Our Friday Funny
boy man turned 40 this week. As 1 Corinthians 13:11 says:
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
Finally, they’s (that’s still your preferred pronoun, right Chris?) two beautiful children (the paternity remaining something of a mystery according to Dr. S.) will get to play with their Christmas presents this year without “dad” demanding his turn on the Big Wheel. After all the laughs he’s given us, both of which were pretty okayish, the least a few of his friends and family could do is pay him back in kind.
So we’re here today to roast our guest of honor, Chris Seaton!
Hon. Richard Kopf
Why CLS proves that Buck v. Bell was not entirely correct
As many of you know, I think that Buck v. Bell was largely correct. Three generations of imbeciles are enough. However, candor requires that I acknowledge that there are exceptions.
As CLS turns forty, he is the exception that disproves the rule that imbeciles are forever. This is what he looked like with his banjo prior to his treatment.
Here he is after a few watts of electro convulsive therapy:
CLS is a product of modern science! I suppose that is why he was able to conjure up Mudlick.
All the best.
PS And Happy Birthday!
Mark W. Bennett
My dad told me, when I was a boy, “Boy, one of these days a guy is going to show you a brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken. Then this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out of this brand-new deck of cards and squirt cider in your ear. Son, do not accept this bet.”
I’m here to tell you, I’ve met that guy, and his name is Chris Seaton.
It was the fall of 2016. I’d been asked to help direct a seminar on jury selection in Dallas, Texas.
The theme was “Voir Dire Outside the (Jury) Box,” and the idea was to give the staid Texas criminal-defense bar a taste of some other ideas. Improv (that was me) and hypnosis and magic (that was Chris).
When I picked Chris up at the airport, with his hound dog and his ever-present stoneware jug of Cousin Eddie’s moonshine, and drove him to the Sheraton, those Texas folks didn’t know what to think.
Neither, in hindsight, did I. When Chris started his talk, I was naive. Not only is Chris a card manipulator and a hypnotist, but I learned that he’s also a master pickpocket.
(If you see Chris, please ask him to send my Seiko back. I was fond of that watch.)
I was naïve, but Chris was skeptical. And it turns out that being a skeptical lawyer doesn’t protect you from a master hypnotist like Chris.
Quite the opposite, apparently.
I don’t know if the Texas criminal-defense bar will ever recover.
So if you see a lawyer wandering the halls of the Dallas County criminal courthouse clucking like a chicken, tell him Chris says “wide awake now.”
And loan him a handkerchief to wipe the cider out of his ear.
What can I say about my writing brother-in-arms Chris Seaton that hasn’t already been said? For starters, he’s the only guy I know that has been body-slammed through a table and thinks that’s something to brag about.
But seriously, CLS is turning 40? It makes me wonder how much damn moonshine can a self-proclaimed redneck consume once he hits a midlife crisis? At least for this special occasion I hope he tries to not drink it from the bathtub…
Over the years, I’ve had the dishonor of duking it out with Chris at Fault Lines and SJ. He has been a formidable opponent, who has taught me that real friends hold back no punches, which is what I hope I am doing here today.
Speaking of things I learned from Chris: zen-like patience, which I had to have when waiting for him to send me his damn posts back when I edited his stuff at Fault Lines. I can’t tell you how many times I would say “aggghhhh” when waiting for the posts to come in. I could blame him for starting to drink sour mash a helluva lot earlier than usual because of the frustration, but I was raised to take responsibility for my actions…
But since he is a Tennessee Vols fan, I’m sure that he has an acquired sense of patience as well. It must be damn masochistic to be rooting for such an underachieving program, year after year. I wouldn’t know anything about that because I went to Florida State, and that degenerate central prestigious university takes its football seriously. By the way, I’m sure Chris would appreciate this joke: What’s the difference between a Vols fan and a Georgia Bulldogs fan? Absolutely nothing. They’re both considered unwashed, uncouth, and disorderly.
All roasting aside, they say we only roast the ones we love. Three cheers for Chris and his big 40, and to him roasting us back in the comments section like this. Happy birthday, brother.
It’s Saturday. There’s a rusted pickup truck in the yard, next to an old Dodge Dart up on blocks. The outline of a few more cars can be made out in the distance, behind the house. All around the grass is high, hiding sundries all around the yard. The lawnmower with the hood open has nearly been devoured by the grass. Nearby roadkill possum roasts on the spit. The smokey game smell of dinner mixes with the fall air, creating a unique aroma.
Approaching the house, there is a hodgepodge of decorations. There’s the tattered and faded American flag, with the bright yellow Gadsden flag flying proudly underneath, looking almost fresh out of the package. The screen door is broken and the screen is dirty. The sound of Merle, Hank, and Willie singing spill out into the porch. All around are crushed beer cans and empty coffee cans. The dog is sunning himself, too lazy to run away again.
