Comedy Corner Underground

thecornerbar — Fri, 25 May 2012 08:01:33 -0400

thecornerbar — Thu, 24 May 2012 16:02:40 -0400

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thecornerbar — Thu, 24 May 2012 12:08:58 -0400

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thecornerbar — Thu, 24 May 2012 12:03:03 -0400

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thecornerbar — Thu, 24 May 2012 09:58:55 -0400

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thecornerbar — Thu, 24 May 2012 09:43:15 -0400

GIF BLOG STARTS NOW!

thecornerbar — Wed, 23 May 2012 13:04:11 -0400

GIF BLOG STARTS NOW!

The Best of High Times, and the Worst of High Times by Liz Donehue

thecornerbar — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 10:28:00 -0400

As the saying goes, “you know you’re a pothead if your bong is taller than your dog.” I feel that statement is somewhat misleading. It should be, “you know you’re a pothead if your bongs are taller than your dog.”

My mom figured out I smoked weed when I was a senior in high school. She walked in on me while I was wearing old sweatpants and a t-shirt with a camel on it that reads, “Someone in Kuwait loves me!” I was elbow deep in a carton of Moose Tracks and watching Angels in the Outfield at an extremely unreasonable volume. She went to bed, and I a bit later. When leaving for work the next morning, my mom rubbed my shoulder while I was still asleep and whispered to me, “We need to have a talk when I get home.” I didn’t make anything of this until I woke up at 3pm for a breakfast that consisted of a cherry Poptart between two Eggo Waffles with syrup that I saw what she was talking about. Instead of placing the ice cream receptacle back in its proper place, I had placed the carton of Moose Tracks in the kitchen cabinet and overnight, the ice cream had melted out of its container and was seeping out of the cabinet all over the kitchen counter. She had purposefully left it out so that I could discover my mistake and her knowledge of my affection for marijuana. Fuck. She caught me, and because she caught me, I decided to attend a college that was more than acceptable of all things alternative.

At this college, just uttering the word “marijuana” would produce a guy named Fern with dreadlocks and a didgeridoo knocking at your door with sandwich baggies full of Alaskan Thunder Fuck, Afghani kush hybrids, and White Widow (if you’re a pussy).

420 wasn’t just a holiday at my college. It was a week/yearlong celebration similar to Hanukkah or Diwali or any summer music festival located one week from everywhere.

But I’m not uptight about being a retired stoner. You can grow, buy, sell, light, eat, burn, nurse, spray, bake, or do whatever you do with tasty nugs and it doesn’t bother me. I know a few ex-stoners who look back at the drug and condemn it with all of their newfound Christianity. But today, I see marijuana in the same light that I see gay marriage – if you don’t want gay marriage, shut the fuck up and don’t get one.

I suppose I can understand why some oppose the legalization of the drug. It could corrupt the youth! It could exacerbate the “war” on drugs! It’s against God’s law! Good. Overall, I don’t smoke marijuana, but I don’t care if you do.
But I think that the ritual of smoking marijuana has not only been lost, but ultimately sensationalized by oversized Bob Marley tapestries and Phish concerts. I think that our rituals of smoking marijuana has adapted with the times since the natives smoked for shamanistic, spiritual purposes. Don’t get me wrong – I think that smoking marijuana can be ritualistic and in some cases spiritual, existential, and other big buzz adjectives used often (if not too much) at small alternative colleges across the nation.

But now, 420 seems to be this highly celebrated holiday, which I’ll admit, I don’t fully understand. It may not be as fully commodified as Valentine’s Day or Christmas or The Reapies. I’ve never been to Target and seen overhead signage that read “Cure Your Blues with Strawberry Cough!” I’m sure that if marijuana is eventually legalized, some states will take this idea and really run with it.

I knew people in high school that would smoke on 420, just like every other day, but they would all set alarms for 4:20pm on their cell phones and place them in the middle of their small hippie circle and just look dazed and confused with anticipation, not to mention that they had already been smoking all day. Yep, I smoked on 420, too, if you were wondering. But that’s because I smoked every single day. 420 was always no different than any other holiday for me. My 4/19, my 4/21, and even 11/13 was no different than my 420s. I see Valentine’s Day in a similar way; I don’t need one special day to celebrate how much I love my boyfriend, or my friends with benefits, or that guy I text at 2am in the morning to come fuck me when he’s done fucking the girl who texted him at 1am. But I digress…

I suppose 420 celebrates a holiday that isn’t the status quo marked off on certain days of the calendar that as a nation, we’re supposed to embrace and observe, like Christmas and Flag Day and any other holiday that was popularized by that Jesus character (I refer to him as a character because that’s exactly what he is – a character in a goddamn book). I know that was a long sentence, but like I said earlier, you can celebrate 420 if it means something to you. It doesn’t bother me, and these are just my honest reflections about marijuana and its off-kilter “holiday.” So smoke up, or don’t. I don’t really care either way. And for the record, his name really was Fern.

www.facebook.com/lizdonehue
https://twitter.com/#!/LizDonehue

So I recently went on my first online date! - Kathleen O'Brien

thecornerbar — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 11:09:00 -0400

Thought I’d see if I’d end up in the trunk of somebody’s car

And no ma’am, no sir, I didn’t. I survived it. But boy, was it uncomfortable. Everything started off without a hitch. He walked me along the Mississippi and talked about well, water, I guess. I stopped paying attention for a moment to read a poem that was hanging from a tree that was about well, water, I guess. And he stopped too, peering innocently over my shoulder. The two of us really dug this poem about water. I thought “What a guy,” and we went inside a quaint bar for some intoxicants.

