Sunday, March 30, 2008

Private Eye, See?

The year was 2008: 2008, the year. The city: New York. The man: Det. Patrick Garrigan

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, ya see? The economy was hit hard with a recession, and the good citizens started to feel it smart.

It used to be whereas your Average Drugstore Cowboy could just walk into a Starbucks, see, and order a Venti Carmel Macciado, hop into their Suburban, and be about their business. Then after quittin' hours, head to the local gin mill, get some giggle water, chat up some dame with foxy gams and everything was jake.

Those days of everything bein' copasetic were long gone. Nowadays, even the biggest Cake-eaters were forced to get a small cup-a-joe off that bloke with the cart, slave away the day with a buncha oilcans & drags, only to head home, drink some Natty Ice, watch some porn and hit the hay.

Yessir, it got so as people had to use all their moxie to work up some extra scratch. I'm Patrick Garrigan -and I started a private investigation company out of my apartment. This is my story.

I concluded I'd had enough of being under the thumb of the Man, and decided I needed another source of income to either supplement or replace my current flow. It was time to take inventory of what I had.

A firm grip on 1920's slang, a front door with a glass pane that would take black paint well, a large collection of tasteful ties, a computer with internet access, a Metrocard, and inherently creepy sensibilities. In a lot of ways, kid, you could say the P.I. biz chose me.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're gonna say. I've heard it all before. Those aren't assets, they're either character flaws, household hold items or poor architectural choices. And you'd be right.

Nevertheless, despite spending no time on The Force and having no law enforcement or sleuthing credentials whatsoever, I struck out with my unique brand of Private Investigating.

Here are just a few of my offerings:


On either a retainer or per project basis, I can use my near chameleon-like social skills to infiltrate any social gathering (as shown here). Once "inside," I begin to work my magic. Are you worried that your precious Sheba is straying? Well, I'll track her down at a party and use my uber-keen questioning techniques to get you the answers you desire.

Here's a transcript from just last week.

SCENE: Party
OBJECTIVE: Discover if Woman 1 is cheating on Boyfriend

PG: So, good party, eh?

Woman 1: I guess so.

PG: You come here often?

Woman 1: This is my house, so, yes. Um, who are you?

PG: Love your drapes. Do they match the carpet?

Woman 1: Excuse me?

PG: NEVERMIND! Are you fucking around on [Boyfriend]??!!

Woman 1: YES! I mean, No!

PG: Ah, HA! Zing!

CONCLUSION: Woman 1 is a tart who is cheating on you. You're welcome.

Remarkable, yes, but just the tip of the iceberg.


Any fool'll tell you that we live in the digital age, kiddo. Do you have a rival that needs a tail? Perhaps your crushin' and need conversation topics for your femme fatale? Are these people on MySpace, Facebook and/or easily Google-able? If so, I can draw on the fact that I have absolutely no social life to provide you with any information you require.

That's right! You'll rest a little easier knowing that I spend every evening (weekday and weekend) at home alone with my computer watching re-runs of Buffy The Vampire Slayer to provide you with frighteningly up-to-the-minute details about your target!

But wait there's more! If you act now, you get the following for FREE. Yes, FREE!

Do you have a gorgeous, but high-maintenance dame who is always blowing smoke in your face, using really dated slang, and speaking in smoky, hushed and strangely-innuendoed tones? If so, you're probably dating a weird film noir girl!

But there's good news. I'm sooo obnoxious with all this film noir bullshit, that I will out-noir her! You heard correctly! Out noir! After just a few outings with me, your Hotsie-Totsie Hoofer will be hollering for a Hooters and a helping of The Hills. I'm just that good.

So whaddah ya say? Any time you got nothing to do - and lots of time to do it - come on up and see me sometime? 'Cause when I'm good I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better. [Mae West (and her tittays) roll over in their grave]

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Secrets of Stress Relief Revealed!

Bookmark this page, you're gonna need this later.

Man, I am stressed owwwwwuuut. Heavy workload at my place of employment, dog/housesitting on the Upper West Side, negotiating non-proliferation agreements, extra writing projects with looming deadlines, maintaining intimidatingly large pectoral muscles, performing in a cabaret, people with umbrellas becoming abso-fucking-lutely retarded whenever it starts to sprinkle -jeeze, even shaving has proven too stressful for me these days (as shown here) . Yes, friends I am overwrought.

But, Patrick, you seem so even-keeled you say. What do you do to keep your perky demeanor and cheerful veneer?

Oh you, it's not a veneer. Despite the stress in my life, and the strife of my rough middle-class upbringing, I have found things that ground me and give me joy. What things do you ask? Well, okay, since we're close, I feel like I can share just this one thing with you.

Whenever I am stressed, I take a little Patrick Time™; rise from the fetal position, hop on the YouTubes and participate full out in the dance below. And now you can too! That's right, I want you to turn up your computer speakers, rise from your desk, bed or toilet and do it with me now.

[As a side note, I make a cameo in this video, if you can pick me out you receive 20,000 imaginary Patrick Points]

[Could you spot me in the video? If you guessed the boom mic operator at the end of the video, you are correct!!! 20,000 imaginary Patrick Points to you!!! Hooray!!!]

