In 1992, I was a full-on, on the road, big-shit comedian-guy. Actually, it was more like strung-together-one-night-shows, getting-tows-from-the-local-pig-farmer, broke-and-lonely comedy douchebag, but who am I to rewrite history?

Not many details stand out from this year, so I'll regale you with fascinating tales of life on the road as a comic. Hmmmm, let's see: This would more than likely be the year I first did the Rushmore Comedy Tour by myself, a sad, sorry excuse for a standup tour that whipped you like a tornado through Iowa, North and South Dakotas, and Montana. To be completely honest, if a nice, juicy category 500 tornado ripped across this portion of the nation, the country's collective IQ would leap up 100 points. In other words: They loved me.

Picture this: Me, microphone in hand, wearing a denim button down and black vest (hey, it was the farking 90's for Christ's sake), standing about 15 feet high above a "lounge" crowd of 12 drunken sore losers in an Indian Casino in Aberdeen, South Dakota. What could possibly go wrong?

I developed not only my mighty comedy chops beginning during this period (yeah, RIGHT), but I also mastered the skill of chowing down on fast-food while driving with my knee. Oh, and how to snag a wink or three curled in the hatchback of my Tercel at truck rest stops. And how to threaten club owners when they tried to short you 10 bucks from your whopping $125 paycheck.