Just hang'n around Seattle again. Hosted a show for a couple of buddies the other night, Richie Stratton and Michael Jenkins a pair of Roaddogs out of Portland, OR. The noose-mic's Richies thing, he asked me what I thought of it. I told him, "I know exactly what that is, it's a Tribble gig." That's kind of an inside joke for comics. Tribble gigs are what most comics would call Hell gigs and I call my bread and butter...only at this point it's pretty much just bread. To tell the truth, I love'em. I'd rather play Malta Montana than a Giggles comedy club, there's less bullshit. Nobody's gonna tell you, you can't drop the F-bomb in Montana, if you got the balls to say it you can say it. Then after three years of working for the man, God (AKA David Tribble) calls up on the telephone,

"Scot I watched that DVD you sent me, (5 months ago), it's very good. Your act has improved a lot. I can't use you anymore, you're too blue for my rooms. It's not that you're not funny. You're funnier than most the acts I book, and it's not that audiences don't like you. It's not you...it's me. I need space. I want to see other comics. Don't be sad, you'll meet other bookers, lots of'em. And some day you're going to meet a booker who's going to give you the kind of gigs you need...I'll call you if I need someone to play Winnemucca." Normally when I've had this conversation I'd just go get drunk until some fat chick washed up or I forgot what I was drinking for. What do you do when a booker dumps you? Should I call up old bookers I've worked for and see if they wanna "hang out." Ah piss up a rope. I tell yuh, in this bussiness it aint about how many people you make laugh, it's all about how many people you make leave. Maybe I'll see if Lonnie Bruhn wants to cuddle.