Original subtitles

Thank you.

I really appreciate it.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Hey,

hey,

hey.

You know,

you know,

you know, something people don't

talk about in public any more,

pussy farts.

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

We're back at the Beacon Theater

by the way for the third time in a row.

And I'd do 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,

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.

Busy as a dyke in a hardware store.

Did you ever notice up on a barn

they got a weather vane up on a barn?

And by the way I don't do transitional material.

You probably picked that up right away.

I just kind of go right into the next thing,

and at this moment, we're on barns.

But you ever 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.

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

That's why I travel around so much.

I'm here to entertain and inform.

Reminds me of something

my grandfather used to say to me.

You know, he'd look 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 11

and everything that's happened 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.

I mean, yeah, there it is,

sitting on the fucking couch

and nobody says a word.

It's like, if you're at a formal garden party

and you go over to the punchbowl

and you notice floating around there's a big turd

and nobody says a word about it, you know.

Nobody says, lovely party, Jeffrey,

but there's a turd in the punchbowl.

So we got to talk about it,

if nothing else

just to get it out of our way

so we can have a little fun here tonight,

because otherwise the terrorists win.

Don't you love that stuff?

Yeah, that's our latest mindless cliché,

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, that you know,

you have to be, you can't be too picky and choosy

about the company you're going to keep.

Sometimes you have to cooperate

with some kind 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 home.

So for that reason, tonight I'm announcing

my intention to cooperate

with the 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, may we might think of

electing him President in 2004, okay?

Now, the reason for my decision

is a fairly simple one,

I mentioned it already, survival, okay.

And in order to learn that, Mother Nature, yeah.

Always took my cue from nature.

I realized some time ago

that 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 first 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.

And the reptilian brains says,

let's just kill the motherfucker,

go to the peace rally and get laid.

Because the first obligation,

the first obligation of any organism

is to survive.

The second is to reproduce.

Survival is more important than fucking.

Pacifism is a nice idea,

but it can get you killed.

We're not there yet folks,

evolution is slow,

smallpox is fast.

Now, the government has asked all of us

to come up with suggestions

and ideas that we might have

to help them to fight terrorism.

That will give you an idea of how much shit

they have on the shelf.

And 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,

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.

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,

Chicago Bears fans,

Green Bay Packer fans,

guys who eat a lot of bratwurst.

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.

That's all they get for 30 days.

For many of these men,

this will not be a new 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 them in there.

And then ya,

smoke them out.

These good citizens

will release horrendous, deadly farts,

the kind of fart that 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 Levis.

Can I get away with one more fart joke here?

The kind of fart whereby

the Centers for Disease Control

declares your pants a level 5 biohazard.

That takes care of overseas.

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 kind of New York frame of mind

I want to mention my New York credentials,

and they are as follows.

I was born on this island, Manhattan island,

therefore I was 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, 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 Guiliani,

an Italian from Brooklyn,

okay?

Okay.

Now, let's have a little fun here tonight.

Let's do the show that I was planning on

right up till September 10.

And it starts by me explaining to you,

me explaining to you that

a lot of you know this already,

I don't talk about myself very much in these shows,

you know, it's really not my style.

But I had an incident in traffic recently

that I think I ought to tell you about.

And there are a couple of 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?

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.

Well, 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 stopping and making things worse.

Leave these people alone.

They've just been in a major traffic accident.

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

in 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,

answering a 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 crimes.

Stop interfering with police.

And besides,

didn't anyone else see this accident?

Huh?

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 dumb ass traffic accident.

Things are bad enough,

people are dead,

families have been destroyed.

Time to get moving.

Now, 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,

I 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 rubber necking.

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 of a neck

sticking out 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 rib cage

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 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 me a tropical fruit,

and I'll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.

No, that wasn't her.

That was a guy I met in the Army.

I always confuse those people.

Now, folks, this next piece of material's

going to give us a chance to bond.

That's what America's 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.

It's about you and me,

you and me,

little things, little things we all know,

common knowledge.

In this case,

little things we all know about our bodies,

because everybody's body is different,

but everybody's body's really quite the same.

