They say laughter is the best medicine, so what better to cure a nasty hangover than a 75-minute session with doctor of comedy David Spade?
While a big greasy breakfast and a fistful of Emergen-C are common fixes for the morning after blahs, spoonfuls of Spade’s situation humor proved to be an adequate remedy on New Year’s Day.
The comic’s set at the Venetian ballroom didn’t actually cure any of the headaches that followed the sleep-deprived, booze-addled night before, but laughing about random stuff — including his visits from legitimate medical doctors – helped numb the post-party pain.
Spade has been cracking audiences up (and presumably making them feel better) for nearly two decades, first as a cast member of Saturday Night Live and later with roles on both the silver and big screens.
From Tommy Boy and Joe Dirt to his more recent projects like Just Shoot Me and Rules of Engagement, the scruffy blonde has made a respectable living from making people laugh.
While his rise to the top hasn’t skewed his sense of humor, it appears that even self-depreciating comics are not immune to name-on-the-marquee syndrome.
Rather than sky-high ego, however, Spade’s condition manifests in bursts of celebrity-style anxiety. Thankfully, he is able to laugh about it – and we can, too.
His cracks about seemingly normal things — run-ins with aggressive panhandlers, riding on an airplane, going to the doctor — are all laced with references to his fame.
Early on in his show, Spade tells the story of how a New York City beggar followed him for several blocks, calling out his name.
Spade goes on to explain how when he handed over a $10 dollar bill (a “generous” donation) the panhandler protested and reminded the funny man that he was famous and therefore should fork it over.
Instead of bragging about how he can afford to dole out twenties to random people on the street, however, Spade turns the tables and admits that he’s just a pussy without a backbone.
The crowd loves it and forgets that they were resenting Spade and his fame a moment ago. “Pussy!” they cry, rolling in their seats with laughter.
Spade’s joke about doctor visits begins innocently enough, with humorous references to customary poking and prodding that a male physical entails.
The experience would sound pretty ordinary if Spade refrained from mentioning how the doctor was sent to him, to his home. But once again, the in-your-face fame is forgiven when he says how when he drops trou all he can think about is how the doc might secretly be snapping embarrassing pictures to sell to the paparazzi.
Spade’s bit about how annoying kids on airplanes also shows signs of celebrity hives: He laments how he can’t be a jerk to the annoyingly playful three-year-old in the seat in front of him because, well, the kid’s mother could call TMZ to report the notable star’s unsavory behavior.
Still, Spade’s stories of his struggles with fame are funny. And it’s somehow nice to know that despite his success and respectable fan base, he still cares what the tabloids say about him. In fact, it’s almost as refreshing as a frosty bloody Mary on a cool New Year’s Day.