CHRIS COEN

I first paid attention to the Olympics in 1988.  The only thing I remember was that Ben Johnson cheated and Linford Christie was the first black guy with a British accent I had ever heard.  That blew my mind – the accent, not the cheating.  Then in 1992, my family moved back to Ohio and we had no cable.  In fact, the only channel we had was NBC right at the start of the Barcelona games…and it nearly broke me.

Boxing?  Love it, until an American gets robbed.  This happens a lot.  Track and field?  100m, yes, but try watching a/the/who cares what preposition steeplechase or a hairy pitted Eastern European chick pole vault.  No thanks to synchronized swimming – what in the hell is that, anyway?  Of course if the U.S. wins, I’m all about it.  Go America!

What nearly did me in, though, was a sportscaster by the name of Bob Costas.  For those that don’t watch, Mr. Costas has to do a human interest/pity party story before EVERY SINGLE FUCKING EVENT!!!  Example: “When Sergei was running through the golden fields outside Kiev, he dreamed of running for a different gold.  Olympic gold.  Then his mother got an infected hemmorhoid and it all changed.  Sergei had to lance it, each night, the needle symbolizing the stabbing pain of knowing his dream was lost…”  Fast forward, blah blah blah, it all turns around.  I don’t know if you lance a hemmorhoid, but that’s not the point.  Honestly, after 57 stories like that, you just don’t give a shit anymore.  Plus when Sergei chokes and you do care, then your day is ruined.  Poor bastard, back to the ass lancing!  That’s why I watch just for the blind patriotism – run it up, Dream Team 7 or whatever number it is by now!  Take that, French Guyana!  Suck our capitalism!

I made another observation about the opposite sex – they LOVE taking pictures.  LOVE!!!  I took pictures of the following (involving the ladies) – next to a police bus, next to a handicapped port-a-potty (I don’t know why either), in front of a Christopher Columbus statue, next to a parking lot pay shack, and in front of a dirty river.  All wacky style, of course.  If one of my pals asked for more than two pictures when sober, I would break his camera.  At least I wasn’t in them.  I remember when girls left their cameras in my frat house, me and Camp would take pictures of unflushed turds and extreme close ups of our nether regions and return said cameras – you couldn’t always make out details, but you knew it was something gross.  You knew.

Proving that ladies are just as crass as guys, a couple of the girls graffittied up the bathroom, tried to steal things from the bar, ripped off strangers in a beer token exchange and relayed various stories about sex to me.  Thankfully, I was sober all night, due to the fact I had to drive home, so I largely kept out of trouble.  Of course, this is not usually the case, so be ready for round two, chicas.  Oh, and don’t leave your cameras lying around – I may have a flashback.

This weekend I got to perform, not comedy, but in the dance that is meeting your significant other’s pals.  Best case, all goes well, but usually one of them hates your guts and plants seeds of discontent…or you go nuts trying to put on a good face for a bunch of psychos.  Trust me, there are people I hang out with that should be in jail – or used to be, so I owe the lady a few favors.

I rolled in and the ladies were very friendly, probably due to the copious amounts of alcohol being drank.  Good, we have something in common!  After a few pleasantries, all was well and the night was off and running – me and the girls!  We went to the jazz and rib fest, where apparently every poor person in Columbus goes annually.  I saw a 60 year old woman wearing Apple Bottom jeans and a bare midriff t-shirt, then a man rolling around on the ground with either another man or a very husky woman.  Ah, festivals, I hate you so.  We went to get some delicious ribs, but one of the ladies didn’t want to eat there, so we left.  Well, that was worth the trip.

This is where men and women differ very much.  Guys have none of this feeling called “empathy” so while we won’t remember birthdays, anniversaries, or other events, we also don’t put up with this “OK, one person doesn’t like this, let’s all suffer” bullshit.  Had the scenario been flipped, much ridicule would’ve ensued until all in the group verbally pummelled the objector into rib-eating submission.  I once got berated for 20 minutes not drinking the same beer as the group – and they were drinking light beer.  I’m sure even goth guys heckle each other into the ground over sloppy eye makeup.  Ironically, the place we wound up at had delicious food and I hate weird people in crowds, so it worked out.  Tune in tomorrow for more of my “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” Saturday, if you haven’t killed yourself yet reading about my plunging masculinity.

