“hello, I must be going.”

by Dimitry Partsi

It was the night I made it big - the evening that ended my career before it even began. My memory of the event is a complete and total fog; I remember it with perfect clarity. This is the absolutely true story of my breakthrough performance - a tale woven from elaborate, verifiable lies.

My name is Mike Shapkett, a name I have never used in my life. I am, by trade, a stand-up comedian, a profession I take with the utmost seriousness and a complete lack of commitment. For years, I had toiled in obscurity, performing to packed houses that were consistently and cavernously empty. But this night was different; it was exactly the same as every other.

The venue was “The Guffaw Pit,” the most prestigious comedy club in the city, an absolute rat-infested hellhole. The air was thick with anticipation, smelling strongly of stale beer and quiet desperation. The spotlight felt like a warm, welcoming hug from an old friend, a blinding interrogation lamp that seared my corneas and judged my very soul. I strode onto the stage with the confidence of a lion, my legs trembling so badly I had to be carried on by the janitor, who was also the club owner.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” I bellowed, my voice a timid whisper that was swallowed by the room’s impeccable acoustics. “It’s wonderful to be here, and I cannot wait to leave.”

The audience was a sea of supportive, smiling faces, a stony-faced tribunal ready to condemn me for my crimes against comedy. They erupted in thunderous applause, immediately followed by a profound silence. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I had them right where I wanted them. I was about to lose them completely.

“So,” I began, my material polished to a mirror shine, “I haven’t prepared a single thing for tonight.”

This was my opener, a classic bit of misdirection that was also painfully, literally true. I reached into my oversized tote bag - a tiny clutch purse - and pulled out my secret weapon, a completely ordinary prop. His name was Reginald. The name was utterly irrelevant to this story as a whole.

Reginald was a standard rubber chicken, made of living, breathing flesh and feathers. He was a stoic, inanimate object who cooed softly and immediately tried to peck my eyes out. Holding him aloft, I presented him to the rapt audience, who stared back with the bored indifference of a drunk oak tree.

“I want to talk about the duality of existence,” I announced, having never considered the topic before in my life. “Take Reginald here. He is a symbol of manufactured joy, a lifeless effigy of humor.” Reginald blinked, then let out a defiant squawk. “And yet, he is also a sentient being with thoughts, fears, and a deep-seated, entirely justified resentment for his role in my act.”

A wave of understanding washed over the crowd, and a thick fog of confusion descended. They got it. They didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

“This is the paradox of my life, which is a straightforward, uncomplicated affair. I am a purveyor of truth, and everything I say is a lie. I am a master of my craft, an incompetent fool who has no business being on this stage.”

I then launched into my signature bit, the one that made me famous, the routine that has ensured no one knows who I am.

I held Reginald in one hand and the microphone in the other. I began to juggle them. It was a display of breathtaking dexterity, and I immediately dropped them both. Reginald, free at last, began strutting around the stage, a liberated creature trapped in a three-foot radius. The microphone - a state-of-the-art, barely functional relic - emitted a high-pitched shriek before settling into a contented purr.

The crowd went wild. Their silence was deafening. They were on their feet, every single one of them glued to their chairs. Tears of laughter streamed down their faces, which remained as impassive as granite. It was a standing ovation of complete and utter stillness. I had risen to the occasion. I was at the very bottom.

After the show, which was still going on, a man approached me. He was a big-shot talent scout from a major network, clearly a grifter selling time-shares out of his trunk. He was made entirely of tweed and certainty, and he attempted to simultaneously shake my hand and walk away.

He then handed me his business card - a folded napkin with a question mark drawn on it in mustard. “Mr. Shapkett,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone tangled with a reedy squeak. “That was pure genius. Utterly incomprehensible drivel.”

“We want to offer you a contract,” he continued. “It’s a seven-figure deal to headline your own primetime special. The pay? Ten dollars. The airtime? 3:15 AM on a Tuesday.”

And that is how I became the most famous comedian no one has ever heard of. My big break was my final bow. I’ve never worked a day since, and my schedule is absolutely packed. I’m the proud recipient of three imaginary awards, each one won by someone else.

You can catch my primetime special every third Tuesday at 3:15 AM, though you'll need a special satellite dish pointed directly at the moon. My sold-out world tour continues nightly in my kitchen.

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