Love>Hate

 

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In what has been possibly the most divisive election year this country has ever seen, we have now yet again been struck with a national tragedy that will unfortunately serve to further divide us. I am going to do my absolute best (and probably fail) to not be a hypocrite here, because lord knows I am one opinionated son of a bitch. If you follow my stand up career, my blog, facebook, or twitter, then you are probably aware of where I stand on assault rifles and blind xenophobic rhetoric (ain’t for em) but that’s not what I want to express.

Do I think that with enough persistence we can put an end to the rapid rate in which these acts of terror take place? I sure do. Do I think it will be easy? Shit no, man. I sure don’t. We as a country are at the pinnacle of disagreement on the subject of Gun Control and Border Patrol. You can’t pick ten folks at random who feel the same on either subject (unless you were with me at Bonnaroo this weekend). This is going to be a long journey for both sides of the coin, and it’s something that may not be solved (or at least calmed down) within my lifetime, and I’ve made peace with that.

There is one thing that we can try though – something that I’m not so good at myself from time to time. We can love those closest to us with a fiery passion. As I’m sure the family members of the 50 victims in Orlando would tell you, it is important to let the ones you love know it every day. Consume yourself with love so much that nothing else is able to get in. Focus your energy on your friends and family and hold them close. It’s hard to smile sometimes, especially when we have to wake up to news like this so often, but a smile can be so important. It can be contagious. It can be a relief. And even though it seems we have so much to cry over these days, there is still so much to smile for. There is so much to laugh at.

In the end, we have the love for our family and our friends. Make what time you have count. We are not promised tomorrow, but I can promise you that if I don’t make it till then, I love and AM loved. It’s a wonderful thing, and it’s all we have.

 

Let’s stop letting this bullshit happen. Thoughts are with you, Orlando.

Our Sundy Best…

Hey guys, Very aware that my page seems baron.. and it totally is. I apologize but for the last month or so I have been working on a project with my two best comedy buddies; Drew Whitney Morgan and Trae Crowder. You may know Trae as The Liberal Redneck. Anyways, we have a blog that I’m certain you’d enjoy a great deal… it’s called Our Sundy Best and it is basically the political musings of 3 southern comedians giving their serious opinions on very silly topics. I hope you check it out and I hope to see you soon in your city.. check back for upcoming dates from the WellRed tour.

 

Thank you and have a great day.

 

Corey

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For the Love of Comedy

On March 26th 2016, Garry Shandling passed away. Gary was an innovator, a pioneer, a legend, and above all just one of the funniest guys to do it.

Like Robin Williams, David Brenner, George Carlin, Bernie Mac and several others in the last decade, the Johnny Carson generation is dropping and its a horrible thing as a comedian to witness. These are our idols. This is what we aspire to do.

I have written in great detail about the loss of my friend and hero Tim Wilson (You can read that here) and having another Comedian pass before their time tends to re-open those wounds for myself and I’m sure all other comedians.

It’s not hard to notice a certain trend among stand up comedians: We don’t stick around too long. People will tell you it’s due to drug use, alcoholism or just hard living in general, but I disagree. I think you’re allotted a certain amount of things in life that you can mock or call bullshit on. Once that number is up, you’re out. We obviously go through ours a little quicker. The good ones seem to anyways.

Every comedian that I know I think understands that the stress and the lifestyle of what we do is not conducive to a long life, but if harnessed correctly, it can be the key to making someone else’s worth living.

 

Hug a comic if you see one. Love one if you can.

 

RIP Garry.

 

‘Corey

 

 

Care Package. 


I got a care package in the mail today from a friend in LA (I won’t mention their name on account of legal reasons.)

Included in the package:

4 PBR Hats

2 pairs of sunglasses

A Fleshlight

A can of Mariujana soda

 
To say I love being a comedian and love the people that comedy has put in my life would be an understatement.

Thanks, (redacted). Love ya!!

Throwing Rocks at Bottles

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Much of my childhood was spent in the space between getting in, and getting out of trouble. It’s where I thrived, and its where I nurtured friendships that I still hold dear to this day. I learned how to dig a hole for the purpose of burying one of my sisters Barbie dolls far before I would have learned the skill for a higher purpose. In fact, there is absolutely no telling how many items I have buried in the Georgia clay that surrounded the house where  I grew up. Perhaps one day I’ll go back and ask the current owner if I can have a dig for old times sake. This is of course the South, so I know the fella.

