Dark Blonde
written by Sarah Blodgett
Most of my stand-up material comes from my own life experiences. I have bad dates, I write about them. I get dumped, I write about it. But recently (and by “recently” I mean a comic’s “recently”, so really like a year ago), I wrote a new joke. But this wasn’t just any joke. It was cursed.
Since I was 19, I have been told I look like Anna Nichole Smith. I get it from everyone. When she was chubby and had her reality show, I was chubby (and didn’t have a reality show) and people noticed the resemblance. Then she lost the weight with TrimSpa, and I lost the weight (not with trim spa) and people pointed out that similarity.
Now, I had always done a few bits on stage referencing my resemblance to Anna Nichole. However, when she died, I retired them. I wanted to honor her memory and not make fun of her.
I remember that I did a show on the night of her death. I walked into the club and comics where running up to me saying, “We heard about Anna. Now you can’t use your jokes! What are you going to do?” I think its funny how comics think. I mean, a woman died. I think I’ll be okay losing a joke. That night, I decided to end my set differently. I wasn’t going for a laugh. I said, “I usually do jokes making fun of Anna Nichole Smith, but in honor of her death, I wanted to end my set tonight with a tribute to her. Since a moment of silence doesn’t seem appropriate, because Anna could never stay silent, I ask that the next time you see someone stumble or slur their words, that you take a moment to look up to the heavens and say, ‘Hey Anna, thanks for the memories’.” Women came up to me after the show and said how great they thought it was, and how much they loved Anna. Her memory lives on.
But what to do about my jokes? People were still telling me how much I looked like Anna. Of course, people from older generations also tell me I look like Jayne Mansfield. I also grew up idolizing Marilyn Monroe. Now, the similarities between me and these three women are mostly physical. We all have platinum blonde hair (well our hairdressers all gave us platinum blonde hair). We all have larger than average busts; some natural some not, myself being in the first group. Then it hit me, the wall, I really can’t write jokes and walk at the same time.
Then I realized that all blonde bombshells seem to have one thing in common. The joke went like this:
Basically, all of the Hollywood blonde bombshells that look like me have died in pretty sudden, tragic, controversial deaths. It’s not looking good for me. But at least I know how I’m going to go. I mean, I don’t know specifically, but I have it narrowed down to three possibilities: drug overdose, car accident, or stabbed by OJ Simpson.
A week later, exactly a week to the day that I had first done the joke on stage, I was driving along and my car started to sound funny. It sounded like my tire was going flat. Since it was raining and I was close to home, I decided to try to drive home. That way, I could just wait for AAA at my own apartment.
As I drove towards home, I heard a loud bang, lost control of the car, and skidded off the road. Luckily the curb stopped me from continuing. When I caught my breath, I wanted to get out and look at the car. However, the traffic was speeding by me and I didn’t want to risk becoming blonde road kill.
I called AAA and, through my tears, tried to explain where I was. When the tow truck arrived, out came Mr. Mechanic, a mocha-skinned, Puerto Rican, in dirty overalls (Puerto Rican mechanics are a weakness of mine, but that’s another story). He parked behind my car, but out a little in the street, so that I could get out and not get hit. We both stood there staring at my tire.
“It’s not flat,” I said in shock.
“Your car is resting on your tire,” Mr. Mechanic said, also in shock.
“Isn’t it always,” I said confused (an auto mechanic I am not).
“No, your wheel is not attached to your car anymore, the car is just resting on the tire, and the bolts that hold the wheel on are all gone,” said Mr. Mechanic.
I swear I heard twilight zone music in the background.
“Do you have any enemies?” he asked. I tried to let out a laugh, but he repeated more seriously, “Are you sure you don’t have any enemies, cause bolts don’t just fall off wheels.”
“I don’t think so,” I answered, trying desperately to think of people that might hate me.
Mr. Mechanic put the tire back on my car. Now, I know modern women aren’t supposed to say this, but it did feel nice to be rescued by a man. It was nice to have a knight in shining armor. Of course, my knight didn’t have a white horse; he had a white tow truck.
His sword was actually a wrench, and, instead of armor, he had greasy fingernails. But other than that, it was exactly like a fairy tale.
The whole drive home, I just kept thinking about what Mr.
Mechanic said. I couldn’t possibly know anyone that hated me that much. Then I realized…my joke! I had just written a joke about three possible ways I was going to die. Now, I don’t use drugs, and I don’t know OJ Simpson (although he may be a suspect), but I drive my car. I could have been in a major accident if that wheel had fallen off on the highway. Maybe this was divine intervention. Maybe I shouldn’t write jokes about death. Or maybe Anna Nichole, Jayne, and Marilyn would still be alive today, if they had had a greasy mechanic to save the day.
Sarah Blodgett is a writer and performer from Boston, MA.
Visit myspace.com/sarahcomedy.