CHRIS COEN

I can eat a lot, but the older I get, the less I eat.  One, it takes five times longer to lose weight than it did 15 years ago.  Two, it’s not worth the extra food to feel like dog shit for seven hours after a bender.  That said, on occasion, testosterone kicks in.

I went to a restaurant and saw the Mucho Macho Burrito Challenge.  If you ate the burrito in 20 mins, it was free.  I had a light lunch and was ready to go.  As they set the grotesque portion of food in front of me, I noticed it was rather plain.  No fixins?  No sour cream, lettuce, guac, or tomato?  Oh well, I guess the orange stuff works.

I took a huge bite and suddenly realized there was more to the meal than just the normal Mexican fare.  My eyes began to water and the interior lining of my stomach melted like I just slammed sulfuric acid.  My beer was no match for the burning, so I downed half a water and began eating raw sour cream from my lady’s plate.  It turns out, the catch to this challenge was that the baby leg sized burrito was 70% pure habanero peppers.

I tapped out faster than the French army.  I had to order another meal, not because I was hungry, but because I needed to dilute the raging burn destroying my already fragile digestive system.  I resolved never ever to again engage in such gluttonous behavior…with food.  Beer is not food, at least for the purposes of my resolution.  The hangover that gets me to scale back beer is the one that kills me dead.

When I was younger, Nintendo revolutionized entertainment.  The video game industry went from “I think that glob of pixels is something” to “That glob of pixels looks like a human…sort of.”  My biggest thrill was renting video games.  I’m sure it was my parents’ also, since I could be bought off for a weekend for $2.99.  Believe me, if I had a chance to get people off my nuts for $3, I’d be chucking money around like a politician.

I remember also the near suicide-inducing difficulty of games like Ninja Gaiden, Castlevania and Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles.  To combat the sadistic torture of the games, Nintendo came up with the help line.  This is how it worked.  Children like me would fool our parents into letting us call the long distance line, only to be stonewalled trying to speak in grade school English to an angry Japanese person.  “Hi.  I’m stuck on Golgo 13.”  “What level are you on?”  “I don’t know, but there was a trap door on the left.”  “Hold please, I don’t know.”  Then five minutes pass and the kid would get scared and hang up, then when the phone bill came the beatings began.  Thanks, Nintendo!

The most important rule of Nintendo in the 80’s was that one kid you knew had all the games.  This kid was usually the biggest douche in your circle, but you kissed his or her ass because they just got Mega Man 3 and you were on the lunch discount program.  This was important in training kids how to be nice to your beer or drug connection that always dropped conspiracy theories on you.  “Oh wow, that’s a cool story!  (Just shut up and give me the fake ID so I can get beer, you asshole)  Aliens?  Yeah, I could see that!  That’s crazy!  (Holy shit, you are the worst, but I really need to get buzzed and my buddy’s cousin just got thrown in jail for his fourth DUI.  I must have beer.)  I see the big picture.

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.