By the time I was in 5th grade I was a fairly good aim with a rock. Me and my buddies would sneak back to the recycling center after Baseball practice and line up beer bottles on an old log in front of Smith’s Garage. Greens were worth so much, Browns were worth so much, and you pretty much garnered all the points if you sacked up and chunked a rock through one of the windows in the garage. I did that a lot. Shouldn’t have, but did.

To this day I know nothing of Mr. Smith except for the fact that at one point he had a garage. At the time it was old and worn down – and hell this was the early 90’s, so one can only imagine what kind of shape its in now as I doubt anything has been done about it. I’d go back and check myself, but they moved the recycling center so there wouldn’t be any bottles for me to bust. Whats the point in that? Nope, didn’t know anything about the man but we used to swear late at night that we would see his red eye balls staring at us from inside one of the half-broken windows as we sat there throwing rocks and kicking over ant hills. Red eyes.. thats the type of bullshit you can only get from a 9 year old.

Another cool feature of this recycling center was that it had a huge bin full of just magazines. This was before the internet mind you , so free literature of any kind was a particularly big deal. Sure, we could have gone to the library, but the last time I checked you couldn’t break shit there. You see a pattern? We used to love finding the old Car magazines. We’d sit it there for hours looking at concept cars dreaming about what the future was going to be like for us. We’d talk about which cars we were gonna have when we were our dad’s age completely unaware of the fact that you had to have, like, a job and stuff. We’d talk about which brand was the best,  (and since thats determined by whatever your Papaw had) I of course thought it was GMC. (I ended up driving that Truck later in life, but thats for another time).  “Yep, GMC is the best and I don’t really give much of a damn what the rest of yuns have to say!” People always sound more redneck in the past. Thats just Writing: 101

One day we had just finished up ball practice and the subsequent game of wall-ball that followed, so we decided to hustle down to the recycling center for our usual rounds of troublesome meddling. A buddy of mine who we will just call William for the purposes of this story had beaten us down there. We got to the magazine bin to find William staring at a magazine with his jaw somewhere near the bottom of the pile.

“What the hell are you looking at man?” one of us said.

” You guys gotta check this out!”

That’s the first time I ever laid eyes on a Playboy Magazine. Now don’t think this is going to get disgusting-it would be YEARS before any of us knew what to do with one. We just all knew we liked it. We didn’t know why, but we did. I think about that often, and I think about that fondly. The first time a sexualized thought entered my mind, and the last time one entered my mind without ruining something for me eventually. I wish I could go back and tell that kid, “Hey buddy.. keep throwing rocks at bottles. Thats all you need to do.”

 

For the love of God, keep throwing rocks at bottles.

 

Auld Lang Syne or (Crackers and Milk With a Warm Soda)

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I like eating crackers in milk. It sounds disgusting to almost everyone my age, but it is one of my favorite treats. I learned it from my Papaw Harvey when I was a Kid and though I have evolved to using Town House Crackers instead of Premium Saltines, I still consider it old school and it gives me a sense of nostalgia every time I sit down to enjoy it. I usually have this for a meal at least once a week and between that and the copious amounts of IPA’s I consume on a daily basis, its no surprise that my waist-line shares the same exponential growth as your average student loan.

Another habit I picked up from my Papaw Harvey was being able to drink sodas at room temperature to no dismay. In fact, I would rather have a room temperature Coca-Cola (Pronounced: “Co’cola ” where I’m from) than one on ice any day. The Ice just waters it down and I want my soda to be crisp to the last drop. Unlike Crackers and Milk, I didn’t pick up this habit out of admiration but more as the result of stubborn nurturing. Thats how my Papaw liked his drinks, and by God thats the way it should be. He would physically intervene if my grandmother was trying to pour me a Coke over ice. ” That boy don’t need no ice! Tastes better without it, ya hear?” As an Adult, and someone who still uses the same refridgerator that my grandparents had as a kid.. I think it’s because papaw didn’t like filling back up the ice trays. Yeah, that has to be it.

That’s almost a metaphor if you want to look at it that way. Instead of putting in a little effort and getting something great, we convince ourselves that the easy way is good enough. Not only do we convince ourselves of that, but we convince others as well. We don’t want to be alone in our laziness. We don’t want to feel like we gave up or gave in, we want to feel like we just did the sensible thing. Playing it safe only feels good if it’s a team sport. Otherwise you feel like a huge coward.

I find myself guilty of this so much in my life, but in 2016, there will be no more warm Cokes.

