Doug Stanhope: Beer Hall Putsch (2013) – Transcript

Named after Hitler's failed coup attempt, "Beer Hall Putsch" takes you into acerbic comic Doug Stanhope's twisted mind at a gig filmed in Portland.
Doug Stanhope: Beer Hall Putsch

Recorded live at Dante’s in Portland, Oregon

We are downstairs in the Dante’s green room in Portland, Oregon, shortly before we start taping the new special, beer hall putsch. What’s a putsch? Beer hall putsch. What’s that? It was Hitler’s early failed attempt At overthrowing the German government in ’24, where he’d work everyone up into a lather in the beer hall with 1,500 people screaming about the government. He got them all to race out into the streets and, “we’re going to take this shit over.” And then a few people got killed, So he ran like a pussy. Because this is, like, ground zero of when we branched out to do our own thing, and it’s really cool-looking. We can’t really play here because we have too big of a draw. So it’s nice to be able to film here. It’s dark. It’s creepy. It has a history with us. It’s just… It has a good feel. And I fucking hate doing theaters. I wish all comedy specials were filmed in fucking 75-seaters, like old Lenny Bruce. Smoky room, low ceiling. This one’s not real low ceiling, but it’s got the feel. Let’s go drink.

Some people say, “yeah. I don’t have to drink to have a good time.” You go, “okay.” But that means you have to have a good time to have a good time. How do you pull that off? Just assume the universe knows it’s your Friday so some organic good time will swell out of the woodwork and appear at a certain time. You read the weekly and find the editor’s best bet and you email all your dumb friends in their cubicles, “let’s meet up. “We found a local eatery that’s well reviewed. “It has vegan options for Sheila. We’ll meet there at 7:40.” “Where is Sheila? She’s late. “Our sober good time starts in 40 minutes. “Call her on her cell phone. Maybe we can order for her “because we don’t want to be late for our sober good time. It starts in…” Maybe you came here tonight to have a good time without drinking. That means you’re solely reliant on me being funny, which is a 50/50 shot at best in these waning years of my career. If I suck, you’re fucked. All that sober good-time planning and the mapquesting and the finding the parking. And then I just… I was off. I was too fucked up that night, and I… Now the blame’s on you. I don’t take those chances. I drink to have a good time. It’s a failsafe. I take whatever mundane shit I was doing anyway, and I just start pouring booze on top of it. And within a short amount of time, it’s fantastic. I’m talking to some shingle salesman in an airport bar, and he’s showing me pictures of his dogs on his cell phone camera. “And that’s miss patsy and this is patriot. I call him patriot because I got him at 9/11 and…” Within five drinks, that guy’s hilarious to me. I’m hugging that guy on the way to his gate. I’m swapping phone numbers. I have a problem? No, lady. I have a solution. You have a problem… With your sober good time. I’ll feel like shit in the morning, but I’ll know exactly why… Because I got hammered. You wake up, you feel like shit, you worry. “Did I forget to take my omega-3s? “My glands are swollen. “Did I touch a toilet handle without sanitizing? I’m not sure exactly.” Well, you should have been drunk. And you just… you wake up and go, “fuck. It’ll go away by the afternoon.”

I did stop drinking Jagermeister as though it were some, like, miraculous life choice. I bragged to people when I stopped drinking Jagermeister, like I’m doing bikram yoga now and eating tofu. I’m still hammered all the time, But it’s not jager, which is just a shitty drink. At some point, I saw a clip of myself on stage yelling at the bar, drunk, “hey, can I get a shot of Jagermeister?” But I could see me. Like, in my head, I’m young. But then I saw I’m just an old fucking dude. And just the word Jagermeister coming out of your mouth is some desperate cry to be young again. And it’s like the old guy’s a silver-haired fox, but he still has two hoop earrings. And he’s like, “hey, ladies.” Don’t be that fucking dude. Just drink something clear. ‘Cause… Jake LaMotta, the fighter, is a neighbor of ours in Bisbee, Arizona. He lives two blocks down. If you don’t know Jake LaMotta, he was a fighter, a legendary fighter. The movie Raging Bull. Yes. No? Yeah? Robert De Niro. For you 22-year-olds, let me explain. Robert De Niro used to be an actor in the moving pictures. Yeah. One of his greatest roles was that playing Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull. It was a real guy that’s our neighbor. And we never met him till, last year, A mutual friend brought him to the house to watch football. And we’re wicked excited. Like, fucking Jake LaMotta ‘s coming here. And they brought him over. He’s like 91. There’s no Jake LaMotta left of the Jake LaMotta. So we’re all, like, happy. And they bring him in, and we’re like, “” like, for a boxer, my age they’re fucked up, and he’s twice that. So they bring him in. He’s fucking up… They have him by one elbow, 91 years old. And they plop it on the couch like an eggplant. And we’re like, “Jake LaMotta ‘s here.”

