Original subtitles

You know, you know, you know something people don't talk about in public

anymore? Pussy farts.

Anyway, once again, for me, it is HBO time.

This is we're back at the Beacon Theater, by the way, for the third time

row.

As some of you know, this is the 12th show. I've been doing them since 1977.

It usually takes me about two, two and a half years.

And that means for the last couple of years, I've been out floating around,

bouncing around the cities and the towns in this country and the theaters and

concert halls, you know, working on my stuff. Probably been in your hometown a

couple of times since the last time I saw you. Hey, you know me. If they got a

zip code, I'll fucking be there.

Hey.

Busy.

Busy as a dyke in a hardware store.

Now, did you ever notice up on a barn, they got a weather vane up on a barn? By

the way, I don't do transitional material. You probably picked that up

away, huh?

Yeah,

I just kind of go right into the next thing, and at this moment, we're on

But you never notice up there they got that weather vane, and usually it's a

rooster or a cock. It's the same animal, really.

You know, it's just a different name. You know why they got a cock on the

weather vane?

Because if they had a cunt, the wind would blow right through it.

Yeah.

Well, a lot of people don't know that.

That's why I travel around so much.

I'm here to entertain and inform.

It reminds me of something my grandfather used to say to me, you know.

at me and he'd say, I'm going upstairs and fuck your grandma.

He's just a really honest man, you know.

He wasn't going to bullshit a four -year -old.

Now, folks, before we get too far along here tonight, there's something we got

to talk about.

Everybody knows what it is. It's in the air. It's in the city. And naturally,

I'm talking about the events of September 11th and everything that's

since that time. And the reason we have to talk about it is otherwise it's like

the elephant in the living room that nobody mentions. You know, I mean, yeah,

there it is sitting on the fucking couch. Nobody says a word.

It's like if you're at a formal garden party and you go over to the punch bowl

and you notice that floating around, there's a big turd.

And nobody says a word about it, you know? Nobody says, lovely party,

but there's a turd in the punch bowl.

So we got to talk about it, if nothing else, just to get it out of our way so

can have a little fun here tonight.

Because otherwise, the terrorists win.

Don't you love that stuff?

Yeah, that's our latest mindless cliche.

Go out and buy some jewelry and a new car. Otherwise, the terrorists win.

Those business assholes really know how to take advantage, don't they?

So here's what I'm thinking, folks. By now, everybody's supposed to know that

when it comes to survival, staying alive,

You know, you have to be, you can't be too picky and choosy about the company

you're going to keep. You know, sometimes you have to cooperate with

of unsavory people. People you don't like, people you don't trust, people you

don't respect. The kind of people you might not even invite into your own

So, for that reason, tonight I'm announcing my intention to cooperate

United States government.

I'm even thinking of lending my support to Governor Bush.

Good old Governor Bush.

I'm hoping he does a good job. If he does, maybe we might think of electing

president in 2004, okay?

Now, the reason for my decision is a fairly simple one. I mentioned it

Survival, okay?

And you know where I learned that?

Mother Nature.

Yep. Always took my cue from nature.

I realized some time ago that, you know, I'm not separate from nature just

because I have a primate brain, an upper brain. Because underneath the primate

brain, there's a mammalian brain.

And beneath the mammalian brain, there's a reptilian brain.

And it's those two lower brains that made the upper brain possible in the

place. Here's the way it works. The primate brain says, give peace a chance.

The mammalian brain says, give peace a chance, but first let's kill this

motherfucker.

The reptilian brain says, let's just kill the motherfucker, go to the peace

rally and get laid.

Because... Because the

first obligation, the first obligation of any organism is to survive. The

is to reproduce.

Survival is more important than fucking.

Okay?

Pacifism is a nice idea, but it can get you killed.

We're not there yet, folks. Evolution is slow.

Smallpox is fast.

All right.

Now, the government has asked all of us to come up with suggestions and ideas

that we might have for helping to fight terrorism.

That'll give you an idea how much shit they have on the shelf. OK.

Yeah.

And like any like any good citizen, I'm ready with my suggestions now.

First of all, overseas, in Afghanistan, I think you have to use the most

powerful weapon you have. In this case, chemical warfare of a type never used

before. And I'm talking about the Flatulent Airborne Reaction Team.

F -A -R -T, fart.

Here's what you do. You take thousands of overweight male NFL football fans,

okay?

Thousands of them. We're going to start with a nucleus of Giants fans and Jets

fans. Got to start with that nucleus.

Now, it might be necessary to include some Bills fans and Eagles fans, too,

okay?

This is war. You can't be choosy.

