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.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Get me Roberts.

I guess today is the day for speaking to Supreme Court justices. So now it's your turn. You, however, being an American lawyer, deserve nothing but perfect contempt. Get ready.

I'm thumbing through your guild's hit parade. I'm seeing here that you've got idiot courts issuing secret interpretations of secret idiot law. Being the completely incompetent United States lawyer that you are, apparently it's gone unnoticed by you that secret law means no law, as no one can even theoretically know what the law is on any given day, ipso facto idiota inquirendo. It's what makes wiping my ass with all United States law so morally defensible. It's a real crowd pleaser.

Do your kook FISA courts even do anything useful, considering that your guild assiduously contemplate everything under the sun except for the presence of incompatible engine hardware on Murray Street?

Is it that your justices are incompetent or is it that they're crooked? See, I happen to know that the NSA's eavesdropping equipment is manufactured by two Israeli companies, which means that Israeli intelligence has access to all American communications by way of back doors built into that equipment. (Israel is going to want to avoid the embarrassing disclosure of their involvement in 9-11. They'll want to know who's on to them and who might screw up their tear-jerking marketing campaign that everyone just wants to make spaceship fuel out of them.)

So that means that Israelis are blackmailing those FISA court judges. This is the only explanation for your stooges' stalwart adherence to implausible scenarios wherein professional, ticket-selling, critically acclaimed comedians merit languishing in your idiot courts. So what's your judges' thing? Diddling little boys? A coke habit? Screwin' the baby sitter?

So why don't you make yourself useful for once and type up a memo. Have your judges fluff their powdered wigs and thrust their batons into the air and make like they're relevant. Have them remove that embarrassing piece of trash called the United States from my existence so that I can work in my chosen field of expertise, which is stand-up comedy, which I was engaged in before you and your fellow feckless fools ever waddled onto the scene to save the day.

...Or are you crooked too?

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