Patton Oswalt: the Little Nerd That Could

Imagine a high school. At this high school there is a principal who presides over all of the sports stars, band kids, and general unwanted youth. Now imagine that this same principal, a supposed patron for higher learning, is found dead in his office, a victim of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Naturally the school board wants to keep this shame as quiet as possible, so they devise a fool-proof plan. After glancing over the highest grade point averages in the district, they decide to elect the captain of the chess, Dungeons & Dragons, and scholastic bowl clubs to be “principal for a day”. The position is superfluous, simple public fodder to keep the parents and students from asking too many questions or assuming the dreadful answer.

The superintendent himself sits down with the prospective leader to break the news and share the boards’ plan. Naturally he accepts. The superintendent makes double-sure to impose a request of courtesy and tenderness to be taken in the impending duties. An address will also have to be given to the student body and faculty, a fastidious address. The notes are written up right there and insurance is given that the new “principal” will not deviate from exactly what is on the note cards in his hands.

The assembly is called first thing the next morning. Students are gathered into an irritable mass and the faculty hopes to have this over with before lunch. The superintendent takes the podium and insures the crowd that there is no alarm to be had, but a peer of theirs will be taking on the role of principal as part of the districts student-mentors program. Without further adieu, he hands over the floor to the new “principal”. What the school board expects is a monotonous oration which dances on the edge of poignant. What they get is an incendiary rant, burning everything it touches. The ewer of this flame-thrower of hate and repression is Patton Oswalt: the little geek that couldn’t, but did anyway.

If Roky Erickson actually thought his songs were funny, their presentation would sound something like Patton Oswalt’s act. Even the album title, Werewolves and Lollipops, is a cute allusion back to the psychedelic twaddle of the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. The one thing that separates Oswalt from the peace and love of the latter is his anger. And boy is he angry. And for so many, often-times hilarious, reasons at that.

Where the jock talent of today scores the winning touchdown by expounding upon the subtle differences between men and women, Oswalt blithely ridicules American affluence (“America Has Spoken”, “You Are Allowed 20 Birthday Parties”), George Lucas (“At Midnight I Will Kill George Lucas With A Shovel”), and his own attempts at stardom (“Death Bed”) within the same breath, all the while dropping references so diverse (H.P. Lovecraft, Dumas, G.G. Allen, C.J. Heck) one has almost no time to stop and think – the absurdist pleasantries just keep coming and coming. They simply cannot be stopped. Allow “I Tell A Story About Birth Control and Deal with A Retarded Heckler” to act as evidence.

Oswalt is certainly not paving any new stretches of road, as common comparisons have landed him close to contemporary David Cross and precursor Bill Hicks, but he sure does provide a fun ride. His on-the-mark commentaries of racism (“Racist Cell Phones”) and homophobia (“Cirque Du Soleil”) play with synchronous ease next to musings on married life (“The Best Baby In the Universe”) and college (“Physics For Poets”). As acerbic as his tongue may be, Oswalt never falls into utter stupidity, or even depravity for that matter. This being his second release, Feelin’ Kinda Patton came in 2004, Oswalt may just have to quit his day job as Spence Olchin on CBS’s The King of Queens and play a part in the second coming of smart, brazen comedy; but not as a general—perhaps a sergeant with really bad asthma.