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.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

A girlfriend is out of line when she takes offense that her guy didn’t appreciate a sunflower to her specifications.

A girlfriend gave me a sunflower for my birthday. I appreciated the sentiment but the flower was huge and the stalk as thick as a broom handle. I had no idea on the next steps, and I didn’t have a large vase.
She was irate a few days later when it was still in a pot in the kitchen. What was she thinking? Why is any woman giving a man flowers?

http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/carolyn-hax-man-doesnt-enjoy-sunflower-to-givers-specifications/2012/04/06/gIQAnubM0S_story.html

Bup-bup-bup. I'll handle this one, Mrs. Hax.

Sir, she seems high maintenance. If you were truly her man, you would already know why she's angry. That you have not read her thoughts is a priori evidence that you do not love her. It's your fault. It will always be your fault. Don't you see?

If you were to call her and say nice things to her on the phone, for example, within earshot of her friends who can overhear you --whose presence there you cannot know as you are not a remote viewer-- fratboy friends within earshot who might disapprove of her association with you, she might say to you loudly over the phone, "We're not dating. Don't dote on me."

So you stop doting on her and you stop acting like you're dating. "Hey," you figure, "Sorry for crossing the boundaries. My bad."

Then she sulks like a little queen and wonders why you're not being nice to her --you know, like how people act when they're dating --which you're not, since she already told you that she likes to get wid girls. All this queen's friends have been informed that she likes girls. So she's safe --safe to transmit her thoughts to you via mental telepathy, which, again, you would know how to receive if you really loved her.

So you move out of town, thinking that she's not interested. Turns out she was, though, so you try to get back in touch with her. She's clearly miffed that you moved out of town without reading her mind that she was interested when she's plainly (and loudly, within earshot of her fratboy friends whose presence within earshot you are unaware) telling you that you're out of line in thinking that she would ever get wid a guy. Now she's gonna punish you! Hmmph! She'll show you for not knowing she was interested while you lived in the same town while also telling you that you don't understand the boundaries! She's gonna make you wait! ...long enough now so that you don't have the vacation days to make the trip.

So now Queen is just working herself up into a multi-car pileup of perceived grievances about how you obviously don't love her --what with your failure to telepathically know that she was dating you inside her mind; and leaving town, dejected, when she won't speak to you; and then perking up when she later seems interested; then getting stood up when you make the fifteen hundred-mile trip by car since you don't like to fly.

And to top it all off, Queen knew that if you really loved her, you could always get her phone number from your mutual friends --who, Queen has failed to note, cannot stand her and refused to act as intermediaries and who would be furious to know that you had ever given her another thought, much less --what is it now?-- nine fuckin' years.

And then she'll get married, convinced that if you really loved her, you could somehow magically divine that she was engaged --when there is no means of your knowing that information-- and come running and protest at her wedding and proclaim your love for her, right out of some stupid romantic comedy which would never occur in this 3-dimensional reality outside of her mind.

See? It'll be your fault that she married the consolation prize, someone she'll have to look at across the dinner table every night, a constant reminder of your FAILURE to read her mind. So let's add that to the multi-car pileup of perceived grievances that she has with you, all of which you could have attended to at the moment they occurred if she had ever seen fit to providing you with her goddamned phone number at any time over the past nine years, which was Step One all along.

You want my advice, sir?

Don't waste your time. No amount of effort will suffice with that broad.

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