Now this is when I notice he pulls out a tube of chapstick and applies it to his lips. I think “The man’s got some chapped lips.” The beers come. And just before he takes a sip, he does it again. He reapplies the chapstick to his lips. A quarter of the way through his beer, he does it again. Then he stops. He stops until we order our second drink. “Why not!” I say, thinking the chapstick can’t possibly rear its ugly head again. But then sure enough, the chapstick. the stick of chap, the chap of sticks, continues to grace his lips again. And again. And again. Ever more passionately until I have to excuse myself to the bathroom.

There, I look in the bathroom mirror. “Is he quietly trying to tell me that my lips are chapped? Because he’s doing it pretty aggressively. Is he going to plant the biggest kiss on me since the soldiers came back from World War II? Because dear lord, I will vomit. Is there any way that I can throw that tube of chapstick into the Mississippi? Surely it will float because its contents will be empty.” I don’t know what exactly to do, but I head back out, and I thank him for his time and I hug him goodbye verrrrry carefully. And I get to my car, put a cigarette to my lips and think “Good god, this has got to be more healthy.”

Speak Softly, Carry a Bedpan - Kate Urquhart

thecornerbar — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 09:30:00 -0400

When Bob asked me to write something for the blog, I thought it was the perfect way to share my observation that home ownership is like a dog puking up squirrel parts in your living room. But that’s not relatable, and all successful blog posts come in list form. So, welcome to the top one reason I always travel with a bedpan.

1. Barb and I are driving westbound on Ohio Interstate 90, well, we’re stopped dead. I have to pee, badly. About 10 minutes ago, cars quit pulling up behind us, and we haven’t moved forward. It’s safe to say the highway is closed and we’re here for the foreseeable future. I think about heading for the tree line and old school peeing in the woods. But, there’s a creek and I’m not making it over. How about opening both passenger doors and squatting between them? Brilliant idea, except there are two young men in a truck next to us. You know the kind, they’re just dying to take video of an old lady peeing on a highway. Not today, whippersnappers. So back to the car. For another hour.

I think one of my kidneys is trying to punch it’s way out. I’m sweating. But the Kegels paid off and I am not wetting myself.
Two hours. We start to move! I almost pee in celebration. Exit ahead!

It looks abandoned, but we go for it. There is one gas station. I head in, but “Restrooms Closed” says the sign. Standing in the middle of the gas station with my legs crossed, I’m in full on pee-paralysis. Oh good, here comes a State Trooper, this won’t go horribly wrong. He asks how I’m doing. I point to the sign and say I have to pee. We stare at each other for a bit, then I say, “the woods!” He nods approvingly. We’ve got law enforcement buy in. I didn’t make it to the woods.

TL;DR: I travel with a bedpan, its only use is as an amulet with +10 protection against peeing all over your shoes behind a gas station dumpster in Ohio.

Myth: Male Logic Men are stupid.Here’s the thing: Men are often...

thecornerbar — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 10:30:15 -0500

Myth: Male Logic

Men are stupid.

Here’s the thing: Men are often credited (by themselves) for being more LOGICAL than women. Women are supposedly better multi-taskers, but they’re criticized for being too emotional and for allowing feelings to persuade their decisions. But men compartmentalize—they can only focus on one thing at a time, so because they are able to make sound arguments that are not influenced by unrelated factors, they are considered “reasonable” and “logical,” and often even “more intelligent” or wiser than women. This is utterly ridiculous.

Here’s some “logic” for you: what good are you if you can rationalize why emotions are a waste of time, but you can’t manage a chain of simple tasks to get you from the beginning to the end of a day in a productive manner? You’re going to need a mother or a maid, if your brain doesn’t follow a PATTERN to accomplish ordinary things—like SHUT the goddamn drawer after retrieving utensils from it! What good are you if you can explain why romantic feelings are dumb, but you can’t FIND THINGS that you know damn well where they are!? Oh that’s right, because you have women for that—those “illogical” beings that weep.

We weep because you are helpless and that situation is hopeless.

Men can’t find SHIT. How many times did my ex ask me, “Hun, where’s the TAPE?”

“Same fucking place it’s been for the last NINE goddamn YEARS, dear.” (Unless you’re talking about my secret stash of duct tape I have on hand for the day you ask me that question one too many times…)

And seriously?? You didn’t even THINK ABOUT IT for a fraction of a second before you decided to irritate me about it. WOMEN can walk into ANYBODY’s house in all of North America and find tape within two minutes. Because we would look in all the LOGICAL PLACES! Fuuuck! Hm, is it in a drawer? Like in a desk drawer maybe? Here’s a couple of drawers, I KNOW! I’ll open the drawer and look in it. Oh, what do ya know, there’s some fuckin tape next to a pair of scissors and some pens and junk.

LOGIC.

They can’t find places either. It used to be that men were notorious for not being able to ask for directions, and I’ve had my share of experiences with this. But we all thought that this would no longer be an issue with the invention of GPS. Wrong.

I mean, I can understand why one would not want to STOP somewhere to ask for directions—it’s a bit humiliating, frustrating, you have to get OUT of your car, go talk to a PERSON who is probably stupid and worthless at giving directions, which you’ll forget by the time you get back into your care anyway. I get it. But how many times have I been lost in a vehicle being driven by A MAN WITH GPS on his phone, but he won’t look up the directions?

What is it NOW? Just principle?

