As it did not appear large enough to contain flowers, I threw it in the trash, unopened.
I have made my case perfectly plain. I am tired of being ripped off. I am tired of being passed over for everything in this world while I do your own jobs. I am tired of being a nonperson.
You, too, are obligated to buy your tickets. I am tired of suffering filthy street urchins like you sneaking in the back door of my theater.
Ain't a Facebook page, dummies. Professional undertaking, yeah yeah yeah, I set the ticket price, gotta eat, all the standard stuff.
And again, it may be true that Disease Jurisdiction United States thinks that I'm a terriss or whatever, but that means nothing to me. The rational among us have moved on. Only the borderline mentally retarded even recognize that collapsed heap of garbage you call a government.
I do not exist, therefore I do not exist. "No flowers = no compliance." If we zero out similar terms on both sides of the equation, we get "flowers = compliance." It's soooooo easy!
How much money do you spend trying to ensure compliance? You've got all these probation officers, and all their SUVs, and their gas cards, and their endless phone calls trying to track people down to make sure they're where they're supposed to be and doing what they're supposed to be doing.
Expensive, isn't it?
Have I ever failed to promptly return a phone call? Have I ever not complied?
I am the easiest probationee you've ever had. Guaranteed. And it is so inexpensive to coax compliance out of me.
Because I like your department, I am going to extend to you a 3-day grace period. The Secret Service was unable to lay a ten-dollar bouquet of flowers on my doorstep. If you can show the Secret Service up, if you can put flowers on my doorstep by Thursday morning, you will have won my eternal devotion and compliance.
But if you cannot do this, much less buy your tickets to this show of mine which you are reading at this very moment --and do not lie to me-- then do not contact me ever again.
You will not lay flowers on my doorstep because to do so would cause a legal chain reaction that opens all my various Pandora's boxes of horrors, causing that idiot jurisdiction to wink out of existence in some sort of legalistic matter/antimatter collision.
How sad for you. That is completely outside the scope of my professional considerations as a comedian.
What are you gonna do about it? Put me in jail? You mean where there's free food and a functioning toilet? But won't that complicate the Secret Service's job? And even if you miscalculate and decide to do so, how does that look? How does that play? You're gonna jail a national hero who just wants a simple bouquet of flowers in exchange for 1.43 million dollars' worth of selfless effort over the course of seven years?
Don't bullshit me.
(And I guarantee you that that idiot jurisdiction is having second thoughts about even bringing that asinine case. It didn't work out so well, did it? I've only got more visibility and more street cred now. And my court-mandated psychiatric staff can only marvel at my embarrassingly high intelligence, my eminent rationality, and my cute-as-a-button Rain Man handicap. "Why do you insist on bullying the disabled? The man walks to his house painting gig every day and shits in a bucket." And prison time in service to my craft placed me squarely in the pantheon of comedy greats. Thanks for the solid. When people ask me about my splendid little crime, I say, "Aw, it's okay; it was in my stand-up comedy show. ...I threatened to kill George Bush any number of times and he never pissed himself. ...Leave it to a Democrat to shriek in horror at a stand-up comedy routine." [Cue belly laughs from the audience and knowing glances. "He says what everyone thinks!!!"])
It doesn't play very well, does it?
Do not contact me ever again.
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.
