Original subtitles

- The saying they love in Bisbee

is that when you go through the tunnel

coming into Bisbee, you're going back through time.

If you don't know the story of this venue,

it used to be a church

and then it became a theater

and then a--a beautiful local eccentric millionaire

put a couple million dollars into renovating it

to make it, like, one of the best places I've ever played.

And then he closed it.

And then he reopened it.

Then he got angry and closed it again.

Then he reopened it as a movie theater, or something.

And then he got angry and closed it,

and then he said, "Fuck it,"

and he just donated it to KBRP, the local--

Somehow, dumping $2 million into a bar

in a town of 5,000 people,

where the biggest employer is permanent disability

and small pensions,

didn't work out for him as a business plan.

That's--

The statistic is, roughly one out of six Americans

live below the poverty line,

which, I know, that's you,

my fan base, generally.

Probably four out of six of my fan base below the poverty line.

My friends in Bisbee, five out of six, easily.

Plus a fraction.

But it's not poverty.

People down here work as little as possible,

which is admirable.

It's just enough to get by.

That's below the poverty line,

but it's just "kind of broke," is what it is.

It's not poverty.

It's insulting to impoverished countries

to say one out of six people live in poverty.

That's American standards of poverty,

where you still have a flip phone,

and you're embarrassed to break it out in front of chicks.

That kind of disgraceful poverty.

You have to watch "Walking Dead" on BitTorrent.

Oh, my God.

"The way I have to live..."

You got to roll up the passenger side window

with pliers,

'cause the handle fell off in your Dodge Neon.

"You don't have power windows?

Wow, you're well below the poverty..."

It's not world poverty.

Our landfills are third-world bling.

Do you ever--do you ever watch "Locked Up Abroad"?

[sparse cheering]

If you haven't, the name is pretty much self-explanatory.

It's stories about people,

Western people who got locked up abroad.

It's usually some chunky girl

that got talked into taking an exotic vacation

from some smooth-talking, swarthy man

in a cocktail lounge.

"And he wanted to take me to Indonesia,

and he was gonna pay for my travel,

and I thought it was a good opportunity to travel.

All I had to do was carry a satchel of his in my asshole,

and he was gonna help me pay

for community college.

I was skeptical, but I wanted to travel."

So she winds up in some Indonesian prison

for seven or eight years.

Granted, horrific conditions.

Just got to shit in a bucket,

and bugs crawling in and out of her orifi at night,

and rats nibble her toes, and everyone hates her.

It's not pleasant,

but what they never address is,

just outside of those prison walls...

exact same conditions.

Real-world poverty.

Some kid sitting right outside

the corrugated walls and the razor wire,

whistling songs.

He's got raw sewage shit river

running through his front lawn.

He's got to spear rats in a dump to feed his kinfolk.

Just another day in Indonesia.

I want to see "Locked Up Abroad:

Abroad Version,"

where that same kid gets the same opportunity

to smuggle drugs into our country,

gets busted at Newark International

with black tar heroin in his asshole,

spends eight or ten years

in one of our finer penal institutions.

What tales of woe he's gonna write back

to his parents.

"Dear Mother,

I am writing to you now from paradise.

I now live in a castle,

where my room measures a full 6 feet by 9 feet

that I share with only four other people.

Meals are catered to my door thrice daily,

with relatively few maggots as compared to the home cuisine.

Every room in my estate is equipped

with a stainless steel throne

full to the rim

with clean drinking water.

So plentiful, you could just take a dump in it

as a goof and press a button,

and it's replenished with even more

clean drinking water.

Mother, I make 72 cents a day here

in the prison laundry,

double that what Father made sewing shoes for Nike."

[laughing, cheering]

"Mother, Mother,

I can practice homosexuality openly now,

with no threat of being beheaded in the town square

by the local mullah."

And good, goodness,

isn't that an easy segue into ISIS.

[laughter, applause]

Hell yeah.

Scary, that ISIS.

What the ISIS is doing now,

the ISIS is using social media

to recruit disenfranchised,

angry youth

to join them.

And that's what I do.

That's my demographic.

Fuck off, ISIS.

I'm working this corner.

That's my people.

I have never felt threatened by any other comedian.

I never had a comedic rival that worried me.

If you're into the weird shit that I do,

I'm the only guy selling.

It's a very small niche fan base of weird people

that'll fly from all over the world

to come and sit in 150 seats.

[cheers and applause]

Jeff Dunham and Peanut

is playing across the street for free.

You're not flipping a coin.

You're here. I got you.

No comic has threatened me.

ISIS worries me.

That's you, the angry, young,

disturbed, knock-kneed kid

in a Misfits t-shirt that showed up alone,

lonely and hapless and helpless.

Yeah, stay with me. Don't join the ISIS, kid.

I actually care about you a little bit.

ISIS does not care about you.

You think you could get a selfie with Jihadi John

after a Friday night beheading? No.

He wouldn't even talk to you.

I'll take a selfie with you after the show.

[cheering]

Evidently, the Jihadi John was killed in a drone strike.

And I don't--I don't know how this affects

the whole beheading video thing.

I don't know if it's gonna work like "True Detective" now,

where they film eight episodes for a season,

and then they recast the whole thing

now that Jihadi John is gone,

but I watched season one of the beheading videos.

I don't know if you caught it.

I don't know if it's on Netflix yet.

But the first run of eight,

Jihadi John was the protagonist,

or antagonist, depending, I guess.

That's a glass half full kind of question.

But he's the main guy.

He would open the beheading video

with this extended monologue, which...

runs a little too long.

It's funnier than Fallon, but it's--still...