Sigh…

Here’s some more logic. It’s a better use of your time, to do things in a certain order. For example, change the kid’s diaper, then when you dispose of said diaper in the already full trash, tie up the bag and take it out since you’re already there, then you won’t have to smell it all day. On your way back into the house, bring in the mail, because you’re already passing by it. Now, did you actually MULTI-TASK? No. You did three things in a row that make sense to do in order. It just made your life easier and eliminated mundane tasks normally left to your significant other—bonus, you’ll probably get the nookie three minutes sooner tonight. (If you can’t see the logic in THAT, you really are hopeless.)

I brought my kid in for her 4-year-old well-check last year. This is where the doc checks her growth and asks questions about her development to make sure she’s on track. The doc asked me if Grace could follow three directions in a row given at one time—and not even a ridiculous non sequitur list of tasks, like jump on one foot, kiss a frog, and summersault down the stairs—but logically linked tasks, “like if you told her to go potty, brush her teeth and put on her PJs, would she do all three things, two of the things, or just one?”

And I thought, My 36-year-old HUSBAND can’t even do that!

And I kept thinking about that. So I began testing it…

Grace seems to excel at three-in-a-row requests: Pick up your toys, throw your dirty clothes down the laundry chute, and throw any garbage in the trash. DONE. Mom finds room clean.

Her dad can’t handle it: Get a bowl, fill it with cereal and milk, and bring it to your wife (because her leg is in a CAST). Starving wife hobbles downstairs two hours later to find an empty bowl sitting on the counter. He didn’t even SHUT the cupboard door…sigh.

Trained monkey: clap, jump, throw poop. Good monkey.

“Logical” man: go to work, come home to dinner, fuck wi—ooh! video games—

…so logically, I’m divorced…

FIND JULIANN JOIE on…
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/JuliAnnJoie
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/juliannjoie
Funny Blog: http://trampledbytoddlers.tumblr.com/
Review Blog: http://momoutonthetown.tumblr.com/
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I WAS ALMOST LATE GETTING THIS BLOG IN ON TIME - Chris Maddock, Stand Up Show Off

thecornerbar — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 11:55:35 -0500

I WAS ALMOST LATE GETTING THIS BLOG IN ON TIME
Chris Maddock, Stand Up Show Off

I have trouble getting things done. Let me rephrase: I have trouble getting things done that I don’t feel very excited about. I’m barely getting this blog in on time, and I WANTED to write it. Also, I didn’t want to let Bob down after I told him I’d do it.

I have a scattered brain. Metaphorically, of course. It’s all in my head. Literally. My attention drifts in and out of regular everyday conversation. Sorry, but you said “peanut butter” and now I’m remembering how much my wife likes PB and J and then I start thinking about what to make for dinner on her birthday which is in March and so is March Madness and…you get it. I forget to call into radio when I’m required to for my job days before a show. I have about 10 home made belated birthday cards that I use every year for family. But I lose them. My house is always half clean. I’m good at damage control from fucking up so much, and I’ve been about to start school for about 8 years. But I can say this: I’m not boring. I get wild ideas that I’ll say the second they come to me, often too loud for the public place I’m in. I drop the broom because I thought of a guitar riff RIGHT NOW! I’ll run out the door in a flash to go get $100 dollars worth of expensive seafood to make for when my wife gets home. I don’t make sense, I rule!

I went to the doctor a while ago to get some help with my ankle. It had been hurting long enough that a guy with no insurance would finally go to the doctor. 7 weeks. I looked up the doc I had the appointment with to see if I could gauge weather or not she would give me vicodin or not…scatterbrains love substances! I saw that she was from Peru. Knowing more than one Peruvian, I know that you buy your college grades in Peru with money. I had high hopes. Pun intended, ah thank you. I also saw that she was listed as a “specialist in ADHD”. I’m sure I have ADHD, if that is indeed a thing. I tend to think most of that shit is just “you’re too hyper-active/spastic to be an effective worker” and I thank the creator that my parents never put me on Ritalin. I used to do my neighbor’s Ritalin in college, but that was usually while I wasn’t going to class, so not really for it’s intended purpose. Plus I would snort it up my nose between bong hits. I’m much more mature now and don’t like it anymore, but I have friends who do, and God bless them. I wanted a better ankle and pain killers in the meantime. Okay, not MUCH more.

Well, weather she got her degree honestly or not, she was a quack. As for my ankle, she told me to take aspirin. I expressed concern about the quite cavalier advice, and the amount of money I was spending on what a retarded left handed monkey would have told me with his palsied sign language what to do about my real injury, but she “eenseeested” that that was what to do. I wanted something more. So abruptly switching plans, (a specialty of mine, by the way), I blurted out, “Oh, and I can’t focus on anything”. Her eyes lit up like when a treasure hunter in a treasure hunting movie finds a box that illuminates from the inside when you open it. “REEELY? What else?” I gave her the most tired story about pacing when I wait for the bus, not finishing things I start, ect. All true, but not because I need a drug to fix it. I could, you know, WORK at it…if I could only stick with things…..anyhoo, she gave me a questionnaire to fill out, and I answered on the side of needing drugs for my disorder, questions like, “Do you dislike doing boring or tedious tasks?” Verbatim. Incredible, no? I even left one of the questions blank to seem like I just “missed it”. I rule. She became a fortune teller,. fully excited about my “new life” of “being successful” and “so, so creative”. What a crock. But I got the Ritalin. And I thought for a second about using it, as directed. I might really get my life in order! But I don’t want to. Because I’ve done it before and I know what happens. It makes you listen intently, relax a bit, able to wait patiently for the bus, finish cleaning the house, and remember birthdays. It makes you make cold, hard sense. It also makes you prone to less loud outbursts in public, plan what’s for dinner, practice the guitar every day from 3:30 to….Jesus, I’m a comic! I can’t afford to get that un-funny! Nope, keep the stabilizers, and sorry if I seem like I’m not keeping up in the conversation, or if I’m late to the thing we were supposed to do together, or if I forgot it all together. I swear I’m trying. I’m just how God made me.

