a transcript of my roast of Reverend Shahbaz Shah, if you don't know him, it ain't funny*
*and even if you do know him, still I'm not sure. Also, a lot of it is in the delivery. Okay, you've been warned. With no further ado is my speech from the In One Ear open mic at the Heartland Cafe on March 15, 2006 roasting Shahbaz
So I'm talking to my Shahbaz the other day, which can be really expensive by telephone because I live in Ukranian Village and he lives on the ass end of that way, and I'm like, 'Heeeey, Shabby!' and he's like 'Heeey, Labby!', and I ask him:
"Is it safe?"
"Yeah, she's watching The Idol. So when are you comin' over to see the apartment?"
"Shahbaz, I can't afford to see the apartment. Besides, I gotta figure out what to do with all these retarded baby kittens," and Shahbaz gets all quiet and goes:
"Shhh. Don't say that word."
And I'm like "What?" (because I'm slow) but as soon as I get it, I get a little smile on my face. And then I say it like this:
HELPLESS
RETARDED
BABY KITTENS
and right away Cheryl gets on the phone:
"Eric?! Why do you have baby kittens?!"
'Which is actually a pretty interesting story; you see I left some meat on my front porch one night-you know, to mess with my neighbors-and all these deformed mutant retard kittens started crawling out of the sewers and out from under people's stairs to feast and shit and they've been following me ever since. I was thinking of turning them into a shelter to have them put down' and when I say that, I could hear this noise on the other end of the phone, you know, like her heart was breaking and she's all...
"Eric?! I need to see them!"
So I started faxing pictures on my invisible fax machine and I can already hear Shahbaz giving them Urdu nicknames in the background.
"This one has only two legs and falls down a lot."
"He will be Sarsar, or gust of wind."
"This one suffers from Feline Chlamydia. He doesn't have any fur and seems to be less a cat than a scab with legs."
"He will be Satah, or surface."
"This one has an overbite that causes its fangs to pierce through its jaw, which often cannot open on its own."
"He will be Naasaaz, or indisposed."
"This one has no short term memory. This one smells like cabbage. This one has a heart murmur. This one has an extra vagina where her head should be, but not another cat vagina, more like a... donkey vagina.
"Faqih! Marbaha! Hadiiyaa! Naahid!"
"This one doesn't have eyes, because he was born with his eye sockets inside out, so not only does he not have eyes but instead of eyes he has these backwards caterpillar-butt things sticking out of his head."
"We'll taked it. We'll take em all."
"What about this one. I't's seventeen years old, its in pain all the time and it's going to die soon." At least that's what I would have said, but as soon as I used the words seventeen years old Pete Wolf jumped out of some bushes with a hard-on and called dibbs.
[pause]
We're here today to honor and dishonor one of our own. A man of faith, a man of class, a drunken, rambling insecure poet with a stupid name. I would like to introduce to you all, the Reverend Syed (Mohammed) Shahbaz John Stephen Cyril Shah. Give this man a round of applause. While we're at it, I'd like to introduce the woman he loves, his silent, brooding better half...Cheryl, take a bow.
Now as a couple, they suffer a huge persecution complex, maybe even larger than my own, so on this, his 24th birthday, the ninth anniversary of the first, second, and third bowls I ever smoked, and a day that holds no historical significance to Cheryl, I have a great gift for them. I need you to all repeat after me...
SHAHBAZ, WE DON'T HATE YOU
Now turn your attention to Cheryl and do the same...
CHERYL, WE DON'T HATE YOU
Now cross your eyes so you can see them both....
SHAHBAZ AND CHERYL...no no no, I said repeat after me! I have to start over...SHAHBAZ ANDCHERYL, WE DON'T HATE YOU...BUT OVER THE COURSE OF THE LAST FOUR OR FIVE YEARS THAT YOU'VE BEEN TOGETHER, OUR FRIENDSHIP HAS UNDERGONE A LOT OF CHANGES AND YOU CAN'T PRETEND IT HASN'T. ok, now you go.
[bedlam]
Thank you.
So I'm talking to my Shahbaz the other day, which can be really expensive by telephone because I live in Ukranian Village and he lives on the ass end of that way, and I'm like, 'Heeeey, Shabby!' and he's like 'Heeey, Labby!', and I ask him:
"Is it safe?"
"Yeah, she's watching The Idol. So when are you comin' over to see the apartment?"
"Shahbaz, I can't afford to see the apartment. Besides, I gotta figure out what to do with all these retarded baby kittens," and Shahbaz gets all quiet and goes:
"Shhh. Don't say that word."
And I'm like "What?" (because I'm slow) but as soon as I get it, I get a little smile on my face. And then I say it like this:
HELPLESS
RETARDED
BABY KITTENS
and right away Cheryl gets on the phone:
"Eric?! Why do you have baby kittens?!"
'Which is actually a pretty interesting story; you see I left some meat on my front porch one night-you know, to mess with my neighbors-and all these deformed mutant retard kittens started crawling out of the sewers and out from under people's stairs to feast and shit and they've been following me ever since. I was thinking of turning them into a shelter to have them put down' and when I say that, I could hear this noise on the other end of the phone, you know, like her heart was breaking and she's all...
"Eric?! I need to see them!"
So I started faxing pictures on my invisible fax machine and I can already hear Shahbaz giving them Urdu nicknames in the background.
"This one has only two legs and falls down a lot."
"He will be Sarsar, or gust of wind."
"This one suffers from Feline Chlamydia. He doesn't have any fur and seems to be less a cat than a scab with legs."
"He will be Satah, or surface."
"This one has an overbite that causes its fangs to pierce through its jaw, which often cannot open on its own."
"He will be Naasaaz, or indisposed."
"This one has no short term memory. This one smells like cabbage. This one has a heart murmur. This one has an extra vagina where her head should be, but not another cat vagina, more like a... donkey vagina.
"Faqih! Marbaha! Hadiiyaa! Naahid!"
"This one doesn't have eyes, because he was born with his eye sockets inside out, so not only does he not have eyes but instead of eyes he has these backwards caterpillar-butt things sticking out of his head."
"We'll taked it. We'll take em all."
"What about this one. I't's seventeen years old, its in pain all the time and it's going to die soon." At least that's what I would have said, but as soon as I used the words seventeen years old Pete Wolf jumped out of some bushes with a hard-on and called dibbs.
[pause]
We're here today to honor and dishonor one of our own. A man of faith, a man of class, a drunken, rambling insecure poet with a stupid name. I would like to introduce to you all, the Reverend Syed (Mohammed) Shahbaz John Stephen Cyril Shah. Give this man a round of applause. While we're at it, I'd like to introduce the woman he loves, his silent, brooding better half...Cheryl, take a bow.
Now as a couple, they suffer a huge persecution complex, maybe even larger than my own, so on this, his 24th birthday, the ninth anniversary of the first, second, and third bowls I ever smoked, and a day that holds no historical significance to Cheryl, I have a great gift for them. I need you to all repeat after me...
SHAHBAZ, WE DON'T HATE YOU
Now turn your attention to Cheryl and do the same...
CHERYL, WE DON'T HATE YOU
Now cross your eyes so you can see them both....
SHAHBAZ AND CHERYL...no no no, I said repeat after me! I have to start over...SHAHBAZ ANDCHERYL, WE DON'T HATE YOU...BUT OVER THE COURSE OF THE LAST FOUR OR FIVE YEARS THAT YOU'VE BEEN TOGETHER, OUR FRIENDSHIP HAS UNDERGONE A LOT OF CHANGES AND YOU CAN'T PRETEND IT HASN'T. ok, now you go.
[bedlam]
Thank you.
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