Couldn’t get a set in my home region, San Francisco, on a Sunday. This happened before, on Day 169. Alas, 400 days later I’d be plagued with the same problem. Last time I ran to Ray’s Hearth and begged to get on the mic system, but I felt like I used my lifeline there. So I went, with fellow comic Justin Harrison, to Ireland’s 32, a good ol Irish bar in the Richmond district, where Justin used to run an open mic, and I once had a show thrown at me. So what could go wrong? He asked the DJ if I could get up and tell some jokes, and the DJ obliged. He cut the music, and as soon as I started I was hearing curse words in Irish dialects. ‘Yer an asshoole!’ ‘Gao Fack Yerself!’ But I kept telling jokes, and one guy was laughing. After a few minutes, my only fan approached and put out his fist to give me a fist bump. I went in for the fistbump and he quickly turned around, leaving me hanging, an outright diss, that made a few say ‘Ohhhhh!’ I told another joke, he laughed, and then came back put his fist out again, and I went in for the bump once more, and then he quickly punched me in the stomach, grabbed the mic like he was about to tell a joke, and then threw it on the ground. Instantly the DJ cues back the music, signifying me time was done. It was a hard moment to swallow, but in my stomach pain and realizing of what had just happened, I also realized that I had got my set in for the night, and the battle and worry was now over. Onward we go.