P.S. Need some Ritalin?

Find Chris on Facebook

Planning for the end - By Shannon Thompson

thecornerbar — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 12:55:00 -0500

I sit here, typing this blog while ‘Cagney and Lacy: The Return’ is on my TV. I can’t help but think maybe I should be spending my last year on earth doing something better than watching Tyne Daley’s ankle swell.

December 21st, 2012. We all know what it is suppose to mean. The end of the Mayan calendar and the end of civilization. I have spent a little time thinking about this date, what it means and how it effects me. First off, let me say that I don’t really believe that the world will end on this date. In fact. I think the chances of the world ending on that day are about as good as Ron Paul’s chances of a black running mate. However, if I am wrong here is my game plan for the event.

Surviving the apocalypse isn’t in my plans. I am old enough to remember growing up without cable or Internet and I sure as shit don’t want to live like that again. My plan would be to find out where the focal point of the destruction is gonna start and be the first one in line there. I am sure I would have to camp out all night like it’s a Justin Bieber concert, because like me, there are others that would want to go out that way. It’s not that I am some morbid prick that hates life and wants out. It is really more about the fact that I don’t care for what the alternative would be.

Surviving would require knowledge, will power and being holed up in some kind of bunker/safe house. The first two items on this list are no problem for me, the third is a huge problem. I don’t know any dooms day survivalists to begin with, so I could only hope that some where out there is a nut job in a bunker with a copy of my ‘I’M With Bitchface’ cd.

Even if that happened the idea of being locked into a confined space with a fat, mouth breather with a pony tail seem like a bad idea for him. After a while you know food and water will become an issue. Cannibalism seems highly plausible and I don’t have the stomach to eat someones stomach. Lastly, boredom would be huge. We would all have to resort back to reading, telling stories and puppetry. The upside, there would probably be huge upswing in Stand Up Comedy. Maybe then I could finally play one of the Improvs.

shannonthompson.org

An ode to Troy Simmons - By Collin Klug

thecornerbar — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:36:02 -0500

HI. Hello. I have things to say. My name is not Important, it’s Collin. There are many things that people argue fervently for in this country. We’re a principled, opinionated people here in America and we stick to our guns.

This can make it very difficult to put down our guns as they are effectively glued to our palms (when I hear the phrase “stick to your guns” I often picture that scene from Little Giants where the tiny black child’s hands get stuck together(not in a racist way)).

Did anyone else not see this coming?

Point is, there is very little this country can agree on; politics, religion, hell people get heated over The Celebrity Apprentice. People genuinely care about a show whose next season’s contestants include the undeniably horse-faced Adam Corolla, the future-Jeff-Bridges, Penn Jillette, and Lisa Lampenelli, who, coincidentally, looks as if Jeff Bridges got plastic surgery in order to look like a horse for his next big movie: Trot: Legacy (other Jeff Bridges horse pun movies included How to Lose Friends and AlieNEIGGGHt Peopl0e, The Canter-tender and Seabiscuit).

Through all of this contention in the American populace there is one thing I can now settle, maybe even the most debated thing of the last 5 years. Your coworkers all have opinions on it, your uncles definitely have opinions about it, and really anyone who is too young to run for president probably has a strong opinion on this oft-discussed topic: What is the funniest video on the internet? Now I’m not talking about some casually over exaggerated, “this is the funniest thing I have ever seen,” I mean that I have legitimately found the funniest video on the internet, for the internet and it is called “wise words from the saad.”

A little history. My friends and I found the Saad video while trying to search “sad” and accidentally misspelling it. So, instead of watching sad video, we ended up getting a video that has made me happier than any other video on the internet ever has(porn excluded). The Saad quickly became an oft-discussed topic amongst my friends, acquaintances and enemies alike, he plucked our heartstrings, rattled our funny bones, and fondled our sister’s boobs, figuratively of course. The Saad was a constant blessing in my life, like a priest-dad (father-father). The saad was a constant in my life until one day I tried to search for the Saad and nothing came up. I tried again and again; I looked harder but to no avail. I finally remembered the name of the channel that hosted the video (buttcheekwarrior) and searched their page. Eureka! The Saad was found, but the video was unsearchable, but why? I racked my brain for minutes and dismissed it. “I’ll just have to send friends the links,” I thought, but it was slow going and I don’t know everyone in the U.S. so I was saad about the situation obviously, but when I was approached to do a blog about it I thought “Greaat! Now I can spread the words of the Saad to everyone.” And I was haappy. (update: The saad is searchable again) Now let’s talk about the saad.

What to watch for:

The Music: It’s amazing. The squeal of that first note of synth saxophone is the YouTube equivalent of the sax solo in Born to Run. Perfectly screechy and wonderfully fucktastic. You heard me. Fuck-fucking-tastic.

