Despite the great campaigning efforts of 19 other top-notch comedians, voters have chosen Jeff Dunham as the Comedy Central Stand-Up Showdown King of Comedy. Now that’s a title to be proud of! Sunday’s marathon event than ran from 11:30am to 10pm was filled with little to no ranking upsets, a wide variety of stage sets, and tons of laughs.

Say what you will about ventriloquists (I did), but Dunham took an early lead in this competition and dominated for weeks. Congratulations to Jeff, Walter, the Mexican stereotype puppet, and that purple guy.

Here are your runners up:

2. Josh Sneed
3. Lisa Landry
4. Frank Caliendo
5. Lewis Black
6. Mitch Fatel
7. Kyle Cease
8. Pablo Francisco
9. Jim Gaffigan
10. Mitch Hedberg
11. Demitri Martin
12. Mike Birbiglia
13. Stephen Lynch
14. Dane Cook
15. Rich Vos
16. Maria Bamford
17. Steve Byrne
18. Chelsea Handler
19. Doug Benson
20. Loni Love

South Carolina. The home of Strom Thurmond’s venomous tongue. The abode of Hilton Head’s white, hard, sandy beaches. The place where I was once diddled by an 80 year old shut-in because she wanted a “handful of sack” before she died.

And now, the state that is more Bo Duke than Bo Jackson (I don’t even know what that means) has proven that South Carolina is in no way ready for the bone-chillingly cold uber-gina that Hillary Clinton brings with her.

Look, I loved Bill Clinton’s presidency. It was a time of innocent blow jobs and diplomatic word-smithing. It was a time for ProActiv solution on Chelsea’s face and Hillary Rodham Clinton telling stay-at-home mom’s that there example wasn’t worth a handful of law credits.

But for everything that Slick Willie brought to the table, Hillary was able to routinely neutralize the fun with her arctic cooch and piercing insincerity. She’s like the strict mom that comes home from vacation early and grounds her kids for weeks for staying up to play Nintendo. She could walk into an orgy at Brangelina’s house and stifle the sex with a dissaproving clearing of her throat. Her heart is cold and her loins are colder: Think a vodka shot ice shute that tastes like shrimp brine.

I know Barack Obama is about as proven a decision maker as my girlfriend at a bookstore during a calendar sale (I love our $4 Cats in Hats calendar, baby) but at least he doesn’t offend me by moving to New York or pretending he never did drugs. The guy admits that he inhaled.

He has a positive outlook instead of a White Witch of Narnia crizzotch of frigidity. You could hang out with Barack at a bar and have a beer with he and his wife with limited regret. If you physically dropped beer into Hillary’s mouth, I’m quite certain she would immediately call August Busch the 27th in St. Louis and tell him that she’d appreciate his company’s support because she really digs that “Zima-buzz” euphoria after some gourmet figs and London Broil.

South Carolina voted the other day and basically said, 55 percent of the state would rather go with an unproven bit of enthusiasm than the acrid, bitter mouthful of steak-um-strip labia in a navy suit.

I don’t like Hillary Clinton. I want to. But I don’t.

MORE POLITICAL NUGGETS
I know when you get around to reading Punchline Magazine, you expect nothing but political banter. It’s like Sean Hannity and Bill O’Reilly take a red-white-and-blue shit on your screen. But, if Dylan Gadino talks to Chase Roper any more around the watercooler about how hot Dennis Kucinich’s wife is, I’m going to lose my shit.

Of course, I jest. She is indeed the “now-hottie” of current politics. But, the prospect of this super couple ruling anything larger than Cleveland scares the poop out of me. Look at this odd couple. They look like Willow and Angie Everhart engaged in some sort of elvish-super model jungle love that just can’t be real.

Let’s not kid ourselves, though. Any one of us would give that copper-crotch a nice 10-dollar rotisserie treatment before entering the Hoth Yeti cave that is Hillary Rodham’s cavernous loin abyss.

Bill Bellamy and the NBC hit comedy reality show, “Last Comic Standing,” will be returning this year and are holding casting auditions now through the end of March. Think you can hang? Here’s the information you’ll need to get you started.

Note: that you must be 18 years or older to audition and meet all other eligibility requirements. You’ll have two minutes to wow the judges so bring your best material and get ready to make them laugh!

