Audio By Carbonatix
If you’re expecting subtlety from a comedy troupe named the Ballbusters, you’re in for the rude awakening you deserve. These guys are lewd, crude, and determinedly obnoxious. Their sole joy in life is derived from placing and recording prank telephone calls to unsuspecting victims, taking perverse glee in raising the hackles of gullible dupes.
And now a record label billing itself as D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F. Productions has seen fit to unleash (“release” is too tame a word) a CD sampling of their handiwork entitled No Jerk’n Off (a play on underground sensations the Jerky Boys, who pioneered this bizarre mix of phone-y confrontational improv).
True to the Ballbusters name, it’s a vulgar comic compendium guaranteed to offend and entertain, the degree of each response varying according to a listener’s tolerance for profanity and scatological references. No Jerk’n Off is exactly as tasteless and sophomoric as you might guess from a troupe whose philosophy can be summed up best by the motto that adorns their promotional T-shirts: “Piss off and have a good fucking day.”
The scurrilous outfit is composed of several unsavory characters ranging from ancient Moishe, who has a problem with incontinence, to Sir Peter Lettermanforthnsonson, who denies impotence but whose succession of young wives have a propensity to conduct wanton liaisons with low-rent lovers in pricey hotels at Sir Peter’s expense. Johnny is a 37-year-old pervert who lives with his mother and calls 976 numbers while he plays with his “German soldier.” David Buttstick is a 450-pound eating machine with a chip on his shoulder as well as in his mouth. Robert Rococo recently underwent a sex-change operation, yet still feels a strange attachment to his/her severed manhood, which he/she would like to have bronzed.
There are others, but these characters account for most of the disc’s low-comedy highlights. Sir Peter, in particular, elicits sympathy from a pair of eager marks A a divorce counselor and an airlines reservation agent, respectively. Their willingness to endure his profane misogynist outbursts is mind-boggling. You cannot help but laugh at the conversation with the counselor, in particular, as it becomes apparent the woman will suffer any verbal abuse to land a client.
Sir Peter: “My wife of six months is having an affair and I’d like some information on how I’m going to get divorced from that slut!”
Counselor: “Do you have any minor children?”
Sir Peter: “Yes, I have small children, about four-foot-two.”
Counselor: “Uh-huh. And is she agreeable to the divorce?”
Sir Peter: “She doesn’t know yet. I just found out this morning.”
Counselor: “Uh-huh. Well, there are only two grounds for getting a divorce in California, irreconcilable differences and incurable insanity.”
Sir Peter (losing control): “Incurable insanity! What do you call fucking the bellboy at my expense in a top hotel?”
Counselor (rattled): “Um, that would have to be certified by the State of California.”
Sir Peter (raging): “What do you call having sex with a strange man at my expense?”
Counselor (regaining her composure): “Irreconcilable differences. Adultery, fornication — all that good stuff is out in California.”
Sir Peter sputters for a while and finally calms down, asking some basic questions about “getting that slut off my back without losing all my goddamn stuff.” The counselor endures his tirades and tries to pin him down for a formal meeting. But she makes one big mistake. She asks him if he signed a prenuptial agreement.
Sir Peter (exploding): “Of course not! I didn’t think that fucking bag would be sleeping around as soon as my back was turned in a lavish hotel on Miami Beach”
Counselor (interrupting): “I just happen to be from Miami.”
Sir Peter (derisively): “Well, isn’t that a fucking coincidence! She’s down there now counting bloody ceiling tile, I’m talking to a divorce attorney who lived in bloody Miami!”
And so it goes, Sir Peter becoming progressively more agitated and abusive, the counselor trying to maintain her composure and rope him in for an appointment. The verbal tug-of-war lasts for a total of six minutes, winding down with the following exchange:
Sir Peter: “Can you believe that I just spent $10,000 on fake tits for this bitch and she’s down there letting some Guido fondle them? I am so irate.”
Counselor: “Yes, I hear. So there’s no need for a restraining order?”
Sir Peter: “Well, I’d like an order restraining her from fucking the whole rest of the world. I just don’t know what to do. Could we suture her vagina closed, maybe?”
Counselor: “Calm down, now. I could send you a form or I could set up an appointment.”
Sir Peter: “I don’t think I need an attorney. I need a hit man. Or a good doctor with a sharp needle; sew that little pocket up. It’s had more traffic than the Lincoln fucking Tunnel!”
Counselor: “No comment.”
While Sir Peter’s rants about his wife’s infidelity fall on the understanding ears of professionals who take all he has to dish out, more often the Ballbusters’s calls quickly push their targets to the breaking point. But every so often a call recipient dishes back, such as Candy, a girl from the Sex Line who takes Johnny’s comments about his German soldier as a cue to turn on the raunch.
Candy: “What are you wearing, Johnny?”
Johnny: “My Spider-Man pajamas.”
Candy: “You sound really cute! I’m wearing white crotchless panties, a pair of black four-inch high heels, and I’m rubbing my pussy.”
Johnny: “I love kitties. I have two.”
Candy: “Oh, Johnny, you’re making me really wet.”
Johnny: “You should dry off. You’ll catch a cold.”
Candy: “Are you touching your cock, Johnny?”
Johnny: “I told you. I only have cats.”
In a recent exclusive interview with New Times, Johnny and Sir Peter — in character — attempted to explain what it is that makes grown men engage in such behavior long after most of us have outgrown the impulse to call tobacconists and ask if they have Prince Albert in a can, or to dial a stranger at random and ask if his refrigerator is running.
“I don’t really get out much,” admits Johnny.
“He’s a bit of a simpleton,” interjects Sir Peter. “We actually have miles and miles of tape. We started out doing the tapes as an underground thing a couple years ago, and we got lots of acclaim. At the time I didn’t think it was very funny because, well, my wife was having an affair. But I understand the CD is selling well in college towns, and in New York and Philadelphia.”
At present the Busters have no plans for a video.
“We prefer to be heard, not seen,” explains Johnny. “Although we might come out with a cartoon.”
“Given the current state of affairs in the world, with violence, drugs, crime, I would just like to say one thing to the people of Miami,” proclaims Sir Peter solemnly. “Piss off and have a good fucking day.”
And don’t answer the phone.