And he’s got a trophy wife who’s 30 years his junior, which means she’s still in her 60s, so… The trophy is a bit tarnished at this point. It’s no Stanley cup anymore. It’s more of a bowling trophy. And she’s a very sweet woman. She has all the characteristics of trophy wife. She has bleached blonde hair, And the 60-year-old tit job is forced up so the good parts are showing through the top. And you go… okay. And she’s very sweet. And she’s trying to distract from… Jake LaMotta doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know he’s watching football. He’s confused on the couch. The only time he showed any cognitive recognition of his surroundings… I saw him scrambling with his cigarettes And fumbling and looking to the door like, “who will walk me out so I can smoke?” And I said, “it’s okay, Jake. You can smoke in the house.” And he went, that’s how fucking deep cigarettes get you. Nothing else. He said, “” then straight back to confusion.

So his wife is very sweet. And she’s talking to me and bingo. “I can’t believe we’ve lived here so long, And we’ve never met. And it’s so nice.” And at some point, she says, “you know, Jake and I “are doing a play on Saturday night “at the central school in old Bisbee. “We’d love it if you’d come. I wrote it myself,” she says. Really? All by your little lonely? That fucking half-cadaver on my couch didn’t chime in with some of his great ideas of how the script should be written for the arc of the story? And normally you would have to stun gun me, cattle prod me to get me into a play. I’m not interested… until I spend an hour and a half with Jake LaMotta at my house. That’s gonna be live on stage? I’m not missing this for the world. And we went, and it lived up to every awful expectation that we had. It was so tragic. She wrote it herself. It’s called Lady and the Champ. And she wrote it, so thank god it’s mostly her. And she has an acoustic guitar, So she’ll tell some stories and anecdotes and then sing some show tune kind of things.

♪ In the corner stands a boxer and a fighter by his ♪

And you’re like, “god.” And then they plop the champ out on the other side of the stage in a chair. And they sit him down. He still has no idea where he is. He still thinks he’s watching football at my house. And his only job is to pepper the script with some one-liners and some shadow boxing. So occasionally, he stands up,” “I fought Sugar Ray so many times, I got diabetes.” Which is not a bad line for a fucking 91-year-old boxer, except the champ forgets he already did the line. So moments later, he stands back up, “I fought…” in the middle of a song, “I fought Sugar Ray.” And they have to come out. They can’t stage whisper to him because he’s deaf as a stump. So they physically have to come out and push him back down in his chair and yell at him, “not yet, champ! Wait till the end of the number, and then you do the… Okay? All right.” And we’re in the back of the room fucking dying. Like it’s quiet, we’re having to bite our hands like children in church trying not to giggle. And… it was like seeing if Mr. Schiavo brought Terri Schiavo on the road as a song and dance act.

♪ Hello, my honey, hello, my baby ♪
♪ hello, my ragtime ♪

“Thank you! Terri and I will be “selling merchandise after the show. Terri will lick your t-shirts for you to personalize them as a little souvenir of the great time we had tonight here.”

And as much as I’m enjoying it for all the worst reasons, there’s part of my head going, “all right. How long before that’s you?” How many… I’ve been doing this shit 23 years. How long? I’ve taken a lot of shots to the head, Just like the champ. How long before that final synapse in my brain burns out that would have told me, “don’t do this anymore. You’re embarrassing yourself thoroughly.” But I have my trophy wife, bingo. She doesn’t want to get a real job, So she’s just shoving me out on the stage. “Go get ’em, champ.” “Jagermeister! Maybe it already happened. I don’t know. Maybe I’m… maybe this is being filmed to… “don’t do this anymore.”

I live every day of my life Like it’s my last day on earth, kids. And I really… Don’t clap. You don’t know how I live. That makes it even more sad and pathetic that I would willingly choose to spend any given last day on earth immobilized on a couch, sweating, watching a marathon of storage wars, completely content with that. Friends going, “come on. Let’s do something, man. “Let’s go out. I came all the way down. Let’s go live life.” You’re like, “fuck you. I ain’t getting up. “I’ve had to piss for the last four episodes. “My prostate is welded shut like a lug nut. “And I don’t give a shit. I’m not getting up. “I got to find out what’s in that safe. “Very important to find out after the commercial break what could possibly be in that safe.” You guys all have interests and you do shit. And I don’t. Yeah. Try doing nothing as long as me. I have “house arrest” on my bucket list just so I have an excuse for why I can’t go do the dumb shit you like that I don’t understand. “I’m sorry. I’d love to see your friend “play the flamenco guitar, but I got the anklet. Sorry.” Go right back to watching fucking hoarders. I watch hoarders. I see shit I need. I do. Like they brought the yard sale into my living room And I just poke around. I’m not following the dialog. I’m just looking at their shit. “Bingo, they have an orange microwave. “Rewind it. Pause. “That’s an orange mic… “how do you get an orange microwave? “Underneath the stack of the newspapers and the mummified cat is an orange microwave. “Find it on Amazon. That might fill the void in my soul. Orange.”