YESSSSS, friends, the Cha Cha Slide. Damn, doesn't that just feel good?! You just feel so full of life! You don't have to have any dance skills, any sense of rhythm -all you have to have are ears and legs, and you've got those! Unless you don't. If that's the case, then um... please don't go on the dance floor, because then I'll just have to dance around your deaf, legless torso and I haaate it when I have to do that.

But seriously, don't you feel great? Yeah, it's like we just went to a wedding and we all know how much I love weddings....

So that's my secret. That, and I masturbate a lot and take naps. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go finish shaving.

GWGG Holiday Wishes:
Happy Easter! Remembering the reason for the season makes the candy that much more delish!

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Deal Above, Blog Below: GWGG Reader Discount!!!

Dept. of Shameless Self Promotion
-Yeah, we'll get to the bloggin' below, but first....

Here's what the critics are saying about What's the Point!

The handsome Patrick Garrigan is...."

Versatile Patrick Garrigan is...."

Patrick Garrigan got a big...."
-Cabaret Exchange

"Patrick's laidback...."
-Q Onstage

"...Patrick Garrigan..."
-Cabaret Scenes

It is these reviews that I masturbate to before I go to sleep. But now you too can get off with...


Since you can read, you get a special discount. If you want to come and see the skit but are cheap like me here's an exclusive deal for GWGG readers!

For the remaining (3) performances, if you mention discount code, DISC, you can get $15 tickets for $10. That's, like, a discount of 33.333333%!!! Zoinks that's a good deal! Here's the info! See you cats* there!
a NEW Musical Comedy Revue
Music by Alan Cancelino
Lyrics by
Hector Coris
Hector Coris, Patrick Garrigan, Eadie Scott
Musical Direction by Joe Regan
Choreography by Susan Haefner
Directed by Collette Black

February 18 – March 31
at The Reprise Room
245 West 54th Street (betw. 8th Ave and Broadway)
Tickets $15 plus a $15 food/drink minimum (full dinner menu available)
Use code DISC for $10 tickets.
Tickets @ or Reservations (347) 678-8054 or via email:

*I mean "cats" in the colloquial jazz sense. Please don't bring actual cats to the show. Aside from being a violation of NYC Health Dept codes, I hate them.

Thanks for Nothing Eliot

So as we all know by now, our illustrious New York ex-governor, Eliot Spitzer, got caught spending $80,000 on high class ass.

Frankly, I'm furious. I'm not furious that he spent all that money on whores, made himself an enormous hypocrite or caused his relatively foxy (& oddly named) wife to age before my very eyes. I'm angry because:

  1. The rate for (3) Diamond 'tutes is going to go through the roof. It was getting to where I thought I might be able to angle for a (4) Diamond one next time, but now, nooo.
  2. My reason for wanting to go into politics is exposed.
  3. I'm going to have to listen to this shitty song on the radio (push play and let the cringing begin):
  4. I completely lost my queue on the Emperor's Club website.
  5. I'm back to taking Mom to dinner parties....
  6. As thrown around by those judgey media-types, whore, whoremonger, John's, tricks, pimps, playaz, hustlas, and trick-ass ho's, all take on negative connotations and not the endearing platitudes I once knew them as [sigh].
  7. Used to be you couldn't swing a pimp cane without hittin' hooker (pun intended), bet they'll be harder to find now.
  8. Who's gonna pay for the vacancy at my table at the Players Ball? Shit ain't cheap.
  9. I suppose I'll have to use money I was going to spend on an artificial "heart of gold" for transplant-needing hooker, to sponsor some hungry-3rd-world-country kids or something.
  10. Virtually buying friends on the facebook "Friends for Sale" app not nearly as much fun as buying actual vagina.

So on behalf of all of us, thanks for nothing, asshole.

Sunday, March 09, 2008

Poem to St. Paddys

This is my best Sammy Davis, Jr.

You see, that's funny because he's dead and African American and was a glass eye wearer and I am none of of those things! And that's wherein the comedy lies... Oh, me.

I'm sorry, I just get so slap happy when this time of year rolls around. Yes, St. Paddy's Day gets me all giddy-like. Oh, this holiday holds so many fond memories of growing up: friends feasting on corned beef and cabbage, libations flowing like golden showers, spirited renditions of "Macnamara's Band," and my parents being carried out in handcuffs on trumped up drunk & disorderly charges. I will always treasure those memories.

This time of year fills me with such glee. However, it also makes me aware of the fact that since My Happiness quotient is so high, I may be stealing from World Happiness, and for that I feel a little bad. Given my Catholic upbringing, Guilt requires that I offer something back to World Happiness. My offering? A Poem to St. Paddys.

A Poem to St. Paddys
St Paddy's comes but once a year,
The Church made it the 15th and I think that's queer.
For everyone knows its the 17th of March,
But no matter, by Saturday, no doubt I'll be parch'd.

