There are many things wrong with television these days. One is that the Cartoon Network runs weekday episodes of Futurama at 11pm, up against the Simpsons, and as good as Futurama can be, I think we all know who wins that round. Another bad thing is that our TiVo only snags one episode of The Critic per week, a show I've missed and could easily watch much more.

One good thing is that there's an interesting new show about two wacky characters who run a bed & breakfast that overlooks all of Canada, while raising their precocious, wise beyond her years daughter, Sophie, while their bird, Cupcake, entertains guests and tries to sell them real estate from the puzzle room in the basement. It seems to have potential and is definitely glamorous. I'll keep an eye on the ratings.

But back to the Tivo. The roommate and I were watching something, possibly a late night airing of Conan, and fast forwarding through the commercials, when I spot the titles "REAL SEX!" and "HOT!" and quite possibly "KING OF THE JUNGLE!"

Naturally, rewinding was in order.

We then learned that some video company, somewhere, went through the trouble of collecting scenes of animals having sex, spent hours editing them into a particular order, paid talent to narrate it, came up with a marketing strategy, and was trying to foist them off on an audience willing to shell out actual cash for images of rhinos fucking each other.

God bless America. Animal porn is available.

Freedom porn.

One thing that makes life on this planet of ours so very interesting is that, statistically, it is certain that someone out there will buy that tape for the express purpose of mastubation.

Even more interesting, it is certain that someone was happy to masturbate to only the commercial.

The vacant half smile and glazed over look in my roommate's eyes was all the proof I needed.

So, last night. My show. You know, you bastards think that I enjoy sitting here week after week and saying "Hey, Los Angelinos, come check me out" while never seriously expecting you to go. Not true. Each week, I die a little, inside, when I'm not confronted outside the theater by any crazy internet stalkers bearing praise, pistols, and copies of Catcher in the Rye.

Last night, all of that changed when Heather of DancingBrave was finally worn down by my many requests and attended my show. Her entry today contains independent confirmation of the fact that I am working hard for the People every thursday night to deliver the funny. She should be an example to you all, and you should feel absolutely terrible.

For the record, the real first thing out of my mouth as I spotted her making her way toward me from across the crowded theater lobby was "Is it you?" to which she replied "Yes, it's me." This prompted my nosy friend Brian, who was standing next to me, to ask "'Is it you?' What does that mean? What's going on here?" Not willing to clue him in to the Secret Society that is Diaryland, we rudely pushed him off. I may have actually said "Scram, you," at one point, confirming, as suspected, that I am indeed a 1930's gangster. Brian said that he would buy himself a beer, and hoped that it would be nicer to him than we were. It was then that the first Heather/Bill face to face interactions began, in which we expressed deep disappointment in each other's physical features and agreed to never speak again.

The show itself was a lot of fun. My team won again, which was good. I felt my performance was just OK, but I am known to judge myself harshly.

My favorite scene of the night was between myself and my teammate Ross. I'm going to toot my own horn here for a second, but it has a point. We came out, and since cooking was mentioned in the previous scene, I began to flip a burger on a grill. I turned to Ross and said "How do you like yours done?" He hesitated for just a moment, and it was just long enough for our offstage teammates to begin shouting messages to him as if they were voices in his head. Ross, absolutely brilliantly, committed to this, and began to slowly flip out. As the voices became more insistent, he began acting crazier, throwing himself around the stage in agony, absorbing so many well deserved laughs. I, for my part, played the straight man, standing at the grill, casually flipping the burger, only occasionally glancing over to make sure he was still doing this. About ten seconds into it, I knew where the scene was going, knew what was going to happen, knew what I had to say.

His convulsions and the voices went on for about twenty more seconds or so. He collpased to the ground, writhing, and eventually, the voices died down. I waited for just the slightest beat, and looked down at him and said "Did you just want a hot dog then?"

Not only did the audience laugh, but they began to clap. Oh so satisfying.

This is why I do this. It's all so stupid and silly and instantly disposable, but my God, people: It's those little, spontaneous pieces of perfection that make this so very, very worth it. A simple little bit of work executed flawlessly with results that are instant and clear. Where else can you get that?

I want to be doing this every night, all the time. I feel so contented and lucky.

I owe people BBQ.