CHRIS COEN

I gave up more of my super blood yesterday, probably helping people recover in minutes once my genetically superior DNA enhances their weak immune systems.  I am such a good person.  It’s hard to be so giving.

I will help out more by relaying some tips from the Red Cross!  You shouldn’t give blood if…

You’ve been running a fever over 100 for 10 days.  You have the diarrhea.  You have HIV/AIDS.  You have promiscuous unprotected sex.  You have a problem that involves sharing dirty needles with drug addicts.

I don’t know if the Red Cross is covering their butts and being so overly obvious or people are that damn stupid, but either way, it makes me sad.  Probably the latter.  “Yes, I live a dumpster and love doing drugs/having sex with homeless people.  Oh, and I’m deathly ill.  Have some blood, nurses!  I’m such a thoughtful person.”

I had my annual golf outing last weekend, where some great people help raise money for my fallen fraternity brother, Quincy.  It’s for a great cause, plus as a side bonus, I get to see all the drunken assholes (I mean that in a good way) I lived/was incarcerated with in college.  I knew I was off to a great start when I pulled into the parking lot at 9:30 and seven guys were pounding Busch Lights.  Ah, just like old times, except none of us ever got up that early before.

My plan to pace myself was destroyed when on the fourth hole I cracked my third beer, so away we go!  I am an idiot, so I forgot my clubs and borrowed my Dad’s on the way to the outing – either new clubs or voodoo magic must have been involved, because my team actually used a good amount of my shots.  That said I learned I can’t drive straight (in golf or after a few cold ones, am I right?  Boooo bad joke), chip or go two holes without ruining someone’s shot by turning on the reverse beeper on the golf cart.  That and undoing the strap that holds people’s clubs makes me laugh every single time.  The rage from someone pulling away and dumping their clubs is just fantastic.  I eventually got enough beers in me to pull out the sound effect app on my phone and release a nice air horn during the backswings.  Oh and if there is dead grass off the tee boxes, me and the other drunk guys pissing all over that course don’t know what you’re talking about.

I did a show in my hometown for the first time in a while (if you missed it, check out the shows tab more often damn you) this week.  I wanted to do some newer stuff, plus my parents were there and they’ve heard my bullshit about 30 times at this point.  Past her bedtime, my Grandma also made an appearance.  That’s very important to where this is going.

I did my set, it went pretty well (home team assistance) plus as a bonus one of my old frat brothers started smoking in the bar and got tossed.  My friends are animals, but so am I, so whatever.  My buddy Golak was next and did a great joke about heaven (I won’t ruin it by typing the whole thing) where the punchline involves a grandma banging Clark Gable.  Well, he then realized aloud he had never done that joke with a grandma in the room…

He then said, “Maybe Coen’s grandma isn’t into Clark Gable.”  My mom replied that they were both from Cadiz, Ohio to which he said, “Maybe Coen’s grandma messed around with Clark Gable.  Coen might have some celebrity in him.”  Unbeknowst to us, but thanks to my mom telling me later, Grandma leaned over and said “I’m not saying anything.”  That is funny…and maybe a little disturbing.

Ah, high school graduation…and sixth grade graduation…and every sonofabitch grade.  When did graduation go into effect for every grade?  Hey Jimmy, you’re supposed to graduate sixth grade.  Lose the cap and gown.  This is getting ridiculous.

Welcome to the gold star generation, where every minor accomplishment is magnified.  Oh, Billy, you got an 80%!  Have a cookie.  Yuck.  Here’s the most real advice I got – I was walking out of Maysville High School in 1997, class pres, valedictorian – the world is my oyster.  A straight up and down hilljack came up to me, interupting my schedule to get plowed.  “Congrats man!  Enjoy it, cause it only goes downhill from here!”  He walked away, got in his Bronco and probably careened into a parked car later leaving Pondo after a fistfight…but at least he was honest with me.  No job, no bills, young, blah blah blah – that was his apex.  I don’t agree, because my life is damn good right now, but at least he didn’t give some talking point/fortune cookie bullshit.  “May the wind be at your back!”  I have a car, I don’t care about that.  You know what, here’s some advice for the kids…

Your physical shape is plummeting every year – don’t be an asshole to your boyfriend/girlfriend.  You have no idea what money is until you get your first paycheck and realize after bills you have $95 to eat for two weeks…shut up about how much cash you have, you’re poor.  Finally, your degree doesn’t mean shit – interview like a beast or prepare to light that piece of paper on fire to heat your studio apartment next December.

I hate golf, but I have a golf outing I do every year.  I would rather do anything, perhaps cornhole or competitive drinking, but it’s for a good cause so I will break down golf, mostly because I have nothing to blog about right now.

Good – You can drink before, during and after.  You can smoke cigars, good luck doing that anywhere in 2012.  You can be a lazy sack of shit and ride in a cart.

Bad – Your clubs are never good enough, no matter what you spend.  What sport charges you $1000 for equipment, then $50 to play every time – no wonder no one is good at this shit.  Beer cart girls…not for them, but for watching old creepsters hit on them.  That is sad.  What sport lets you drink 12 beers, but have no place to take a leak except the clubhouse?  Dumb.  Lastly, in an outing, you can be the best golfer, cheat and still lose by 5 strokes because the drunkest team will shoot 10 under par.  They reward a complete lack of morality.

The show started with a showtune or something similar (who would have guessed?) and the men/ladies changing onstage – thank God with suits underneath, mid sections wrapped in duct tape.  I immediately became confused, because I didn’t know it was all lip syncing, so I felt a little cheated…then I realized I didn’t know 80% of the songs, so who gives a shit?

There was a lot of crowd interaction and back and forth between the performers, which meant a lot of cattiness, inside jokes and pop culture references, but some lines were funny.  I got lost again when the words boy/girl, man/woman, he/she were flipped around and switched so often I was afraid to guess which one to use.  The normal rules of penis=man and vagina=woman were out the door, so I just ordered more beers until I figured out this Gordian knot of gender rules.

As the show ended, I had to appreciate the fact that two men were able to sing as women (lip sync) just for the fact it was so damned ridiculous, I don’t know how one accomplishes such a feat, but I probably won’t go back ever.  Of course, by probably, I mean unless there is free alcohol.  I would go to a public execution for free alcohol.