Author: Chris

I had a show Friday night and it went well, considering I took a back way and got stuck for nearly 40 minutes for the Bowman fair.  40 minutes, staring at my steering wheel hoping against hope that these dumb hillbilly rugrats grabbed all the caramels and mints from the back of the fire truck and got the hell out of my way before I could no longer control the urge to mash the accelerator and ruin the day for the town of 22 people.

After the show, I was selling t-shirts and a rather old woman came up to me.  “You’re good, but you need to drop the joke about the retarded kid.”  I don’t do any jokes about retarded kids, but I relay a true story about an older mentally challenged man that shook his enormous penis at me.  “Yes, well that cut to my heart.  I have a retarded kid.”  I was volunteering at a field day for the mentally handicapped.  That’s not offensive, the joke is about how they don’t care if you use the word retarded…which you are tossing around liberally.  I think retarded people are great.  They’re always happy and nothing gets them down.  “Well, you need to drop that.”  I was very gracious, but as she walked away, I got madder than a nest of hornets.

One, you didn’t even listen to the joke.  If you did, you know I’m complaining about you and your PC ilk.  Plus, I said retarded is not an offensive term – you must agree, b/c you called your kid retarded on multiple occassions.  Second, when you said “retarded kid” you made it about YOU!  I never mentioned a retarded kid, but YOU threw yourself into my joke, you selfish ass.  Are you ashamed of your kid?  Regretful?  That offends me, you needy leech.  Third, I once had a guy with a retarded brother tell me that joke made him cry laughing, b/c his brother used to pull his wang out all the time.  Well, sir, you are insensitive.  This lady in Southern Ohio is offended, so we ALL need to be offended.  Fourth, I CLOSED WITH A JOKE ABOUT SEXUAL ASSAULT.  This didn’t bother you, but me telling a whimsy about a middle aged man shaking his mule in broad daylight, well, I better keep that to myself.  What could possibly be funny about that?

In summation, joke Nazi, I didn’t go to a human zoo and poke the mentally disabled with sticks.  I was volunteering (that means free community service) and helping the lugs when most people fire up Two and Half Men reruns.  Something funny happened.  You should be proud that you raised a challenging, but loving kid.  You should be able to laugh that they are different from you and me.  If you don’t like the joke, fine.  Don’t you dare make it about you.  I would be downright offended.

Thanks to all who check out this site – we just went over 2.000 views for the first time (in a month)!  Now if only the subliminal messages will kick in…then my armies will march and all will fall into place.  In fake thanks, thanks to the gnat that flew into my eye during last night’s run.  I had something in my left eye for two days that nearly drove me to madness.  It finally came out, but there you were, gnat, to fly directly into my right eye and balance everything out.  As I type, you are lodged somewhere in my socket and I can feel you when I blink.  I hope your death was slow and awful, plus creepy since my huge eye was staring you down as you drowned in my eye juice.

Also, thanks (fake, of course) to earbud manufacturers for making a product that lasts seven months or less every time.  Nothing is better during a long jog than when one ear starts cutting out, giving you choppy interrupted noise in your ear constantly.  How am I supposed to get jacked up during this Jackyl song when my left ear bud cuts out right before the chainsaw solo?  And always remember – I ain’t jacked my lumber, baby…since my chainsaw you.

As a comic, every single time you a good show, a little seed takes root.  You feel better, blah blah blah.  Then you have what I had last night.  At t minus ten minutes, no one was at this college show.  I was up against student week, with rock climbing, a pool, air hockey, and general fun.  Then nine students walked into conference room C to see me give them 30 minutes o’ humor.  I think they all had their tongues cut out, b/c no one responded to any of my questions, but I did hear some laughs from time to time.

At the five minute mark (which felt like 15 at that point), an urbanized white youth walked in with his weird haired young ladyfriend.  I mentioned that I live in Columbus and he told me he was from Cbus.  A very pointless conversation ensued that contributed nothing to anyone’s life, but at least I had some interaction.  Then the rest of the show went on.  I did my career goals joke about how at 50 I will be running the scrambler at your local county fair.  “Was that the Ohio State Fair?”, my new pal asked.  “No, why?  Would it be funnier?  Then yes.”  He looked back down at his cell, then he and his girl left.  Back down to nine.

I went through my set in 20 minutes, then dug around in my brain for old jokes, which went over pretty well.  At the end, I thanked them for coming and told them to run back to their dorms and tweet that they just saw a horrible comedy show.  One dude came up and shook my hand, telling me I was really funny.  Thanks.  Thanks for not laughing much, I guess you show appreciation for humor with silence, but I’ll take your compliment.  Oh well, off to the next gig.

