CHRIS COEN

I had a show Saturday and all things considered, it went pretty well.  However, it is amazing how one little thing can throw you for a loop.  Pre-show I was told no “f word”, which is not life or death, but the little seed of restraint grows into a tree rather quickly.  On my first joke, of course ultimately about my penis, I realized I hadn’t done it in a minute and missed a non-essential line.  While I pondered this, I grabbed my crotch…one line before the punchline.  Ah yes, the unnecessary crotch grab.  Off to good start.

I then got to a joke where the key is my grandma saying fuck, not on purpose, but because she had never heard it before and was repeating the conversation she heard.  I realized I couldn’t say it and the joke lost its edge.  I came to this realization, but also decided to plow through the rest of the material.  Don’t lose faith, kids.  I still did everything else verbatim, including my joke about running over a guy while driving and plenty o’ sex humor.  Glad to know the f word was off limits, but dirty sex, vehicular homicide and public indecency are still OK.  Take that, establishment!  (Just kidding establishment, please book me for more shows.)

There’s a side of comedy that no one gets to see, but it may be the worst part – people before the show trying to joke it up with me.  I was walking into a show and some guy said, “Are you the comedian or the commodian?  HA HA HA!”  As in commode, like they called toilets in 1942.  Have you seen my act, dick?  It’s shit and you’re paying me.  Commodian it is.

I walked into the show Saturday and told the people at the front that I was one of the comics.  “You don’t look all that funny!  HA HA HA!”  Oh, I always look like this when I’m talking to a moron.  It’s very exhausting.  I then set up camp in the back and three guys meandered over and proceeded to yuck it up with inside jokes about the people in the room (I didn’t know any of them) and how I “could use that in my act!”  Thanks!  I’ll ditch the stuff I’ve worked out over the last five years and go with your advice.  Boy, that Jim really does like to fish!  HA HA HA (rope goes taut, legs twitch).

Probably the most disturbing was after a show when a short, very drunk man came up to me.  “You should do more n-word jokes in your act!”  Only he didn’t say n-word.  Also, by more, he was implying that I did at least one n-word joke in the first place.  Suddenly his daughter ran up and said, “I’m sorry, that’s my dad.  He’s very racist.”  What bothered me was I could tell this had happened before.  Well, it was nice being here.  Now excuse while I hop in the Delorean and go back to 2012!

Car wreck.  How do I know?  I went in for an oil change and the mechanic said I was in dire need of tires.  I know he was serious because 1) this is the third time they said it and 2) they looked like racing slicks.  Fine, what’s the damage?  Three tires – $642.  Excuse me?  “Well you have oversized wheels and there are no specials.”  Hmm.  Let me get back to you.

A buddy of mine then told me about this place down the street.  Why not check it out?  It had no sign and when I walked in, no furniture or office type shit, like a fax.  An Arabic man came out looking very suprised, like I was interrupting his designs on the capitalist pigs by coming into his fake storefront.  My bald eagle didn’t scream, so I knew it was legit.  He spoke no English, so I left.  His cohort chased me down and told me they sold to the public.  So I walked out with three new tires for a cool $30/each.

Knowing that nothing ever goes smoothly, I realized this shady business is currently either using my debit card to steal all my life’s fortunes (joke’s on you bastards, I’m poor) or more likely, I just bought used tires made in a Malaysian sweat shop.  The tears of a 9 year old worker/slave mixed in with the polymers, which cause the tire to shred at high speeds, making me crash headlong into a church bus, either killing me or somehow shaving off only my genitals, in which case I kill myself anyways.  Oh well, gotta go sometime.  At least I saved a couple hundred!

I emceed the open mike again.  I came to a profound realization.  Open mike comedy with pros, touring comics and vets is just like the MLB home run derby…if they let anyone swing the bat for bringing a couple fans.  “Next up, Prince Fielder.  On deck, Jimmy the parking lot attendant.  He has nine people here to see him.  He actually has a problem with relationships, may truly be on PCP, but Prince didn’t bring anyone, so deal with it.”

Last night, seven new comics brought people and that is the key.  The bigger the crowd, the better.  As a side note, though, you get a ventroloquist, a guy flopping around on the ground talking about jerking off (in front of strangers) and “edgy” jokes that are just plain racist to 99% of America.  Then I realized I get a free blog every single time someone does something moronic.  It still is weird.  Let me explain…

Last night a comic (not new, btw, but usually pretty solid) got onstage.  “Keep clapping!  If you don’t, I going to rape all of you!”  Ah, the classic get ’em on your team by threatening rape!  As if it actually happened, everyone would just stick around for the rapin’.  “I was offended, but rules are rules…I hope he finishes quickly!”  At least his material was strong.  Did I mention the other new comics?

I, for some reason, signed up for a Hell Run next month.  Over 3 miles, with something like a dozen obstacle courses.  I should probably look up the details or train or something.  I currently run or do the elliptical about five days a week so I’m sure I’ll be fine.  I also drink and the drinking is a great way to preserve my organs, plus flush my system out regularly.

I realized this race is coming up soon, so I have to fatten up my lady because I can’t lose to a woman.  I am man, damnit!  I conquer worlds (in video games)!  I build things (like my drinking game washer boards…it took me two hours to pull that one off)!  I am tough (I fell asleep on the floor watching the Olympics and couldn’t sit upright for three days)!  Now that I think about it, I fell down the last two times I went to the movies.  My back slipped out once jogging with my dog.  I pulled my groin running to first in field three softball slow pitch this year.  Well, that settles it.  I am going full Tonya Harding.  If she gets a lead, I’m going for the knee.  Does anyone know where I can score some HGH?

Once my show started, all the problems seemed to melt away.  I got some chuckles and we were moving.  What was funny, though, was the fact that every time I asked a question (classic comedy move), the students actually raised their hands and answered.  It was strange.

I asked, who in here likes sports?  A girl raised her hand and said, “I like one.”  I knew she was dying for me to ask which one, so I did.  “Cheerleading!”  Not the answer I was expecting.  Don’t you think it’s ironic, I said, that the one sport you like exists only because other sports are around in the first place?  She didn’t get it, and proceeded to tell me about competitive cheerleading until I zoned out and did the whole, “Let’s move on!”

I also asked about majors, to which I received nearly a dozen students, one by one, relaying that info back to me.  Sounds like you young adults need to know what “rhetorical question” means.  Oh well.  I also asked as a prelude to a joke if anyone had ever been really drunk and observed something so crazy, it sobered them up.  Another hand shot up – “My buddy was drunk and tried to talk to a beaver.”  I have nothing for that.  Nothing at all.  Good story.

Finally, what made me happiest was the sign up sheet outside the room.  They had a sign up list for several events.  In big, bold colors on individual signs were “PAINTBALL!” “COLUMBUS ZOO!” and yes, “WALMART!”  Ah, Walmart.  Every 18 year old’s perfect Friday night.  I brought this up and one the student guides was offended.  “It’s a great program for kids that don’t have cars!”  I agree, but putting Wal-Mart in the same category as rock climbing and an amusement park?  Come on, now.  She was back on board.  Then again, the Wal-Mart was in Appalachia.  Forget the laser tag, let’s roll.