Author: Chris

I know I’m not old, but why has my urination pressure dropped?  “Shake it more than once and you’re playing with it!”  I say, “Shake it less than five times, I’m soaked in my own pee.”  Also, my knee hurts.  I used to squat 455 lbs.  I haven’t worked out my legs in two years and my knees crack like a dry twig every time I stand up.  I can’t read my texts w/out reading glasses and I now spend 20 minutes a week looking for back hairs, who are scouts for the advancing ass hair cavalry ready to charge from the southern hinterlands and overwhelm my pristine hairless back.  By the way, I need my reading glasses to see these hairs.  What joys lie ahead?  Bald spots and beer gut?  I will never celebrate another birthday.

The Funny Bone’s open mike was epic tonight.  There is a workshop beforehand where new comics try their material.  A black dude in his 40’s or 50’s introduced himself as “No Money Productions presents Still Gettin’ Paid.”  He then berated all the other comics as rookies and said, “Y’all are crybabies.  I’m a pro.  I practiced this at home.”  (Which is not professional BTW…)  He then after seven minutes announced he was off his meds and was removed by security.  He yelled as he was drug out that this was his chance; his only hope.  An unpaid open mike.  On a Tuesday.  At a mall.  Unfortunately, this did not shock me in any way.  This is comedy.

I didn’t watch, I didn’t see any of the movies other than Winter’s Bone and True Grit (pre broadcast), yet I knew all of the winners except one.  I whiffed on the mom from the Fighter.  I don’t know if this means I read too much crap on the internet or they are very predictable.  I just hate the speeches.  “I’m so surprised…now here’s some rambling BS.  I was in a movie and got to shoot every scene 10 times until I got it right and got paid millions.  I’m great, thanks to my director, blah blah speech over.”  At least it’s not the Grammys, which are completely based on album sales.

I just watched the Fighter.  Christian Bale was great, the sisters were the least sexually appealing organisms I have ever seen, and it was based on a true story.  The last part means I now have to spend the next hour researching Mickey Ward and company, which is this annoying OCD thing I have.  It was a good movie, but is every single boxing movie the same?  I haven’t seen five white boxers since I was born, but every movie is about an Irish-American who overcomes the odds (except Rocky, who isn’t real).  Are there any movies about Hispanic or black fighters?  Does every white boxer not throw a punch until the eight round?  When is the Tommy Morrison movie coming out?  Does he fight HIV in the closing scene?

I wish I could allow comments, but am having some issues…  I met Jeff Stottsberry Sr. in 1996.  This week was the 12th year since he passed.  He was in some bad shape medically, on a respirator, but one of the funniest SOB’s I ever met.  I buddied up with his son (Jeff Jr., for the slow) and my best friend Honk.  He never slept, so he saw us in all our drunken glory trying to make up lies about some mystery DD that happened to park my 1989 Chevy Celebrity in his backyard sideways.  As we walked in, we would hear things such as “Oh look, it’s the Brew Crew.  Where’s the women?  Oh, there are none b/c you fat drunks can’t get any pussy!  Congratulations!”  The constant beratings came from one sarcastic m’fer, but he was always full of good advice.  Some dude was banging my g/f and I told him about it once.  Instead of giving me the stock father advice of “Well, she’s not worth it,” he said, “Why haven’t you beat his ass yet?”  Good call, Stotts Sr.  I’ll pound a beer with you on the other side.  To this day, me and the boys call ourselves the Brew Crew.  We can outdrink, outjoke, and outsarcasm any five sons of bitches that see the sun rise in the east.

There was a documentary on hippies tonight on the History Channel.  I like sex, drugs, and rock and roll as much as every red blooded American, but why do these hairy armpitted potheads keep insisting they changed America?  You went to a kick ass concert and ate blue acid.  Then it was over and guess what?  Vietnam went on another half a decade.  Then disco happened.  Thanks for nothing.  If you really had balls not to fight in Nam, you would have done your jail time with pride, not ran to Canada w/ your saggy-titted drum circle girlfriend and smoked pot over a lukewarm pizza telling other burnouts how much you did to change the country.  You should’ve went to Altamont and talked shit to the Hell’s Angels and done us all a favor by being rewarded with a knife wound.  Take a shower and shut up.  My dad actually ran through the jungle for a tour of duty.  Right or wrong (the war), I’ll take that, a patriot defending the principles of freedom over some old bearded douchebag telling me conspiracy theories any day.