Year: 2012

– I got an email saying the Baconator has a Facebook page.  It made sad, first that it exists, second, that I was emailed about it.

– There is a commercial for the Columbus Crew MLS team.  The announcer is British.  Come on, Crew.  You’re still MLS, let’s not act all British premier league on me.

– One of my neighbors has taken to opening and closing his door about every 50-90 seconds for an hour a night.  Another apparently wears boots of lead causing my floor to shake when he walks.  I feel like the lead character in The Tell-Tale Heart.  The sounds haunt my nightmares.  What have I done to deserve this repetitive and maddening game?

– I am refinancing my place.  I miss the old days, when they did it with no background checks or paperwork…but that is probably why the housing market collapsed.  “Hey, want a mortgage?  Give me two dollars and your Giant Eagle card!  Approved!”

I did a show at the Shadowbox Cabaret for the all new “Columbus Brew Ha-Ha.”  It was fun, although at first glance the crowd was very small.  It was rather depressing, since it was a free show.  That sucks, knowing with a free show, you don’t have enough pull to put asses in the seats, but in fairness, I didn’t know that until the very end.  By showtime over 40 people filed in and I think we were over 100 by my set.

I want to thank everyone that showed up, including some friends, my lady and a friend I hadn’t seen damn near since college – it was nice…except the three loud talking wenches in the back.  My pal Travis was up, doing a nice set, but all I could hear was the incessant babbling of their “I’m clueless and talk even though I’m ruining it for everyone in this quadrant of the room” conversation.  In Columbus, there are well over 1000 bars, including about 10-15 within walking distance, but yet, there always has to be the drunken idiots that rant about how much fun it is to get out!  Well, except this guy onstage is talking, what is that about?  Tee hee!

It’s always one of two – a drunk 21-28 year old attention needing gutter whore or even worse, a complete dbag with a tribal tattoo and gelled hair, trying very unconvicingly to cover up his hillbilly roots.  I have a nose for those guys, I am from Appalachia after all.  If you are surprised by a comedy show, despite the venue, multiple flyers, and oh, that’s right, the 95% of the rooom focused on someone with a mike, then leave!  Go to another bar, where some dude will listen to your boring stories to try and get in your pants.  Or if you’re the fake tan, frosted tip attention whore of a man, someone will smash a beer bottle over your head like your dad should’ve done in 1989.  Leave the comedians to their craft and let the audience enjoy our shitty jokes.

I am doing stand-up tonight at the Shadowbox Cabaret ion Columbus.  www.columbusbrewhaha.com for tix.  In honor of sketch comedy, here’s something I did in the not too distant past.  Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k2H9_3JMulg

About six years ago, I made one of the dumbest decisions of my life.  No, not starting stand-up, it was buying a motorcycle.  I had always wanted one, but I made two mistakes.  One, I knew nothing about them and two, I am a dumbass.  I got a great deal from a buddy, but he asked me if I had ridden one before.  To this day, I don’t know why, but I said yes.  Probably to save face or perhaps I was counting the one time I rode a dirtbike 15 feet.

There I was, ready to try out my new ride…a 750cc street bike.  It was like never hadden ridden a horse, I decided to jump on a shark or Chimera.  Visions of street races, slutty chicks with their thongs hanging out and a life of general danger racing through my brain, I sat on it for a test ride.  I went into first gear, then pulled my wrist back slowly and released the clutch…and killed it.  Five times.  It was rather embarrassing, so I gave the gas the sixth time and watched as the raging beast flew out from underneath me and over a curb.  Yes, I had wrecked a bike standing still.  Shit, now I have to buy this thing.

I got it, but didn’t touch it for a year, realizing I was no match for a 350 lb. machine that went from 0-60 in 3 seconds.  I finally got filled with shame enough to mount my iron steed once more.  I got it going and it was the best 5-7 seconds of my life.  Then I had to turn.  I leaned into a patch of sand and cinder and went down, not helped by accidentally hitting the throttle.  The bike somehow went up over my body, ripping the helmet off (the only smart move I made) and crashing into a hill.  Sadly, this all happened in my own parking lot.  Look at me now, ladies!

As the male nurse scraped rocks out of my arm later with a wire brush pre-stitches, I realized I am an idiot (again).  The walk of shame with the bike, defeated, was nearly as bad.  Worst was the huge hit I got selling it on Craig’s List as it sat there, mocking me until some hilljack swooped it up, ready to refurbish it and sell it to a real man.  Sigh.  You know what…I’ll feel better if I buy a firearm!  Tune in next time for another horrible yet to happen regrettable story!

Yes, another emcee spot at the ol’ open mike.  There was a bevy of new talent/crazies last night.  I got there early and one guy claimed he was on BET, another did a mom is my roommate joke, but my favorite was this guy.

He showed up and went onstage.  No idea what age, but probably upper 20’s.  High shorts, oversized silk Hawaiian shirt, and ballcap.  He ran around the stage like PCP was free with every drink.  He also did three horribly racist jokes, including “This is my impression of the Yellow Pages – I can’t turn the page, I have chopsticks in my hand.”  I nearly hit the floor with shame and laughter at the awkwardness.

Upon returning to the mike, I said – “That guy reminded me of the 80’s, one for his love of Magnum P.I.’s wardrobe and two his love of cocaine.”  It got a solid laugh, but the next comic Zac topped me.  “That guy looks like a dad in a movie that switches places with his son to do stand-up.”  Nice.  He left before the end of the show, which is bad for future blogs, but good for his family’s pride.

I was digging through my embarrassingly large collection of tees tonight and found my tye dye “Beach Party 1998” shirt.  The fact I own a tye dye shirt probably is causing a stroke in someone, since my hatred of stinky hippies has been well established over the years.  You’re 65, you’re not fighting the man anymore, jackass.  Take a shower.

The nostalgia was washed away by the sadness of realizing that party was over 14 years ago.  I drank from 11 am to 4 am (thanks, Ripped Fuels!) and did donkey kicks on the roof’s edge to mess with my buddy, not realizing this is how horrible frat stories start with the ending, “Then they shut the house down.”  I was nuts before I got in, so suck it man!  Shit, now I sound like a hippie.

We had other fun ones, like “It’s 3 am, do you know where your girlfriend is?” and “You may not like us, but your girlfriend does!”  We were very original, obviously.  Ah college.  I remember the douches who wouldn’t pay dues, steal beers, and raid the kitchen for their own houses, but had every fraternity shirt!  Even more memorable are the shirts, mugs, and other frat items that I would still have, but some klepto sorority tarts pilfered from my room while I shot pool.  One young lady even turned me in to Student Life because I “stole” a mug off her…which she had stolen from me three years earlier.  How did I know?  I had written my name on the bottom.  Guess what tramp got the patented Chris Coen house ban?  That’s right, thief.  Cry and scream it’s not fair while 120 people party just through that door…the tears…they make me stronger…ha ha ha ha! (arms extended, head tilted back, lightning and smoke)