Christopher King, America's Senior Comedian: The other side of the tracks. But which one?

My Video Intro

What follow are to be considered transcriptions of spoken word pieces that I would have delivered in a physical theater. You will also find video and audio pieces here.

This show has been roughed out years in advance, and material delivered as its time approached. There is an arc to this show. For that reason, posts --that is, pieces-- should be read in order, from older to newer. So if you've been absent for a bit, scroll all the way down and read upward.

Please remember that this is not a free show. This is the professional undertaking of a professional comedian who bet the farm on making this a going concern. Just because it is possible to steal my property does not mean that you may. If you go to the farmer's market and the man is away from his table, you are nonetheless obligated to put your money into the shoebox labeled "Put money here." My personal friends are exempted from buying their tickets, as well as those who may not be able to afford to buy a ticket. Everyone else is morally and legally obligated to buy a ticket if they partake of even, say, a dozen pieces of mine per year. Duck outside my theater for a cigarette as often as you like, but you didn't get in here in the first place without buying your ticket at the box office. The cost is $100 per person, per year. There is no law enforcement discount. There is no news media discount. No one gets a discount, unless you honestly don't have the money. (And to my law enforcement patrons: Even in Lenny Bruce's day, cops had to buy their tickets before they could get into his theater to jot their notes. Jot away, but if you are not here to arrest me or to shut the place down, then you are here covertly. If that is the case, then you are passing as ordinary patrons. If that is the case --and it is-- then you buy your tickets just like regular customers.)

Thank you for coming.

--Chris

Bitcoin Address: 1KtMQ32BoHqBAx4GFjLR1gLrBBp1BSnQs6

Or mail $100 to Chris King, Grafton, Vermont 05146

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This is the product safety sticker that accompanies all my speech:

There was a Pratt and Whitney JT9D 7-series compressor recovered from Murray Street in New York on 9-11, the precise identification of which is detailed in the Capta Brightstick Document. That incompatible engine hardware precludes Flight 175's presence at the scene of the crime and indicts the jurisdiction known as United States as criminal. If you are a member of a grand jury or jury, or if you are a judge, and if this product safety sticker has been removed from whatever speech of mine may have been presented to you, it is because the prosecutor is pulling a fast one on you and doesn't want you to know that the federal government auto-executed itself in a grand ceremony for all to see. Please have a nice day.
Updated legalese, added 11/1/2012 on the occasion of realizing that every time I go to court, Madame Prosecutor is forever waving around my intellectual property contained herein, content to use my words against me without having the decency to buy her ticket to my show. Well, here's something you can wave around: "I, Christopher King, do hereby plead guilty to whatever it is that Madame Prosecutor may allege. I'm rotten to the core and I secretly make fun of the judge all the time. As a result, I --and here these are my words, the words of the prosecutor and not of Mister King-- I have luscious melon breasts and I think the judge is the worst thing ever to happen to the court. You hear me, judge? That's right. I, Madame Prosecutor, secretly hate you and I think your rulings blow. I would like the record to reflect that Mister King is well hung and I ache for his tender ministrations. I suck, the prosecutor's office sucks, the judge sucks, and Mister King is a national treasure despite his plainly stating that he is guilty of all allegations that may ever be made. He plainly confirms that he is a dangerous terrorist. There. Let the record try to sort out who is who in this statement."
http://youtu.be/rJDztqCG91g
"Ta da! Behold Assclown Jurisdiction United States!"

End of product safety sticker.

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Buy your ticket to my show!

Bitcoin Address: 1KtMQ32BoHqBAx4GFjLR1gLrBBp1BSnQs6

Or mail $100 to Chris King, Grafton, Vermont 05146.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The other side of the tracks. But which one?

Dear Carolyn:

I live on the cusp of a very affluent community — homes range from $200,000 to over $2 million. When people find out I live here, too, they invariably ask, “Where?” I reply in a cheerful voice but then nothing more is said, which makes me think they asked just to see how much money we make. I’ve been vague, saying, “Just up the road,” but then they still say, “Where?”

Most people are nice, but I would like a quip for the nosy snobs.

I Thought We Left High School

Nondefensively: “You mean which side of the tracks?” You’ll bust the social-climbers and amuse the rest.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/carolyn-hax-living-with-new-boyfriend-is-the-wrong-move/2012/03/06/gIQAj41EQS_story.html

I live in a tony little town in Vermont that looks in many ways like it's the village that time forgot. It's either Mayberry or some damned, doomed burg straight out of a Stephen King novel. Pick one. I think it has the potential for both. It's all 1850s brick farmhouses with Direct TV dishes on the back and Lexuses in the driveways. It's the land of social propriety and church dinners and wife swapping. If you dig beneath the surface, you'll find all sorts of sexual philanderings going on. How people find time and all the excess sexual opportunities to be dressing up in latex and having gang bangs, I've no idea. It's springtime and I can feel the sap running. Spock-like, I find myself seized by all sorts of wild sexual fantasies that pretty much run the gamut from mustering the courage to talk to someone to actually having sex. Let's save the full-body latex routine and the gang bangs for when I've got just a complete surfeit of sex opportunities, okay?

So anyway, I live in this town populated by either, one, wealthy transplants from New York or Boston or somewhere or, two, poor Vermonters who live in shacks.

I do not look like a Vermonter and I take great pains to achieve that. I dress well, albeit inexpensively. I shop exclusively at thrift stores. It is possible to look like a million dollars while not having two nickels to rub together.

So I'm sitting on a bench on the porch of the local market the other day, eating a sandwich and drinking a soda. And I'm dressed nicely. I comport myself well. I can speak in complete sentences. And this guy pulls up in a Volvo and is apparently immediately taken by my drop-dead gorgeousness, in my having aged a mere ten years in the past five, a look of perpetual world-weariness in my eyes, and he says, "Are you new in town? What's your name?"

You should know that for the most part I do not wish to interact with people. I'm not cynical. I am the eternal optimist, as evidenced by my continuing to speak to you. It's just that I have learned that it's better if I remain aloof. There's less chance of social interactions spinning apart like an unbalanced flywheel if I maintain a respectful distance from people. But it seemed harmless to exchange a few polite pleasantries. I told him my name, but secretly wished that he would just move along.

"Well, then, it's nice to meet you, Chris. Where do you live? Up on the hill?"

The "hill" to which my interlocutor referred is apparently where rich people live. I wouldn't exactly know because I don't care where people live.

I can already see the gears turning in his head. He's trying to figure out if I would be a good addition to his stable of thoroughbred friends, a curiosity he might add to his well appointed home. I answered nebulously, "No, I live on a road, uh, down there, in a little place." --In a hovel that if you could see it would put you off the notion of having me over to your grand party with all your investment banker friends and your expensive drugs and gang bangs. Now leave me alone. There is no way you could possibly benefit by knowing me. Save yourself and your portfolio and your social standing and just get lost.