CHRIS COEN

A country singer named Sammy Kershaw had a song in the 90’s called “Politics, Religion, and Her.”  This referred to the only things off topic he would not discuss.  I think, ironically, music is the other pillar in that premise.  I HATE pop music.  If pop music is Josef Stalin, though, to me techno is Adolf Hitler plus Satan with John Wayne Gacy tossed in.  I literally get a rush of rage at dance music made w/ synthetic instruments.  I also think people that listen to that garbage are generally mindless assholes that want beats to replace rational thoughts.  God in heaven, that felt good to type.

That said, I realize I don’t have to jam my music down the proverbial throats of my pals.  I love outlaw country (new country generally sounds like pop, yuck) and metal.  Even there, Nu-Metal largely stinks.  What is amazing to me, however, is how music defines our lives.  I listen to metal (Pantera, Machine Head, Iron Maiden) when I work out or am in a foul mood (a lot).  I love old outlaw country (Hank Jr., DAC, Waylon) when I am relaxing, reflective, and usually drinking.  Of course, I am usually drinking…but I digress.  That’s why I generally don’t judge people’s music tastes (except techno, those people suck at life).  Even this old bastard likes to play some Phil Collins, John Denver, or sappy crap on occassion.

I even used to play a lot of guitar.  I got a Fender at 7, traded it for a BC Rich acoustic at 10, which I still have.  I have written about 12 songs, mostly about dirty things and of course, they all suck ass.  Playing funny songs was actually my intro to comedic writing, so I hate guitar comics.  1) Usually not funny or horrible at guitar or 2) I never wrote a song that funny.  I rarely play anymore, but my proudest song is “Ol’ Stinky” based on my dogs Joe Camel and Stringbean.  Just b/c I like to mix up the blogs, here it is.

D A C G – Guitar chords

Ol’ Stinky wandered in my yard, he came from God knows where.  He smelled like a 70 lb. asshole, covered in dirty, mangy hair.

I tried to teach him how to run or stay or play or sit, but the only that dog ever learned was how to always smell like shit.

I put Ol’ Stinky in the back o’ my truck, went to the nicer end of town.  He caught a whiff of pussy, was moving when he hit the ground.

For on the other side of the fence you see, was a purebred poodle bitch.  Ol’ Stinky didn’t know nothing, but he knew he had to scratch that itch.

The poodle’s owner was in the garden, and she let out a deafenin’ scream.  Ol’ Stinky was gonna give her the ugliest litter she’d ever done seen.  (Very country spelling, FYI.)

She turned the hose on Stinky, but there wadn’t no stoppin’ him.  If that chick had the jaws of life, Ol’ Stinky was still goin’ to win.

She hit him w/ a rake so hard, it broke the stick in two.  But Ol’ Stinky’s dumb, he’s gonna cum, fill that poodle w/ his goo.

Well the police eventually showed up, but the scene was still the same.  I tried to get that dog to stop, but he didn’t even know his own name.

The police they pulled their guns and fired, shot Ol’ Stinky, tween the eyes.  They blew his goddamn head off…but they couldn’t stop his thighs.

If something is that horny, let give you all this warning.  Ol’ Stinky died at half past three…but kept fucking til’ the morning!  (Flourish!)

I will probably never do that again on the blog, so enjoy.  August 25th – www.columbusfunnybone.com.  I will NOT do that song.

Every small town has some dumb claim to fame.  I saw my favorite one – Norwich, OH.  Norwich – “Home of the first recorded fatal traffic accident when a stagecoach flipped over.”  Well, I’m sold.  I was going to move into a town known more for ceramic kilns or perhaps the first house on stilts in the Northwest Territory, but give me horse drawn accidents all day.  What was that meeting like?  “OK, we need a claim to fame – go!”  “My pal Ricky ate 12 hot dogs in one sitting at the Norwich Methodist Church social.”  Anyone else?  “I found a Dorito that looks like either Johnny Appleseed or Hillbilly Jim from pro wrastling at a party at that house on the hill.”  Hmmm…let’s go with the fatality.

In other news, I was behind a truck w/ a Cummins engine.  The esteemed gentleman had a graphic on the back that said, “I’d rather be Cummin’ than Stroken.”  Yes, it was spelled just like that.  I hope to have kids someday just to explain the difference b/w an engine and a orgasm.  That sounds like a good time.

