Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Lisa Lampanelli! ¶ Hello, New York! All right. Welcome to the best night of your sad, pathetic freakin’ lives. This is gonna be a great night ’cause not only am I hilarious, you get to look at me for over an hour. Go ahead. Oh, yes. Work, bitch. No, I’m telling you, you may have noticed I made some appearance changes, recently lost 107 pounds. What! “What’d you say? Ooh, 107. She look good.” And here’s the thing. It’s enough of an accomplishment to lose that weight, but I actually kept it off for three freakin’ years, and I know, that’s the hard part, right? And you know what? I know you guys look at me like a life coach, a mentor, a role model, and so I’ll you how I kept it off. I don’t hold no freakin’ secrets. Listen to this shit. If you learn to use bulimia the right way– Just eat stuff that tastes as good coming up as it did going down. Just saying. No, that actually isn’t even true, but it’s God’s cruel joke that I was ever freakin’ fat. It freakin’ sucked, ’cause I was born skinny. I wasn’t born to be a fat cunt. Guess what happened. I hit 18, everything went crazy, it did, so I went every goddamn diet in the world, and let me tell you all about ’em, ’cause they’re all designed to make us fucking failures and hate ourselves more, this diet industry. First of all, that Weight Watchers, they can lick my left clam, okay? Right? And oh, my God, Nutrisystem? Are you fucking kidding me what that shit? All I can say about Nutrisystem is that Marie Osmond is a lying freakin’ whore, okay? That boxed food tastes like Mrs. Dog the Bounty Hunter’s snatch hole. Ugh, and then this Jenny Craig. Jenny Craig. I tried that horrible program twice, it don’t work. Maybe the reason it don’t work is ’cause every time I go there, the counselor who’s trying to make me lose weight is still fucking fat. Really? Oh, okay, I’m gonna trust a fat bitch on how to lose weight. Why don’t I just call up Bill Cosby for some rape prevention advice? Yeah, you can clap. He’s a raper. He is a raper. But seriously, I wasn’t even supposed to be fat during my life. Oh, my God, but I went away to college. That’s when it all started. I was lonely. It’s terrible. I used food for emotional reasons. Some of you fat bitches know what I’m talking about. Look at this whore. No, not by rubbing it on your junk, bitch. I’m talking about you use it as a friend, and yes, did I eat an ice cream sandwich in the shower? Yes, I did, but I’m a freakin’ lady. The one time I ate pork chops on the toilet, I flushed those bones. But college was hard, man, and honestly, I’m telling you only the truth tonight about myself. Okay, the worst thing that happened to me in college was the night that I had a date rapist who took no for an answer. How unattractive must you feel when the known rapist you thought you could count on just to stick the tip in just a little after all the sororities rejected you, how must you feel when that guy looks at his watch and says, “Eh, you know what? “It’s kind of late. Those joggers in the park ain’t gonna rape themselves, so–” I’m like, “Come back, Dr. Huxtable, come back!” So honestly, I struggle with my weight. 18 years old to 50, and three years ago, I said, “Fuck it. I’m gonna save my own life.” ‘Cause let me tell you, if I die, who the hell else is gonna come out here and call you all spics and blacks and cunts? Nobody’s brave like Lisa Lampanelli. So here’s what ha-happened.
I go to this doctor, and he says he’s gonna do this operation called the “gastric sleeve.” This means they cut out 85% of your stomach so you can’t eat like you got ten rectums no more. And of course I get the funny doctor. Like, this is the thing, man. Okay, everybody’s nervous during surgery, but my doctor thinks he’s hilarious. He’s one of them Indian doctors, you know? No, no, not the, you know, laying in a curb drunk by a casino Indian. You know, not the bad negotiating, they’ll take a fucking necklace and give us Rhode Island fucking idiots. Feather-headed morons. No, I’m talking about that other type of Indians. You know, the stinky cow-worshiping guys. Expedia.com thinks a freakin’ cow is a god. Are you fucking kidding me? So headset not headdress Indian. So anyway, so it ends up, I go for the surgery. 5:00 a.m., I get to the hospital. I get all nervous. I said to him, “Listen, Dr. Apu, I have a question. “Can I get my stomach back reinstalled if I get hungry?” And guess what he says. He’s like, “Oh, no, no, no, no, “no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, “my friend, my friend, my friend, my friend. “We’re going to use your stomach to cover the infield at Yankee Stadium.”
