Original subtitles

It's nice. Don't worry.

Thanks very much.

I appreciate it.

Thank you very much. Thank you all. Thank you.

I appreciate that.

Thank you.

Thank you.

So, let me ask you something.

Let me ask you. How's everybody doing tonight, huh?

Good. Well, fuck you.

Just trying to make you feel at home.

Now listen, I've been out here all this time and I haven't been complaining

about anything yet, so I think it's time to go into the complaint department.

This is just a series of things that are pissing me off, okay?

A series of things that are pissing me off because I don't have pet peeves. I

have major psychotic fucking hatreds, okay?

And it makes the world a lot easier to sort out.

First thing on my list tonight.

airport security.

Tired of this shit. There's too much of it. There's too much security at the

airport. I'm tired of some guy with a double -digit IQ and a triple -digit

income rooting around inside of my bag for no reason and never finding

Haven't found anything yet. Haven't found one bomb in one bag.

And don't tell me, well, the terrorists know their bags are going to be

searched, so now they're leaving their bombs at home. There are no bombs.

The whole thing is fucking pointless.

And it's completely without logic. There's no logic at all. They'll take

gun but let you keep a knife.

Well, what the fuck is that?

In fact, there's a whole list of lethal objects they will allow you to take on

board.

Theoretically, you could take a knife, a knife pick, a hatchet, a straight

razor, a pair of scissors, a chainsaw, six knitting needles, and a broken

whiskey bottle, and the only thing they're going to say to you is that bag

to fit all the way under the seat in front of you.

If you didn't take a weapon on board, relax.

After you've been flying for about an hour, they're going to bring you a knife

and fork.

They actually give you a fucking knife.

It's only a table knife, but you could kill a pilot with a table knife.

Might take you a couple of minutes, you know.

Especially if he's hefty, huh?

Yeah, but you could get the job done if you really wanted to kill the prick.

Shit, there's a lot of things you could use to kill a guy with. You could

probably beat a guy to death with the Sunday New York Times, couldn't you?

Or suppose you just had really big hands.

Couldn't you strangle a flight attendant?

Shit, you could probably strangle two of them, one with each hand.

You know, if you were lucky enough to catch them in that little kitchen area

before they give out the fucking peanuts, you know?

But you could get the job done if you really cared enough.

So why is it they allow a man with big, powerful hands to get on board an

airplane?

I'll tell you why. They know he's not a security risk because he's already

answered the three big questions.

Question number one. Did you pack your bags yourself?

No.

Carrot Top packed my bags.

He and Martha Stewart and Florence Henderson came over to the house last

fixed me a lovely lobster Newberg, gave me a full body massage with sacred oils

from India, performed a four -way around the world, and then they packed my

bags.

Next question.

Have your bags been in your possession the

whole time?

No.

Usually the night before I travel, just as the moon is rising, I place my

suitcases out on the street corner and leave them there unattended for several

hours.

Just for good luck.

Next question.

Has any unknown person asked you to take anything on board?

Hmm.

Well, what exactly is an unknown person?

Surely everyone is known to someone.

In fact, just this morning, Kareem and Yousef Ali Ben Gabba seemed to know each

other quite well.

They kept joking about which one of my suitcases was the heaviest.

And that's another thing they don't like at the airport.

Jokes. You know? Yeah, you can't joke about a bomb.

Well, why is it just jokes? What about a riddle?

How about a limerick?

How about a bomb anecdote?

You know, no punchline, just a really cute story.

Or suppose you intended the remark, not as a joke, but as an ironic musing. Are

they prepared to make that distinction?

Why, I think not.

And besides, who's to say what's funny?

Airport security is a stupid idea, it's a waste of money, and it's only there

for one reason, to make white people feel safe.

That's all.

The illusion.

The feeling and illusion of safety.

Because the authorities know they can't make an airplane completely safe. Too

many people have access.

You'll notice the drug smugglers don't seem to have a lot of trouble getting

their little packages on board, do they?

No, and God bless them too.

Oh, and by the way, an airplane flight shouldn't be completely safe.

You need a little danger in your life.

Take a fucking chance once in a while, will you?

What are you going to do? Play with your prick for another 30 years?

What, are you going to read People magazine and eat at Wendy's till the end

time?

Take a fucking chance.

Besides, even if they made all the airplanes completely safe, the

would simply start bombing other places that are crowded.

Porn shops, crack houses, titty bars, and gang bangs.

You know, entertainment venues.

The odds of you being killed by a terrorist are practically zero.

So I say relax and enjoy the show.

You have to be a realist. You have to be realistic about terrorism. Certain

groups of people, certain groups, Muslim fundamentalists, Christian

fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists, and just plain guys from Montana.

are going to continue to make life in this country very interesting for a

long time.

That's the reality.

Angry men in combat fatigues talking to God on a two -way radio and muttering

incoherent slogans about freedom are eventually going to provide us with a

deal of entertainment.

Especially after your stupid fucking economy collapses.

all around you and the terrorists come out of the woodwork and you'll have

anthrax in your water supply and sarin gas in your air conditioner. There'll be

chemical and biological suitcase bombs in every city and I say enjoy it. Relax.

Enjoy the show. Take a fucking chance. Put a little fun in your life. To me,

terrorism is exciting.

It's exciting.

I think the very idea that you can set off a bomb in a marketplace and kill

several hundred people is exciting and stimulating and I see it as a form of

entertainment.

