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.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Since none of the losers in my audience have ever bought a ticket to my show so that I can stage a better performance, I now content myself with giggling and pointing at your culture as it dies.

The following video provides airports with yet another fantastic reason to evict TSA screeners and replace them with private security – the clip shows a 3-year-old boy with a broken leg in a wheelchair being harassed by a TSA worker.


http://www.prisonplanet.com/3-year-old-boy-in-wheelchair-harassed-by-tsa.html

I get a bad rap for being sardonic, bordering on sadistic. I can do far more uplifting material if I feel like taking the time to do so. It's just a matter of writing. I can make my act a veritable after school special, every story having a moral to it and a feel-good exit, delivering my audience right into the arms of a loving sponsor peddling whatever garbage.

The Soviets didn't need ICBMs to conquer the mighty, mighty United States. All they needed was to deploy an army of killer clowns to hide in alleys across the nation and jump out and go "Boo! I'm gonna get you! Now dismantle your own government, stupid."

America --strong like bull and brave like eagle, to hear your pamphlet tell it-- was laughably easy to annihilate. You've been puffing your chests out and bragging about being Number One for so long that it was fun to watch you get knocked out in the first round. And your opponent didn't even have to throw a punch; he just pulled one and bugged his eyes out and went "booga booga!" You wet yourselves and fell right down.

Why, this morning I sit here, contemplating my career trajectory (which is nothing.) I was more successful playing to broke college kids in Orlando than I am today, what with my various staffs in Washington and my tippy-top secret legal statuses and my being able to argue my own case in court by text messaging myself.

I do not impress easily, so I certainly hope no one thinks I will be satisfied with those distinctions. They don't pay the bills. And they don't enable me to hire writers and video editing guys so that I can get on with my career after pissing away seven years speaking to a garbage audience that thinks having its ear is its own reward.

I'm lazily spinning a cigarette lighter on the desk right now, round and round, flicking it with a finger and watching it spin, then slow, then stop. I watch it spin and I wonder if today is the day I roll your cop cars again just because I'm bored.

'Cause you know I know how to do that, right?

Come on, losers. Buy your tickets. Let's start with the Loser in Chief.

http://www.typepad.com/services/tipjar/confirm?tj_xid=6w00e00982d2c9883301157021a6e4970b&blog_xid=6a00e00982d2c9883301156f2b1b1f970c

And if my losers can't buy their tickets, perhaps they can send a simple note of encouragement or a ten-dollar bouquet of flowers, just a little something to bolster my spirits, to assure me that I didn't piss away my life for nothing.

Will they do this? Of course not, because there is not a single audience member of mine who is not a total piece of human garbage. And you can quote me on that.
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