Month: June 2012

I did a show Tuesday night in Dayton – not bad for the drive, only just over an hour.  I got there early, but of course, the start time was passed and rescheduled for 45 minutes later.  That’s great, I have nothing to do tomorrow…oh wait, I have to be up at 6:15 am.  Oh well.  I’ll just have to stab anyone that goes over time more than two minutes.

It actually went very well, even though it was outside.  As fate mandates, I got to a punchline and three Harley riding midlife crisis zeroes had to pull up beside the bar and rev away…in a mall parking lot.  I turned around and yelled, “Is your penis any bigger now, you fucking dicks?  Of course not, park the bike you compensating douches!”  They must have heard me, because they revved about six more times, then drove off.  I felt better.

The comics were pretty good, but I had a weird moment when during the second comic’s set (he was crushing) some guy yelled, “That bald sonofabitch with the glasses is a homewrecker, just ask him!  He’s a piece of shit!”  It ruined the momentum and of course, I was right between the two, so if the poo hit the fan, I was going to be rolled up into a death struggle.  Thankfully, “homewrecker” did nothing and the town crier was removed without incident.  Either way, I’m glad they served bottles.  I’m too old to fistfight two guys, but I’m still hillbilly enough to smash a bottle across someone’s face in a pinch and run like a weasel back to my car and throw dirt everywhere making for the highway.

On the way back from Cleveland last weekend I realized it was going to be a long ride.  My nieces were completing the competitive eating marathon of sugar, with milkshakes, sour sticks, gummi bears, Sprite and cotton candy.  The station was glued to Radio Disney, I my loathing of pop music is at least at the local legend level.  Combined with rain, the urge to poo, and general exhaustion, I was rather crabby.

A five minute session of being poked in back with a wiffleball bat didn’t help matters, so I ripped the bat away…breathe…breathe…  Right as our exit loomed, “Call Me Maybe” came on for the fifth time and I broke down as a man.  Half joking, half insane I was pushed over the edge when traffic ground to a halt…three miles from our exit.  I rolled down the window and yelled, “Help!  I’ve been kidnapped by my family!”  Much snickering ensued.  Proving that kids are resourceful, my niece yelled back, “Help!  I’m in the car with a 30 year old man that likes Captain America!”  Well played, kiddo.  Well played.

We finally made it home and all was right with the world.  In other news, I am researching home vasectomies.  Any tips are appreciated.

I went to watch the Pirates and Indians play in Cleveland for Father’s Day with my family.  A good time was had by all, plus I was treated to the normal conga line of weirdos.  As we sat down, my lady tapped me to check out the row in front of us.  There, in all her glory, was a girl, probably young twenties with a neck beard.  Black, scraggly hair.  Not all of God’s children are pretty, we know this, but if you have a neck beard and a vagina, this is not acceptable.  Save EVERY DOLLAR until you get it taken care of, for God’s sake.  If I had a dick growing out of my forehead, I’d probably skip the Friday night pizza splurges…until the DICK WAS REMOVED FROM MY FOREHEAD!  More later, my internet went down while typing this up…

Ah, summer.  Good weather, vacations, cookouts, cornhole and booze.  What’s not to like?  OK, a few things suck.  One, sports are awful unless you like NASCAR (no) or baseball (my favorite team is the Pirates; they haven’t had a winning season since 1992).  Two, heat.  I sweat very easily, so my Gold Bond powder expense triples this time of year.  Lastly – no comedy.  Why?

When the weather is good, no one chooses comedy at a bar over sitting on a patio listening to a cover band.  Since most of my work is one nighters at bars in small towns, it’s hard to compete with Freebird and a nice breeze coming off the lake.  Plus, outdoor comedy SUCKS!  Nothing like getting to a punchline when a team of old bikers on Harleys rumble past for 20 seconds.  Oh well, at least I have summer to fall back on.  And the jock itch I got last month from the softball double header.  Thanks, sweat glands!

Yes, it’s true…but no one believes me.  When I was in high school, my Mom brought home a stray male Golden Retriever from work that wandered into a car wreck scene.  Unlike my current wimp, Stringbean, this dog was a real mean stray, which is weird for Goldens.  I had the task of naming him, so I noticed he drank seven bowls of water that night and gave him the name of Joe Camel Coen, aka Joey (for the camel part, dummies).

Joey was a feisty lad and loved to kill things like birds and mice, so we were fast friends.  One day, I was in the backyard and noticed the dog was sitting on the hill in the classic butt-dragging stance, but his two front paws were stroking away in unison.  Upon a second look, he was pitching lipstick.  Oh my God, this dog is jerking off…where’s my camera?  I ran inside, with thoughts of fame and fortune, but by the time I grabbed it, my Mom was hitting the lonely bastard with a broom and yelling at him to stop.  I dropped to my knees, asking God why the world was so cruel as to deny me the pic.  I must be vigilant!  It will happen again!

Well, it did happen once more, but once again, Mom intervened with the hose rather than the broom.  I was crestfallen.  I, in a rare display, berated my Mom for such a transgression.  “I love you, Mom…but if you stop this dog before I get a picture, I may put you in a sleeper hold.”  She finally relented and the stage was set.

I came home from school a few days later and let Joey out.  I chugged a pop and went back out.  My four year old neighbor Dustin was on all fours laughing as Joey was behind him, pumping away.  “Look Chris!  We’re dancing!”  Son of a bitch!  I ran up and punched Joey into next week.  “Why’d you do that, Chris?”  Ask grandma, little buddy.  That’s above my paygrade.  My neighbor told my Mom what happened and without my knowledge, Mom scheduled a very overdue neutering for Joe Camel…and he never touched himself again.  I think a little part of me died that day.  At least I’ll always have the memories of Ol’ Joey angrily and purposefully rubbing his red rocket like he was starting a fire.  No one will ever take that away!

Michael Bloomberg is a douche.  After the big soda ban, now he is focusing his efforts on big popcorn, which follows his virulent anti-salt and anti-smoking bans, oh and don’t forget trans fat.  He just got busted violating his own anti-helicopter ban, which doesn’t phase him, because he’s a multi-millionaire and he pays the fine while laughing at the rabble.  Thanks, hypocrite, please tell me how to live.

Hey Bloomturd, you know how people get fat?  They eat too much.  So when you ban huge sodas, they order three smaller ones, which means the business marks them up for everyone, because now they have to do more dishes and hire more wait staff to serve more drinks.  Or they stay home and chug two liters.  Oops.  Looks like you did nothing, you nothing.

There are two grandma stereotypes – one who gives you everything (good) and one who is a stingy old nag that points out your flaws.  Most of us, like me, have the former.  New York has the latter…and voted for him…three times.  That means he must have ran against breast cancer three years in a row or New York likes the abuse.  Basically, Bloomdud is Zed from Pulp Fiction and NYC is the gimp.  Thank God I live in Ohio…where you can’t smoke, drive without a seatbelt, or drive drunk.  OK, I was reaching on the last one, but who’s with me on putting a bumper lane for drunks on the highways?  Anyone?  Anyone?