Monthly Archives: March 2010


We were at an event with about a dozen people around a table. I didn’t know anyone and that’s good. There are two groups of strangers who meet me, the ones who, after a polite introduction, leave me the fuck alone and the other who try to pry things out of me.

Guess which group I prefer?

Sometimes it’s just little things, such as my opinion about what’s happening in the conversation. Okay, that’s not bad. Expected really.

Then there are those who don’t think I’m being honest or forthcoming or whatever the fuck it is. My opinions on most subjects can be summed up in two words: Like or not like.

This evening had been going pretty well. By that I mean I was being roundly ignored. I wasn’t being rude, when people would look at me I’d look back smiling and nodding, but I wasn’t involved in many of the conversations.

That’s how I roll, bitches. Ask friends. We’ll be out, people will be talking and I’ll be looking at the TV screen, sometimes just staring off into nothingness. I’m listening, sort of, in case I’m needed to quell a situation but I’m not in the conversation.

The men are talking random things. Most of them seem to know one another. The women are talking random things. Most of them seem to know one another.

I’m watching the game, nod every few minutes to prove I’m alive, and all is fine with me.

Except for a loud woman. There’s always a loud person, isn’t there? Someone who needs all attention pointed towards her or him.

I don’t like these people as a general rule. They think their opinion is the only correct one. They think every one of their stories is a lyrical gem. And if you dare disagree or not be enthralled they turn up the volume and beat you with a verbal truncheon.

“What do you think?” Loud woman snaps at me. I look at her and smile.

Let me stop here for a moment to go into public service mode. If you see a person sitting quietly, allowing you unfettered enjoyment of your life, please, leave them alone. They’re probably not speaking for a very good reason.

They may be someone like me.

“Well,” I say to the woman. “I think what you’re saying may have some validity but I think it’s too broad a generalization.”

She’d been holding court on how shitty, lazy, shiftless, ignorant, inconsiderate, pay no attention louts men are.

The thing that got my attention was the puissance behind each of her statements and the intense pleasure she got at berating three or four of the guys. I’m sure if she had something on me I would have been included which is why she was testing the waters.

I hope she can swim.

“Oh,” she says. Her eyes bouncing as if another stupid male fly has buzzed close to her web. “So we have a male defender here.”

“Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are guys and many of them deserve a dope slap at twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight, and smack at the top of each hour every day. But, there are more good ones. It’s not as if you’re blazing new trails here. There isn’t a guy in this room who hasn’t been called an asshole by a loved one. But to put every guy into your bashing bake sale is short sighted and idiotic.”

I knew she wasn’t listening to what I had to say. It was a dissenting opinion and she is incapable of hearing those. But, I knew she’d pop at the word idiotic.

“Who are you calling an idiot? I’ll have you know I’m. . .”

“. . .you should listen. I didn’t call you an idiot nor do I need your resume or pedigree.”

Which we all know I was about to get.

I bet we’re also aware of the glare I was getting from her. I’m sure most of you can also see that I was totally alone out here. None of the men would look at me. The woman were stock-still.

Just the way I like it.

“Let’s take the powers of observation.”

“Oh, good, make it easy on me.”

Oooooooo! I so love when they’re cocky.

“Do you think I’ve been paying attention?”

“Of course not.” She scoffs. “You’ve been sitting there watching the stupid game on TV. You haven’t even entered one conversation. What did I say? Inconsiderate.”

“Point taken. Let’s try something.” I pause and seem as if I’m in deep thought. “When I’m right on something I’d appreciate it if the person would raise their hand.” I watch some of the women nod slightly. “I can tell someone is wearing a new perfume. It’s quite similar to their old one but, because it’s new to their skin, it has much more potent air about it. It’s a very good scent for her.”

A woman slowly raises her hand. Before anyone (okay, the loud woman) can utter a sound I trudge on.

“Someone is having foot or ankle trouble. Someone was limping slightly but I knew it wasn’t due to injury so I have to assume it’s caused by new or tight shoes.”

Again, a woman raises her hand.

