CHRIS COEN

Another softball game meant another trip to our watering hole, where the key focus is the Touchtunes jukebox.  I’m not much for pop music, but I know I’m not alone.  Here’s my handy guide to music for you!

If it sucks, then consult the following –

Good female voice, but music awful = Lady Gaga.  Catchy, but worse singing = Katy Perry…keep in mind catchy means I saw that video of her jumping up and down online and that image sticks, making her music “catchy” because her boobs are huge.  Bad song with dude and chick = Black Eyed Peas.  Bad rap song and chick = Rihanna and some nameless rapper.  Techno beat, two guys = LMFAO, who should be slapped for the band name and the hamsters in the Scion commercials.  White chick singing about how she doesn’t need some dumb guy around = Avril Lavigne.  Black chick singing about how she doesn’t need some dumb playa around = Beyonce.  If the chorus repeats over and over and over and over… = more Rihanna.  Someone get this dunce a thesaurus.  Oh if I play any songs = no one is getting laid because it’s Guns N’ Roses, Pantera, David Allan Coen or hair metal.

I was apparently behind this one due to lack of a vagina, but the BDSM how to/supposed to be a love story Fifty Shades of Grey (and the other two sequels) are moistening up moms all over the world.  I first heard about this “book” from a colleague, then I noticed every woman over 30 was following this book like a rat follows the Pied Piper down the street.  What is it?

Recap: Some chick graduates college, and although a virgin, agrees to enter a contract as a submissive to some creepo.  For those who don’t know what that is, he is the dominant one, the aggressor, he’s into S&M…oh hell, he basically abuses her sexually  and somehow this is OK, because a woman wrote it.  If I got caught watching porn like this, I would be a freak and a woman hater, but it’s words so it’s hot and cool I guess.  After spankings and other more taboo weirdness, she falls in love (what?) and it’s all good (I haven’t read it, just hearsay, but this is a free blog, so suck it if you have a problem).

Here’s what bugs me about this literary drivel, by the number.  1. A woman told me I couldn’t handle what was in the book.  Really?  I lived in a frat house with 33 other guys for 3.5 years.  The book could involve candle wax and waterboarding and I wouldn’t flinch.  Try again, soccer mom.  2. Why do women love it?  If I mentioned half this crap to any of my exes, I’d be on my knees from a knee to the groin, yet females across the fruited plain and lands beyond the sea are lapping up every slimy detail.  Mixed messages, ladies!  3.  I should have written this book.  “Um, we need a smut book, not well written that will sell millions and make you famous.”  Well, if I HAVE TO!  4.  Are women this undersexed or do they really want to be roughed up?  50/50 chance you boys are going to jail if you try to find out.  5. It’s somehow not porn because it’s written.  That’s pretentious porn and no one likes smug, judging porn.

I went to Magic Mountain – not exactly an amusement park, but I don’t have kids so I lump all that shit together.  Me and the lady had to use a groupon, so we both must have been sniffing gasoline because we went on Saturday at 8 pm.  That’s like being fashionably late to a gangbang – horrible idea.

It was OK, except the other people that decided to show up and ruin everything.  We were behind a couple ladies who were wearing “girls night out” slut dresses and heels.  They didn’t see the five stroke limit, which I deduced as they averaged about 9 putts per hole.  Oh well, on to the go karts.  After a short wait of 57 minutes (who’s counting?) in which some idiot lost all their game tokens in the go kart, then couldn’t bend over and get them due to morbid obesity and skin tight jeans.  That accounted for four of the 57 minutes – how about this rule, if you have to lift up skin flaps to properly wash, you don’t wear skinny jeans.  I want to commend whatever southeast Asian child sewed those jeans, you young lad/lady, are a master tailor.

The go karts were nice, until some middle aged trashy lady decided to bump draft me.  Her kart was about 10% faster than mine, so that meant it was necessary to ram me and shoot me dirty looks as I questioned in which scenarios I could legally punch a woman.  Shame on me for watching the guy in the Tony Stewart hat instead.  He was too busy balancing his spitter to run me off the track.  I took a quick restroom break and realized the children either each drank 47 sodas or they were kickboxing as they pissed.  I nearly peed in sink, but instead decided to leave my shoes in the parking lot so as not to taint my car on the way home.

