In the fast-paced, cutthroat, Wild West of Bay Area sketch, few are in league with enterprising comedy tycoon, Killing My Lobster. Barons and Baronesses of the Neo Internetdustrial Revolution, the troupe has made appealing regional satire a booming forte. Powered by live action and recorded skits, and coupled to A.J. Schroder Esq. and the duchess, Jill Bourque, the KML Express set across the Eureka prairie.
Note: the previous paragraph was inspired by a mockable knowledge of the late 19th Century and best read in a period appropriate voice (See: There Will Be Blood). Please discard faulty for the duration of this piece.
Jill Bourque, poised and sophisticated host, delivered a figurative of bouquet of freshly picked roses, thorns and all, through humorous tales of midlifery. Jokes and pieces, stand-up and monologues, Bourque had acute accusations on the asininity of love, Valentine’s Day and settling down. “There’s a fine line between monogamy and monotony,” expressed the emotive humorist, cunningly tweaking voice and visage. Weaving in-and-out of the night’s ceremonies, Jill Bourque remained clean, oblique and respectable.
Thunderstood hid in plain sight, a pun-name play with an obscured agenda. It all began with a boy and his mocking, sentient Nintendo Entertainment System, analogous to man’s eternal conflict with his own creations. Hilarity revved from the ensuing Sisyphean schadenfreude. Thus established a rousing mystery as A.J. Schrader sketched the wiry workings of his gray, electric folds. Advanced attention deficit disorderly content, Thunderstood was an accelerated exploration of candid naivety, open-ended premises, gallant frolicking, and nerdy pantomime. Schrader’s slim arsenal of heavy chiptune, a projector and a wardrobe held together by bubble gum and string developed a “carefully constructed illusion of reality”. Clean cut and deceptively mature, A.J. Schrader showed exceptional stamina and satirical prowess, playing politely with unspoken tension and comical hypocrisies. As it turns out, tragedy isn’t as tremendous with puppets and cartoons involved.
Quality, talent and skill refined into an accessible production have instantaneous psychological affects. A job well done, slick with confidence and care, inspires innate appreciation. Killing My Lobster’s “Best in Show” Show had an intrinsic level of humor, familiar yet unique, and ornate in supreme craftsmanship.
The group’s procession moved to an indie beat with broad characters and broad strokes, sharp-shooting catchphrases and callbacks. KML often lampooned the trivial privilege of San Francisco in all of its guilty glory. “Seinfeld 2012”, a live interpretation of a web short, injected the classic program with humor growth hormone, making timely jokes through timeless characters. A checkered crime scene offered a brilliant, new, absurd, and abstract of an age-old match. Thanksgiving with a dysfunctional family is canvas for melodrama and Pythonesque jabber rhythms. Killing My Lobster succeeded in ways that less efficient, less proactive groups may not. They often went a long way for a penis or pedophile joke but pulsing writing and performances made the journey well worth it.
The crescendo was magic, no exaggeration. A paper thin premise of vagrancy blew out like a confetti cannon into an evangelical gospel song about San Francisco’s true religion: burritos. The sheer fervor and exhaustive attention paid to every taqueria in the city inspired whooping and clapping akin to a sweaty Baptist congregation on Easter. It was phenomenal. Amen.
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