RED BASTARD

RED BASTARD
“Who ARE you? No, no!! not your name! Who ARE YOOOOUUUUU??”

The question skewers an audience member against the back of his seat. Then it skewers the entire audience. And is followed with a leer from ear to ear .. and a laugh which veers somewhere between a cough and a snicker. Ha!

We don’t have to answer. The Red Bastard knows that. And he knows you think he’s red and fat and in your face. Because he is! Ha! Because that’s where the truth belongs. Ha! And he’s here to show you all the ways … well, at least 10 .. maybe 9 .. faster … 8,7,6,5,4,3 … ways to delude yourself … into thinking you’re SOMEBODY. Or ANYBODY.

Oh wait! The Bastard hasn’t come to insult us. He’s come to wake us up. Get the carrot out of your ear folks! Big Brother is watching you, and he aint a casting agent.

Eric Davis’ Red Bastard has to be the funniest, most original, most outrageous solo performer in this country today. He’s huge. He’s smart. And he’s classic Bouffon.

Don’t take him on. Or you’ll be thrown out of the theatre. Or forced to stick your hand into … yup, INto … his horrifyingly huge red ass … the size of which is matched only by the size of his mouth .. out of which pour insults and obscenities in a non-stop barrage of fact, opinion, conjecture, assumption, observation, premonition .. and …the Truth. The Truth … that is big, red, and in your face.

That’s funny. And disgusting. And the Red Bastard.

The Red Bastard is a cross between Lenny Bruce, Jackie Gleason, Don Imus .. and Mother Teresa. Nothing’s out of bounds and the sky’s the limit. He’s unstintingly candid, there’s no sentimental drivel, and he fell asleep listening to an audience member’s dream of a perfect life (to own a horse, feed it carrots, talk to it … ). Had Eric not been heading down the home stretch at the time of this exchange, there was enough fodder here to warrant a half hour’s worth evisceration of cockamamie, illusion … and 21st C. loneliness.

Racing at breakneck speed to the finish line, Eric reveals his razor-edge wit and intelligence. He’s done his homework and the facts are chilling. Police surveillance cameras that not only see you , but hear you. He laughs. At last you can be sure your voice will be heard. Davis always finds a way to spin the truly grotesque into humor.
Ah, we the people. We’ll laugh ourselves silly if left to our own devices.

It’s futile. Don’t bother dreaming .. in his presence anyway. Dreams are illusions, and as such, subject to derision and mockery. Stop believing in fantasy. This is a Zen Master in Dr Dentens. Get real. Life doesn’t suck. It’s you who are confusing a blow job with Nirvana. Or Democracy with Equality. Ha! Leave it to this fat-assed Bastard to tell us there will be no surveillance cameras on Wall St. They’ll all be in the Bronx.

Words words words. This Bastard is all talk .. and we love it.
We know he’s right. It’s true. We don’t know who we are. But somehow learning this from the Bastard doesn’t destroy us. We are elevated. Happy! Free!! Of our bullshit. The Red Bastard strung it up. Exposed it. Laughed at it. Embraced it. Loudly, madly, gleefully.

Now it’s out … and we’re laughing at his exuberance. We surrender our idols … our fantasies, our deceptions, our desires .. lay them happily at his feet and stumble stunned out of the theatre. Unburdened. And flattered to have been ‘seen’.

Albeit by a fat-assed Bastard.