Month: July 2012

My fraternity, Phi Kappa Tau, the Delta Lamba chapter at Muskingum College got awards this week for 1st in philanthropy and 4th in community service.  As a member of the Board of Governors, I was very proud, especially considering my idea of community service is one mandated from a judge.

It is one hell an accomplishment from a fraternity from a small school, so good work gentlemen and don’t let old, washed up frat alumni tell you any differently.  My pet peeve when I was in school was a fat, balding drunk alum coming in.  “We had some sweet parties, bro!  We were awesome!”  Then you look down and see the piss dribble stain on his too short khakis complementing the Bud Light stain on his faded polo shirt.  Then you would watch as he hit on 19 year old co-eds and feel sad about a lot of things.  “Sweet parties?  Really?  Go fuck yourself.  Give us some cash.”

One time my frat had to do some community service for a bogus noise complaint.  I went to kangaroo court and actually was so eloquent, we got out of a $2000 fine.  (Call me Daniel Webster)  Our punishment for playing a stereo at 8 pm on a Tuesday became 200 hours of community service.  Me and my pal Camp pulled weeds near the town’s welcome to sign.  Bent over and in protest, I pulled my shorts down and showed the passing cars visiting my rather “hair-gifted” ass while me and Camp giggled like stoners.  Seriously, my nickname was Bear, and it wasn’t for my deep voice.  Thank you, bad genes.  You’ll come in handy next Ice Age!

Some “pig” men I know don’t care for women’s sports.  Well, let me tell you what I think about that, you chauvinists!

I’ll have you know that these ladies work just as hard as you men.  Staying in shape…tight, hard shape…kind of a round, but firm shape…

I for one am about sick and tired of you mysoginistic types selling these ladies shorts!  (I mean short, that must have slipped out…)  Oh, nice point…yes, group hug each other…excellent…  I am going to support these fine athletes every step of way!  (DVR set for women’s volleyball)

If you’re in Columbus, check out my show tomorrow at Flanagan’s at 9 pm (it’s actually in Dublin, technically).  Just $5, or you can bring shampoo, coffee, all the usual items to be sent overseas (just pay $5, it’s easier).  I am excited to do this show, because I support the military and the sacrifices they make for us.  I would give up drinking for America.  Thank God this bizarre scenario doesn’t actually exist, though…I shudder to think the fate of my beloved country teeters on my going sober.  Also, I’m excited because there are a ton of comics on it and I’m tired of getting facebook messages.  Let me explain.

If you send a message to a normal person, he/she will respond.  If you send one to a comedian, they will probably retort with something funny (or try to) and get the last word.  Now imagine it’s after midnight on a Tuesday, you just fell asleep and six of the comics on the show are messaging for two hours straight trying to one up each other.  Meanwhile, you’re just tired enough not to get up as your smartphone is blowing the hell up with noises every single time some dickhead has to toss another log into the joke fire.  Of course, since they’re comedians, most have no 9-5 job and all are drunk.  You can’t turn off said phone, because it’s your alarm clock and you can’t figure out how to turn off notifications until it’s 3 am.  The glamour, the fame – I don’t know how I handle it.

People these days love to ask questions already answered.  I get about three or four questions a month – when are doing a show next?  Well, if you’re reading this, its on this very site!  Wow!  Technology!  I had someone message me – what is the venue’s policy on tickets?  Funny, because I had the venue’s website and phone number in the show details.  Plus, they contacted me via the “internet” so I know they could’ve looked it up, called, sent a carrier pigeon.  You know what’s the worst?  Of those four messages a month, 95% NEVER SHOW UP.  EVER!  NOT ONCE.

Do people call Axl Rose or text him when they go to a Guns N’ Roses concert?  Of course not.  “Hey Axl, are you singing “Civil War?  I like that song!”  Do people message A Rod when checking out a Yankees game about the beer prices?  No.  That would be dumb.  “Hey, Obama…I’m going to DC next month.  What time does the Smithsonian open up?”  Did you check out the “internet”?  (Assuming he answered)  “No, I thought I would text you personally!”  Thanks, but I’m running the country.  No idea.  Yes, I did put myself on the level of Axl, A Rod, and Obama, but I am funnier than all three put together so pound sand.  Oh, and if you need details, check out www.gopoundsand.com.  (Secret…it’s not a real website…)  You won’t, so just message me personally, I give you the details, then you no show anyway and I ferret away another rage factor that leads to a stroke.

All that rage aside, I love when you folks come to my shows.  It’s awesome.  If, however, you never plan on coming…ever…then…oh what’s the point?  You’re going to message me anyways.  Tell you what, my next show is in Gary, Indiana.  Free tickets!  Wear a shirt that says something about white power and you get in free!

I first paid attention to the Olympics in 1988.  The only thing I remember was that Ben Johnson cheated and Linford Christie was the first black guy with a British accent I had ever heard.  That blew my mind – the accent, not the cheating.  Then in 1992, my family moved back to Ohio and we had no cable.  In fact, the only channel we had was NBC right at the start of the Barcelona games…and it nearly broke me.

Boxing?  Love it, until an American gets robbed.  This happens a lot.  Track and field?  100m, yes, but try watching a/the/who cares what preposition steeplechase or a hairy pitted Eastern European chick pole vault.  No thanks to synchronized swimming – what in the hell is that, anyway?  Of course if the U.S. wins, I’m all about it.  Go America!

What nearly did me in, though, was a sportscaster by the name of Bob Costas.  For those that don’t watch, Mr. Costas has to do a human interest/pity party story before EVERY SINGLE FUCKING EVENT!!!  Example: “When Sergei was running through the golden fields outside Kiev, he dreamed of running for a different gold.  Olympic gold.  Then his mother got an infected hemmorhoid and it all changed.  Sergei had to lance it, each night, the needle symbolizing the stabbing pain of knowing his dream was lost…”  Fast forward, blah blah blah, it all turns around.  I don’t know if you lance a hemmorhoid, but that’s not the point.  Honestly, after 57 stories like that, you just don’t give a shit anymore.  Plus when Sergei chokes and you do care, then your day is ruined.  Poor bastard, back to the ass lancing!  That’s why I watch just for the blind patriotism – run it up, Dream Team 7 or whatever number it is by now!  Take that, French Guyana!  Suck our capitalism!

I made another observation about the opposite sex – they LOVE taking pictures.  LOVE!!!  I took pictures of the following (involving the ladies) – next to a police bus, next to a handicapped port-a-potty (I don’t know why either), in front of a Christopher Columbus statue, next to a parking lot pay shack, and in front of a dirty river.  All wacky style, of course.  If one of my pals asked for more than two pictures when sober, I would break his camera.  At least I wasn’t in them.  I remember when girls left their cameras in my frat house, me and Camp would take pictures of unflushed turds and extreme close ups of our nether regions and return said cameras – you couldn’t always make out details, but you knew it was something gross.  You knew.

Proving that ladies are just as crass as guys, a couple of the girls graffittied up the bathroom, tried to steal things from the bar, ripped off strangers in a beer token exchange and relayed various stories about sex to me.  Thankfully, I was sober all night, due to the fact I had to drive home, so I largely kept out of trouble.  Of course, this is not usually the case, so be ready for round two, chicas.  Oh, and don’t leave your cameras lying around – I may have a flashback.