[cheering]

Wrap it up, Jihadi John.

But they had a different guest star in every episode

in an orange jump suit.

And he's down on his knees,

and he really carried--

the guest star carried every episode.

Did you not see the beheading videos, season one?

He had to carry the show,

'cause he's limited dialogue, which, that's hard acting.

When you only have a few lines

and you have to carry the whole show

just with this stoicism in your face,

trying to not betray your inner terror.

You're nervous.

It's your first time your parents are gonna see you on TV.

Trying not to laugh.

Don't want to make the beheading blooper reel.

Like, "Cut, do it again."

"I'm sorry, I keep laughing."

But my only critique about the beheading videos...

In this recent...version,

there was no cutting off of the head.

You didn't watch?

Jihadi John, "Blah, blah, blah, blah,"

and his black rag around his head.

And then they put the knife to the guy's head,

and then they just cut away to the beheaded body

with the head sitting next to it.

It--

Like, if you remember old-school,

early 2000s beheading videos, Nick Berg, Daniel Pearl,

that was full-on, "Gah!"

Eyes rolling back.

[strained screaming]

Er, er, er.

This is just a beheaded video.

It's not a beheading.

It's--

It's past tense.

It's soft-core beheadings.

There's no penetration.

[cheers and applause]

You hope somebody is getting chewed out

in an editing bay over at ISIS central casting.

"Lewis, I saw your latest reel,

and you're still missing a very integral part

of a beheading video.

It's the gurgly-gurgly part.

That's what the focus groups respond to, Lewis.

We're not making art films here.

Do you remember 9/11?

Imagine if they forgot the footage

where the plane actually hits

the fucking building, Lewis.

It's like, I ask you to make me pornography,

you show me a man unzipping his fly,

and then you smash cut to come.

Just a puddle of come,

and no one knows how it arrived here."

Why--I don't know why they have to recruit...

When, in America, there's a...

mass murder every week

just on our own; we just do that.

Someone goes out and kills a whole bunch of people.

Just take credit for it.

Guy goes out and kills 18 people at work

and then kills himself,

just say, "Yeah, that was us.

It's ISIS."

That was a schizophrenic kid

who dropped out of community college

and thought the president was reading his e-mails

and he was a secret alien lizard person.

"No, it was ISIS, it was us."

All right.

It's just a cheap segue

into the mental illness chunk I'm about to do,

and it goes on and on.

We're gonna talk about mental illness

and I know there's a lot of different types,

but, for the sake of this bit,

I'm gonna break them down into two camps:

camp one: mentally disturbed people.

These are people with a mental illness

that is disturbing to them.

And there's a lot of different kinds.

There's the, "Ah...ah... everything's a germ, man.

I wear plastic gloves like a Subway sandwich artist

because I know everything's gonna infect me,

and I wear a SARS mask on my bicycle when I go to work."

Or, "I got to flip the light switch three times

before I go to work-- one, two, three.

And then I wipe my feet on the mat--one, two, three.

And then if I think I forgot to do the light switch,

I'll go home from work on my lunch break--one, two, three."

And these boil all the way down to,

"The government has a chip in my head,

and they're tracking my thoughts,

and they're making me do stuff."

Camp one: mentally disturbed.

Camp two: mentally challenged people.

Also have a mental disability.

They just don't seem disturbed by it on any level.

They seem to quite enjoy having that disability.

They both have a mental impairment,

but only one of the two camps gets any kind of sympathy.

Mentally challenged people get all the hugs

and kickball in the world.

Everyone loves them.

Mentally disturbed get kicked the fuck out of the house

as soon as they're old enough.

"There's something wrong with that boy.

He's got the devil in him.

Get out of my house!"

It's not a--he doesn't have the devil in him.

He's got a fucking mental illness.

Take care of him.

But you don't with camp ones,

because mentally disturbed people

are frightening and irritating.

They seem dangerous a lot of the time.

They have bees living in their beard,

and they walk through the crosswalk

talking to themselves.

[blathering incoherently]

And you know, if you make eye contact,

all of those problems in his head

are gonna be your problem.

[blathering incoherently]

[shouting incoherently]

And occasionally--

it's very rare, but it's always well-publicized--

randomly, sometimes,

mentally disturbed people

will go kill a whole bunch of folks

for no logical reason that you can see.

So you don't want to give them

the same sympathy and safe quarter

that you do mentally challenged people.

No one ever says that.

"Retards never kill people."

Nobody ever says, "Did you hear about Kevin?

He went all Downsy and shot up a movie theater.

It was the weirdest thing."

"He went full-blown special needs

and drowned his own children in a bathtub.

Nobody saw it coming."

So retards get to live at home until they're 45 or 80.

You can never tell how old they are.

While your crazy people just get chucked into the street

as soon as they turn of age

and then you got free-range crazies

walking all over the streets and living in the parks.

And then, who has to deal with that problem?

Us.

Smokers.

[laughter, cheering]

Nobody spends more time

caring for the mentally disturbed

than smokers 'cause while you're all in here

laughing your balls off at some silly play

or break dancing,

or whatever you do on a Saturday night,

we're out front,

like a salt lick for the homeless.

You're a stationary target.

"Oh, here he comes.

Hot-box it, honey.

Get a dollar for him.

Ah..."

It's not fair.

We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

Who's that sign apply to?

Where do you enforce that?

With your negroes

or your homosexuals

or your Muslims?

You'd fucking get shut down in a second.

That sign applies to crazies, and crazies alone.

You couldn't even do that with a retarded kid.

"Ma'am, your son,

spilling the Cream of Wheat out of his mouth,

it's making people dry-heave."