Most Americans are soft and frightened and unimaginative and they don't realize

there's such a thing as dangerous fun.

And they certainly don't recognize a good show when they see one. I have

been willing to put myself at great personal risk for the sake of

And I've always been willing to put you at great personal risk for the same

reason. As far as I'm concerned, all of this airport security, all the searches,

the screenings, the cameras, the questions, it's just one more way of

your liberty and reminding you that they can fuck with you any time they want.

As long as you put up with it.

As long as you put up with it.

Which means, of course, any time they want.

Because that's what Americans do now. They're always willing to trade away a

little of their freedom in exchange for the feeling, the illusion of security.

What we have now is a completely neurotic population obsessed with

safety and crime and drugs and cleanliness and hygiene and germs.

There's another thing.

Germs. Where did this sudden fear of germs come from in this country? Have

noticed this? The media constantly running stories about all the latest

infections, salmonella, E. coli, hantavirus, bird flu. And the Americans,

panic easily. So now everybody's running around scrubbing this and spraying that

and overcooking their food and repeatedly washing their hands, trying

all contact with germs.

It's ridiculous and it goes to ridiculous lengths. In prisons, before

you a lethal injection, swab your arm with alcohol.

It's true.

It's true.

It's true.

Well, they don't want you to get an infection.

And you can see their point. Wouldn't want some guy to go to hell and be sick.

It would take a lot of the sportsmanship out of the whole execution.

Fear it, germs. Why, these fucking pussies.

You can't even get a decent hamburger anymore.

They cook the shit out of everything now because everybody's afraid of food

poisoning. Hey, where's your sense of adventure?

Take a fucking chance, will you? You know how many people die in this country

from food poisoning every year? 9 ,000. That's all.

It's a minor risk.

Take a fucking chance, bunch of goddamn pussies.

Besides, what do you think you have an immune system for?

It's for killing germs.

But it needs practice. It needs germs to practice on.

So, so listen.

So listen.

If you kill all the germs around you and live a completely sterile life, then

when germs do come along, you're not going to be prepared.

And never mind ordinary germs.

What are you going to do when some super virus comes along that turns your vital

organs into liquid shit?

I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to get sick, you're going

die, and you're going to deserve it because you're fucking weak and you've

fucking weak immune system.

Now... All right.

Let me tell you a true story about immunization, okay? When I was a little

in New York City in the 1940s, we swam in the Hudson River, and it was filled

with raw sewage, okay?

We swam in raw sewage, you know, to cool off.

And at that time, the big fear was polio. Thousands of kids died from polio

every year. But you know something? In my neighborhood, no one ever got polio.

No one ever.

You know why?

Because we swam in raw sewage.

It strengthened our immune systems.

The polio never had a prayer. We were tempered in raw shit.

So.

So personally, I never take any special precautions against germs.

I don't shy away from people who sneeze and cough. I don't wipe off the

telephone. I don't cover the toilet seat. And if I drop food on the floor, I

pick it up and eat it.

I eat it.

Even if I'm at a sidewalk cafe in

Calcutta, the poor section, a New Year's morning during a soccer riot.

And you know something? In spite of all that so -called risky behavior, I never

get infections.

I don't get them. I don't get colds. I don't get flu. I don't get headaches. I

don't get upset stomachs. And you know why? Because I got a good, strong immune

system, and it gets a lot of practice.

My immune system is equipped with the biological equivalent of fully automatic

military assault rifles with night vision and laser scopes.

And we have recently acquired phosphorus grenades, cluster bombs, and anti

-personnel fragmentation mines.

So, when my white blood cells are on patrol, reconnoitering my bloodstream,

seeking out strangers and other undesirables, if they see any, any

-looking germs of any kind, they don't fuck around.

They whip out the weapons, they wax the motherfucker, and deposit the unlucky

fellow directly into my colon.

Into my colon. There's no nonsense.

There's no Miranda warning. There's none of that three strikes and you're out

shit. First defense, bam, into the colon you go.

And speaking of my colon, I want you to know I don't automatically wash my hands

every time I go to the bathroom, okay?

Can you deal with that?

Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. You know when I wash my hands?

When I shit on them.

That's the only time.

And you know how often that happens? Tops, tops! Two, three times a week.

Tops. Maybe a little more frequently over the holidays. You know what I mean?

And I'll tell you something else, my well -scrubbed friends.

You don't always need a shower every day. Did you know that? It's overkill.

Unless you work out or work outdoors or for some reason come in intimate contact

with huge amounts of filth and garbage every day, you don't always need a

shower. All you really need to do is to wash the four key areas.

Armpits, asshole, crotch, and T.

asshole crotch and teeth.

In fact, you can save yourself a whole lot of time if you simply use the same

brush on all four areas.

Thank you.

I appreciate it. Thank you.

All right.

Now listen, I got a few more items of things that are pissing me off.

And this one comes in the form of a question.

Haven't we had about enough of this cigar -smoking shit in this country?

When is this going to end?

When is this shit going to go away?

When are these fat, arrogant, overpaid, overfed, overprivileged, overindulged,

white -collar, business criminal, asshole cocksuckers going to put out

cigars and move along to their next abomination?

Pussy businessmen sucking on a big brown dick.

That's all it is.

That's all it is. That's all it is.

Yeah. A big brown dick.

Sigmund Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Oh, yeah? Well, sometimes it's a big brown dick.

