Naked Wayne Brady

A while back, in the intro to my first article, I casually dropped the name Wayne Brady, attached to a sentence about seeing him naked. This was no accident. It was a calculated attempt to impress the living bejeebus out of you all, and render you powerless against the onslaught of my amazing awesomeness. Whether this worked or not is something you may keep to yourselves so as to avoid damaging my painstakingly preserved ego. Thanks.

Seeing as more than a couple of you (mostly women as I recall) had asked that I share the saucy details of the Naked Wayne Brady sighting, I have decided to do so. If for no other reason than that my fractured ego believes that titillating readers with more-or-less interesting tidbits from my checkered past will somehow cause it (my ego, that is) to spontaneously restore itself and break free of the tattered strips of duct tape and gobs of Gorilla Glue now holding it together.

As always, keeping your opinions about this theory to yourselves will be greatly appreciated.

Since this article has absolutely nothing to do with games, the games that people play, or the people that play the games that people play, I've asked the management to consider it my holiday gift to you, dear readers. You may reciprocate by sending gift cards or bottles of fine bourbon to: Fletcher1138, c/o GWJ World Headquarters. Thank you, and happy holidays.

How I Saw Wayne Brady Naked:
A Holiday Gift

Twas nowhere near Christmas,
And all through my purse
(Shut up. "Wallet" doesn't fit the meter.)
Not a dollar was stirring
Nor even a useable credit card
(Okay, to hell with the meter!)

This was just before the millennium. I was broke. I'd quit my regular, yet soul-crushing Retail Job of My Youth and was lying around drunk in the middle of the day, wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life. Then, like Santa down the chimney (Okay, not at all like that. Give me a break people. It's Christmas.), my phone rang. It was an old friend offering me a job. I took it.

The job was to stage manage one of ten venues at a comedy festival in Austin. All I was supposed to do was show up in the morning, turn everything on and tell people what to do. I was all over it.

Long story short: it didn't work out that way. The load-in crew hadn't shown up to do their job over the weekend, and as a result the stage, lights and sound didn't get set up until about a half hour before the first performance the following day. As a result, my cushy, high-paying freelance job turned into a nightmare avalanche of theatrical panic. In other words: a typical stage gig.

Yet, despite the initial Charlie Foxtrot, the show opened as scheduled and John and Judy Public dutifully arrived to plant their butts in the seats. The comedians were great, and the improv groups were the best I'd ever seen. Nights One and Two went off flawlessly, and by Night Three I was beginning to feel invincible. Then Wayne Brady arrived.

Wayne Brady, for those of you who don't know, was one of the stars of the improvisational comedy show Who's Line is It Anyway?. He went on to have his own talk show, which got cancelled, but this was before that. On this occasion he was the Top Billed Special Guest Rising Star. Yet despite all that, he was an awesome guy. Funny, attractive (no, I wasn't interested. But he brought in the chicks, man. Boy did he...), and quite pleasant to be around. In fact, he was the nicest person I had ever met. The only problem: the man had no concept of time.

Wayne was scheduled to appear on Night Four. He came in about halfway through the show on Night Three.

"Hey Fletcher. Sorry I'm late."

"Oh," says I. Remarking that he had taken the time to find out what my name was (Yes, he was that nice.). "Uh. You're not late, Wayne. I can call you Wayne right? Hey, who's the hot chick? Oh my. There's eight of them. Golly. Um. See, you're on tomorrow night. Not tonight."

"Oh. Right. Thanks Fletcher. So I've got time to catch one of the other shows?"

"Uh. Yeah, Wayne. I'd say you've got about twenty-four hours. Give or take."

"Great. Thanks, Fletcher."

"No problem. Say can you leave me one of those blonde satellites you got there?"

He didn't hear that last part. Wayne must be the fastest-moving comedian on Earth. He was gone in about two seconds and I saw neither him, nor his heart-stoppingly attractive entourage for the rest of the evening. He returned on Night Four. Seven hours early. The show hadn't even started. There was no one in the place.