And I'm also thinking about getting some of those big fat cocksuckers who root

for the teams in the NFC Central, you know?

Chicago Bears fans, Green Bay Packers fans, guys who eat a lot of bratwurst,

okay?

And all these guys have to be over 200 pounds.

What you do is, for 30 days, you put them on a diet of nothing but cheese,

cabbage, and beer. Okay?

That's all they get for 30 days. For many of these men, this will not be a

diet.

You fill them up with cheese and cabbage and beer, and you drop them into

Afghanistan, where they commence chemical warfare of the highest order.

You send three -man fart squads into every cave and tunnel in Afghanistan.

Just send it in there, right?

And then you smoke them out.

That's right.

Yeah.

These good citizens will release horrendous, deadly farts. The kind of

could kill cancer.

The kind of fart that comes in handy if you have something that needs welding.

The kind of fart that if you let one go at home, 30 minutes later your plants

are all yellow.

The kind of fart that after two or three days you begin to realize there are no

more birds in your neighborhood.

A fart that would eat the stitching out of Levi's.

Can I get away with one more fart joke here?

Okay.

The kind of fart whereby the Centers for Disease Control declares your pants a

level 5 biohazard.

Take care of overseas.

All right.

Now, that's overseas. On the domestic side, in this country, and before I tell

you my plan for the domestic side, I want to, because it does come from a

of New York frame of mind, I want to mention my New York credentials, and

are as follows. I was born on this island, Manhattan Island. Therefore, I

born in New York City, New York County, and New York State. City, county, and

state. And besides that...

And on top of that, I was born at New York Hospital on East 63rd Street. But

here's the capper. Here's something you don't know. You know where I was

conceived? Rockaway Beach.

Rockaway. That's right.

In a hotel on Beach 116th Street called Curley's Hotel.

1936. So if you hear or see anything later on about New York, you'll know my

credentials are in good order. Here's what you do domestically. You take Don

Imus' advice.

And you tell this Tommy Thompson and Tom Ridge, good try, nice going, we'll see

you later. And in charge of the whole domestic thing, you put Rudolph

an Italian from Brooklyn. Okay?

Let's have a little fun here tonight. Let's do the show that I was planning on

right up until September 10th. And it starts by me explaining to you, me

explaining to you that I don't, a lot of you know this already, I don't talk

about myself very much in my shows. You know, it's really not my style.

But I had an incident in traffic recently that I think I ought to tell

about.

And there are a couple things about me you ought to know first.

I drive kind of recklessly, I take a lot of chances, I never repair my vehicles,

and I don't believe in traffic laws.

So I tend to have quite a high number of traffic accidents.

And last week, I either ran over a sheep or I ran over a small man wearing a

sheepskin coat.

And I don't know because I didn't stop.

I do not stop when I have a traffic accident. Do you?

Huh? Do you? No, you can't. Hey, who has time?

Not me. I hit somebody, I run somebody over, I keep moving.

Especially if I've injured someone.

I do not get involved in that.

I'm not a doctor. I've had no medical training.

I'm just another guy out driving around looking for a little fun and I can't be

stopping for everything.

let's just look at it logically. Let's be logical about it. If you do stop at

the scene of the accident, all you do is add to the confusion.

These people you ran over have enough troubles of their own without you

and making things worse.

Leave these people alone.

They've just been in a major traffic accident.

The last thing they need, the last thing they need is for you to stop and get

out of your car and go over to the fire because by now it is a fire.

And start bothering them with a lot of stupid questions.

Are you hurt?

Well, of course they're hurt. Look at all the blood.

You just ran over them with a ton and a half of steel.

Of course they're hurt. Leave these people alone.

Haven't you done enough?

For once in your life, do the decent thing.

Don't get involved.

Well, in the first place, it's none of your business.

None of your business. The whole thing took place outside of your car.

Legally speaking, these people you ran over were not on your property at the

time you ran them over.

They were standing in the street. That is city property. You are not

responsible. If they don't like it, let them sue the city.

And besides, it happened back there.

It's over now.

Stop living in the past.

Do yourself a favor. Count your blessings. Be glad it wasn't you.

And I'll give you a practical reason not to stop. You need a practical reason?

If you do stop, sooner or later the police are going to show up.

Is that what you want?

Huh? Waste even more of your time standing around filling out forms,

lot of foolish questions, lying to the authorities?

And by the way, who are you to be taking up the valuable time of the police

department?

These men and women are professionals. They're supposed to be out fighting

crime. Stop interfering with police.

And besides, didn't anyone else see this accident?

Are you the only one who can provide information?

Surely the people you ran over caught a glimpse of it at the last moment.

So let them tell the police what happened.