Because that’s… I don’t even drunk dial people anymore because I have nothing to say. But I drunk eBay and Amazon. I buy shit when I’m blacked out. Which is… Ebay is the worst, because if I get outbid, then I take it personal when I’m drinking. Like you just fucking looked at my girlfriend weird. “Outbid me? I’m going to fucking outbid you. Yeah, I’ll wait. I’ll wait. “Come on. Do it. Outbid me? “Outbid you! Because you probably have kids. “I don’t. I don’t have a lot of money, but every penny I have is disposable because I don’t have children. I bought a shitty, cheap house On the Mexican border. My nut is 800 bucks a year in property tax. I could beg that. You? You’re gonna outbid me, eventually you’re gonna realize, “‘shit, my children have to go to college,’ and I’m gonna realize, ‘shit. “‘I need a vintage pachinko machine in my house for some unknown reason.’ “outbid you. You lose. I’m a giant winner… Somehow.” Way worse than drunk dialing, because drunk buying shit, you don’t even remember you did it For five to seven business days. You walk out of your house, and ups is building some corrugated great wall of China outside. Like, “what did I do now? “What did you get yourself this time, “Mr. Christmas in July? Miracle socks, as seen on TV.” Actual purchase. I don’t have circulation problems, But evidently when I drink on Ambien, that’s some underlying fear I didn’t even know I had, is deep vein thrombosis. “I’m going to die. Maybe that’s why I never work Australia. That long flight could kill me with deep vein thrombosis.”

I have no fear of death, except I hate waiting for it. Just come on. I beat cancer. I never had it. That’s how I beat it. Like I’ve… You survived it? I beat the fuck out of it, but by not getting it. I’ve courted cancer every day of my life. I have done everything but fucking paid cancer’s taxi fare to my hotel. Won’t show up. That’s beating it. You survived it, you’re like tied. I get the number one seed in the bracket over you, survivor. I’m a winner.

But there is an afterlife, and if I can give you any hope in this show, I have definitive proof of an afterlife. I didn’t get weird or go religious on you. I’m not saying there’s a god. I don’t know what the afterlife entails, but here’s the proof. My mother killed herself in 2008. Don’t worry. This is a fun story. It was the best death you could ever be part of. She was dying of emphysema at 63. Her brain was still with it, but her… She was drowning in her own fluids. She’s being permanently water boarded by 45 years of Kool milds. She can’t take it anymore. We knew it was gonna happen. When she made the call, “I can’t do it.” I’m like, “all right, ma. We’ll do what we can.” I’m like, “all right. Ma’s gonna kill herself.” I don’t know what to do. Like that’s… Okay, we know it’s gonna happen, But when you say, “we’re gonna do it,” I’m not gonna go buy you a fucking shotgun. Like, “have fun, ma.” So I don’t know what to do. I don’t kill people. It’s just… It’s not something, like, I fantasize about it. If my mother were Nancy Grace, I’d have been all over it. Like I have plans. But my mother was a great person, so I’m like, “how do we do this right?” So I called my lawyer. I have three lawyers. We have… Like, we’re jewed up big with lawyers in L.A. for this shit, all the camera people and recording contracts. Then I have my local Bisbee attorney that helps me with… like, I got married when I was 20 and I had 24 years of marital bliss, till I remembered, “fuck. I never divorced that girl I drunkenly married in Vegas.” That’s for another DVD. So he… But then we have our third lawyer, who’s a comedy fan. He’s our, like wink-wink, nudge-nudge, Saul Goodman from Breaking Bad attorney. That he handles all the creepy shit, like when me and Andy are up late at night doing blow and thinking of… “call Kirschner. “See how much jail time we could… Could we go to prison if we actually did this?” He’s that guy.

So I called him, knowing he’d hook me up with a doctor on the down low, as we say in the black community, as a black person. He gave me the number to a doctor. And I go, “hey, my mother’s gonna cash out, and I don’t know what to do.” He said, “what do you have?” I go, “I’ve got Xanax out the ass.” On the border, you can get all the fucking Xanax you want. He’s like, “that’s no good. That’s anti-anxiety. Does she have hospice care?” “Yeah, she does.” “Then she should have morphine.” “Ma, you got morphine?” “Yeah, I got morphine.” “All right. She’s got morphine.” We worked out the dosages and the milligrams. And he goes, “if she has 30 of those, That’s enough to kill any human being on the planet.” She had fucking 90. Like, “okay. We’re good. Okay.” “We never talked. Remember that.” “Okay, doc.” So I’m like, “all right, we’re gonna do this. First of all, bring her to my house.” Because she lived in 300 square feet of hoarder paradise. Old electric bills with spider webs all crammed… Like it’s depressing enough if you’re gonna help your mother kill herself. But we’re gonna go to my house. We’ll tidy up, we’ll… So we set her up with a hospital bed in the living room. She had been aa off and on for my whole life. She had, at this point, been four years sober. And I’m like, “you’re not gonna kill yourself sober, right? You can’t take those chips with you.” Right? She’s like, “yeah. You’re right. Why would I do that? That’s dumb.” So she… In her heyday, She was a Black Russian drinker, So I set out a mini bottle of Ketel one and a mini bottle of Kahlua with her pills. “For whenever you’re ready. Let me know.” We laid down ground rules. I said, “ma, if you’re gonna kill yourself, seriously, “you can’t do it on Sunday or Monday “because that’s football, and that’s a dick move. “If you can call your own time to leave this planet, “don’t do it during someone else’s planned event. Don’t be an asshole.” And she did it the Saturday before football. That was great. She came in on Thursday. Saturday night, she goes, “it’s time.” And I’m like, “time for what? Like medication?” “No, it’s time.” And like, “fuck. This is real.” So I wake up bingo. Like it’s going on. We start mixing up White Russians. She decided to make Black Russians White Russians Because she thought the milk would coat her belly better for taking all the pills. Like mother till the end. “Do you have whole milk?” “I got skim.” “Skim’ll work. “I just don’t want to throw up the pills. Chicken soup for the suicide.” It was so fucking… It was so sweet. So we’re whipping up drinks and… I didn’t so much assist a suicide as bar back it. Like, I’m in there mixing drinks Because we’re all drinking. We watch Bad Santa together, her favorite movie, together. She had a very dark sense of humor. I didn’t come from nowhere. My mother used to review porn on the man show. She was fucking dark like us.