Taking a step inside, you’re immediately greeted by the WWE swag. Do you smell what the Rock is cooking with the people’s eyebrow is the centerpiece. You can almost hear Ric Flair’s Wooo! The bottles of Hulk vitamins are nearby. And there’s even a commemorative XFL mug mixed into the display. Every place to sit is covered in leather and every wall is adorned with dark oak veneer. It’s there near the big screen television that you can see the college football shrine. It’s bigger and more expansive than the lovingly assembled wrestling display, one very small and insignificant part of 1998 is frozen in time. Nearby there are the icons of Payton Manning, even a velvet portrait, but they pale in comparison to the great Phil Fulmer Fat Head decal. His round, chubby face is other places too. But if there were a focal point, it would be the photo of him holding a trophy.
The television showing a victorious Gators team has been muted. The team is cheering and congratulating each other. The final score shows utter domination. In the stillness of that room, you can hear soft mutterings. Somebody is buried underneath a pile of Volunteers blankets assembled as a makeshift blanket and pillow fort. Leaning in closer you can start to make out the sense of words being spoken. Gently pulling back the layers of Tennessee blankets, a figure dressed in Volunteer footie pajamas can just be made out. Barbeque and wing sauce stains his face, hands, and chest. Now his words are clear. Rocking back and forth and hugging his Volunteer body pillow, the broken man repeats himself: “It was supposed to be this year. Vols win it all next year. It was supposed to be this year. Vols win it all next year.”
Happy birthday hillbilly! Just remember Ohio State is the real 1998 National Champion.
A few years ago, Donald Ray Pollock exploded onto the literary scene with his debut, Knockemstiff, a bunch of short stories that asked, »what if we took grinding rural poverty, out-of-control drug addiction, really bad sex, and the complete despair of people living in flyover country, but made it kinda funny?«
He needn’t have bothered. Ever since I met Chris, I’ve known what that looks like.
- Grinding poverty? Well shit, Chris, that’s what happens when you spend all your money on playing cards and helping your wife rip the dicks off dogs.
- Addiction? Writing for Fault Lines was an addiction, Chris – you know it, I know it, and even years after its untimely demise, you’re still producing Brand-Enhancing Content for some snoot in New York who has a wine cellar bigger than your entire state. You fucking Scalawag.
- Bad sex? Bro, I hate to break it to you, I really do. But pro wrestling is nothing more than terrible sex – real bad, real voyeuristic so you can catch every grunt and moan, just one guy pinning the other and going at it until they go limp and all that’s left are the post-coital recriminations. I guess the major difference to your sex life is that in wrestling, you succeed if you kick your partner out of the ring then last for ten seconds. You’d love to last that long.
- Flyover despair? From you, Chris, I’ve learned terrible things no man should know – the official nickname of Tennessee, how to fucking spell Tennessee, what your college football team’s called, the difference between the Confederate Battle Flag and the Stars and Bars. I treat these bits of Southern arcana as signs of a deep despair – the urge to join your peers in a civilized place where no one gives a shit when Peyton Manning first started for the Vols and BBQ is something you get at McDonald’s.
Still, at 40, he’s survived longer than many a Knockemstiff character. So… kudos, Chris! When are you gonna get out of Mud Lick and start doing something with your life?
When Greenfield asked me to write something to roast Chris, I thought he said “Chris Semen.” After I filled a page with cumshot jokes, I realized my error. Well, it wasn’t that much of an error, because observations about jacking off and spooge still fit the subject.
Once I figured out that I was talking about Chris Seaton and not about semen, well, again, same difference, I figured I could reach in to the recycling bin and find some joke about Chris working in a double wide trailer next to some train tracks, across from a toothless old man who made illegal moonshine and a son who had a fondness for cock fighting. Yet another joke ruined, not because I had the wrong guy, but because that’s essentially Chris’ actual bio.
Of course, he’s come a long way since then – I mean, not that far. I think any progress he’s made since then is probably because he slept his way to having some brains. His wife is a veterinarian, and I am pretty sure that he met her when she was his primary care physician.
In Italian, we have this toast where we will salute someone by saying “cent’anni!” which means “a hundred years.” As in, “may you live for 100 years.” I’d like to say “cent’anni” to Chris, not hoping for him to be around for another 100 years — at least not human years — but more of a prediction as to how long it will take him to pull his head out of his ass!
Cent’anni, you pud!
I’ll never forget your first post for Fault Lines. I wondered what your first language was, and later learned it was redneck which explained so much. You’ve come a long way since then, through your finger-painting stage to crayons to your early efforts to conjure up a place called “Mud Lick” where men were men and pigs were nervous. I particularly appreciate Chris’ willingness to make a slight adjustment to his cockfighting post because this is a family blog.
Happy birthday, kid. And thank you for all the laughs you’ve given me and so many others. Can I be wide awake now, please?