Recorded Live at Laff Stop, Austin, TX, and Cobbs, San Francisco, CA (Spring and Summer 1993)
Well, folks, this is kind of a sentimental evening for me because . . . this is my final live performance I’ll ever do, ever. No biggie, no, no, no, no, no hard feelings, no sour grapes whatsoever. I’ve been doing this sixteen years, enjoyed every second of it – every plane flight, every [. . .], every delay, every canceled flight, every lost luggage, living in hotel rooms, every broken relationship, playing the Comedy Pouch in Possum Ridge, Arkansas, every fucking year. It’s been great, don’t get me wrong.
But the fact of the matter is, the reason I’m gonna quit performing is I finally got my own TV show coming out next fall on CBS. So – thank you. I know. It is not a talk show. (heavy breathing) Dear God, thank you, thank Jesus, thank Buddha, thank Mohammad, thank Allah, thank Krishna, thank every fucking god in the book. (heavy breathing) Please rela— (heavy breathing) No, it’s not a talk show: it’s a half-hour weekly show that I will host, entitled ‘Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus’. So y’all be tuning in? Cool, cool. Cool, it’s a fairly self-explanatory plot, ah . . . Each week we let the hounds of hell loose and we chase that jar-head, no-talent, cracker asshole all over the globe . . . till I finally catch that fruity little ponytail of his in the back, pull him to his knees, put a shotgun in his mouth like a big black cock of death (shotgun boom) and we’ll be back in ’95 with ‘Let’s Hunt and Kill Michael Bolton’. So.
Thank you very much. I’m just trying to rid the world of all these fevered egos that are tainting our collective unconscious and making us pay a higher psychic price than we imagine. In fact, that’s how I pitched it to the networks exactly, I said ah . . . ‘I’d like to do a show where I rid the world of all these fevered egos that are tainting our collective unconscious’, and the guy at CBS said, ‘Will there be titty?’ And ah I said, ‘Sure, I don’t know, sure.’ Boom! A cheque falls in my lap and ah . . . I’m a producer. I never knew it was that easy. All these years I been trying to write scripts and characters and plots and stories that had meaning. ‘Will there be titty?’ Sure. Boom! I’m a . . . I’m a producer now. ‘Where’ve you been all our life, boy? We been lookin’ for you in Hollywood. What are these titties gonna do? Jiggle? You’re a fuckin’ genius. Give him another cheque. I can’t write enough cheques for you. You’ve answered our prayers in Hollywood. Jiggling titties, who would have thunk of it?’
I was over in Australia during Easter, which was interesting. Interesting to note they celebrate Easter the same way we do, commemorating the death and resurrection of Jesus . . . by telling our children a giant bunny-rabbit . . . left chocolate eggs in the night. Now . . . I wonder why we’re fucked up as a race. Anybody? Anybody got any clues out there? Where do you get this shit from, you know? Why those two things, you know? Why not goldfish left Lincoln Logs in your sock drawer, you know? As long as we’re making shit up, go hog-wild, you know? At least a goldfish with a Lincoln Log on its back, going across your floor to your sock drawer, has a miraculous connotation to it.
‘Mummy I woke up today and there was a Lincoln Log in me sock drawer.’ ‘That’s the story of Jesus.’
Who comes up with this shit? I read the Bible, I can’t find the word ‘bunny’ or ‘chocolate’ anywhere in that fucking book.
D’y’all have different books of the Bible than I do? Are y’all Gideons? Who are the fucking Gideons? Ever met one? No! Ever seen one? No! But they’re all over the fucking world, putting Bibles in hotel rooms. Every hotel room: ‘This Bible was placed here by a Gideon.’ When? I’ve been here all day. I ain’t seen shit. I saw the housekeeper come and go, I saw the minibar guy come and go, I’ve never laid eyes on a fucking Gideon. What are they – Ninjas? Where are they? Where’re they from – Gidea? What the fuck are these people? I’m gonna capture a Gideon. I’m gonna make that my hobby. I am. I’m gonna call the front desk one day: ‘Yeah, I don’t seem to have a Bible in my room.’
People suck and that’s my contention. I can prove it on scratch paper and a pen. Give me a fucking Etch-A-Sketch, I’ll do it in three minutes to prove the fact, the factorum, I’ll show my work, case closed. I’m tired of this backslapping, aren’t humanity neat bullshit. We’re a virus with shoes, OK? That’s all we are.
What do you say we ah . . . lighten things up and talk about abortion. You know . . . I feel like I’m losing some of you here and I wanna win all of you back with this one. Let’s talk about abortion. Let’s talk about child-killing, and see if we can’t get some chuckles rippling through the room here. Let’s talk about mass murder of young, unborn children, see if we can’t coalesce into one big healthy gut-laugh. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Boy, I’ve never seen an issue so divisive. You ever seen – it’s like a civil war, in’it? Even among my friends, who are all very intelligent, they are totally divided on abortion. It’s unbelievable. Some of my friends, for instance, think these pro-life people are annoying idiots. Other of my friends think these pro-life people are evil fucks . . . How are we gonna come to a consensus? You oughta hear the arguments around my house. They’re annoying, they’re idiots, they’re evil, they’re FUCKS! Brothers, sisters, come together. Can’t we once just join hands and think of them as evil, annoying idiot-fucks? I beseech you. But that’s me, Libra rising: the Scales. And, strangely enough, Shiva the Destroyer. (laughs) Who would have thunk it? ‘We’re pro-life.’ Ooh, you look it. Look like you’re filled with life. All the little kids:
‘Please don’t adopt me, please don’t adopt me.’
‘We’re your new Christian pro-life parents.’
‘Oh, where’s the tower, where’s the gun, where’s the tower, where’s the gun? I was adopted by pro-life Christians when I was a kid. (gunshot sounds) Does my penis make me a bad boy? That’s what they told me.’
