Month: July 2013

I just found out one of my favorite teachers passed away this past weekend.  That’s not a great way to start a comedy blog, by the way, but it happened.  Besides being a great teacher with more stories than most people could ever hope to have, Mr. Baltzly was completely unafraid to lay out his opinion, which was probably why I liked him so much.

When talking about the school district telling him to check hair lengths on boys (it was the 60’s, times were different), he told us, “If you think I was touching some greasy punk’s unwashed hair, you got another thing coming.”  When told he had to check the short/skirt lengths on girls, he said “I can’t wait until I get to tell some mother I observed her daughter’s shorts were too short.  No thanks.”

Nothing though, was better than the “dots” moment.  He was sitting at his desk, end of semester.  He pulled out an unused book.  “Well, the women (the other middle school teachers) tell me I need to pass out some dots.  Apparently, this is supposed to be some kind of punishment for bad behavior.  If you act like a clown in my class, I’ll pick up your desk and put you out in the hallway.  So, instead I have to pass out some dots to keep them happy and mold the young minds of tomorrow.  Who wants a dot?”  My buddy Honk said, “I’ll take one.”  “OK, Honk, you’re a mouthy SOB, you get one.”  Another guy said, “I’ll take two!”  “Good, you should have two.”  I chimed in, “I’ll take one, Mr. Baltzly!”  “Coen, you’re an A student, I can’t give you a damn dot.”  Believe it or not, before the ravages of puberty fully set in, I was quite the demure and well-behaved young lad.  Then testosterone and cheap beers took over and it all went to shit.

Upon finishing, Mr. Baltzly had done his part passing out the dots and all was well with the world and the “women.”  He retired the next year, mostly over his frustration with standardized testing and the world lost one really talented and fantastic teacher.  RIP, sir, and you’ll be happy to know the legal system of various counties throughout the Midwest have given me the dots you wouldn’t.

I was going to blog about the Zimmerman trial, but after realized everyone with a blog, bullhorn or social media access had already tossed in their two cents.  Plus I realized there’s not much funny about anything involved, so moving on.  Hey everybody, I went book shopping!

My fiancee and I went to look at wedding books.  In other words, 7000 bridal books and three groom books.  The bridal books are in depth planners, with folders, tabbed sections, Q&A’s, how to’s, calendars, budget forms…you get it.  The groom’s guide says basically “Buy a ring, then shut up and don’t ruin her day, scumbag.”  Great.

I did pick up some valuable tips from what I’ve seen so far, such as the average wedding costs $22,000.  Looks like Hot Pockets for the six guests I can afford to have.  Oh, that and the four cases of King Cobra 40 ounce treats.  I did notice the groom is supposed to plan the honeymoon.  I can handle that.  Two words, all inclusive.  I will get enough free booze to make an entire island go bankrupt.  I can finally take a bath in gin like I’ve always wanted to, all while eating lobster sandwiched between two steaks.  You may have picked up on the fact I don’t vacation much.

I was never a fan of the trendy bar scene.  Even when I was 21, I would rather stay home.  Why?  1) If I can get drunk for $15 or $50, give me $15.  I’m cheap, but like to drink.  If shoe polish gave me a buzz, I’d drink that.  2) DUI’s.  Look officer, that’s kids’ swingset jumped right out in front of my car.  How am I supposed to drive through this yard with all these obstacles in my way?  3) Douchebags.

I went out with some co-workers and my lady (one guy, three women – spoiler alert, I didn’t talk much) to a new and exciting bar with 75 beers on tap.  I realized it was a trendy bar (let’s keep the number format going) because 1) I saw a guy with a manpurse.  Manpurse is an oxymoron, but that’s the only way to describe it.  Nice purse, sweetie.  2) Big haired women wearing slut gear talking to old men.  This is a dead giveaway that you’re in a “cool” joint.  Old guys w/ money chasing women who will take it.  I have a soft spot for old fashioned romance.  3) No place to stand or sit.  I think it’s great when the server bumps into my back 12 times.  Trust me, I would LOVE to move, but the only open spot is the women’s room and I have a few court orders telling me I can’t hang out there.

