Vanished from Siberia

There was a place.

Behind an unmarked door,'neath the electric glow of a red bulb.

Called Siberia.

Wherein, on Tuesday nights, down in the seedy depths of the punk-hipster bar, society's ne'er-do-wells and would-be comic hustlers would rattle off acerbic barbs, wax poetic on societal taboos, and lament the decline of Western Culture.

'Twas a donkey-punch of a comedy show.

Bo no longer. Banished to Siberia is no more.

The door remains unmarked, the red bulb flickers with electric tears, and the metal stairs lead to dank nothingness.

In memorium, let's remember the good times. Specifically, my set from last year's special extravaganza show:

It's cold in Siberia.