No, just crazies can you use that on.

And it's fucked up.

"Hey, Benny Shit-Pants, get off my coffee counter.

You're stinking up the place,

and the bees in your beard are stinging my customers."

You got to take care of them equally.

The whole idea that parents are no longer responsible

for their children after a certain age

is such utter bullshit.

You should be responsible for your children

for the rest of your natural life.

That's--You did that.

It's not--as soon as you turn 18, it's not your fault?

No, it's your fucking fault.

Any time you make the decision to have a child,

you're taking a gigantic risk.

You have no idea what kind of problem

is about to flop out of your pink hole.

So if you roll shitty dice at that craps game,

society should not be responsible

for covering your gambling losses.

Pay your marker, motherfucker,

or the mob's gonna take your thumbs.

You can't just do that.

We all show up on this planet

in the same state of confusion and terror.

It's like, if we all left this building right now,

just disappeared and reappeared on another alien planet,

no memory of ever being here or being a thing,

just all of a sudden, you exist.

"What the fuck?"

You got a couple of basic instincts.

"I'm hungry.

Throw food down this hole.

And I'm cold.

So wrap me up in something."

But other than that, "What the fuck is going on?

Anyone?"

And there's other people who showed up

just as fucked up and confused as you are,

but they've been there longer,

so they could give you a few hot tips.

"Yeah, if it stinks, don't step in it.

And someone said eat kale and that's good for you,

and don't get a LinkedIn profile,

'cause the spam is endless and you'll never use it.

But other than that,

I don't really have any answers for you."

And then some of you sadists take this to the next level,

where you say, let's pull that same practical joke

on somebody else who doesn't exit.

Fuck me in the front potato.

We'll watch it fall out all terrified and confused,

and we'll laugh at it

for as long as that joke stays fresh.

And then we'll wait till his knees are strong enough

to hold up his upper body weight,

and we'll make him work around the house forever for nothing.

Sorry, black people,

you do not corner that market on slavery.

Every single one of us was born into indentured servitude.

"18 Years a Slave."

Make that Oscar-winning motion picture,

"18 Years a Slave."

"You had me. I used to be nothing.

I didn't exist, and I never had a bad day.

Then you create me, I come into this world.

The next thing I know, I'm doing yard work and dishes.

I got chores."

And then do your homework.

And when your homework's done, then you're grounded.

"Fuck you, cunt that had me without my consent.

I'm grounded?

I'm 13 years old.

You know what I could do?

I could make a dude too.

I know your law says 18, but nature said 13.

I could crank out a dude just like you did that didn't exist,

put him on your dime, and he's gonna halve my work load."

Sub-contract that piece of shit out to rake leaves.

But I didn't do that, 'cause I'm not a dick.

But if my parents were alive today,

I would sue them into poverty,

just for having me against my will.

Set legal precedent.

They weren't bad people,

but you made me out of nothing,

then you kicked me out when I was 18.

Now I'm 48.

I'm ugly, I'm drunk.

I don't have a strong closer for this special.

And you're conveniently dead before I can sue you.

It's wrong.

And I'm not even crazy or retarded.

I'm just un-amused with the outcome

of their poorly thought-through prank.

"Not funny, lady."

"Retarded" is, I know...

unfashionable to use,

but it's still in play down here.

If you're visiting, go down--

The neighboring town, Douglas, Arizona,

where they take care of camp twos,

still have their big vintage sign:

Douglas Association for Retarded Citizens, 1963.

It's beautiful.

Any hipster would be proud to have that in their man cave.

But the thing with the word "retarded" is,

"retarded" is not like other epithets.

It was not a word of hatred.

"Retarded" was the medical definition.

It was actually a word born in sensitivity,

'cause they used to call them--

Before "retarded" was the word,

doctors would use "imbecile" or "moron."

This is something a smart fuck at Harvard

has labeled the euphemism treadmill.

"Moron" and "imbecile" were the correct terms for a while,

and what happened is, we co-opted those words

to call our friend when he does something

incredibly stupid,

to the point where it became an insult.

So, out of sensitivity,

they changed the word to "retarded."

And what happened was

we co-opted that word to call our friend

when he does something incredibly stupid.

So you can keep changing the word,

and if you make the new one stick,

that's what I'm gonna call my friend.

"Did you just put a metal plate in a microwave?

What are you, developmentally disabled?

You don't fucking put a metal plate in a microwave.

Who doesn't know that?"

You can make it as difficult to pronounce

and Latin-based and medical-rooted,

and if you make it stick,

that's the new word I'm gonna call my friend

when he trips over his own shoelaces.

"Ha-ha!

You just exhibited some of the atlantoaxial instability

that is usually associated

with a trisomy 21 genetic imbalance.

Oh, you fucking loser."

[cheers and applause]

Ha-ha.

And you still have some blogger

or a Susan Blackford in the back of the room going,

[high-pitched voice] "That's not funny.

Letter to the editor:

My son was born with the trisomy 21

chromosomal imbalance.

And if you ever had to raise a child in such a condition,

you would show more sensitivity

and not use that kind of word, mocking--"

[normal voice] This is where she's being

thrown out by Chad Shank in my imagination.

[muffled shouting]

[cheers and applause]

You have to take care of your crazy people.

That's the whole point of this.

And they don't here.

I don't know if--

Bingo, my girlfriend that you know,

she's mentally ill, camp one, mostly.

Shows signs of camp two here and again.

But, yeah, she--

Bipolar schizoaffective is her diagnosis.

Do we have-- and I'm not trying

to open up the floor for open mic--

but are there any, like, legitimately diagnosed,

medicated crazy here tonight? [scattered cheers]

Labeled? What's your label?