They were a lot closer to it than you were.

There's no sense having two conflicting stories.

floating around about the same dumbass traffic accident.

Things are bad enough. People are dead. Families have been destroyed.

Time to get moving.

Now, on the other hand, on the other hand, if I should be out driving around

looking for a little fun and I see an accident, one that I'm not involved in,

stop immediately.

Well, I want to get a good look at what's going on.

I enjoy that sort of thing.

Someone else is injured. I want to take a look.

I am Curious George.

But people

don't like that. Police don't like it. They say you're rubbernecking. They say

you're blocking traffic.

Never mind that shit. I want to take a look.

I'm never too busy that I can't stop to enjoy someone else's suffering.

And I'll tell you something else. I'm a big fan of traffic accidents. You know

my favorite accident? Two buses and a chicken truck.

Get hit by a circus train in front of a flea market.

Well, I want to see something interesting. I'm looking for a neck

of a gas tank.

If I'm going to take the time to stop, I expect a couple of fucking laughs.

And if my car should happen to be in such a position where I can't quite see

what's going on, can't get a good enough look, I'm not the least bit shy about

asking the police to bring the bodies over a little closer to the car.

Pardon me, officer, would you fellows mind dragging that twisted -looking chap

over here a little closer to the car, please? My wife has never seen anyone

shaped quite like that.

Look at that, sugar lips. That's his ribcage sticking out of the glove

compartment.

Thank you, officer. That will be all now.

You can throw him back on the pile.

We'll be moving along, and off I go out onto the highway, looking for a little

fun. Perhaps a tanker truck filled with human waste will explode in front of the

Pokemon factory.

I appreciate that.

Yeah.

Reminds me of something my third grade teacher said to us. She said, you show

a tropical fruit and I'll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.

No, that wasn't her.

That wasn't her.

That was a guy I met in the army. I'm sorry.

I always confuse those people.

Now, folks, this next piece of material is going to give us a chance to bond.

That's what Americans have been doing the last 10, 15 years, bonding. When

they're not networking or reaching out or making space for one another, you'll

find them bonding. And we're going to do that because this piece of material is

about us.

This is about you and me. You and me. Little things.

Little things we all know. Common knowledge. In this case, little things

know about our bodies.

Because everybody's body is different, but everybody's body is really quite the

same. So there are a lot of little things about our bodies that we all

we never talk about.

That's what interests me.

These are practically universal experiences.

Nobody mentions them.

Some of them are disgusting.

Some of them are appallingly revolting and degrading, even to the most

degenerate mind.

So let's get started with a couple of them.

You ever get lip crud?

You ever get that crud on your lip? It's kind of a sticky film, kind of a gooey

coating. You know, if it dries a little bit, it's kind of a cruddy, gummy,

flaky, crusty shit kind of thing.

Starts in the corner of your mouth, works its way on down your lip, and if

really bad, the corners of your mouth look like parentheses.

Did you ever have that?

Lip crud.

When you want to get rid of it, it's a real simple operation, isn't it? It's

-tech shit.

Thumbnail, that's all you need.

Simple tool, ain't it? You just scrape that shit off. That's all. You just

scrape it on down. Scrape it on down. Hey, never mind those people at the bus

stop. If they knew anything, they wouldn't be riding the bus. Fuck them.

them in the mouth. Scrape it on down. Scrape it on down.

Yeah. You just kind of scrape that shit on down and then you take it and you

roll it up into a little ball and then you save that son of a bitch.

I save my lip crud.

I save everything that comes off of my body. Don't you?

At least for a little while.

Don't you look at things when they first come off of you?

Huh? Aren't you curious? Don't you spend 5 or 10 or 15 minutes studying

something, trying to figure out what the fuck it is and what it's doing on you

in the first place?

Sure you do.

You don't pull some disgusting -looking growth off of your neck and throw it

directly under the toilet.

You want to know what the fuck it is.

Besides, you never know when you're going to need parts.

Isn't that true?

Did you ever see these guys on TV?

They're in the hospital. One guy's waiting for a kidney. Another guy's

for a lung. Fuck you. I've got shit at home.

I've got a freezer full of viable organs.

I have two of everything ready to go. What do you need, a spleen, an

How about a nice used ball bag, huh? Come on.

Good condition, one owner. He only scratched it on Sundays. Come on, take a

chance.

It's true.

You want to know what something is.

You don't spend 15 minutes peeling a malignant tumor off of your forehead

to toss it out the window, sight unseen, into the neighbor's swimming pool. No.

You take a good long fucking look at it, don't you?

Holy shit, look at this thing.

God damn. Holy jumping fucking Jesus. Look at this thing.

