The other officer speaks up. "Listen. Forget the explanation - win some, lose some. Go home. It's over for you clowns." Obviously this cop was not a graduate of Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People. Officer Dunne chimes in again, "Look, if there was something we could do, we would."

Now for me, personally I was thrilled. Now I could say I came, did my part, but I couldn't help it if I couldn't get in. Basically I was off the hook. But I saw how disappointed some of the other comics were. So I stepped out of the line and went over to the producer (or whoever he was) and took him aside.

"Excuse me, Mr. Last Comic Standing sir. I have an idea. How about you take five of us in at a time, let us do some improv and interact. It will go quicker that way and then all of us can get in.”

He replies, "Sorry can't do that."

Not quitting yet, "Okay so here's another idea. How about since I'm the fastest talking female I go and ask all the comics something really fast about themselves on camera... then at least you get to see their personality for a minute, and I promise I'll have you out of here by 5."

"No sorry, can't do that,” he replies.

I look back at the line. "I'm trying here folks." Known by my friends for being relentless, I try one more tactic.

"Okay. Last idea. How about you at least take our cards and headshots so you know who was waiting in line. I'll start. I whip out my card and hand it to him.

He just looks at it. "You really are the fastest talker."

"Yup, if you can't use me for this show, maybe something else," I smile.

He starts to walk away while I'm trying to fish out my headshot from my bag. I grab Officer Dunne. "Please just stick this in his hands."

Officer smiles and does it.

"Thanks. So that's it? No more?" I ask.

He says, "Tell ya what, tell me a good joke and maybe we can work something out."

I say, "Look Officer Dune"...

He says, "D-U-N-E! What do I look like sand to you? It's DUNNE."

"Yes, exactly...DONE... just like this audition. Thanks but I'm outta here." I wink.

He smiles, "Very quick... not bad. But no cigar."

I turn back. "I tried. Good luck guys!"

I walk past the line, and stop to talk to my friends at the front of the line.
I tell them what happened. One lady, relatively new to the business says, "Wow that's awful. I'd be so upset. I'm a teacher from Maryland. I do comedy out there. I took off today, got a substitute, got someone to take care of my kids, drove all night, and was in line since 4 AM this morning. I figure this is my shot. I'd really be so upset."

"Well you are way up here... no worries. Good luck." I turn to leave.

As we were saying our goodbye's we see a commotion up front. The very last comic in line, a big, tall, Guido-looking, painted-on-tan, muscle bound comic, who was three people behind me, has now snuck up front and cut the line. The cops are threatening to physically drag him out of the line for cutting. He puffs up his chest. "No fair! I want my chance to tell a joke."

This is when comedy turns ugly.

The guy is moaning about how long he waited. The cops go to touch his arm. He pulls away. The other comics don't understand why he is cutting in the first place and then the announcement comes.

"Okay folks. This here is the cutoff point." Officer Dunne gives the same speech. The only problem is, these people up here have been waiting since 3 AM Included in this bunch are my veteran comic friends, and the teacher whose dream bubble just burst. She looks like she is about to cry. I feel horrible for her.

The comics are getting louder and louder. They are all saying they are going to stay in the line till five. The officers shout back. "Do what you want, but it's a waste of time." There were a lot of meandering, cursing and disappointment. Shouts of “I'll use this on stage as material” comments: the ultimate threat with the hopes of public humiliation. Yes, this folks is what happens when comedy is not pretty.”

I leave the line while the commotion is still going on. I call Alan and leave a voice message on his machine. "Hey Chan. Don't bother coming down. The cows just got slaughtered, and they didn't even get to be chopped meat."

The next day I was by my mom when I decided to pick up the Post to see if the reporter put my joke in as promised. Oh he put it in alright, along with 11 other comic's jokes, which was fine. It was the caption that wasn't fine. There on page 40, in bold letters for all New York to read, it said:

"THEY MUST BE JOKING, COMIC TRYOUTS BOMB."

Bomb! I didn't even get seen!

I read on, "Everyone's a comedian. Or so they thought in the unruly roundup of wannabe wisecrackers who hammed it up and down Broadway yesterday... There were guitar goofballs, neurotics, homeboys, guidos, jugglers and one borderline schizophrenic...They came, they saw, they bombed. At least, we're expecting most of these clowns did."

Nice, real nice. I showed it to my mom. She was infuriated and wanted to call the reporter. "He's an idiot! He doesn't know what he's talking about. I'd like to see him try stand up. I’m gonna call him and tell him how you get standing ovations and how the audiences love you."

"That’s fine mom, the reporter went in there with an agenda. He knew what kind of story he wanted to write. No matter what we said, he would have written the same story. Actually it's funny in a bizarre way. There's always a victim in a joke. This time we were the victims and the joke was on us."

Just then my cell phone rings. It's Alan.

"Hey Fran, how did you get in the paper? I thought you didn't audition!"

"I didn't. Did you see the headline? We all bombed."

"Yeah, that's show business. Any press is good press. Congrats." He laughed and hung up.

This is one strange business. Next time I'll call in my jokes and save the parking money.

On the way home I called Janette, "You know you were right. I should have gone with my gut."

To be continued next week... Fran goes from being judged to judging.