You know what’s wild too? Ever since I lost the weight, every interviewer starts with, “Oh, my God, you must love the way you look.” Let me tell you something. I’m 53 freakin’ years old. In clothes, I’m clearly ridiculously hot. In clothes, I am a tasty piece of ass. However, out of clothes, just like the rest of you messes over 40, I am freakin’ horrifying. No, people, I don’t give a crap if you were a supermodel when you were in your 20s. Right now, keep your goddamn clothes on. You make me fucking vomit. I hate you. Especially you men, have some goddamn dignity. Shower in a freakin’ robe. Spare your fucking significant other some stress and drama. Because there’s always something wrong with somebody’s body over 40. There’s always, like, a cellulite mass bubbling around back there, a freakin’ varicose bumpy vein threatening to pop all over TSA, and then my flight is fucking cancelled, a stray cunt hair flailing in the breeze. Now, I make it a specific point never to see myself naked in a mirror, just to preserve the shred of self-esteem I have mustered, but oh, my God. Today, the hotel they have me in, that mirror snuck up on me, and I caught a glimpse of my naked, cellulite-y, flabby, flat, Howard Stern-looking ass. It looked like I sat on a gravel driveway naked for five hours. Like, “Holy crap. “Is that an ass or a relief map of the Himalayan Mountains, for God’s sake?”
Now, here’s the deal. As you probably know, ’cause I’m quite famous, I recently got a divorce from my ex-husband, Jimmy Big Balls. It’s okay, it’s very amicable, thank God, and he also lost 98 pounds. Now, the reason I call him Jimmy Big Balls, you might not know if you’re fucking stupid. You can’t put two and– Okay, picture this guy’s freakin’ head. Imagine two of those in a pair of Hanes tighty whiteys. Actual size. I mean, that sack, Jesus Christ. It looked like two little midgets fighting their way out of a pink, hairy parachute. I hadn’t seen anything that big and hairy since I gave Snooki a Pap smear. But see, this is how I know that God hates me. Even though Jimmy loses all this weight and looks great, every time he lost an ounce, it gravitated and it migrated and eventually settled in that fucking beanbag chair of a nut sack until he had to hold it up when he took a shit just in case. And you know how I knew it was big? Oh, Madone! One day, he’s laying in bed naked, and he goes, “Hey, check it out.” I look, sir. His ball was resting on my side of the bed. See, now, I try to be positive ’cause I’m a person who projects much light and love, and it was like, “Oh, my God, wow! At least we never have to buy throw pillows again.” But you know what, folks? Since I’m telling you the truth, I will tell you this. I think that is the night that I knew the marriage was not meant to be. No, you laugh, but seeing, um, that ball on the sheet and, um, the other one on the nightstand was–
Now, like I said, I am one lucky bitch that I do not have a nasty divorce, and part of it I think is– Is that we didn’t have kids. Now, black guy, are you a black or a half spic, half black? That would make you six years a slave, my friend. The gay guys are getting worried. “Oh, my God! Help us.” Okay, are you a black guy then? Let me– Oh, you’re Jamaican. Oh, that–okay. No wonder this hot bitch is with you, holy shit. How many kids you got? You got “keeds”? You got “keeds,” motherfucker? You got “keeds”? How many you got? Two? Two, two, two, two, two, two. Yeah, son. Yeah, son. How old are your kids? Four and ten? Is this their mom? Of course not. Why would she be? You don’t want to mess with fine traditions. No, but hey, God bless you for having those kids. Divorce is hard if you have kids, but here’s the thing. I never wanted no “keeds.” I’m like the gift to the world, you know. I don’t want you to be tied down to only loving two little fucking idiot kids that I gave birth to. I am a gift to you people.
I’m like all of your ma, but here’s the problem. I’m sad now ’cause I’ll never have grandkids. That makes me kind of sad. Like, does anybody here have grandchildren? Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Sir, sir, do you love them? – Is it so much fun? – Yes. Oh, my God. It’s got to be a blast. Listen, all of yous, when you have grandkids, do what I would do and I’m sure what this guy does. You have them over to your house for a nice sleepover, and you spoil the crap out of those kids, and you get them all hopped up on sugar. They get whatever they freakin’ want, and then you get ’em their own first Starbucks, ’cause it’s never too early for the one-year-old baby’s caffeine. It’s a beautiful thing. Then you keep ’em up all night as a way of paying back your ungrateful piece of shit son who married that know-it-all cunt that he met in medical school, and she thinks she’s better than you and wouldn’t take no suggestions for the wedding ’cause she’s so fucking high class with the fucking house in Martha’s Vineyard. Fuck that cunt. She don’t know it all. You even made your dress for the wedding, and she didn’t even put out nice feelings for you from the goodness of your heart. Well, fuck that whore. Yes, you return that kid to them with no sleep, hopped up on sugar, and with a big shitty diaper. That shitty diaper–
The shitty diaper is king. The shitty diaper is the way of sending a message home to your son. “Aha! “This is what you get for hitting puberty and jerking off into Mommy’s fur coat.” You know who hates that joke? Lesbians. Dykes hate that joke. They’re all into the environment and these fucking animals. Who gives a shit? Minks and chinchillas were bred to be worn by Lisa Lampanelli. I–they love being killed for me. No, lesbians really do hate that joke. Oh, my God, I remember. Oh, my God. I once got an angry email from some “lesbeen” because I had had a chinchilla coat made. Now, by the way, don’t even think of booing fur coats, okay, ’cause the only people who boo fur, hello, can’t freakin’ afford fur. I will kill and wear anything. I do not give a crap. Hector, I will come to your house, take your five little Chihuahuas, sew ’em together, and wear ’em like Cruella de Vil on a Wednesday. I don’t care. Hey, I’ll do you one better. If your children have an interesting skin tone, I’ll skin those little bastards and rub the lotion on its skin. Oh, my God, not even one moan for killing children and wearing them. I think this is my type of town, folks. Party!