A time to gather round the piano both young and old,
and sing silly ditties with voices loud and quite bold.
To hover over plates filled with stewed cabbage and corned beef,
As plastic leprechauns frolic 'round a quite festive motif.

It's that one day where everyone dons green,
and buries that impulse to be vindictive and mean.
For we recollect on St. Patrick, as he is the reason,
why poseurs get shitfaced and act like asses this season.

As I grow older, these traditions I'll always hold dear,
But perhaps I might do some things different this year.
Throw away all the corned beef, good will and that crap,
And hunker down with a 40, some porn and a nap.

When a holiday's named after you, then all must agree,
that a sense of humility and modesty's the key.
If you know me at all, you know that's not likely to happen,
So spring for a stripper and have her dance on my lap 'en!

I hope that this poem makes you all giddy,
So go get hammered, meet a lady and go make a kiddy.
For I wish you nothing but good imbiment and cheer,
My name is Patrick Garrigan, and I don't care for liver.

Yeah, eat your heart out Yeats. So maaaaaybe the ending needs work, but my mom used to always make me eat liver and I really didn't like it and I felt that needed to be addressed.

Anyway, I hope you have a delightful St. Paddy's. You've been working hard at whatever it is you do. And if you haven't been working hard, get cracking, we're in a recession, people! Sláinte!

Death Done Irish-Style

PS- This is what we Irish think happens right before you die, courtesy of Darby O'Gill & The Little People.

Not even joking -that Banshee seriously scares the shit out of me to this day. Which is why I always carry around a gas lantern.

Monday, March 03, 2008

A Week Without Underbritches

Why ever is this baby crying? Could it be that the baby is horrified by the fact that it is holding a baby that looks exactly like it that is also crying? Perhaps, but more likely this kid is crying because it doesn't have access to clean underwear.

I empathize.

Every year thousands of Americans go without clean undergarments. Given the current national economic landscape, there are a variety of reasons that send people out into the world commando. Just look at these staggering statistics:

  • 58% of plumbers go without underwear because panty lines impede, "giving good crack."
  • 37% of creepy uncles don't wear undergarments because it gets in the way of fiddlin' their bits during Monday Night Football.
  • 75% of strippers are without underwear because, "I gots to air that shit out."
But it isn't just stippers, blue collar folk and likely pedophiles that this lack of underwear strikes. This week I too went without underwear.

Much like becoming homeless or addicted to smack, I never thought going without underwear would happen to me. It didn't happen all at once. It began simply, harmlessly.

Chart of Options - Proportions Represent Available Resources

Back in the day life was good. I would wear my soft Gap Body boxer shorts. Yes ladies, I'm a boxer man. Those are nice shorts they are soft and comfy to sleep in. In fact, they are the official boxer short of Patrick Garrigan. Despite my love for them, I really only have so many pairs. Over time, given my active lifestyle, I ran out and had to move on to the next option.

Boxer briefs were next in line. Don't get me wrong they're all fine and good, but they just aren't me. I have a few of them laying around for special occasions. You know what I mean? "Special occasions?" When some "occassion especiale" comes along? Yeah, well eventually I ran out of those too. Which forced me to the next line of defense.

The tighty whiteys. Now I think the last time I purchased tighty whiteys was in 1995 with my mother at a Marion, Ohio WALMART. Despite this, I still own (4) pairs with unidentifiable (or worse, identifiable) stains. Like sands through the hour glass (4) days come and go and I am desperate.

Which brings me to my dance belts. I haven't worn a dance belt in a couple of years because frankly they squish your jibbly bits into a ball. And no one wants into-a-ball-squished jibbly bits, right people? They were called up regardless.

Anyway, as of last Sunday night I had exhausted my supply of jibbly bit squishing undergarments and found myself in quite the pickle.

My answer was to go without.

That's right folks all last week I was sans underwear. Here's just a smattering of things I did while ma boys were flapping in the breeze:
  1. Performed in a cabaret.
  2. Tutored blind children.
  3. Ate pie.
  4. Wrote a book on doing things without underwear.
  5. Gave up my seat on the subway for an old lady: she said, "thank you." I replied, "no underwear."
  6. Answered the phone at work.
  7. Told a knock, knock joke.
  8. Participated in the U.S. Women's Olympic Figure Skating trials.
Pretty impressive, eh? Well, not everyone agreed.

Many people upon hearing of my strife begged the question,"why don't you just do your damn laundry? "

"Oh, it's so easy to judge me isn't it?!" I would reply, throw my drink in their face and storm off.

Oh, I knew I had a problem, but how to deal with it?

The answer came to me last night, when my roomate and Girl Friday, Joey sat me down as I watched the Law & Order SVU marathon and helped me see the light.

How did he do this? He hit me over the head with a bottle of detergent and supportively intoned, "go do your laundry, you ass. It's at the end of the block for fuck's sake. Fuckin' gross...." Sometimes you really just need to hear it in terms that connect, you know?

So I'm going to grab a couple of hours of sleep now and then tomorrow morning I am going to get up and clean my laundry before I go to work. That's right America, I am going to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get me some clean underwear! It's what that girl with the creepy crying baby that looks just like her would want.


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