I drove back Sunday from Minnesota to Columbus.  Google said 11.5 hours.  That’s a fun stare you in the face.  The ride was uneventful early, with the best of Ron and Fez providing some chuckles (Ronnie B. is the man).  Then I neared the WI/IL border about four hours in.  I then went through 12 tolls, none more than $1.60.  12.  Twelve.  Doce.  This probably cost me at least 45 minutes.  Fuck the money, someone was getting paid to sit at 11 of the 12 to collect .80 cents a pop.  And kiss my ass number 10.  I said hi and you stared at me with your soulless eyes.

I ran low on gas and had to piss ferociously at the worst possible point.  A truck stop in Gary, Indiana.  Remember the Music Man?  Yeah, neither does Gary.  This is what I saw when I pulled in.

Nothing says sexy like Truckers’ World!  Runner up was the strip club I passed in Wis. named “Cruisin’ Chubby’s”.  Unfortunately, I had to shit…at the truck stop.  I did my biz and looked over to realize the crack staff at the Gary TA didn’t refill the TP.  One wet shit waddle later, I knocked over to other stall to wipe.  That won’t haunt me on the way home.  I grabbed some Taco Bell and filled my drink, but apparently angered the gnats as they swarmed my face and once potentially tasty Diet Mt. Dew.

All that aside, I didn’t stop again and completed the trip thanks to my inhuman bladder and fuel saving Malibu in 10 hours and 25 mins.  If you knew my take from the weekend, you would curse the skies, but back to the real job Monday with a fake smile.  Enter Bob Seger singing “Turn the Page.”

Yes, some peeple dere really do tawk like dat, doughn’t cha no.  Borga borga borga.  I talk like a moonshiner.  Wanna fight about it?  Friday marked my grand celebration of the 13th state I have done comedy in, that’s over 25% of the USA, unless you count the 57 states our president referenced in a speech once.  I was sick as hell, day two of my sore throat and menopause-like hot and cold flashes.  The good news was that the hotel was kick-ass, meaning there were no outlines of dead bodies or lack of three pronged outlets, unlike the place I stayed the night before.  The bad news was that parking was $27 for the weekend, which, of course, was out of pocket.  The hotel attendant said it with a smile, so it didn’t bother me at all.  (It bothered me.)

I showered three times that day b/c of the sick sweat fits, but got to the show early.  Laying all day caused my back to slip out of place, which pinched a nerve that ran down into my right knee.  I was drinking Walgreen’s version of Chloraseptic so I could actually speak for the 60 minutes of comedy I had to do.

The room was very nice.  First show went well and I picked up a couple new tags for jokes.  I also learned a lot from the emcee and headliner about the Minnesota scene, which I do enjoy getting info about other regions.  Second was a little light on crowd and I started to flag physically.  My voice was cracking like Peter Brady and the sweats hit me again, but I got through it.  At least I sold one shirt!  I had zero beers for the first time onstage since ever, so I can check that off the bucket list.  I shuffled back to the motel to enjoy Kroger brand pop-tarts and an attempt at sleep while the town of Rochester screamed in the streets.  Sobriety blows.

I would like to take time for comedy fans to bring light to a very important topic.  Comics occasionally sell things after the show.  This not b/c we are all secretly in the apparel or DVD business, but b/c we need money to pay for gas, food, tolls, etc.  At the shows I did this weekend, I noticed some taboos…

One, if you’re not going to buy anything, please do not shield the crowd with your body as you tell me bar and truck stop jokes you heard that I knew in the third grade.  While I feign interest in your juvenile hack joke (or occasionally racist joke – thanks for that, Bull Connor), 35 people just slid past you, denying me probably $10-$40 in profit.  Get the fuck to the end of the line.

Second, please never do this move.  A couple smiled at me, then left.  The man returned a few minutes later and said, “Can you take a picture?”  “Sure, man.”  I let out a sigh, knowing I would have to fake smile with a stranger.  He said, “Thanks!”  Then handed me his camera phone.  “Me and my wife have been trying to get a good picture all night!”  Are you kidding me?  I snapped it, with venomous hatred on my face and he said, “Looks good!”  No one else could have done that?  You scumbag.  I just saw 30 more potential sales stumble out the door.  Don’t get a DUI on the way home!  That would ruin my night, you ass!

Finally, even I am not selling anything, please don’t tell me about every comic you’ve ever seen.  I really don’t give a shit.  You know what?  I’ve worked with 15 people on the walls of the club.  I’ve seen several hundred comics, from open mikers to nationally touring headliners.  That one guy, with the puppets (or was it magic?), that you saw in 1994 (or was it 2004?), named Mark (or was it Mike?), in Washington (or perhaps it was Wausau?) I have never heard of.  Stop thinking aloud.  Even if I do know him, how does this affect either one of our lives right now?  Tell you what, buy a shirt, step back, wait for everyone to leave, then you can speculate about Mark/Mike the magic/puppeteer from who cares until you drop dead…or the next show starts.

Thanks, God bless, and please buy my t-shirt or don’t make eye contact with me.