“This doesn’t prove anything.” The loud woman professes.

“Did anyone else see those things? Man or woman?”

No one says anything.

“It proves that woman often pay as little attention as men.”

“You’re absurd.”

She begins to say something but I cut her off.

“I have one more observation.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Remember, if it’s you, please raise your hand.” I pause and look directly into loud woman’s eyes. “Someone here is having her period.”

No one moves. I see lips quiver and a couple of guys almost pass out.

“Hey! I’ve been right so far. Come on!” Nothing. “Okay, I’ll have to out you.” I pause. Scan a few faces. Stop on loud woman. “It’s you.”

She is appalled and, again, before she can get a word out.

“Come on? What other explanation can there be for you being such a fucking bitch?”

In the immortal words of Was (Not Was) at the end of their classic song, “The Party Broke Up,”

“Needless to say, the party broke up.”

I bet you’re wondering how I pulled it off. You’re right, I didn’t notice a thing. A byproduct of sitting quietly is you hear things.

One guy was bitching about spending a bazillion dollars on some new perfume. Another said his wife whined all the way there about her new shoes killing her feet.

I also knew, to make the con work, I had to use redirection. Hence the perfume compliment (what woman wouldn’t respond to that?) and inexactness in the painful foot/ankle and new/tight shoes. A little less perfection let’s you slip past.

What? The loud woman? Oh, I just assumed she was on the rag.

Random Thoughts

What kind of sin is it to get a hand job on Palm Sunday?

Too much?

Whenever I hear someone who has surrounded a cat say, “Oh, whatcha gonna do now?” The sound I most likely hear next is, “OWWWWWWW!”

There. Fair and balanced.

I wonder. . .

. . .if it comes in Not So Fresh?


I was talking to some people, friends of an acquaintance sort of thing. The guy I knew has been on my mailing list forever. He’s an ‘active fan’.

What I mean by that is each time I send out a new bit (I post here a few times a week but send a mailing every other week. Most people on that list never check out the other stuff so I doubt he’ll ever see this. But if he does all I can say is, fuck you! You shouldn’t have pushed) he sends me an email critique.

I don’t know why he’s still on the list. He hasn’t liked anything for the longest time. He REALLY liked this one thing I wrote some time ago and, since then, his standard reaction is disappointment.

Like I’m his once favorite baseball player who lost his fast ball. Oh, he’ll still watch him on the hill but it’s mainly to see just how he’s going to screw up.

I’m chatting to his people and it’s not a situation where comedy has been offered. Even if it was, this wasn’t my crowd. I’m good at reading people and these were people on the other side of ‘Piss Up A Rope.’

You see, in my world there are two types of people. There are those who do not and those who do find Ween’s Piss Up A Rope hilarious.

Needless to say, I play better to the latter.

“Chris is one of the funniest people I know.” I don’t know why but, to me, that’s not as big a compliment as he’s making it seem. “Come on, Chris, tell us some of your funny stories.”

Now a normal man would comply, and a normal man would feel pride, but, a normal man would not be the type of person to come up with the inanities I do.

So I reach back for advice from my past to figure out how to play this situation.

At first I politely decline. Saying I don’t have anything prepared; I don’t want to burden these people with my proclivities; I don’t think is the place for even my tamest material.

“Oh come on, you’ve got a million of ’em.” Yeah, and right about now they all have to do with shallow graves and nooses made from your own intestines.

But, even with my politeness, he keeps pressing. Keeps pushing me into a corner. It’s then that other advice, from a more proactive leader of my past, rings through.

“If you start hitting someone keep hitting them because, if you stop, they’re going to get up and be pissed.”

Then there was another blip from when I first started writing comedy. He was a wizened hack who, between shots of rye and drags on a cigar said, “You gotta make the audience pay.”

Well, I think, the polite thing didn’t work. But just what’s going to happen? Trust me, I was just as surprised to find out how this was going to play out. Like I said, I had nothing planned.

It didn’t take long for me to see that it was going to start hard and, if history is any indication, end up in a bed of ugly.

