So, this Thursday will be a day I have dreaded for literally over a year now. It’s my 30th birthday. I’m officially old.
Most people have been supportive of this milestone b day. “Oh, your 30’s are so much better than your 20’s.” And, “You’re still a baby. Wait till you hit 40.” That’s sweet. You know what’s not? Still living a life full of stories/ memories that continuously produce the same theme of shameful drunken irresponsibility at an age where I still value Sunday Fundays way more than 401k’s.
So, I decided to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.
A detailed novella of all of my favorite stories, shortcomings, and awkward moments. Basically a 30 for 30 of the most underwhelming autobiography you’ve ever read. That being said…
“What if I told you that an underachieving, attention starved, middle aged lesbian trapped in a 29 year old male’s body could instantly make you feel better about yourself?
ESPN and Oxygen Channel present the 30 for 30: Chris Marler’s AutCryOgraphy.
Touché vs. Touchey
My biggest crush in high school was a girl named Brittany. She was beautiful, funny, and also a year older than me. Now, is probably a good time to mention that I am a late bloomer. Like a HUGE late bloomer. This girl was so out of my league. She was a 10, and I was legit wearing jean shorts and braces into my junior year of high school for Christ sakes.
Anyway, we became friends. And, when I say “friends” I mean I’m sure I read way too much into literally everything she ever said to me. Regardless, Freshman year of college she sent me a text out of the blue. To say I was excited is the understatement of the century. Pretty sure I did a celebratory dance and split. Which is pretty fucking difficult to pull off in a pair of Old Navy carpenter jorts.
Also, keep in mind this is 2005. So, I am texting her from a flip phone with T9.
Also, keep in mind that I’m an idiot.
So, at some point I responded with “touche.” I don’t know why. It’s not even important because I didn’t know how to spell it, and my T9 corrected to “touchey.” Toughington.
To make it worse, I panicked and IMMEDIATELY wrote back to correct myself. However, I spelled it the exact same fucking way. So essentially Brittany just received two texts back to back that said, “Touchey, Touchey.”
We literally didn’t speak for 8 years…
IED vs. IUD
Let’s just keep this one short and (not so) sweet. I was really drunk in 2014, and in the middle of hooking up with a girl she informed me that there was no reason to pull out because she had an IUD.
I immediately responded with, “You have a roadside bomb in your vagina?!” And then proceeded to laugh hysterically at my own dumb joke.
Only one of us laughed…
And both of us slept alone.
One of my favorite weekends ever in comedy was in May of 2014. I was featuring at The Punchline in Atlanta for a good buddy of mine, Colin Kane. Back story – Colin is probably the most attractive comedian in the industry. So, women love him and pack out his shows. (This picture is literally in no way indicative of that. It’s just the only one I could find.)
So, we’re doing a weekend of shows – 1 Thursday, 2 Friday, and 3 Saturday. Thursday night goes really well. I had a great set. Afterwards, Colin invites me to the front of the club to take pictures and meet and greet with the audience.
I end up getting a number from one girl. Long story short I end up meeting up with her and her friends, we went home together, etc.
So come Friday, I’m on cloud 9. Now, granted I’m insecure AF. But, I am riding a wave of confidence like never before…
Next night, we do 2 shows, and I had great sets at both. Now, my head/ arrogance has ballooned like a fucking float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. We repeat the fan/ audience pic and hand shake process, and as I’m sitting next to the exit a group of girls come up. They ask for a picture. I oblige because Chris Marler does always makes times for the 6 fans Chris Marler has.
Then, right before the photographer says “Cheese” one girls says, “I told you he was funny! He’s my favorite gay comedian in Atlanta!” I quickly told her I wasn’t gay, and her only response was, “Haha yeah. Ok.”
Needless to say the pics didn’t turn out great. However, that compliment is the only consistent feature in my resumé and/ or any social media bio.
“Hair of the Dog”
In December of 2013 I had one of the most awkward mornings of my life. To preface this I will say that 2013 was my worst year as an adult human. I was a garbage person fueled off irresponsibility and Bud Light. (That’s not Jeff. It’s just proof that I was fat.)
The night before the SEC Championship game I went out with my best friend Jeff. I don’t remember most of the night, but what I do remember was the most uncomfortable morning after I’ve ever experienced.
I woke up at my apartment Saturday morning with a miserable hangover. So, I decided to go to the gas station across the street from my apartment complex and buy a lifetime supply of Gatorade to right this ship. I stumble over in a drunken fog, grab a Gatorade, and proceed to (attempt to) pay…
As, I reached in my pocket for money I somehow pulled out an actual braid of human hair.
You know that feeling when you put on a pair of jeans you haven’t worn in awhile, and you find a $20 in the pocket? And, you feel on top of the world like you had just won some self generated lottery? That’s a great feeling right?
