By Christian Finnegan
(that is, Christian Finnegan wrote the review below about his own album)
I recently had the supreme misfortune of receiving an advance copy of Two for Flinching, the debut CD by purported humorist Christian Finnegan. You may recognize Finnegan as the least funny person on VH1’s Best Week Ever. Or you might recognize him as the white guy from the “Mad Real World” on Chappelle’s Show, a credit I’m guessing Mr. Finnegan will try to coast on until there are no longer any frat boys left who think shouting “You stabbed my dad!” is hilarious.
If you still have no idea who I’m talking about, give yourself a gold star — you’ve managed to avoid America’s worst “comedian.” I use quotation marks because Mr. Finnegan does not fulfill any of the criteria associated with his title. In fact, it appears that Christian Finnegan’s only real talent is in coating the hapless listener’s ears in pure audio doo-doo; unfortunately, there’s no title for someone who does that for a living.
Calling Two For Flinching unfunny is like calling Hurricane Katrina a light mist. This album is the comedic equivalent of bone cancer. Remember Ryan White, that kid who died of AIDS? His life was a rollicking laugh-fest compared to even one track of this 52-minute spiritual dickpunch.
With topics that run the gamut from drinking to farting to drinking while farting, Finnegan displays not only an inability to construct a recognizable punch line but also a single-minded determination to use the word “like” at least twice per sentence. It’s, like, really lame (and more than a little gay).
While it’s indisputable that Finnegan is a terrible comedian, it should not be forgotten that there are also plenty of other reasons not to like this guy.
For starters, there’s his aging-indie-rocker-meets-Gap-sales douche appearance. Hey, Finnegan, wearing distressed jeans and an oversize watch isn’t fooling anyone. You’re firmly in your 30s, dude. Accept it.
Oh, and by the way, all of that hair product is calling attention to your freakishly large head. Nice look, Heatmiser. How you ever got laid, much less convinced a woman to marry you is beyond comprehension. I give you nine months until she’s blowing one of the Tourgasm guys.
Even more damning than Finnegan’s faux-hispter persona is the content of his character or shall I say lack thereof. Remember that tragic news story recently about that woman who critically injured her baby by using it to strike her husband?
Well, Christian Finnegan’s first instinct upon hearing this story was to laugh his ass off. What kind of person does such a thing? Probably the same kind of person who talks politics all the time and yet didn’t bother to vote in the last presidential election. Right, right, your “voting registration got all screwed up.” Whatever, dude. Maybe if you’d dealt with the situation before election week, they’d have been able to clear things up.
Honestly, I could go on all day revealing Christian Finnegan for the complete asshole that he is. He laughs at racist jokes, he’s rude to waiters, he monopolizes conversations, he drinks way too much, he fails to empty the dishwasher even when he promises to do so, he sneaks potential comedy bits into everyday conversation and — rumor has it — he didn’t bother to call home on his Dad’s birthday this year. Nice, pal. Real nice.
Someday, the 14 people out there who care what Christian Finnegan has to say will wake up and realize what a complete and utter fraud he is. One can only hope that Two For Flinching is the first step in that awakening.
To buy Christian Finnegan’s album, Two For Flinching, visit www.christianfinnegan.com or your favorite online or real-life CD store.