By Jeff Kubik
Making with the funny isn’t an easy task. Sure, we’d all love to be the next Tim Allen, spewing inane recycled bits driven straight out of the hackneyed ’80s, while snorting clouds of sweet cocaine, but who has the cajones to reach out and grab audiences until tears form?
God bless you Patton Oswalt, you’re a man among comedians.
A knack for viciously evocative metaphor (after all, what is gayer than eight guys blowing nine guys?) and an obscene intelligence sharper than the sentient razors we’re assured will bore into our flesh when the apocalypse comes, Patton Oswalt’s debut album, Feeling a Little Patton, is a collection of perfectly articulated disgust.
From a travelling gay pride parade touring the deep southern United States to the disquieting barrage of angry food courtesy of the Black Angus steakhouse, every track presents a keen wit unafraid to use the revolting and the inflated to pull a few belly laughs.
With Feeling a Little Patton, Oswalt has delivered an album full of all the comic basics with an intelligent, albeit with a perfectly obscene bent. After all, sometimes the big questions have to be asked. Don’t bother saying you’ve never wondered about gay retarded men, Oswalt certainly isn’t shy about it.