Month: May 2014

I was about to head out the door to work when I realized someone had called my phone and left no voicemail.  Due to the early hour, I figured I had better call back, just in case.  Bad move.

I will put the other person in quotations for this recap.  “Hello?”  Hi, someone called me from this number about ten minutes ago.  “Who is this?”  Who is this?  Someone called me.  “You’re calling me!”  (Sigh)  OK, I’m Chris.  Someone from this number called me.  “Yes, I own this number that you’re calling.”  (Son of a bitch!)  Yes, I realize that, since the whole purpose of me calling you, is that you called me in the first place.  I didn’t randomly select this number to call a stranger at 7:25 am and have an inane back and forth with.  Clearly, we don’t know each other and it’s obvious to me that you have no clue you dialed my number, thus this pointless exchange of words.  (Brief pause)  “Who are you?  What do you need?”

I hung up on my new best friend and resolved to never call a number that didn’t leave a voicemail ever again.  If I had more free time, I would have considered reverse lookup of the number, then going to visit him and beating him to death with the 2002 white pages in my cupboard.  Instead, I’ll think I will just write his number in a truck stop bathroom and call it a day.

There has been so much going on, I thought I would take a stab at the current news.

Boko Haram, a radical militant terrorist group, kidnapped a couple hundred schoolgirls, because they think it’s just silly to educate women.  Why would they do that?  Is there some kind of religious reason?  Oh, that’s right, no one is allowed to say Islamic.  That’s not politically correct.  God forbid we insult a group of maniacs that kidnap girls and sell them into sex slavery.  That would be insensitive.

Michael Sam got drafted as the first openly gay player in NFL draft history.  If you missed it, ESPN has shown it about 400 times.  He kissed his boyfriend when he got picked up by the Rams.  I was offended, not for the man on man kiss, but for the cake on the face move.  I hate when couples do that at weddings.  “Oh my God, cake in the face?  I didn’t see it coming!”  My favorite part was the one idiot from the Dolphins that tweeted about how gross it was.  Now he has to do sensitivity training…before he comes back and tries to give someone his seventh concussion.  We like our people paid to maim other humans to respect them on the inside.

Lastly, Donald Sterling gave an interview where he said he wasn’t a racist.  I think it would have worked, if not for the hours and hours of racist tape recordings.  Nice try, stupid, you were really close to changing the hearts and minds of America.

I used to watch the NFL Draft as though each pick meant the future of the sport, America, and eternal life were on the line.  I also used to have a lot more free time.  More importantly, ESPN used to not start covering the draft 14 seconds after the Super Bowl.

I learned that being a draft expert means you find who is good in college, then make sure they’re not potheads, criminals or woman beaters.  The last and most important step is figuring out if their arms are 1/4″ too short or if their ears aren’t aerodynamic or if one of their testicles is too large, which affects their burst in the 40 yard dash.  In other words, find something to talk about, because they have to talk about the draft for six hours a day, seven days a week.  Don’t worry, as long as you’re not the Browns, Bills, or Jaguars, you’ll be OK on draft day.

I played a year of college football, and by played, I mean I was on the team and wore a helmet.  My draft card would have read as follows in 1998 – “Incredibly slow for someone not morbidly obese, he has to be a lineman.  This hurts his draft stock, since he weighs 201.  Only positive is stumpy midget legs and abnormally long torso give him lower than average center of gravity.  Stamina not the best, since he smokes a half a pack a day.  Health concerns stem from multiple concussions, which may explain unstable mental condition.  Ideal position would be backup punter, if he could lift leg more than eight inches off ground.  Draft grade F.”

One of the biggest misconceptions people have is that guys like bachelorette parties.  If they do, they shouldn’t.  A swirling mob of drunk women descend on a bar like locusts and devour free drinks like Prohibition is about to be reinstated, then disappear within in their protected circle, leaving disappointed morons with no numbers or money.  As a comic, I would rather perform at the Double Deuce bar on Road House pre-Dalton than do a show with a bachelorette party.  They scream, yell and shake penis memorabilia like they’re watching the Penis Bowl with no regard to the fact there is someone on a stage.

All that aside, apparently there are bizarre rituals even I didn’t know about.  My fiancee ran errands for two days beforehand buying gifts…for her own party.  Until I met her, the only thing I ever brought to a party was beer and my deficient self.  Shirts, hygiene products, jewelry and most importantly, panties for the panty giveaway.  I hope this doesn’t ever cross over.  If my pals are buying me sexy briefs, I don’t want them at my parties.

In addition to the normal fun and games, there was also a game of pin the junk on the hunk.  I have never played the game,  but I think I understand the concept.  In case I didn’t, it got brought home.  It was great to come home from work and see a tanned naked man poster on my living room floor.  Luckily for my fiancee, my body is exactly like the poster, only with more hair, backne, and fat.

My first comedy show that I actually was paid for was in bar attached to a bowling alley.  I was the feature act, which meant nothing, because I was new and awful and had no business doing 20 minutes in front of strangers, friends, or even stuffed animals.  Luckily, my career has really progressed.  Last weekend, I performed at a bar that was attached to a bowling alley.  Son of a bitch.  I was headlining, so I guess at this pace I’ll be selling out a theater in 2059.  Not a real theater, maybe one in a town of 450 people.

The show was sold well, but started about 45 minutes late.  I hate getting to rooms early and starting late, because it screws up my piss breaks.  I hate having to tinkle onstage, but I really hate trying to rush on out and dribbling on myself.  I could just invest in adult diapers, those Dancing with the Stars B listers seem to love them in commercials.

The crowd was pretty good, by good I mean they laughed and bought some of my merchandise afterwards.  I had a good time and was marginally more sober than when I usually go to a bowling alley, so I’ll take it.  Now excuse me, I have to prepare for a skating rink show.  I have a lot of Hokey Pokey material to work out.

On the road, things come up that you never expect.  One time I went to McDonald’s and walked in the restroom.  I looked down and realized the guy in the stall had removed his shoes while shitting.  I was so stunned, I exclaimed, “What in the hell are you doing?  No shoes?”  I saw him shift his feet and put on top on his shoes.  Oh, well now it’s not weird, thanks for doing that.

Recently I was heading back to town when I had to use the boys room.  There was only a rest area nearby, so I pulled over.  As I was sitting there, a janitor entered.  It sounded like he was wrestling a bear in the stall next to me.  I lost my focus so badly I nearly took my shoes off – just kidding, CALL BACK!  He moved to the other stall and I suddenly saw his latex glove reach under the stall and pick up a stray piece of TP.  In my bathroom zone.  Unless it’s a live grenade, Ralph, keep your damn hands out of my personal space.  Well, as personal as a rest stop bathroom can be.  Maybe he was trying to untie my shoelaces.  Clearly the no shoe guy is still in my head.  I need a therapist.