No, not you personally --but you as my stand-in for the Government Man. Why are you crying?
Do you remember what one of the Vermont State Police officers said when my Secret Mommy came to interview me? He said, "Chris, like when the airplane's in trouble, you need to put your own mask on first. Take care of yourself, then others."
What do you think I've been trying to do? The flowers represent a light at the end of the tunnel. They represent the barest modicum of moral support. They communicate to me that I am valued. And they might prompt me to take better care of myself. Why, bolstered by such a gift, I might even quit smoking and take up jogging again. I'd eat better.
But no. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. So why bother? Why eat better? Why give a shit about whether or not I go to jail? Who cares?
Do I even have that idiot jurisdiction's permission to have friends? Well how can I have friends when you're running criminal background checks on my telephone correspondents? Huh?
I can't believe that I have existed in this no-man's-land, this sensory deprivation tank, for so many years. I can't believe that everyone just moves on with their lives. I can't believe that it appears I'll have to measure this undertaking in decades, not years.
I can write my elected representatives all day long and never get a response. It's like I don't even exist. (Oh, I exist when people decide to threaten to indict me for something I said in my show, and I exist when it comes time to arrest me, but when I ask for the slightest moral support around here, I become a nonperson again.)
The jurisdiction does not want me to exist. Therefore, I will oblige. I do not exist. How can a non-existent person possibly comply? You can't have it both ways. Not to mention that I'm already in prison anyway.
I've been languishing here for so long that I'm old and ugly now. The bloom's well off the rose. As a matter of fact, I don't even think I'm legally permitted to appear on TV or in a movie because I'm so ugly. I have no comedy career and I never will have a comedy career. I can't even get you to buy your ticket like you're supposed to.
I can only imagine what idiot kook law that disease of a jurisdiction has got me wrapped up in. Can I have friends or not? Can I write my elected representatives or not? Can anyone hire me or not? Is there any way for me to know, no. Can I call someone without getting them in trouble? Am I going to turn around one day and find some new batch of teenage lovers? Am I going to learn that I'm the kingpin of some transnational cocaine smuggling operation?
I asked you for the simplest of things, Mister Saunders. And you couldn't do it. It was simply beyond the scope of your abilities as a human. That jurisdiction has come to believe that they can turn me on and off at will. I exist when they feel like it, apparently.
Well, no I don't. Either I exist or I do not. The jurisdiction does not want me to exist. Therefore, I do not exist --one hundred percent of the time.
I begged you for the slightest morsel of kindness, the smallest fragment of hope so that I'd have something to hold on to. I've been fumbling around for that mask for years now. And neither you, nor anyone else over there, could offer the slightest assistance whatsoever. And you want to know why? Because it doesn't involve fucking me over.
Like I said, do not anyone at that so-called jurisdiction contact me ever again. I will ignore you, and you can take that to the bank. I will not permit you to pick and choose under precisely which circumstances you find it convenient that I exist.
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
-------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------
Buy your ticket to my show!
Bitcoin Address: 1KtMQ32BoHqBAx4GFjLR1gLrBBp1BSnQs6
Or mail $100 to Chris King, Grafton, Vermont 05146.
