Twice a year Howard Trustman, who booked the Laff Stop Comedy Club chain, came to Austin, Texas to scout new talent. In 1989 he saw me do a ten minute set and, and I killed—killed like you wouldn't believe. I beat them up, just beat them bad in ten minutes. Like a pie at a fat man convention, there was nothing left.

Howard came up to me, "Man, you are the next big thing. You are something else." Of course I believed every word of it too. "Yeah, yeah, I'm amazing as I can be." He said, "I want to book you as a headliner." I immediately backed off a bit, "Oh, wait a minute." I'd only headlined one room ever and that was some little shit-hole in Arkansas. But he was certain, "No, man, I know what I'm talking about. I book these rooms." He sold me on it, and I agreed to celebrate my third anniversary in standup by headlining the Laugh Stop in Irvine, California.

The day came around and I was nervous. I looked at the club flyer and the two guys that had headlined the two weeks before me were Bobby Slayton and Jerry Seinfeld. Now it's Ron White and his little cavalcade of fucking jokes. I hadn't told a joke within 1200 miles of Los Angeles. Not one fucking joke. Then just before I went on stage a waitress pointed to a guy in the audience, "That's the reviewer for the Oregon County edition of the L.A. Times." I'm sure her intent was good, but she might as well have set my hair on fire.

To be Continued...