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Illustration by Drew Shannon
Embracing My Minivan Heritage
“Good evening, I’m Hart Shouldice, and yes, I’m proud of my heritage—specifically, a glorious lineage of Dodge Caravan owners. This is not just about cars; it’s a family tradition, folks.”
Witty Banter and Awkward Silence
A few polite chuckles escaped the audience. “I’m a third-generation minivan driver,” I continued, “and let me tell you, I back it into parking spots without a rear-view camera. It’s all about honoring those who’ve come before me. Plus, who doesn’t get sentimental about saving on parking sensors?”
From Bedtime Stories to Stand-Up Glory
“The minivan caters to my middle-aged spirit. In high school, while friends were out rebelling, I was racing home to catch The National. My parents knew to worry less about curfews and more about getting me home safely. After all, who could resist the charm of Peter Mansbridge?”
Diner Comedy: The Holy Grail of Stand-Up
Tonight, I’m performing at a diner in Ottawa on a Tuesday, because nothing screams “comedy” like slightly stale fries and indifferent pedestrians. It’s a small affair with an elderly man who, bless his heart, shuffles away after the host gets a bit too intimate. And here I am, hoping the mic won’t just be a glorified stage prop.
The Struggle of the Comedian Dad
I’ve dabbled in stand-up for over two years, hopping between comedy clubs and the occasional dive bar that has more chairs than patrons. I’m juggling a day job and two kids, akin to performing a circus act where you’re not quite sure if you’ll drop the ball or the baby. Writing happens late at night, while nursing a cup of coffee and fitting in a study session of stand-up specials—because apparently, Netflix isn’t just for binge-watching.
Making Every Minute Count
Given my limited stage time, I’ve trained myself to treat every performance like it’s my debut on The Tonight Show. Unlike those ultimate “write from the stage” aficionados, I choose a polished script, hoping it’ll mask my innate awkwardness. Spoiler alert: sometimes it reads more “failed audition” than “hot new comic.”
A Rollercoaster of Laughs and Bombs
As I delve into my dog’s unexpected, uh, escapade with my neighbor’s “jazz cabbage,” I brace for some laughs. “She was high for three days,” I quip, “and now can’t stop trying to discuss Joe Rogan with me.” With laughter mingling with the drone of a blender, my performance feels somewhat like a high-stakes episode of a cooking show gone wrong.
As I wrap up, the call-back to my Caravan story earns a chuckle, just enough to not get chased out of the diner with a spatula. “Thanks for bearing with me! I’m Hart Shouldice, enjoy the rest of your evening!” Someone coughs in response, but hey, at least it’s not a tomato.