- Clinically depressed. - Clinically depressed.

- Bipolar. - Bipolar.

- Canadian. - [laughs] Canadian, see?

[cheers and applause]

That kind of proves my point.

See, if I was asking if anyone--

If I said, "My girlfriend is surviving cancer;

has anyone else had cancer?"

Fucking disease.

You wouldn't go, "My wife's a cancer!

Ha-ha!"

I'm saying, you can shit all over crazy people,

where retards are sacrosanct.

They're both mentally ill!

Think you just kind of proved my point.

You can't even say--

Crazy people, you can call them whatever you want.

Fucking lunatic, psycho, nut-job, whacko.

You drop a tard-bomb in mixed company,

ooh, you better pick up the check

at that company luncheon.

Thank you for making my point.

Clinically depressed, you might just be correct.

Bipolar, welcome to town.

I hope you're not here seeking treatment,

'cause Arizona--

Arizona is kind of notorious

for not taking care of mentally ill people.

Well...

Jared Loughner.

Few years ago, for people who are watching this

if it ever gets released,

Jared Loughner was one of our camp one

mentally disturbed people,

and he thought the government was playing with his head,

and he had all sorts of weird theories.

And he had to take it out

by going down to the Safeway in Tucson,

and he killed, I think, seven people or nine people,

and he shot our congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords.

Shot her right in the fucking bean--whap!

And she survived.

Sort of.

She walks among us, but...

No, this is the good part,

is, one of our mentally disturbed people

shot our congresswoman directly into camp two.

She's straight-up retarded now.

She lived, much to her husband's chagrin.

She did manage to pull through.

Wait--if you don't know the story,

it might be a little touchy for the locals,

but her husband was an astronaut,

and after she got shot mentally retarded,

she's still in a rehabilitation facility

when he had to take his last space mission.

And you know he was hoping to get lost up there,

like George Clooney in "Gravity."

"She's gonna live.

I can't fucking--

Put me on the leakiest rocket

with the worst maintenance record

and shoot me the fuck out of here."

♪ This is Major Tom to ground control ♪

♪ Is my wife still shot retarded? ♪

♪ Is she still making ♪

♪ Those awkward personal appearances ♪

♪ Where she gives a speech ♪

♪ But no one knows what the fuck she just said? ♪

This is only okay to laugh at,

if you need a reason for it to be okay,

is because, at the time that Jared Loughner,

mentally disturbed, shot our congresswoman...

mentally challenged,

we ranked 49th

in mental health care

under her watch as a congresswoman.

That's out of 50, for a lot of my fans.

It's not very good.

That's your job.

That's not so much tragic,

as that's some instant karma's

about to catch you right in the grape, Gabby.

Boom, bow.

Should have chucked some of that retard money crazy's way.

Crazies don't have a big 1963 vintage sign out on the highway.

If you want to drive by on your way out of town tomorrow,

drive past where Bingo gets mental health care.

It's in a U-shaped strip mall

on the outskirts of town on Highway 92.

On this side of the U

is the Second Amendment Gun Shop,

in the middle of the U is the Beast Brewery,

and on her end is Community Intervention Associates,

with the acronym blown up on the door,

where you do not get to see a doctor.

You see a registered nurse via Skype.

[audience groans]

A woman that I was actually in the room

when she said to Bingo,

"Next time you feel like cutting yourself,

try doing something positive instead,

like get a new hair style or a manicure."

[laughter, groaning]

It's fucking actual quote.

- Jesus!

- So if you have a mental health issue,

like a Jared Loughner,

and you think, oh, you get the shortwave radio

is playing in your head,

and the plastic bags

are floating around your brain like "Poltergeist,"

and you want to do the bad, bad thing,

and you're loading a clip,

and that last rational synapse is telling you,

"Maybe you should see some mental health care first,"

in order to get that health care,

you would have to stroll past the gun shop,

then past the bar,

walk through a tinted glass door

marked "CIA,"

for Community Intervention Associates,

where you talk to a television set

that's talking back to you.

And you wonder why people die

in hails of gunfire in America.

It ain't ISIS.

[cheers and applause]

You know what I was thinking, Alex, if you can hear me, is,

I would love to hear the second-hand review

of this show

from Sheri, the checker at Safeway in lane 4,

the town gossip,

who just hears about it

and then tells everyone else what she heard.

"And then I heard it was like $50,

and it sold out in six minutes,

and all he talked about was retarded people

beheading Gabby Giffords,

and I-- I would never pay that."

I'm in a hurry, Sheri.

If you go to Safeway, don't go to fucking aisle 4,

lane 4, she just--

She's the TMZ of Bisbee.

I'm just trying to buy two fucking things,

and she's got to tell you all the gossip you don't care about,

as though she was already talking when you got there.

That was a cheese-dick segue into a good TMZ joke.

TMZ, it's fucking celebrity gossip shit.

But now they're being cited as a legitimate news source.

CNN will go, "And TMZ has just released..."

That's a fucking--

That's like saying, "Breaking news

from your gossipy Aunt Nancy, this just in."

This fucking-- TMZ, the guy that runs it--

They have a TV show as well.

The guy that runs it, his name is Harvey Levin.

He's this fake-tanned, greasy, smarmy--

He's the Fagin of celebrity gossip,

where they don't even do any legwork.

They just count on you, the public.

"Any time you see a celebrity,

just film him with your cell phone

until he breaks and flips you off,

and then we're gonna run that footage."

"Uh!

Hey, Justin Timberlake,

uh, what are you doing?

