Shatner Rules

Concrete soaking wet with fine, Australian beer. And it was at my Sydney show that I encountered an audience member who apparently thought
Kirk, Crane and Beyond
would be better after twelve or thirteen cans of Foster’s Lager.
    During our Q&A segment, people would step up to a microphone and ask whatever was on their mind. But at one point, some guy in the crowd starts shouting, “I got a question! Me, I got a question!” I told him to quiet down and wait his turn, but nothing doing.
    In all my comedic experiences, this was the first time I’ve ever been heckled.
    What are the typical responses to a heckler? I know there’s always the reliable “Ahh, yes. I remember
my
first beer.” But this was Australia—most people there experience their first beer from a plastic bottle with a nipple on it. That razor-sharp retort wouldn’t work.
    I’ve also heard, “I don’t go to your job and knock over the Slurpee machine.” Would Australians know what a Slurpee was? They know what a jumbuck is—they must have heard of a Slurpee.
    Either way, before I could prepare a fittingly acerbic bon mot, he yelled out again, “I have a question!”
    I yelled, “No, don’t do that. You paid too much money for you to be talking and me to be talking. Let me do the talking. Also, there’s a microphone.
That’s
where you ask the questions.”
RULE: When in Doubt, Go with the “Slurpee Machine” Comeback
    Unfortunately, he stood up and began to lumber toward the mic. All six foot four inches of him. I was having Lee Van Cleef flashbacks. I was beginning to wonder if the organizers of a one-man show featuring an eighty-year-old actor had had the foresight to hire a security team.
    He slurred, “My question is [unintelligible].”
    Seriously. I couldn’t understand what this deranged character was saying. He could have been shouting “
Billabong!
” for all I knew. (And for the purposes of recounting this story, I’ll replace [unintelligible] with “billabong.”)
    I figured there was no assuaging him. “So what’s your question?” I asked, hoping to keep him in the audience.
    “Billabong,” he sputtered, stepping on the feet of all the people in his row as he made his way toward the aisle. I figured it was time to get stern, take command, and negotiate. Give the crowd a dose of Kirk
and
Crane.
    “Why don’t you just sit back down and take it easy? Don’t come this way because now you’re being threatening.”
    He wasn’t listening, and started walking down the aisle toward the stage. Kirk and Crane weren’t cutting it. Time to go with Hooker.
    “Do
not
come up on
my
stage.”
    Perhaps he’d never seen
T.J. Hooker
, because that’s just what he did. And he began to shuffle toward me. What if he has a gun? I thought to myself. Since he was Australian, I just assumed he already had a knife on him. How on Earth was I to defuse this situation?
    Lose Crane, Hooker, and just go full-on fighting Kirk? Without all the stuntmen backing me up? I knew some judo from the old days, had some knowledge of jujitsu, trained briefly in Krav Maga. Which discipline should I use to handle this sodden Aussie? One? Two? All three?
    Or perhaps I could employ the ancient marital art of Running Away?
    I sensed then that the moderator had gotten up and faded back to obtain the services of a police officer. I was grateful, but also thinking that William Shatner should handle any crisis that emerges during a William Shatner one-man show. A constable was procured, however.
    As the cop began to head over to my visitor, I said, “No, leave him alone; it’s okay,” just as Mr. Billabong reached me on stage.
    Once more with the Hooker.
    “Sit down!” I snapped. And he obediently sat down.
    Very obedient. Perhaps his inability to articulate came from being part dog? I didn’t want to push my luck with “roll over,” but it was tempting.
    I’m standing over him and I instantly know that this is the best place for me to be. I’ve got the superior position now. I’m the star of this show and I’m in control.
    “Okay, what is it you want to know?” I snapped.
    “Billabong,” he muttered.
    “Speak clearly.”
    He was soused, and his bloodshot eyes scanned the crowd. “Farkus? Farkus? What’s the question?” he yelled.
    Farkus?
I thought.
Who was that? Did this guy bring a friend?
    He obviously felt that clarity required a standing position, and he began to rise, grabbing my arm in the process. I could see the cop coming over