When I was a kid, I loved action movies (and still do). One of my favorites was Robocop, the heart-warming film about a cop who gets a nice cyborg upgrade after being shot on duty. He comes back and becomes a supercop who takes down the worst in “Old Detroit.” It was on the other night. Holy crap, it is really bad.
1) It opens with a newscast where the reporters are smiling and joking as they talk about a gang that’s shot and killed 31 officers. I’ll bet the cops wouldn’t really care about that or drop everything while a murderous gang of cop killers is running around. “We’ll get to that, right after we stop these damn jaywalkers roaming our streets!”
2) The private company that runs the police department tests a new variation of a robot cop that has no ability to arrest and detain anyone. It just takes care of crime by gunning down criminals with machine guns. Also, it malfunctions immediately and murders one of the businessmen during the presentation. There are NO repercussions. In fact, the CEO is annoyed and yells at anyone that offers to help. I remember once when I was at a staff sales meeting and a robot murdered our assistant district manager. It was so annoying – we had to delay lunch by 10 minutes to clean up the body!
3) Officer Murphy gets shot by the cop killer gang by six criminals at close range with shotguns, including a headshot through the brain. He lives. Not all the way, but long enough to be put into a cyborg. Of course, he and his partner wouldn’t have been in trouble, but they chose not to wait on backup against the six criminals. His partner would’ve been able to help, but she decided to snap her bubble gum when approaching one the thugs and got kicked off a ledge. Smooth.
4) The cops only carry handguns…except when they are ordered to shoot Robocop, then they have a full military arsenal. He would’ve been killed by the machine gun robot I mentioned earlier, but it got taken out by a staircase. That’s right – stairs.
I then realized I was being critical of a movie with late 80’s special effects about a robotic super cop in Detroit that requires zero programming or training before they release him into the public. At least he kicks some serious ass while all this is going on.
Age 6 – Fake brush teeth. Fake use washrag. Sleep.
Age 16 – Pop pimples. Shower. Pop pimples that showed in seven minutes of showering. Brush teeth. Think about flossing. Once a season, shave three facial hairs. Sleep.
Age 26 – Play find the stray shoulder/back hair. Pop pimples. Curse because I still have pimples. Brush teeth. Finally floss. Curse because gums are bleeding. Shave face and sometimes other areas. Curse because I have pimples and body hair at the same age. Drink, then sleep.
Age 36 – Play find the clumps of random body hair. Can’t see them because I took out contacts. Put on glasses, get sad, say hell with it. Pop pimples, realize they are ingrown hairs, which are worse. Shower. Vow to not look in mirrors anymore. Tell self hair loss isn’t that bad, but it is. Weigh self. Pee and reweigh self, hoping pee weighs 12 lbs. Realize it doesn’t and tell self scale is broken. Vow to workout more or stop eating on days that begin with “T” until something changes. Suddenly become aware that 46 is really to going to suck ass. Cry or drink or both.
I think I should have a show on the Home Improvement channel, or whatever it’s called, I don’t watch it. I think the ratings would be nice and high. Not because I can fix things, but because I’m so useless at it. I lived in a condo for years where my biggest maintenance crisis was caused when I walked into the screen door and bent the frame. I fixed it by sliding it to open all the way and never using it again.
This week I went to run electrical wire up through a wall and fireplace so we can mount our TV in the center of the room. I couldn’t get it through. I found something called a fire break, which is a 2×4 block that somehow prevents fires, because it’s wood. Nothing like wood as a non-flammable fail safe. No problem. I put drill bit into the hole and dropped it, thanks to my fat and clumsy hands. I then spent 90 minutes with my wife’s help using a mirror, cell phone light and coat hangar getting the bit out of the wall. We got it, but the drill didn’t fit, so we had to buy a flexible drill bit extension. After calling five stores, we found one. I drilled through one hole, then the part warped and broke. There goes that. I then ran the wire, only to find out there was a second fire break I couldn’t reach, especially since the part was now in the trash can.