Where you going?

You going to the gym?

You're in front of the gym with a gym bag.

Were you gonna use a Stairmaster?

What are you-- Justin Timberlake!"

And finally, "Fuck you."

"This just in, hey, looks like Justin Timberlake

doesn't appreciate his fans; I'm a smarmy cunt."

If the Nazis only committed all of those atrocities

because they had some prescience

and they were trying to prevent Harvey Levin

from one day existing on this planet,

even a lot of Jews would have to write off the Holocaust

as collateral damage.

And that is factual.

It was for the-- it was for the greater good.

Don't worry, I'll be apologizing for that joke

tomorrow at noon at a press conference.

It will be attended by absolutely no one.

I just one day wish I would have to do that,

or even be asked to do that.

Every fucking week,

there's some celebrity or comic or an athlete

that has to apologize

for a--you know, a caught-on-tape comment

or insensitive joke, a drunk tweet.

And they have a press conference.

And it's always something that's way weaker

than the shit I say every night.

As a segue, I say worse shit.

No one ever asked me to apologize.

I wouldn't, but I want to be asked one time.

I got way better shit than they do.

I demand outrage.

For God's sakes, what do I have to do?

I could have told that joke

at the Simon Wiesenthal Museum of Tolerance,

and people would go, "What'd he say?

I wasn't listening."

I could--I could--

I could finger-fuck all the Duggar daughters

as a closing bit to this set.

If you don't know the Duggars,

just imagine an American reality show

of a Christian family with 18 children,

and it turns out the older brother

was fidgeting all the little tiny gir--

You don't even have to know that.

Imagine me, as a closing bit,

with three tiny towheaded blonde girls,

like a ventriloquist act, finger puppets.

S'all right? S'all right.

S'all right? S'all right.

Still wouldn't--

I could play all the Duggar girls'

little tiny vaginas like wine glasses

on "America's Got Talent."

[to tune of "Mary Had A Little Lamb]

♪ Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh ♪

♪ Ooh-ooh-ooh ♪

♪ Ooh-ooh-ooh ♪

♪ Ooh-ooh-ooh ♪

Still wouldn't get any press.

I could commit suicide,

hanging myself with a belt off a doorknob

like Robin Williams.

I wouldn't even make the local police beat

on the back page of the "Bisbee Observer."

I don't know if that's a good thing.

Maybe it's good that no one notices.

No one from TMZ is following me around.

I'm only famous within 100 feet of my show

on the night of the show

for a half an hour before and after.

And other than that...

[cheers and applause]

If you don't know this,

Robin Williams--

I did an episode of this show "Louie,"

on FX or whatever it's on.

[cheers and applause]

Thank you for stealing that online as well.

Yeah, I played a washed-up,

alcoholic, bag of shit,

loser, suicidal comedian,

which took months of training.

I had different acting coaches.

I had to find a guy that fit the bill

and do ride-alongs with him

to find out what makes him tick,

to really nail the character.

But after it aired,

Robin Williams sent an e-mail to Louis

that he forwarded to me so I could read the compliment.

Robin Williams wrote that the "Doug Stanhope episode

of 'Louie' was the most powerful dialogue

I have ever seen on the subject of suicide."

Which, you know, hey--

[cheers and applause]

That's nice.

Pat on the back.

It made me think, perhaps,

even the lowly rated Doug Stanhope

might have influenced the great Robin Williams

in the last days of his career.

Maybe I am reaching people.

[cheers and applause]

I have a big head,

but I can find small hooks on which to hang my hat.

Same way I like to believe that I influence Michael Sam,

the first openly gay NFL player

to come out of the closet.

If you saw my last special,

I closed my last special

with about a seven-minute, gratuitous, graphic,

detailed depiction of interracial gay man rape

on an NFL field during a live game.

And right after that came out,

first gay NFL player comes out of the closet.

I like to believe that he wasn't even gay

until he saw my special,

and I made it sound so appealing,

that he jumped at the chance.

Now we got a gay baseball player,

minor leaguer for the Milwaukee Brewers organization.

We had a gay basketball player, Jason Campbell.

I might have fucked up his name.

And it's all great.

Every time an athlete

comes out of the closet--

if it's, like, a manly sport--

if you're a skater, you'd have to come out as straight.

But, like, yeah, with the football player,

it always boils down to this weird hypothetical

locker room scenario that the "SportsCenter" guys bring up.

"All right, level with me, Tony.

How are you gonna feel if you're in the locker room

with an openly gay athlete.

Tell me the truth.

Are you gonna feel okay with that,

when you're in the showers with a man who's openly gay?

Is that gonna be good? Can you maintain?

Is the teamwork--blah-blah."

I'm trying to profile for anyone with a job.

Does anyone-- what do you have for a job?

Just make something up if you don't.

Property manager.

How would you feel, honestly,

if, at the end of the day of fucking, you know,

kicking out deadbeats, or whatever you do,

and you get back to the office,

and you're griping about--

And then you get into the showers

with the other property managers,

knowing that one of them is an open homosexual.

Are you gonna feel like you're being sexualized in the shower?

My point is, what other occupation

on the face of Western civilized society

do people shower together,

and that's not the first question,

if not the only question?

Why are we showering together?

Fucking, you're selling cars, your first day.

"You have a real knack for this, Nicky.

You got good instincts.

Hit the showers, and we're gonna see you on Monday."

"Showers?"

And these are multimillionaires.

These are professional athletes

with money spilling out of every orifice.

You could not write--

You have a private jet.

You couldn't get a private shower?

Your agent couldn't write that into your rider

in your signing bonus?

Do you take dumps together too?

