What it takes to scare me

Two buttoned-up white guys, a female prosecutor, a black guy named Whitey, and a lesbian walk into a biker party...

And it was slightly terrifying.  Unless there is broccoli involved, I'm not one who unnerves easily.  But there was once this day that had me thinking, "Holy hell...what did I get myself into."  This is that story.

For those who don't know, I've been doing improv comedy for the better part of a decade.  It doesn't fit with the unforgiving ADA or the evil stepmother motif I usually drape myself in, but I like keeping people on their toes.

Me at work.

Me at rest.

I've done my improv at a few different locations, but for the past two years, I've been working with a small group called Ooops! Comedy Improv out of Greenville. (I'll pause for a moment while you go find us on Facebook and like our page.........................................................done?  Okay good.)  During the same time I've been working with Ooops!, I've also known this little girl who has undergone a lot of medical issues in her three years.  So when I saw a benefit being hosted for her and that they were looking for entertainment options, I thought, "Yes! A chance to raise money for this little girl and get the Ooops! name out there?  Win-win.  And I get karmic points.  Triple win for the win, so...umm, quadruple win?  

I cognitively knew that the event was being hosted by a biker group.  But my fellow Ooopsers are a diverse group and can accommodate anything and anyone.  That's what improv does, right?  Plus, my dad's a biker. I've grown up around Harleys and biker dudes my whole life.  I've gone to Bike Week in Myrtle Beach a half dozen times, and I'm no worse for wear.  How bad could it be...

The missing part of the equation that I didn't have before answering that question was: where is this event going to be held?  The Shriners' Club?  The Moose Lodge?  The Piggly Wiggly parking lot?  Any of those venues would have been easy to transform into a barrel-o-laughs.  But what I found out too late was that the event was going to be held at the motorcycle clubhouse.  And only when we showed up did we learn that not only was the event hosted by bikers...they comprised the entire audience.  And they had been drinking.  A lot.  Possibly moonshine.  Or axle grease mixed with absinthe.  I wouldn't know.

Let's set the scene.  Our "stage" was the flatbed of a tractor trailer.  The egress of which was a ladder with a rung or two missing.  It was approximately seven degrees past the heat of hell, and we were the only ones not wearing leather.  While waiting to perform, I walked inside to use the restroom.  I heard an unfamiliar whir, and peek my head around the corner.  People were lined up to get tattooed.  It was loud and rowdy and...well, it was a biker party.  I don't really need to go too much farther for you to get a pretty accurate mental picture.

My fellow Ooopsers were looking at me with a expression that I can only describe as "Seriously.W.T.F.Lisa?"  The five of us hoped the crowd would settle a bit once we got into the act.  And that might have been a logical thought...if improv weren't so inherently interactive.  See, the kind of improv we do requires suggestions from the audience.  We get things like "porcupine" and "Justin Bieber" and "menopause."  If the crowd is feeling frisky, we might get "gynecologist" or "condom."  That is in our normal show.  This was not a normal show.

From the moment we got on stage and explained that we needed them to yell out things to us...well, whatever word you just thought, we got it.  And that other one too.  And then there were the requests to show various parts of our anatomy, dance, take it off, shake, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  We realized very quickly that it was going downhill-er fast.  And yet we pressed on.  Keeping to our scheduled game list, we asked for volunteers.

Note.  If you find yourself performing for drunken bikers, do not ask for volunteers.  Ever.  I just saved you probably thousands of dollars in therapy.  Send me a Christmas card.

Thankfully, they mostly kept their hands to themselves with me, but one of my fellow performers had to physically stop a woman who was actively taking off his belt.  And then they started throwing stuff.  Not tomatoes...that would have made sense.  And been less deadly.  They started throwing beer at the stage.  Not empty beer cans.  Or even open, half-full beer cans.  Unopened, full beer cans kept flying up to (and by) the "stage."  I keep telling myself that they were throwing it up to the guy who was attempting to fellate my head, but I'm not sure.  After the fact, a couple of the Ooopsers told me that there had definitely been a spear thrown too.  No, not a knife.  Not a stick.  A spear.  I either didn't want to see it or I've blocked it from memory.

Sometime very shortly after this picture was snapped, we decided that it was really time to cut our losses and run.  We ended our set about 30 minutes early, but no one had been maimed.  So we considered it a win.  

In all seriousness, they were there for a good cause and did raise a lot of money.  And they were good-natured and friendly...very, very friendly.  And still.  I can't help the nervous twitches I have when I hear a Fat Boy go by.

Me after performing for bikers.