Now, I called you a Latino. Are you Latino? Oh, my God, 100%? Yes, Papi Chulo. What don’t you do for a living? That’s so unfair. There’s black people behind you. I find that fascinating. Thank you. Speaking of black people, here’s the deal. I–now that I’m single— Oh, my God. Now that I’m single, my whore friends are like, “Oh, Lisa, you should go out there, and get out there. You’re like a cougar.” People, I’m 50-freakin’-3 years old. That’s too old. Cougar cutoff is 49. I’m not a cougar. I just have an old pussy. Bob Barker keeps chasing it around trying to spay and neuter the freakin’ thing. But here’s what ha-happened. I don’t know what type of guy I’m supposed to date right now ’cause think about it. Before I married Jimmy, I had actually enjoyed the chocolate love. It is well documented. I had more black guys behind me than Obama. Yes, I did. But now, these freakin’ black guys, they won’t look at me no more ’cause I lost weight, and they don’t like that I have no fucking ass. They don’t like that, ’cause you know, Tyrone, the blacks enjoy– They like an ass with its own address so the welfare checks will go to the right place. But then I said to myself, “Ooh, Paco, maybe I should date one of these illegals.” No. Are you legally in this country, sir? Yeah. No, I thought to myself, maybe I should date a Latino, but oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. That’s a little risky for me, ’cause right now, I’m a rich white woman, and a rich white woman dating a Latino, please. That’s like somebody who adopts a pit bull. At some point something’s gonna go horribly wrong. So I thought, “At least give everybody a chance,” and I figured out the only type of nationality I never had a date with was an Asian. I know. It was just an oversight. It’s easy to see over those little fucking flat heads and squinty eyes. And I was like, “Oh, my God, I am not dating an Asian.” I’m sorry. No–no offense, but I spent so much effort getting rid of my extra chins. I am not inviting anymore in. But that did seem racist, so I said, “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna check it out slowly. Put a toe in.” Figuratively. Freakin’ fags, always go to putting something in the ass. I rented this porno, and it was an Asian dude with a white broad. No. It was way too scary. Every time she said she wanted it doggy style, he whipped out a frying pan. Somebody has to explain this to you? You fucking retard. He goes, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” They eat dogs. Putting two and three together, you fucking idiot. Jesus Christ. What are you? – Are you a Latino, man? – No. What are you, sir? Half black, half white. Yeah. Nice combo. So he works part-time. Very nice. Very good. So who–who was black, mom or dad? Mom? What’s your father’s name? Dwight. Isn’t that impressive, that he knows who his father is? Shocking. You’re a nice guy, man. What’s your name? I like you. Don, is this your white bitch right here? This your white bitch? Who are you hanging on, lesbian Flock of Seagulls haircut? Who am I to fucking talk, right? Justin Bieber fucked Miley Cyrus for this hairdo. I like this crowd. This is a really good crowd. Here’s what I’m telling you. You know why I like you? ‘Cause you get the jokes. You’re supportive. Here’s LL’s deal. I’m talking about myself in the third person. Yes. With initials. How freakin’ pretentious is that shit?
Okay, here’s how I roll. I feel like the biggest thing I hate is when comics come up on a stage, they just get a divorce, and then they’re anti-marriage. That’s bullshit. I think marriage is a beautiful thing, a wonderful thing, and I plan to do it at least three more times, ’cause I love weddings. What I think is even great is most of these states are getting on the case and legalizing gay marriage. Isn’t that fantastic? I do not understand how people can be against gay marriage. Guess what I figure. If they’re against gay marriage, they’re big closet-case dick suckers. That’s what they are. Yup, they are deeper in the closet than Melissa McCarthy’s workout clothes. Fuck you. I can say it till I gain my weight back in three years. But honestly and from my heart, I really feel like if, as a gay person, you are lucky enough to find someone to spend the rest of your life with, you have every right to be just as miserable as us straight people are. In fact, you know what? I think tomorrow, all 50 states plus Guam y Puerto Rico should legalize gay marriage, but then the very next day, they should outlaw gay divorce. Ah! You asked for it, you got it, cornholers. Good luck splitting up that Crate & Barrel registry, you dirty homos. You too, lesbians. Fucking go to Home Depot and get your money back. I’ve been thinking about marriage a lot, and I’ve been thinking, do you know what? I have noticed the only two people who shouldn’t be allowed to get married, two freakin’ ugly people. Have you seen the travesty that can result from that unholy union? I’ll give you a nice little illustration and a parallel. Say two nice fags like them get married. They move in next door to you. They have a beautifully manicured yard, a lovely organized toolshed with the vibrators in descending order. All the little cock rings are color coded on penis-shaped pegs. Pretty soon they adopt a little Asian baby ’cause an Asian is easier to get than a real kid. Pretty soon, around the neighborhood, a dry cleaning establishment pops up, then a nail salon. Then when she’s 21, they buy her her own happy ending, rub-and-tug massage parlor. What’s the worst thing that could happen when two ugly people get married? Three words, Honey Boo Boo. That’s what can happen. Honey Boo Boo’s the worst. Did you see how Honey Boo Boo’s mom was dating a pedophile, and Honey Boo Boo’s so fucking unattractive, that guy wouldn’t even fuck her? Oh, come on, man. You ever notice fat kids never get molested? ‘Cause the guy never has enough candy to get the kid into the van.