Honey, come here. Look at this. Honey, yo.

Hey, yo, honey, yo. Hey, fuck the rice -a -roni. Get in here.

Look at this thing.

Look, this was a part of my head a minute ago.

Not anymore. I pried the bastard off with paint thinner and a Phillips head

screwdriver.

But look at it. Look at the colors in it. It's green, blue, yellow, orange,

brown, tan, khaki, beige, bronze, olive, neutral, black, off -black, champagne

gold, Navajo white, turquoise, and band -aid color.

Plus, it's exactly the same shape as Bosnia.

If you leave out that little section where the Croatians live.

I'm not throwing this bastard away. It might become a collectible.

Dial up those dickheads on eBay. We'll make some fucking money on this thing.

Well...

I tell you, it's just natural curiosity.

It's just everyone has it. You're curious. You're curious about yourself.

You're curious about your body. So you're curious about little parts that

off of you.

Toenail clippings are a good example.

Toenail clippings, and I'm even going to set the scene for you.

You're sitting on the bed at home one night, and something really shitty comes

on TV, like a regularly scheduled primetime network program.

You say, well, I'm not going to watch Raymond blows the milkman.

I'm going to clip my fucking toenails.

So you start to clip your toenails, and every time you clip one of them, the

clipping part flies far away.

You ever notice that?

Boom, boom, boom.

These things fly all over the bed. And when you're finished clipping, you have

to gather them all back into a little pile.

Don't you? Yeah, you can't leave them on the bed. They make little holes in your

legs.

You don't need that shit.

You have to gather them all back into a little pile. And do you ever notice

this? The bigger the pile gets, the more pride you have in the pile.

Look at this shit, honey. The biggest pile of toenail clippings we've had in

this house since the day the Big Bopper died.

Call the Museum of Natural History. Tell them we have a good idea for a diorama.

Then you look for the largest toenail clipping of all, the biggest one you can

find, and you bend it for a while, don't you?

Yes,

yes, you do.

You bend it. You squeeze it.

You play with it.

You have to. You have to.

Why? Because you can.

Because it's still lively and viable. There's moisture in it. It just came off

of your body. It's almost alive.

You ever try to save your toenail clippings overnight?

Huh? You ever put them in the ashtray? Try to save them until the morning? It's

no good. They're too dry. You can't bend them in the morning. Fuck them. Throw

them away. Who needs unbendable toenails? Not me. Bullshit. Fuck you. Up

Get laid. Eat shit. Drop dead. Jack me off. Suck this. I don't eat parts that

badly. I'm not that sick.

Little things.

You got it.

You got it. Little things. Little things that come off of you and your curiosity

about them, especially if it's something you can't see, well, it's still on you.

Know what I mean?

You ever been picking your ass?

You know, just idly standing out in the driveway.

Picking your ass.

And you come across an object.

Honey, come here.

You want a couple of hits off of this?

While it's still fresh?

Let me ask you something.

Did we eat at Kenny Rogers' restaurant again?

A lot of remember ordering anything that smelled like this.

I believe this is a shit burger.

Smells like a burger, tastes like shit.

Actually, it smells like Ethel Merman.

Call that Andrew Lloyd Webber fellow. Tell him we have a good idea for one of

those fine shows he's always putting on Broadway.

Then give me the scrapbook. This son of a bitch is going right next to that toe

jam we found at the Gator Bowl.

All because you couldn't see it.

While it was still on you.

Here's something else you can't see while it's still on you.

Little scab on the top of your head.

Did you ever have that? Sure you have.

Little scab top of your head.

Not a big red blood scab like you get when someone at work hits you in the

with a fucking Stilton wrench.

Just a little dry spot, a little scaly spot.

You find it one day by accident when you're scratching your head. You come

across it as if by good luck.

Oh, hot shit, a fucking scab.

I love fucking scabs.

This is going to be a lot.

I'll save this for Thursday.

Thursday will be a good day.

I'll have half a day of work on Thursday.

I'll come home early.

I'll masturbate in the kitchen.

And then I'll watch the Montel Williams show.

And then I'll pick off my scab. Oh boy, oh boy, I can't wait to pick off my

scab. This is going to be a lot of fun.

So you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait. And you wait. And you wait. And you try not to knock it off by

accident with a little plastic comb you bought in the vending machine at the

Easy Living Motel with the two skanky looking chicks who gave you the clap

night.

And now Thursday arrives and it's harvest time.

Harvest time on your head.

You come home early, you masturbate, but you do it in your sister's bedroom just

to give it a little extra thrill. You know what I mean?

And then you watch the Montel Williams show.

Pretty good topic. Women who take it up the ass for 50 cents.

