The comedian and his turtle

"Why did you want to become a comedian?" the pink turtle asked, whilst he made scrambled eggs.

"I wish I had a definite answer," I said. "However, the fact that you only seem real due to my excessive consumption of narcotics makes me think you're either a simple fragment of my own imagination or a dissociation of my personality that has chosen to live in the sewers and learn martial arts from some random mutant rat."

Some days I wake up after having had intercourse with a morbidly obese woman and question my existence. Why am I here? Who is this woman? How can I dispose of her body in a manner that won't alert the authorities? As I stare into the morning skies eating some out of date cheesecake, I wonder.

From the very moment I was born I tried to be funny. Had my fair share of success at birth, as one has to admit there is nothing more amusing than seeing an individual like myself, with a face that resembles a messy pubic area, abandoning a vagina. One cannot afford such luxuries these days.

In my early years, Grandmother Zulmira was my biggest fan. With my father's help I recorded what was Ruben's first ever appearance on tape. Terrifying as it sounds, this recording's contents amount to background conversations of my mother and grandmother tidying up the kitchen after dinner, three-year-old Ruben performing swearing duties on a microphone and my dad doing his best to stop me from swallowing that same object.

At the time my dad must have thought either I was going to be some sort of performing artist or just somebody who takes great pleasure in shoving phallic objects down his throat. So far, I must admit to have failed at both. A comedian isn't always an artist. A comedian doesn't always perform. As in my case, sometimes he's not even funny and therefore does occasionally suck. But as Bev from Swindon* once said, you just got to keep trying.

"But why a comedian?" the turtle asked whilst reading War and Peace and taking a shit on my dinner table - quite an exceptional animal, even good at multitasking. "What's in being a comedian that makes it so special?"

I thought about it for a moment then a tear started running down my cheek and I wondered what the cause could be for my incontinent eye. Then I realized I was alone in my living room, naked and chopping onions to the sound of Spandau Ballet's 'Gold'. Mental note: don't consult with Dr. Hoffman during the week.

"It's the laughs," I said to the nonexistent turtle. "I love their sound, the energy. It's really a sad thing. In the end I think it's about acceptance. The comedian is a loner, he just doesn't belong anywhere. Some men conquer by force, some by intelligence, I have none of those. I can only try to be funny. Share the most embarrassing moments of my life and hope that audiences will laugh at my misery. But I will happily exchange my misery for their happiness. When I make that connection with others, when my truth becomes theirs and they laugh and are happy, even for a moment, that makes me happy".

"You're an utopian," the turtle said, smiling. "Maybe one day your dreams will come true without you having to take any drugs. Maybe you'll make that connection you long for, everybody will laugh and not because you have a beard or are remotely funny, just because I'm nice and took a picture of you sucking on my balls."


Image borrowed from here.

* A nice lady that gave me a cigarette on the 2nd of June of 2014 outside the Frog and Bucket in Manchester when I was very, very drunk.