With a fat, arrogant, white -collar business criminal asshole sucking on the

end of it.

But hey, the news is not all bad for me. Not all bad. You want to know the good

part? Cancer of the mouth.

Good. Fuck them.

Makes me happy. It's an attractive disease. Goes nice with a cell phone.

So light up, suspender man, and suck that smoke deep down into your empty

and blow it out your ass, you fucking cocksucker.

Here's another question I've been pondering.

What is all this shit about angels?

Have you heard this?

Yeah, three out of four people now believe in angels.

What are you, fucking stupid?

Has everybody lost their fucking minds in this country?

Angel shit. You know what I think it is? I think it's a massive, collective,

psychotic, chemical flashback of all the drugs.

All the drugs.

Smoked, swallowed, snorted, shot, and absorbed rectally by all Americans from

1960 to 1990.

30 years of adulterated street drugs will get you some fucking angels, my

friend.

Angels, shit. What about goblins, huh?

Doesn't anybody believe in goblins?

Never hear about them except on Halloween, and it's always negative

you know?

And zombies. Where the fuck are all the zombies?

That's the trouble with zombies. They're unreliable.

I say if you're going to buy the angel shit, you might as well go for the

package as well.

Here's another horrifying example or aspect of American culture that the

pussification, the continued, the continued pussification of the American

in the form... Yeah, all right.

In the form of Harley Davidson theme restaurant.

What the fuck is going on here?

Harley Davidson used to mean something.

It stood for biker attitude.

Grimy outlaws and their sweaty mamas, full of beer and crank, rolling around

Harleys, looking for a good time, destroying property, raping teenagers,

killing policemen.

Very necessary activities, by the way.

But now, theme restaurants.

And this soft shit obviously didn't come from hardcore bikers. It came from

these weekend motorcyclists. These fraudulent two -day -a -week

who have their bikes trucked into Sturgis, South Dakota for the big rally

then ride around like they just came in off the road.

Dentists and bureaucrats and pussy boy software designers.

Getting up on a Harley because they think it makes them cool. Well, hey,

you ain't cool.

You're fucking chilly.

And chilly ain't never been cool.

And here, as long as we're talking about theme restaurants, I got a proposition

for you. I think if white people are going to burn down black churches, then

black people ought to burn down the House of Blues.

What a fucking disgrace that place is.

The House of Blues. They ought to call it the House of Lame White

Inauthentic, low -frequency, single -digit, lame white motherfuckers.

these male movie stars who think they're blues artists.

You ever see these guys? Don't you just want to puke in your soup with one of

these fat, balding, overweight, overage, out -of -shape, middle -aged male movie

stars with sunglasses, jumps on stage and starts blowing into a harmonica?

a fucking sacrilege.

In the first place, in the first place, white people got no business playing the

blues ever, at all, under any circumstances, ever, ever, ever.

What the fuck do white people have to be blue about?

Banana Republic ran out of khaki?

Huh? The espresso machine is jammed?

Hootie and the Blowfish are breaking up?

Shit, white people ought to understand their job is to give people the blues,

not to get them.

And certainly not to sing or play them. Tell you a little secret about the

blues. It's not enough to know which notes to play. You've got to know why

need to be played.

And another thing. I don't think white people should be trying to dance like

blacks. Stop that!

Stick to your faggoty polkas and waltzes.

And that repulsive country line dancing shit that you do.

And be yourself. Be proud. Be white. Be lame. And get the fuck off the dance

floor.

Now.

I thank you. Now, listen.

Long as we're discussing minorities.

I'd like to mention something about language. There are a couple of terms

used a lot these days by guilty white liberals.

First one is happens to be.

He happens to be black.

I have a friend who happens to be black.

Like it's a fucking accident, you know?

Happens to be black. Yes, he happens to be black. Ah, yeah, yeah.

He had two black parents. Oh, yes. Yes, he did. Yes, that's right.

And they fucked. Oh, indeed they did.

So where does the surprise part come in?

I should think it would be more unusual if he just happened to be Scandinavian.

And the other term is openly, openly gay.

They'll say, he's openly gay.

But that's the only minority they use that for.

You know, you wouldn't say someone was openly black.

Well, maybe James Brown.

Or Louis Farrakhan.

Louis Farrakhan is openly black.

Colin Powell is not openly black.

Colin Powell is openly white.

He just happens to be black.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Oh, thank you.

Thank you.

And while we're at it, when did the word urban become synonymous with the word

black? Did I fall asleep for eight or nine years?

Urban styles, urban trends, urban music. I was not consulted on this at all.

Didn't get an email, didn't get a fax, didn't get a fucking postcard. Fine.

Let them go. And I don't think white women should be calling each other

girlfriend, okay?

Stop pretending to be black.

And no matter what color you are, you go girl should probably go.

Right along with you the man. Hey, you the man.

Oh, yeah? Well, you the fucking honk -ass.

Now, something a little more positive for you. Don't want you to think the

show is just negativity.

This is about a festival.

This is my idea for one of those big outdoor summer festivals.

This is called Slugfest.

This is for men only.

Here's what you do. You get about 100 ,000 of these fucking men.

You know the ones I mean, these macho motherfuckers.

Yeah, these strutting, preening, posturing, hairy, sweaty, alpha male

-offs. The muscle assholes.