You know what’s funny? My audience happens to always be the coolest people, ’cause they can really take a joke, but, oh, my God. In 25 years in this business, I’ve only gotten protested four times. That’s pretty freakin’ good, right? I mean, hello. The first time I got protested– You can look it up. This is absolutely true. I got protested in Rochester, New York, by deaf people. Now, you laugh, but you didn’t have to be there. Do you know how confusing a protest by deaf people is? I go up to the theater, like, “Uhh!” I’m like, “Oh, my God, did you just say I’m pretty?” Now, the other three times I got protested was by the most disgusting, hateful group on the planet, the freaks at the Westboro Baptist Church. – Boo! – Thank you. If you don’t know who the Westboro Baptist Church is, first of all, I object to anyone who calls themself a church when the church has nothing to do with love, God, or spirituality. It’s all about hating other people, so don’t use the word “church,” bitch. They are actually a group of 70 inbreds in Topeka, Kansas, who have three real teeth and four slack jaws between ’em, and they’ve developed this disgusting hate website called godhatesfags.com, which is reprehensible, except the name’s really funny. I wish I had thought of it, personally. Now, these Westboro inbreds don’t like Lisa Lampanelli because I have some gay fans, so I figured out how to get those assholes back. I decided to become an ordained minister and marry 20 gay couples right in front of their inbred eyes. Oh, yeah. Yes. Isn’t that great? But sadly, I find out right before I get there, they don’t have no fag marriage over in Topeka, so I had a better idea. I ran into the theater, gathered all the gays, and we ran outside. We stood 10 feet from those sign-waving retards, and we all had a big, huge, gay make-out session, with tongues and everything, and we all chanted, “We’re here. We’re queer. One beer and you’ll be here.” John Travolta was right there beside us. Oh, finally, people are getting on board. Travolta–Danny Zuko is a fucking fag. Please, are you kidding me? 50 massage therapists are not lying, all right? Grease is the word for what’s up his freakin’ butthole. Now, gay guys, if you ever get married, do you want children? Do you want kids? No, no. Listen, man, I have a maternal instinct, though, about one thing. I always wanted a dog. No, I love a little dog. No, do me a favor, though. I’m gonna say this in all serious– If you want to get a dog, don’t be a douche bag and go buy one. You go to the North Shore Animal League, another shelter, and you adopt one of these little homeless mutts. They need a home. Now, this is a win-win for everybody. Think about it. If you buy a dog, that’s like 1,500 clams at the least. You adopt one of these scroungy little homeless mutts running around, you don’t like him in two days, just put him right back in the middle of the street. Nobody knows nothing. Just give it to the Asian bitch. She’ll cook it up with tofu. It’s like when you adopt a little kid. You’re not really that attached to that fucking kid. He didn’t come out of your clam. You don’t care. Send him back to Russia to hang out with the other communists, Ivan the Terrible. I give a fuck less. Oh, adoptees are here? Wah. Yeah, you’re special ’cause you were chosen. That’s what the Jews thought too. I joke, you know I love my heebie friends and accountants and lawyers.
