Year: 2013

I walked into the show Monday night and it was pretty packed.  Most of the crowd was there to see a new comic who had written his entire set list on his arm.  It beats someone reading out of a notebook onstage, I guess.  The focus, however, went to a guy with a greaser haircut and his very drunk ladyfriend.  I would say they were ruining the show, but like complete hillbillies, they thought they were helping.

I introduced myself to start the show and Johnny Rockets yelled, “What are we doing?”  I don’t know what you’re doing, other than destroying my opening, but I’m about to tell jokes.  Over the next 40 minutes, the woman got into a screaming match over her cell phone, they yelled “Eastside!” or “Westside!” about a dozen times, and he mumbled incoherently while she bellowed answers to comedy questions.  The last part is the ultimate sin.  There’s nothing worse than asking, “So anyone like movies?” and having someone yell, “Actually, I enjoy sci fi!  It’s cool that Star Trek came out, but I really hope they get the Kahn character right…blah blah blah…”  OK, WE GET IT.

Mercifully, they left, which made me angry at the comics that didn’t have to deal with them, but thankful for the silence.  I knew it was getting out of hand when a comic said something about white power and the guy cheered a little too loud, like he wasn’t laughing, but about to start the meetin’.  Thanks for reinforcing a stereotype, white trash.

I rolled into my alumni football game last Friday and was shocked that I was earlier than everyone else…then I found out we only had 22 people playing and I was last.  There goes the pipe dream of taking it easy.  I went out onto the field and saw our rival had 15.  Apparently everyone’s wives had stepped in and prevented most of the old asses from suiting up.

The announcer was doing a fine job, but kept referring to our game as “the titanic struggle” between Maysville and Philo.  As the game advanced and neither team scored, I began to realize he was mocking us and with good cause.  Philo’s first first down came when their punter kicked the ball into the back of the upback, caught the ball, then threw a pass for about 20 yards.  It was the second biggest play of the entire game.

After a missed field goal, we went into the half still locked at zeroes.  Some guy turned around and slapped his gut.  “Been letting myself go!  Class of 2010, ain’t young no more!”  I almost spit in his face, but my neck was too stiff from the High School Harry that drilled me on a block in the 2nd quarter.  Lightning hit and the game got cancelled early in the fourth quarter and I went off to drink beer, since that’s what pros do after a titanic struggle.  I need to stick to jokes.

Age brings wisdom, it is said.  I must still be young and stupid apparently, because I am playing in another alumni full-contact football game tonight.  Last time I popped a ribhead out in my back and walked like I had a honeymoon evening with a silverback gorilla.  Plus the score was 6-0 because half our team was smoking at halftime.  Of course, I also drank after game, which is probably not the smartest idea.  I didn’t even do that in high school after games.  I like to think I’m carb loading for my 5K run next week.

I’m also running in a 5K the week after.  Not bad, I can handle it…as long as my girlfriend doesn’t beat me.  Note to self: Hide her inhaler before the race or fake a stroke if getting beat.  That should do it.  The good news is that if I get hurt in either event, I can vow to never workout again!

I was at the library, pretending like I was going to check out a non-comic book, when I heard a lady talking to a truck rental place on the phone.  After all, why not carry out a phone conversation at the library?  “I am trying to get a validation code for a discount.”  Pause.  “OK, thanks!”  Five seconds passed, then she called again.  Same conversation to a word.  This happened four consecutive times.  I could tell she was very dumb, because she kept calling and asking the same question, getting the same answer, then calling right back.  It was like watching a three year old jam a square block into a round peg for ten minutes.

I remembered then when I worked at such a facility and the clientele that drove me to drink.  One genius came in after I handed him the keys, red faced pissed.  “This box truck doesn’t have a rear view mirror!”  Yes, they’re on the sides.  “No!  I mean in the middle!”  Hmmm.  Sir, you realize that if it did, the boxes and such would cover up that hole anyways.  “Um, I was planning on making a sight tunnel!  Hello!  I want my money back!”  You know what, you’re right.  Please don’t rent this box truck, you’ll just kill someone driving it around.  May I suggest taking the damage waiver when you realize no such magic vehicle exists?

One of most solemn holidays in America is Memorial Day, where we remember our fallen soldiers.  It traditionally hails the beginning of summer, so we kind of weirdly look forward to such a sobering time.  I think most of us are more than grateful to our troops for their sacrifices.  Even scumbags who don’t care about others’ sacrifices are happy they get an extra day off.  Except probably this guy I saw…

I was walking the other day, yes to get more beer, in case you wondering.  Mind your own business!  (Sorry, us alkies get defensive)  I saw a bumper sticker on a car.  Of course, there were six of them, because assholes with bumper stickers don’t just like to annoy you with one statement, they enjoy telling you everything they think.  Yuck.  This guy had one that said, “Join the Army!  Travel to exotic, distant lands.  Meet exciting, unusual people and kill them.”  This of course from Full Metal Jacket, a great movie.

My hatred of people who insult, disrespect or disparage our troops is deep and intense.  Yet, I also realize one of the great things about our country is that even douchebags are afforded the protections given by those said douches show contempt for.  So in the spirit of the first amendment, I just nodded to myself and realized the interesting irony of this.  I then made the mature decision to let it slide…this time.  Next time I am flicking a booger or hocking a loog on his car.  USA!  USA!  USA!

One of the amazing tools available for studying the intricacies of human psychology is the jukebox.  There are several case studies.

– Pop song repeater.  I heard that “I don’t care!  I love it!” song three times in about 95 minutes.  The person that can do this is the adult equivalent of a fthree year old with Attention Deficit Disorder.  One of my frat brothers played Bombs Over Baghdad four times in a row at a party and I broke the CD in half in front of him.

– Person who can’t pick a format that matches anyone in the room.  Example – Bar the other night, all middle aged white people, 98% men.  One girl goes up and plays aggressive gangsta rap.  The room shuts down emotionally.  Finally, someone goes up and pays extra to jump to Toby Keith.  The room breathes again.

– The “funny” song person.  Get ready for Barbie Girl, followed by Informer by Snow, end up with I’m Too Sexy.  Toss in Afroman and Color Me Badd and you’re all set.  This person likes to be the center of attention by using cheap, repetitive humor.  What kind of douche does this?  (It’s me)