Jane was the unwanted houseguest who came to believe that she was the legal tenant.
She brought out the absolute worst in me. I came to despise even the sight of her, and the sound of her voice, and the clutter of all her gyno-products in the bathroom --hair sprays, facial beautification creams (a dozen different kinds, all apparently useless,) and perfumes.
She somehow possessed the ability to convert me from my normal, placid self, into a foul-tempered ogre.
We had developed this routine. She would spin me up, I would say hurtful words, then an hour later I'd calm down and apologize for my perfectly reprehensible behavior.
But it's not enough to apologize. There is a parable of a boy who enjoyed hammering nails into fences. His father admonished him not to do that. The boy said, "But I can always pull the nails back out. See?" And the father replied, "Yes, but the holes remain."
My relationship with my audience is officially destroyed. It's like a bad marriage. It is broken and cannot be fixed. I am hammering holes in fences and I simply cannot sustain the karmic debt that I incur daily.
I have to stop this asinine undertaking, if for no other reason than to save my own soul. I am drowning in debt.
My audience brings out the absolute worst in me. For seven years now, no one has ever acknowledged hearing a single word I've ever uttered; no one has ever spoken to me except to say, "Big fan, Chris; now you're under arrest;" no one has ever bought their ticket like they're supposed to; no one can see fit to leaving a simple ten-dollar bouquet of flowers on my doorstep; I financed this show with every last nickel I had, which is all gone; I lost my house; and I've sequestered myself for so many years now, protecting everyone from my dangerous context --a context in which that sickness of a jurisdiction regarded me as Secret Public Enemy No. 1-- that I no longer have a social network. Apparently everyone thought I'd been off at parties and having a grand old time in the company of others.
And the best I can get out of anyone is, "Oh, that didn't happen. Here, go get yourself some mental health from insane people."
So seven years later, I take a look around and see that everyone else has done what people are supposed to do: They have improved their situations. That one there got a promotion to District Manager or whatever. Jim got married. Frank bought himself a vacation house at the lake. And Dave got himself a book deal with that publisher that does the nature books.
He's got a wife now. He's got a new Lexus now. He's got a vacation home now.
It's all gone. Everything is gone. I spent seven years improving my situation and actually went backwards. I can handle losing everything for something. I can't handle losing everything for nothing.
In early 2006 I actually turned down a position with a technology company, complete with stock options which are now worth in excess of one million dollars. True story. And I turned down the position because I feared it would distract me from my life's work, work by which I figured I could at least earn a modest living.
I have learned two lessons from this world at my advanced age of 45. They are as good as gold, and they are these: 'No good deed goes unpunished,' and 'No amount of effort suffices.'
Regarding this nation as worth fighting for was the biggest error of my life.
You're on your own. Peace.
I am Christopher King. I am America's Senior Comedian and One-Man Weapons System for Truth.
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."
"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.