You take about 100 ,000 of these disgusting prick, and you throw them in

dirt arena, big 25 -acre dirt arena, and you just let them beat the shit out of

each other for 24 hours nonstop. No food, no water, just whiskey and PCP.

And you just let them punch and pound and kick the shit out of each other

only one guy is left standing. Then you take that guy and you put him on a

pedestal and you shoot him in the fucking head.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Then you put the whole thing on TV.

Budweiser would jump at that shit in half a minute.

And guys would volunteer. Guys would line up. All you got to do is promise

a small appliance of some kind.

Men will do anything. Just give them something that plugs in the wall and

a whirring noise.

Here's another male cliché. These guys would cut the sleeves off of their T

-shirts so the rest of us can have an even more compelling experience of

smelling their armpits.

I'd say, hey, Bruno, shut it down, would you please?

You smell like an anchovy's cunt, okay?

Not good, Bruno.

And definitely not for sharing.

This is the same kind of guy that has that barbed wire tattoo that goes all

way around the bicep. You've seen that, haven't you? That's just what I need.

Some guy who hasn't been laid since the bicentennial wants me to think he's a

bad motherfucker.

Because he's got a picture, a painting of some barbed wire on his eyes. Hey,

Junior, come around when you have the real thing on there. I'll squeeze that

shit on good and tight for you, okay?

No kidding.

No kidding. This is the same kind of guy, if you smash him in the face eight

nine times with a big chunk of concrete and then beat him over the head with a

steel rod for an hour and a half, you know what?

He'd drop like a fucking rock.

Like a rock.

Here's another...

guy thing that sucked.

These t -shirts that say, lead, follower, get out of the way.

You ever see that? This is more of that stupid Marine Corps bullshit.

Obsolete male impulses from 100 ,000 years ago.

Lead, follower, get out of the way. You know what I do when I see that shirt? I

obstruct.

I stand right in the guy's path, force him to walk around. He gets a little

me. I spin him around, kick him in the nuts, rip off the shirt, wipe it on my

ass, and shove it down his fucking throat.

That's what I do.

Yeah. Hey, listen.

That's all these Marines are looking for, a good time.

And speaking of tough guys, I'm getting a little tired of hearing that after six

policemen get arrested for shoving a floor lamp up some black guy's ass and

ripping his intestines out, the police department announces they're going to

have sensitivity training.

I say, hey, if you need special training to be told not to jam a large,

cumbersome object up someone else's asshole, maybe you're too fucked up to

the police force in the first place.

You know

what they ought to do? They ought to have two new requirements for being on

police. Intelligence and decency.

You never can tell.

It might just work. It certainly hasn't been tried yet.

No one should ever have any object placed inside their asshole that is

than a fist and less loving than a dildo. Okay?

Now, this next thing is about our president.

This is about our president.

Bill Jeff.

Bill Jeff.

Bill Jeff.

Clinton. I don't call him Clinton.

I call him Clinton.

Clinton, C -L -I -T, T -I -N apostrophe.

His big deal was JFK. Isn't that right?

Loved JFK. Wanted to emulate JFK in every way. Well, JFK's administration

called Camelot.

Although it really should have been called Cumalot.

Because that's what he did. He came a lot.

So if Clinton's looking for a legacy, that's what he should call it. Well,

Cumalittle would be better for him.

Because he came a little. You know, a little on the dress, a little on the

Not a whole lot, really.

He was no match, no match for Kennedy in the pussy department.

Kennedy aimed high. Marilyn Monroe.

Clinton showed his dick to a government clerk.

There's a drop -off here.

There's a drop -off.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Now.

I appreciate it. Something else I'm getting tired of is all this stupid...

bullshit we have to listen to all the time about children.

It's all you hear in this country.

Children. Help the children. What about the children? Save the children.

You know what I say?

Fuck the children.

Fuck them.

They're getting entirely too much attention.

And I know what you're thinking. You say, Jesus, he's not going to attack

children, is he?

Yes, he is.

He's going to attack children.

And remember, this is Mr.

Conductor talking.

I know what I'm talking about.

I know what I'm talking about.

And I also know, I also know all you single dads and soccer moms who think

you're such fucking heroes aren't going to like this, but somebody's got to tell

you for your own good, your children are overrated and overvalued. You've turned

them into little cult objects. You have a child fetish and it's not healthy.

And don't give me...

Don't give me that weak shit. Well, I love my children. Fuck you.

Everybody loves their children. Doesn't make you special.

John Wayne Gacy loved his children.

Kept them all right out in the yard near the garage.

That's not what I'm talking about. What I'm talking about is this constant

mindless yammering in the media, this neurotic fixation that somehow

everything has to be revolved around children.

It's completely out of balance. Listen, there are a couple of things about kids

you have to remember.

First of all, they're not all cute, okay?

In fact, if you look at them close, some of them are rather unpleasant looking.

And a lot of them don't smell too good either.

The little ones in particular seem to have a kind of urine and sour milk

combination or something.

Stay with me on this. The sooner you face it, the better off you're going to

Second premise, not all children are smart and clever. Got that?

Kids are like any other group of people. A few winners, a whole lot of losers.

There are a lot of loser kids out there who simply aren't.

going anywhere and you can't save them all. You can't save them all. You got to

let them go. You got to cut them loose. You got to stop overprotecting them

because you're making them too soft.

Today's kids are way too soft.

For one thing, there's too much emphasis on safety.