Well, not the best show he's ever done, but you know something? Not bad either.

Now it's time to go get this little bastard, but you want to go carefully.

want to pick this scab off evenly and carefully around the perimeter of the

so that it lifts off all in one piece.

You don't want it to break into pieces. Who needs a fragmented scab? Not me.

Bullshit. Fuck you. Up yours. Get laid. Eat shit. Drop dead. Jack me off. Suck

this. I don't need parts that badly. I'm not that sick.

What you really want, what you really must have, what you really need is a

complete whole scab you can put down, study, look at, make notes on, and

write a series of penetrating articles for Scab Aficionado magazine.

Who knows, you might rise to the top of the scab world in a big hurry. It's a

small community and they need people at the top.

I sense I've gone too far.

So I quit while I'm ahead and I'll change the subject.

This is something I probably told you before.

I never fucked a ten.

Never fucked a ten.

But one night, I fucked five twos.

think that ought to count here's something you never hear a man say stop

my dick or I'll call the police

now

something else a lot of you are aware of those of you with illegal

cable hookups will be aware of the fact that one of the things I like to do in

my shows is complain.

You know, it's kind of a motif for me, complaining.

And, of course, this weird culture we live in leaves you no shortage of things

to complain about. So this next piece of material, like most good ideas, is

fairly simple. It's just a list of people who ought to be killed.

People who read self -help book.

Why do so many people need help?

Life is not that complicated.

You get up, you go to work, you eat three meals, you take one good shit, and

go back to bed.

What's the fucking mystery?

And the part I really don't understand, if you're looking for self -help, why

would you read a book written by somebody else?

That's not self -help.

That's help.

There's no such thing as self -help. If you did it yourself, you didn't need

help.

You did it yourself.

Try to pay attention to the language we've all agreed on.

And a similar, a similar mystery to me, motivation books, motivation seminars.

Why would anyone need to be motivated by someone else? I say if you lack

motivation, a seminar isn't going to help you. What you really need is to be

smashed in the head 30 or 40 times with a golf club.

will fucking motivate you or else at least get you up and moving around the

you know locate your socks shit like that get the day rolling motivation

is bullshit if you ask me this country could use a little less motivation the

people who are motivated the ones who are causing all the trouble stock

swindlers serial killers child molesters christian conservatives these people

are highly motivated highly motivated

I think motivation is overrated. You show me some lazy prick who's lying

all day watching game shows and stroking his penis, and I'll show you someone's

not causing any fucking trouble, okay?

Here's another pack of low -grade morons who ought to be locked into portable

toilets and set on fire.

These people with bumper stickers that say, we are the proud parents of an

student at the...

And now for the Midvale Academy or whatever other innocent sounding name

been assigned to the indoctrination center where their child has been sent

stripped of his individuality and turned into an obedient soul dead conformist

member of the American consumer culture.

What kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the

of their children?

How would you like that to live with a couple of these misfits?

How's that science project coming along, Justin?

Fuck you, Dad.

You simple -minded prick.

Mind your own business and pass the Cheerios.

Here's a bumper sticker I'd like to see. We are the proud parents of a child

whose self -esteem is sufficient that he doesn't need us promoting his minor

scholastic achievements on the back of our car.

We are the proud

parents of a child who has resisted his teacher's attempts to break his spirit

and bend him to the will of his corporate masters.

Just be nice a little for change, you know?

Here's something realistic.

We have a daughter in public school who hasn't been knocked up yet.

We have a son in public school who hasn't shot any of his classmates yet.

But he does sell drugs to your honor student.

Plus, he knocked up your daughter.

Then there are the people who aren't too proud of their children. We are the

embarrassed parents of a cross -eyed little nitwit who at the age of 10 not

continues to wet the bed, but also shits on the school bus.

Something like that on the back of the car might give the child a little more

incentive, you know?

Get him to try a little harder next semester.

There are some more parents who ought to be beaten with heavy clubs and left

bleeding in the moonlight.

These are the ones who carry their babies around in these backpacks or

frontpacks or slings, whatever these devices are called, that are apparently

designed to leave the parents' hands free to sort through high -end

and reach for their platinum credit cards.

Because it's always these upscale, yuppie -looking, green -piece,

environmentally conscious assholes who have money, you know? I say, hey, Mr.

and Mrs. Natural Fibers.

I say, hey, Mr. and Mrs. Natural Fibers.

It's not camping equipment. It's a baby.

Touch the little prick now and then.

He'll thank you for it someday.

These are the same people who sort their garbage, jog with their dogs, and

listen to Steely Dan.

You know?

You just like to take them out deep into the forest and disembowel them with a

wooden cooking spoon.

