Fan-Fiction

I hate Demitri Martin.

Demetri Martin is the worst thing to happen to comedy central since Mind of Mencia. He’s worse than Carrot-Top, who at least knows he’s not funny. He’s worse than just about everything I can think of, except maybe Larry the Cable Guy. In fact, maybe Martin is just the white collar Larry the Cable Guy.

Hear me out: The network is clearly stabbing for the Flight of the Concords demographic. But the subscription crowd will surely be too cool for this generic brand of ironic comedy recently co-opted from the corpses of actual comedians like Mitch Hedburg and George Carlin. So to cover its bases, the show is also pulling for retards. Maybe I would like him if he had a funny voice, or if the show had a more conventional structure (apparently his Sitcom idea, Williamsburg, crashed and burned). But I doubt it. There is simply nothing there to improve upon. Like his comedy, Martin is soft, harmless, and hollow inside. And while I have scientifically proven the Concords variety hour has at least some substance, a core talent with which to entertain a somewhat engaged audience, Demetri Martin has proven to himself to be a mere shell of man, an overeducated hack so painfully talentless that one can only hope he has sold his once precious human soul to Comedy Central’s marketing dept in hopes of becoming the next Zach Braff. 

But lets look at the upside. The show is so unintelligible, so embarassingly unfunny, it will inevitably bring the downfall of white collar hipsterdom. (New York Magazine is proudly declaring him the Barack Obama of comedy, God help us). Make no mistake: If hipsters were the Republican party, Demetri Martin is their George W. Bush – mixed with Braff and that guy from the apple commercials. Cute*, dumb, and proudly detached from the reality-based community, Martin has poisoned the hipster brand by exposing the culture for its quintessential whiteness, irrelevence, and utter retardation. With every failed pun, every pointless parenthetical, every asinine skit, every big-nosed stick figure set to Elliot Smith, we see who the white collar hipster really is, and has always been. A Herb. Grown-up ‘freaks and geeks’ who never learned to compensate with a winning personality, much less fully develop any personality at all, and now sit all day on their computers (either at work/home/or all the time if you have an iphone or blackberry) devolving into the same child-like state as the rest of America, except with maybe an Obama bumper sticker and a matching feeling of superiority. Martin will surely appeal to them. In marketing circles, these people have been awarded the prestigous title of belonging to the Creative Class – but only a tiny fraction will ever create anything of artistic worth or technical ingenuity to merit the term “Creative.” Most of this unskilled Creative Class, including the hobbyist Martin, will never produce anything of value, but still receive a rising wage every year, even during a recession, meanwhile, the innovative/productive sector of the economy is laid off. Of course, then, Martin would base a whole episode around ‘the chair’ – since like Martin points out, work is always done in a chair. Manual labor? Please. This show was never meant for people who don’t get to sit while working. For them, Comedy Central offers explicit  “Blue Collar” Comedy. For the people who this show is meant for, may God have mercy on your souls. 

The last paragraph of the New York Magazine article will make you shudder:

“On second thought, Martin is not the Obama of comedy. After all, the world is just as messed up as it was last year, maybe more so. There’s still plenty to be outraged about, plenty of bozos for sharp comedians to shred and skewer. All the one-liners and anagrams in the world won’t remedy that. But there’s a part in If I where Martin talks about how, when he looks at signs on the street, the letters seem to rearrange themselves before his eyes, Mobil transforming magically into Limbo. He’s learned to believe that “there’s a parallel world right in front of us that’s revealed with a small shift in perspective.” Inside the studio, on that frigid night, the audience seems eager for the refuge of parallel worlds. Everyone’s glad to gather here in this bubble of pure absurdity, thrilled to watch six words become six minutes, and six minutes become a half-hour, and that half-hour, if it doesn’t change the world, at least allows them to escape it for awhile. ”

*Supposedly, no homo.

As usual, my pugnacious punctualism has punished me again. I am no Ignatius J Reilly, but what can I say, I enjoy a good lunch. Especially a buffet. Unfortunately, Najia  was late and I was growing restive – mostly because I was eating at Indian Taj , and I sort of thought every person of Indian descent might be her. Or maybe they all just  reminded me of all those happy Indian people at the Oscars. All of whom I hate, and can rot in hell for all I care. Now I forgot to introduce Najia. Najia is Dan’s Kashmiri-Texan girlfriend, but the most important thing about her is this: she is constantly slowing me down. Whether it be on my quest for sustenance, stimulation, sex, or the familiar comfort of my TV-oriented bed, hanging out with her and Dan inevitably forces me to compromise my timetables. 

Indian Taj is not the kind of place one can’t wait for a missing party. The line of people already serving themselves is too beckoning to turn down. It’s a marvelous place, but unfortunately not the best place in the area, which is Sangam by far. Have you ever had Biryani so good you thought might die of auto-erotic asphyxiation? No. Then you have never been to Sangam. And by auto-erotic asphyxiation, I mean choking yourself while masturbating. 

Anyway, its a buffet, so who can argue with that? As I have mentioned before, my skin ails me from time to time. Particularly my nose (a fine example of American Jewry). And for said ailment, I have pills. Najia’s tardiness made me forget to take said pills, and since I am incapable of swallowing said pill the normal way (such as with with a glass of water), I have to crunch it up with my teeth, which from time to time, ends up with me spitting out the contents of my mouth. Pretty normal stuff. Except for when the chewed up bits of pill come shooting out of your nose. Yeah. Luckily I spirited away before she could come close to finishing her meal, arriving a full 20 minutes early for my next ren-de-vous. And to think, if I had waited for her, I would have only been 10 minutes early!

Speaking of which, will anyone be able to promenade on the town with me over spring break?

Yeah.

***

INDIAN TAJ

162 Bleecker between Thompson and Sullivan

SANGAM

140 Bleecker between Macdougal and 6th

***

So for those of you have read this to the end, you may have realized that this is not in fact me.

While some of the events that happened in this may be true, my friend Dan had begged me to “ghost-write” an entry for the sake of his “Kashmiri girlfriend” Najia who I did, indeed, spit blue-pill-water into the face of. 

I was so flattered when I read the post that he would take the time and effort to parody me that of course, I had to post it.

It’s funny, ha ha.

But Demetri Martin does need a hair cut.

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