Childproof medicine bottles and fireproof pajamas, child restraints in

and helmets, bicycles, skateboard, baseball helmets. Kids have to wear

now for everything but jerking off.

Grown -ups have taken all the fun out of being a kid just to save a few thousand

lives. It's pathetic.

It's pathetic.

What's happening is, all right, what's happening, you know what it is? These

baby boomers, these soft, fruity baby boomers, are raising an entire

of soft, fruity kids who aren't even allowed to have hazardous toys, for

Christ's sake.

Hazardous toy shit. What if it happened to natural selection?

Survival of the fittest. The kid who swallows too many marbles doesn't grow

to have kids of his own.

Simple as that.

Simple. Nature.

Nature.

Nature knows best.

We're saving entirely too many lives in this country of all ages. Nature should

be allowed to do its job of killing off the weak and sickly and ignorant people

without interference from airbags and batting helmets.

Just think of it as passive eugenics, okay?

Now, here's another example of overprotection.

Did you ever notice on the TV news, every time some guy with an AK -47

onto a schoolyard and kills three or four kids and a couple of teachers, the

next day, the next day, the school is overrun with counselors and

and grief counselors and trauma therapists trying to help the children

Shit, when I was in school, someone came to our school and killed three or four

of us. We went right on with our arithmetic.

35 classmates minus 4 equals 31.

You were tough.

You were tough.

I say if kids can handle the violence at home, they ought to be able to handle

the violence in school.

I'm not worried about guns in school. You know what I'm waiting for?

Guns in church.

That's going to be a lot of fun. And it'll happen. You watch. Some nut will

fucking ape shit in the church.

And they'll refer to him as a disgruntled worshipper.

Here.

Here's another bunch of ignorant shit.

School uniforms.

Bad theory.

The idea that if kids wear uniforms to school, it helps keep order.

Don't these schools do enough damage making all these kids think alike?

Now they're going to get them to look alike, too?

And it's not a new idea. I first saw it in old newsreels from the 1930s, but it

was hard to understand because the narration was in German.

One more.

Thank you.

Thank you.

One more item about children, and that is this superstitious nonsense.

that blames tobacco companies for kids who smoke.

Listen, kids don't smoke because a camel in sunglasses tells them to.

They smoke for the same reasons adults do, because it relieves anxiety and

depression. And you'd be anxious and depressed, too, if you had to put up

these pathetic, insecure, striving, anal, yuppie parents who enroll you in

college before you're old enough to know which side of the playpen smells the

worst.

Then they fill you full of Ritalin and drag you all over town in search of

meaningless structure.

Little League, Cub Scouts, swimming, soccer, karate, piano, bagpipes,

watercolors, witchcraft, glassblowing, and dildo practice.

They even have play dates, for Christ's sakes. Playing is now done by

appointment. Whatever happened to you, show me your wee -wee and I'll show you

mine.

No wonder kids smoke. It helps.

Not as much as weed, but hey, you can't have everything.

You know it's true.

Parents are burning these kids out on structure. I think every day all

should have three hours of daydreaming.

Just daydreaming.

You could use a little of it yourself, by the way. Just sit at the window,

at the clouds. It's good for you. If you want to know how you can help your

children, leave them the fuck alone.

a little change of pace, a little change of intensity.

I want you to know what's on television tonight on the other channels. Always

like people to know what it is they're missing by listening to my shit.

First of all, on the Playboy channel, on the Playboy channel, yeah, tonight,

they have one of those new reality shows where the people at home send in their

own tapes. It's called Home Videos of Bad Fucking.

And speaking of that delightful...

I guess you know last week, Ricky Lake had a special program, Women Who Fake

Orgasms. So tonight, not to be outdone, Jerry Springer has a nighttime special,

Men Who Fake Bowel Movements.

Yeah, I think they're running out of topics on those shows, too.

Sally Jesse's next show is Rapists Who Forced Their Victims to Play Yahtzee

Beforehand.

Getting a little strange on daytime TV.

Then, later on tonight, on the Nostalgia Channel, they're going to play back -to

-back two of my favorite episodes of Little House on the Prairie. First of

the 1975 Christmas show, A Douchebag for Clara.

Wasn't that good? And it was sad toward the end when she cried because she stuck

it in the wrong hole.

But as they say in the U .S. Navy, there is no wrong hole.

And then, right after that, They're going to play my favorite little house

the prairie of all times, Missy Takes a Big Dump in the Woods.

And that was interesting, I thought, because she had on the high heels and

long dress, and it was fun to watch how she had to maneuver through the poison

sumac.

And they didn't have toilet paper in those days. She had to use a series of

cones.

And she was pulling them in the wrong direction.

Yes. I understand toward the end of the show they had to bleep out a lot of

screaming and foul language.

And then, hey, hey, later on tonight on the pay -per -view, on pay -per -view,

Willie Nelson. Willie Nelson's concert is on and TV Guide listed all the songs

he's going to sing. He's going to start out with one of my favorites, Too Drunk

to Jerk Off.

Isn't that a good one? God, I love that song.

Then he's going to do a series of love songs, Kiss Me, I'm Coming.

Ah, that's a good one. Kiss me, I'm coming. Hold me, I'm humming.

Well,

I can't help it. I am a romantic and I do enjoy the sentimental tunes.

Here's a sad song.

I should have fucked old what's -her -name.

Remember that? I should have never played the game. I should have fucked

what's -her -name.

Here's one my mother used to sing around the house. Your love ran down my leg

and now you're gone.