Please, give me the Satan-worshipping family down the block. The ones that have the good albums. Suddenly I’m adopted by the Flanders, you know. ‘Hi Bill, in’it a beautiful God-created morning?’ Heurf! ‘We’re pro-life’. What does that make me? You know what I mean? You’re so pro-life, you’re so pro-life, do me a fucking favor. Don’t block med-clinics, OK? Lock arms . . . and block cemeteries. Let’s see how fucking committed you are to this premise.
‘She can’t come in.’
‘She was ninety-six. She was hit by a bus.’
‘What, have we gotta have her stuffed? What are you talkin’ about? She’s dead.’
‘We’re pro-life. Get her out of that casket, get her out! She’s not going. We’re pro-life people. They’ll be no death on this planet.’
Pro-life. And I always think, you see my theory, here’s my actual theory beyond ah . . . the huge, hilarious jokes I have. Here’s my real theory, so: if you’re so pro-life and you’re so pro-child, then adopt one that’s already here that’s very unwanted and very alone and needs someone to take care of it, to get it out of a horrible situation. OK? People say, ‘Why don’t you do that?’ and I say, ‘Cos I hate fuckin’ kids and could care less.’ Couldn’t give a fuck. Don’t care at all about abortion. It’s your choice, case closed, the end, bottom line. And by the way, that three-month-old kid in your belly is not a fuckin’ human being, OK? It’s a bunch of little congregated cells. You’re not a human . . . till you’re in my phone book. (laughs) There. My hat is now in the political ring.
There is a new party being born: The People Who Hate People Party. People who hate people: come together! ‘No!’ We’re kinda having trouble getting off the boards, but you know.
‘Are you gonna be there?’
‘Then I ain’t fucking coming.’
‘You’re our strongest member.’
‘That’s what I’m talking about, you asshole.’
Damn, we almost had our meeting going. It’s so hard to get my people together.
(quietly) Dont give a fuck about little fucking kids. ‘I’m pro-life.’ God, I wanna hang with you and play Twister. ‘That’s pornographic.’ Damn! I hate playing with the pro-life people. And oddly enough, that face . . . is the exact same face . . . non-smokers have, too. ‘I’m a non-smoker. I’m pro-life. I’m a pro-life non-smoker.’ Let the party begin. Ow, (singing) do do do do do do.
I been getting that look a lot recently, cos I started smoking again. (audience cheers) See, I don’t know how with a support group like you I fucking failed, you know? Damn it. How did I fail with y’know, everyone helping me out? ‘Bill’s gonna kill himself, whoooooo! Bill’s gonna lose a lung, yeahhhhh!’ [. . .] No, but I’ve been getting that look a lot lately, cos I started smoking again and . . . performing abortions, so. I mean everywhere I turn now, you know what I mean? I don’t wanna get out of bed most days to be honest with you. Scraping a uterus here, it don’t bother me. Is this bad for a dead foetus? Is this – oh, once the baby’s dead this doesn’t matter, does it? OK. Hate to hurt the little piece of flesh in there. Don’t let the clothes fool ya, it’s still fucking me!
But I’ve always found religion to be fascinating. Ideas such as how people act on their beliefs. Pro-lifers murdering doctors. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Pro-lifers murdering people. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I . . . ah, you know, it’s irony on a base level but I like it. You know what I mean? It’s real basic irony, but still you can get a hoot. It’s a hoot. It’s a fucking hoot. ‘We’re pro-life, and we’ll kill your ass.’ That’s what fundamentalism breeds though, no irony, you see. They take the word literally, you know. Fundamentalists, yeah, yeah. Well, once again I recommend a healthy dose of ah . . . psilocybin mushrooms ah. Three weeks ago two of my friends and I went to a ranch in Fredericksburg, Texas, and took what Terence McKenna calls ‘a heroic dose’. Five dried grams. Let me tell you, our third eye was squeegeed quite cleanly. (makes squeaking sound) Wow! (makes squeaking sound) And I’m glad they’re against the law. Cos you know what happened when I took ’em? I laid in a field of green grass for four hours, going, ‘My God . . . I love everything.’ The heavens parted, God looked down and rained gifts of forgiveness . . . on to my being, healing me on every level, psychically, physically, emotionally. And I realized our true nature is spirit, not body, that we are eternal beings, and God’s love is unconditional: ’n’ there’s nothing we can ever do to change that. It is only our illusion that we are separate from God, or that we are alone. In fact the reality is we are one with God and he loves us. Now, if that isn’t a hazard to this country. Do you see my point? How are we gonna keep building nuclear weapons, you know what I mean? What’s gonna happen to the arms industry when we realize we’re all one. Ha ha ha ha ha! It’s gonna fuck up the economy! The economy that’s fake anyway! Ha ha ha! Which would be a real bummer. You know. You can see why the government’s cracking down . . . on the idea of experiencing unconditional love, ah. It’s interesting, introducing the two drugs that are illegal – alcohol and cigarettes – two drugs that do absolutely . . . nothing for you whatsoever, and drugs that grow naturally upon this planet, drugs that open your eyes up, to make you realize how you’re being fucked every day of your life. Those drugs are against the law. Wow! Coincidence? I don’t know. I’m sure their motives are pure. But ah . . . isn’t that great? Mushrooms grow on cow turds. I love that. I think that’s why you giggle the first hour.
‘Hee hee he ha ha ha ha! This grew on cow turds! Heaven is in a cow’s butt! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I know where heaven is!’
‘In a cow’s ass! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Zchurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Oh my God! Lift me up out of this illusion, Lord. Heal my perception that I may know only reality and only you.’
Stuff like that.