There are some more people who ought to be smashed across the face repeatedly

with a piece of heavy mining equipment.

These grown men, grown men, who refer to their fathers as my daddy.

You know? Yeah.

You hear a lot of this stupid shit in the South.

These rebel assholes, you know? My daddy, my daddy, yeah, my daddy. Well,

know what my daddy used to say? My daddy used to say, blah, blah, blah, blah,

blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Oh, he did.

Did he? Well, wasn't that fucking enlightening?

My daddy used to say, fuck your daddy.

In his wrinkled, rusted, rural country asshole.

Grow up, Billy Joe, Carl Bob, Danny Frank.

You're not six anymore.

More like nine.

Here's another unfortunate pack of mutants who ought to be penciled in for

sudden visit from the angel of death.

These guys.

These guys who can't tell you about a phone call they had without giving you

this shit.

The fucking pinky and the thumb.

Like they attended mime college.

Studied under Marcel Marceau.

So I call her up, you know.

And I'm talking to her.

And she fucking hangs up on me.

So I hang up on her.

And she calls me back.

I fucking hang up again.

I say, hey Bruno, thanks for the visual aid.

understand the concept of the telephone.

You hold it in your hand, you talk into it.

Excuse me, Bruno, incoming call.

Oh, hey, it's for you.

Here's another bunch of puss -headed telephone cretins.

These self -important techno dicks.

who walk around with these hands -free telephone headsets and earpieces.

Mr. Self -Important doesn't want to be too far from the phone in case Henry

Kissinger calls.

He's got the Dalai Lama on line two.

I say, hey, spaceman, as long as your hands are free, reach over here and

my balls, would you please?

answering machines.

Starting with these people who think it's cute to let their children record

outgoing message.

You know?

And you can't understand a word of it because the kid's a fucking imbecile.

Hi, my name is Stacy. I'm five years old. My mommy and daddy are at home.

Here's my message, Stacy.

I'm coming over to your house with a big knife.

And I'm going to kill Mommy and Daddy.

Then I'm going to peel off their skin and make a funny hat.

After that, I'm going to take out my huge ding -dong and stick it right in

your... These

are

the same parents who at Christmas time send you... pictures of their children.

Pictures you didn't ask for and you don't want.

But it is fun throwing the pictures away, isn't it?

I don't even look at the fucking Christmas card.

Who is this? Luann is 12 this year. Fuck Luann.

I give a shit how old she is. Does she have any tits yet?

me a picture of Luann's tits.

Then I know I'm going to have a happy new year, too.

Then, just to compound your holiday pleasure, they enclose a family

Just what you're hoping for.

News about people you can barely fucking remember.

We're so proud of Brad, he's been accepted into dental school.

Yeah, in the Philippines.

After four tries.

Fuck Brad and everybody who looks like Brad.

Judging from his picture, I think he's jerking off too much.

Keep him away from Luann.

Here's another bunch of genetic defectives who've been turned loose on

machines. These guys who cannot resist the urge to put music on their

outgoing messages.

You know, some guy spends $8 at Radio Shack and suddenly he's a fucking record

producer.

And because he's busy in the basement jacking off his dog, I, I have to listen

to substandard music.

And it's always rotten music, you know? It's either New Age, that pointless,

meandering zombie noise played by pseudo -spiritual lunatics who think wind

chimes are a musical instrument, or else it's soft rock.

Soft rock, that lame -ass, weak, non -threatening, suburban white boy junk

played by bands like Men Without Testicles.

Oh, and folks, on these answering machines, do me a favor, would you

When you record your outgoing message, don't bother telling me you can't come

the phone.

I understand that.

Apparently, that's why we have these machines.

And don't tell me to leave my name and number. Somehow, I figured that out.

And if you work in an office, never mind that stuff, I'm away from my desk.

If you had to take a shit, say so.

Just say, hi, this is Mary Louise. I had the Mexican jalapeno bean chili dip.

And I washed it down with a gallon of gin.

I'll be in and out all day.

There are some more people who ought to be strapped into chairs and beaten with

hammers.

People who wear visors.

Let me ask you something.

What the fuck is the point in wearing half a hat?

Either get a hat or don't.

No one's interested in the top of your head.

Go back to the store and tell them to give you the rest of the hat.

They cheated you.

Better still, get yourself one of them little Jewish hats and sew it to your

visor.

Then you got yourself a full -fledged fucking hat, my friend.

Here are some more musical vermin whose mothers we wish had had medical plans

that included abortion.

These singers, these singers who think they're so special they only need one

name.

Bono, Sting, Jewel, Tiffany, Prince.