So, imagine literally the total opposite of that.
I pulled out a 6 inch braid of hair from my pocket AS MY FORM OF PAYMENT.
The cashier was horrified. I was equally horrified. And, he was looking at me like, “Did this lesbian manchild scalp someone last night?” And unfortunately, I didn’t have a concrete answer to that question.
Odds are it was some ratchet ATLien’s weave I found on the street the night before and decided to keep as if it were good luck. But trust me, there is no more unsettling feeling than trying to barter at a 7/11 for 20 oz of electrolytes with your “lucky Ratchet’s Foot.”
Dawson’s Creek on Fleek
Honestly, this may be the only story I’m prideful of in this series. One time in 2014 I decided to work a Saturday double at my soul sucking restaurant job, and I decided to do it without taking any medication for my off the charts ADD. Not my best plan. Anyway, at some point during the night I got the theme song from Dawson’s Creek stuck in my head, and I begin to sing only the opening line repeatedly for like two hours straight.
So, from like 8:30 to 10:30 I just kept yelling, “I DON’T WANNA WAIT!” Like some horrible tourette syndrome themed karaoke that nobody signed up for.The only reason it was funny is because the next day I showed up for work and was sat down by the managers.
I work at a very corporate place (Houston’s), and I had received a guest complaint that made it’s way to corporate. When that happens you have to sign a document acknowledging what you did, and basically promise to make a consistent effort to avoid having a problem like that again. Also, if you get 3 of these you are most likely fired which means if I were actually fired and tried to claim unemployment – HR at Houston’s would have to pull out a file to review my tenure and read THIS actual statement I’m about to tell you…
“The server in the glasses ruined our date because he wouldn’t stop singing the theme song from Dawson’s Creek.”
Then I had to basically buy a promise ring to our owner that I would either A) take my medicine at work and/ or B) not ruin date night for people with Paula Cole shoutouts. Really? You Yelped about me singing? And I thought Pacey was a pussy.
Roll Damn Tide
Despite literally all of the things you’re reading I can tell you right now that one of my absolute worst qualities is that I’m a diehard Alabama fan. Oh! Also, I’m a terrible fucking person.
So, much so that missing Bama games led to a breakup of my longtime girlfriend in college. She broke my heart because she couldn’t compromise on me missing her formal for the 2008 Alabama vs. LSU game.
Sorry Anne. I’m not saying that weren’t as important as Alabama football. I’m just saying that singing “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Shout’ with a bunch of ADPi’s and douchebags in bowties is DEFINITELY not as important as an overtime victory that preserves an undefeated season.
Regardless, of our differences we had an amicable breakup. Well, not exactly amicable as much as her hating sports and me irrationally defending my selfishness during rivalry week. Most adults would let this go, and be positive because we obviously weren’t meant to be.
However, I’m a terrible person who’s at his worst under the influence of draft beer and Fireball. So, when Alabama won the National Championship in 2009 I celebrated hard AF. I drank 3 bottles of champagne and walked home without a shirt on in the middle of January while pissing myself midstride (not a joke).
However, the most important victory that night wasn’t won on the field. It was won in the zig zag stagger down Hancock St in Milledgeville, GA that was drenched in urine and celebration when I decided to drunk dial my ex and proudly exclaim, “Hey, Anne, I’m sure you saw that game. Just wanted to let you know that Bama is 26-2 without you. What have you done?” Then I spiked my phone onto the ground like the most financially unsound mic drop ever.
Also, she’s a teacher now, and happily married, so she’s doing pretty well…
But does she have 4 national titles in 7 years?! *Air high fives anyone that will agree with me on repeat*
It’s My Dick In a Back
My sophomore year of college was really exciting for me. I had recently lost a lot of weight, was in great shape, on the baseball team, and had a shrivel of confidence about myself.
Another thing that’s not cool about me (and would/ did/ still does derail any amount of confidence I have) is that I have hyperhydrosis. That means I sweat incessantly. Always. All the time. No matter the weather.
So, Fall of 2005, I’m 19 with this newfound confidence. Early in the semester our Athletic Director decides to hold a barbecue for all the athletic teams in school to create some camaraderie. I was excited because it meant I could take this new found swagger and talk to the hot female athletes that would be at said BBQ.
The barbecue was outside at the same factuality as our baseball stadium, and it was immediately following practice. We were supposed to have enough time to shower before the event because the AD asked everyone to dress in “Sunday best” aka collared shirt and khaki shorts.
However, Coach Calciano got mad about something, and made us run a shit ton after practice, so the entire team ended up having to go to the BBQ in our baseball uniforms.