‘I took mushrooms and went to Astroworld and I had a really bad time.’ You’re a moron. They are sacred. Go to nature. Who wants to be on the Black Dragon, tripping. I would fucking be puking, man, about fifty yards, with each hurl of the Black Dragon. (screeches) Possessed Dragon. I just think it’s interesting to see how people act on their beliefs, you know what I mean? Cos all your beliefs, they’re just that. They’re nothing, they’re how you were taught and raised. That doesn’t make ’em real. That’s why I always recommend a psychedelic experience, cos it does make you realize everything you learned is in fact just learned and not necessarily true.
There’s dick jokes on the way, please relax. (laughs) You’re going, ‘This guy better have some good dick jokes, I’ll tell you that, honey. I mean, this guy better have a big, long, purple-vein dick joke to pull himself out of this comedy hole.’ Throw down the big purple-vein dick and I crawl out of it and that’s gonna be the joke at the end. Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, hey, the clown got the laugh: cool.
OK folks . . . it’s confession time. It’s a confession in the way of a question. Is anyone here like me in that they are compelled, obsessed and drawn beyond their will . . . to watch the show Cops60 every fucking night? I’m not alone? (hysterically) Oh, thank God! Thank God! I thought I was alone! Hi, I’m Bill and I’m a Cops watcher. ‘Hi Bill.’ I am OBSESSED by that fucking show. I can’t . . . I can’t not watch it. I’m like a guy with a sore tooth: I can’t quit touching it, you know. Ow, ow. Oh, Cops is on. Ow . . . owwww. I’ve never been in so many trailer parks, ever. Ow. Each night I’m in a different – I could buy a trailer right now, I know that much about ’em from the show Cops. Ow – ooh, a double wide . . . oww. This is sick, man, I can’t . . . you know. And I love it, cos every night it’s the same show. A woman has been beaten by her husband, her head looks like a melon, the cops are called on a domestic call, cos . . . the trailer next door . . . couldn’t hear the results of the American Gladiators contest or something, over her shrieking. I don’t know why they called. I don’t know how they had a phone, but anyway . . . The cops are called, right? And they come into the trailer, her fourteen little cracker spawn are peering around her gingham skirt. Their eyes are so close together, the left eye is in the right socket and the right eye is in the left socket – some genetic mutation due to inbreeding here, I don’t get it. What does their family tree look like? A stump? And every time the woman stands up for the fucking guy. Head looks like a melon.
‘He didn’t mean to hit me, Officer. He didn’t mean to hit me. He’s a good man. Don’t take him away. I fell asleep in the driveway and he run over my head with the truck. He’s a good man. He don’t mean no harm. He’s passed out under the trailer right now with his dog, Skeeter.’
Fuck cops, send in the swat team. She doesn’t need children. K? And that’s a judgement call that I’m making but it also happens to be true, which gives it the force, that extra oomph. She needs no more children. K? OK. Can’t support ’em! Can’t feed ’em! Can’t raise ’em! Don’t even love ’em! Poink. Bring ’em out, why don’t you just get the fucking Cops camera to shine it up your fucking pussy and film the little criminal COMING OUT! This is crime prevention. Here comes another illiterate, unwanted child. Cuff him, Banano. Wah! Wah! Wah! Can you calm down on your rutting just for a couple of seconds, until we figure out this FOOD/AIR DEAL? ‘Well, who are you to judge? Who are you judging? What makes you think you know better than Jesus?’ ‘He didn’t mean to hit me, Officer.’ And she stands up for this guy! This fucking cracker’s balls deep in that whore every night! I haven’t been laid in three fucking years! It’s not right!
I got backed up semen that’s about to make my head explode. Next time I come it’s gonna be like a wax dart shooting outa my dick. Sh-dooom! Some one-eyed chick my girlfriend, you know.
‘I’m not blowing you again. I wan– I’m gonna get through this life.’
‘Baby, I’ll buy you a dog. Please blow me.’
I don’t mean to let you all in on more than you care to know about me, but . . . it blows my mind.
What is the psychology of women that put up with wife-beaters, man? You know? What the fuck’s the psychology to that? It really makes you feel hopeless, man. You try and be a good guy, a nice guy, an’ an’ an’ you ladies, yeah, I know, and you know what? I know y’all love Billy Ray Cyrus. Don’t lie to me. He’s a . . . I’m talking to the women here. Yeah, bullshit! Fuck you. You do. Oh yeah, he sold 5 million albums and now all the guys here bought ’em. Fuck you! ‘He’s a hunk.’ Fucking homunculus mongoloid. No wonder this country’s becoming like dog patch if that’s who you wanna rut with. Fuck, any woman here would fucking almost break her pelvis opening her legs for that mongoloid fuck . . . to drop his filthy cracker seed into your fucking womb. Liar! Liars! LIARS!
All right, man. Good evening everyone– oh, Jesus Christ. I’ve had more people in bed before than this. Fuck, man. In fact they were at the hotel. I left them to come here and do this. Don’t I feel like a fucking idiot? Y’all . . . don’t – OK. This could be one of my last performances, ladies and gentlemen. This week. I’m serious. I’ve had it. Sixteen years I’ve pounded my head against the mentality of America, which I, I, I ascribe to about . . . I’d say it’s about an eighth-grade emotional level that we’re at, as a country. And ah . . . you’re doubting that? You don’t think so? Really. OK. Well, anyway. You know, go watch Who’s the Boss and then we’ll chat later, I ah . . . please don’t debate me, it’s my one true talent, OK? I have twenty-three hours a day to develop these little webs of fucking conspiracy, so please. Relax and enjoy your hair.
And your little cracker spawn are back at the hotel, choking down the minibar contents, probably fucking each other and producing more little crackers to come fuck with my life . . . you inbred, redneck, hillbilly, fucking tourist, you. Good evening. How are you tonight? Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to No Sympathy Night. Welcome to You’re Wrong Night. Boy, I’m in a mood. You know . . . could be this haircut. Every time I look at my hair I go, ‘Fuck it, someone needs to die.’ Generally I think it’s me, but ah, I don’t have the balls to do it so . . . so I continue to walk around with my hair.
