women in the class took pity on me and raised her hand, bless her soul, and said, “You are a Storyteller, not a standup comedian and you can take classes at South Mountain College.” The “teacher” responded with, “Storytelling is a flash in the pan. Stand-up comedy had been around since the 1950’s.”
And, side note, I don’t drink or do drugs, don’t like being in bars, I’m happily, monogamously married with two teenage sons and most nights we’re in bed by 9:30 so thank God I found you, Liz Warren, in this lifetime.
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