You had a bad game.

The coach makes you line up in a trough.

"All right, I saw no teamwork out there.

We have no defense.

Everyone, shit in a trough.

You line up and shit in a trough,

and you wipe the guy to your left,

till I see more team-building."

"All right, I'll wipe him, coach,

but if he gets a boner,

I'm gonna kick the shit out of him."

Playing on no team--

Gay--gay porn stars.

When gay porn stars get done a long day

of gay porning around on the set,

they shower alone.

They're not animals.

So I say this to you, professional athlete person.

Try to raise your standards up to that of gay porn stars

before you start worrying about someone's sexuality.

[cheers and applause]

I came out of the closet on my last special, if you saw it.

And you know what?

I was not embraced by the gay community.

It's almost like they thought I was lying,

like they thought I was making it up.

But that's passé anyway.

So now I'm gonna tell you the real truth, all right?

You're in my hometown.

This is what a lot of people don't know.

I'm transgendered.

Not just 'cause it's the hip thing to be now.

It's really what I am

and I've been hiding this from you for so long,

and I feel so free now.

I'm transgendered, which, if you don't know,

that means I identify as a woman.

I was born into a man's body,

but I was born a woman...

as far as I'm concerned.

I just happen to be a slovenly, pig, skank woman

that doesn't take care of herself.

I'm a woman that let myself go,

but I'm okay with that.

I'm not some Goddamn beauty queen.

I don't shave body parts.

I don't wear makeup; I couldn't.

I laugh so hard-- crying laughing

at a loud, ripping fart,

that it would make my mascara

run all the way down my face,

'cause that's the kind of girl I am.

I'm a daddy's girl.

We're not all Caitlyn Jenner.

I'm an individual.

Caitlyn, she's in a ball gown on the cover of "Vanity Fair."

Go, girl. I'm just not that same--

The only modeling I ever did,

is, I did model my teeth for warning labels

on packages of Canadian cigarettes.

I did that.

And that was enough of the spotlight for me.

I didn't need anything more.

I'm the kind of girl that watches beheading videos

and reviews them on Yelp.

If I destroy a bathroom, I'll try to trick you into it

by saying there's a spider in the tub,

and then I'll jam the door shut.

I'm just a rustic, tomboy, kind of gal.

And if you cannot accept me for the woman that I am,

then you can suck my dick and juggle my balls,

because you're intolerant.

[cheers and applause]

What is it in you that makes you so uncomfortable

around a strong woman like me?

And, no, I'm not getting the surgery.

That's all your follow-up questions,

with your minds in the gutter.

"Are you gonna have the surgery, Doug?"

'Cause that's my chick name, too--Doug.

I'm not very creative.

Not getting the surgery, 'cause balls are hilarious,

and I'm not gonna lose that.

Why would you--I have surgeries I actually need,

that doctors have implored me to get.

Had two really strong hernias working.

And hilarious balls aren't gonna take precedent.

You can pull your balls out at last call

and hang around the jukebox.

You don't need jokes.

You just wait for someone to notice.

Especially when you have, like, really hangy balls.

My balls have hangy hair on-- I have long ball hair.

Crispy, long ball hair, like a hipster's beard.

And if you can hang those out,

you don't even have to come up with new material.

Why cut those off?

I got to get back to the hernias.

I got two strong hernias working right now.

I got a ventral hernia.

That's where the abdominal muscles split apart.

That's common in alcoholics and pregnant women.

So jury's still out on what caused this.

The other one is the run-of-the-mill

inguinal hernia, the groin hernia.

And that one, that's where your intestines

are trying to spill through your ligaments.

So I learned to work around it.

I haven't got surgery, 'cause I learned, like,

if I have to sneeze,

I do a high kick like a Rockette

to keep my guts from spilling out like a balloon animal.

So health care is completely overrated.

You just got to figure out how to work this shit.

I'm working on developing an eating disorder,

'cause my only--

'cause with the hernias,

I can't do sit-ups or lift heavy objects,

which is perfect. Who'd fix that?

My only problem is, with the fat,

you got to understand how much time and effort

I put into these suits.

You don't just buy this suit.

This is years of hitting every Goodwill and Salvation Army

across the road in every town we play,

and you find the coat one year,

and one day I'll find pants that match it,

and then a tie.

And you go--

You get one pants size,

my whole closet is done, years of effort.

And on a side note,

can we start putting sizes in obituaries?

Can that be a tradition?

That would make thrift store shopping

so much easier,

if I could just read the local obits.

He was a Korean War veteran.

He worked with the unions.

He liked to disco dance in the '70s at the Studio 52,

and he was a 40 regular, size 32 pants.

And then I'd know exactly what neighborhood

to hit the thrift store.

I figured out, if I could just get an eating disorder,

I could do an eating disorder,

because I don't have the horrible psychology

that goes with an eating disorder.

I could vomit socially.

Just, I don't want to be like some--

I don't have a bad body self-image.

You have that about me.

That's not--I don't care.

I just don't want to lose my pants.

I'm not some teenager who's gonna just start puking,

and then it's gonna catch on till I rot my teeth

down to little black nubs and I'm emaciated.

I just want to puke enough

to get the outer layer of smoking stains off.

I want to vomit my way into teeth whitening

while maintaining a 32 waist.

And I think I could pull that off socially.

The problem with people with eating disorders--

and I say people, 'cause it's not just ladies.

It's also jockeys.

People who have eating disorders,

there's an inherent rudeness to an eating disorder

that's not intended.

It's just part and parcel of the disorder,

'cause the reason that a person can vomit their way down

to Karen Carpenter-Auschwitz emaciated,

'cause they still think they're fat.