Ha ha ha! OK, shut up. Shut the FUCK up. FUCKING morons. You FUCKING morons!
And God wept, I believe is the next verse. As did the world. As more knobby-kneed white guys walk the planet with their black nylon fucking socks, their fat, fucking tick-like wives and their little, fat, fucking hateful children. Blocking the doorway, it’s a doorway, MOVE IT! ‘Huh, we’re on vacation.’ You’re on a mental fucking vacation, that’s what you’re on, pal. Try waking up and enjoying the life you’ve chosen, OK? Instead of calling the travel agent and getting the big budget deal. It’s a T-shirt nirvana.
I am your herder. Kneel in front of me.
Tonight, check politics on your fucking porch while your wife wiggles her fucking dong and fucks her own pussy with it, you fucking redneck, hillbilly piece of shit, you. Fuck America, if that’s America, then fuck you too. Good evening, everyone. How y’all? Good? Everyone good? Welcome to my show. Hey . . . (laughs) ‘Moo. Moo.’ Coupla cows are getting arrogant out there. ‘Moo. Moo.’ Come on, Shep. Get that one cow who’s leaving the pack. (barks) ‘Moo.’ Go back to the herd, moron. OK? I have this weirdest style, don’t I? I . . . ha ha ha ha ha ha! ‘Bill, you do a little kind of joke that’s kind of funny, then you start telling us you hate us and you dig a fucking hole. Where’s Bill going? He’s going to comedy death. Boom! He pops out of it with another joke.’ It’s my particular style. Just— it’s OK. It’s all been done in ah . . . in hate. Now. I am like the angry sheep-herder. That’s what I am. I’m ranting under the stars with my herd. ‘Gee Bill, are you talkin’ to us?’ I’m talking metaphorically about America, all right? Not y’all. I give y’all more credit. I assume that you’re ah enjoying this, or if not at least emotionally involved, which is important. Even if it’s anger. Really. It’s OK, man. That’s what this is all about, man. It’s supposed to be a fucking catharsis, man, you know? It’s supposed to be release from the fucking daily grind. I wish it worked for me. (wheezy laugh) I’m killing me, join me.
I was over in Australia and I was asked, ‘Are you proud to be an American,’ and I was like, ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have a lot to do with it, you know. My parents fucked there, that’s about all. You know, I was in the spirit realm at that time. “Fuck in Paris! Fuck in Paris!” but they couldn’t hear me, cos I didn’t have a mouth. I was a spirit without lungs or a mouth or vocal cords.’ They fucked here. OK, I’m proud. I hate patriotism. I can’t stand it, man. Makes me fucking sick. It’s a round world last time I checked, OK? You know what I mean? I hate patriotism. In fact, that’s how we could stop patriotism, I think. Instead of putting stars and stripes on our flags, we should put pictures of our parents fucking. Gather people round that flag and see your dad hunched over your mom’s big four-by-four butt. See if any boot rally mentality can circle round that little fucking image. God . . . damn, I’m out of here! Fuck it! Get your mom, shut up! Let’s go garden.
You never see my attitude in the press, that’s what bugs me. You never see my point of view. For instance, gays in the military. Now, I don’t know how y’all feel about it. Gays who wanna be in the military. Here’s how I feel about it, all right? Anyone DUMB ENOUGH to wanna be in the military should be allowed in. End of fucking story. That should be the only requirement. I don’t care how many push-ups you can do. Put on a helmet, go wait in that foxhole, we’ll tell you when we need you to kill somebody. You know what I mean? I’m so sick – I watched these fucking congressional hearings and all these military guys and all the pundits, ‘Seriously aww the esprit de corps will be affected, and we are such a moral’— excuse me! Aren’t y’all fucking hired killers? SHUT UP! You are thugs and when we need you to go blow the fuck out of a nation of little brown people, we’ll let you know. Until then . . . when did the fucking military get all these morals— ‘We are the military. Is that a village of children and kids? Where’s the napalm? Sh-boom! I don’t want any gay people hanging round me while I’m killing kids. I just don’t wanna see it.’ And don’t tell me it’s the military protects our freedom. Hey, ladies and gentlemen, there ain’t no one out there who’s a fucking threat to us, OK? They don’t exist. Oh – I’m talking now only of countries we don’t arm first. All right, if you wanna split hairs, you got a point. ‘Bill, what about the nations we sell arms to and then go blow the fuck out of ’em?’ OK, they might be scary for about a day. We give them the old weapons, we use the new ones on them, you know. Fucking Iraq found that out, huh? You have the Scud, we have the Patriot. The SCUD TIMES TWO, you fucks! Just keep selling ’em the shitty shit, you know. We’ll be fightin’ them next, they’ll have muskets. Dhoosh!
‘America won a war with this.’
‘Yeah, a hundred years ago! They got new shit now.’
‘What is that?’
‘It’s musket repellent.’
‘I can kill you by looking at you.’
Oh, there’s a threat to America, yeah, yeah, yeah. Back to that fucking Cops show, cos I’ll tell you who the threat to freedom . . . no, no, not the threat to freedom. I’ll tell you who the threat to the status quo is in this country – it’s us. That’s why they show you shows like fucking Cops so you know that state power will win and we’ll bust your house down and we’ll fucking bust you any time we want. That’s the message. Why don’t they just have a show called Stormtrooper? Or better yet, how about IRS? Argh! Every week the IRS has a special celebrity guest.
‘This week it’s Red Fox on IRS Bust.’
(singing) ‘Da da da da! Da da da! Da da da da!’ (Ding dong!)
‘Who dere? Who dere at my door? What y’all want?’
‘The rings on your FUCKING FINGER!’
(singing) ‘Da da da da!’
‘See you next week when we go down to Texas and meet Willie Nelson! On IRS!’
