Why we get a three day weekend/Memorial Day

This story was in the news recently, so I thought I would link to it.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_H._Sabo,_Jr.  Almost 3,600 US soldiers have received this award since it was created and countless more deserve it.  1,343,812 estimated troops have been killed since the beginning of the Revolutionary War, not counting the 38,159 (est.) missing or even the over a million more that have been wounded.  There is no statistic to track the broken lives to the survivors of battle – the divorces, suicides, financial collapses and more.  I think this sums it up best –

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. – Abraham Lincoln

Thanks, vets.

My letter to hotels everywhere

Random thoughts on hotels –

– A bathrobe in the closet is not exciting.  I wouldn’t wear a bathrobe if you threatened to put a gun in my mouth.  How about a bigger trash can?  What does that thing hold, four beer cans?  And who in the blue hell uses a shower cap?  What is this, 1947?

– When you make me say I have a dog, put down a deposit, fill out a full page about his vitals, and hand me a doggy care kit…don’t leave me angry messages that my dog is loose in the room.  He’s a nine year old Golden Retriever.  He couldn’t defend a doorway from an old lady with a walker.  Talk to your maids, stupid.  What am I supposed to do, tape him to the wall?  There are prison cells bigger than this room.

– You gave me seven towels, five blankets, and six pillows.  I don’t need new ones and your staff will probably steal my shit anyways.  Stay out of my room, I’m here for two nights.

– If boogers were tips, I would be the most generous guest ever.  But they’re not.  Might want to clean behind the sofa.  That’s my tip.

– Yes, I would like more shower pressure than a post-ejaculatory piss.  Sorry, old man’s useless prostate pressure isn’t cutting it.

– Thank you for building next to the busiest train depot/truck stop in the city.  Have more boogers.

My acting debut (and possible finale)

Sometimes some strange things happen and this was the case a week ago last Friday.  I was asked to via this website’s contact form to try out for a commercial.  My first thought was, someone’s going to rob or rape me.  I’ve seen Deliverance.  I asked for more details and was sent a script.  A store locally wanted a local actor or comedian to try out for a 30 second spot.  I was skeptical, then I saw they paid well and what the hell.

The script casting called for a good looking (well, clearly I have that down), 30-35 year old male (nailed that), high energy (now I’m fucked) spokesman to interview the woman on the street.  Maybe it was the dozen beers, but I thought I had a shot.  I handwrote the script out, reviewed it about 20 times and went to sleep (passed out playing video games) with visions of Hollywood in my stupid brain.

I got to the tryout and quickly realized from stealing a glance that I was the only real comedian on the sheet.  Every other guy was a full blown actor.  The guy before was so hyper I thought his brain would hemmorage as he was pacing about the room.  I could hear his excited yelling and realized I was probably not their man.  Better count on the looks, that’s never let me down!

I walked in the room and spat out the script – almost perfectly word for word.  Then the director said, “You’re a comedian right?”  Yes…  “You’re probably pretty sarcastic onstage?  Low key?”  Yes…  “Well, I need you to step up the excitement!  Act like you just ran in here!”  At that point, I knew I was boned.  I tried, but soon the creeping realization that my excitement was limited to 1) furious rage and 2) extreme intoxication.  They asked me to impov and I froze up like a 14 year old boy seeing a naked girl for the first time.  I forgot 90% of the lines and walked out in shame.

After this experience, I realized the following – 1) Getting the script more than 16 hours in advance probably helps.  2) I need an acting class…or a mountain of cocaine to play high energy guy.  3) I need everyone else who trys out to die of bubonic plague.  Even then, it’s still probably 50/50.  Haven’t got that call yet…oh well, no talent worked for most of Hollywood.  Move over, Pauly Shore, there’s a new star in town!

The old drunk redneck

I went back to my hometown for a night of boozing recently.  The bar was very small town – cash only, a jukebox, three TV’s, and attached to a drive thru.  Me and my pals were outside, communicating our deepest and most tender thoughts (calling each other pieces of shit) when the old drunk redneck showed up.  Then the fun began.