No matter how thin they get,

they still see themselves as fat.

So if you can puke your way down to 78 pounds

of bile breath and organ failure,

and you still think you're obese,

what are you thinking when you look at me?

I know what you're thinking.

It's fucking rude, lady.

Stop it.

I'm a little bloated, alcoholic-doughy,

but I'm not some fucking Ralphie May

circus act, freak show guy up here.

It's rude, how you see me.

Rude.

It's like kids with cancer.

Fuck you, little kid with cancer.

You're rude too.

Little kids are dying of cancer,

and everyone goes out and they have these foundations,

like Locks of Love,

where people shave their heads for the little kids with cancer.

Oh, we're gonna make wigs for the little kid with cancer.

That should be such an affront to any bald

or balding man in this room,

where some child is dying of leukemia,

and you, as a parent, your biggest concern,

"Oh, yeah, he's gonna croak any day,

but God forbid he dies looking like you.

Not my baby!

Get him a wig.

Doll him up for the grave."

It's fucking hair.

Who gives a shit?

This is not a medical condition.

This isn't painful.

It's fucking hair.

This kid's 6 years old.

He's not trying to get pussy.

What's fucking wrong with you?

"God forbid my child dies without having learned

our grotesque obsession

with personal appearance and vanity."

And I'm not just fucking with you.

I got a situation going on right there.

It's not bald. You've committed.

This is a--

This is a little something there.

I can pull on it.

If you put a cigarette lighter to that,

you'd get a small, "Foof."

There's a little something.

This is a running argument with my girlfriend,

where she'll go,

"You should put some sun block on your bald spot.

You're getting red."

Like, it's not a-- it's not a bald spot.

There's technically hair on there.

And I took this to an extreme,

where, one night, shit-faced, which I don't have to--

you'll know by the story.

I shaved my entire head, razor shaved, to the bone,

everything except for this spot, right here.

And I came out of the bathroom, so proud of myself.

"Where's my bald spot now, Bingo?

Point to it.

Point to the part of my head that you just referred to

as my bald spot.

Is it here?

What's this?

Oh, is that my hairy spot now?

Say it! Say it out loud, Bingo.

Yes, that's your hairy spot, Doug Stanhope.

And I'm always wrong, and you're always right."

Then I had to walk around with that haircut for a week,

till I rubbed it in enough,

while all my friends are going,

"What the fuck did you do to your head?

What is that?

Did you lose a bet?"

No, I won a bet, technically.

I won a bet, right there.

And then I thought,

"Wouldn't it be magnanimous of me

to donate my hairy spot to some little kid

dying of cancer?"

Just go down to that Locks of Love.

Supermarket parking lot,

everyone shaving their head fest.

Find the kid that showed up late.

Don't worry, little buddy, I got you covered.

Right here, I'm gonna give you this.

Yeah, right down here in front of everyone.

You want to look like that?

You want to look like some elderly Jew

who's still wearing the same lucky yarmulke

for the last 70 years?

Now it's all threadbare and wispy.

'Cause I'm gonna give that to you.

You want to wear that pompadour of shame

into your little tiny grave?

I'm willing.

But no kid with cancer would ever want my "hairy" spot.

It's not good enough for them, 'cause they're rude.

Go sit with your puker friend in the back, kid with cancer.

You're both rude.

I know you're having a bad day,

but you don't take it out on people who are trying

to give back to the community.

It's the only part of my body I could donate

that isn't toxic at this point.

My little fucking chemo wisp.

Good, the fucking show went downhill so badly without you.

Everything started to suck.

No, thanks. Fucking Guinness?

Grotesque.

Fucking do a shot and eat a loaf of bread.

Here's--I'm getting "Jagermeister"

tattooed across my toes...

so that when I lose my toes to the diabetes

that I assume, if I don't have it,

I'm gonna get it from 20 years of drinking that swill,

and they have to lop my toes off from diabetic neuropathy,

I can then hang those toes around my neck

on a fishing line.

A little shrunken head charm bracelet

of little, tiny Jager toes

to remind me of all the good times I can't remember

from drinking Jagermeister.

Like a Vietnam vet coming out of the jungle

with V.C. ears strung around his neck

to remind him of his time in the shit,

I will have little, tiny shrunken head Jager toes

of my own,

and I will have to clobber the first person

that points out the typo,

'cause I know there's at least one bean counter

in here right now doing the math,

and no, I don't have 12 toes to fit all of "Jagermeister."

I'll have to eliminate

some unnecessary "I" before "E" bullshit,

but you'll get the message.

You know what gives me the creeps

about the Vietnam vets,

they have this obsession with wearing the hat.

They have to let you know they're a Vietnam vet.

They all wear the baseball hat

with the gold leafs and the platoon and the year.

"Dang Wang, '68 to '70, Vietnam vet."

Why the fuck would you wear that hat?

Did you forget how brutally fucked over

by your own government you got on that deal?

And you wear a hat celebrating it?

Nixon, in his own words in the Nixon tapes,

talks openly and casually

about delaying the withdrawal of troops

just so he can win reelection.

"Fuck 'em if thousands more die.

I need this gig again."

And then you're wearing a hat.

They fucked you over

and then sold you merch after the gig.

How bad do you need someone to buy you a Pabst Blue Ribbon

down at the VFW?

That's like a rape victim

walking around in a pink trucker cap

that says, "Molested, step-brother, '82 to '86."

"Hey, girls, where's all the fun at?"

[cheers and applause]

And if you've suffered any kind of trauma like that,

a war or rape or whatever it is,

I'm glad you're here,

so we can annex some of those problems

and goof on them.

