Month: September 2013

Now that Breaking Bad is over, millions of Americans will have a hole in their weeks that Super Fun Night just can’t fill.  (Holy shit, that show looks awful – Rebel Wilson is hyper and wacky!  For 30 minutes!  Blah.)  Since spinoff shows pop up like weeds and they usually stink, I thought of few, other than Saul’s, which has already been scheduled.  (Don’t read if you haven’t watched the finale.)

1) Mike decides to…wait he’s dead.  2)  Gus runs into the Mexican cartel for one last shootout.  Oh yes, he’s dead also.  3) Todd; dead.  Never mind.  OK, all of my ideas are going to have to be in the past.  Mike as a cop, pre-Gus Frane.  A lot of pistol whipping and dirty cop stuff.  No plot necessary, Mike kicking ass is enough.  The only thing is that Mike is pretty old, start shooting soon please.

That’s about it.  Walt Jr. can’t really carry a show and Marie having a show would be like Joey from Friends doing his own gig.  Oh, there are the hitmen twins.  I could watch any show with those maniacs.  At least Walking Dead is almost back on.  My NFL team is 0-4.  Throw me a bone Sundays.

(continued from last blog in an effort to keep my blogs short enough to read while on the toilet at work)

I told my pal the Wop we needed to get the last 20 partygoers out to keep them from being arrested.  When my efforts of reason couldn’t help out, he grabbed one the stubborn ones and slammed his head into the oven light cover, threatening to break his legs.  He left, which was good.  He was part of a team of 30 college athletes, which was bad.  They called the house about 20 minutes later and said it was on.

A normal, rational person would’ve locked the door, perhaps skipped out or called the cops back, but my buddy’s brother took off in a fit of rage to dispatch the entire bunch.  Nobly, yet stupidly, we ran after him to prevent a terrible beating.  As the rowdy mob of well trained 18-22 year old young men surrounded us, I hoped every Steven Seagal movie was possible.

I got suckerpunched and went down, but amazingly, about half the bros awarded me a pardon and let me get up…almost.  The douche threw another punch at me and some animal reaction took over.  I swung, knocking him flat.  Take that!  Then I felt hands dragging me to the earth.  I broke loose and ran faster than should’ve have been possible for an intoxicated has-been, but unbeknownst to me, someone had sawed off a tree, leaving the stump for me to trip over at a full sprint some months later.  What happened next was I realized unlike a Seagal movie, the attackers don’t come one at a time, they bumrush you and call you homosexual slurs while stomping on your face.  Thanks for nothing, Steven!

In a rather basic conversation the next morning with the Wop, we both determined we only fight chess teams or foreign exchange students going forward.  When I got to a mirror and realized I had a shoe print in my face, I recalculated and surmised I wouldn’t fight anyone.  If getting beat up by seven guys is fighting, that is.  The only bright side is that my face was so smashed, I got nearly a week off work!  Maybe I should kick my own ass…

One of the stories I decided to tell at my storytime/improv show last weekend was why I don’t fight anymore.  You can always tell when a guy has never been in a fight before, because he is dumb enough to think he can throw one punch and it’s all over.  What actually happens is the adrenaline makes both idiots miss each other and wheeze for air while still trying to talk shit.  Or someone gets suckerpunched and a melee ensues.  The latter is why I don’t fight anymore, the someone being me.

This story starts with my buddy, the Wop.  The Wop called himself the Wop the same way the Rock called himself the Rock.  He also did pro wrestling moves to strangers (against their will) and ran around in his tighty whiteys or a mounted deer head over his groin as clothing.  My favorite story with the Wop was when I got up at 7 for class and he stopped me in the hallway.  “Dude, can you take me to get more beer?”  Not get beer…MORE beer.  The logic of that means he was still up from the night before.  This is all info so you understand where this is going…

His brother was graduating college, so we rode up to the party.  They rented the whole house, so one half was Heaven and the other was Hell.  The heaven room had blue lights, beer and champagne with Enya playing in the background.  There were about six people there.  The hell room had red lights, Rammstein, and $600 of booze, thus the almost 300 party people.  Of course the cops showed up.

