Fellow Mutha’ Yukkers. We need to talk about Burt. Ever since he lost everything in the house fire, his stage performances have been less “yuk, yuk, yuk” and more “what the fuck, fuck, fuck?!” And with the show at the Venango County Amateur Astronomers Refractor Bash just two weekends from now I’m fearful that Burt’s beloved Inuit gynecologist character will lack vim. May I remind you that this is a paying gig, and if the local stargazers don’t get the Inuit gynecologist they pay for, the Mutha’ Yukkers can forget about being alpha short-form improvisational comedy dog in Mid-Northwestern Pennsylvania. We simply can’t let the Space Walk Hobos claim that honor. Yuk those guys.
The fire was last June already. Here it is nearly three weeks later, and Burt still isn’t himself. Yes, I understand that all his earthly possessions were incinerated, and I understand the toll this might take, but a longtime improviser like Burt should understand that a performer has gotta’ swallow his total despair before the Mutha’ Yukkers burst onto the stage to bring the funny straight-up full-throttle. There’ll be time to mix Banker’s Club vodka and Xanax after the show, like we always do.
Surely, I’m not the only one who’s noticed Burt’s utter lack of the Yukkers unique brand of uncompromising spryness lately? Consider our gig at the Boy Scouts of America Pack 134 picnic a few nights ago. During the first game, he totally ignored the audience suggestion of “gay plumber,” and instead went straight into playing a character who had endured a house fire. He wailed endlessly about having been “shit on by God.” Sure, the repeated line “Why me? Why fucking me?” was great character work, but the poor kid with the awesome “I only joined the Boy Scouts to see the Inuit gynecologist” sign looked petrified. I finally had to say to Burt’s character, “Hey, that’s not a burnt photo album in your hand; that’s a frozen speculum.” But Burt kept on until Mark had to rush onstage as a cross-eyed bobsledder with jock itch. (Thanks again, Mark).
And it was all downhill from there. During our normally crowd-rousing game, “Moonshine Hoedown,” Burt rhymed “Saginaw” with “end it all;” during “foreign sportscaster” he said, quote: “and the judges saaay…life is a bucket of shit with the handles in the inside,” (albeit in a hilarious Glaswegian accent); and when he got a suggestion for an occupation, and some scout’s dad shouted “Proctologist!,” Burt literally walked down to the guy and cold-cocked him in the throat. Then Burt ralphed on a poor Webelo, and stumbled headlong into a nearby arborvitae tree. Thank god he did, because I’m pretty sure he was reaching down to take out his penis before he lost his balance. Before the show I privately warned him not to do THIS. EXACT. THING.
I spoke with Burt again after the show, at, like, two o’clock in the morning, when he stumbled into my apartment uninvited. I tried to have a brutally honest improviser-to-improviser talk with him. I spoke about pride. I reminded Burt that out of eleven people that showed up at the fire hall for auditions, he was one of only five hand-picked to be a Mutha’ Yukker. I reminded Burt of his unique gift. Not just anyone can sell being a cowboy with Tourette’s syndrome at a brothel in Narnia, or a burlesque chainsaw juggler who unwittingly becomes the keynote speaker at a convention of doulas.
And, of course, his treasured show-stopping Inuit gynecologist. Most importantly, I warned him that if his on-stage behavior continued, those goobers from the wrong other side of Venango County, the Space Walk Hobos, would start getting booked to do OUR shows. Goddammit, I hate those goofy dorks, with their matching black chinos, bowling shoes, and 5, 4, 3, 2, FUN…It’s the Space Walk Hobos! tee shirts, and how they say “hiyo” after every pun. THAT’S OUR THING! Regardless, Burt wasn’t listening, which is something that old fun Burt would’ve said was “hardy-har-hardly good improvisation technique.”
What of his response to my talk? Burt said that he was tired of all the “same stupid jokes,” and “silly scenes about bowlegged cobblers in a submarine, and a skydiving Martin Van Buren.” Worst of all…prepare yourself…he said “I always hated the Inuit gynecologist.” I was aghast. He said that what he really wants is “someone to hold him”—whatever that means. Then Burt leaned in and tried to kiss me. “AND SCENE! AND SCENE!” I kept saying, while I repeatedly rung the bell on my coffee table. But he kept upping the stakes. Luckily, I was able to crumble him with an ax handle ‘a la Sensei Bunyan, my stock lumberjack karate master character.
As much as it pains me to say it, Burt has turned his back on the golden rule of improv: “Yes, and,” is dead. Our Burt is now all “No, but I’ll tell you idiots what’s really true.”
Although I never mentioned anything to my fellow Yukkers before, this isn’t the first time Burt has expressed himself like this to me. Remember when his wife of 17 years hopped on a midnight plane bound for her longtime secret European lover? Or later, when the economic downturn ended his “fulfilling” daytime career as a caregiver at the Venango County Children’s Hospital? Or earlier this year, when he lost his entire 401(k) due to identity theft? (He should count his blessings. I’m still not sure that I even have an identity to steal!) After each of those things he told me his true feelings for me. I thought he was joking. Each time I watched him pathetically sobbing uncontrollably in my arms, and blubbering on about how he didn’t deserve his fate, especially after logging so many volunteer hours at the Venango County Homeless Shelter For the Terminally Ill. Honestly, all I could think was: Inuit gynecologist.
As much as I care about Burt, and the slowly-decaying humanity within him, I care more about the future of the Mutha’ Yukkers. So, instead of getting an audience suggestion to start a scene, I’d like to offer my fellow Yukkers a suggestion: What am I holding in my arms that isn’t a baby or a watermelon? You sir, in the back; I heard “Burt, just like your house…you’re fired.” (audience applause)
The Mutha’ Yukkers simply can’t allow Burt’s sad-sack existence to encroach into the zany upbeat stage demeanor that successful professional short-form improvisation comedy demands. I understand that the guy literally has nothing going for him besides the diminishingly fleeting escape of stage time. But I think there’s a guiltless way we can amputate Burt from the Yukkers: the Space Walk Hobos are holding auditions in the church basement this weekend. As much as I’d hate to see his impeccable snaggletooth narcoleptic spelunker or used car salesman extraordinaire John “Yeehaw” Merrick join Venango County’s cheesiest improv troupe, let them deal with the fallout of Burt’s homeowner insurance company’s recent bankruptcy.
Sure, the anguish of knowing that the Space Walk Hobos will bask in the fruits of the world’s most hilarious gynecologist character may seem unbearable, but remember, Burt was never really that Inuit anyway.
HIYO!!!
