CHRIS COEN

It seems like the older I get the more I see races, runs, and the like popping up all the time.  I was supposed to run in one this week, but I missed the deadline to get free running shoes by about 30 minutes and then forgot to sign up anyway.  So instead of running in 32 degree temps, I got to do something worse, watch.  Running in freezing weather is tough.  Standing in it is worse, but then again, I wasn’t running, so it kind of balanced out.

I understand the desire to get in shape, the need to compete, and the thrill of an event.  What I don’t get are the people that have to do weird shit at races.  Example – a guy was running with no shirt on.  In 32 degrees with a 10 mph wind.  Why?  No idea.  Best case, nothing happens.  Worst case, you get hypothermia or your nipples get frostbite and then you have no nipples.  As a guy, you don’t need them.  They serve no purpose, but try being guy with no nipples and realize how much you wish you had them.

Ah, the NCAA Men’s Tournament.  The greatest, most frenzied sports orgy of the year.  64, I mean 68 teams vying for the title.  Those extra four annoy me.  If you have to pick those play in games for your bracket, your league commissioner hasn’t had sex in at least two years.

This is the time of year some dipshit you work with fills out nine brackets, then brags about picking the 13th seeded Saint Martin’s Cathedral A&M’s upset over West Virginia State on the one stupid bracket that is mathematically eliminated by the second day.  I also hate ESPN calling it “Bracketology” like it’s some kind of science.  Every other year a story breaks about someone winning by picking mascots or letting a chicken shit on one of two school names – it’s not science.  I got second out of 157 people last year and won $70.  Almost enough to pay for the 24 times I haven’t won.  So, sit back, skip work, pound beers and try not to get a DUI before the late games start…oh, and keep your yam shut about your psychic powers and basketball genius.

I used to not care about recycling, then I moved.  Now, I have free recycling.  That doesn’t mean I care, but you’re welcome EPA, you’re welcome.  You can now cut your budget and save the taxpayers at least 40 million dollars.  That’s a good amount of cans.

Now I have convinced myself every beer I pound is a baby seal being saved, so I have a lot of beer to drink.  I don’t want to, but it’s for the seals!  Don’t worry, friends, I still hate hippies.  I may recycle, but I’ll still slap hemp wearing guy trying to get me to sign a petition while his body odor invades my nostrils.  Unless they are trying to save bald eagles…then I’ll go after lumberjacks or whomever.

I had a show Friday night, where I happened to be the emcee.  The worst two parts of emceeing are not only do you have to make the funny happen, you also have to announce stuff and remember the other comics’ intros and whatnot.  Announcements stink – “Hey everyone, are you ready to laugh?  Great!  Oh by the way, here’s the next show info (which you’ll forget), here’s the drink list (which you’ve already heard from the waitress) and so on and so forth…now I have to be funny.”

I met both the other comics before the show and knew one pretty well.  The other I had never met, so I had to get all her info, but I had two people come up to me and start chit chatting.  Long story short, I misheard her last name as Peacock, which it clearly was not.  I did a set, good not great, then proceeded to ask if everyone was ready Carolyn Peacock?  OK, terrific!  That wasn’t her name.  She proceeded to give me about 30 seconds worth of abuse, which she should have.  I apologized for my bad hearing and general retardation afterwards, but she said it worked to her advantage so she had no issue with me.  Luckily, no one will remember my name either way, so water under the bridge I guess.

Unfamiliar territory and a coupon for free drinks led me and my lady to a bar last weekend.  Well,  I thought it was a bar.  It was (insert dramatic music)…A DANCE CLUB!  I walked in and my blood began to leave my head.  It was about as wide as a closet, the floor was covered with old beer and apparently wood glue, plus the music was loud enough to burst an eardrum.  I immediately remembered why I don’t go clubbin’ anymore.

I decided to order the most expensive drink I could to use up the coupon we had and then escaped to a corner.  The music was leaning very heavily J Lo and Pit Bull, but I observed the dance skills of the drunks and surmised they could have been playing Sepultura and Barney mash ups.  My favorite was an overweight Asian girl in a skin tight whore dress grinding on a really intoxicated white guy who weighed maybe 130 lbs.  Think DJ Qualls in Road Trip.  She was tossing her hair back and using her ass as a weapon against him.  His only skill was the classic hand on hip and try to keep up in the hopes she asked him to go back to her place.

I had enough and mercifully so had my girlfriend, so we went to leave.  They switched our tab with someone else’s.  Try and get a tab corrected with “Boom boom boom let me hear you say way-ooo, WAY-OOO!!!” at Nascar decibel levels.  Plus the bitchy bartender wouldn’t be bothered to help the other one figure it out.  Now I remember why I prefer to drink alone, in the dark, with just the voices in my head telling me who get revenge on.  People outside my walls are crazy.

I don’t post many pictures, so I thought this would be a welcome change.  My D.C. trip!