The old drunk redneck is the same everywhere you go: Loud, drunk (obviously), usually wearing no sleeves and extremely inappropriate.  Our friend didn’t let us down.  With every motorcycle or muscle car that passed the bar’s patio, and there were lots, he yelled either “Get it!” or “Wooo!!!” and laughed manicially.  He told one girl she had more titties than a dairy herd.  Someone (damn them) told him I did comedy.  Rather than ask questions or offer to even exchange jokes, the next 30 minutes of my night were spent getting peppered with jokes, mostly about hillbillies and sex, some about both.

The crown jewel of the night, though, was when someone brought up my buddy getting hit by a car.  “Who was it?” said our new pal.  “Some guy named Rex.”  “I know a guy named Rex and he only has one eye.  Whadda you expect?”  More sound advice has never been given.  Don’t be on the road when Rex is leaving the bar.

A steaming pile of comedy aka the worst crowd ever

I have performed in a lot of venues in 15 states throughout our great land, including comedy clubs, bars, restaurants, even places like a senior center, golf course clubhouses, parking lots, and a strip club.  I have done well usually, with quite a few “eh!” shows and some downright bombs.  I remember my first bombing was my fourth show ever.  My two buddies came out to see me and I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but one of my good friends from that show has never spoken to me since.

Friday’s show, however, holds a special place as the worst crowd ever.  We did a couple, but the first actually went pretty well, despite the small turnout and constant interruptions from people walking in to buy food.  Thank God the woman with the baby and four year old girl didn’t stick around for my set.  I did a kid friendly show once and got out exactly 120 seconds’ worth of jokes.  Thank you, good night!

The emcee went up first (as is usually the case, I am an ass…) and got the same response from these 15 people that I would get grabbing a microphone and doing a set for a lost rainforest tribe that had never seen a white man before.  He was so happy to bail after doing his time I thought he would jump off the stage.  The feature went up and got about three chuckles in his set.  At this time, I noticed a pretty girl texting and another young lady turned her chair around with her back to the stage.  I was instantly overcome with the realization that this show would suck for me.

I went up, faking interest as best I could and did all my crowd involvement jokes, using lines like “Who in here loves America?”  Nothing.  Commies.  “You guys like sports?”  Blank stares.  FYI, this show was a fundraiser FOR A SPORTS ORGANIZATION.  Now I’m getting pissed.  I knew it wasn’t good when I asked the emcee, from the stage, if he had a gun so he could shoot me or let me turn loose a torrent of bullets on the crowd.  Still, they stared at me blankly, except for texting girl, she wasn’t looking.  I stand by my tweet from that night that I would have rather done a show for NAMBLA than those cold fish bitches.  I would have beat some ass after said show, but at least they may have laughed once and not made me stand up there for 20 agonizing minutes talking to the silent oblivion of comedy.

The drunk crowd member

I went to watch a show last weekend with my pal Anthony at the Columbus Funny Bone.  We got tickets in the back of the room, not far from a table of ladies, 30-50’s.  They were pretty loud, especially since half of them didn’t bother to show until 15 minutes after the show started.  Ah, respect for the acts.

One particular lady, the oldest of the crew, was outside when I stepped out to chat with Rick, the emcee.  She was hammered and proceeded to acost Rick for not wishing her a Happy Mother’s Day…which he actually opened his set with.  She had that glassy-eyed thousand year stare and was pointing a lot when she talked.  I’ll bet she’s a fine mother, especially since she’s plowed on a Sunday evening instead of hanging with her presumed offspring.

She made it about a whopping 14 seconds back in the room before blabbing very loudly as the feature act was talking.  The feature ripped her, but in classic drunk asshole style, she was oblivious because she liked the attention and of course, couldn’t follow the line of back and forth.  She was tossed after two warnings and was bitching the whole way out, spending a bit of cash on a ticket that she never got to use.

I like to drink, but I also know if I’m in the mood to talk, I don’t go to a show where the whole basis of enjoyment is nullified by not paying attention.  Note for morons: if you want to be the focal point, then work on a bit and get onstage.  If not, shut the hell up or go do something else, like talk to semis on the freeway.  Thanks for listening!  Oh wait, you’re still talking…hope you don’t wreck on the way home, boozehound!