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.

Friday, July 20, 2012

I'll handle this one, Mrs. Hax.

We should do a tag team advice column. It'll be the good cop/bad cop routine.
Hi, Carolyn:
My girlfriend has secrecy issues. She rarely tells me what she is doing or has done. If I ask her a question, she will analyze my words and tell me I did not ask in the correct way so she won’t answer. I then change the question but she tells me only the first question counts. Then she gets angry and I apologize because I don’t want to have an argument over something not worth it. All this happens over the phone because I am in the United States and she is in Asia. (I plan to move to her city soon.)
She says she has obsessive-compulsive disorder so I have to be careful what I say. Once her OCD kicks in, it takes her a long time to be happy again so I always end up acquiescing.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/carolyn-hax-dealing-with-a-secretive-girlfriend/2012/07/19/gJQAySMawW_story.html

Sir, this woman has got herself in your brain like a screw worm. She sounds high maintenance. What is it about her that would cause you to move to China or wherever?

And you say that she has OCD. Compulsive about what, being a total pain in the ass? Is it that she compulsively speaks in riddles without having had the decency to furnish you with the decoder ring? Does she demand that you magically divine her quicksilver moods lest you accidentally look at her crosseyed? Or is her "disorder" just a small slice of some larger panoply of freakshow behavior? Do you really want to marry this woman and receive an access-all-areas, backstage pass to that Hall of Horrors she calls a mind? What other backfiring messes are hiding under the hood? What if she turns out to have Oppositional Defiant Disorder? Huh? What's she gonna do, throw a fit and refuse to use that new washboard you bought her for her birthday? Are you really sure you want to involve yourself with a woman who is constitutionally incapable of appreciating your thoughtfulness?

So you go to your local shaman or priest or rabbi or whoever it is who ministers to your soul, and you stuff a few hundred in the collection plate or in his pocket or whatever is most appropriate, and you get that OPPORTUNISTIC INFECTION exorcised from your brain before you wind up with babies hanging all over you in those baby carriers, and with you lugging around a portable diaper changing station while Little Miss Maintenance Nightmare over here carries on about how you don't love her because you HAVE FAILED to detect the millisecond-by-millisecond changes in her moods.

Short and sweet man advice: Get rid of that boat anchor. Now.
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