I was still fine with that because I was all, “Hey, I spent the summer running and doing lunges, and I finally look good and not like a pear in baseball pants.” But, as luck would have it my hyperhydrosis, and knack for ruining my own momentum, shattered my confidence.
After standing in line for 10-15 minutes for food, trying to be funny/ flirty, etc we all sat down. I noticed a few of the girls laughing around me, so naturally I thought, “Man they must think I’m so funny, and now they’re probably gonna wanna date me and make out later.”
I had sweated through the back of my shirt, and I shit you not it was in the perfect shape of a dick and balls.
I guess, my leftover love handles assisted my genetic inferiorities, and made literally a giant phallic sweat stain on my back. To make it worse, I immediately panicked and ran to the bathroom. Not knowing what to do I took off my shirt and put in under the sink, so the dick banner would disappear.
So, then I just walked out looking EVEN SWEATIER THAN BEFORE.
I blew my chance. I made out with only one female athlete my entire time at Georgia College. She’s now married…to a woman. Solid.
Country Grammar Hammered
Like every white person ever in the world – I am a HUGE Nelly fan. I mean who doesn’t love face bandaids and songs about vowels?! (That’s a reference to E.I. idiots). My best friend Jeff is also a big fan. Not only that he’s from St. Louis, and has met Cornelius several times.
So, one Saturday afternoon in 2011, my (token black friend as he calls himself) Meco texts me and Jeff asking if we wanted to go out to The Compound that night. For those of you unfamiliar, The Compound is a primarily all black club in Atlanta. We had actually already been for Meco’s birthday, but Jeff and I didn’t fair so well. And, when I say “fair so well” I mean were outside the club drinking knockoff grape soda (not a joke. It’s Faygo, and it was delicious) while I tried to drunkenly haggle a stranger for cloves and a bottle of Moet.
Anyway, Meco asks if we want to go, and I decline because of the regretful showing we previously made there.
Then he tells me we have VIP…and it’s Nelly’s birthday.
So, Jeff and I stuck to our guns and made the responsible decision. Meaning, we split and adderall and some Red Bull and Vodkas to wake up to hang out with Nelly.
So, we’re in VIP, and in walks Nelly. He’s being mobbed, and ends up at a VIP table diagonal from ours with Jeezy and Ludacris. Now, I didn’t want to be that white dude trying to drunkenly be best friends with Nelly (yes I did) and be over the top about meeting him and the other rappers he was with that I had seen in Fast & Furious 2 (uh yes I definitely did). But, after I had enough liquid confidence I decided that we should meet Nelly.
Sorry to blue ball the story, but I don’t really remember much after that. All I remember was yelling at his bodyguard that Nelly and my biffle Jeff were from the same hometown in Missouri while I tried to basically give a resume of my street cred to the bouncer. Nelly actually heard me say Jeff was from St. Charles, turned around, and said, “Oh Word?” And motioned him in.
I followed suit by trying to dap up the body guard with a fist pound and then panicked into a handshake and turned our interaction into the most awkward paper beats rock handshake ever. I was then asked not to follow Jeff into their table, and I sat outside like a thirsty groupie trying to fit in with the cool kids.
So, in 2013 I had just broken up with a girl I dated for 4 years. Afterwards, I did what any self-respecting 27 year old man wold do…I got myself head over heels emotionally invested in an unhealthy 3 week “relationship.”
Again, I’m gonna reference that whole late bloomer thing…
So, this girl was very pretty. She was a lawyer too. I was neither of those things. I was an injured fawn full of emotional turmoil. Basically, I was a fat bartender at Whitehall Tavern with a patchy “beard” and enthusiasm for entry level alcoholism.
One day, we’re hanging out after she had left the tanning bed and we were about to have secks. At this point I had only had sex with 3 people in my life. And, I was 27. That should describe my prowess…
So right before it was about to happen she prematurely apologized that she was “spotting.” I took that in stride because I’m a gentleman. And, I immediately pointed at a serious of sunspots on her forehead and casually asked if it was from the tanning bed.
Gentleman take notes. If you’re looking for the best way to not have sex – my favorite method is hearing a girl voice one physical insecurity and then immediately point out a different insecurity. You’re welcome.
That’s all I have for Part 1.
But, here are some other fun facts that are 100% true but I’m too tired to write about –
My high school girlfriend cheated on me with Knowshon Moreno
My Dad’s (legal) name is Dyke
I won a state Championship for cursive handwriting in 3rd Grade
Lou Bega (from Mambo #5) once followed me on Twitter
And, I didn’t know what the phrase “Balls Deep” meant until I was 27…
Tune in tomorrow, where we’ll discuss – dry humping til you bleed, accidentally sexting Hanson lyrics, and opening a floppy disk like a fucking caveman…