MHG and I had our anniversary last Friday night at the Mitch Hedberg/Stephen Lynch extravaganza. The comedy was divine. I have one complaint.

Folks, as funny as tried-and-true five-liners are, I pay to hear new material. If you want to hear a specific joke, listen to the CD. Hedberg’s not a lounge singer and he is not your personal jester. Strangely, Stephen Lynch, who sings SONGS, received no requests. And during his ComedySportz-style improv section, people requested things already requested by audience members on his CD.

If you want to have the same entertainment regurgitated to you repeatedly, do not go to concerts. Just play the MP3 over and over again until your brain melts. Please. For all our sakes.

To continue my night of the living braindead, MHG took me out for dessert where we had the misfortune of sitting across from a foursome of twenty-somethings whose conversations were so disgustingly and laugably stereotypical that I could only use David Cross’ words to describe them when MHG returned to the table: “Rich, giggling cunts.” Four Paris Hilton clones yammering on about their bosses who won’t let them play Beyoncé and “Justin” over the stereo. Good on you, you unseen bosses.

One was even wearing a t-shirt proclaiming herself “Mrs. Timberlake.” Mind you, these were grown women sipping cocktails, women whose vaginas have no doubt been excavated by the most neanderthal of Corvette-drivers. I repeat some modern wisdom: “Do you sleep with 12-year-olds? Then why do you listen to their music?” God, this country deserves Bush.

Link via Keiko, who also revamps her website.