The inside of the house is very small, but stuffed from one wall to the other with smooth-faced Los Angelites sitting in rows of chairs. Mark, Ally McBeal's antagonist and I are sitting on a sinking couch, facing the living room; presumably the stage for the evening. We are so close together that if any one of us were to sneeze at that moment, it would result in a big, hairy sandwich. And I would definitely be the meaty center.

"So... are you guys dating, or what?" The antagonist turns to ask me, her curls framing her piercing gaze and creepy little smirk.

"No, no, we're just friends," I rush to correct. I pull the hem of my dress down, covering my thighs. "He's all yours." I turn to look at him and smile. He rolls his eyes and goes back to his phone.

She tosses her hair out of her face. "Oh, no, ha, I was just curious. I couldn't tell. I felt some tension in the room, and you were making all those sex jokes in line."

The only tension I'm feeling is coming from her pant suit. "No, I just talk like that. And I'm a big slut, so I could see how it would come off that way."

She nods slowly.

The first comedian steps up to the mic. His hair coifs into rows of sandy waves, his nose boldly introduces the rest of his face.

"Do you ever just want to, like, kill all of your co-workers? Just murder them cold?"

The audience and I chuckle, unsure if this is the joke, or if it's yet to come.

"...And then you realize you can't kill them, and instead just bring them doughnuts every day, so you can maybe slowly kill them over time?"

We all shift uncomfortably in our seats. I feel a twinge in my chest.

Comedians pepper the next hour with jokes about living in Hollywood and how Macklemore is overrated. With the exception of a few decent punchlines, I spend the show thinking about what I'm going to do tomorrow, and trying not to accidentally touch Mark or witch woman in a zone of no return.

The final act is a leathery specimen named Tommy in matching leather pants. At least ten years older than any of the prior comics, he saunters around the room like a waxy Mel Gibson.

"So how's everybody doing tonight? Is anyone as coked out as me?"

I look around the room, and everyone is still shifting in their seats. I can't tell if that's a joke, or a plea for one of us to call a hotline.

His rant (because it is more of a rant than an act) rambles on four times as long as anyone else's set. He shoots a series of "So I says to her I says" and "ums" so fast that I wonder if he's actually reciting a noir film backwards. By the end, everyone in the room is fidgeting almost as much as he is.

After the show, Mark says his goodbyes to some friends on our way out, and we tumble onto the front sidewalk, into air so stagnant and warm that I wonder if we've walked into somebody's mouth. Ally McBitch appears behind us.

"So what was your takeaway joke of the night? I loved the bit about the dog. I don't know why, but the brown dog joke just got me." Her sugary, cloying tone makes her sound like she could be trying out for Entertainment Tonight.

"I'm not sure what mine was," Mark responds. "But you know that last comic, Tommy? I worked for his agent for a little while, we used to get beers together and smoke weed outside this little shithole in Silverlake. Hey, Tommy!" Mark yells at Tommy, who looks up from his conversation with the stringy girl who admitted us into the show.

Tommy kisses her hand and I feel the plane peanuts from a few hours ago rise up in my stomach. He saunters over to us with his chest puffed and his eyes glazed, as if he had just ejaculated. "Thanks for coming, guys."

"Tommy, do you remember me?" Mark says.

He shrugs and says, "Maybe if you hum a few bars." He looks at me and smiles. He mouths, "who is this this guy?"

"I used to work with Dan Soloman," Mark reminds him.

I'm smiling and my eyes are saying "Hey Mark, it's time to go," but he isn't looking at me. Unfortunately, Tommy is.

"I don't think she knows what the hell you're talking about, either, guy."

"No, no, I'm just starving," I reassure, at the sight of Mark's sad face. "I haven't eaten since this morning."

"Oh. Are you visiting?" Tommy asks me.

Why does everybody keep asking me that? "Yeah, I'm from Portland."

"Oh, Portland," Tommy gushes. He gets a far-off twinkle in his eye, like I just reminded him of his first kiss.

"You know, I love Portland. And Portland has a surprisingly good comedy scene, too," Tommy says.

"I was just saying the same thing!" says the soulless she-devil. I look at her through a furrowed brow, and she shrugs and smirks at me again.

"Were you? I thought you hated Portland for its nature smell and wild turkeys."

"Wild turkeys?" Tommy asks.

"Yeah, apparently she had a bad experience with some turkeys. I think she owed them money."

Tommy smiles at me. I have a bad feeling about it.