“Have you ever been ball deep in some bitches pussy and thought,

‘Is something biting my cock?'”

Now where in the hell am I going to go from there? Let’s see, why don’t we try,

“I’m just saying, mistakes have been made. Have you ever woken up after a hard night not quite knowing where you are? You’re in that moment when you’re just coming to and you realize there’s a hand on your cock. Then you notice that both your hands are under you head. I know, scary. So you start to assess the body behind you and realize they don’t have tits. I know! Mistakes have been made, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve woken up with people without tits before. Like that chick I dated who’d had a mastectomy. Oh please, don’t judge me! She was great. Hell, fucking her made me feel fifteen again.”

By now I’m glaring at the guy who is, quite reasonably, shitting himself. The people around him aren’t even breathing. I know I’ve only got six seconds before people run for the doors so I close it out.

“I’d like to thank my friend here for allowing me to tell a few of my jokes he finds so funny. But let me tell you a little something about this guy. He wasn’t always this much of a pussy. No, back in the day he had balls. Then he bought his wife one of those shake weights and, after a few weeks with that, she tore his cock and balls off and fed ’em to the dog. Now they have something in common: they’re both neutered.”

Lest you think I went to far, trust me, if I didn’t have the compassion for my fellow man I do, I would have kept going.

As a matter of fact, I’d already pulled the slider back and chambered one about incestuous necrophilia.

All I needed was a reason to pull the trigger.

Outside Line

A woman, all bundled up so it takes her a few seconds to unwrap, enters the building. When she does, she smiles and takes in a few deep breaths before saying,

“I was outside for the longest time praying to Jesus you’d let me use your phone.”

I look at this woman, her beatific smile could use a few coats of polish, and respond,

“As you know, Jesus answers all prayers.” She is happy. “But sometimes he says no.”

Booyeah! Crushing Christians since the creation. That’s what it’s all about!

But, just like religion, comedy too is subjective. And she wasn’t putting pennies in my poor box any time soon.

“You are a very bad man.” She reaches into one of her voluminous pockets and pulls out a tract from her religion. So I reach into my desk, grab one from the CCI, and give it to her.

“You are not funny at all. It seems you have the Satan inside you. But, I will pray for you anyway.” Pray for me anyway? You mean there were choices?

But, as the woman was swathing herself against the bitter cold, still telling me what kind of person I am (as if I am unaware) I had a moment of compassion.

Ha! Got ya! I just figured she’d keep talking smack about me if I didn’t let her use the phone.

I asked her what the number was but she said she wanted to dial it. What’s that bible saying about giving a sows ear a foot and it puts a camel through the head of a needle a mile later? Oh yeah, I’m going old testament scripture on your ass!

So I let her into the office and she trundles to the phone. As she approaches she asks if you need to dial a number to get an outside line.

Now, we’re a very simple office so that’s not necessary, but, there something, sick, I know, in my head because, instead of getting closer to the conclusion of this adventure, it makes me say,

“Yes. Dial six six six.”

Oh sure, you’ll pray for my soul but not until after you use my phone.

Sick At Work

A woman, sniffling and hacking in front of me, told a tale of, no matter how crappy she felt, she still had to go to work.

What do you say to something like that?

“Been there, germed that.”

The thing is I really didn’t want to get into a protracted conversation. For obvious reasons.

So I polished off my end of the transaction in haste while saying,

“You know what they say, laugh and the whole world laughs with you, sneeze and you can take half of them with you.”

More Proof

Even though I know it’s not needed, inviting me to your home may not be the best idea.

Don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a good party guest. I don’t break things, steal things, shave things. I do my damnedest to maintain a cordial and chipper attitude.

I will admit to doing much better with the former than the latter.

I usually bend slightly away from chipper when someone doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Chris,” I will be asked. “Would you like more chips?”

“No thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, thanks for asking.”

“We have plenty, you know.”

Let me stop here to control myself. The words that are bounding in my head at this moment are not even fit for a cesspool like this place.

I know there’s some pressure throwing parties so let me give you some advice. The moment you feel pressure call off the fucking party.