Happy New Year

 

When It Rains, I Pour

We’ve had a series of gully-washers for the past few weeks here in the South. For my Northern Friends who may not understand, a gully-washer is usually defined as a short, yet torrential downpour of rain. The term was coined by farmers who experienced the run-off from a large rain washing small “Gullies” in their freshly plowed ground.

I love that phrase along with many other southern colloquialisms, such as (but not limited to): Yonder, Reckon, Ain’t, awe Hell, Shit far, Skeeew Doggy, Hissy fit, Makes as much sense as tits on a bull, That dog’ll hunt, and Well Butter my Butt and Call me a Biscuit.

I love the phraseology of “Gully-Washer”, but I don’t necessarily care for what it stands for. See, when I was a kid I loved the rain because every time it would rain, My Nanny Sue (My Dad’s momma.. she watched me every day while my folks were at work) would get me and put me in her car. We’d drive around Mountain View and she’d get a tire on every puddle she could find. I loved watching the water cascade over her white Buick. It was as close to a wave as I’d see until it was time for family vacation in Florida. As long as I was laughing and smiling, she’d keep driving. She’d drive through those puddles until she wore em dry.

I think about her every time it rains and I see a puddle. What used to make me so happy now fills my heart with sorrow. It’s a happy memory, no doubt, but I’m merely stealing a smile from the past. What I wouldn’t give to have her drive me one more time through that asphalt ocean of joy. She’s been gone over 20 years and thats still the first thing I think of when it rains. I miss her. I always will. img_0347

 

Keith’s Christmas: Part 2

IMG_3005.JPGAccording to myth, thousands of years ago a celestial being was born to a virgin in a barn. That kid grew up and was allegedly nailed to a tree, all to save even the sorriest of us from eternal damnation.

It only seems natural that we celebrate this occasion with bouts of gluttony, overt-coveting, and the misconstrued idea that we are the only ones who matter. This behavior could be called the “Uncle Keith Hat Trick”.

As the family was gathered around the table eating plate after plate of condensed-soup-based dishes, Uncle Keith sat at the head washing down his turkey leg every other bite with sloshing swigs of Milwaukee’s Best. It was like every movie you see about Camelot or just the Medieval times in general. The King would always be eating what looked to be the meat from an entire hog all the while chugging wine from a gallon sized chalice. This is what Keith reminded me of, yet I’m not sure his potential for sovereign power. Keith could barely keep the zipper on his pants in check so I’m not sure I’d trust him with the monetary needs of an entire country.

“Who the hell made this Pineapple bullshit?”, Uncle Keith said with bits of cracker escaping his mouth between syllables. “It’s Pineapple casserole, Keith. Carol did.”, Cousin Douglas piped up without even looking up from his plate. “Well hell it aint bad, I just thought it was squash. You Know how when ya think something is Coca-Cola but turns out its sweet tea? Well hell I like Sweet tea but not if I think it’s a god dern flat Coke Cola!”. Keith certainly had a way with words.

Aunt Joyce sat in silence and fought back the urge to confront the crowd as to why they hadn’t tried any of her Pink Stuff. ” I make it every year”. she thought to herself. “Have they always hated it and this is just the year that they have collectively decided not to fake it anymore? Is there a hair in it? Am I going crazy?”. Aunt Joyce was undoubtedly the most neurotic person I have met in my entire life and I have no doubt that that is where I get it from. Given, Joyce’s can be explained by the mishaps in her life probably more-so than it can be chalked up to genetics, but I spent a lot of time with her in the beauty shops growing up and what with the “Nature vs. Nurture” debate, nurture whooped ass in this one as far as it concerned me.

Joyce had always been the type of person who relied on the staunch approval of others to validate nearly every move she made. I believe with my whole heart that the reason she is so involved in the church is simply to qualify for the Yard of The Year Program that they have every year to recognize..well, the best yard that particular year. She never seemed to pay attention to the service much (as was made evident by her contradicting behavior shortly there after) but she certainly always had on her Sunday best dress and a big ass hat to match it. If you aren’t familiar with a Sunday service in the south, particularly at a Baptist church.. a lot of the women wear big ass hats. Im not sure if it is still the case as I haven’t been to a service in about ten years, but they certainly did when I was a kid. It was a Kentucky Derby style fashion statement and the women were proud as can be of them. So proud that they didn’t take them off during prayer. That always seemed odd to me because not only were men damn sure not supposed to wear a hat inside of the church, they especially wouldn’t be able to keep it on during the prayer. Hell, that was a rule outside of the church. However it is perfectly acceptable for the women to wear hats at all times. It doesn’t interfere with their worship like it does men for some reason. That reason by the way is that religion (all religion) is a crock of shit. Write that down, kids.