So anyway, I adopted the greatest dog in history. Oh, my God. I named him Parker after Sarah Jessica Parker. No, because of the really astounding resemblance. You know what, people? I’m, like, really disappointed in you right now. Let me set the goddamn record straight. SJP does not look like a dog. She looks exactly like a horse. Okay, this is really mean. I can’t even believe I joke about her, ’cause she is, like, my hero of my whole life, but okay. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t tell her. There’s a website that’s literally called, www.SarahJessicaParker lookslikeahorse.com, and they asked her on a talk show if she ever read it, and she went– And the host said, “Come on, how many times have you looked at it?” And she went– Anyway, my dog is awesome, but see, you got to know the rules. Here’s what you do. The first thing you do when you get your dog home, you go onto the computer, and you Google the words “service vest.” Ah, she knows the scam. This thing is a vest that you get to put on your little, rotten dog, and you get to take him anywhere you want, and nobody’s allowed to ask you what the hell is wrong with you. Somebody made the mistake of asking me why I had the dog. I said, “‘Cause I’m retarded.” Now, honestly, your dog doesn’t even have to be helpful. My dog seriously doesn’t do shit. He is about as useful as a Kardashian in a library. Okay, I’m not gonna get all derailed and talk about the Kardashians, but I am gonna say one thing about them that I’m pretty freakin’ pissed at. They stole my whole game, okay? I was banging the black guys first, all right, not those three hos. And by the way, they’re freakin’ hypocrites. Their names are Kim, Kourtney, and Khloé, KKK. Why do you fucking guys take the risk? So anyway, this vest you put on your dog, you take him anywhere, because it’s frowned upon, apparently, to leave your dog in a car with the windows rolled up. And you–you don’t want to be late. Like, black guy, suppose you are late. Well, that’s a given. But suppose you’re late for your appointment with your parole officer. Other black, suppose… they’re about to rerelease the McRib. Black people love ribs. It’s a fact. It’s not something I made up. We all know. Now, like I said, my dog’s useless, but now that the airlines are asking for a little note of what’s your problem, I had my shrink write me the note of notes, ’cause, first of all, he’s a perfect combo to be a good fucking liar. He’s spic and a fag, so this guy, Dr. Lopez or some shit, Lopez-a-fag-corn. He wrote on my note that I need the service dog because I have a rare fainting disorder, and my dog wakes me up if I’m about to hit my fucking head. Is that not the best excuse ever, combining the shifty Hispanic with the creative fag in one?
But trust me, when you fly on these airlines and– Freakin’ airline– You know what, what the fuck? Who’s old here? Sir, you on the end. It’s not an insult. You’re an older man. How old are you, sir? 73. God bless you. Means he ain’t long for this fucking world. Sir, don’t you resent– Remember in the old days when you’d fly and everybody would get dressed up, and it was like an actual thing, and the stewardesses were sexy? They were hot. There was a weight requirement. Oy vey, I had two goddamn stewardesses on the flight. Looked like Shrek One and Shrek Two. I’m telling you, they won’t help you with nothing. They will not put your crap in your overhead bin, even if you’re faking a really authentic-looking rotator cuff injury like I was. Matter of fact, the only guys who ever helped me, the only stewardesses who ever did put it in the overhead for me, were a gay stewardess, a man. Those men will help you. Right, faggot? You’re very helpful. I know. Gay men love doing that for you ’cause they’re used to shoving big things into tiny little spaces. So I know all the rules about taking my dog on a plane, but one day, I have him in his little bag. He starts barking. Now, come on. Your heart’s got to go out to a pet like that. Oh, because I turn into a total queer when I’m talking to my dog. You guys would not recognize me in private. I’m like– “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” But then I turn that way, and I can’t turn it off, and my gay friends come over, I’m like– “Who’s a good faggot? Who’s a good cornholer? Who’s a good cornholer?” And then they all lick each other’s asses, so it’s nice.
So my dog’s barking, the plane’s trying to take off, I feel bad for the passengers, I put his little bag on my lap, and then all I did was I took his little head out. It was so cute. I know, right? He was looking around, and then I took that zipper, and I put it against that goddamn larynx of his, and I put my lips to his little doggy left ear, and I said, “Shut the fuck up, Parker. “Shut your fucking mouth. “Mommy’s a fourth level fake-ass celebrity. “Shut your goddamn mouth. “I’ll fucking kill you in your sleep and feed you “to that chinky lady over at the fucking buffet. Shut the fuck up.” So he and I come to a nice understanding, but then guess what. Shrek One has to come up and interfere, and she’s like, “Uh, you have to put the head of the dog in the bag.” People, I’m no terrorist, so I’m not gonna yell at some bitch on a plane, but I just poked the dog in his ribs. I said, “No, it’s so he won’t bark,” and I poke him, and he goes, “Ahh.” So she’s being cool, but guess what. Guess who has to pipe up, get in the conversation. Fucking asshole sitting next to me figures he’s gonna state his opinion, but he don’t realize who the fuck he happens to be sitting next to. Another benefit of losing over 100 pounds and getting your hair cut to look like Rod Stewart’s half-a-lesbo sister. So the guy has the nerve to say, “Uh, why don’t you just leave the freakin’ dog at home?” Now, ladies and gentlemen, come on. I don’t act. I react. And I’m Lisa freakin’ Lampanelli. Are you kidding me with this? So, like, I can’t help what I say. So I honestly said this. It was so horrible. He goes, “Uh, why don’t you leave the freakin’ dog at home?” And I go, “Really, sir, great idea. “In the meantime, why don’t you go fuck your mother? “How’s that sound? “Yeah, ’cause I’m sure at one time or another, “I’ve had to listen to your ugly kids “screaming away when you should have had them “stowed in the overhead compartment wheels first, bitch.” Oh, oh, you guys didn’t know? That’s the new rule. If you have children under ten, they must be stowed in the overhead compartments. Would that not be the greatest? Oh, my God, I fucking hate those screaming kids. Oh, but by the way, there’s always a woman after the show who, like, really hates that joke, and, um, she finds it very difficult to hear humor like that. And she’s always a mom, always a white mom. The healthy snack mom. The mom who buys her kid food gluten-free as if gluten’s actually “a thing.” And she’s that mom who, now that she opened up her horrible, splotchy, bumpy thighs and that little freakin’ bloody head skyrocketed across the room, that she was suddenly reborn– Mother Earth knows all– When a mere three years ago, she had five black cocks stuffed up in that freakin’ thing.
