It has been pointed out before that comedy is a brutal endeavor. “Dying is easy, comedy is hard,” is the old saying. Comedians destroy rooms, or they bomb. They crush clubs, or they get eaten alive. And, ultimately, they either die or they kill. Such terminology is usually reserved for when a comedian is on stage. But what if comedians killed off stage?

I have just finished another wild run at the TakeOut Comedy Club in Hong Kong. Every time I get done with shows here I make sure to check that everyone back home in Hawaii is okay. Why? Because for a while, I had the death of comedians on my hands.

Of course, not in the sense that OJ Simpson or any random Kennedy might have. Instead it was more of a curse. There was an unbroken string of times where my performance at TakeOut Comedy was followed immediately by the death of a Hawaii comedian.

The first time it happened, I did a show and a friend fell off a balcony to her death. A gruesome, sad, unfortunate incident.

A year later, I did another show and a friend was found dead in bed after what medical examiners would call “death by misadventure.” A strange coincidence? Even then, I didn’t notice the correlation, much less the causation. But my oldest friend in comedy, Kento, called me on the road to point out the curse.

Kento: Dude, Brian died. It’s your fault.

Paul: What?

Kento: This happened the last time you did a show for this guy and Louvanna died.

Paul Ogata with Knife. Shhhhhhhh.

But two points are always collinear, as you can always draw a straight line between them. Then something happened that connected the dots. Another show produced another dead comedian.

Crap! Was I cursed? This seemed like indisputable proof. As Goldfinger said to James Bond in the Ian Fleming novel, “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it’s enemy action.”  But hold on, this time the comedian died from brain cancer. Surely it couldn’t be my fault. He was already claimed by the Reaper, no?

With heavy heart I took another gig at TakeOut Comedy and hoped for the best. It was not to be. Upon returning from the shores of China, Kento informed me that the curse was alive and well. Which was more than we could say for the poor Hawaii comedian who was sent into the afterlife via self-inflicted injuries.

At this point, Kento seemed to come unglued. Begging me not to take another gig there, he pressed, “You expect me to sit here and worry while you go off to do another cursed show?” Goldfinger himself would have replied, “No, Mr. Kento. I expect you to die.”

I assured him, it would all be okay. And guess what? It was. That was the end of the curse. Four victims. Odd that in Chinese culture, four is the unlucky number. It is a homphone for “death.” So perhaps the Reaper was a comedy fan and, satisfied with the pun, moved on.

I reflect back on this mess now, as this was my 13th trip here to Hong Kong. While not unlucky in Chinese culture, 13 is certainly the most unlucky number in Western civilization until Hurley’s lottery numbers came along.

The Numbers

The numbers!

Curse over, everyone should be okay. I have returned to killing just audiences, and only in the metaphorical sense.

Still, check your blood pressure, Kento.

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