We got a seat and all my cares melted away…except that I saw a record number of guys wearing designer tank tops and two popped collars.  Oh, and my parking meter has four minutes left on it.  Nothing like getting a $75 ticket because you’re too cheap to put that additional quarter in the meter.  Looks like I am drinking at home again.  Where’d I put that shoe polish?

I am not exactly a fashion or style icon.  I own about 60 t-shirts, only four which have been purchased since 2011.  I cut my toenails with scissors and my fingernails with my teeth.  You get the point.  Yet for some reason, when I get my haircut, it’s a spinning wheel of possibilities for the hairdresser.

My hair is thick (not as much in certain spots anymore) and gets curly when it gets long.  This is advantageous for me, as my method of styling it is to let it air dry after I shower.  Yesterday’s haircut wasn’t bad except that she kept talking with her hands, which was somewhat terrifying.  I tipped her well, however, because unlike most, she didn’t decide to gel up my hair into a faux hawk or try and make me look like an angry lesbian by blow drying the front into a puff ball.

I have a very simple rule in haircuts, make it look like this (I point at my head), but shorter.  Do this, and be tipped well.  Beyond that, have fun and God bless.  Oh, and to the lady that gave me a perm when I was nine at the Colony Square Mall in 1988, I will find you someday, and you will know my pain.

I think as an entertainer, one of the phrases that wears me out most is “I’ll have to check you out sometime.”  Example, I met some people I had never seen before.  “I heard you do jokes!”  Well, not really, but in order to move this conversation along…yes, I do jokes.  I get onstage and regurgitate jokes everyone has already heard rather than original material.  Whatever, they’re being nice.

Then one of the ladies asked if I had ever been to Livonia, Michigan.  Yes, but I didn’t perform there, I was passing through town.  “Oh, I love that place.”  Me: Joey’s, right?  “Yes, I go there all the time.”  All the time, as in you didn’t remember the name.  OK.  “I’ll check you out next time you’re up there!”  OK, great!  I am fully aware that she will 1) not be able to pick me out of a police lineup in 56 seconds’ time and 2) I am currently not booked there, so the chances that she will scour their lineup every week for the next year until, maybe, I get booked there is somewhere between zero and I’ll never drink again.  In other words, zero.

In fairness, I do someone similar to this also.  It must be some dumb human trait, like how people say they’re coming to a party or event on Facebook and no show, just to get that initial acceptance from others.  People always ask me if I have heard of someone and inexplicably, I say, “Yes, sounds familiar!  I think I ran into them once!”  Then I act like someone is calling me or I have to pee or jab myself in the leg with my car keys because I have no idea who in the hell they’re talking about.  “Wow, looks like I’m bleeding!  Well, catch you later!”

Disney’s latest movie is Planes.  It’s about cartoon planes.  The tag – “If you’re looking for a hero…”  Cartoon versions of inanimate objects as heroes?  That’s dumb.  Of course, I collect bobbleheads, action figures and just got a free poster for pre-ordering Grand Theft Auto 5.  Maybe I should shut up.  On a side note, it’s official, I hate more than half of new movies and 75% of new music.  I am a certified old asshole now.  Get off my lawn!

Inside tip to the cops investigating the Aaron Hernandez murder: Tom Brady is behind the whole thing.  Arrest him now…or at least before the playoffs.  He’s clearly guilty.  You’ll get yours, you smug bastard.

There is a “Honey Boo Boo: Watch N’ Sniff” coming up.  It’s official.  It’s the beginning of the Apocalypse.  Enjoy the horror of the next seven years.  I don’t know how a watch n’ sniff works, but I hope the smell is a car running in a closed garage if I am forced to watch this atrocity.  Sleep…sleep Coen…yes…