Well, you know something? Due to your response to those women, I can tell you all have a bone to pick with that type of mother, so you know what, I think it’s my responsibility as an elected official to give a public service announcement to those mothers out there who are like that. Yes, ’cause I don’t know how, but always at least a couple find their way into my show. I don’t know how they even heard of me. It’s like their husband said, “No, no, honey, come on. “No, she’s fine. No, seriously. No, come on, man. “She’s like Kathy Griffin. It’ll be great. Don’t worry about it.” Okay, so this is a public service announcement for those mothers, and by the way, if you guys look around and you don’t see one of those moms, guess what. You are that freakin’ mom. Okay, mothers, PSA number one. There is no such goddamn thing as a “peanut allergy.” That is a bullshit made-up allergy that your little, rotten, spoiled white kid made up in his own head, so he could get a delicious bologna sandwich instead of the peanut butter and jelly on two stale heels of Wonder Bread that he so richly earned. Yeah. If you think your kid is allergic to peanuts, guess what. Go home tonight, spread a jar of Jif all over his ugly, splotchy body. He’ll either break out in hives and be cured instantly, or he’ll be dead, and either way is fine with Lisa Lampanelli. PSA number two. Mothers, stop shopping at Whole Foods. Fuck Whole Foods in the ass, mouth, and cunt. Fuck ’em. Who on God’s green earth needs two grapefruits for $79.99? They’re like, “Oh, they’re organic and fresh.” Really? So’s my twat, but I don’t charge $79.99! And by the way, did you ever notice the only bitches who shop at Whole Foods are 400-pound women? Bitch, it’s called Whole Foods, not “eat the whole fucking store.” And PSA number three. Stop with the god… damned hand… sanitizer. Quit it with the Purell. You’re turning your little boys into little germophobic people with compromised immune systems like these two fucking fags. This has been a public service announcement… By Lisa Lampanelli. I approve this message. That was insane. I was, like, yelling really loud. Where was I? Oh, yeah. There’s always that bitch who comes up to me after the show. She’s like, “Lisa, that joke about the overhead compartment “is very dangerous and irresponsible. “If I put my child into the overhead compartment, he could suffocate and die.” I’m like, “Oh, my God, maybe if he does, isn’t that what’s meant to be?” See, I believe in all that stuff. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” I like all the sayings, you know, ’cause I work on myself. I’ve been doing very intense work on my–
In fact, couple weeks ago, I went on this seven-day yoga retreat, and get this, I don’t do yoga. I don’t even know what the fuck yoga is. I thought it was a frozen yogurt retreat. Now, I can tell you honestly, after seven days of boring hell watching these fat bitches who just wanted a place to go for a week that they didn’t have to put a zipper on their fucking pants, after watching these yeast infections waiting to happen for a week, I can honestly say and observe that I am sure that yoga was invented by some fag who wanted to learn how to suck his own cock for himself. Pretty confident of that. So I’m at this yoga retreat. I’m bored to death. There’s no TV. There’s nothing. I said, “Okay, I’m gonna go to the gift shop.” Well, get this. All these rich whores who go to those things, they’re easy marks. They’ll buy anything with a nice saying on it. They’re so fucking stupid. There was a little basket. You’re gonna die. Spic, you’ll die. Freakin’– They have these rocks. These whores are buying rocks with a saying on it. Are you kidding me? Collect your own, you stupid bitch. You got a Sharpie? They’re banging ’em each for 20 bucks for a rock, and it says nice stuff on ’em. It says, “Believe. “Dream. ‘Nam-ast.'” I don’t know what that is. I don’t speak Spanish, but I will find out. So I was so angry at these women spending their money on that crap, I said, “I’m gonna– When I go back, I’m mixing up a few rocks of my own.” I can do shit that I would say to people. Screw that, I need a couple of rocks and a freakin’ Sharpie. I’m golden. My rocks will say stuff that’ll set these bitches’ heads spinning. My rocks will say, “You’re worthless. “You’ll never find love. Black guy, that’s not your real father.” the best new thing for me to go into? I could become this crazy spiritual guru who just got everybody going on my wavelength. I had my first inspirational greeting card. I’m going to perform it for you right now. “Dahnce” as if no one’s watching. Love as if you’ll never be hurt again, and queef as if nobody’s listening. Old guy, do you know what a queef is? It’s a cunt fart, is what it is. The faggots are laughing really hard. His butt plug almost shot right out. What’s a butt plug for? Like, I don’t even know. Do you know? Which one of you is the guy, and which is the girl? You don’t have that logic? No, you just versa? Anytime, anywhere? Well, good for you.