Trust me, the pressure you feel internally will be a tickle from a kittens ball sack after I get through with you.

That said, you be the judge on how I handled this next situation.

The event is proceeding. I’m standing in the kitchen talking to someone. It’s going well. Someone comes in and asks if I want to come into the living room and play Family Feud.

“No thank you.”

See how nice that was? I wanted to say,

“Are you out of your fucking mind you daft cretin? Do I look like the type of person who would play any game that didn’t offer at least the potential of a nasty groin pull?”

She exits. All is back to normal. Until someone else enters asking the same question.

I know this was a totally different person but I also know she has the information passed on from the other woman. I also know she knows me better than annoyance #1 so figures she has more juice.

Ha. People are silly.

Once again I decline. A little more sharply but within polite perimeters. I don’t pass any protocol until the next time I am asked the same question. This time both of them attempted and did so physically.

They fucking touched me! Pulled me really.

For reasons that will become clear very soon, I allowed them to lead me gameward.

I join my ‘family’ and we begin.

The first question is asked and people go about giving their best answers. The ‘host’ gets to me.

“Okay, Chris, two strikes, one answer remaining. What sport can a man and woman enjoy together?”


All these PG rated people look at me aghast.

“What? I shoulda said anal bleaching?”

It’s right at this moment I sense my team question their desire to include me. But, we gamely move to the next question.

I stand there waiting my turn. As my teammates answer, it looks as if they’re hoping to finish the question before they have to use me.

They don’t.

“Okay, Chris,” the host gingerly prods. “You can win it all with the right answer.” Ooooo. Pressure! “What activities are best done in the dark?”

The answers have been sex (which, I will point out, was basically my answer in the last round), star gazing, fireworks, so I can’t use any of them. I think for a moment before saying,


I guess I’m just not good at party games.

A Goodbye?

A guy I’ve known for many years stops by. He’s dying. We chatted for a while and he’s in good spirits and putting up the good fight. When he’s leaving he grabs my hand, gives me a mighty hearty handshake and says,

“This isn’t goodbye, because I’m going to fight this thing, but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you and that you’ve always been a good friend to me.”

Geez! How can you respond to that? It’s tough. But, if you’re me you, do it like this,

“So, am I a ‘get left cool stuff in your will’ or ‘get a last hearty handshake’ good friend?”

By the way he laughed I’m thinking the latter kind of good friend.


Someone decided to confide in me (ha! silly human) about the state of his relationship. He found out all may not be what he assumed.

Those of us in relationships longer than, let’s say, seventeen minutes, know what a fool this gentleman is.

As Chris Rock says, when you first start dating you’re not dating that person, you’re dating their representative.

But, this revelation disturbed this man. No, just so you don’t jump to conclusions, I didn’t scoff, laugh, deride, or any of the other things you’ve come to expect from me.

I just listened and nodded, I’m hoping, in a sympathetic manner. I say I hope because, as good as I am at maintaining a placid gaze when people are speaking at me, I’m not sure my internal head dialog of,

“Are you a fucking idiot? Have you met that psycho with pubes?”

Didn’t poke through once or two dozen times.

But I listened until he was wrung out like a newly bathed puppy after getting sprayed by a skunk before I said,

“Yeah, I used to think my girlfriends shit didn’t stink until I found out she was using a citrus spray to cover up.”

Why can’t people see the beauty in my relationship analogies?

“It’s Only Ten Minutes.”

Even though we all know that’s a lie, ten begets twenty which begets forty which begets beheading, it’s used to squeeze something out of one person for the benefit of another.

Funny how I’m always the former in these discussions, isn’t it?

After explaining that, once the doors are locked, you cannot stay inside a few times here’s when I, unlike Pablo Picasso*, will be called an asshole.

“Come on,” he implored. “Ten minutes won’t kill ya.”

“It would if I used that time to beat you over the head with a bat.”

Geez, here I am, giving a lesson on the relativity of time and I get shit on. It’s not fair, I tell ya.

* Here is the base for that reference for those unknowing.