So we watched Bad Santa, and she’s trying to choke down these pills. She had a very hard time taking pills. So she’s just gagging and just getting them down. So I’m keeping a vague count. When she got around 30, a little over, I’m like, “ma, that’s good. You don’t need to do anymore. You’re fine.” And she said, “I don’t want to take any chances.” She was so scared of fucking up. She took all 90 morphine. The… We’re sitting there in horror, going, “you’re wasting… Ma… “They said 30 of those would kill any human being alive. “You could leave 60 of them for me and bingo “as our only inheritance other than the last 17-year-old blind cat you have, Georgia.” Yeah, we could have 60 morphines to have spontaneous memorials For mother every year and again.” “Remember mom? Pop a morphine. “Whoo! What a great lady. What a crazy old bitch.” No. Hoarder till the end. All fucking 90.

And then we fucked with her. I remember her last words as she’s coming in and out. Because we’re just goofing on her as she’s doing this, as she’s fading in and out. I didn’t even know if she would respond. She was just hammering cocktails, she… And she’s laying there, half in, half out, with a White Russian on her chest that she’d occasionally get to her mouth, and it’d spill. You know when you come off the wagon, You hit it fucking hard. And it’s pretty bad when you’re trying to keep up drinking with an 83-pound, 63-year-old woman. “Aagh.” And I go, “wow. You’re really knocking those back, ma.” And she goes, “there’s times to be dainty, and there’s times to be a pig.” And we all laughed. And this is mother’s problem throughout her life. She was a funny lady, sporadically. But when she would get a laugh, she would just hammer it and over-tag it and repeat the joke. Like, just keep… “I can keep getting a laugh off the same joke.” And it would ruin the joke. And when we all laughed at “there’s times to be a pig,” I saw her go into… She’s gonna… and I go, “shut your fucking mouth. Those are perfect last words. You’re not gonna ruin this joke. Cut the mic on mother.” And then we just roasted her as she fell in and out. We just did a friar’s club roast, making fun of her and making it a fun, dark suicide. “Ma, wait. They found a cure.” “I love you, but fuck you. I was a bad mother. I love you, I love you.”

At one point, I remember I said, “ma, if there’s any kind of white light situation, “that other side that you get to, “if you can communicate with us Houdini-style, “see if there’s any way that you can make the saints “cover eight points at Oakland tomorrow because I have money on the game.” And they did. The saints fucking blew them out… October 12, 2008. The saints won 34 to 3. I’m not saying that’s proof of an afterlife. That was just 40 bucks that I won. Proof of the afterlife is this. If there were no afterlife, how could my mother have bought me and my friends so many nice things from the skymall catalog on her credit card four days after she passed from this earth? Answer me that, your honor. Answer me that. In fact, I’d like to enter these credit card receipts into evidence, against the advice of my attorney. “Look at that. Four days. “I had to swear on your Bible “just to testify in my own defense. “Your silly fake Jesus only lasted three days “before he ran out of that cave like a pussy. “My mother? Four days, relaxing up there. She’s drunk eBaying like I do!”

That last piece of that story has special meaning to me because in my entire career, that’s the only chunk of material I’ve ever had that had a statute of limitations before I could comfortably tell it on stage. Three-year statute for credit card fraud. After that, fuck you. Mother didn’t want some silly gravestone. That doesn’t do anything. Mother wanted me to have a voice-activated remote control R2-D2 doll.

