CHRIS COEN

Exciting news for the millions and millions of my comedy fans – I will be releasing a book later this year.  It’s an inspirational tale of freedom, courage and freedom.  OK, it’s a bunch of comedy stories and recaps of my struggles against the stupidity I run into way too often in my mundane and underachieving life.  That’s my book, which I have titled “Stuff to Read while you Shit.”  That’s what I bring to the literary world.  Hard hitting, attention grabbing and on a middle school maturity level – I’ll bet the world can’t wait!

The good part is that I did all the chapters really short because I read the Da Vinci Code and the four page chapters made me feel all smart and stuff.  My chapters are about 2 pages.  More smarter!  I have some hurdles to clear still, but thanks to my buddy Paul’s great help, I have most of the heavy lifting done.  I should probably set the sale price at $50 because all my merchandise sells very well, like the one time in 2011 I sold a t-shirt to a really drunk guy.  I think the TP ran out actually and he was in a pinch.

This was my last Father’s Day not being a Father, but I was thinking about what I will need to have ready to roll once Baby Coen decides to come out.  Not the hospital bag, the dad knowledge.

1) Life.  Whatever my kid is going through, it was harder and worse when I was her age.  Except society, it’s going to hell.  If society is better, I had something to do with it.

2) Sports.  If you work hard, you’ll have success.  If not, your mother’s genes are holding you back.  Your dad was a sweet athlete.

3) Dating.  You can date any guy whenever you want to start dating.  As long as he’s a eunuch.  If not, 34.

4) School.  As long as you get a full ride to college, I don’t care what happens in school.  Except American History.  A’s only.

5) Finances.  Your mom has all money, ask her.

I think that’s a good start.  Oh and one more.  Don’t watch your dad’s comedy until high school.

My wife got some shoes the other night to hopefully relieve the fun side effect of pregnancy that is swollen feet (which goes along with swollen hands, the urge to pee every six minutes, back pain, etc. – there are a few, in case you’ve never heard of pregnancy).  They were the wrong size, but have no fear, there was another store and she asked me to swap them out.  What could go wrong?

I got to the store on my lunch break, where every minute of my free time is magnified to a level of importance rivaled only by an emergency bathroom break when you’re on the highway.  I walked in, found the shoes in under a minute, and technically could have just walked out and left the old ones, but I’d rather not be charged with shoplifting this week.  I went up to the counter and an old man, maybe at one point 5′ 3″, but now the size of a lollipop kid, with his pants pulled up so high, I’m not sure if he was wearing a shirt, stood in my path.  “WHAT’S THE TAX ON THESE $90 SHOES?”  The clerk looked powerless against the juggernaut that was independent thought and math skills.  Both stared for about 10 seconds, then he asked again.  I chimed in, “About $7, give or take.”  “I NEED TO KNOW EXACTLY!”  After another two minutes, in which my blood pressure rose to danger level, a manager was able to ring the shoes up.  It was $6.76.  In other words, about $7.

This caused nipple pants to yell more about the cost and announce his intentions to purchase other shoes.  Did you think it was 1834 and the tax rate was sixpence?  How about if you’re worried about $6 and some change in tax, YOU BUY CHEAPER SHOES.  I took a deep breath and was promptly told that only a manager could swap my shoes out, even though they were already paid for, the price was the same and I had the receipt.  Another several minutes passed and I was able to leave, shoes in hand.  Luckily for all involved, I was out of lunch time, they had wasted enough time of mine so that I was unable to procure the materials needed to torch the store.  There’s always tomorrow!  Actually, someone would hold me up in line there too.  Maybe I’ll just drink.

I have to admit, this story about Rachel Dolezal has been entertaining, but annoying.  In case you don’t have the internet, cable or any friends (how are you reading this now?), she is a white lady who claimed to be black, made more complicated by the fact she ran a chapter of the NAACP.  It was really complicated when it was revealed by her family that she was in fact white…and she had sued a black college for discrimination.  Oops.

First, I don’t think white people can’t be involved in the NAACP, but if you lie about your ethnicity before doing it, you’re a dick.  Second, she tried to backpedal and say she always thought of herself as an African American.  Although she did have adopted black siblings, she’s from Montana.  Come on now.  I think the wind in Montana sounds like George Jones singing.  Alaska is more diverse than Montana.  Lastly, you can’t claim to be a race, whatever race, only when it benefits you and act sincere about anything.

What really enrages me is when whitey tries to claim being a minority to feel self-important or garner some fake sympathy.  Every kid in my elementary school said they were descended from Daniel Boone and/or an Indian tribe.  You got sunburned from a flashlight, Tecumseh wasn’t your grandpappy.  I was in line for a ride at Cedar Point once and I heard an entitled lady who was whiter than Colonel Sanders’ suitcoat say very emphatically, “I prefer to be called a FLORIDIAN-AMERICAN.”  As though Florida is a nation or well established ethnic group.  I couldn’t resist, so I leaned forward and yelled, “Well, git your ass back to Floridia then!”  She was horrified and didn’t speak the rest of time we were in line.  It was my finest hour.

I took my wife to the Cirque du Soliel: Kooza this weekend.  It was quite the show.  It’s a circus, but not the clowns and elephants kind, more the how in the hell did that Asian guy or girl do that kind of circus.

We got there and I got into an argument with a large man sitting in our seats.  I should have taken his seat, which was closer, but he kept insisting he in the right row, so I took the worse seats on principle.  The show started and someone immediately got up in front of us.  Why you would sit in a circus tent for 30 minutes and then get up the second the show started is beyond my comprehension.

I saw people backflip with stilts on and land on the stilts, some ladies bend their legs back over their heads and run in a circle (it’s hard to explain, but was as amazing as it sounds) and also some guy almost fall off a tightrope.  He grabbed the wire and flipped back up.  My wife began to get annoyed because I said “I can do that” after every performance.  The only thing I could have actually done would have been soil myself 50 feet above the stage.  I don’t know how much that would pay, but I’m open if a promoter wants to talk about it.

– Why does this game start after 9 pm during the week, when the biggest markets are Eastern Standard Time?  Sure, the other team is in California, but they don’t have water.  I doubt they care too much.

– Pixels looks like a tolerable or awful comedy; too early to tell.  The promos showing Anthony Davis play basketball against Donkey Kong make me want to watch neither basketball or the movie.

– The Cavs aren’t technically a one man team, but if Cleveland can lobby the NBA to go to a one on one format, they better start quickly.

– Apparently, now that I’m going to be a dad, I’m supposed to get really excited about getting golf shirts and plaid shorts for Father’s Day.  Sorry, JC Penny.  Can’t do it.

– I’m more annoyed with Steph Curry’s mouthpiece hanging out of his mouth than anything…except for people that don’t squeeze their pimples.  They are still at the top.

– I fell asleep during the fourth quarter and woke up to My 600 lb. Life.  I think the struggle of losing 400 pounds is surpassed only by the struggle of the Cavs to score with LeBron on the bench.