I appreciate your advocacy in my behalf. Don't think that I don't.
Have you noticed that I'm as thin as a rail recently? It's because there's no food in my house.
Am I in any way concerned about the danger I place myself in by continuing this show? No, because I figure either I'll wind up in prison (where there's free food) or I get whacked (which solves the retirement planning problem.) What's not to like?
You're an old duffer, right? What are you, about fifty? Got a chunk of change in the bank? Worked your whole life?
I have too.
How would you like to have worked as many years as I have and to have people not even acknowledge your existence, much less pay you for your efforts?
Threatening to make pastries for the president was not a publicity stunt, but if it were conceived as such, it worked wonders. I was all over the news, a crazy man with a "history of mental problems" (which I never had, but whatever; this is America and all we have to do is claim a thing and it becomes true.) And I can imagine most people drooling while listening to the news reports at the time, dragging their lower lip down with an index finger and asking, "Didn't he think they would catch him?" The man is sitting right in the front row of my theater. There is no catching involved.
Some guy from the alt-weekly paper in Burlington followed my case for a year. He pestered my attorney and me for a comment at each of my hearings. Every time, my attorney declined. The journalist said, "Oh, you're gonna make me wait until sentencing?"
And then sentencing rolls around. I figure, "Well, at least I get to tell my side of the story." But the guy's nowhere to be found. Never showed up.
I know the alt-weekly business. These guys don't follow a thing for a year and then lose interest, especially when the story has still got legs. You're telling me the guy just magically forgot? You're telling me that not a single one of the news outlets who carried the "bizarre" story of a man audaciously calling himself America's Senior Comedian (R), the guy who seemingly inexplicably sent a death threat to the president at his very own White House Twitter account, not a single one of those news outlets were interested in a statement? "Why'd you do it, Mister King? Didn't you think they would catch you? Or is there more to this story? Were you cutting off your own arm? If so, what fell on you? And why'd you get off so easy? Is it because being in prison would complicate the Secret Service's job? What job? Do they even have a job with you? That's sure newsworthy. Or was it because of your legal staff in Washington? ...But wait; if you have all those professional distinctions, you must be on to something. Just what is it, Mister King, that you're on to?"
I'm hearing people discuss my exploits on Imus in the Morning and on National Public Radio. All the while, I'm thinking, "Huh, that's interesting. ...Oh, that there, that's not true. ...Wow! If these guys only knew about my extra-kooky relationship with the Secret Service and the various mysterious people in Washington and how I can just do my stand-up routine for my law enforcement audience with my feet up on the desk in my living room and argue my own case in court by text messaging myself."
In show business, Mister Saunders, press (good or bad) is pure gold. Just get people to give my lobby card a once-over. That's all I need. I'll take it from there.
That idiot jurisdiction you work for has taken food out of my mouth for years now.
(Judge, you were in full possession of all the facts of that case. You see now what I've had to deal with for years, right? One lonely little guy who simply CANNOT MAKE A GODDAMN SINGLE THING IN THIS WORLD WORK BECAUSE THERE'S ALWAYS SOME CRIMINAL IN WASHINGTON FILLING OUT A PIECE OF PAPER THAT COMPLICATES MY LIFE.)
I am now forty-five years old and I have a net worth of about a thousand dollars. And it's not because I pissed away my life lying on the beach.
Not only can that idiot jurisdiction of yours not do basic police work, but you have removed food from the mouth of a professional comedian, who also happens to be doing your guild's job. (Oh. Oh, I see: It's my fault for doing what is known in my industry as "significant material." If you consider me "dangerous," that's because you've been watching television comedians for too long and you had come to think of that as the norm. It's not. Can you imagine these television comedians in any way being able to share a stage with George Carlin or Bill Hicks or Richard Pryor or Lenny Bruce? Of course not. What, I don't qualify as a comedian because I'm not doing tepid material like everyone else? Is that why you don't have to buy a ticket?)
I must be pretty fuckin' dangerous, I'll tell you that. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I ever think I would scare the ever lovin' piss out of an entire government the way I do.
Buy. your goddamned. motherfucking. ticket, Saunders. And you too, Baldy. And that goes for everyone else in Washington.
What part of "I have to eat" do you not comprehend?
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.