Unless you live a cave, you know the story by now.  Here’s my take…  As a huge college football fan, I always respected Joe Paterno, (except that Ohio State game he soiled himself) until now.  I wouldn’t have to make this radical statement but I read my local paper and one man wrote in saying Joe Pa should still be an icon and was innocent.  Sigh.  Here we go.

Joe Paterno and the other POS’s (pieces of shit, for the layman) found out Jerry Sandusky was diddling boys and did the only sane thing, turned it over to authorities.  Oh wait, they said “Bury it!  It’s bad press!  It might hurt recruiting!”  How’d that work out, dipshits?  You have worse press and 14 years of molestation ensued.  I hate child molestors with a fiery hate.  If I had a dream job, it would be to beat the urge out of pedos.  Honestly – that would make me very happy.  “I see you raped a kid…well, that makes no sense.  Excuse me while I pull your fingernails out with pliers and set fire to your genitals.”

In all logical twists and turns, I can’t make those actions add up, even if there weren’t kids involved at all.  “OK, you stole a candy bar.  That will look bad.  What you should do instead is rob a bank to get the attention off the candy bar theft.”  Strike one.  “Wow, we’ll get nailed on this crime.  I got it!  Let’s have a massive cover-up…that will look better when it comes down because I’m sure not one of the dozens of victims will talk ever.”  Try again.  One more thought also – there were actual, real boys involved.  So on a human level, Spanier, Schultz, Curley, and including Paterno are not human at all.  They’re animals.  Leave the statue of Joe Pa up, I say.  We all need somewhere to piss before a long football game.

I was supposed to have a softball game, but one bolt of lightning and the pussies cancelled it.  I had to pitch, so I was cool with that.  I rolled over the Funny Bone for the show and amazingly, only 8 comics were there.  There are 13 spots, so I got to emcee and close, but that’s not important – the new guys made the evening whole.

Magnum P.I. was back (see last week) and another new comic put on a George W. Bush mask onstage.  Fun!  My favorite though, was the college student wearing a women’s pink nurse scrub top, with boxer shorts, a scarf, and blue slippers.  He was gay, but had a very hillbilly accent and back hair billowing up from his shirt to a level that would startle a Viking.  He was actually so over the top, I laughed, but probably not for the right reasons.  He said he wanted to get to a better place without hillbillies, so he moved from the Ohio River…to Athens, Ohio.  Hmm.  Cosmopolitan!

All was good until the closer, where he sang (not well) his own version of Rod Stewart’s “If you think I’m sexy” (not that Rod Stewart sings worth a shit).  I don’t remember the whole thing, but one part stuck out.  “If you’ve got some poopy, on your droopy, you probably should’ve wrapped it up!”  Yes, he said that.  No, I did not have enough hand sanitizer on my person.  You folks see why you need to come to open mikes?  Case closed.

– I got an email saying the Baconator has a Facebook page.  It made sad, first that it exists, second, that I was emailed about it.

– There is a commercial for the Columbus Crew MLS team.  The announcer is British.  Come on, Crew.  You’re still MLS, let’s not act all British premier league on me.

– One of my neighbors has taken to opening and closing his door about every 50-90 seconds for an hour a night.  Another apparently wears boots of lead causing my floor to shake when he walks.  I feel like the lead character in The Tell-Tale Heart.  The sounds haunt my nightmares.  What have I done to deserve this repetitive and maddening game?

– I am refinancing my place.  I miss the old days, when they did it with no background checks or paperwork…but that is probably why the housing market collapsed.  “Hey, want a mortgage?  Give me two dollars and your Giant Eagle card!  Approved!”