So there are a lot of little things

about our bodies that we all know

but 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 it's

really bad the corners of your mouth

look like parenthesis.

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 low 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, fuck them in the mouth,

scrape it on down.

Yeah, you just kind of scrape that shit on down

and 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 five or ten 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 into 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 waiting 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 esophagus?

How about a nice used ball bag, huh?

Come on, good condition, one owner.

He only scratched that on Sundays.

Come on and 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

just 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.

Honey, look at this.

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 the 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'll 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 come 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

prime time 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.

Did you ever notice that?

Thoom, thoom, thooom.

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.

Did 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.

And 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, 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.

Did you ever try to

save your toenail clippings overnight, huh?

Did you ever put them in the ashtray,

try to save them till 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 yours, get laid.

Eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this.

I don't need parts that badly,

I'm not that sick.

I'm not that sick, folks.

Yes sir.

That's right.

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

while 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.

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?

Well, I don't remember ordering anything

that smelled like this.

I believe this is a shit burger.

It smells like a burger,

tastes like shit.

Actually, it smells like Ethel Merman.

Call that Andrew Lloyd Weber 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.

A little scab, top of your head.

Not a big red blood scab

that you get when someone at work,

hits you in the head

with a fucking Stilson 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 of fun.

I can't wait to pick off my scab and look at it.

Oh boy, oh boy.

Oh, boy, oh, boy.

Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.

I can't wait to pick off my scab and put it down

on a contrasting material

such as a black velvet tablecloth

in order to see it in greater relief.

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

This is going to be

wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

It's not going to come off yet.

It's immature.

It's still not ripe,

it's not ready for plucking.

I'll save this for Thursday.

Thursday will be a good day.

I only have a half-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 the 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 that 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.

You want to pick this scab off evenly and carefully

around the perimeter of the scab

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,

makes notes on it,

perhaps 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 10,

never fucked a 10.

But one night

I fucked five, twos.

And I think that ought to count.

Here's something you never hear a man say,

Stop sucking my dick

or I'll call the police.

Now, something else a lot of you are aware of.

Those of you with illegal cable hook-ups

will be aware of the fact

that one of the things I like to do on my show

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 some good ideas, is fairly simple.

It's just a list of people

who ought to be killed,

starting with these people who read self help books.

Why do so many people need help?

Life is not that complicated.

You get up, go to work,

you eat three meals,

you take one good shit

and you 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.

That'll fucking motivate you.

Or else it'll at least

get you up and moving around the room,

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

are the ones who were causing all the trouble.

Stock swindlers,

serial killers,

child molesters,

Christian conservatives.

These people are highly motivated,

highly motivated.

And anyway, I think motivation is overrated.

You show me some lazy prick

who's lying around all day watching game shows

and stroking his penis,

and I'll show you someone

who's not causing any fucking trouble.

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 honor student

at Franklin School.

Or the Midvale Academy,

or whatever other innocent sounding name

has been assigned to the indoctrination center

where their child has been sent

to be stripped of his individuality

and turned into an obedient soul,

dead conformist member

of the American consumer culture.

Proud parents, what kind of empty people need

to validate themselves

through the achievements of their children?

How would you like to have 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.

Or 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 a nice little for a change.

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 only 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.

Here 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 front packs or slings,

or whatever these devices are called,

that are apparently designed

to leave the parents' hands free

to sort through high end merchandise

and reach for their platinum credit cards.

Because it's always these upscale,

yuppie looking Greenpeace,

environmentally conscious assholes who have them on.

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 just like to take them

out deep in the forest

and disembowel them with a wooden cooking spoon.

Here are some more people

who ought to be smashed across the face

repeatedly with a piece of heavy mining equipment,

These 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,

my daddy, my daddy, my daddy.

Well, you know what my daddy used to say.

My daddy used to say,

blah, blah, blah, blah.

Oh, he did, did he?

Well, wasn't that fucking enlightening.

My daddy used to say fuck your daddy.

Fuck your daddy,

in his wrinkled, rusted rural country asshole.

Grow up, Billy Joe Carl Bob Danny Frank,

you're not six any more.

More like 9.

