Which in itself is only moderately funny, although the drunk people in the audience with me thought it was the pinnacle of cleverness to yell out "naked" at the expected times. What's funnier is where McPeek goes from these inviting introductions: musings on phone sex, small cars, childhood, how men and women deal with being sore, and just how a 320-pound man manages in the shower when he drops the soap. He punctuates his act with liberal doses of potty humor, which, in the manner of potty humor, is a lot funnier to the pickled masses than to those of us madly scribbling notes on cocktail napkins in the dark. One woman threatened to steal the show with her bizarre, sighing peals of laughter, much like a seagull on Demerol. I don't think I've ever heard anything quite like that. Maybe it's part of the act.
McPeek's a master at getting his crowd on his side, teaching them his signature asides ("buddy," "pal," "dude") and tossing good-natured insults when deserved. A performance-arty experiment with one young man who had to get up and fake-opera-sing while the audience played air violins didn't come off right, but it was funny anyway. To me, though, the high point of the night came early on, with a recollection of McPeek lying around in his hotel room (you got it, naked) watching a tiny spider circumnavigate his girth and then bite him for no reason, thinking, "I can take him."
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