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.

Monday, August 6, 2012

"Crow's feet, grey hair and Parkinson's: How your stressful job could be making you OLD and SICK before your time"


A new study conducted by Finnish researchers has confirmed what many of us have known for years: our stressful jobs are making us age faster.
The research led by Kirsi Ahola of the Finnish Institute of Occupational Health measured the length of DNA sections called telomeres and how the lengths varied in association with job stress. It found that people suffering from the most job stress tended to have shorter telomeres.
Telomeres, located at the ends of chromosomes, serve as a type of protective cap to the ropy strands, helping assure that the genetic instructions carried by genes on the chromosomes are accurately translated so cells get the right messages.

 http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2180818/Crows-feet-grey-hair-Parkinsons-How-stressful-job-making-OLD-SICK-time.html#ixzz22lRXQueX

Upon my arrival in Vermont, one of the local married men immediately wanted to have a Brokeback Mountain experience with me by taking me on a trip and whatever all else he had dreamed up in his mind. This, while also claiming not to know me should I presume to speak to him on the street where people can see. I declined his invitation to kookery. I got all I can handle.

Be gay, be straight, be bisexual, be whatever you want. I don't care. Just don't be a coward. Don't spend your life quivering in a corner and wetting yourself and jumping around and hooting and hollering like an idiot at a sports bar.

Instead, you can ask your braindead wife for her thoughts on things. "Honey, take out the hair curlers for a minute and listen to me. What's your opinion on Special Drawing Rights? How will they affect my 401(k)? 'Cause my imaginary boyfriend that I have inside my mind says my assets will tank. What do you think from your reading of People Magazine? ...Oh, and one more: Do you think it would have been wise to provide him with my goddamn contact information ten years ago instead of sulking that he's not calling, and then erecting for myself these gigantic, multi-car pileups of perceived grievances, each one a mountain, each successive hurdle more insurmountable than the last? When God made me, He said, 'Hmm. I think I'll have some fun today and see if I can come up with just the biggest kook that my infinite mind can conjure. I'll include it in my portfolio.' "

Anyway, this local, married closet case mentioned to a mutual friend a couple of years ago, "Chris looks like hell compared to when he got here." (I don't understand. Why would you be concerned?)

Well, I can hazard a guess about why I might look like hell. It comes from sleeping with a shotgun by the bed for five years while goons come into your house whenever they feel like it while the rest of the world is off on their Kool Aid bender, living in Dreamland as their nation burns to the ground around them.

I whispered in Madame Prosecutor's ear during my text-messaging show last year that I fully expected to be murdered by the time my modest inheritance ran out. And I inquired if she had ever had the pleasure of operating under that weight while still going to work every day.

People wonder in amazement at why I may be so fixated on a simple, ten-dollar bouquet of flowers or a single kind word. "It's because it would prevent my soul from gasping one, last exasperated breath and leaving my body to go back whence it came where it might be valued, its origin, that Eternal Oneness. I don't want the battle lost for want of a lousy bunch of flowers. The battery icon is flashing red, and has been for years."

And it is absolutely amazing to me that my hair has not gone completely white. I don't have a single gray hair on my head and I have no idea why. It defies all logic.

So I didn't get murdered and now I have to figure out how to plan for retirement. That's a kick in the balls.

But I'm the kooky one for having a legal staff in Washington and a (hypothesized) Secret Service staff and the ability to argue my own case in court by text messaging myself. Someone please call the Veterans Hospital to inquire about involuntary commitment. Your lack of familiarity with the subject matter obviously translates into my being insane.

There. I've managed to gratuitously offend any number of people for no reason whatsoever. I may now begin my day in earnest. Obviously, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

And it's fun not being on probation anymore. So you can sit there and stew about your FAILURE to do even the simplest thing around here. Why, maybe I'll go out this weekend and get royally stoned. How's that sound?
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