Here's another unfortunate pack of mutants

who ought to be penciled in

for a 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,

but we all 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 ear pieces.

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 2.

I say, hey, Spaceman,

as long as your hands are free,

reach over here and fondle my balls,

would you, please?

And answering machines,

starting with these people who think it's cute

to let their children record the outgoing message,

you know?

And you can't understand a word of it,

because the kid's a fucking imbecile.

Hi, my name is Stacey, I'm 5 years old,

my mommy and daddy aren't home,

but I'm galalgablallamabla.

Beep.

Here's my message, Stacey.

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 dooooooo.

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's this?

Luanne is 12 this year.

Fuck Luanne.

I give a shit how old she is.

Does she have any tits yet?

Send me a picture of Luanne'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 newsletter.

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 Luanne.

Here's another bunch of genetic defectives

who have been turned loose on answering machines.

These guys who cannot resist the urge

to put music on their outgoing message.

You know, some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack

and suddenly he's a fucking record producer.

And because he's busy in the basement

jacking off his dog,

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 please.

When you record your outgoing message,

don't bother telling me

you can't come to the phone.

I understand that.

Apparently that's why we have these machines.

And don't tell me 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 chile 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 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.

You know,

what is this, 1850?

Get a fucking airline ticket, will you, please?

When is the media going to realize,

no one's interested

in some rich trouser stain who's so bored

he's got to fly around in a balloon all day.

I hope the next guy gets hit by lightning.

And 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.

Here is another pack of jackoffs

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,

Raisinettes is not a major purchase.

Get some fucking cash together.

No one should be paying a bank

18 percent 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 eyes.

And I'm getting really sick of guys named Todd.

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

Hi, what's your name?

Todd.

I'm Todd,

and this is Blake, and Blair

and Blane and Brent.

Where are all these goofy fucking

boys' names coming from?

Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn.

These are not real names.

Do 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 Johnnie and Phil,

Bobbie 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.

There'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, Vinnie and Tony

will beat the shit out of

Todd, Kyle and Tucker.

Thank you very much.

Here are some more people with missing chromosomes

who ought to be thrown screaming from a helicopter.

Gun enthusiasts.

I'm a gun enthusiast.

Oh, yeah, well, I'm a blowjob enthusiast.

Want to see me shoot?

Cock this, and I'll discharge a load for you.

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 shot.

Doesn't bother me.

But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers,

before Charlton Heston became President

of these dickless lunatics in the NRA,

they had a different guy.

He's still one of their major spokesmen.

His name is Wayne La Pierre.

What kind of a name for a gun nut

is Wayne La Pierre?

Doesn't it 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.

They're so ashamed they lost 11 hairs,

they're going to try to turn into

some kind of 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.

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.

Nassholes, 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, aw, yeah.

We're going to go to Mars, and then of course,

we're going to colonize 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.

Let me ask you this,

What are we going to tell

the intergalactic council of ministers

the first time one of our teenage mothers

throws her newborn baby into a dumpster, huh?

How we going to explain that to the space people?

How 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,

punching his wife around in the kitchen.

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 them out there?

Folks, here's something else I 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

to 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 anything 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 this shit up,

why did they pick ten?

Why ten?

Why not nine, or 11?

I'll tell you why,

because 10 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 most 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 to sell better.

I'm going to show you

how you could reduce the number of commandments

and come up with a list

that's a little more workable and logical.

I'm 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 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 7.

Next, honor thy father and mother.

Obedience, respect for authority.

Just another name for controlling people.

The truth is, obedience and respect

should not be automatic,

they should be earned.

They should be based on the parents' performance,

parent's performance.

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?

But marital 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

with 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.

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.

Your neighbor gets a vibrator that plays,

Oh Come All Ye Faithful,

you want to get one, too.

Coveting creates jobs,

leave it alone.

You throw out coveting, 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 really 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 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.

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 pray to.

Two is all you need,

Moses could have carried them down the hill

in his fucking pocket.

And if they had a list like that,

I wouldn't mind those folks in Alabama

putting it up on the courthouse wall,

as long as they included

one additional commandment,

thou shalt keep thy religion to thyself.

Thank you, thank you.

Thank you everybody.