That one always got to me.

I'm glad you feel the same way.

Here's a fine love song. You blew my mind. Now blow me.

He's even... He's even going to do a Dee Dee Wonder song. I just called to say I

tested positive.

Yeah. Well, you don't want to leave anybody out. Do you know what I mean?

And hey, and hey, what would a Willie Nelson show be without a couple of

songs? He's going to do that one George Jones and Waylon Jennings wrote,

drinking beer, taking a shit, and passing out.

Then he's going to do a kind of a traditional western song, one that Gene

used to sing when I was a little boy.

It's midnight in Montana and I can't get my dick out of this cow.

I love that song.

I always liked it.

Yeah. You know why I like that song so much? Because it's a real cowboy song.

And by the way, speaking of cattle fucking, do you know why it is when a

fucks a sheep he does so at the edge of a cliff?

It's so the sheep will push back.

I have something for you.

Yes.

Just a little tip for you outdoorsmen when you're out camping.

Now this next thing is about names.

That's all names.

Names are an interest of mine, not a hobby. Hobbies cost money.

Interests are free.

This is just about names.

Did you ever notice how they name singles bars?

Singles bars all have the same kind of cutesy little one -word names that end

F. Scamps, tramps, chats, rumors, cahoots, cheers, chances, mingles,

gambits, notions.

Hey, if I had a singles bar, you know what I'd call it?

Nipples and dicks.

A little truth in advertising.

The Sperm Club.

Snatch -O -Rama.

The Crotcheteria.

Frankie's Fuckery.

Cafe Vagina.

Open all night.

Well, I'm an old -fashioned guy.

I'm old -fashioned because I believe the name on the outside of a place ought to

let you know what's going on on the inside.

It would be a good name for a gay restaurant.

The Mouthful.

Come on, that's clever shit. That's a double pun, goddammit. You didn't think

it.

Besides, you don't have to eat there if you don't want to.

No, no, just go in, have a cocktail.

A highball.

Here's another name I don't care for, TGI Fridays.

You know these cutesy -ass little places? TGI Fridays.

That whole TGIF thing was cute for about an hour.

About an hour. And that was 65 years ago when someone first said it on the

radio. Not cute anymore. Time to start bombing these locations.

TGI Fridays.

If I had a place like that, you know what I'd call it? H -S -I -O -W.

Holy shit, it's only Wednesday.

I think people would drink a lot more liquor if they thought it was Wednesday

all the time.

Well, I'm just looking for a little honesty in these names. Little honesty?

That's not asking a lot. I'm thinking of opening up a motel and calling it the

Sleep and Fuck.

Wouldn't that be a good honest name for a motel? Who needs this shady Pines

bullshit? The Sleep and Fuck Motel.

Get me one of them big neon signs.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

Sleep on.

You put it right at the Jersey entrance to the Holland Tunnel, you know?

Actually, fucking sleep would be a little more accurate, wouldn't it?

That name for a motel would be the fucking smoke and sleep and roll over

out of bed and wash your crotch and go out and buy two cans of Mr. Pibb and go

home and fuck a whole lot more.

A whole lot more.

Because that's all they ever have left in those soda machines on Sunday night.

Mr. Pibb and Diet Shasta Orange.

And that yellow can of Canada Dry Tonic Water that nobody wants!

And speaking of naming things, Am I the only person in this country who's

laughing when these commercials come on television for snapper lawnmowers?

Isn't there anyone else in this fading republic who knows what a snapper is?

A snapper is a pussy, okay?

That's what it means. Snapper means pussy.

It's derived from an older, more specific term, napping pussy.

which describes a particular type of pussy, one with good, quick muscular

control, kind of an elasticity in the vaginal wall that can grab ahold of you

and give you a decent hump. Do you know what I'm talking about?

A snapping pussy.

But now, now snapper means any kind of pussy, and they've named a lawnmower

company after it.

Now, I have seen a few snappers in my day.

Never seen one that'll cut grass.

Maybe do a little edging.

A little edging along the driveway after a party. That's all you can hope for.

But you know, weed whacker, you can understand.

Now, a lot of these...

Company names and product names are influenced by marketing and advertising

people. This next thing is about advertising.

And by the way, if you should have any cognitive dissonance about the fact that

I do commercials for 1010220 and still attack advertising up here, well, you're

just going to have to figure that shit out on your own, okay?

This is called advertising lullaby.

Keeping in mind, of course, that the whole purpose of advertising is to lull

to sleep.

Quality, value, style, service, selection, convenience, economy,

performance, experience, hospitality, low rates, friendly service, name

easy terms, affordable prices, money back guarantee, free installation.

Free admission, free appraisal, free alterations, free delivery, free

free home trial, and free parking.

No cash, no problem, no kidding. No fuss, no must, no risk, no obligation,

red tape, no down payment, no entry fee, no hidden charges, no purchase

necessary, no one will call on you, no payments or interest until September.

Cut.

Limited time only, though, so act now. Order today. Send no money. Offer good

while supplies last. Two to a customer. Each item sold separately. Batteries not

included. Mileage may vary. All sales are final. Allow six weeks for delivery.

Some items not available. Some assembly required.

Some restrictions may apply.

So come on in.

Come on in.

Come on in for a free demonstration and a free consultation with our friendly

professional staff.