“Is there a reason no one has had any of the pink stuff?” Joyce asked the table. Silence fell over the crowd because everyone was accustomed to the egg shells they had to walk on in front of Joyce at this point.” No Joyce, I was just saving it for dessert. You know I prefer your pink stuff to a piece of pie any day” Granny Margret chimed in. Joyce gave a nervous grin. “Well, you say that but it seems a bit curious to me that not a soul has touched it.”.

“Yeah, I can’t believe people aren’t standing in line to get cherry flavored Cool-Whip. How could they have their plates filled with actual food when your Jello Box recipe from 1965 is sitting their ripe for the picking!” Uncle Keith drunkenly slurred.

Tears began to well up in Aunt Joyce’s eyes as she tried to grin through the insult. Keith kept eating as if  nothing had happened and everyone else at the table exchanged glances with each other as a way to express that they were all on the same page of how awkward it had become. I was doing my best to mind my own business because this is how it happens every year with me and Keith. He jaws off on some bullshit, I get in his ass and call him out for being the backwards, misogynistic, misinformed jackass that he is, and then he informs me that I’m just a kid that doesn’t know shit from Shinola. He will go on a rant concluding with the famous Churchill quote, “If You Are Not a Liberal at 25, You Have No Heart. If You Are Not a Conservative at 35 You Have No Brain”. That’s a fine quote, but when it comes from the lips of someone who hasn’t had the right to vote since 1985 when they were arrested on felony assault charges, you can kind of understand why it chaps my ass.

“Ahh Hell, don’t everyone get their panties in a wad. Joyce is just gonna play the sad sap card to get every one on her side like she does every time.. then I’m the asshole for no damn reason. Don’t get on my ass because I say what I think. Im tired of this politically correct bullshit.” Keith said this as he threw  his napkin down and excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Uncle Keith has a very misguided view of what “Political Correctness” means. He views it as an attack on his first amendment rights which he thinks means that he can say whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and no one is allowed to give him shit for it. He’s a special kind of asshole. He’s the type of guy who blames black people for every home robbery regardless of evidence, yet doesn’t hold white pedophiles to the same prejudice. Keith has spent most of his life inside his own bubble and in doing so knows only what he was taught by his father, and what his father taught him. This vicious cycle goes all the way back to his great-great grandfather thinking that it was OK to hit your wife in private if she embarrassed you in public, so you’ve got to understand that this can be a problem for the little dumb liberal that I had become. A dumb liberal raised by an entire family of staunch conservatives. You see, Uncle Keith? A man can make up his own mind if he wants to.

Aunt Joyce began to visibly weep as soon as Uncle Keith left the table. “Its alright, Joyce. You know he’s just a bitter old cuss. He don’t mean nothing by it.” Uncle Ernest said.

Through tears Aunt Joyce responded, ” Every year. Every year that man has something to say. He uses me like a punching bag because he is too miserable for his own good. He has to knock me down to make himself feel better, and I am just sick of it!”

“Well there ya go, Joyce, you get it then. He aint worth getting upset over. Hell, we will all get up and get a helping of your dessert.. won’t we y’all?” Ernest said to the crowd. Every one agreed in unison and began to get up from the table. Joyce wiped a tear from her face, ” Now ya’ll don’t put me on now on account of Keith.. I know it aint the best in the world and I ourt not be so sensitive about it. I’ve just had a bad day”.

I couldn’t let Joyce think that so I got a huge portion and swallowed it down in a few bites. ” I’ll be honest Aunt Joyce, I didn’t see it at first.. had I known it was there I wouldn’t have even gotten any Sweet Potatoes!”

I shouldn’t have said that because my mother made the sweet potatoes, but she knew what I was doing so it was ok. ” Don’t let that asshole get you in a bad mood. He wants to act like you play the sad sap card? That’s rich coming from someone who hasn’t worked in 20 years and wants to claim unemployment from a bad back we all know is bullshit. He wants to sit there not doing shit while being the moral majority for lazy people in this country? He votes republican because he’s against queers getting married even though their legislature goes directly against someone on welfare and below the poverty line such as his sorry ass. Im sorry for cursing at the dinner table but he’s just an ignorant piece of shit.”

