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See Tim perform stand-up @ littlefield:



Anti-Pickling Activism

I live in Brooklyn where everyone is into pickling. Not me. What I do to buck this stupid trend is, I go to an outdoor market, say the Brooklyn Flea, and buy someone’s ridiculously handcrafted, artisanal pickles. Then I go home and remove all the vinegar, salt, and seasoning -- I turn them back into cucumbers, their natural state before some hipster messed with them. (It takes many hours of gently squeezing and wringing the pickles, so as not to tear their delicate fibers.) Then I'll take the revived cukes to the grocery store and set them free on the shelf, with their friends. I think they’re happy, though it’s pretty hard to tell with cucumbers. Some people don't like what I do. I’ve been called an "unpickled pecker" -- which is fine with me! At least I know I'm doing something to fight the unnecessary brining and fermentation of vegetables that everyone does now, just to be cool. Stop the brining...stop pickling!


SONG: Brooklyn Thong Guy

Behold the new song I wrote and recorded with my band, Modern Beast. It's an ode to a legend...a sunny summer single...2 mins of AM soft-rock gold. Share the love for the Brooklyn Thong Guy! 


Yo, I'm in the NY Funny Song Fest!

As part of the 3rd Annual NY Funny Song Fest, produced by the amazing Jessica Delfino, I'll be co-hosting and performing in Hooklyn: Funny Songs from & about Brooklyn on Sat, May 31, 8:30 pm at People's Republic of Brooklyn (247 Smith St). GET TIX ($10)! ($12 at the door)

I'll also be on the bill at 50 Funny Songs on Fri, May 30, 7 pm at Botanic Lab (86 Orchard St, NYC) -- an exciting and sure to be sold-out night of the fest. GET TIX ($10)! ($12 at the door)

Don't miss NYC'S only comedy, parody, and novelty music festival! 

Here I am, pimpin' it at the Fest last year...


Farting in Bed: A Short Play

4 a.m. Tim and Michelle, a hip and sexy Brooklyn couple, lie in bed. Michelle has earplugs in. Out of the predawn serenity, Tim farts.

TIM: Excuse me.

MICHELLE: (Taking out one earplug.) What?

TIM: (To audience.) I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d already said “excuse me.” Why make two announcements?

MICHELLE: Did you say something?

TIM: No.

MICHELLE: (Pause.) Did you fart?

TIM: (Trying to think of a witty response but giving up.) Yes. (Tim farts.)

MICHELLE: Your ass needs to let me sleep. (Puts earplug back in.)

TIM: My ass does what it wants. It answers to no one.

MICHELLE: (Taking out earplug.) What?

TIM: (Louder.) I said, my ass answers to no one.

MICHELLE: It’s gonna answer to me if it doesn’t be quiet. (Pause.) Maybe this plug should go somewhere else. (Puts earplug in her ear.)

TIM: (To audience.) Someone please give us a sitcom, ‘cause we’re killing it here.

MICHELLE: (Taking out earplug.) What did you say?

TIM: Nothing

Pause. Tim farts. No one speaks. Silence engulfs the cosmos.



My Wedding Advice to George Clooney

George Clooney is getting married to Amal Alamuddin, a British human-rights lawyer. This is a very big deal, since not that many people get married. But to someone like me, who turned in his bachelor card long ago—after dating my own share of actresses, models, and professional wrestlers—tying the knot is old hat. So I thought I’d share some advice with my fellow man, the Cloonster, on how to get through to “I do.” 


Rather than strippers or the clichéd Vegas trip, George, I recommend an extreme sports activity that your buds can bond over—like bowling at Chelsea Piers. That’s what me and my man-posse did, and we had a blast! Order some pitchers of Bud and chow down on chicken fingers while scoring your last strike as a free man. However, I suggest not scheduling your bachelor party in the afternoon, as there’s a good chance that a 13-year-old girl’s birthday bash will be taking place the next lane over—something your pals will rib you about for years to come. (Lots of screaming, balloons, and Silly String.) Or maybe an Ocean’s Eleven- or Syriana-themed party would be more your style. It’s your party…can’t wait to be there, Cloons!

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Dear New York: I'm the New Alec Baldwin

This week, Alec Baldwin published a New York Magazine piece announcing that he is getting out of the city, and the public eye, for good. I just want to say, to showbiz and the media—I’m willing to take his place. I think I’m really right for the job, because Alec Baldwin and I have a lot in common.  

For one thing, our hair is kind of similar. (See photo above.)

Alec Baldwin is known as a great New York actor, the kind of guy you might see performing in Shakespeare in the Park. I’ve done Shakespeare in a Parking Lot, on the Lower East Side. What could be more “New York” than having a Dept. of Sanitation truck drive through during your soliloquy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Alec Baldwin was on 30 Rock for seven seasons, and I auditioned for 30 Rock once. I didn’t get the part, but I almost had a scene with Alec Baldwin, and I’m sure we would’ve become close, because we’re so much alike. 

Alec Baldwin was married to Kim Basinger, and I’ve had sex with Kim Basinger many times, in my mind. (It’s usually like that scene in 9 ½ Weeks—she’s blindfolded, and I’m feeding her exotic foods, like nachos and buffalo wings. She’ll be like, “What’s that?” You know, all turned on. And I’ll say, “Blue cheese, babe.” Then I go to the fridge to get something else to tantalize her with, and Mickey Rourke shows up. He says, “Waddaya got there…guacamole?” I’m like, Mickey, get out of here! Kim and I are having food sex!” She says, “Who’s that?” I say, “Nobody.” She says, “Is that Mickey Rourke?” I’m like, “No, he’s not here.” She says, “Mickey…? Did you say guacamole?” Mickey Rourke is like, “Hey, Kim, what’s up?” She says, “This is getting weird” and takes off her blindfold. I’m like, “What do you mean? It’s my fantasy, so why are you saying it’s weird?!”) But I digress.

Lastly, I’m not a homophobe, and neither is Alec Baldwin (according to his article, which I do believe).

So you see, I’m the perfect person to fill the Alec Baldwin-sized hole that will be left in all New Yorkers’ lives. Maybe I’m a little less famous, now, and the paparazzi aren’t beating down my door. But what I have that he doesn’t is the desire to be a public figure. I welcome the attention, I need it, and won’t go running to some remote, off-the-media-grid place, like Los Angeles. So, New York, my door is open…come inside. Stalk me, misquote me, make my life hell. I’ll even punch you in the face.