Lorne
The worst thing in the world is when comedians share their Lorne stories. Podcast after podcast: “Well, I had a meeting with Lorne,” they'll say, like an old sailor describing a storm. “Must have been, oh, 2003 or so.” And buckle up because you are about to hear the least relevant, most uninteresting half-hour of material in your life.
“What was it like for you?”
“So I was there, and Lorne said, hey, have one of those candy bars.”
No context. No drama. Just ever-more Lornery, and the audience knows that the conversation is about to be flushed down the time toilet with no relief. They'll do Lorne impersonations, even though absolutely no one outside of their hermetically sealed coffin of anxious rejection has the first clue. Half of the time the conversation is about not getting a job, an experience that nearly all of adult humanity has shared, but in this case is supposed to represent an almost cosmic level of injustice and narcissistic insult. A comic will tell the story of not getting a Lorne callback until the clock melts, while another comedian encourages them, like two addicts getting it together enough to steal a catalytic converter. It ends not with jokes but with two men diving so deep into comedy-world minutiae that, by the end, they're listing the snack preferences of the doormen who worked between 1997–2007 at the Poughkeepsie Chamber of Chortles.
Imagine going to the DMV but before you get your license photo taken, the clerk gives you a copy of the application they filled out to get the job, and says: “I need to tell you about my interview with Craig sixteen years ago.” Lorne stories are no different. They are anecdotes about the Comedy HR department. Lornepilled, no one can see this and no one stops it.
There needs to be AI involved. If Apple can hear “Siri” they can hear “Lorne.” Then the iPhone simply explodes.
Clearly the only person who could bring it to an end is Lorne himself, via a mass e-mail. “Dear Comedian, Stop talking about me because it's not funny or interesting to anyone.” But it would achieve nothing. It would only lead to impersonations of Lorne transcribing that email in a voice none of us have heard. They would all talk about “the email” and “did you get the email?” “I didn't get the email but I did once get an email from his assistant asking me to return the paperclip dispenser I stole from his desk.” Then they'd talk about that important story for the full duration of Goodfellas.
No matter what we try we cannot make these people realize how boring Lorne is. Lorne stories are fractal, recursive, infinite to them. Even the sound of the word “Lorne” sounds like boredom. How are you feeling? I'm Looooooorn. Nothing will change. I will hear about Lorne until I die. I can't accept it. But I must.