See, the problem one normally has with performers, especially those who are approaching or have reached stardom, is that they are consistently about an hour late for everything. So despite how irritating it was to have to manage Wayne's time for him it was kind of a relief knowing that he at least wouldn't be late. Or so I thought.

I sent him away again, and asked that he try to catch two shows this time. And perhaps even stop for dinner on the way back. And, oh yes, I'll keep that red-head warm for you "… okay. No problem. She should probably go with you anyway.

Four hours later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The show had just started. It was Wayne. His set was still about three hours distant, but not wanting to have to go through this same routine nine more times, I decided to let him stay. I sent him and the traveling fashion show (now a dozen strong) off to the green room to sip water and do whatever it is that rising stars do before shows. The show went on and time went by.

Then came the moment that everyone had been waiting for. Especially Wayne. Wayne was going to do a little of his singing shtick. The audience filed in from the bar, I hit the lights, punched the sound, cued Wayne and "… nothing. No Wayne.

Cut to: me running to the green room. There were now about two dozen leg-stiffeningly gorgeous women standing outside the door, so I knew he had to be in there. What I didn't know was that he was naked. Thankfully, he was not doing anything obviously pornographic when I burst through the door. He was probably just changing his pants. I don't know. I didn't ask.

There is a protocol that male members of the species must follow when one member inadvertently encounters another who is not wearing pants. This protocol demands that both males pretend that the pants do in fact exist, regardless of how obvious their absence may be, and continue about their business as if nothing is out of the ordinary. In Wayne's case, it was pretty damn obvious that the pants were nowhere near his ass. I therefore followed protocol.

"Uh. Hi Wayne. You're kind of on now. Just "… thought you should know." I said, looking him straight in the eye.

"Hey, thanks Fletcher! You're the best!" says Naked Wayne. Also following protocol. Also looking me in the eye.

I thanked him for thanking me, quickly turned away, closed the door and went back to the stage as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. In less than a second Wayne bounced onstage (with pants) and the show continued. He was great, the audience loved it and at the end of the night I still hadn't gotten anywhere with any of his followers.

And so ends the tale of my encounter with Naked Wayne Brady. I still to this day have no idea why he was naked. Nor why he was perpetually early. Maybe the secret of his anti-tardiness lies in his tendency to move amazingly fast. Perhaps he leaves on time, but arrives hours early. Whatever. It still doesn't explain the naked thing, nor does it erase the image of his perfect, ebony (YET MALE!!) booty from my memory. I'll just have to live with that mystery and that memory for the rest of my life, and now so will you.

Cheers,

-Fletcher wrote this

Comments

LOL!

Great story, Fletcher. You're in good company - Certis has a thing for Warren Spector's tight buns!

That was a fantastic story. I remember back in the day when I decided to do crew gigs for theatre shows etc. I thought it would be a good idea to learn the technical side of theatre even though I was studying to be an actor. It is tough, tough work. I enjoyed learning all the things I did but I can say without a doubt that I would rather be the perfermor than the crew. Unfortunatly there is so much more work available as a crew person than a preformer.

Oh boy. I just figured it out! Wait, wait. I should explain.

I'm pretty out of touch with pop culture. I seriously know more about ancient Athenian culture than anything that dates from this century. When I read "Wayne Brady," I incorrectly assumed two things:

1. There was a member of the Brady Bunch named Wayne
2. This is who Fletcher must be referring to.

It did seem strange that at no point did Fletcher mention the real-world name of the actor who presumably played the role of this non-existent Wayne Brady. But nothing clicked until I read the word "ebony". That's when it hit me. Until that point, I was imagining some forty-something white guy who played some stupid sitcom character decades ago parading around nightclubs, singing songs, and being followed by an entourage of lovely vixens.

That is all. Great article, Fletch!

Good stuff, Fletch!

Maybe the secret of his anti-tardiness lies in his tendency to move amazingly fast. Perhaps he leaves on time, but arrives hours early.