The Car: I’m pretty sure The Saad’s Car is a DeLorean, or a Saab, either way it’s fantastic. Also the car floats over the road because the Saad gives no fucks about roads.
The Words: SEE VIDEO

The Saad: The enigma that is The Saad. I can only imagine him standing on a lifeguard tower and clapping at pretty girls when they go by, like in a congratulatory way. The Saad approves, but this is unrealistic because as we all know, The Saad give no fucks.
Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58OabCRCx_Q

Do Porn Bots Dream Of Electric Love? - By Nate Abshire

thecornerbar — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 10:39:00 -0500

—begin transmission—

alesanaxcore24: heyy

me: hi. your name looks like a porn bot name.

alesanaxcore24: hey i jus really bored annd saw you wre onIine wanna talk for a liI??

me: are you a porn bot?

alesanaxcore24: niice i was soo lonely it’s nice to have someone to talk with so what are you up to

me: eating human flesh and being honest about it

alesanaxcore24: ah cooIlIcoool i jus got back from workin out i am actually about to get to work online

me: i find that long pork goes best with KC MASTERPIECE bbq sauce

me: ONLY KC MASTERPIECE

alesanaxcore24: i’ve been doin these private shows here onIine while i’m at college wanna come pIay??

me: that depends, do you have KC MASTERPIECE?

alesanaxcore24: it is so much more fun ;) and i think i even have a free pass left i could let ya use too if you wanted

me: TELL ME WHAT BRAND OF BBQ SAUCE YOU USE YOU MALINGERING BITCH! I WILL KILL YOU SO MANY TIMES IF YOU SAY BULLSEYE OR JACK DANIELS!!!

alesanaxcore24: k lm wired thru this site to keep these irritating little aim nerds so don’t worry if you don’t have one or it doesn’t work k

me: I SWEAR TO FUCK THE NEXT WORDS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH BETTER BE KC MASTERPIECE!!!!!1!!!

alesanaxcore24: ok hunny this is gonna be soo fun just go to [Hyperlink Removed] and make sure you accept the invite on the side got it??

—end transmission—

Part 2

—begin transmission—

terann1005: hey.

me: you’re a porn bot.

terann1005: hey… did we ever chatted before?? i can never remember peoples sns

me: NO WE’VE NEVER CHATTED. YOU ARE A MACHINE. OBVIOUSLY

terann1005: i’m sorry i can be forgetful at times… whatcha doin???

me: Does this ever work?

me: Wait, let me guess

me: you jsut got back from the gym

me: showered

me: and are super horny

terann1005: oh cool i just got out of the shower .. been one of those days and i don’t know what it is but i always get a lil horny ever get like that??

me: Why don’t you get out of that towel and get sexied up?

terann1005: well…. i was about to get out of this towel and get sexied up wanna cumm watch ;-)

me: Wait wait, I got this one too. Ask me if I’m ready to have some fun or something, then mention, as a brief aside, that I have to go to this website and put in my credit card info to ‘keep the kids out.’

me: and not at all to rape my bank account like the android charlatan you are

terann1005: yayyy!!!! i been soo lonely this is gonna be so great hope you’re ready

terann1005: just go to [hyperlink removed] and click the join free button at the top of my profile .. it might take a sec to load see it????

me: you forgot the bit about kids and how the credit card thing happens

terann1005: k just fill out your info so you can make a name and join me in private

terann1005: i use this site to keep away the kids they’re really good about not allowing any minors or recording my webcam thats why you need the c.c. but it’s free to join you’ll see it says it right there

me: Little coaching, but we got through it.

me: Great job

terann1005: hurry up though sweetie i’m about to get my favorite toy so you can tell me what to do…. might wanna turn down the volume though ;) i can get pretty noisy sometimes lolz

me: I would actually pay to see a machine jerk off with a smaller machine.

—end transmission—

Nate Abshire is something of an asshole, but you can find him on Facebook or Twitter.

What Dreams May Come Back Around -- By Derek Sandin

thecornerbar — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 10:43:00 -0500

I’ve always envied those people who knew exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up from an early age. They get to spend most of their lives chasing their dumb dream and getting better at it. They’re also spared the cruelty of having to abandon something they spent years building once it’s obvious they’ve hit a dead end. But those people are pretty rare. Most people, I suspect, are like me in that they become what they are by a process of elimination.

One score ago or so, I was just a smart-ass kid in a small town cracking wise in class on a regular basis. I was at that age where you’re old enough that your personality is pretty well set, but not old enough to start doubting yourself and try to fit in with the kids around you. I wasn’t the only class clown in school but I always seemed to elude the punishment that the other clowns got from teachers. I made the teachers laugh too. I doubt I’d have ever paid attention in class if I hadn’t been allowed the liberty to make jokes about the subject of the lecture. Whenever I had a class with a teacher who didn’t like my sense of humor, I drew cartoons and wrote little sketches and such. Clearly, I had a strong interest in comedy.

I was also into baseball. Sure being funny won me a lot of friends, but being an athlete might win me some chicks. Over time it became more and more about baseball. Outside of trashing the opposing team from the dugout or teammates that sucked, the comedy was pretty much gone. I practiced almost every single day. My brother and I were obsessed with it. Even in the winter, when other kids were playing basketball or football, we’d be tossing the baseball around to keep our pitching arms in shape. Despite years of this nonsense, I finally had to accept that I was an average player on my stupid small town team. As a pitcher, I walked or beaned more batters than I struckout. I just didn’t have the talent. I didn’t win over any chicks either.

As I got close to adulthood I moved to the city and met many of the people that are still my closest friends. I always enjoyed music, but these people were serious fans. I was just a small town yahoo that loved my AC/DC and other rock acts I heard on the radio. They introduced me to a ton of different bands that are too numerous to mention here. They also introduced me to other fun things like drugs. It wouldn’t be long before a few of us formed a band. Comedy and baseball didn’t work but surely being in a band would get me some chicks, right? The band never went anywhere of course, but my friend Pete and I still had ambitions of starting a new band unlike anything anyone has ever seen or heard. But we didn’t know any drummers and we had to work for a living. The process of getting this thing going was slow. I was growing tired of being a grown man living on $6.00/hr and went back to school at MCTC hoping to work towards a college degree to ‘fall back on’.