Boy, I tell you, I did have to start working on myself after a divorce. You have to figure your stuff out. Guess what my shrink says to me, this bitch. She told me I have effed up ideas about what a relationship’s like. She told me I had to go and take an inventory of the crappy ways I was a wife during the marriage and how I also contributed to its demise, and I trust you people. Can I read this to you tonight? Is that okay? Okay, ’cause it’s very vulnerable. Okay, here it is. It’s six faults that you probably don’t know about me. Okay, okay. “I, Lisa Lampanelli, am overly sensitive.” No, it’s true. I cannot take a joke. I get my feelings hurt so easy. How freakin’ hypocritical is that, though? Right? I’m an insult comic who can’t take a joke. That’s like being a pedophile who can’t stand children’s parties. That’s like being an NFL player who just can’t bring himself to punch his wife in the face in an elevator. Number two. “I, Lisa Lampanelli, have huge anger issues.” I do. Honestly, my temper is hotter than the black guy’s television set. It’s true. If I was any angrier, I’d be dating Rihanna. I would. Oh. Shut up. She asked for it. Big mouth. Oh, and here’s three. Okay, fault number three. I’m not technically bipolar– But my moods swing a lot. Like, when I’m not yelling, I’m crying. Honestly, my eyes leak more than Cloris Leachman’s “vaginer.” But here’s the thing, I won’t cry in front of a guy, boyfriend, husband, nothing, ’cause it makes me look too weak. I’m afraid to be vulnerable. I have put up more walls than Pink Floyd. I’m more emotionally distant than Terri Schiavo. Wait for it. Oh, too soon? It’s ten freakin’ years. Let it go. She has. No, seriously, I could be colder in a relationship than a penguin’s asshole. Bruce Jenner’s face is more expressive than I am. Okay, this is a tough one. Always get to number five and I kind of struggle with it, but I’m gonna be real. I told you I would. When I was married, I weighed 248. It’s okay. I’m not ashamed. Now I’m fucking sexy and hot. However, when you’re that big, sometimes you hate your looks, and, oh, man, it was terrible in a marriage. I couldn’t take a compliment. Poor Jimmy, he’d be like, “Oh, you look nice.” I’d be, “Shut the fuck up, you fat piece of shit.” After a year of intense four-time-a-week therapy, I have come to realize that may have not been the right response. No, it’s true. I learned that. Like, they have this thing in therapy called “positive self-talk.” That’s when you look in a mirror and you say nice things to yourself, so even back then, I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself. I should have looked in the mirror with a little self-compassion and said, “You know what, Lisa? “It’s okay you have a huge gut. At least it makes your dick look smaller.” Oh, my God. Would that not be the coolest thing ever if I had a secret hidden penis that I could whip out and use whenever I needed to? ‘Cause you know my thing would be big, and you know my shit would be black. Am I right? See, you people laugh, but I’m gonna tell you something. If you have never been overweight, you do not understand how hard it is. Do you know how difficult it is when I would walk onto a plane, celebrity that I am, 250 fucking pounds, and looking at all you skinny fucking assholes dreading that I would sit my fat ass next to you? You don’t even have the nice temerity to lift up that armrest so it doesn’t hit my ass cheek every time I walk down the aisle. One time I sat next to a guy, a skinny bastard, and he gives me that look like, “Ugh.” I just snapped. I go, “Oh, really? “Uh, you got that screaming infant on your lap, “and you’re worried about my love handle ruining your flight? “Tell you what, stop whining like a cunt, “tuck in your elbows, and just be happy you’ll have something soft to bump into when the plane crashes.” That being said, you know what, if you’re out there and you’re overweight, you always have a place on a plane next to Lisa Lampanelli. I love it. Fat people, come and sit next to me, man. I love sitting next to fat people. They don’t talk. They’re too busy chewing. And also, guys, do yourself a favor and your woman. Even if you sense she’s getting a little chunky, do not call your woman fat. That is the last word that a woman can be called, or she will twist your penis into a balloon animal elephant. And I’ll prove it. Even if you all are skinny women in here, you would all rather be called the C word than that particular F word, and you know it. And I’ll prove it. Not one of y’all bitches has ever said to your husband, “Honey, do these pants make me look like a cunt?” We don’t care. Ah, my last fault. Kind of–kind of hard to admit, but it’s just forewarning. If anybody wants to ask me out, this is what you get. Fault number six. LL, lousy in the sack. Terrible. Sexually repressed, won’t try anything new. Do you blame me? I’m from Connecticut. Oh, you know the sign going into Connecticut says, “Welcome to Connecticut. You won’t find your clitoris here.” I didn’t learn how to do no sex. I didn’t know what to do. I had one position– “Ugh, hurry up.” No, really, at heart, I– In a lot of my specials in the past talk about sex, but it’s all fucking stories. You know, in reality, I think I’m kind of more of a Charlotte than a Samantha. Gay guys, could you explain that to the straight guys in this area? No, ’cause you guys heard of adventurous chicks. I ain’t one of ’em, uh-uh. You guys all heard of three input girls. Ew. Three input, that ain’t me. I’m a three output girl. I can burp, fart, and queef at the same time. But hey, who knows? Who knows what’ll happen in my life? I feel pretty freakin’ lucky, you know what I mean? I got a great career going, I’m working on my health, and hey, who knows? Someday, I might find true love. We’ll see. We’ll see. I am just always reassured by the words of my life coach and mentor Meat Loaf, who once said, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” Love me some Meat Loaf!