Cos that is the message they wanna leave you with. To keep you afraid and keep you fucking impotent. Keep these lying scumbags doing their fucking dirty work.
‘What about Clinton? Is there any hope in Clinton?’ There’s no fucking hope in that guy. They’re all the same. I’ll show you politics in America. Here it is, right here.
‘I think the puppet on the right shares my beliefs.’
‘I think the puppet on the left is more to my liking.’
‘Hey wait a minute. There’s one guy holding up both puppets!’
‘Shut up! Go back to bed, America: your government is in control. Here’s Love Connection. Watch this and get fat and stupid. By the way, keep drinking beer, you fucking morons.’
Ba ba ba na.
(two gunshots) Hicks was shot by a quiet loner. Though the shots had two different calibrations, we feel that one gun shot them both. He was a quiet loner who had a family and kids.
How are you a loner with a family? How does that work?
I’m kind of bummed because I’m missing right now, even as we speak, my favourite cultural train wreck: The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I’m like a rubber-necker, man. Every night it’s the crash of fucking metal when that show starts. Me and my friends have a little office pool wondering exactly which episode and which guest is gonna be on the night Jay finally puts a 9mm in his mouth and blows his Dorito-shilling head off his fucking body. I think it’s gonna be Joey Lawrence from the show Blossom, ah . . . other of my friends beg to differ and think Patrick Duffy a more likely culprit.
‘Oh, hi everyone. Welcome to the show. Tonight we have Joey Lawrence. Hi Joey, how are ya? It’s good to see you again. Boy, it was always my comedic dream to be forty-four years old and interviewing a little Tony Danzer wannabe every three months. Boy, I’m fulfilled as a human spiritually. So . . . so, so, so anyway, Joey, you’re sixteen now? You’re sixteen years old?’
‘That’s great, you’re sixteen. You got a licence? You drivin’? You drivin’?’
‘That’s great, you’re sixteen, you got a licence. You got a car? You got a car?’
‘You got a girlfriend, hmmm? You dating somebody? Anybody special?’
‘Yeah. No. Well, she thinks so. I don’t. Hee hee hee hee.’
‘Good God, what have I done with my life?’
BOOM! His brain splew out, forming an NBC peacock on the wall behind him. Cos he’s a company man to the bitter fucking end. It all started when he did the Doritos commercial. Here’s the deal, folks. You do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call for ever. End of story. OK? You’re another corporate fucking shill, you’re another whore at the capitalist gang-bang. And if you do a commercial, there’s a price on your head, everything you say is suspect, and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink. (makes choking, then splashing sound) Selling Doritos on fucking TV. What a fucking whore. And not even when he needed the money, either. You know, if you’re a young actor, OK, I’ll look the other way. But the guy, you know, he makes 3 million a year, he decides to hawk Doritos to make more money. You don’t got enough money, you fucking whore? You gotta sell snacks to fucking bovine America now? ‘Hi everyone, I’m Jay Leno. Anyone remember when I was . . . when I was funny? Here, eat Doritos. They’re good—’ (makes choking sound) Satan fucking him in the ass on national TV. (snorting and snarling)
‘They’re good ’n’ crispy. Here Satan, try the nacho-flavoured ones.’
‘Cool and flavourful.’ (snorting and snarling)
‘Tonight on the show, er, we have Joey Lawrence and Patrick Duffy.’
Yes, tonight’s the night! Fuck, if that was his line-up he’d use an Uzi in his mouth. (makes machine pistol sound) Rrrrrrrrrrrrr! Just chewing fucking lead. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr! ‘What have I done with my fucking life?’ Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! ‘I used to be funny!’ Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Arrrrrrrrrrr! Oh, quick, change his clip! Arrrrrrrrrrrrr! Arrrrrrrrrrrr! Arrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s a fucking blood-sprinkler! Pow! Pow! Pow! Arrrrrrrrrrrrr! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! The next night: (singing) ‘ba da da da da. Ba ba ba da!’
‘Ed, Ed ah, did you enjoy your vacation?’
‘You are correct, sir.’
‘Doc, that’s a really nice red coat. Is that the colour of it or is that Jay’s brains?’
Ha ha ha ha ha! ‘He’s just jealous cos he’s never been on the show.’ You’re so right.
Do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call, every word you say is suspect, you’re a corporate whore and ah, end of story. And yes, I have been offered commercials, so I’m not jealous, and I turned them all down because I’m not a salesman. Aha, oop! And I don’t need money that is built on blood. So.
Man in audience: Who offered to you?
Bill: Well, in England I did this really . . . this is classic England. I got offered a . . . this is the product. You ready? Orange drink. I’m going, ‘What’s the name of it?’ ‘Orange drink.’ Classic England, right? Just such a socialist fucking nightmare over there, right? (laughs) That’s the drink. ‘It’s orange drink.’ I said, ‘Yeah, you really got my act down good, guys. That’ll be great. You know, when I’m ah done ranting about elite power that rules the planet under a totalitarian government that uses the media in order to keep people stupid, my throat gets parched. That’s why I drink orange drink.’ Yeah, right. See, don’t you see how it’ll all fit in. Don’t you see how every word I said would be hollow and filled with nothing.
You do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call for ever, and that goes for everyone . . . except Willie Nelson. Twenty-four-million-dollar tax bill, Willie was a little looser than the rest of us. I just avert my eyes when he sings about tacos, you know what I mean? It’s so fucking . . . (singing) ‘I’m sitting here, selling tacos, oh waiting for the woman in the rose tattoo. My butt is so loose.’ Oh, this is so sad. Is he done yet? No. (singing) I love picante and iced tea. Taco Bell hasn’t called me. Oh, my butt hurts so bad.’ Oh, this is so sad. Is he finished yet? No? (singing) ‘I love nachos with chips ’n’ dippin’, love the things that I can get ’n, oh my butt is hurtin’ me.’ Oh, poor Willie. Poor fucking Willie. Oh God, let’s pass the hat. Get him off the Taco Bell commercial! We gotta save Willie!