All this has led me to believe it is time to give up television and learn to read. Or use super glue, that may work also. Stay tuned to whatever channel people work on house stuff for my new show, “When his dad was trying to teach him about home improvement, he was imagining he was a bald eagle with laser vision.” It will involve a lot of foul language and minor injuries, some tears and will conclude with a contractor or my wife doing it correctly.
I got a gig last week on short notice. I was happy to get the room, but it was a rough SOB. It snowed right up to a level 2 emergency, which makes the drive interesting. It wasn’t too bad until I got to the town. I nearly hit Jesse Pinkman and Skinny Pete, who were walking down the center of the road. If I would have, I like to think crack rocks would have flew out like a pinata.
The room was nice, but there was no stage, which means there was no way to see most of the crowd. The DJ was nice, but he kept asking me what color lights I liked behind me. How about ones that raise me up about 12 inches off the floor? The real bugaboo was the fact that the show started at 10 pm and there was no cover. That means one thing – drunk audience with no incentive to listen. I fired up the comedy engine and immediately a guy walked in front of me. Let me be more specific: He walked within three inches of me. On purpose. He could have walked anywhere, but decided right in the middle of my first joke to nearly shoulder bump me.
It was so rough, I didn’t try to sell anything after the show. One guy approached me, grabbed my DVD, opened it and took a picture with his phone. He then walked away without saying a word. I have no idea what he planned to do with it, but I’m sure it was a Facebook post saying he saw a real lump of dump named Chris Coen. That’s the part that burns the worst. I could have been possessed by Richard Pryor’s ghost and I would have had zero chance. I was angry, then I remembered I got paid. Two combo meals later, it will be gone, but right now, I’ll take it.
Thanks to hackers, who are so devoid of balls they might as well be Ken dolls, I had a little hiccup on the site. They found a way to put links or something into my site to increase their hits. The joke’s on you, almost no one reads this blog! HA HA HA! Wait a minute, that’s not a good comeback…
It may be a blessing because I realized I needed to update my bio, some pictures, revamp the gigs section and other such tasks. Unfortunately, I am not tech savvy enough. The closest I got to computer programming was when I created wrestling plots in HTML for a web group in 2000. My character was the Patriot. I know this probably shocks everyone. What happened was you would type up a plot and if the webmaster liked it more than everyone else’s, you could go for a title. Yes, it was super nerdy and I had a lot of free time in college. All I really learned was that I needed a new hobby. The only one that got me a title shot was when I framed my rival for a crime and he had to go to prison, whereupon all kinds of awful ensued. And you thought spending too much time on Facebook was a waste of the internet.
Long story short, everything is a work in progress, but my blogs are back up and look for changes down the road. Now excuse me, I have to finish sewing stars on my wrestling tights.
I was at work this week, making sales calls. I barely heard it, but an older guy on a bench said, “Excuse me, sir.” I turned, expecting to be hit up for change or handed a religious flyer. “Have you been to the Dayton music festival? There was a guy that I swear was you that did the most beautiful tap dance I’ve seen.”
I thought about saying yes, but then I realized he would talk to me about tap dancing for 15 minutes or expect me to softshoe right on the street. Then I started thinking, did he really see a 205 lb. angry bearded white guy tap dance? I must find this doppleganger and end him, before he does more damage. At that moment, I realized he was still staring at me, awaiting an answer.
“No, I don’t tap dance. My wife will get a kick out of this though. She loves my dancing.” He was crestfallen. “Are you sure? Those shoes look like tap shoes.” He pointed at my dress shoes, which were black, but in no other way like tap shoes. I then became aware this guy probably assumes every guy with black shoes is Fred Astaire. I also came to the sad realization that I’ve been confused for a tap dancer about a quarter as much as I’ve been recognized as a comedian. Time to learn to tap.