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.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Where's Senator Anthrax? Would someone go get him, please?

I see that we're having trouble with the moon shot of a task of placing five cords of wood on my property.

What's the issue? What's our malfunction over at that heap of garbage? Is it that my existence is tippy-top secret? That I'm under investigation and that's why no one can acknowledge my existence right into buying their ticket? But we've already established that you'd pretty much have to be on thorazine around here not to catalog every last movement of one's federal investigators and investigatrices.

So since no one, including you and the attorney general and the president, appears willing to buy their ticket, I'm going to need to make my money on the back end: I'm going to need to earn my pay with a memoir and film rights and action figures and things like that.

So I would like your office to assemble various documentary evidence that I may employ in my writing of that memoir, including:

--My ability to lazily argue my own case in court during pretrial release by text messaging myself.

--My possession of information which effortlessly terminates United States.

--My residence inside an apparently impregnable legal bubble called a principality, being another one for the history books as I self-satisfyingly am, outside the jurisdiction of United States which I executed by yawning and speaking when I wasn't busy raking leaves.

--My ability to counsel my esteemed law enforcement audience on the proper means of conducting surveillance without permitting the subject to learn of his surveillance, our training sessions leavened with requisite dashes of humor, delivered by me while eating pistachio nuts with my feet up on the desk in my living room.

So if that's something you think you can do, perhaps I'll have some means of solving the retirement planning problem by methods other than waiting to get whacked and drinking myself into a stupor every night.  Even the tiniest gesture would mean the world to me. Who knows? It might even add a few years to my life, during which I can continue to bring joy to my audience with my trademark, feel-good brand of humor.

Okay? Thanks.

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