You know what I mean? You want a better world, ladies and gentlemen? Legalize pot right now. You wanna end the deficit? Legalize pot right now. I am so sick of hearing about the goddamn deficit, I could fucking puke blood. (vomiting noise) There ain’t no fucking deficit, it’s a FUCKING lie and it’s a FUCKING illusion in the first place. But you wanna end it, you wanna end it, legalize pot: biggest cash crop in America. Deficit’s gone. But I am so sick of hearing about, ‘Well, your leaders misspent your hard-earned tax dollars, so you, the people, now have to tighten your belts and we got to start paying this back, because we, your leaders, misspent your money.’ You know what’d make tightening my belt a little easier? If I could tighten it around Jesse Helms’61 scrawny little chicken-neck. Ah, I feel better about the sacrifice right now! You fucking, tobacco-pushing, motherfucker! You are the worst fucking drug-dealer in the fucking world! You scrawny, rightwing, fear-mongering piece of sucker of Satan’s COCK! YOU SUCK SATAN’S COCK! YOU FUCKING CHICKEN-NECKED LITTLE FUCKING CRACKER! I’d tighten my belt if that were the case. I’d eat bolony for a week, you know what I mean? I’d sacrifice. Boy, Jesse Helms. Isn’t that a great one, i’n’t he? Just another little fevered ego tainting our collective unconscious. Cos you know, anyone – like Swaggart62 – anyone that far to the right is hiding a very deep and dark secret. You do know that, right? I’m an armchair fucking psychologist, but anyone that – you know when Jesse Helms finally dies, he’s gonna commit suicide first of all in a washtub out back underneath a pecan tree. He’s gonna slash his wrists and he’s gonna write in blood, ‘I been a bad boy.’ But you know they’re gonna find the skins of young children drying in his attic. Swarms of horseflies going in and out of the eaves, and on CNN, over and over, his wife going, ‘I always wondered about Jesse’s collection of little shoes.’ Anyone that far to the right is fucking hiding a deep, dark secret.
Speaking of Satan, ah . . . I was watching Rush Limbaugh the other day. Doesn’t Rush Limbaugh remind you of one of those gay guys who likes to lay in a tub while other men pee on him? Am I the only one? Can’t you see his fat body in a tub while Reagan, Quayle, and Bush just chhhhhhhhhhh! Just stand around pissing on him, and he can’t– his little piggly-wiggly dick can’t get hard.
‘Aargh, aargh, I can’t get hard. Reagan, pee in my mouth.’
‘Well, how’s that, Rush?’
Still can’t get hard, so they call in Barbara Bush. She takes her pearls off, puts ’em up his ass, then squats over him, undoes her girdle, her wrinkled, flaccid labia unfolds halfway down to her knees, like some ball-less scrotum. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh.’ She squeezes out a link into his mouth. Finally his dick gets half-hard. ‘Ohhhh.’ A little clear bubble forms on the end with a maggot inside. The maggot pops the bubble and runs off and joins a pro-life group somewhere. Am I the only one who sees that, or . . . or not? Thank God I’m not alone. Thank God I had the insight to notice Rush Limbaugh is a scat-muncher. He munches scat. (laughs) ‘Jesus, Bill.’ I’m so proud of that little dark poetry there. Started, I came out with the word ‘scat-muncher’ and it went from there, and I just . . . immediately thought of Rush.
Folks, it’s time to evolve ideas. You know, evolution did not end with us growing thumbs. You do know that, right? Didn’t end there. We’re at the point now where we’re going to have to evolve ideas. The reason the world’s so fucked up is we’re undergoing evolution. And the reason our institutions, our traditional religions are all crumbling is because they’re no longer relevant. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! They’re no longer relevant. So it’s time for us to create a new philosophy and perhaps even a new religion, you see. And that’s OK, cos that’s our right, cos we are free children of God with minds who can imagine anything, and that’s kind of our role. How do you evolve ideas? I’ll give you an example right here. By the way, there are more dick jokes coming: please relax. I know I’m starting to lose them a little bit here with this shit, I’m like digging a fucking hole right now. And another thing . . . ‘Where the hell did Bill go? He dug himself right through the planet.’ I can hear people heckling in Chinese right now. ‘Why . . . why you gonna do dick joke? Do dick joke. [. . .] No one want to hear your philosophy; they want to hear dick joke.’ Oh, what a completely rational heckler, hmmmm. ‘They pay to hear dick joke, not to hear you talk about the President Bush.’ Here’s how you evolve an idea; I’ll give you an example. Why is the drug Tsar of this country – well, let’s go back. Why do we have a drug Tsar in this country, a)? b) Why is he a cop? Why isn’t he a guy in recovery, who’s had an alcohol and/or drug addiction and overcome it? And why doesn’t he help people with the same problem with compassion rather than condemnation? Why do we put people who are on drugs in jail? They’re sick. They’re not criminals. Sick people don’t get healed in jail. See, it makes no sense. And if we evolve the idea, you see, the planet might be more compassionate and something like HEAVEN might dawn. I want everyone here to take the five dried grams I taped under y’all chairs right now. Under your chairs: check ’em out. Let’s go, man. The fucking UFOs are waiting in the fifth dimension. Let’s go! We’ll do it later. We’ll do it as a closer.
Shit, man. Mushrooms grow naturally on the planet. They’re against the law. Marijuana grows naturally on the planet. It’s against the law. Do you think making nature against the law seems a bit, I don’t know . . . unnatural?
I was down in Australia when the Waco debacle ended, and I was very bummed because I thought that was the most fascinating story of the year, bar none. And everyone was so upset with that guy cos he called himself Jesus, right? And I said, ‘Come on, you know. The guy’s real name . . . is Vernon. Let him be Jesus for a couple of months, you know what I mean? What’s it to you?’ Who’s gonna follow a messiah called Vernon, anyway. You gotta be Jesus, that’s part of the Messiah deal. ‘And Vernon spake.’ Yeah, yeah, what are we doing?
