True Stories by Rob Corddry: Bombing GQ

“Welcome to the GQ Men of the Year Awards. And now, in keeping with the spirit of the magazine, please join me for twenty minutes of flipping past fashion ads, trying to figure out where this thing actually begins.”

An auspicious start, no? A sure thing? Poke a little fun at the hosts of the event before I start gently ribbing the A-list talent in the room. Comedy 101. Even if I don’t get a big laugh, Will Ferrell is three tables away from the stage and you can always count on him for a courtesy chuckle. Then comes the twist, another sure thing:

“Wait: Hang on—let me complete the effect."

I take out a bottle of cologne and spray it into the air.

"This is a sample of Jumanji for Men. It's available at Macy's. Oh, and—"

We’ve all been there! Those magazines are crazy! And the joke is just proppy enough, no watermelons get smashed. But it gets nothing. Ben Affleck is three feet away from me and he’s looking off to the right, thinking about something else. Al Gore has a plastic smile pressed onto his face and Will Ferrell is chuckling politely three tables away. What a nice guy.

It’s at that very moment that I realize I am about to bomb. I will not recover from this.

You’ve all heard the parlance. To bomb is to die. To kill is to do well. I bombed and died. The "GQ Men of The Year" Awards is an easy way for GQ to pat themselves on the back via patting A-list celebrities on the back. Not an easy room. I agreed to host this thing because my friend Tim, a writer at The Daily Show, was hired to write some jokes. I’ve been away from the show for three months and I missed wrapping my hot, wet mouth around Tim’s prose. I press on.

“The folks we're honoring tonight may not have much in common, but they do all share this: Each of them, in his own way had a major effect on our culture this year. They made us laugh...they made us think...they made us horny...Ben.”

Nothing from Affleck. Fuck. I’ve got half a page of Affleck stuff coming up later. Jennifer Garner has borrowed Al Gore’s half-a-smile and Ben’s staring into the void. Why doesn’t he like me!? Why, oh Why?!

Then it happens: Steve-O from Jackass yells, “Sit down you Shit-Ass!”

Oh, wow. Wowee wow wow. Why did I think the guys from Jackass would like me? Did I think that, between stapling their scrotums to their legs and sticking tiny racecars into their poopholes, they would tune into The Daily Show to enjoy my boorish brand of satiric ribaldry? I am an asshole for thinking The Daily Show would ever give me street cred with people who taser themselves. Or Ben Affleck. Seriously, fuck that guy! I push on.

I poke a little fun at Forest Whitaker. I get groans for making a Battlefield Earth reference. Too soon?

I make fun of Spike Lee and that gets a little titter. Wait, no, it’s only Will Ferrell laughing. I have to be near Will Ferrell at all times for the rest of my life. I hope he’ll like my wife.

I get to the Affleck stuff. It’s really really funny. Behold:

“To my right, there's Ben Affleck, who I like to think of as my doppelganger. I mean, we're both from Boston...we both have younger brothers who rode into the business on our coattails...we're both devastatingly handsome...we both drive Bentleys, except for me. And, of course, while in the throes of passion, we've both called out Jennifer Garner's name. Though I imagine it was a lot less awkward for Ben.”

Pause. Ben smiles that kind of smile I used to get in high school right before a bully was about to punch my throat off. Then he goes back to staring at nothing. Oh man, really? And to think I made Tim cut the joke about his latest film, Hollywoodland which is about a washed up star clinging to the C-list, being an apt parallel to his life. You’re welcome Affleck. You sucked in Pearl Harbor.

My next page gets no laughs at all. Not one. People start talking about other things.

“The world of music, also represented here tonight. We're honoring Lupe Fiasco…Awesome name. Apparently, he took his last name from the title of the song "Firm Fiasco." I did the same thing for a little while—taking my name from a song. I went by Rob "Escape, open parentheses, the Pina Colada Song, close parentheses."

Will Ferrell laughs and laughs and laughs. I start drawing up adoption papers in my head. I wonder if he’d agree to hug me while he laughs. I want to make love to him and have laugh-babies together. I may murder him only so that I can possess him forever.

My wife is in the back row, watching my demise. Tim is with her. He wrings his hands under the table and rocks back and forth a little. He thinks it’s all his fault. My wife comforts him.

“And we've got some folks from TV here—the guys from The Office...gentlemen. Listen, uh, if you don't mind my asking: You don't seem to have a problem hiring folks from The Daily Show. So...what's your problem with me, huh? You think you're too good for me? Well screw you, I've got my own show over on Fox coming out in March. That's right—I'm gonna be the next Michael Rappaport.”

That joke gets the worst groan of the night. The room erupts like an elementary school auditorium on film day and some AV geek has just shut off the lights. Really? The Michael Rappaport fan club is here tonight? Maybe that’s what Affleck has been thinking about. Wasn’t he in Small Time Crooks with Michael Rappaport? No, that was Jon Lovitz. I always get Affleck and Lovitz mixed up. Ha! Nailed you Affleck! Suck it.

“Jay-Z is here tonight. Y'know, uh, Mr. Z, I gotta say, the song of yours that I can really relate to is "99 Problems," 'cause I have the exact same number of problems. I counted 'em twice, and yep…99. Although for me, like, three-quarters of them are bitches, so I guess that's where we part ways.”

This actually gets a laugh. Not the laugh it deserves, it may be one of Tim’s funniest jokes of the evening, but a laugh nonetheless. Will laughs, of course. The guys from YouTube laugh, nice fellows. The cast of The Office laughs (they’ve actually been very kind throughout the evening). Even Leonardo DiCaprio—sitting between Gore and Affleck—giggles. It’s almost over. I introduce Al Gore who makes a speech.

While the former Vice president talks about icebergs I slink over to the bar to grab a quick drink. I tell my wife to wait by the car and keep the engine running. I comfort Tim who is vomiting on the inside. Then I hear the laughs. Gore is killing! He’s knocking it out of the fucking park! Jesus Christ! DiCaprio has lasagna bolognese flying out of his nose. Johnny Knoxville quickly sews together a “We love Gore” flag and flies it high above the crowd. Jennifer Garner performs CPR on Affleck, Forest Whiatker’s already lopsided face melts from the heat of Gore’s comedy. Spike Lee murders Lindsay Lohan. Gore kills. He steps down. I go back up. Yay.

I finish with a toast.

“Well, I think that pretty much wraps things up, but before we end this, I would ask you to raise a glass of Champagne–and by the way, in deference to Jay-Z, it was going to be Cristal, but we went with Moet instead. Let's raise a glass and salute this year's men—and women—of the year. On this occasion, I can think of no more apt words than those of F. Scott Fitzgerald: "Oh thank God, finally, Champagne. Zelda, fetch me a straw."

I have no idea how they react to that because one foot is already in my car and halfway across town. My wife forgoes the usual “It didn’t go as badly as you think” line and opts for holding my jellied frame instead.

Stories about comics bombing are mythical, Michael Richards being the latest comic to bomb on a grand scale. I sympathize with him in a tiny tiny tiny way. You definitely feel like taking it out on someone. But I won’t. I choose to take the high road. I wear my calamity like a badge. No one is responsible for my results except for me. And fuck Ben Affleck. Reindeer Games was terrible.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.