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.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Saunders.

Special Agent Saunders of the United States Secret Service.

(Yeah, yeah, I know. Your bosses in Washington don't like it when I mention your name. I don't actually care.)

I have a problem I'd like to discuss with you. And I have to discuss this problem with you by name because I'm tired of playing touch pee-pee with my audience. "Peek a boo! Where are you?! I hear you people giggling and muttering, but like the squirrels that have taken up residence in the walls of my shack, you always go silent when I creep over to investigate the source of the sound."

My bathroom smells like shit. Actual shit. Human shit. That is because there is something wrong with the septic tank. It's backed up and human shit is flowing back into the toilet. As a result, I am shitting in a bucket and dumping it in a hole in the ground that I have dug out back.

There is no money to fix the septic tank.

I, a national hero, a small businessman with a going concern of an indie stand-up comedy show, am shitting in a bucket while I've got all these people in my audience who simply refuse to buy their tickets.

Including you, Special Agent Saunders, and My Secret Mommy, and my various Vermont State Police audience members, and my linguistically impaired private prosecutor, and My Number One Fan, and my private investigative staff, and Senator Anthrax, and President Null and Void, and Attorney General Murder One, there are enough people in my audience who, if they were to buy their tickets like they're supposed to, could get that goddamned septic tank fixed.

Look at this, Saunders:


Nine dollars and forty-one cents. Nine dollars and forty-one cents is what I have made after an investment of one million, four hundred thirty thousand dollars over the course of seven years.

Yes, yes; I am aware of all the excuses about why people don't have to buy their tickets: It's my fault for putting it on the internet, it's my fault for not locking my show down by putting it behind a pay wall, it's my fault that I didn't hire adequate security to prevent shoplifting, it's my fault that I don't convert to an advertisement-based revenue model.

We work on the honor system here. Are you telling me that such a system is singularly unsuited to the class of people I have in my audience?

I couldn't give a flying fuck if you or your bosses think that it's okay to sit in on my show for free. This isn't a Facebook page, stupid. This is the professional undertaking of a critically acclaimed comedian who was selling tickets to his shows before that genius jurisdiction of yours declared me a terriss. (It's lights out over there when a comedian is considered a terrorist.)

Your bosses don't set the ticket price here. I do.

The price is $100 per person, per year. No exceptions. I don't give out comp passes.

So, Agent Saunders, why don't you get on a conference call with all the other g-man members of my delightful audience and you all can discuss the matter and come to your consensus conclusion that it's really not appropriate to steal from a man who is a national treasure and who really shouldn't have to squat over a five-gallon bucket to take a shit.

Is there something in your brain, Agent Saunders, that is malfunctioning? What is it about being a government employee that makes you think you can reduce my ticket price to zero merely by considering me investigation-worthy? Do you walk into a movie theater and just breeze right by the ticket booth and say, "I get in for free. I'm investigating this. My boss says I don't have to buy a ticket."

What makes you think you can just breeze right by my ticket booth? Is it because I don't have a brick and mortar operation like a movie theater? I could, you know, if the losers in my audience would buy their tickets. Hell, maybe I could even buy an entire chain of movie theaters. Would that be adequately conventional for you to understand that you need to buy a ticket? Is your conventional brain confused by the modern, space-age nature of my virtual show?

So, Mister Saunders, you put out the word that if the scared little bunny rabbits in my audience can't buy their tickets to the professional undertaking of a national hero, then there really is no hope for America. "We couldn't buy our tickets because it was too scary. And that's when we knew it was over in the land of the free and the home of the brave."

So roll onto one cheek, Agent Saunders of the United States Secret Service, and you pull out your completely wasted United States credit card, and you buy your ticket. (And maybe you can even be the point man! Maybe you can buy tickets on behalf of all the other g-men in my audience! If I had to take a guess, I'd say there were maybe around a thousand government employees in my audience who somehow think that my show is free. So why don't you buy tickets on their behalf? Let's average it out and say that the average person has been in my audience for three years. So that's a thousand people, times three years, times one hundred dollars per year. That's three hundred thousand dollars.

So I'm callin' you out, Agent Saunders of the United States Secret Service. I'm the usher. I've got my flashlight, and I'm escorting you by name right the fuck out of my theater and right back to the ticket booth. Here it is:


Click on it. Fill out the appropriate amount. I suggest three hundred thousand dollars. But a few hundred will do in a pinch. Once you've bought your ticket, you and all your cop buddies may return to your seats.

If you can't do it, maybe one of those joggers who run by my house can pick up my shit bucket when it gets full?

Wow, I'd really like to shit on a toilet like a regular human being.

Do it today. Gotta hire someone to fix the septic tank.

Get a move on, Saunders. Play time is over.

Buy your tickets or get the fuck out of my theater.

"Hello, Special Agent Saunders? This is Agent So and So over at the FBI. I'm working up a psychological profile on Christopher King. I understand you know him best. Can you tell me what motivates him? What makes him fly into a rage now and again and roll cop cars? He seems to have a very complicated mind. I'm willing to spend as many hours with you on the phone as necessary until we unravel the multifaceted enigma that is Chris King. What makes him angry? It is some deep seated resentment in his mind? About his mommy maybe?"

"No. It's very simple, really. It's because he has to take a shit in a bucket like an animal while everyone robs him blind for years on end. He could have done completely meaningless material and had a TV show like everyone else. In that business, if you're halfway decent looking and halfway funny, you can't NOT wind up on TV. The man's been blacklisted because he's undertaking something more significant than armpit fart noises. And he knew this going into it, so he launched his own indie operation with a ticket-based revenue model. But see, the special kicker here is that we all think it's okay to sneak into his theater without paying. He can't win for losin'! We've actually made it theoretically impossible for him to succeed! There's always some special, secret reason why nothing works out for him! And now he's wasted an entire decade of his life and who the fuck knows how much money! There you have it. We have now plumbed the whole two inches of the bottomless mystery that is Chris King. Anything else?"

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