Then, shortly after New Year’s Day, I learned that I’d knocked up the girl who until that point, had been my girlfriend for all of four months. My half-cocked dream of being a musician went right out the window. I never even got a bunch of chicks! Now I had to figure out how to support a family. I’d already been accepted to transfer to the U of M. Had I known I’d be a father, I’d have picked something a bit easier than the Astrophysics program. To me it was the most interesting and challenging major to pursue. I already had by heart set on becoming an astronomer. I wasn’t gonna let a little thing like a baby steer me off course. Well … it was a brutal few years as we raised our first baby while I studied some of the most difficult undergrad coursework in existence. By the end of it, I did graduate. But I was so burnt out on science and math, the thought of going to grad school in order to become an actual astronomer made me want to hang myself. Also, we were struggling financially and I needed to get a real job … fast!

After months of looking, I finally landed a desk job that a little retail outfit called Target. I had two kids now and finally made decent money. I was a full-fledged family man now. And what does every family man want to do? Provide a nice house with the yard for the kids to grow up in. Here I was at a company where I could move up and get those things. Now that was the dream. I was doing pretty good, too. Raises, promotions, it was just a matter of time. But something was wrong. I sure as hell wasn’t cut out to be a company man. I hated having multiple bosses ask me why SuperTarget was out of mozzarella cheese and what my action plan was to fix it. I longed to be creative again and to pursue something that I actually cared about. I was dying inside.

There was only one thing that I knew I could be good at that I hadn’t seen through as far as I could. But I was already in deep with work and kids and I was entering my thirties. But I was lucky enough to have a very good friend who happened to be a stand-up comic. (If you’re wondering who the asshole is that told me I should try stand-up, you have Patrick Bauer to thank for that.) He encouraged me to head out to Grumpy’s and give it a shot. For some reason, people laughed at my words and so I’ve kept at it. I can’t say I’ve honestly put forth my best effort yet. After all, my passion for comedy is only exceeded by my passion for doing nothing. But I have a direction and a goal and I like where it might lead. That and every other dream I ever had is dead.

The First Thanksgiving Comedy Show

thecornerbar — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 13:18:41 -0500

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Comedy has always been a big part of Thanksgiving, how can it not be, with drunk grandmas, racist uncles, and the bipolar “unicorn trainers” that get invited to thanksgiving dinners across America every year? But it’s more than that. Comedy is a MUCH bigger part of Thanksgiving.

A lot of people don’t know this, but there was a comedian booked for the very first Thanksgiving. He performed right there on Plymouth rock, next to a giant willow tree that had an old lady face and gave advice. The show was billed as a private event for 8 Native Americans and 14 pilgrims. It was the first corporate gig in America.

You may be wondering why a comedian would want to perform in such an intimate and unusual setting, without a microphone, stage, proper lighting, or a skilled MC. It sounds horrible right? But for 7 satchels of beads and a suspicious looking blanket (with a value at today’s standard of at least 30 satchels of beads and a small pox vaccine) it was hard to pass up. It’s crazy, but a comedian will do anything if the price is right. Heck, they’ll even host the price is right.

The Comedian booked for the event, a Cherokee named “Sticks To Time,” arrived to the Thanksgiving gig early because he wanted to get a good read on his audience, but mostly because he was riding an excited buffalo and traffic was better than anticipated. He felt uncomfortable mingling amongst the Pilgrims and Indians. He didn’t know anyone and they all looked at him like he was a monkey. This wasn’t his ideal demographic either, way too many old religious people, and by old I mean people in their late twenties, (average life expectancy was 30) and by religious I mean super religious. Yep, this was going to be awkward.

One of the Whites tried to make small talk and kept referring to what he does as doing “skits.” And if you’re not familiar with comedy lingo, this is actually quite offensive and condescending, comedians prefer it be called “Haha fun time.” But of course, Sticks To Time didn’t correct her; you have to be polite if you’re going to get your satchels of beads.

Sticks To Time’s attention was diverted away from the conversation when he noticed someone starting a fire, and sending out smoke signals. This was worrisome. He asked that they don’t tell any of the other tribes that he was doing haha fun time for them, because the comedy tribes were very territorial, and his whole family would get scalped if they found out he was performing within 200 miles of a competing club. A practice that is still upheld today.

Finally it was time to eat! The whites, Native Americans and Sticks to Time sat around a big picnic table full of yummy foods: pizza, cranberries, banana crème pie, egg rolls, and a pigeon that looked like a turkey. The Native Americans started to dig in, but were scolded “Not until we say a prayer! Sticks To Time, as our guest, will you lead us in prayer?” The nervous comedian went into survival mode and used “Improv” to declare, “Good bread, good meat, good God, lets eat!” Nobody laughed which was a bad sign, but even worse, nobody looked up. Apparently that wasn’t enough. So he continued his prayer, “Also… good trees… and good satchels of beads… good blankets… good god again… good colonization… good Johnny Appleseed… take it away Puritans!” It wasn’t looking good for our comedian hero. The puritans were disgusted. Why did he have to use Improv? That stuff is dark magic, nay witch craft. The lead Pilgrim rolled his eyes, said the lords prayer and suddenly announced “And now it’s time for Stinks Of Pine do the thing. Get up on that stump and do your skit while we eat in front of you. ”

It was the worst introduction any comedian had ever encountered, they forgot to mention his credits, not that knowing that he won the Funniest Person with a Day Job Contest at the TeeHee TeePee Comedy Club would really have mattered… But they also murdered his name.