I’m just saying we all occupy in our own way. You occupy your fucking filthy Portland hippie selves because you hate the 1% and you hate the banks because of their predatory-lending practices against the people, and enslave them in a lifetime of debt. What’d you do about it? You stunk up a park for almost a year. I occupy far more efficiently. Maybe you should look to me for leadership. I hate the banks as well, as we all do. How did I fuck them? I spent three hours jacking up Mother’s chase bank visa card after she’s dead up to its $10,000 limit, buying dumb shit that no one needs and sticking them with the bill because she had no estate except for that blind, fucking last cat. If you want to repo that, have at it. That actually caused damage to the bank. Not sitting around with a dog with a kerchief and a cardboard sign, “doo doo doo doo,” slapping on drums in a drum circle. The fucking occupy movement was such a letdown because you seemed like me. Angry, and we’re gonna take to the streets. And, holy shit, around the globe, people are, “fuck this. We’re gonna do something.” And what did you do? You fucked up a park. All you fucked up in a year is some guy’s day who wanted to throw a frisbee for his dog, but he couldn’t because you’re all camped out there. You hate the banks? Don’t fuck up the park. Fuck up the bank. Who’s in charge of this project? Next time, me! “We don’t really have leadership.” You needed some! You have 500 angry people in a park. Go break them up into squads of 20. You can fuck up every branch of bank of America in a 50-mile radius. Go there, and not as anarchists, either. Throwing bricks through the windows? What are you, a fucking teenager? Have some ingenuity. You line up as customers at 8:00 in the morning. They only have two desks to do actual commerce other than cashing checks and shit. You clog up those two desks as bogus customers. Sit down, cross your legs, apply for frivolous loans all day long. That’s a lot of paperwork for every frivolous, “yes, I need a billion dollars for an ant farm. “Sharpen some pencils. “That’s a big stack of paperwork. I’d love some coffee.” You comb your dreadlocks over to one side, put on your $3 salvation army suit, and you clog up all their time. “Or you could deny me the right to apply for the loan, “and then I sue the fuck out of you for discrimination, causing even more damage to your bottom line.” Rather than just sitting out there in a park Getting tear-gassed by cops. What does that do? What are you accomplishing? “I got it on tape. Police abuse.” Yeah, police abuse people. That’s how it works. You’re never gonna win. Yeah. Well, you want to fight that, And eventually they’ll go, “it was justified.” “I was laying there. I’m paralyzed. I was face-down in the park. They tased me.” “Justified.” Yeah. Why aren’t you the cops? That’s a better idea. You had a fucking year in the park. The first week of occupy, you should have called everyone with no police record out, made them go apply to be police. You’d have had people that have gotten through the academy. They’re in the works now. They’re moles on your side. They’re sitting there in a riot helmet with a Bluetooth underneath the star wars helmet, calling you in the park, giving you heads-ups. “Hey, Kevin. “You might want to put on a gas mask around 7:45 A.M., you know what I’m saying?” “Thanks, Shane, but we’re already wearing gas masks “’cause we haven’t showered in 7 1/2 months, “and Angela’s snatch is really starting to reek up “the pup tent something ferocious. “But keep fighting the good fight. Power to the people!” Good Christ. You could have done so much with that. There’s a fucking million ways you could have been clever. That’s why I love WikiLeaks and anonymous, ’cause they’re actually in there. They’re fucking with the system. They’re not sitting around chanting and slapping bongos. Bradley Manning didn’t get to release all that information by sitting in a drum circle. He had to get inside. That’s why you should fucking read up on scientology. And I’m serious. Scientology is brilliant. Read this book inside scientology. It’s a breakdown of how that evil motherfucker created that religion in a modern time. Every other religion people believe in, you only believe in it because all your ancestry did. This guy had to create this and sell it to adults recently. It’s as stupid as any other religion, but how did he do it? How did he create this leviathan? Read this book inside scientology and apply those evil tactics to occupy, and you have a fucking winning recipe. You follow l. Ron Hubbard’s intimidation, infiltration, harassment, blackmail, complete abuse of the legal system, Where you just turn a cross-eyed stink look at scientology, and they’ll sue you into poverty. You use that for good. You know what l. Ron Hubbard didn’t have In his master plan for world domination? Drum circle! It doesn’t do anything! No one wants to hear that. It’s annoying as shit. You had enough time in a year to learn how to play real instruments. You could have had a whole New Orleans-style jazz swing band that people want to hear. But instead, what? I’m not against you. I appreciate the passion.