Our experienced and knowledgeable sales representatives will help you make a

selection that's just right for you and just right for your budget. And say,

don't forget to pick up your free gift, a classic deluxe custom designer luxury

prestige high -quality premium select gourmet pocket pencil sharpener.

Yours for the asking, no purchase necessary. It's our way of saying thank

And if you act now, we'll include an extra added free complimentary bonus

a classic deluxe custom designer luxury prestige high quality premium select

gourmet combination key ring magnifying glass and garden hose in a genuine

imitation leather style carrying case with authentic vinyl trim.

Yours for the asking. No purchase necessary. It's our way of saying thank

Actually, it's our way of saying bend over just a little bit farther so we can

stick this big advertising dick up your ass a little bit deeper.

A little bit deeper.

A little bit deeper.

You miserable, no good fucking consumer

asshole.

Because you do know, folks, living in this country, you're bound to know that

every time you're exposed to advertising, you realize once again that

leading industry, America's most profitable business, is still the

packaging, distribution, and marketing of bullshit.

High quality, grade A, prime cut, pure American bullshit.

And the sad part is, is that most people seem to have been indoctrinated to

believe that bullshit only comes from certain places, certain sources.

Advertising, politics, salesmen, not true.

Bullshit is everywhere.

Bullshit is rampant. Parents are full of shit. Teachers are full of shit.

Clergymen are full of shit. And law enforcement people are full of shit.

entire country.

This entire country is completely full of shit and always has been. From the

Declaration of Independence to the Constitution to the Star Spangled

it's still nothing more than one big steaming pile of red, white, and blue

-American bullshit.

Because think of how we started.

Think of that. This country was founded by a group of slave owners who told us

all men are created equal.

Oh yeah, all men, except for Indians and niggers and women, right?

Always like to use that authentic American language.

This was a small group of unelected white male landholding slave owners who

suggested their class be the only one allowed to vote. Now that is what's

as being stunningly and embarrassingly full of shit.

And I think Americans really show their ignorance.

When they say they want their politicians to be honest, what are these

cretins talking about?

If honesty were suddenly introduced into American life, the whole system would

collapse.

No one would know what to do.

Honesty would fuck this country up.

And I think deep down, Americans know that. That's why they elected and re

-elected Bill Clinton.

That's why.

Because the American people like their bullshit right out front where they can

get a good strong whiff of it.

Clinton might be full of shit, but at least he lets you know it.

Dole tried to hide it, didn't he? Dole kept saying, I'm a plain and honest man.

Bullshit.

People don't believe that. What did Clinton say? He said, hi folks, I'm

completely full of shit and how do you like that?

And the people said, you know something? At least he's honest.

At least he's honest about being completely full of shit.

It's just like the business world. Same as business. Everybody knows by now, all

businessmen are completely full of shit.

Just the worst kind of low -life criminal cocksuckers you could ever want

into. A fucking piece of shit businessman.

And the proof of it, the proof of it is they don't even trust each other.

They don't trust one another. When a businessman sits down to negotiate a

the first thing he does is to automatically assume that the other guy

complete lying prick who's trying to fuck him out of his money.

So he's got to do everything he can to fuck the other guy a little bit faster

and a little bit harder.

And he's got to do it with a big smile on his face. You know that big bullshit

businessman smile?

And if you're a customer, whoa, that's when you get the really big smile.

Customer always gets that really big smile as the businessman carefully

positions himself directly behind the customer and unzips his pants and

to service the account.

I'm servicing this account.

This customer needs service.

Now you know what they mean.

Now you know what they mean when they say, we specialize in customer service.

Whoever coined the phrase, let the buyer beware, was probably bleeding from the

asshole.

But that's business.

That's business.

But in the bullshit department, in the bullshit department, a businessman can't

hold a candle to a clergyman.

Because I got to tell you the truth, folks. I got to tell you the truth. When

comes to bullshit, big time, major league bullshit, you have to stand in

awe.

In awe of the all -time champion of false promises and exaggerated claims,

religion. No contest.

No contest.

Religion. Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told.

Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there's an

man living in the sky who watches everything you do every minute of every

day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you

to do.

And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place full of fire and

smoke and burning and torture and anguish where he will send you to live

suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever till the end of

time.

But he loves you.

He loves you, and he needs money.

He always needs money.

He's all -powerful, all -perfect, all -knowing, and all -wise somehow.

Just can't handle money.

Religion takes in billions of dollars. They pay no taxes, and they always need

little more.

Now, you talk about a good bullshit story.

Holy shit.

But, thank you very much.

But I want you to know, I want you to know something. This is sincere. I want

you to know, when it comes to believing in God, I really tried.

I really, really tried.

I tried to believe that there is a God who created each of us in his own image

and likeness, loves us very much, and keeps a close eye on things.

I really tried to believe that, but I got to tell you, the longer you live,

more you look around, the more you realize something is fucked up.

Something is wrong here. War, disease, death, destruction, hunger, filth,

poverty, torture, crime, corruption, and the ice capades.

Something is definitely wrong.

This is not good work. If this is the best God can do, I am not impressed.

Results like these do not belong on the resume of a supreme being.

This is the kind of shit you'd expect from an office temp with a bad attitude.

And just between you and me, and between you and me, in any decently run

universe, this guy would have been out on his all -powerful ass a long time

And by the way, I say this guy...

Because I firmly believe, looking at these results, that if there is a God,

has to be a man. No woman could or would ever fuck things up like this.