Friday I did a show in my hometown.  They had a wireless mike.  It worked great…for five minutes.  Then it started cutting out.  This bar had about 200 people or more at 10:30 pm and my mike failed.  They went digging for another mike, but by the time it came up, I was done.  At one pont I mentioned that I would rather tell jokes w/ Adolf Hitler in my right hand than the piece of shit mike.  Only about 15-20 people heard me, though – the mike cut out.

I learned as a comic, you have to steer club owners away from bad ideas.  Much like the Gremilns – don’t perform after midnight.  In fact, anything later than 9 pm is usually asking for trouble b/c everyone will be hammered.  Also, never perform outside.  Nothing ruins a punchline like a train whistle or a jake brake rumble.  Inside is better.  Another turd is when someone from the crowd wants to tell a few.  This means a) it is going to stink and b) they are just going to tell “truck stop” jokes that every one who has ever hung out in a locker room, break room, or bar has heard before.  The worst idea ever is when they serve food…and want you to start during the food serving, so they have something to do during said waiting.  I did a New Year’s show (with a wireless mike) on a stage made of cardboard boxes covered w/ a sheet, too close to a fireplace, as the several hundred people grabbed their salads and rolls.  All that could be heard was the clanging of metal on ceramic.  My pal Laura went up as they served the dessert (buffet style, of course) and Camp went up, only to (surprise!) have the wireless mike go out.  Hey, can we turn on a playoff game in the back of the room?  This show needs more distractions.

Fantasy football is around the corner – it’s a chance for unathletic guys who never played football or are well past their primes to sit in a bar or living room and argue about how sweet their drafts were over yours b/c….  Every draft has the following components.  1) Guy wearing favorite team/player’s jersey, as though they are channelling Peyton Manning himself.  2) Guy who takes forever between picks, then tries to draft Adrian Peterson in round five.  He went second overall, dumbass.  It took you that long and you thought he was on the board?  3) Guy who drafts a kicker or defense in round 3.  Thanks for the donation.  4) Guy who drafts his favorite team’s players.  Sure, you love the Browns.  Colt McCoy was going to survive round 2, though.  One year I played with a buddy who drafted Bengals, former Buckeyes, and white wide receivers.  His team finished with a losing record.

Team names are always fun.  I’m playing in a league w/ a dude who named his team, “Shhh…Let it Happen.”  I am pretty sure he has a teenage girl locked up somewhere.  I have settled on Team America, so I can call everyone else out on the message boards as a bunch of commies, terrorists, and even worse, hippies.  Here’s to fantasy football, making me watch Seahawks vs. Cardinals b/c my backup tight end needs to catch 35 yards worth of passes – oh, wait, he’s hurt and I lost.  Thanks for nothing, fantasy football.

 

I passed some HS kids at the grocery store trying to sell me their wares, but thankfully I was on my cell.  I have some respect, though, b/c I remember doing that horrible job.  My Babe Ruth teams had to do that.  I stood there in my ill fitting pants (they ordered too small baseball pants) and mesh hat (before they were cool) like a showered up homeless guy.

Of course, we rewarded ourselves with some of the cash.  Fours hours of begging breaks down your sense of self worth and morality.  The prized spot was Campbell’s grocery, b/c it was busy and there was a donut shop across the street.  K Mart was nice, also, as they had slushees and baseball cards.  It’s not stealing when you’re buying baseball cards, right?  We were just doing research so we could be better ball players.

The excuses for people not paying were lame.  “I’ll get you on the way out.”  That guy, I’m pretty sure, hung out all day or crawled out a vent and ran down the back alley.  Then there was “I got your buddy down the street.”  I looked at this guy and said, “Oh really, where?”  He looked down in shame and hurriedly walked in the store.  The worst was a guy who tossed me three pennies.  Really?  .03 cents?  Do you know how much a can of snuff costs?  How am I supposed to steal this equipment money and illegally buy tobacco from the gas station that sells it to 13 year olds?  Looks like I’ll have to steal the snuff now, too.  Oh, look!  Here comes my cannister partner with doughnuts and Mt. Dew bought from borrowed monies!  Break time!

Sorry for the inconvenience, but my August 24th show at the Columbus Funny Bone is now the next night, August 25th.  The club will switch any tickets that have been purchased – just let them know when you call in.  Last minute change – sorry again.