If you're a victim of any kind of traumatic event like that,

and you ever find yourself being the person

who says publicly,

"And I still have nightmares,"

just remember, so does everybody else.

At least now yours make sense.

Everybody else has nightmares, and they don't make--

I have nightmares of riding on the back of carp

through a swamp, like a camel,

and then we fly up into the air

and get sucked into a jet engine,

and now I'm in a middle seat in the back

that doesn't recline,

and everybody hates me,

and I'm having to watch "Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2,"

and I'm starring in it, and everyone's booing me.

That doesn't make any sense.

You wake up shaking from the war.

At least there's some connection to reality.

I don't wake up shaking and have my girlfriend holding me

going, "It's okay, honey.

You needed the money for 'Paul Blart: Mall Cop.'"

Yeah, no, I prefer nightmares to dreams.

Dreams suck.

I just won $750,000 on a scratch ticket,

and I'm rich, and I missed my plane,

but Air Force One is here,

and the president is a huge fan,

and he has all of my DVDs, and I'm huge and famous.

And then I wake up,

and I'm in some fucking Travelodge

in Big Timber, Montana.

I slept in my suit, and I sweat through it.

And I have a nine-hour drive to Pocatello, to another gig,

a 40-seater that I can't sell out,

with the Patel motel mafia hammering at my hotel door

'cause it's past checkout.

That's the reality.

I'd rather ride the carp.

[cheers and applause]

I was really trying to have a whole positive spin

on this entire special,

and I feel like I failed again in my career.

I was trying to be uplifting somehow with all this shit,

and it doesn't feel like it's working.

Problem is, when you spend 25 years

just pointing out everything that's wrong in life

and wrong with the world,

you have a tendency to come off as a negative person.

But I'm not.

It's true, but it's not negative.

The truth is that human beings, as a species,

have almost always been wrong

about almost every single thing

that we ever thought was right

for the entirety of recorded human history.

Wrong, wrong, oops, fail,

missed again, get you next time,

wrong, erh!

Earth is flat, burning witches,

slavery, reefer madness.

They thought Liberace was straight

and Bruce Jenner was a man.

Wrong.

[cheering]

So that--

That should be inspiring.

Occasionally, here and again, someone's right about something,

and they have a genius idea, and they're right.

And maybe you have a genius idea.

So don't be afraid to put it out there.

Don't be afraid to be wrong, because that's what we do.

"Ah, you fucking stupid.

You thought that was gonna work?

You're wrong."

Well, that's what we always have been.

But maybe you're right.

I know no one in my audience is curing Ebola or anything.

But maybe you have a genius idea

that works on a lower level

but changes the social structure a little bit

to make life a little bit better.

Put it out there.

If you think you're brilliant, try.

And if you fail, fuck 'em.

There's a-- in 1960, the New York Giants

hired a kicker from Hungary.

This is back, if you watch old black-and-white NFL footage,

they used to kick field goals just very stiff.

A-dut-dut-dut.

Like a fucking kid with rickets in leg braces.

Da-da-doy-doink!

And that was the norm.

And then they finally hired a soccer player from Hungary,

and he came over,

and he sees all these people.

It had to be a lot of pressure.

You sail on a boat all the way from Hungary

to be a kicker, and...

everyone else is kicking like a dildo.

"I don't want to have to learn how to kick like a dildo."

So finally he says,

"Fuck 'em, I'm gonna kick like I kick."

And he's the first guy to kick like they kick field goals now,

soccer style. He didn't know he was a genius.

He just said, "I don't want to look like an asshole,

so I'm gonna muster up the courage to kick like I kick

despite the peer pressure.

And fuck 'em, it's 1960, they don't pay shit yet."

And he revolutionized special teams in the NFL,

just by being brave, a little tiny thing.

So whatever it is,

if you think you have a brilliant idea,

don't be afraid to be wrong.

Kick like you kick,

and fuck 'em if they don't like it.

When I was--

[cheers and applause]

When I was a young man growing up,

jerking off in the shower,

I would notice that as soon as my load hit standing water,

It would all coagulate

into this angry swarm of gummy bear boner sap

that had some sonar,

like it was trying to attach itself to my toe hairs.

It's, like, chasing you.

And you don't want to have to get down on all fours

and wipe all that up with a hand cloth.

So at an early age, I realized,

if I just got my shoulder into the shower stream,

I could manipulate every little bead

of gummy bear jisma,

like a Super Soaker effect, running off your arm,

and guide each one into a drain hole.

And I didn't know, is this a genius idea?

Does everybody know this?

Should I run down the street in my towel,

yelling to all my friends?

I don't know, 'cause I didn't grow up in a household

jerking off with 12 other guys.

I did not grow up in an NFL type of environment.

Perhaps, if I did grow up like that

and everyone all jerked off in the shower at the same time,

we'd go, "Oh, j'ugh!

Wow, we really chowder-housed the drain

on this one, gentlemen.

Who's gonna clean this up?

Get Stanhope; he's a rookie."

And I come through like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

on a foggy Christmas Eve,

and I go, "Stand back, guys.

Look what I discovered."

♪ Bah-bah-bah bah, bah, bah ♪

♪ Ba-diddle-la-da-whoo ♪

They would have carried me

out of that shower on their shoulders

as a conquering hero.

To this day, it would still be known

as Stanhope-ing the drain.

And I would have left a mark on this world.

Bisbee, you're a beautiful people,

and I got to get the fuck out of here.

[cheers and applause]

We'll be drinking soon enough.

[cheers and applause]

[audience chanting "Doug"]