What a crock of shit. Get a fucking last name, would you please?

I got a nice two -word name for you.

Pretentious cocksucker.

How do you like that?

Bono, Sting. It's not bad enough the music sucks, but with no last name, you

can't find out where they live to throw a fucking bomb through their window.

It's frustrating.

Here are some more people who deserve an inoperable tumor at the base of their

spines.

These guys who fly around the world in a fucking balloon.

What is this,

1850?

Get a fucking airline ticket, will you, please?

When are the media going to realize no one's interested in some rich trouser

stain who's so bored he's got to fly around the balloon all day? I hope the

guy gets hit by lightning.

It flies around in little fart circles.

And lands in a sewage treatment pond.

And sinks with the rest of the turds.

Mr. Lighter Than Air.

There is another pack of jack -offs who ought to be strangled in front of their

children.

People who pay for inexpensive items with a credit card.

You know, folks, take my word for this, Raisinets is not a major purchase.

Get some fucking cash together.

No one should be paying a bank 18 % interest on Tic Tacs.

And you're holding up the fucking line, too.

Some dorky -looking prick with a fanny pack waiting to be approved for a bag of

cheese doodles.

I need this like I need an infected scrotum.

Get some fucking money.

Next guy ahead of me online pays for Newsweek with a credit card is getting

stabbed in the eye.

really sick at guys named Todd.

You know, yeah, it's just a goofy, it's a goofy fucking name, okay?

Hi, what's your name?

Todd.

I'm Todd.

And this is Blake and Blair and Blaine and Brent.

Where are all these goofy fucking boys' names coming from?

Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn.

These are not real names.

You want to hear a real name? Eddie.

Eddie is a real name. Whatever happened to Eddie? He was here a minute ago.

Joey and Jackie and Johnny and Phil, Bobby and Tommy and Danny and Bill. What

happened? Todd!

And Cody and Dylan and Cameron and Tucker.

Hi, Tucker.

I'm Todd.

Hi, Todd. I'm Tucker.

Fuck Tucker, Tucker sucks.

And fuck Tucker's friend, Kyle.

Now, yeah.

Here's another soft name for a boy, Kyle.

Soft names make soft people. I'll bet you anything that ten times out of ten,

Nicky, Vinny, and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle, and Tucker.

Thank you very much.

And I'm not against guns. I'm not one of those mindless Hollywood cocksuckers.

I'm not against guns. I'm not against bullets. I'm not even against people

shooting each other.

Shit, shooting somebody is part of the American dream.

I don't care who it is. Parents, teachers, kids, fuck them. Let them get

Doesn't bother me.

But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers, before Charlton Heston

president of these dickless lunatics in the NRA, they had a different guy.

They had a different guy. He's still one of their major spokesmen. His name is

Wayne LaPierre.

What kind of a name for a gun nut is Wayne LaPierre?

Doesn't this sound a little fruity to you?

Hi, I'm Wayne. I'm a gun person.

Bang, bang!

You know what this prick's name ought to be? Biff Webster.

Spud Crowley, a man's name, Chuck Steak.

Here are some more men who ought to be strapped to a gurney and castrated with

fishing knives.

White guys who shave their heads completely bald.

You know?

They're so ashamed they lost 11 hairs, they're going to try to turn it into

kind of a masculine statement.

I say, hey, you goofy -looking, baldy -headed fuck.

Looks good on black guys. On you, it's ugly, repulsive, and disgusting.

You want to be bald?

Do what I did.

Wait a while.

Yeah.

Meantime, there's no excuse for running around looking like a freshly

circumcised dick.

And just to wind up this little group of complaints, Finally, this is a group of

social criminals.

These people in the space program.

Natholes, I call them.

In case you haven't heard, the latest disaster for the rest of the universe is

that the United States is going to go to Mars.

Okay? Oh, yeah.

We're going to go to Mars.

And then, of course, we're going to...

colonized deep space with our microwave hot dogs and plastic vomit, fake dog

shit and cinnamon dental floss and lemon -scented toilet paper and sneakers with

lights in the heels.

And all these other impressive things we've done down here.

But let me ask you this.

Let me ask you this.

What are we going to tell the Intergalactic Council of Ministers the

one of our teenage mothers throws her newborn baby into a dumpster, huh?

How are we going to explain that to the space people?

How are we going to let them know that our ambassador was only late for the

meeting because his breakfast was cold and he had to spend half an hour

his wife around the kitchen?

And what are they going to think when they find out it's just a local custom

that over 80 million women in the third world have had their clitorises forcibly

removed in order to reduce their sexual pleasure so they won't cheat on their

husbands? Can't you just sense how eager the rest of the universe is for us to

show up?

