CHRIS COEN

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.

The big story this weekend was the owner of the L.A. Clippers (yes, that’s a real team in the NBA, I looked it up) making (allegedly – so I don’t get sued in case someone reads this blog) racist statements.  Donald Sterling got caught on tape telling his girlfriend not to bring African-Americans to the Clippers games.  It was such a big story, even the President commented on it.  Surprisingly, he disapproved!  (That’s sarcasm.)

First off, I would hope Sterling realized his entire team is comprised of black athletes.  A racist owning an NBA team is about as dumb as a wife beater owning a nail salon.  Next, you probably shouldn’t tell your girlfriend, who is half black, not to bring black guys to the games.  I would venture to guess people don’t like racism in general, especially when it’s directed at their own race.  How did this guy make money in the first place?  In fact, it should be assumed your “girlfriend” doesn’t bring other guys of any race to events or hang out with dudes in general.  “Excuse me, honey, when you bang other dudes, can you make sure they’re not of a particular ethnicity?  Thanks!”  Oddly, he was cool with her catting around – as long as she didn’t put it on Instagram.  Sounds like true love!

The only bit of mercy I can give Sterling is he probably was completely unaware that people would attend a Clippers game.  For about 35 years, it was probably him, the Grand Dragon of the local KKK, two guys selling cotton candy and the poor bastards who got drafted by the Clippers in entire arena.  He probably sat there screaming slurs to himself until they turned the lights off and he realized the game had been over for two hours.

I went to Aldi’s this week, where I got ninety pounds of groceries for $22.  The drawback is that you have to bring your own bags and deal with the dregs of society.  I was in line when a wild-eyed loon that looked like he’d been taking uppers all day walked right in front of me.  Normally, I would have a problem with this, but before I could find anger, he started singing.

“Who’s the goofy guy in the line, with the weed in the bag that weighs a dime?  HAHAHAHAHA!  Don’t mind me everybody, I’m crazy and shit!  HAHAHAHA!”  I guess I’m letting this maniac in line.  I began to wonder, if you say you’re crazy, are you bluffing, or so nuts enough to know you’re not like the normies?  He spun around looking for my approval, but I wisely acted like I was deaf.  He began singing again about the crazy guy and drugs.  I noticed two women clutching purses.  He told the cashier he had some weed.  This guy is either the worst undercover cop of all time or he just brained an orderly with a mop handle to escape the hospital.  I then realized I have seen about 12 people this unbalanced at open mikes in the last year.  At least this guy didn’t steal his material.

I have found that TV dramas that will kill off main characters are the best ones, because you never see it coming.  As we are part way into season four, I tried to come up with a way to survive, since about 32 people die every episode.

– Don’t trust anyone.  If you think you can trust someone, kill them immediately, they are planning to kill you.

– Don’t let anyone know who you are, run into mercenaries, insult anyone or make any waves.  Be neutral and stay out of the way.  Unless you are weak, then you’re still going to get killed.

– Don’t have a wedding under any circumstance.

– Stay away from Lannisters, especially if you’re a dwarf, a Stark, a sailor, from the North…you get the picture.

– Don’t own slaves, they will kill you.

– Don’t slap your sister in front of her barbarian warrior husband, unless drinking molten metal doesn’t bother you.

– Don’t talk shit to a woman with dragons.

Follow all these and you will probably live seven minutes longer than the average character on Game of Thrones.  Good luck.

I emceed a show last week where there were over 10 comics on the list.  Being an emcee, it was my job to open the show, then bring up each and every one of the comics.  They drew numbers, as it was a contest.  As I was writing the names one by one, one of guys said, “My name is Mark.  Mark with a C!”  I started laughing instantly.  One thing to keep in mind is that not one person would see this list except me, yet it was very crucial that I spell his name correctly, lest I pronounce Marc and Mark differently, which no one on earth does.  “Mark with a K?  Isn’t that pronounced Guillermo?”

Even better for me was right after getting all the names, the last comic approached and started giving me his entire intro, which was long.  There’s kind of an unspoken rule, if it’s a paid show, the emcee has to do whatever the headliner wants.  For an unpaid show, not so much.  As he started telling me the details, I asked if he could wait until later, since there was no chance in hell I would be able to perform, bring up the entire lineup and remember it.  About 15 minutes later, he sauntered up just before I was going on to start the show in front of about 150 people.  He started with the bio again.  I repeated myself, to which he muttered, “I know what you’re doing.”  I was about to argue, then realized the fruitlessness of doing so when the desired result had been reached.  Granted, I was expecting to get stabbed the rest of the night, but it would have been worth it not to hear the full bio again.