I don’t know how anyone who has a cause in life where they put that much time and effort Into trying to change something… How do you pick one thing? How do you wake up in the morning and look at the billions of things that suck on this planet? You log into your Yahoo! News And it’s just countries you didn’t even know were countries Have problems you didn’t even know existed. How do you pick one sliver of that And decide, that’s the one. We have to print up t-shirts and have a car wash. I would be so confused. I want to make change. How do you pick something if it hasn’t affected you? Juvenile diabetes? Well, I don’t know, but I have Lots of free time during the day. I guess I should… wait. Spina bifida, and the guy’s right here, and he’s uncomfortable to look at. So maybe I’ll go with this guy’s cause. And clitoral circumcision in the third world? I know that gives me a handy excuse for not finding it, but that’s selfish, and I have to stop thinking about me. And as soon as you focus on one thing, here comes Sarah McLachlan on the TV with the skinny, sad puppies and the abused… “in the arms of an angel.” I don’t know why animals always seem to trump any human cause, but they do. And now you’re telling me about fucking corrective rape, which is some weird thing in South Africa, you know? Corrective rape is where they gang-rape lesbians to try to cure them, and I want to… I’m behind that, just to bring attention to it, ’cause the term “corrective rape” is such a good comedy reference that I demand a bigger laugh when I mention corrective rape, But no one knows about it. So, I want to bring attention to your cause. I just don’t know how you pick. If I had any cause over the course of my career that I’ve bitched the most about, It’s overpopulation, which is the root of most of the other problems you care about. Anti-children, but I don’t know where to send a check. I don’t know. Like, what do you do? The only solution that I’ve ever come up with, Which I think is great, but no one’s gotten on board, incentive-based eugenics. Eugenics was a practice of sterilizing people. Hitler got a lot of the credit for it, but it was actually done in this country long before Hitler even knew who he was mad at. We were practicing eugenics in this country. Eugenics was the practice of forced sterilization of undesirables, which sounds bad. And the way they did it was bad ’cause they would… First of all, the force is wrong. You don’t force people to do things they don’t want to do. And, “b,” who decides who’s undesirable? They were doing it in this country At the turn of the 20th century, Which is the 1900s, for a lot of my fans. Early 1900s. To criminals, perverts, which is way too vague, the mentally ill, mentally retarded, homosexuals, which makes perfect sense. We don’t want them breeding. Have little queers running all up and down like gremlins. But if you took away the force, And you just made it incentive-based for people willing to sterilize themselves. Offer up some white trash prizes. You know, Nascar pit pass, meet your favorite driver. All you’ve got to do is snip the sac. “Really?” Year’s supply of sunny delight. You want some sunny d, don’t you? All you got to do is putty up that front hole, lady. You still have two holes left to trick guys out of drinks at the bar. What do we got to do? “Are you telling me, if I cut off my balls, I’m going crossbow hunting with Ted Nugent?” Well, shit, yeah. “No. No, sir, sir, sir. Wait, no. “We don’t actually cut off your balls. We just make a small incision with a local anesthetic.” “Fuck you. I want you to cut off my whole balls. “I’m gonna hang them from my rear-view mirror “like a lucky rabbit’s foot. “I’m going crossbow hunting with the nuge. I ain’t never won nothing in my life.” That’s a workable plan. Can’t argue with that. It just won’t happen.

Here’s what I think. If you’re behind whatever you’re behind, we should triage all charity. So we take the most important and most easily solved first. Everyone works on that, and we’ll get to yours eventually. I would start with starving people in a world full of food. That seems easy to solve. You don’t need scientists with lab reports and years, no. There’s lots of shitloads of food. There’s just a transit problem. Get someone from FedEx, get the food there. We live in a place, fucking horse meat is a scandal. They found horse meat. “How dare… my god. Have you heard? “There was horse meat in my frozen, processed lasagna meal. How dare they put a more lean and nutritional meat?” And now we’re gonna dump it by the warehousefuls in the garbage dumps, while people are starving to death on this planet. That makes no sense. I can solve that. Yeah. Take that food and feed the people that don’t have it. And then we get down to the next most important and the wrongly accused and the torture and the thing and the disease and… Occupy is lower, and then, save the manatees even lower than that. And eventually, hopefully, in a perfect world, we’d get down to the bottom, which is toys for tots. How fucking embarrassing is it to live in a country where toys for tots is an actual recognized, legitimate charity? God forbid little Daniel go through some bogus holiday made for some fake deity without Lincoln logs. The horror. The horror. That’s why they have to have marines and bikers enforce that shit like henchmen. ‘Cause otherwise, you’d just go, “fuck you. Toys? There’s starving people.” And then some big, fucking, crew-cut guy. “I fucking fought for your freedom! Give me a goddamned Lego for the kid!” It’s gonna be tough.