Sticks To Time’s mind was racing. I mean how do you follow the Lords Prayer? Not having any other choice, he dove into his jokes; if he wanted those beads, he’d have to start making his way through the 45 minutes of haha fun time.

The set was a blur. Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have opened with the Plymouth Rock Paper Scissors joke, or followed it up with the homo-erotic dream catchers and dream pitchers act out. And the topographical map bit that alluded to how god isn’t real went over everybody’s head. Crowd rap was beyond painful, everyone was from the same place, and everybody was unemployed. Winning them over with a joke about how women are terrible wagon drivers was also quite unsuccessful. And the closer about how Pocahontas was a whore just didn’t work it’s usual magic.

All in all, if you count the sounds of silverware scraping against plates, then Sticks To Time destroyed. And true to his name, He stuck to his time.

The real lesson here, is to not take comedy gigs on holidays, and instead spend it with your family. Your family might not be able to give you amounts of beads, but they’ll at least laugh at your weird prayer and if they’re not too drunk, they usually get your name right.

Have a happy Thanksgiving everybody!

-Andy Erikson

For more Andy Erikson go to http://www.andyerikson.com/

How to be a Comedian. A guest blog by Bill Young

thecornerbar — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 20:00:00 -0500

I think that I can say, without ego, that I have performed stand up comedy more than once. Over the last ten years I have performed in multiple U.S. states, over five comedy clubs and two colleges. Hundreds of people have heard my jokes and some of them have even laughed when hearing the jokes. I feel I have unlocked every secret of stand up comedy and I will share them with you, gentle reader so you can get on the fast track to being a working comic because that’s what this world needs.

Drugs.

Drugs are, by far, the most important thing to do in comedy. It’s not enough just to do drugs, though. You need to have drugs, know where to get drugs and share drugs. Remember this PSA from the 90’s? Total bullshit. If you want to hang with the cool kids then you better sit the fuck down and shove some drugs in you.

Hate the Following Comedians.

Carlos Mencia.

Carrot Top.

Jeff Dunham.

Dane Cook.

Everybody in the Blue Collar Comedy Tour except Ron White for some reason.

If you’ve successfully hated all of the above listed comedians, you can move on to Advanced Comedian Ire and hate the following comedians for subtler reasons.

Dennis Leary

Orney Adams

Dat Phan

Deify Bill Hicks

Becoming a stand up comedian is not just about hating other comedians. There’s also love. Now that you are a comic Bill Hicks is your favorite comedian. He’s the best comedian ever and it is now your duty to get offended if somebody says that somebody else is their favorite comedian.

Be Incredibly Liberal

Stand up comedy is no place for conservative points of view. In fact, as a comedian, you should pretty much just base your political beliefs on disagreeing with everything a conservative has to say from taxes to religion which brings us to our next topic.

Be aggressively Atheist

You only don’t believe in God, you think other people who do are retarded and you have no problem telling them. As far as you’re concerned religion has caused more pain in this world than Conservatives and Jeff Dunham combined.

Take these simple tips and you’ll be featuring at a bar in the middle of North Dakota on a Thursday night in no time!

Editors Note:

You can get more Bill Young over at his blog http://www.youngnotions.com/

Zach Coulter's inpatient drug trial adventures

thecornerbar — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 11:35:00 -0500

From November 1st through the 10th I participated in an inpatient clinical drug trial. I lived with a group of fellow subjects in a dormitory that’s connected to a research clinic in downtown Minneapolis. What follows are a few selected anecdotes (unedited) from my time as a test subject.

*****

Day 1
Checked in this morning. I‘ve been here for 3 hours and already I’m having disturbing hallucinations brought on by caffeine withdrawal. Rehab is hard.*

On the last day of the study I will undergo a bronchoscopy. A pulmonologist will insert a tube into my nose and thread it down into my lungs. The doctor will spray some fluid into my lungs then suck it back up to measure how much dope is hanging out in there. I have spent the past two weeks before entering the study convincing myself that this is nothing to worry about.

I had to poop in a bag. Not, like, a handbag or a grocery bag- more like a sturdy Ziploc. A lot more could be said on the topic of pooping in a bag but perhaps I should move on? Pooping in a bag is such an indelicate topic and I’d hate to be thought gauche.**

There are two other young men sharing a room with me. I got a top bunk. I’m counting that as a win.

Memories of summer camp come flooding back on the first night as I softly weep myself to sleep.

*I’m obviously not actually in rehab, but that’s what I’ve told all my friends. It’s just so much sexier than doing a clinical drug trial for extra cash.
**When I don’t have caffeine for more than 2 hours I become gaucher and gaucher.

Day 2
Everything about this place makes me want to take a nap. Every few hours the nurses take a couple cc’s of my lush, delicious O-positive and every time I’m immediately ready to curl up with my nook and blankie.

I’m worried that if I say the name of the drug company sponsoring this research they will send hitmen after me like I’m Tom Cruise in The Firm or some other such thriller story. I need a cup of coffee, bad. When it comes to evading hitmen sent by evil pharma jerks I think I have well above-average skills. However, if I’m uncaffeinated, those hitmen will have a distinct advantage, maybe even enough to succeed in silencing me forever*. Well played evil pharma jerks. Well played.