‘I’m followin’ Vernon.’
‘Where y’all going?’
‘To the drive-in. Heyah! Joe-Bob Briggs said the movie was real good. Vernon’s going. He’s my Messiah. He said he’d get us some beef jerky. Whoo!’
‘I follow Vernon.’
Isn’t that weird, though. People always snap and think they’re Jesus. How come no one ever snaps and thinks they’re Buddha? Particularly in America, where more people resemble Buddha than Jesus.
‘I’m Buddha now. All I gotta do is change two letters on my belt. Bubba – Buddha. Come over here and read my Scripture. Vernon’s a false prophet. Bubba-Buddha’s the real man.’
I was in Australia, and the Australians had a big contingency at the Branch Davidian compound, and I’m from Texas so they were very curious. They were asking me all about it, you know. ‘Oh, this guy’s so weird, in’t he? This guy Koresh is so weird.’ And I was thinking, well, wait a minute. Frustrated rock musician with a messianic complex, armed to the teeth, and trying to fuck everything that moves. I don’t know how to tell you this: sounds like every one of my friends in Austin. I don’t know if this is gonna be an isolated incident. Waiting for Will Sexton to build a compound somewhere. I don’t even know what that means. I don’t even know what . . . that was an Austin name; I picked it out of a hat. Pick your own Austin guitarist. Have fun with the joke.
But I thought the whole thing was an absolute disaster and a debacle, and if any of y’all have been watching public access and seen the footage, which was not shown on any major news media source, of the tanks, Bradley tanks, shooting fire into the compound, which I think went against the party-line story, which was that they shot tear gas in order to help the mothers and the children to get out, to convince them – oh, they’re destroying the compound, they’re getting the moms and children out, you see . . . the soft sell is definitely the FBI’s way. And anyway, so the major news said that the Branch Davidians started a fire. If I’m not mistak– correct me when I go off the story here – a-a-a-and that the Branch Davidians, and all they did was shoot in tear gas, and yet I’ve seen with my own eyes and my (squeaking sound) squeegeed third eye footage of a Bradley tank shooting fire into the compound, which . . . in’t that odd that no major news source has picked up on that? Huh, you’d think that’s newsworthy. Cos that basically means that the government, from the FBI, the ATF, up to Janet Reno and including Clinton, are ahm, liars and murderers. Ha ha ha ha! And – wait, there’s more – and . . . I mean, the implications are vast. Ahm, you know. And if the ATF and FBI had any honor, if there was any honor left or dignity on this planet, they would commit hara-kiri while first admitting what they’ve done. They’d kill themselves, cos they are liars and murderers.
‘Oh, we had to bust the compound down, cos we heard child molestation was going on.’ Yeah, if that’s true, how come we don’t see Bradley tanks knocking down Catholic churches? I’m talking if child molestation is actually your concern. ‘Well, there was a meth-amphetamine lab on it.’ No there wasn’t. And not one child came out of there saying they were molested. Not one child. They don’t want the voice of reason spoken, folks, cos otherwise we’d be free. Otherwise we wouldn’t believe their FUCKING horse-shit lies, nor the fucking propaganda machine, the mainstream media, and buy their horse-shit products that we don’t fucking need, and become a Third World consumer fucking plantation, which is what we’re becoming. Fuck them! They’re liars and murderers. All governments are liars and murderers, and I am now Jesus. Now. And this is my compound.
I’m sorry if anyone here is Catholic, ah . . . I’m not sorry if you’re offended, I’m actually sorry just the fact that you’re Catholic. Got to be one of the most ludicrous fucking beliefs ever. Like these vampire priests sink their twin fangs of guilt and sin into you as a child and suck your joy of life out of you the rest of your fucking existence. And I love watching the Pope bounce around in his little Popemobile. That’s the . . . that’s got to be hoot number one on my fucking CNN list. Just, I want a whole show with the Pope just bouncing around in that all-terrain Popemobile, with the three feet of bulletproof Plexiglas around him. Boy, there’s faith in action. You see, you know he’s really the spokesman for God, because only God’s spokesman would need Plexiglas bulletproof, don’t you think? Don’t y’all read that the same way?
I don’t know. Christianity’s the weird one though, you know. Christianity’s such an odd religion, you know. I was raised that way, you know, and you can just suffer for it. You know, the whole image is that, you know, eternal suffering awaits anyone who questions God’s infinite love. (laughs) That’s the message, isn’t it, that we’re brought up with. Believe or die! ‘Thank you, forgiving Lord, for all those options.’
I’ve been compared to Koresh before. People said I was like Koresh, except . . . without the guns or pussy. And ah . . . means I’m just a real annoying guy, basically.
‘But you must understand the Seven Seals.’
‘What, the seven— is this a circus? I’m with you. What? Seven seals. Right.’
‘They hit the ball up their nose. Seven of them. I saw it when I was a kid. I don’t understand it.’
And I knew Billy Clinton became one of the boys when he bombed Iraq.63 Remember that? It was just a little news story for two days. Isn’t that interesting? He launched twenty-two cruise missiles against Baghdad in retaliation for the alleged assassination attempt against George Bush, which failed. We killed six innocent people, launching twenty-two, I think 3-million-dollars-apiece missiles on Baghdad, killing six innocent people. Ahm, I think that’s a little bit overdoing it, if you ask me. Ahm, you know what we should have done? We should have embarrassed the Iraqians, you know what I mean? Here’s how we could do it: we should have assassinated Bush, and said, ‘That’s how you do it, towel-head. Don’t fuck with us.’ And see, if Bush had been the one who had died, there would have been no loss of innocent life.