It's the time dilation effect. The sexiness of Wayne Brady + his coven of hotties creates a drag on the space-time continuum (which cannot handle that level of sexy), resulting in strange and diverse effects on normal space. It's really quite simple: Imagine a bowling ball in the middle of a rubber sheet. Now imagine that bowling ball is very sexy. See?

"Is Wayne Brady gonna have to CHOKE A BITCH!?"

I saw Paris Hilton Naked on the internet once.

Personally, I have associated nakedness with backstage since I started doing theater. Something about the community theater I've done, where the last show always seems to have a "see if you can distract the actors during their last performance" contest. It starts with little offstage puppet shows, Boxing Nun vs. Godzilla, maybe. It moves on to some topless flashing. Then something about lighting designers and full frontal nudity. God forbid there's a set piece on stage (like a wishing well) in which a petite backstage crew person (female) can hide, naked, and only be seen by people on stage.

From a performing and not messing up perspective, i've been fortunate that i don't really need to wear glasses on stage, and can't really wear contacts. From a "catching all the action" perspective...mostly lots of fleshy blurs and vague suspicions about puppets.

There is a protocol that male members of the species must follow when one member inadvertently encounters another who is not wearing pants. This protocol demands that both males pretend that the pants do in fact exist, regardless of how obvious their absence may be, and continue about their business as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

I have no idea who this Wayne Brady person is (I thought he'd be a big, black football player), but I am glad to know that The Protocol is indeed international and still active.

I don't mean any disrespect, but I thought Wayne Brady was gay. I'm not 100% sure why I thought that, but I always have. I sorry to hear that you didn't get any lady-runoff, Fletcher.

Man, I thought Wayne Brady would have tossed you some action Fletch. That's so selfish! I was starting to get a little nervous reading that article though, the homo-erotic suspense (will he see the schlong, will he make eye contact? noooo!!) kept me on the edge of my seat.

Kidding aside, I vote this for Best. Article. Ever. It made me laugh out loud at my monitor and cause people to look at me funny.

Great job!

"I make Bryant Gumbel look like Malcolm X?"

Hmmmm.... Not gay huh? We shall see Fletcher, we shall see.

I am curious to see if the majority of your posts will have homoerotic overtones.

I am curious to see if the majority of your posts will have homoerotic overtones.

Yeah, while I found the article hilarious, you're still batting 1000 for the most homoerotic content for the frontpage. And it's like Certis said the other day, I use the word "c*ck" like it's punctuation, so you're definitely swinging for the bleachers.

Pyroman[FO] wrote:
I am curious to see if the majority of your posts will have homoerotic overtones.

Yeah, while I found the article hilarious, you're still batting 1000 for the most homoerotic content for the frontpage. And it's like Certis said the other day, I use the work "c*ck" like it's punctuation, so you're definitely swinging for the bleachers.

Did the other guys at the bath house agree with Certis, Pyro?

cartoonin99 wrote:

Hmmmm.... Not gay huh? We shall see Fletcher, we shall see.

I am curious to see if the majority of your posts will have homoerotic overtones.

Curious huh? CURIOUS? I see. I ... see ... Hmm. Tell me about your mother...

Actually guys I have no idea if Wayne Brady is gay or no.The cloud of hot pooty following him around may have been a James Bond -type subterfuge, or it may have been his personal collection of sex slaves. The evidence for either is purely circumstantial, and quite frankly it doesn't make an iota of difference to me which team he bats for. The man is a funny, talented individual and one of the most pleasant human beings I've ever encountered.

Now then, if you're wondering about my orientation ... well I suppose you can wonder all you want, but I'm hetero. Not, you know, Charlton Heston hetero, but hetero nonetheless.

The title should make for some interesting additions to the next "Welcome Perverts" article. Between naked Wayne Brady and furries, there should be some pretty funny hits.

Did the other guys at the bath house agree with Certis, Pyro?

Word, I meant word!

