Max Does Stand-Up … Until He’s Told to Sit Down

Craig Shoemaker deservedly was named “Comedian of the Year” by the American Comedy Awards on ABC because he’s wet-your-pants funny (your pants, not his). This versatile comic and film actor does everything from topical humor to dead-on impersonations (notably, Don Knotts playing Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith Show) to his screamingly funny trademark “Lovemaster” routine (“stand back or I might poke your eye out”). His half-hour Comedy Central special has been voted by viewers as one of the network’s “Top 20” stand-up specials of all time.

His tours around the country have included stops at several L.A.-area casinos, including the Bike, Commerce, and Crystal Park (where he spotted Tom McEvoy’s infamous pigs-on-motorcycles tie and based half of his act on it). His most recent casino gig was at the Hustler Casino, where my sweetie and I watched his show for the fifth time. Unfortunately, he was a little hard to hear because she was laughing so loud.

I even got to be part of his act — for a few seconds. He asked several members of the audience to do their childhood renditions of firing off a machine gun. When he got to me, I did a perfect automatic weapons imitation: “Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.” Then he asked me if I was constipated.

Anyway, listening to the nonstop audience laughter made me jealous. I know that my Card Player columns are hysterically funny, but I don’t get the satisfaction of hearing my fans chuckle when they read them at home. The same goes for the memorable comedy bit I did for the National Lampoon’s Strip Poker video. That got me thinking. Why couldn’t I do stand-up comedy, as well? And maybe even do a routine with Shoemaker.

It wouldn’t be the first time that I had tried to be involved with stand-up comedy. I once convinced Danny Gans that his Vegas act would go over better if he did impersonations of poker players. But when I took a few of them over for him to check out, the results were disastrous. Phil Hellmuth did a meltdown when he wasn’t allowed to be the first player on the stage, and Barbara (my sweetie) had to change his diapers; Dirty Wally wouldn’t stop talking until Gans had a stagehand club him on the head and throw him in an alley; and nobody could understand a woid of what John Bonetti was saying. Those sorts of things — which I should have expected.

Anyway, after his show, I talked to Shoemaker. I informed him that I was America’s foremost poker humorist, and suggested that the two of us would make a great comedy act.

“Sorry, Max,” he said, patting me on the head, “but I’m doing just fine by myself.”
“Maybe,” I persisted, “but just think. All really great comedy over the years has come from teams. You know, Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy …”

“Charlie McCarthy? Dummy!”

“Who you calling a dummy?” I replied, indignantly.

He patiently explained that McCarthy was a ventriloquist’s dummy. “The part would fit you, Max, but I wouldn’t want you sitting on my lap.”

“Look,” I persisted, “I’d make a great straight man for you.”

“Straight man?” he responded, staring at me. “You don’t look straight to me, darling.”
(I guess I shouldn’t have patted him on the butt.) But I wouldn’t give up. “Then how about I do your warm-up act?” I suggested.

“You are going to warm up my audience? How do you plan to do that? By farting on them?”

Boy, I thought, this guy is really a class act. Suddenly, I had an idea. “Look, Craig, I have a pal named Big Denny who owns the Barstow Card Casino. If I can get you a gig there, can I do comedy, too?”

“Barstow? Hey, I’m finally making the big time.” Realizing that he’d never get me off his back, Shoemaker finally relented, saying he had a few days between engagements later in the month. I called Big Denny with my offer.

“Sure,” the big guy said. “We need ta do somet’in new on account of da farmers here been gettin’ tired hearin’ dat old yenta Aunt Sophie tryin’ ta sing. Bring da bum in.”
We set a date, and drove up. Shoemaker shook his head as we walked into the shabby converted cow barn, where the aroma of cow dung still lingered. “You been practicing your warm-up act?” he asked, glancing suspiciously at me.

We immediately encountered Aunt Sophie, who stood there with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “So, you are the two shmeggeges who my act away from me you are taking?” she shrieked.

When Shoemaker started looking back at the doorway, I smiled weakly at him. “You know what they say in showbiz, Craig: ‘The show must go on.’”

That night, only a handful of farmers in overalls showed up, along with Aunt Sophie in the front row throwing dirty looks. Undaunted, I bounded confidently onto the stage. “Hi, folks,” I greeted my audience. “I’m Max Shapiro, America’s foremost poker humorist. Of course, I’m also America’s only poker humorist.”

I paused, waiting for the laughter. There wasn’t any, just loud booing from Aunt Sophie.

I tried again. “As soon as Phil Hellmuth wins four more bracelets, he’s going to string them all together for a headband.”

“Phil who?” someone shouted.

I tried again. “This poker player walks into a bar, tells the bartender he lost all his money playing Omaha, and asks if he can get a free drink for showing him a card trick. The bartender says, ‘You’re the third Omaha player who’s come in here with the same story. How about if …’”

As I droned on without any audience reaction, the farmers started walking out, except for two who were sound asleep and snoring. Meanwhile, Shoemaker had come up next to me, his arms folded, glaring at me in a combination of disbelief, anger, and disgust.
I began telling the old joke about the genie in a bottle who took pity on a poker degenerate who was losing all his money, promising him a million dollars if he gave up poker, and the guy replied, “Sure, as soon as I get even.”

Suddenly, there was a shattering crash as Aunt Sophie hurled a plate that narrowly missed our heads.

Undeterred, I pressed on, until the building began to shake. It was Big Denny, lumbering toward us with a baseball bat in his hands. Panic-stricken, I dropped the mike and ran off the stage, with Shoemaker in hot pursuit.

I guess that we set a record for the shortest act ever in show business. Shoemaker drove off without me, and I had to hitchhike home. When I got back, there was a threatening message from Big Denny, warning me to stay out of his casino, and another from Shoemaker, warning me to stay away from his shows. And I later got a bill from Denny for the broken plate.

So, that ended my initial foray into stand-up. It was only mildly successful, I’ll admit, but, hey, it was my first try. I’m open to any more offers — but don’t expect Craig to be with me next time. ♠

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched more than 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read ’em and Laugh.


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