MaxoBithSlime** really doesn’t want me to make any babies while I’m on their drug (they’ll come out radioactive and malformed apparently). Part of the agreement I signed states that I will use no fewer than three forms of birth control while I’m rollin’ on their experimental anti-biotic. Three forms! The thing is, abstinence only counts as one form of birth control (I asked!). Which means that even if I were not knockin’ boots while on their drug I’m technically obligated to take additional measures to avoid impregnating anybody. Even if I wore a condom on my flaccid penis at all times I would still only be using two forms of birth control. In order to be fully compliant with their rules I would need to take the further precaution of occasionally squirting a dollop of spermicidal foam down my pants. MaxoBithSlime is like the opposite of the Catholic Church.

*If you’re reading this blog post, they probably didn’t succeed at silencing me forever. Take that Tom Cruise!
**This is a made up name! Take that hitmen!

Day 3
What you do is, you just squat down, hold the open Ziploc bag up against your cheeks and let ‘er rip. It’s pretty straight-forward.

Day 4
How ironic is it to pretend to go to rehab in order to make money to buy drugs? Pretty ironic.

Day 5
What does any of this have to do with the Comedy Corner Underground? Everything! And nothing. While it’s true that I’ve never pooped in a bag at the CCUG (though I can’t speak for Pat Susmilch on that one) I have expelled lots of other effluvia down there. Lots.

Is coming to rehab just my way of getting away from news of the European debt crisis? (Will the PIIGS ever get their shit together? The drama is riveting!) If so, then my escaping skills are in dire need of a spit shine (hitmen take note!) because there are TV’s with cable in every room. And there’s Wi-Fi. I know waaaaay more about Herman Cain than I would have if I’d never come here. Goddamn you CNN.

I miss my friends and family, but I’ve only not seen them for a few days. But I go a few days without seeing people all the time. It’s a part of the depressive personality that sent me to rehab in the first place! I guess we can’t escape our demons, eh? We also can’t escape our Damons. I saw a commercial for the Talented Mr. Ripley 5 hours ago and I’m still shaken up by it. What a shitty actor.

Wearing scrub tops all day makes me feel like the laziest doctor ever. If I was really a doctor right now I would be like “SOMEBODY GET ME A CUP OF COFFEE STAT OR I’M GONNA EUTHANIZE THE WHOLE GODDAMN RENAL WARD!!!!!” Then I would throw my stethoscope at the wall.

Jane Lynch is getting overexposed.

Day 6
You’re gonna want to seal the Ziploc as soon as possible after you’re done.

Day 7
My brain is turning to mush. I misspelled “they’re” in a public forum. I wrote “their”.* It’s time to face the ugly truth that I am becoming everything that I hate. Intellectually lazy, slothful, and my fingernails need trimming.

Today is a big clinical day. That means lots of measuring my heart’s rhythms. Boring! The most I have to look forward to is one of the nurses accidentally brushing her hand against my junk while she’s taking some blood. I still need coffee.

I want to sire a radioactive, malformed heir with my radioactive, malformed druggy sperms just so I can be guaranteed one person in the world more pathetic than me. And because I’m lonely.

At night we get a snack. There are few things in the world more dehumanizing than being coerced into lining up for Snackwell’s and juice.

*If I have a cat who forgets how to spell “their” I put that cat down.

Day 8
I’ve grown more comfortable at the sight of my own blood. Needles no longer freak me out. The subjects all wear IV locks in our wrists that make drawing blood much faster. The locks are wrapped in cotton gauze and it’s not unusual for some subjects to have locks inserted in both wrists at one time. The overall effect is to make us all look like we failed at a suicide attempt.

For what it’s worth I haven’t grown that comfortable at the sight of my blood. If I was gonna “off” myself I would go gun all the way. Guns are fast, effective, and constitutional. Plus, if you get shot while buying a suicide gun? Give that arms dealer a bonus, he just saved you some wet work!

Day 9
I woke up at 4:30 this morning thinking about how the French get a raw deal in modern American discourse. The stereotype is that they’re a bunch of sissies. But in the French Revolution they lopped off heads! Here we are, stuck in the (Not So) Great Depression, and we can’t find one bureaucrat or congressperson to indict? Americans are the real sissies.

Then I giggle about pooping in a bag and fall back asleep.

Day 10
Tooday thay stik toobs in my nose! I gott watter borded thay gave mee dollers!

******

And so ends the journal of my time participating in a process that will inevitably save thousands of lives over the coming decades. Am I a hero? I’ll leave that to my biographers to determine. But, yes. I am.

Blues for Bloggers

thecornerbar — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 11:54:00 -0400

When Bob Edwards first stole my idea to create a blog for the Comedy Corner Underground, the Internet was a rumor, and as arcane a concept as blogging seemed to have few practical applications outside America’s manned space program.

Since that time, blogging seems to have pervaded virtually every corner of the blogosphere, even contributing its share of original terms to the English language (or, should I say, blanguage?).

Leave it to the CCUG to jump on a dying trend!

As a first-time blogger, I feel I’m in the perfect position to offer some advice to other prospective blauthors.

The second rule of blogging—I forget the first one—is to be organized. Or, to put in blogspeak, blorganized. Choose a blopic, and stick to it! And if you can’t do that, divide your thoughts into distinct blaragraphs, even if they’re only one or two blentences.

Blogging can be a great way to promote your blomedy or follow your favorite blomics.

I sort of envisioned this as a one-shot deal, but there’s talk of featuring various Comedy Corner Underground regulars here as guest bloggers. Still, I’m honored to have been the first.

In fact, it’s been more than an honor. It’s been a blinconvenience.

Scott Brady

Scott Brady at The CCUG

Scott Brady headlines The Scott Brady Conspiracy, with co-conspirators Corey Adam and Chad Filley, this Saturday at The Comedy Corner Underground.

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