I don’t wish for a lot of things. I’ve got a good dog, a nice piece of land, a family that loves me, and I do well enough to afford all the sports packages on cable. But one thing I do wish is that I had known Uncle Keith could hear me from the Kitchen…

 

To be continued.

 

 

 

Keith’s Christmas: Part 1. 

The pitter-patter on the roof was not that of reindeer hooves nor the sounds of branches bouncing off the shingles during the late December wind-storm. No, it was the sound of Uncle Keith drunkenly adjusting the satellite dish because, “I’ll Be God damned if I’m gonna sit here and listen to my fag Nephew go on about Bernie Sanders without the Game on!”. The subjects may have changed, but the prose remains the same: Copious amounts of alcohol lubing the the gears of a close minded cursing machine. Uncle Keith was famous for it.

Aunt Nancy was in the Kitchen cooking and nibbling on a Port wine cheeseball. Meemaw wouldn’t touch it because drinking is a sin. “All the alcohol is cooked out, Ma!” Aunt Nancy yelled, obviously fiendin’ for a cigarette. Meemaw quickly yelled back, “You can’t cook the devil out… it don’t work that way!!”

Mee maw continued to mash the potatoes while Aunt Nancy checked the oven for the rolls and wondered what has been stopping her from sticking her head in there. Was it the kids? “Hell  no.” she thought,  “If I was dead all that would mean to them is they would have to cook their own Sunday dinner. The only time they come to see me is when there is Food involved or when one of the cousins gets drunk and winds up up T-boning a guard rail somewhere in Alabama.”. Was it her faith? Maybe. That makes as much sense as anything I guess. I’ve always found that to be weird-God wants you in Heaven but not a second sooner than he intends. Whatever, if it keeps Aunt Nancy around I’m fine with it. She has been my favorite since I was a kid because she let me cuss in front of her. She’s the reason that the smell of cigarettes mixed with White Diamonds perfume comforts me and should be made in to a candle.

The men are all in the living room at this point watching the game. Keith, the one who wanted to watch the game more than anything is passed out drunk in front of the fire-Or he’s dead. No one knows, no one cares. Aunt Joyce walks in carrying a plate of sausage balls.. her “World Famous” sausage balls. Yeah, Joyce-World Famous!. You haven’t gone farther than the God damn grocery store in 30 years but I’m certain that some Sheikh from the Arabian Peninsula is rock hard for your dry ass sausage balls. The men wash them down-some with beer, and the worst of the bunch with Sweet Tea. That’s how it tends to go for southern families: You are either a RAGING DRUNK, or a Boring-ass Tee-Totaling bitch. “If you’re having a good time, wouldn’t you want to remember it?”,” It tastes nasty!”, “Jesus is always watching “, “I used to blackout and try to drown cats” are excuses these people will make. I just don’t understand it. I don’t think I have a substance abuse problem per-se, but growing up in this environment and living in the Bible belt.. I mean, it’s either developing an affinity for a buzz or having to experience all of this with complete lucidity. I choose the former. Every single time.

The younger cousins are running around the house fighting over who gets to be what wrestler in the Bedroom cage match they are about to have. One that will most assuredly end up with several of the kids crying. If not from a suplex gone wrong, then definitely from the ass whipping they will receive for knocking all of the jackets off the bed and exposing the pack of Cigarettes 15 year old Kimmy had hidden in her pea-coat. You’d think no one would’ve known who’s cigarettes they were seeing as the entire family could buy a Villa on Mars with Marlboro points, but unfortunately for Kimmy, they were menthols. No one from the family had smoked menthol cigarettes since Uncle Keith got back from a business trip to Atlanta and informed everyone that Black folk smoked them. Per this logic, Uncle Keith must have seen a black man take a shower too.

Dinner was then served buffet-style and the women took turns complimenting the presentation and assuming the quality of their respective dish which held up the line to the dismay of all the men-especially the drunk ones. Once everyone had fixed their plate and found their seat, Aunt Joyce noticed that no one had put a dent in her Cherry Fluff (Pink Stuff) dessert. The logical explanation was that people were waiting until after their meal.. the Pink Blob took up a lot of room on the plate and wasn’t so appetizing when accidentally mixed with the mashed potatoes. I wish that’s how Joyce interpreted it.

If she did, maybe Uncle Keith would still have Both of his eyes.

To be continued……