Now, I didn’t always play lovely places like this. In your career, you have to play some dumps, right, so check this out. Ten years ago, I’m working at this crap hole in Vegas. I won’t even say the name of it, but it rhymes with Shmarrah’s. So I’m doing the show, and I always bring my opening act with me because I find them really funny. I bring people I like, so I have this gay guy opening for me years ago named Wendel. He is the funniest fag. Oh, my God, and he was super gay. I mean, this guy is so gay, Cher buys his albums. This guy is so gay, whenever he farts, it lisps. Sssss. So he’s up onstage, right? I’m watching from the back, and I’m cracking up, but get this rude crap. I notice there’s six people in the front, “high roller” types, who keep heckling him with homophobic slurs, and I see that, and I freakin’ snap. I call over the hostess. I’m like, “Get your freakin’ minimum-wage, $10-an-hour twat over here, “you fucking suck-a-high-roller- cock-for-money bitch. “Those people are calling Wendel homophobic slurs. “Get ’em out of here. “I won’t have that energy in the room. “Pay their ticket prices back out of my pay. Get ’em out right now. Buh-bye.” Am I right, or am I wrong? I think that was moral. Well, I got to come up onstage after him, and, oh, one other little character flaw I have. Whenever I do something nice, I can’t keep my mouth shut about it. I always have to brag, you know. Oh, maybe that’s why God didn’t give me a soul mate yet, ’cause he’s like, “Lisa, if you would just “shut the fuck up, do nice things, maybe I’ll give you a fucking good boyfriend,” and I’m like, “What the fuck are you talking about, God?” And he’s like, “Yeah, bitch, maybe do something and not tell the freakin’ world, like, for charity.” I’m like, “How dare you, God? “You have that goddamn book full of all that crap “you ever did for anybody. “I see it in every hotel room. That’s bragging if I ever saw anything like that, God.” And he goes, “Fuck you, Lisa.” I’m like, “Suck this, God.” Maybe that’s why I don’t have a boyfriend. Jew, are you allowed to say “suck it” to God? Jews, Jews, Jews, Jews? So anyway, when I get these people kicked out, I come back on the stage, and I’m all self-righteous. I come up, and I’m like… “You may have noticed there’s six empty seats up front. “That’s ’cause these homophobes were calling Wendel fag “and faggot, and nobody does that in a Lisa Lampanelli show except Lisa Lampanelli.” Oh, yeah. So the audience is cool. They start laughing. They’re having a good time. Well, get this. Halfway through the show, I spot the guy. There’s always this guy at every show that I do. The arms folded like, “You ain’t gonna be funny ’cause you a bitch” guy. Now, sir, I know you had your arms folded the whole show. No, no, no, no, no. No, shut up. No, he’s great, he’s laughed at every single joke. The arms folded was just to separate the tits from the gut. I get it. Tit sweat is a bitch. I’ve been a victim of it myself. No, but the guy in the audience had the arms folded mean and scowly, so I look at him, and I’m like a dog with a bone. I won’t let it go. I’m like, “Oh, really, sir? You’re not gonna laugh once? “Really? Really? “Really? Really? Really? Really? “Really? Really? Well, guess what, bitch, you can get the fuck out too!” And all of a sudden, his wife goes, “No, no, no, “no, no, no, no, no, no. He’s deaf.” And you know what, folks? That is the moment that I learned a little something about this elusive concept we call self-esteem. I should have realized, if he wasn’t laughing… He must be deaf, ’cause I’m Lisa Lampanelli. Thank you, guys! I love you all! Thank you, New York! You freakin’ rock! ¶
