A year ago, I was playing the Public Hotel in the NY Comedy Festival. My grandparents came and sat in the front row. The front. fucking. row. Did I change my act? Did I back off the cumming jokes? Nope. Put my head down and forged ahead because that’s what a pro does. You don’t worry about who might be in the audience, or that you might not receive that $50 Christmas check from gramps and grammie because they don’t want to finance your rub ‘n tug membership (they still sent it because they’re fucking soldiers).
In case any stings have happened recently at my spot, I’ll just get out in front here: I’ve been to a rub ‘n tug. Many times. I’ll probably go this weekend. Hell, the next time Bobby Kraft is in town, I’ll show him the velvet ropes. My treat.