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Paper Boy

 (Photo cred: my college roommate/and the Charlie Runkle to my former Hank Moody, BRY KOTYK)

What it is, Scenesters. What the fuck IT IS.

It’s your old Uncle Dean Dean here with another urgent dispatch from the SCENE MAGAZINE COMEDY AFFAIRS DESK.

This Monday marked 31 years since I stopped getting buck naked and acquainting myself with a training vagina (ie, I was born). And I’ve learned a thing or two along the way. Not about vaginas really, just other stuff (below!)

#A. First off, never funnel scotch. Especially not GOOD scotch.

#B. Never trust anyone in a suit unless they’re in a funeral home applying Revlon to the faces of the dead OR they’re on cable television delivering a Late Show monologue.

#3. Teenagers really ARE fucking idiots. And (on a related note) ‘dope’ is not an adjective. Get it together you little shit heads!

That’s about all. I did everything short of going to a James Taylor concert at Massey Hall to announce my formal entry into “my 30s” this past weekend. The naked grape Merlot from my friends at the Wine Rack flowethed like the beers of Aspen (Dumb & Dumber ’94 callback, you young fucks). There was an overnight getaway to a wilderness spa. Turns out massages (legit ones) make me drool/almost fall asleep/almost inappropriately have a boner at an inopportune time in a young man’s life. And to top it all off, there was brunch at Cora’s…

Yeah, so what? Blow me, teenagers. (Not LITERALLY. I could get in hot water for that)

In my 20s, I spent every birthday rolling with the “Saturday Cowboys”, a roving 6-pack of beer-fed shit kickin’ good ‘ol boys I’ve always travelled with (full disclosure, they are also my cousins). We used to head down to Duluth, Minnesota for the weekend and get good and primed up on Sam Adams and free-poured hard booze, American style! We’d chain-smoke Marlboro Reds until our fingers were orange, and then rifle those bad boys knucks-deep into some sweet Wisconsin ass. Jesus, I’m terribly sorry. For 31, I’m being very immature right now.  

Where was I?

In all seriousness, I’m settling into my 30s quite nicely. I’m engaged right up – AND interestingly enough, dear Scenesters, I met my insanely life-improving fiancee at the very show I’m about to plug! It was a faithful night at KITCH Komedy, back in the spring of 2013. And here we are, in the final stretch of this very ADULT year of our Lorde, 2014.

I also remember my friend Natasha Henderson, the founding producer behind KITCH, telling me some years ago that I would LOVE my 30s because it’s all the fun of your 20s, without the bullshit. The drama. The high school crap. The growing pains. At 30, you start to REALLY figure out who you are, and who you want to be. You get comfortable in your own skin. A-Men, sister! Boy was she right.

And here we are. Another week at KITCH Komedy, another year wiser. Another feverishly written chapter of this long, sweet anthology we calls life, committed to the flame. Somewhere along the way this year I became a home owner, a cat owner, a podcast network owner, a world traveller. And a soon-to-be-married guy. Comfortable indeed!

Then again, maybe this week’s reliably rowdy lineup of crowd killers will dial my maturity back to college level. When I still had my baby fat… Jesus! 

Fat Dean

Joining my sweet young ass (which will start aging like vinegar any time now, if Ving Rhames has anything to say about it) THIS THURSDAY in the land of Beer & Nachos..


It all goes down THURSDAY nights at 9. @KITCH (229 Geary Ave, Duff + Dupont) 


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