Whatever your cause, your charity, or your drive, your effort, audit it. Make sure, ’cause so much of it is symbolism over substance, where people think they’re helping by doing nothing. Audit all the time and effort, and see if you’re actually affecting change rather than just, “we’re gonna have a 10k fun run for the cure. “Come on down on Sunday. It’s a 10k fun run for the cure.” Why? Why? When has running ever cured anything? I don’t understand the cause and effect on this. Is that how Jonas salk cured polio, is by speed-walking around the track down at St. Mary’s high school with a wife beater on and a paper number safety-pinned to his back? “We’re doing it for the cure.” How are you curing anything? “Well, what I do is I get sponsors. “And every time I go around the track another time, “my sponsor gives me another quarter for the cure. So I’ve got to go as many times as I…” Are your friends that sick and sadomasochistic that they wouldn’t just cut you a check outright for the cure? They make you do weird shit first? “Larry, you know my daughter was born with cerebral palsy. And we’re trying to get a big fundraiser going.” “Really?” “Yeah. “How many hard-boiled eggs will you eat? “Come on. Come on. You love your kid, right? Come on.” No, they would cut you a check outright, but you’re that much of a fucking megalomaniac that you have to make the cure about you. You need spotlight in this. You could just get a check, But no one’s gonna fucking be, “no. You know, the truth is, I do this same speed walk “at St. Mary’s every morning at 6:30 “before work with my labrador, Sheba. “Trying to shed a few pounds, you know. “But no one claps for me then and calls me heroic. “So I’m gonna do it on Sunday afternoon for the cure, And everyone’s gonna go, ‘go, ray, go!'” yeah, you could do it, but you want to fucking… It’s a 10k fun run about you, you fucking megalomaniac. Stop it. You know you’re not doing shit. You could just get the check from your friend And then actually do something That means something other than running. “We’re getting donations, and we’re petitioning city hall “for a spot in the park to make a big, granite slab “for the victims and the sufferers “and the survivors of the thing. “And then we’re gonna painstakingly etch each name of the people into the stone at great expense.” For what? It’s a fucking chunk of rock. It doesn’t help. Put that time and effort and money Into actually something that’s calculated that actually helps. “We’re gonna knit a SARS quilt. “It’s gonna take all summer long. “‘Cause there’s people with SARS, And they’re chilly with SARS, and they need a quilt.” What? “We’re gonna have a prayer circle. We’re gonna have a candlelight vigil at midnight.” Could you do less? Mathematically. Ask your accountant if there’s any way you could do any less than that. “Well, we are raising awareness.” Raising awareness is another form of doing nothing. Only now you’re making me aware that the nothing that I’ve been doing is not up to par with the nothing that you’re doing For such a noble cause. Why don’t you do my nothing for your cause? We’ll watch storage wars for the cure, and then we’ll both be happy in our impotence. And we’ll find out what’s in that safe. We all win. Raising awareness is me standing next to a drainage ditch where a guy just hit a goat with his moped on the highway. And now they’re in the ditch, Laying in the muck with compound fractures. And the dude’s got a bone sticking through his leg. And the fucking goat’s got a bone sticking through his fur. They’re both laying there in agony. And I’m raising awareness by standing above them, shouting down an empty highway, “look! Look! Eww! Eww, look. Ooh.” And they’re going, “no, help.” And I’m going, “no, no, no. Look!” It’s way easier to just look.

Are you aware of breast cancer? Fucking the entire month of October is breast cancer awareness month. The entire country turns pink so you can’t not be aware. All your products, you go to the grocery store. “Usually I buy the progresso soup. “But this month, I’m gonna get the one with the pink ribbon, “so I know that I’ve done all I can to help my fellow man. “I don’t read the fine print that says, “.000001 cents of every can up to a very minimal amount goes to…” it actually goes nowhere near a titty, ever, at all. It goes to more promotional material Asking for more money and to give very dubious medical advice where a lot of titties get chopped off that didn’t need to because we’re an industry, not a charity anymore. I don’t read that part. I just see the pink ribbon and know that I’m helping. You’ve destroyed the color pink. There’s no need for that. I like the color pink, and you’ve ruined it. You see pink, that’s all you can think about. I have a pink bedroom. My bedroom is pink. I can’t sleep in it during October ’cause you just see the color, and all you think about Is giant, metastasizing titties sucking the life out of some poor woman. Why do you fuck up a color? Associate it with something else that’s negative. You know, “traffic and weather brought to you “at the top of the hour on fucking 620 am. “Hey, traffic sucks again. This is brought to you by breast cancer.” And that way, next time you’re stuck in traffic, You go, “wow. Fuck. “This sucks, but not as bad as cancer. Maybe I should try to help.” Don’t fuck up a color. Do you watch football? This is where it went too far with me. The national football league participates in breast cancer awareness month. First of all, why is it breast cancer awareness month rather than cancer awareness month? I assume if you cure breast cancer, that would cure ass cancer and face cancer and shit cancer. It’s cancer. ‘Cause titties sell tickets, stupid! Okay, I forget the marketing angle. Maybe you’re right on that. Still, the national football league participates with the pink gloves and just pink on the players. Where if you think football is stupid, you’re right. But it’s my stupid. You have your stupid. You can judge me in sports. You have your own stupid. You play World of Warcraft or you do renaissance festivals or you fucking win Brian Doyle Murray look-alike competitions or fucking do… You grow organic apples and sell them at the farmer’s market. You learn how to speak Italian on the Rosetta Stone so one day you can impress your friends by ordering in Italian at a restaurant and the fucking waiter at Olive Garden looks at you going, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, dude.”