Where to Audition:

January

Los Angeles, CA - NEW DATE! Jan. 29th
Hollywood Improv
8162 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90046
310-651-2583
TALENT SCOUTS: Angela Kinsey & Oscar Nuñez (The Office)

February

New York, NY - Feb. 7th
Gotham Comedy Club
208 W. 23rd St.
New York, NY 10011
212-367-9000
TALENT SCOUTS: Richard Belzer (SVU) & Steven Schirripa (The Sopranos)

Toronto, Canada - Feb. 14th
Yuk Yuk’s
224 Richmond St.
Toronto, ON M5V
416-967-6425

Minneapolis, MN - Feb. 19th
Acme Comedy Club
708 N. First St.
Minneapolis, MN 55401
612-338-6393

Houston, TX - Feb. 22nd
Houston Improv
7620 Katy Freeway, Space 431
Houston, TX 77024
713-333-8800

Tempe, AZ - Feb. 26th
Tempe Improv
930 E. University Ave.
Tempe, AZ 85281
480-921-9877

San Francisco, CA - Feb. 29th
Cobb’s Comedy Club
915 Columbus Ave.
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-928-4320

March

Nashville, TN - Mar. 3rd
Zanies
2025 8th Avenue South
Nashville, TN 37204
615-269-0221

Punchline Magazine reader Janel, from California, sent us this gem of her and comedian Nick Swardson.

“It was taken when Nick came to perform at a free show at UC-Riverside, Janel says. “I bugged him for this awesome photo right before he took off.”

There’s a lesson for you, comedy fans. It might take a little coercing to get that pic of you and your fave comic. But more times than not, they’ll relent… and then give the camera some tongue.

Send us your comedian photos at photos@punchlinemagazine.com. Remember to tell us your name, when and where the photo was taken and a wee story about the photo.

Take a break today and enjoy one of the best pieces of stand-up in history. For more videos, check out Punchline Magazine’s ComedySpace at: punchlinemagazine.com/comedyspace

I just took a “gentleman’s shower” in the sink of the Denver International Airport. It’s an exercise worth doing not only for the obvious hygienic benefits, but for the spectrum of responses that range from awkward silence to aghast gaping.

Listen, America: if you can’t handle an attractive, grown man with his shirt off splashing himself in a fashion reminiscent of Steve Martin’s character (Neal Page) in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (at the Braidwood Inn), how are you going to grow the sack necessary to continue paying $3.50 for a gallon of gas in 2008? Look at my chest. Pump your gas. Shut up. Don’t judge.

Here’s a list of helpful tips for the road-weary comedian that might shed some light on what I’m getting at.

1. Take a Gentleman’s Shower: When taking a gentleman’s shower in the sink of an airport, club, plane, or even a tour bus, make sure you have a paper towl dispenser with shitloads of towels ready to go. There’s nothing less satisfying than having to publicly resort to toilet paper or herpes covers to dry off. You’re better than that, so act like it.

There may be a scenario where you have your shirt off in the lavatory and you sense some tension with the gent next to you. In these cases it’s best to confront.

Grab his shoulder and give it a pinch, look into his eyes and say, “I know this is a bit awkward, but I want you to know that during your business travels, it’s perfectly acceptable to wash your body in a high traffic, public sink. Celebrate and live with a gentleman’s shower. Celebrate.”

If he’s still not convinced, give him a big laugh and show him how to squirt the dispenser soap into a washed-out latte cup. Now you’ve got backup soap “TO GO” in case of a Code 4 gentleman’s shower emergency (defined as “no soap at the rest stop and hand dryers instead of towels”). Now that’s thinking ahead.

A boy scout might say, “be prepared.” I say, “be unprepared,” but when that special opportunity comes to shed your shirt in front of a hodgepodge of weary international airport travelers, seize the moment and become an ambassador of this great nation by shirtlessly addressing a cranky stranger next to you, extending a wet hand in a public washroom and offering, “How ’bout a nice gentleman’s shower. Come on in. The water’s warm.” Can someone say “Carpe Diem”!?!?!?

2. Hit the bar and make a scene: Imagine yourself with three hours to kill before your flight to the southwest United States.

