Barnaby “Barnacle Butt” Bartlett, a man whose stage presence resembled a startled ferret, shuffled onto the stage. His microphone trembled, mirroring the tremor in his hands. He cleared his throat, a sound like gravel gargling with rusty hinges. “Good evening,” he croaked, his voice barely audible above the rustling of the nearly empty auditorium. “Tonight, I’m doing my… uh… *Idiot Stand-Up Routine*.”
A single, polite cough echoed from the back.
Barnaby beamed, mistaking it for enthusiastic applause. “Yes! You get it! The *idiot* part! So, I went to the zoo the other day…” He paused, dramatically. “…and I saw a sign that said ‘Do not feed the animals.’ So, naturally…” He leaned into the microphone conspiratorially. “…I fed them.”
Silence. Then, a single, weary sigh from the back.
“See? You’re getting it!” Barnaby insisted, his eyes wide. “It’s… ironic! Because I’m an idiot! Get it? Idiot? Like, I *fed* the animals. Which is… *idiot*.” He chuckled nervously, a sound like a dying tea kettle.
He continued, his jokes growing increasingly nonsensical. He recounted his attempts to assemble flat-pack furniture (“Turns out, hammers aren’t actually for hitting your thumb repeatedly.”), his struggles with a self-service check-out (“It kept asking me if I wanted a receipt. I said, ‘Yes! To prove I bought this absurdly overpriced packet of crisps!'”), and his failed attempt to knit a scarf (“It ended up resembling a very angry, lumpy caterpillar”).
Finally, he concluded with a flourish. “So, that’s my *Idiot Stand-Up Routine*! Thank you… for… uh… existing…” He bowed deeply, his head almost touching the floor. Then, in a stage whisper, he mumbled, “I’m accepting tips… for therapy.” The single audience member groaned audibly. Turns out, the “Idiot Stand-Up Routine” was, in fact, a hilariously accurate self-assessment.