We finished up with my favorite, Laser Tag.  Some guy complained that his gun didn’t work, so I stalked him all night, racking up free kills all the way to a second place finish.  When he started crying foul, I then targeted some teenage girl that stupidly thought turning her back would slow my carnival of death.  Not so, future Teen Mom!  Now if only I can fool some kid into trading his game tokens to me for pennies, this night will be complete…

Yesterday was our annual tribute to mothers.  This being a comedy blog, I thought I would share some funny from Mom.  I hate when people ask who I got my sense of humor from, but Mom definitely has her shining moments.  I had the greatest Christmas ever in fourth grade, when I got a small color TV and a Nintendo w/ the Power Pad.  I had a pal over named Nick.  Apparently, at some point, he went to go number one and got more on the toilet than in.  My Mom assessed the situation afterwards and asked me, “Was Nick on the Power Pad while he was peeing?  Nick, Nick, hold that dick!”  That is some good stuff in the fourth grade (and now).

Another time my dog Meg (the Keg) ate a stuffed animal and left a lovely deuce in the back yard.  My Mom was shoveling crap and started laughing uncontrollably.  In the turd was the glowing eye of the stuffed animal.  “I can’t pick it up, it’s staring at me!”  Her convulsive laughter was very infectious.

Long story short, if you ever like any poop or pee jokes I do, you can thank my mother…or stare at her angrily.  Now excuse, I have to let my dog out and I always pick up his poop.  If someone is looking.

I went to Cabo one winter with some buddies, but it was very last minute and I didn’t have a lot of funds.  I bought a tub of jerky and a couple boxes of granola bars and budgeted to drink in the room.  We went to the beach, hit bars every night and in general had a good time, other than the fact I was eating like a homeless person.  Then one of the crew decided we should go deep sea fishing.

I hate fishing.  It’s boring as hell, but they gave us a sack lunch and some beers.  Of course, we were all hungover and the sea was choppy, so it sucked more than normal fishing.  I was about to jump overboard and chance the swim when we finally got a bite three hours in.  One of the guys wouldn’t give up the pole, but we thought we would catch seventeen fish, so we let it pass.  This fight went on and on and on and my thin patience was gone.  I looked around the boat and saw a wooden billy club in the corner.  “What’s that for?”  “Senor, that is in case the fish needs subdued.”  Sweet!  I grabbed the club just in case.

After another 15 minutes of boredom, they pulled a 65 lb. blue marlin onboard.  It was flopping all about, which is normal, but I got a little too excited and sprung into action.  I began raining blows down upon this kraken of the deep with my weapon, fighting the unholy beast.  The Mexican seaman began screaming, “NO SENOR!  NO!”  They pulled me off the fish after a struggle and explained in broken English the marlin was to be thrown back.  It got caught on a boat hook and died instantly, so we got to keep it and eat it for two fantastic meals, but the sailors were so disturbed they refused to change the bait anymore and the boringness resumed.

In summation, fishing sucks, but beating a fish is quite fun.  It is however, frowned upon in most cultures and I am pretty sure a couple of sailors have nightmares about my savagery.  Oh well, back to the bar.

Ah, the warmer weather means only one thing – adult no talent softball is back.  At least I assumed it was warmer.  I stepped outside and realized it was low 50’s and I had nothing but a tee and mesh shorts.  Good start to the season.  I casually told a teammate this was good groin pullin’ weather.

We got run-ruled game one, 21-6, which was OK, because that means game two would start earlier, which is my motivating factor.  My stellar team made about 12 errors (yes, I helped with that stat) and two guys struck out, which is impressive for slow pitch softball.  Game two we really pulled it together/got lucky and won 19-3.  Mostly luck.  I got another hit, but karma and irony struck as I literally, you guessed it! – I pulled my groin.  I would like to say my team rallied around my injury to win, but everyone just called me grandpa and a shit stain, plus we were up by ten runs, so no Rudy moment here.  I now run about seven miles per hour, down from my usual 12 mph.  Why did I sign up for this again?

Luckily, we were done way early, so that means bar time, the most important part of this antiquated ritual.  Unluckily, some assclown decided to play five techno songs in a row.  Nothing against gay people, but nothing says gay sex to me like a bunch of dudes listening to techno music in a dive bar on a Wednesday.  Boo techno music.  I think next year, I’ll sign up for something I’m good at, like trivia night or a sport that relies on surliness and sarcasm over actual running and moving.