In the spring of 2002, we decided to leave LA and return to our hometown of St. Louis, Missouri for the Jewish Holiday of Passover. And why not travel to St. Louis in March. It was only pilot season, the most important time for comedians and actors to be in Los Angeles. Besides it had a been a mere 7 months since we had worked at all, so clearly, the time was right to take a much needed break.

In truth, we had never felt so defeated in our lives. Our spirits had been crushed by months of mounting failures and we were fed up: fed up with LA, fed up with hot people everywhere, and fed up with our professional impotence. It was that moment of utter vulnerability that allowed us to be persuaded by our parents to return to the Midwest to consume unleavened bread, and sleep in our undersized childhood beds for a week instead of trying to land a job.

The fact that it was Passover was the icing on the cake. That year we knew from suffering. We felt more connected then ever before to our Jewish ancestors, who, as we recounted every Passover, were enslaved by Egyptians, who savagely beat any inkling of hope they possessed out of them daily. In our minds we had it worse. At least they didn't have to pretend to be a baboon in a Kia audition.

So we went home to St. Louis, tails between our legs, contemplating our own retirement after only 12 years in the business.

But in retelling the Passover story we realized something. Our ancestors did not give up their fight. No, they wandered the desert for forty years, which in its own right seems like a pretty miserable existence. (we would have quit after 12) Yet they continued to search until they ultimately found the promise land. We couldn't help but soak in the significance.

It was this ridiculous metaphor that drove us to call our local comedy club, the St. Louis Funny Bone, the club where we began our 12 year journey in the world of comedy, to inquire if it we could possibly drop by to do a guest set.

"Great, it's the best of St. Louis night. You guys can close the show, do about 30 minutes. Oh, and it's 75 bucks," said Dave the manager.

"To split?" We asked.

"What do you think?"

"Sweet."

And it was sweet. It was a perfect opportunity for us to "get back into the saddle". This was all set to be a sure win, a confidence booster, and something that would no doubt inject our sagging careers with life and energy the kind of life and energy that can only come from killing in front of local comedians not even good enough to fail in LA for twelve years.

So Monday night, we slipped on our coats and tried to sneak out of our house without arousing the suspicion of our parents.

"Where are you going?"

Think. Between the two of us we weren't had to be able to come up with some bogus alibi. The Straussenfess, a condolence call, strip club, anything to avoid having to drag them with us to the Funnybone.

"You don't need to come Dad. It's just a quick set. We'll be right back."

"How many times do we get to see you boys hammer out some new chunks?"

To be continued...