For Canadian comics, the Olympics bring good yuk

From Vancouver, Canada —  “You in town for the Olympics?” the waitress asks.

“There’s an Olympics here?” I answer.

And with that, an evening begins at Yuk-Yuk’s, Vancouver’s premier comedy club -- an outpost for sarcasm, anarchy and subversive Olympic humor.

Personally, I’ve never had much patience with funny people. But let’s give these kids a chance.

Onstage is Simon King, whose rat-a-tat-tat delivery is like that of a younger Robin Williams. He growls into the microphone, then punishes it with bleating llama sounds, then launches into a manic rant about the Winter Games.

“There something about this that blows my mind,” the 32-year-old comic says. “We have all these people coming to Vancouver, and I have no idea how we’re going to possibly Taser them all.”

King may sound like Williams, but he looks and moves more like Dom DeLuise -- oversized gestures, a face like a rubber chicken. King punctuates his set with snorts, growls and various other verbal effects. This set is one of about 40 the full-time comic plays a month, including occasional stints in L.A. and Seattle.

But right now his playground is this little stage with the bright lights, in the basement of a contemporary downtown hotel, a mere 10 blocks from the Olympic flame.

“Everybody’s trying to hide the homeless,” he says of the city’s toughest neighborhoods. “I say let’s include them. Let’s have the junkie Olympics. Twenty minutes after they win, all the medals will be in the pawnshops.”

The topics? Anything, obviously, but drugs and the homeless seem to be a favorite target. East Vancouver’s tough streets come in for lots of ribbing, as does the nation’s obsession with hockey and TV’s saturation coverage of speedskating.

The crowd? Mostly locals, though head doorman Corey Hamade reports there have been more Americans and Europeans the last few nights.

In 30-minute sets, and two shows, the three comics gripe about the Games, lampoon their home country and flirt with a group of women in the front row celebrating a birthday.

“I never know what to tell people to do when they come to Vancouver,” complains Dave Shumka, 29, the second comic up. “They say, ‘Should we go to Stanley Park?’ I say, what are you wanting to do, bury a body?”

Shumka, a video editor by day and comic by night, works in Canada’s national uniform: jeans and a flannel shirt. He swaggers across the stage, looking a little like Bill Murray in his mock exasperation.

“On Davie Street, I saw these German tourists -- with their spiky hair and their Sally Jessy Raphael eyeglasses,” he says. “Apparently, our sex shops are just like their department stores. They wandered into one and said, ‘Veer’re looking for zump-thing for Gran-ma.’ ”

Finally, headliner Rob Ross takes the stage, working the audience of about 100 into an Olympic frenzy.

“Let’s do it . . . wooo, let’s burn this place down!” he shouts as barmaids sauce the crowd. “I’m not even against the Olympics. Let’s burn it down anyway!”

The audience, mostly between the ages of 25 and 40, laughs and whistles.

“How about that torch run?” says Ross, a veteran of stand-up clubs across Canada. “Could anything be more embarrassing than Gretzky in the back of a pickup truck? What was that? Take the greatest hockey player in history and make him drive through a bunch of bums and hobos. The guy was terrified.”

Between shows, King -- also serving as the night’s emcee -- sits in the back of the club and discusses the Canadian tradition of stand-up comics. Amped up onstage, he’s thoughtful and well-spoken off.

King talks about his adopted country -- he moved here from Britain when he was 5 -- explaining how the Canadians’ natural reticence contrasts with the zany performers they produce by the truckload: Jim Carrey, Martin Short, Mike Myers and the late John Candy.

“Canadians really have this overly anti-hero thing going,” he explains.

“But we’re comfortable in our silliness,” he says of Canadian comics. “We don’t mind acting the fool. And we don’t take ourselves too seriously.”

chris.erskine@latimes.com