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One Thursday night in 1995, I did a comedy hell gig in a little town called Morris, IL.

It was a one-nighter in a dive-bar halfway between Davenport and Chicago.

I got paid $75 to do a 45 minute set.

The bar lacked a green room, and there was no emcee.

There were no show lights. No raised stage. No organized seating.  

And the microphone was a bulky desktop mic duct-taped to a mic stand.

I shit you not.

I was the second comic on this two-man show with a guitar act named Paul Frisbee opening.

The show started and Paul stood there unlit, singing his parody songs into the same microphone your grade school principal most likely used to make PA announcements.

Meanwhile at the back of the room, I strategized how I would win over this baker’s dozen.

Then in a quiet moment, Frisbee noticed that in the next room there were another dozen people bellied up to the bar, so like a pied piper he led the comedy club crowd over to the bar area where he continued to do his guitar act.

At first, these bar drinkers were on their stools still facing the bartender.

But gradually a few of them craned their necks without turning their stools to see what Paul was doing. But without laughing. Not a giggle or a smile or even a head nod from any of them.

However, after each of Paul’s songs they automatically clapped because that’s what people are trained to do when a musician stops playing.

Then it was my turn. Except I had no guitar. Just my jokes.

I started with my regular act, and these drunken flatlanders stared at me like I was selling caviar.

After a half hour of that same awkwardness, something happened that changed the course of the show.

Some fool heckled me.

A heavy-set good-ol-boy at the bar finally noticed my shaved head and shouted:

“Buff your head for a nickel.”

For the first time that evening, the audience laughed. Hard.

This local took a shot at me, cracked the code, and got the biggest laugh of the night.

His buddy patted him on the back, as if to say, “Now that’s how it’s done.”

Now every head at the bar turned to me (some of them even spun their stools), waiting to see how I’d respond.

No problem. I love handling hecklers.

I don’t battle or berate them like they teach you over at You-Suck-You-Swallow U.

Instead, I use comedy jujitsu to shift their own momentum against them.

That night, I started by complimenting him for getting the biggest laugh of the show.

“Well done, sir, you’re doing my job better than me. Check’s in the mail.”

A few laughs.

“That really was cool, sir, that was like if all the White Sox players struck out and then suddenly the batboy hits a home run.”

More laughs.

“What’s your name, sir?”

He paused, the crowd turned to him, and I heard someone whisper, “Tell him, Bobby.”

Now I had everything I needed to know.

“Congratulations, Bobby,” I said, smiling and staring at him directly. “You are now officially part of the show. And so far, the best part.”

More laughs. Truth hurts, but it’s funny.

Time to heighten.

“That’s right, Bobby, you’re in the show now. You know Bobby’s going to be standing outside by the door as you all leave, shaking your hands. (laugh) Telling everybody, ‘Thanks for coming to the show, hope you enjoyed it. (laugh) I was the “Buff your head for a nickel” guy, best line of the night. Sure, lady, I’ll sign your chest. B-O-O-B-Y.’”

Even bigger laughs, probably because of the “boob” joke.

“You know Bobby’s going to be driving home (I’m him now, driving a car, steering an invisible steering wheel) with his wife there, she’s so proud of her man, (now I’m her with a lady’s voice looking over at the driver) “Oh Bobby, you were so brave speaking up like that, making everybody laugh when that bad man couldn’t. (sexy look) Mmmm, do it again for me, Bobby.”

Pause. Now I’m Bobby staring back at her, building up the tension. I shake my head no.

The crowd’s into it.

“Bobby, pleeeease?”

Then after a half second, in Bobby’s voice holding the steering wheel I say: “Buff your head for a nickel.”

Laughs. Then some quick applause.

“Oh Bobby…”

Then I may or may not have acted out her pleasuring Bobby while he continued to drive.

Now they were really screaming because I just got Bobby, the star of the show, some road action.

Then it was time for the ultimate heightening.

“You know ol’ Bobby here is going to be at work tomorrow, bragging to all his coworkers about how he saved the show.”

That’s when I become Bobby again, this time holding an invisible mop handle.

I start mopping the floor.

The crowd is howling. Suddenly Bobby mops floors for a living!

Then in an old southern voice, still mopping, I say, “You shoulda seen me at the comedy show last night. Guy had no hair attal and was not funny. So I took over and had thee best line of the night. (pause mopping) Buff your head for a nickel.”

Laughs. Applause. Foot stomps.

At that point I pretend to squeeze out the mop into a bucket and then I stand and bang three times on the microphone like I’m knocking on the bathroom stall door.

“Excuse me, you almost done in there, I gotta get every stall. Make it quick or . . . I’ll buff your head for a nickel.”

Applause break.

“Thank you, good night.”

I hate to say it, but that heckler interaction saved the show.

I do love hecklers, but not for battling.

If you battle your haters, you give them what they want, which is an argument where you’re forced to defend against their aggressive attack.

Instead, zoom out and rise above that heckle. Then bring the heightening game back to the heckler.

Ask them how much they charge for their negative assessment so you can make sure to pay them out of your fuck-you account.

Thank them for being brave enough to not hide behind timewasters like kindness or courtesy.

Compliment their time-management skills that allow them enough time to mind your business, too.

Hecklers heckle and haters hate because that’s far easier than creating. It takes little courage or effort to interrupt and heckle, so it tends to get done by the fearful and lazy.

Haters are loud but they’re also weak, so don’t let them keep you from having a great time.

Thank your hecklers (sarcastically, of course) for helping you grow as a creator, and you’ll be surprised how quickly that shuts them up.

Never be afraid to face the Bobby’s of the world – you’re far too creative for that.

That reminds me, I still owe Bobby a nickel.