On Saturday I went to see a stop on the Tim and Eric & Dr. Steve Brule 2014 Tour, a live show by comedians Tim Heidecker, Eric Wareheim, and John C. Reilly of AdultSwim’s Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!, an offbeat sketch comedy show modeled after 1980s local access cable TV with a healthy dose of incoherence.
Tim and Eric aired in 2007 and I quickly became a fan. My friends and I constantly quoted its catchphrases. I judged people based on whether or not they “got” the humor. My brother even made me a B’owl for Christmas one year. I arrived at the live show with high hopes, ready to laugh uproariously over Cinco Family/Corporation products, Wayne Skylar’s razor-sharp goatee, Dr. Steve Brule’s Sweetberry Wine slur.
Thirty minutes after the show ended, I had a panic attack.
The audience roared with laughter as Wareheim pieced together the memories and aftermath of a brutal gang rape.
The trouble started during a sketch in which Heidecker and Wareheim appeared as suburban cult leaders. They parodied the standard Protestant Sunday service traditions—excessive rising and seating, awkward hand-shaking and prayer-sharing—and then moved onto public confessions. “I have a confession for you,” Heidecker began, turning to Warheim. “At the church retreat, I crushed up a bunch of Ambien, put it in your tea, and had all the disciples celebrate the Feast of Rang on your body...” The audience roared with laughter as Wareheim pieced together the memories and aftermath of a brutal gang rape.
I like cheap humor. That’s why I like Tim and Eric. You only have to but say the number “69” to get me to cackle like a thirteen-year-old. But rape jokes are not cheap humor, or humor at all. I would expand further on the offensiveness of the cult sketch, but unfortunately, the night only got worse.
Halfway through the show, Dr. Steve Brule (John C. Reilly) took the stage with his signature cross-eyed stare and slurred catchphrases. He chose a selection of male and female volunteers from the audience and began to play a series of inane games. One of Brule’s most famous segments is “For Your Health,” in which he issues macabrely misguided wellness tips (“Just go to bed early, ya doofus! When you sleep there’s no lonely times, just dreams”). For the live show, he selected one of the audience volunteers to receive an “on-air” health exam.
Naturally, he chose a woman, and the prettiest of the group: early twenties, thin, tight jeans, crop top. He perched her on a stool in the middle of the stage and lurched around her, clipboard in hand:
Do you like fried food?
Yes.
Do you like fried pork?
Yes.
Do you like fried turkey?
Yes.
Do you think cancer is a joke?
Yes.
Have you ever had a breast exam?
No.
At this point my veins refilled with the sickly adrenaline that comes when I am sure something awful is going to happen and I am going to be unable to stop it.
Can I give you a breast exam?
Yes.
He inched closer and closer until he firmly poked the center of her left breast. I wonder if he knew pressure that concentrated probably hurt her.
I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I sat frozen, heels on the edge of the worn theatre seat, clutching my knees to my chest. Reilly leered lopsidedly out at the crowd, giggling, as the audience cheered. The girl sat blushing, her posture perfect, as Reilly stood at an awkward distance and slowly extended his arm, then his pointer finger. He inched closer and closer until he firmly poked the center of her left breast. I wonder if he knew pressure that concentrated probably hurt her. He pulled his hand back and slowly walked around her. Time for the other breast. Again he reached out with excruciating slowness, but then firmly grasped her breast and jiggled it. Again, raucous audience applause.
The show concluded with a bizarre love triangle between Reilly/Brule and Heidecker & Wareheim as talk show hosts Jan & Wayne Skylar. Brule ended up stranded at the altar, and as “All By Myself” began playing, the pretty volunteer appeared again.
Will you marry me?
Yes.
Somewhere in the crowd, among the cheers: She’s a slut!
My friends and I rose, somberly shuffled out of the theatre. No one wanted to be the first to say something. We stood amidst arriving taxis and groups gleefully rehashing their favorite parts of the show. The volunteer girl emerged, flanked by girlfriends; Let’s give it up for Mrs. Steve Brule!, someone shouted, and the crowd cheered. She approached my friend, asked to take a picture of her denim vest. I wanted to say something, wanted to ask her if she way okay, but in an iPhone flash she was gone.
I waited a block before I said it. I hated everything about that show.
I curled up on our bed, fetal position, holding the blankets over my face and wishing for nonexistence. It was the third time in about a month this has happened to me: suffering a panic attack after feeling threatened by men.
In the car home with my boyfriend and my best friend, we tried to discuss what was problematic. My boyfriend said they must have told her what Reilly was going to do. But what the fuck is she supposed to say? Did she really have a choice? It’s less than a ten minute drive to my apartment; by the time we arrived my lips and hands were numb with an anger that felt both ineffectual and poisonous. For a moment I leaned against the car, staring up at the sky. My friend asked what was wrong; I couldn't say anything, just ran for the door of my building, choking back sobs down the hallways and in the elevator, fumbled my key into the lock of the apartment and began crying hysterically as my boyfriend emerged from the bathroom: What the fuck is wrong? What happened? Are you okay? What happened to you?
I curled up on our bed, fetal position, holding the blankets over my face and wishing for nonexistence. It was the third time in about a month this has happened to me: suffering a panic attack after feeling threatened by men. I sobbed and hyperventilated, unable to speak more than a couple words at a time, feeling incredibly scared and unsafe. My boyfriend wrapped himself around me, handed me my purse so I could dry swallow some Ativan, held me until the attack was over.
Every night, John C. Reilly, a 49-year-old married father of two, gets paid to publicly molest women in the name of comedy.
The ads for the tour on Tim and Eric’s website bear the slogan Grope your tickets now! The cast presumably does this every night. Different city, different pretty young woman—or maybe an ugly one, just to mix things up once in a while—coerced into letting her body be used as a punchline. Every night, John C. Reilly, a 49-year-old married father of two, gets paid to publicly molest women in the name of comedy.
This isn’t cool or edgy. It’s not okay because the Dr. Steve Brule character is built on bumbling social ineptitude. It’s not okay because they told the young woman what was going to happen or even because she said yes. The problem is twofold: molestation isn’t funny to begin with, and consent granted by an enthusiastic fan after a fifteen-second briefing shouldn’t necessarily be considered adequate. Consent can't be reliably given under the influence of alcohol, nor under the influence of a significantly unbalanced power dynamic.
Women are conditioned to believe that giving men access to their bodies will gain them attention, respect, affection. The tropes are many: sleep with your professor for an A, lift your top up for Mardi Gras beads, let a famous comedian grab your breasts for laughs.
The next time a man gropes me--and how sickening is it that I am fairly certain there will be a next time--should I assess whether or not it's funny before I feel hurt? At the very least, I could sell $40 tickets to profit from the punchline of my trauma.
Katie de Heras carries pepper spray at all times. Follow her on Twitter or send her an email.