The first time I ever played a gig in "the big city" I was carrying 2 guitar cases into the venue and the manager told me to go into the backroom to store my stuff. I opened the door to the backroom to see 2 naked women doing each others eyeliner. "You're with the band?" they asked. "Just put your stuff down right there".

That's when I knew that Rock music was indeed the best part time job on the planet.

KillerTomato wrote:

Good stuff, Fletch!

Maybe the secret of his anti-tardiness lies in his tendency to move amazingly fast. Perhaps he leaves on time, but arrives hours early.

It's the time dilation effect. The sexiness of Wayne Brady + his coven of hotties creates a drag on the space-time continuum (which cannot handle that level of sexy), resulting in strange and diverse effects on normal space. It's really quite simple: Imagine a bowling ball in the middle of a rubber sheet. Now imagine that bowling ball is very sexy. See?

Erm. No I don't see. Does the bowling ball make the mattress bounce or is it one of them fancy Sealy types?

Damn, we're only on page 2 when searching Google for "Naked Wayne Brady".

IMAGE(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v255/Swat_R2/WayneBradyNaked.jpg)

It's so tempting to photoshop Wayne Brady's head on some naked dude's body.

.... you know, if it didn't involve me having to dig through male porn.

Yeah, I wonder what my girlfriend will think when she presses "w" on the Google search bar next time and Wayne Brady Naked shows up. We might have a "talk"

So...you only saw naked wayne brady from behind? I'm so sad.

heheheh, great story Fletch.

I suppose I should feel old and feeble that I don't know who Wayne Brady is, clothed or no. For whatever reason my mind conjured up that fellow who had his c*ck sliced off and the entire article was entirely creepy. I was wondering how you handled facing "the stump" and what sort of abdomen-crushing nausea it caused.

I've never been privileged enough to see a celebrity naked. Well, live. I will, however, relate a story of the night that I like to call "Thank You, Jesus."

When I was in high school I did some modeling. Laugh, go on, get over it. I did a handful of things: a commercial, a few photo things, and many fashion show type things. Somehow -- don't ask me how -- I got hired to do a fashion show at a local, very popular night club. Bear in mind, I was 17 and there was no way I should have been hired for a nightclub gig, but as fate would have it I was. This was hallowed ground for me, this was where all the really "with it" people went and by "with it" I mean ones that were either in college or working, definitely with money.

So, I arrive that night and I'm one of 3 guys -- both older than me, probably early 20s, though I guess no one knew that -- in a phalanx of about 15 models. Gorgeous models... the girls, not the guys. We're all back in the dressing area getting set up before the show starts, having free drinks from the owners (yes, I drank them, no, I didn't get wasted and blow it). It begins to dawn on me that this is the dressing area. This room, right here. For everyone. Ignoring my own teenage discomfort at being in my undies in front of people, I'm struck dumb at the thought of roughly a dozen young, beautiful girls dressing and undressing in close proximity. This is a runway style show, so there's like 5 outfits apiece. Plenty of opportunity for eye-popping.

So, I try desperately to keep it cool while surreptitiously looking at every inch of flesh humanly possible. Somehow I think I pulled it off, survived the evening without embarrassment, got the job done, saw some glorious bodies... went home alone :). There was one girl that I talked to (attempting not to ogle and likely failing miserably) that figured out that I wasn't quite old enough to be there, but she didn't spoil it for me.

Thank You, Jesus.

UPDATE: We are now the #1 google search for Wayne Brady Naked. Woohoo.

Oh my god, did anyone else get a semi reading ColdForged's post? That's like my #1 most erotic dream, but it involves more spanking. You must have incredible willpower!

Taco: Woohoo! Wayne Brady Naked! Google! Wayne Brady Naked!

Rest assured that you being a model will never be brought up during a hockey game, CF.

KrazyTaco[FO] wrote:

UPDATE: We are now the #1 google search for Wayne Brady Naked. Woohoo.

It's the little victories that are the sweetest. I shall tell my grandchildren of this, and they shall be proud. Or I shall kill them.