We should do a car-bomb derby with them, that’s what we should do. Car-bomb derby. Put it on after American Gladiators. We’d just watch it, big ratings, ‘It’s good, I like Car-Bomb Derby. We beat the Iraqi team again. I love that.’ And that way we’d all be on equal ground again. And I believe in equality. I believe there is a commonality to all humanity: we all suck. OK, thank you.
I have this feeling, man, cos you know there’s a handful of people actually run everything. That’s true. It’s provable, it’s not a fucking— I’m not a conspiracy nut. It’s provable. A handful, a very small elite, run and own these corporations, which include the mainstream media. I have this feeling who’s ever elected President, like Clinton was, no matter what your promises you promise on the campaign trail, ‘blah, blah, blah’, when you win, you go into this smoky room with the twelve industrialist capitalist scum-fucks who got you in there, and you’re in this smoky room and this little film screen comes down, rrrrrrrrrr, and a big guy and a cigar (po po) ‘Roll the film.’ (po po po) And it’s a shot of the Kennedy assassination from an angle you’ve never seen before . . . that looks suspiciously off the grassy knoll. And then the film, the screen goes up, and the lights come up, and they go to the new President, ‘Any questions?’
‘Ah, just what my agenda is?’
‘First we bomb Baghdad.’
‘You got it.’
But we’ve got to come to some new, some new ideas about life, OK? I’m not being facetious about abortion. It might be a real issue; it might not. It doesn’t really matter to me, cos what matters is, if you really believe in sanctity of life, then you believe it for people of all ages. That’s what I hate about this fucking child worship syndrome going on around. ‘Save the children. Think of the children. God, how many children were in the Waco? The children!’ Hey, what does that mean? They reach a certain age, they’re off your fucking love list? Fuck your children, if that’s the way you feel, and fuck you with ’em. You either love people in general from all ages, or you shut the fuck up. ‘Bill, what kind of philosophy is this, Bill?’ I don’t know yet. I’m chasing this philosophy like a hound. I don’t know where it’s heading. (barks) Trying to tree it, you know. ‘Who are you to tell people when to have kids or not?’ I’m me, it’s true, shut the fuck up. Quit thinking you’re gonna fucking make the world better by bringing more little fucking cabbages to the planet. Why don’t you try loving the people that are already fucking here, OK? Instead of living for a future that never fucking comes. It doesn’t exist. It ain’t coming. There is no future. There’s no such thing. It doesn’t exist. ‘You’re our future! THE CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE!’ There’s no such thing, asshole! Take some mushrooms and squeegee your third fucking eye! (makes squeaking sound) ‘Oh my God, there is only this moment!’ (makes squeaking sound)
The argument doesn’t work with me, flapjack. Go back to your fucking crackerjack lifestyle, and I’ll meet you at the evolution bell-curve. I’ll be sitting there awhile. It’s kind of a tortoise-and-the-hare-story. (makes sound of crickets chirruping) That’s Bill, waiting for people to catch up. (crickets chirruping). ‘We think science is gonna save us, Bill!’ Oh, FUCK! (crickets chirruping) Take mushrooms, folks, squeegee your third fucking eye. (makes squeaking sound) The TV has clouded it over, OK? TV is like taking black paint to your eye. Chhhhhhhhhh! Take mushrooms. (makes squeaking sound) What do you think, mushrooms were here by accident? You think it’s a fucking accident mushrooms grow on cow shit? Where do you think ‘That’s good shit’ came from?
Childbirth . . . isn’t natural. I’ll let that sink in. Childbirth isn’t natural. We’re not supposed to give birth. We’re not supposed to age or die. Did you know that? We’re supposed to live for ever. We’re supposed to be in a garden right now, leaning against a tree, naming animals, and the fact that you don’t know the name of every animal in the world tells me something. You know what it tells me? We left the garden too soon.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s a wombat.’
‘Shut up and go back to the garden. No rutting till you name all the animals.’
We have to have a beautiful world where children can come to. OK? That would be knowing your world. (laughs) OK. Men don’t want children. No man in this room wants children. Any man who thinks or says he wants children is no longer a man but a pussy-whipped freak of nature, who should be at home reading leather-bound copies of Donahue transcripts, renting Alan Alda films and buying Michael Bolton’s CDs, cos you’re no longer a man and you’re out of the man club. You’re out.
‘I don’t know with all the margaritas we buy we can afford a child, honey.’ And I’ll go you one further. And this is the one, folks, this is the idea that has made me virtually an anonymous figure in America for the last sixteen years. I have watched my crowds dwindle, I am going nowhere, and nowhere quick. If you have children here tonight, and I assume some of you do, I am sorry to tell you this: they are not special. Oh, wait, wait, wait, hold on. Let’s not have any— wait, wait, wait, don’t misunderstand me. I know a lot of y’all: ‘What? Well, I don’t . . .’ Wait, wait, let’s be clear on this. I know you think they’re special. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I’m aware of that. I’m just trying to tell you, they’re not. Ha ha ha ha ha!
Do you know that every time a guy comes, he comes 200 million sperm. Did you know that? Two hundred million sperm. And you mean to tell me you think your child . . . is special? Because one out of 200 million sperm that load – we’re talking one load – connected. Gee, what are the fucking odds? Two hundred – you know what that means? I have wiped entire civilizations off of my chest . . . with a grey gym-sock. That is special. Entire nations have flaked and crusted in the hair around my navel. Maybe even Gidea. That is special. And I want you to think about that, you too . . . egg-carrying beings out there. With that holier-than-thou, we-have-the-gift-of-life attitude. I’ve tossed universes . . . in my underpants . . . while napping. Boom! A Milky Way shoots into my jockey shorts. Ohhhhhhhhh! What’s for fucking breakfast? Thank you very much!
Zchurrrrrrrrrrr. Oh my God. Lift me up out of this illusion, Lord. Heal my perception that I might know only reality and only you.