CHRIS COEN

I was at Steak Escape, rewarding myself with a delicious cheesesteak because I burnt so many calories in a furious workout.  By workout, I mean I did two, yes TWO rounds of mini golf with my lady.  I’m surprised she was able to keep up with such a stellar athlete.

I was waiting on her to get to get a refill when a young gentleman with his son said, “Sir!  Sir!  Sir!  You know who you should be for Halloween?”  Well, that’s not the way most people introduce themselves.  You know what monstrosity you remind me of?  I asked him who, to which he replied, “That guy from the Hangover!”  Great, Zach Galifinakis.  I debated whether to ask him if he thought all white people look the same or immediately gag myself and puke up the food until I looked less fat.  Oh well, at least I don’t look like a naked Asian man stuffed in a car trunk.

– Kanye West.  While normally unbearable and somehow credited as a human worth paying attention to, he upped his annoyance factor by knocking up Kim Kardashian, ensuring that dullard is in the news even more than the usual 21 hours a day.

– The gas pump line cutter.  I was right there and you pulled in, then acted like you didn’t see me.  I would key your car, but you’re driving an Oldsmobile with two different colored doors.

– Anyone who speaks to me when they can clearly see I am wearing earbuds.  Why don’t we continue this enthralling conversation I can’t hear somewhere else I could never hear you, like an airport runway or in the middle of a gunfight?  And no, I’m not using that piece of workout equipment just because I’m within nine feet of it.

– Person who comes to a comedy show, sits in the front row, then is too cool to laugh.  Did you really just pay for a ticket so you could play on your phone in the dark?  You stink.  I know it wasn’t my act.  OK, it probably was my act, but you could at least put the phone away.

I got to emcee the semifinal round of the “Open Mike Talent Search” at the Columbus Funny Bone this week.  I enjoy emceeing these, because it means I’m not in them.  Contests can be rough.  You spend days agonizing over which jokes to tell, hope you don’t go first or accidentally dribble pee on yourself, and finally watch as some other contestant brings 75 friends to the round you’re in, while you have 8 people show up.

It was a strong lineup, but having comedy A.D.D., I have a hard time sitting still.  I make a game of finding one liners and quips to say during the show, sometimes it kills, sometimes it doesn’t.  Example – I told everyone at the beginning not to get all white trash excited until the clapoff at the end.  Apparently, “don’t get too excited” was including at some of my act.  One comic was doing a rant on babies and I relayed a fun joke about how I heard a PSA about shaking babies.  I don’t know which is sadder, shaking babies or the fact someone thought a PSA would fix the problem.  NOTHING.  Apparently everyone in the crowd had been abused.

I redeemed myself with a few lines.  One comic did a joke about being a creepy drunk.  I retorted that I didn’t think she was creepy at all while I was watching her through her window.  That worked…and probably made some ladies check their purses for mace.  The only sad part of the night was I accidentally hit the door frame with my arm and dropped my beer.  I can still see it in my mind’s eye.  I felt like curling up into a ball and listening to Jewel the rest of the night.  Why God why, must this happen to me?  I’m a good person!

Each time I think society can slip no further, I am sadly never disappointed.  My lady had a girls’ night function, so I fought the instinct to burrow away like a rodent and got instead the present of watching a cavalcade of reality dance shows.  The first one was So You Think You Saved the Last Dance?  Nope, You Got Served or something.  The last was Dance Moms.  I knew I hated the show instantly when the sassy lady did the double head shake with the shoulder shrug.

The show is basically a horrible witch who needs a penis like a smack addict needs a needle.  She berates children until they cry.  Then a gaggle of harpies known as the dance moms curse in front of said children, complaining alternately about each other and/or how their pampered low talent offspring is treated by a woman who is clearly too fat to dance.  Throw in a poodle haired “rival” dance teacher (who was probably created for the show) who is equally as unlikeable and you have the show.  Someone please take their kids away.  I realized if they make a show called Dance Moms Death Match, it would be my favorite show ever, barring one called “The Kardashians Headbutt Moving Traffic.”  I will drive the first vehicle.

The fair was always a big deal in my smaller town.  I remember the death trap rides, the horrible food (I still can’t eat pork sandwiches thanks to a rather violent puking episode in 1992), and the games.  I got decent at the ring the bell with the hammer game.  It was great because the carnie gave all us 14 year olds a cigar if we hit the bell.  Take that, rules of society!

Now, they have nicer versions of carnivals like Dave and Buster’s.  It’s cleaner, they serve booze, and you get tickets instead of cheap, stale cigars.  I laughed to myself as my girlfriend and I filled up a huge bucket, spilling over the edge.  These rubes cater to kids, but now they’re dealing with a seasoned veteran, skilled in games of chance!  After two hours we went to collect our rewards.  New iPad mini?  Xbox?  “1120 tickets, sir.”  I then realized we had enough for a whoopie cushion, a rubber band gun, and after another run…a head massager that appeared similar to a whisk you make scrambled eggs with.  By my calculations, if I go every day and drop about $50 a shift, I should have something useful by mid-November.

– Trying to keep people from telling me what is happening on Game on Thrones is getting difficult.  I may have to quit all social media until I get caught up.  Also, it only took me three episodes to hate Joffrey with all my being.  Now it’s beyond human emotion.

– I slid last night in softball, ripping a lovely strawberry the length of my shin.  Everything in me said not to, but the subliminal brainwashing from nine years of baseball took over.  Why can’t something cool, like assassin training be buried in my brain instead?  Martial arts?  Nope, my pants stick to my half bleeding leg.  Thanks, coaches.

– I used to complain about paying condo fees before I moved into a house.  I remember when my biggest decision on projects around the house was whether to take the trash out or run the sweeper.  $100 bucks a month goes a long way when you’re being eaten by mosquitoes doing yard work.  If anyone needs B- blood, just look for a morbidly obese flock of those bastards in Columbus.