Hey Fandy’s, my hour special, “Shameful Information,” comes out nurxt murnth (July 24th). Here’s a meme Comedy Dynamics made to tide you over 😎🙏
Ah what the hell, I ain’t doin this bit on TV anyway
Coloradan Fandy Fandfords, I’ll be dipping in for a week of shows and green chili’s.
Crohn’s Disease (funky butt disorder)
Hi, I’m Andy, and I have Crohn’s Disease. I never got why someone else’s disease seems to affect me so much, or why my ailment is possessive, but it does own me at times, so I stopped caring about the name.
Crohn’s is an auto-immune disorder where my immunity gets a lil too fired up, sees food as a foreign invader, and then attacks my own intestines (good lookin out, immunity!). The pain of a flare up will make me freeze, no matter what I’m doing. I’ve freaked quite a few people out with a mid-convo collapse. It hurts a lot. Like, a lot lot. It hurts so much that a part of me wants to throw hands when I hear someone ignorantly refer to it as a “shit-your-pants” disease. If shitting my pants was my biggest worry, I’d be on easy street with shitty pants.
The easiest way I can describe a Crohn’s flare up is having a grade school bully perform a Native American rug burn on your intestines. So as you can imagine, not shitting my pants isn’t too much for me since I’m already pretending not to writhe in front of people.
My Crohn’s is stress-induced, which is quite stressful, actually. My body has worked out a system of turning stress into excruciating pain and, I gotta say, it has been less than chill to deal with. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, but it wasn’t diagnosed until I was 18, and by that time it was too late for 11 inches of my intestine that had to be surgically removed. I thought I was all fixed up after that surgery and have learned since that Crohn’s will switch up where it attacks and it makes it hard to pinpoint each time it does that.
I have just gotten past my most recent, gnarliest flare up that resulted in a fistula (fancy word for “hole”) in my lower intestine. I’ve never had that before and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone: especially me. I ate no food from the day before Thanksgiving until about 12 days later. I cried tears of joy upon eating and keeping down a cup of vanilla pudding. I had to come up with another reason why I was in such a good mood.
Stress-induced illness has a knack for bad timing. I was unable to be a part of a comedy holiday album recording that I was honored to be asked to do. I also had to cancel a week of work in Denver, as well as make it nearly impossible to tape a half hour submission for the comedy big wigs. But I can’t stress about that unless I want a colostomy bag.
I don’t normally talk about having Crohn’s on stage because I don’t want to be defined by a fucking disease, but now I’m thinking I could be the person to set people straight on what it is: a grown man who doesn’t shit his pants who is tougher than most and can probably beat up your dad. I’m not sure yet how much of a spokesperson I’ll actually be since I wouldn’t say anything about it if it wasn’t funny first. I just know that I’m over not bothering to go into it.
With that said, consider this a warning: if you ask me about Crohn’s, I will tell you all about it. So if you wanna just say “hope yer doin ok,” just say that if you don’t have time for a detailed tour of my pain and misery :)
On the Creep at Cheese’s
One time, back in my poker days, I was playing a cash game that was run by a gentleman who only went by “Cheese.” Cheese’s game wasn’t huge or anything (2-5 game. Most bought in for $250/$300 & you could usually count on everybody for a couple re-buys). There were 7 players at the table and 3 or 4 dudes in the connecting room playing Madden for money/arguing. I went to the bathroom, started peeing, and heard a loud crash. My stream had strayed to such a wayward trajectory that a significant amount of my urine ended up in a soap dish(?). Immediately following the crash, I heard a lot of yelling. Angry yelling. Familiar angry yelling.
I suppose it’s worth noting that 3 weeks prior to this night, I was dealing a game that got held up and I had to have way too long of a conversation with a gun to my head, so I was a little on edge. I knew that if this shit that cannot be happening *again* is indeed happening AGAIN in the SAME MONTH, then I can’t be found hiding in the bathroom unless I was ok with getting pistol whipped (I am not). I immediately shoved a little over $600 into an air vent and covered it with a bathroom rug. There was still a lot of yelling, mostly incoherent. I made a lot of noise unlocking the door and slowly opened it, ready to get it over with.
I stepped out of the bathroom to hear a voice. Louis, an old, crotchety degenerate gambler grumbled at me, “Andy, why the fuck are you leaving that bathroom on the creep?!” Everyone laughed at me, and I had to pretend I wasn’t *just* psyching myself up for a nightmare (again). Turns out I had pissed into a soap dish, hidden my money, and braced myself for death because of a heated argument over Madden ‘06. Luckily, I creeped my ass right back in that bathroom and got my money out of the vent before they realized just how “on the creep” I was.
An hour later, Cheese screams from the bathroom, “hey! Who the fuck pissed on the toilet paper?!…Louis, you too fuckin old.”
I’d be willing to bet all the money I stuffed in that vent that the pee on the toilet paper was probably mine, but Louis *was* really old and I guess he’d built himself a rep for being a piss maverick. So if you’re reading this and are somehow not dead: I’m sorry about that, Louis. That was my bad.
Becoming the Cigarette Kingpin of Military School
My sixth and seventh grade years were spent at Lyman Ward Military Academy in Camp Hill, Alabama. I feel I should clarify that I was not much of a troublemaker before military school; more of a quiet, weirdo only child. I was, however, terrible at school and a burden on my poor mother. That still doesn’t explain me going to military school, but my mom has said she was worried about me not having any male influence in my life…so what better way to achieve that than sending me to an all boys boarding school (grades 6-12) where everyone was jackin off and fighting all day? I don’t blame her now: she was in a tough spot. She couldn’t know that I’d come out worse than I came in.
pics from Knitting Factory Sunday courtesy of Hunter Peress