If there is a God, if there is, I think most reasonable

people might agree that he's at least incompetent and maybe, just maybe,

give a shit.

Doesn't give a shit. Which I admire in a person, and which would explain a lot

of these bad results.

So rather than be just another mindless religious robot, mindlessly and

aimlessly and blindly believing that all of this is in the hands of some spooky

incompetent father figure who doesn't give a shit, I decided to look around

something else to worship.

Something I could really count on. And immediately, I thought of the sun.

Happened like that.

Overnight, I became a sun worshipper.

Well, not overnight. You can't see the sun at night.

But first thing the next morning, I became a sun worshiper.

Several reasons.

First of all, I can see the sun. Okay.

Unlike some other gods I could mention, I can actually see the sun. I'm big on

that. If I can see something, I don't know, kind of helps the credibility

you know.

So every day I can see the sun as it gives me everything I need. Heat, light,

food, flowers in the park, reflections on the lake, and occasional skin cancer.

But hey, at least there are no crucifixions, and we're not setting

fire simply because they don't agree with us.

Sun worship is fairly simple.

There's no mystery, no miracles, no pageantry, no one asks for money, there

no songs to learn, and we don't have a special building where we all gather

a week to compare clothing.

And the best thing, the best thing about the sun, it never tells me I'm

unworthy. Doesn't tell me I'm a bad person who needs to be saved. Hasn't

unkind word.

Treats me fine.

So I worship the sun. But I don't pray to the sun.

Know why?

I wouldn't presume on our friendship.

It's not polite.

I've often thought people treat God rather rudely, don't you?

Asking trillions and trillions of prayers every day, asking and pleading

begging for favors, do this, give me that, I need a new car, I want a better

job. And most of this praying takes place on Sunday, his day off.

It's not nice, and it's no way to treat a friend.

But people do pray, and they pray for a lot of different things. You know, your

sister needs an operation on her crotch.

Your brother was arrested for defecating in a mall.

But most of all, you'd really like to fuck that hot little redhead down at the

convenience store.

You know, the one with the eye patch and the club foot.

Can you pray for that? I think you'd have to.

And I say, fine.

Pray for anything you want. Pray for anything. But...

What about the divine plan?

Remember that? The divine plan.

Long time ago, God made a divine plan.

Gave it a lot of thought.

Decided it was a good plan. Put it into practice.

And for billions and billions of years, the divine plan has been doing just

fine. Now you come along and pray for something.

Well, suppose the thing you want isn't in God's divine plan.

What do you want him to do? Change his plan?

Just for you?

Doesn't it seem a little arrogant?

It's a divine plan.

What's the use of being God if every run -down schmuck with a $2 prayer book can

come along and fuck up your plan?

And here's something else, another problem you might have.

Suppose your prayers aren't answered.

What do you say? Well, it's God's will.

Thy will be done.

Fine. But if it's God's will and he's going to do what he wants to anyway, why

the fuck bother praying in the first place?

Seems like a big waste of time to me.

Couldn't you just...

Skip the praying part and go right to his will.

It's all very confusing.

So to get around a lot of this, I decided to worship the sun. But, as I

don't pray to the sun. You know who I pray to?

Joe Pesci.

Joe Pesci.

Joe Pesci. Two reasons. First of all, I think he's a good actor, okay?

To me, that counts.

Second, he looks like a guy who can get things done.

Joe Pesci doesn't fuck around.

doesn't fuck around.

In fact, in fact, Joe Pesci came through on a couple of things that God was

having trouble with.

For years, I asked God to do something about my noisy neighbor with the barking

dog. Joe Pesci straightened that cocksucker out with one visit.

It's amazing what you can accomplish with a simple baseball bat.

So I've been praying to Joe for about a year now.

And I noticed something. I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God

and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci are being answered at about the

same 50 % rate.

Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don't. Same as God, 50 -50.

Same as the four -leaf clover in the horseshoe, the wishing well in the

foot. Same as the mojo man.

Same as the voodoo lady who tells you you're fortunate by squeezing the goat's

testicles.

It's all the same, 50 -50. So just pick your superstition, sit back, make a

wish, and enjoy yourself.

And for those of you who look to the Bible for moral lessons and literary

qualities, I might suggest a couple of other stories for you.

You might want to look at The Three Little Pigs. That's a good one.

That's a nice, happy ending. I'm sure you'll like that. Then there's Little

Riding Hood, although it does have that X -rated part where the big bad wolf

actually eats the grandmother.

which I didn't care for, by the way.

And finally, I've often always drawn a great deal of moral comfort from Humpty

Dumpty. The potter liked the best. All the king's horses and all the king's men

couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

That's because there is no Humpty Dumpty and there is no God.

None, not one, no God, never was.

In fact, I'm going to put it this way. If there is a God, if there is a God,

he strike this audience dead.

See? Nothing happened.

Nothing happened.

Everybody's okay.

All right? Tell you what.

Tell you what.

I'll raise the stakes.

I'll raise the stakes a little bit. If there is a God, may he strike me dead.

See? Nothing happened. Wait. Got a little cramp in my leg.

And my balls hurt.

Plus, I'm blind.

Oh, now I'm okay again. Must have been Joe Pesci.

God bless Joe Pesci. Thank you all very much. Joe, bless you. Thank you very

much. I appreciate it.

Bye -bye. Have fun. Good. Thank you very much.

Have a good time.

Have a good time. Thank you.