Uh oh. You’ve already soaked your neck and chest in the public restroom and sprayed your junk, pits and chest hair cleavage with a fresh can of travel-sized deodorant from the newsstand. What to do now?

It’s quite simple. Start drinking. There’s always a sporting event or political update that the traveling public is glued to in the terminal bar. You can get right in the sweaty middle of these superfan travelers at a small cost: $6 for a pint of Coors Light.

Don’t think of this as a situation where you’re “stuck” for three hours at a cost of “50 bucks a drunk.” Think of this as an opportunity to chit-chat with citizens from all over the country and the globe. The airport bar is a melting pot for Pete’s sake. It’s the Ellis Island of modern America.

Tell Gladys from Arizona about your family’s Christmas traditions. Share your stories with Elvio, the Italian business man flying to a software convention full of hard drives and hard livin’.

If things get interesting between you and a potential heterosexual coitus partner, get the check and suggest that you hit up the cookie stand. If she wants “extra nuts” you’re in.

If excitement wanes, the dignified thing to do is to head back to the men’s restroom, remove your shirt and throw your clothes in a pile next to the sink. Voila! You’re back in good shape with your friends in the bathroom and NOTHING puts out the flames of anonymous sex rejection better than the lukewarm flow of airport H2O splashing across your hairy tummy during another rejuventaing gentleman’s shower.

3. Drink lots of water: When the flight attendant asks you what you’d like to drink, tell her/him that you’d like water instead of a soft drink. After you’ve been poured a fresh, three-inch plastic high-ball glass of mostly ice and some water, presumptuously ask, “Can I have the whole bottle,” as you often do with a soda can. The flight attendant might just be weary enough to resist fighting with you about their water bottle policies and fork over a quart or two of hydro heaven.

If you’re lucky enough to create that kind of personal hydration station at 30,000 feet, you’re nearly ready for the next obvious step. When you’ve guzzled enough water to create some bladder pressure, head on into the aero-potty and lock the door. It’s time to treat yourself to some relaxation.

Remove your shirt (or multiple layers) immediately upon entering the flying water closet. Wad up your clothes and throw them in the corner. Urinate. Flush. And let the fun begin.

Most airplanes hold enough gallons of water for a full-scale, 20-minute gentleman’s shower. The works.

Check the paper towel area first. If it’s stocked with absorbent papepr products, you can feel pretty good about your shot at the perfect, mile-high shirtless ritual where you can stare at your own body and, when you’re ready, on your own terms, begin splashing small handfulls of water on your ungroomed torso. I specify “ungroomed” because a messy gentleman’s shower staging area is no place for the waxed, metrosexual man-scaping set.

A gentleman’s shower on the plane should be a time to reflect. Hell, I spent a full nine-hour flight to Tokyo in the bathroom of a 777 doing nothing more than napping, taking the occasional shit, and freshing up every half hour or so with a self-administered water glaze across the sternum.

Got a runny nose? Take a moment and clean your sinuses and blow. As you stretch and blow, defecate in the provided airplane stall, all the while anticipating a nice gentleman’s shower as you expell nutrients from both ends.

I know what you’re thinking. “How can someone comandeer the the bathroom from the rest of the plane? Isn’t that inconsiderate, especially to senior citizens and families with kids who might really need to use that lavatory?” Maybe, but I ask you this: Can we all agree that one man’s life is worth no more or less than the next? Can we all agree that a gentleman’s right to get half-naked and squirt soap and water onto his chest is as valid as an 80-year old woman’s need to take her diabetes medicine, quietly expell her own human waste, and return to her seat so that others may use the restroom? I say yes.

The diabetic lady and I can agree to disagree about the appropriate length of time in a given in-flight bathroom but I think we both want the same thing– a haven where we can relax and take care of our personal business, whatever that might be. For some it’s a quick 30-second piss. For others, it’s nice to stretch their legs and blow their nose.

Me? I like to enjoy it all. And if a man can’t sprawl out liberally in the small, securely locked space given while getting partially nude and examining himself longingly in an airplane loo, then we have lost a bit of our liberty, and that’s not what I want for this great country. I want more. Because a gentleman’s shower should ALWAYS be a gentleman’s CHOICE. That’s what my right to choose looks like.