The cop said he was busting everyone and issuing misdemeanors, to which I told him, “I don’t care, I don’t know anyone in there.”  Do you know what the penalty for a misdemeanor in the state of Ohio is?  “Yes, I have three.”  He started laughing and decided to let the party off with a warning if I could get everyone out of there.  Great, now I’m the Barney Fife of the evening with no reward.  I got almost everyone out.  Except the wrestling team.  (To be continued)

I got a message several weeks back from my pal and fellow comedian Justin Golak about a new kind of show.  He was putting together the lineup for Independent’s Day in Columbus (it’s a gathering of locally owned businesses with music, comedy and booze – great event, clearly).  I thought the idea was good, so I signed on.  The show was me telling stories and then an improv group would play off my bullshit and reveal their own take on it.

I parked and walked past the collection of miscreants to the show.  You expect some level of weirdness, but I had to weave past five stoners wearing headphones and freestyle dancing in the street.  Time to grab a beer.

I went into my first story, the one in which I witnessed a lazy eyed maniac break a deer’s neck with his bare hands heading back from a bar in college.  It had two broken legs, so it was the right thing to do, I think…but the lack of reservation he had about the deed meant 1) he was insane or 2) he had done this before.  Neither option is good, in case you were wondering.  The take on it was amazing, as the improv team did a scene showing vet students preparing for the session on euthanasia.  One of the guys (with a lazy eye) was entirely too excited about it.  He then wound up on the scene of a car accident and put the barely injured man out of commission with a rear naked chokehold.  I was impressed at their off the cuff ability to go with my rather dark story.  Don’t worry, it got worse!  (Tune in later for the rest)

Well, I consider myself to be quite the connoisseur of terrible domestic beer and possibly the most overly patriotic person this side of Uncle Sam, but even I was floored last weekend.  I was at Big Lots looking for some flip flops.  Normally, not my favorite footwear, but try lacing up boots every morning when the dog drops a deuce at 6:15 am.  I was walking down the aisle, when I saw this –

I looked and saw this amazing product.  Four beers – TALL BOYS, for two bucks.  Two bucks and made in America?  I suspected a terrorist to have a basket over this beer like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, but I checked my six and realized I was in the clear.  Here’s what the can has on it 1) The Pledge of Allegiance.  2) The Iwo Jima image of the Marines raising the flag.  3) A flag pattern.  4) Freedom is not Free.  5) Peace through Strength.  6) Support out Troops.  7) United We Stand. 8) Even more, I can’t type anymore, I have to pound one of these freedom juices!

Crack, and down the hatch.  Did I just hear a bald eagle scream?  (In fairness, I hear that a lot, I have an active imagination/onset of insanity)  Hmm.  Not as good as thought…wait a minute, I normally drink Busch Light.  Then I realized this fine company participates in the VFW “Return the Favor” campaign, which helps out vets in financial need.  Holy shit, this is my new favorite company.  I now realize I must drink five times as much to help out our boys overseas, which works out for everyone, except for anyone who has to be around me.  Ol’ Glory beer, you have made my week!

I was out with my fiancee last weekend in search of a wedding venue.  On Friday, we kicked it off with a lovely dinner and some wine (they didn’t serve beer, I nearly had a stroke when I found out I would have to drink wine).  The table next to us had three middle aged, very unhappy looking ladies.  They grabbed a manager and complained that they hadn’t received their check and were extremely annoyed by this fact.  I think they got a discount, cashed in their tab…then sat around for another hour.  I know that’s what I do, bitch about not being able to leave three minutes after I finish like a five year old, then proceed to stay right up to closing time.

We got to the hotel fairly late, and we were looking to check in and crash for the evening.  This plan, however, was interrupted by a middle aged gentleman wearing white tube socks and low cut black shoes, which perfectly accented his jorts.  He refused to present a credit card, so the hotel employee had to engage in a back and forth that lasted ten minutes.  He then proceeded to tell the 22-year-old hotel worker about the intricacies of HIPA laws in the state of Indiana.  At this point, I began to tap my credit card on the counter, since this dud of a human clearly couldn’t tell I was there.  Each tap was progressively louder and filled with incrementally more rage.  Finally, upon me clearing my throat and driving my card into the wood hard enough to snap it, the ingrate looked up and saw the maniacal look in my eyes.  I shudder to think what the next step was, but luckily, I didn’t make the news, so it worked out for all.