Can't you see it out there?

Thank you.

Now, folks, here's something else I've got a problem with.

The Ten Commandments.

Here's my problem. Why are there ten?

You don't need ten.

I think the list of commandments was deliberately and artificially inflated

get it up to ten.

It's a padded list.

Here's what they did. About 5 ,000 years ago, a bunch of religious and political

hustlers got together to try to figure out how to control people, how to keep

them in line. They knew people were basically stupid and would believe

they were told.

So they announced that God had given them some commandments.

Up on a mountain, when no one was around, God had given them the Ten

Commandments. But let me ask you this. When they were sitting around making

shit up, why did they pick ten?

Why ten?

Why not nine or eleven?

I'll tell you why. Because ten sounds official.

10 sounds important.

They knew if it was 11, people wouldn't take it seriously.

Say, what, are you kidding me? The 11 commandments?

Get the fuck out of here.

But 10, 10 sounds important.

10 is the basis for the decimal system.

It's a decade. It's a psychologically satisfying number. The top 10, the 10

wanted, the 10 best dressed. So having 10 commandments was really a marketing

decision.

And to me,

It's clearly a bullshit list. It's a political document artificially inflated

sell better.

I'm going to show you how you could reduce the number of commandments and

up with a list that's a little more workable and logical.

We're going to start with the first three, and I'll use the Roman Catholic

version because those are the ones I was taught as a little boy.

I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt not have strange gods before me.

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath.

Right off the bat, the first three, pure bullshit.

Sabbath. Sabbath day, Lord's name, strange gods.

Spooky language.

Spooky language.

Designed to scare and control primitive people. In no way does superstitious

nonsense like this apply to the lives of intelligent, civilized humans in the

21st century.

You throw out the first three commandments, you're down to seven.

Next, honor thy father and mother.

Obedience, respect for authority.

Just another name for controlling people. The truth is, obedience and

should not be automatic. They should be earned. They should be based on the

parent's performance.

Parent's performance.

Right?

Some parents deserve respect. Most of them don't. Period.

You're down to six.

Now, in the interest of logic, something religion is very uncomfortable with,

we're going to jump around the list a little bit.

Thou shalt not steal.

Thou shalt not bear false witness.

Stealing and lying.

Well, actually, these two both prohibit the same kind of behavior.

Dishonesty, stealing and lying. So you don't need two of them. Instead, you

combine them and you call it thou shalt not be dishonest. And suddenly, you're

down to five.

And as long as we're combining, I have two others that belong together.

Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.

Once again, these two prohibit the same kind of behavior. In this case, marital

infidelity. The difference is coveting takes place in the mind. And I don't

think you should outlaw fantasizing about someone else's wife.

Otherwise, what's a guy going to think about when he's waxing his carrot?

Fidelity is a good idea.

So we're going to keep the idea and call this one.

Thou shalt not be unfaithful. And suddenly we're down to four.

But when you think about it, honesty and fidelity are really part of the same

overall value. So in truth, you could combine the two honesty commandments

the two fidelity commandments and give them simpler language, positive language

instead of negative, and call the whole thing thou shalt always be honest and

faithful, and we're down to three.

Thou shalt, thou shalt, they're going away, they're going away fast.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods.

This one is just plain fucking stupid.

Coveting your neighbor's goods is what keeps the economy going.

Isn't that right?

Your neighbor gets a vibrator that plays O Come All Ye Faithful.

You want to get one too.

Coveting creates jobs. Leave it alone.

You throw out coveting and you're down to two now, the big honesty and fidelity

commandment, and the one we haven't talked about yet, thou shalt not kill,

murder, the fifth commandment.

But when you think about it, when you think about it, religion has never

had a big problem with murder.

Not really. More people have been killed in the name of God than for any other

reason. All you have to do, look.

All you have to do is look at Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Kashmir, the

Inquisition, the Crusades, and the World Trade Center to see how seriously the

religious folks take Thou Shalt Not Kill. The more devout they are, the more

they see murder as being negotiable.

It's negotiable.

You know?

It depends.

It depends.

It depends on who's doing the killing and who's getting killed.

So, with all of this in mind, I leave you with my revised list of the two

commandments.

Thou shalt always be honest and faithful to the provider of thy nookie.

And thou shalt try real hard not to kill anyone.

Unless, of course, they pray to a different invisible man from the one you

to.

Two is all you need. Moses could have carried him down the hill in his fucking

pocket.

And if they had a list like that, I wouldn't mind those folks in Alabama

it up on the courthouse wall.

As long as they included one additional commandment, thou shalt keep thy

religion to thyself.