Whatever you do, football is my stupid. That’s what I do for a few hours on a weekend in the fall to forget how much I hate myself. I don’t want to think about breast cancer while I’m watching football to get away from this. It’s hard enough to watch football as it is, if you’re a fan, without constantly thinking about AIDS. You have to push that out of your head. Inherently, if you’re a fan of the game, with the technology that they have now, you watch Monday night football or super bowl, they have cameras now that come down on cables right over the field, like right over the players’ heads, almost touching them. You have 60 inches of high definition. You have a camera panning around 11 men bent up in a huddle, presenting these beautiful, thick man-asses. And it’s zooming in on each one. And it creates this Bangkok whorehouse scenario in your brain. You feel a little tuggle in your sweatpants. And you’re like,” what if they were behind glass in Phuket?” Which one would I select for my evening’s entertainment from the Cambodian guy that runs the place, And he’s got an eye patch. And I go, “ching dai bo dah!” And he pulls the guy out. Number 28. I haven’t even seen all the guys, And I impulse-buy on 28. He’s a halfback with these sinewy horse haunches, leaning into me, and in my mind, before I can make a rational decision, I’ve already leaped over the railing at the field. I’m streaking butt-naked across the field, wearing nothing but a… Wearing an 1800s nightcap that’s striped with a pom-pom. I don’t know why that. But I’m wearing flip-flops ’cause they make you run funnier. But my dick is slapping up and down against my belly. You make you dick however big you want it to be. It’s your fantasy. Have your dick slapping your chest. Have your dick take a tooth out on the way to the huddle. It doesn’t matter. Just get to 28 and yank him out of the huddle and pin him to the ground. Hold him down with one elbow. Peel those… They wear these little lycra pants. They’re so fucking gorgeous. And you just peel them off him. And he’s sweaty. They’re just going to slide off like a wet band-aid. Don’t fuck with the jockstrap. It’s no obstacle to the asshole. You’ll waste your time. Plus, the little straps keep the ass cheek up and focused. Steam comes off his ass. Get your face in there. You huff that steam. You huff it like a gassy rag. Inhale his essence. And you peel those ass cheeks apart with your thumbnails like your cracking a cage-free, farm-fresh egg. And you take your dick. Don’t stab him with it right away. Tease him with it. Here we go. In and up, asshole to tailbone, people. Asshole to tailbone. Watch him struggle. He knows it’s gonna happen. He doesn’t know when. Asshole to tailbone. Pull on his face mask a bit. Twist his neck. Pull on his dreadlocks. And these are not occupy wall street dreadlocks, by the way. This is a black dude. This is straight up racism. This is a hate crime. Because you are pretty sure that your ex-wife used to fantasize about this guy doing similar shit to her. You knew it. Yeah. You want to do that to my wife? You’ll never get a thicker boner Than that angry, racist, jealousy boner. Veins are coming out of the head, And nothing makes you crazier than when you get that boner and you just jam it in him like a fat salamander and you ride. You do that porn angle, where you bend your dick down And do deep knee bends so you can look at the people. You have… 55,000 people are now out of their chairs, on their feet, chanting for you. They love you. They’re like, “fuck that guy! Fuck that guy!” This is his home field, and they’re on your side, all of a sudden. “Fuck that dude, yeah!” They’re spilling beer. You feel the rubber start to slide off of you, but you don’t give a shit. This is my day. They love me. I’m going to launch rainbows of cum into this broken motherfucker. And you do. You’re not even done coming when you pull out. Your dick’s just still fire-hosing, swaying back and forth, getting rid of the last of the spurts. And you have an end zone celebration dance that you’ve worked out in the hallway mirror all season. Little old-school ickey shuffle thing. And you spike the ball right next to his head. He’s blubbering, like, snot bubbles, and crying. He’s not even making an attempt to get up. His asshole is still dilated and spasming. His asshole is winking like a cyclops in a rainstorm, just trying to regain its original shape. One milky tear is dripping down the taint. It’s crying for you. And you float out of this perfect Sunday afternoon and this perfect daydream, back into the stark reality of, it’s just you with some bloated, post middle-age dude with… You’ve got lumps of yellowed gummy cum in your gut hair. And you look around. You feel immediate remorse and shame. I let the rubber come off inside of that guy. How irresponsible is that, knowing what we know today, to just bareback fuck a guy. I don’t know where that guy’s been. I know where he’s going. He’s going into free agency. He’s fucking 32 now. He’s got shit knees. He’s lucky if he’s warming a bench in Jacksonville. But I don’t know where he’s been. To just bareback fuck the guy. I could have fantasy aids as we speak, and I’m gonna do it again. And as you’re dealing with this, you want to escape. You look at the TV. Pink shoes. I have to think about breast cancer on top of this problem? You’re ruining the integrity of the game, breast cancer. This is what we do on Sundays to forget how much we hate ourselves.

And I don’t… I hope I didn’t ruffle any feathers. But as an openly gay comedian, I feel a responsibility to talk about a lot of issues that… What, are you gonna test me? You don’t know if I’m lying. I can be as gay as I want to be up here. Fuck you. What, are you gonna strap me to a chair And blow loads in my face to see if I’m fibbing when I say I love it? I’m gay if it fucking… If it needs to be, I’m gay, I’m fucking gay. And you should be gay as… I come out of the closet all the time. It’s something fun for me. Do it all the time. I’m not saying lie to your friends and family Or lead a fake life. But if you’re just in some bullshit social situation around people you don’t know, if you can drop the errant, “I’m gay” in a conversation, not revelatory, like, “I have to tell you.” Just drop it as an aside. “Is it just you and your girlfriend for breakfast?” “That’s not my girlfriend. “I’m gay, but it’s just two of us. Is it a buffet or can I order off the menu?” Just drop in, just, if everyone was just someone… I guess they’re just gay. ‘Cause here’s the thing. I love homosexuality. I defend it. But I hate fagginess because it’s aesthetically unpleasing. The whole “la la la la la” shiny. You don’t have to do that. It’s the same… I have nothing against Jewish people. I hate jewiness. The clammy, “nyah, nyah, nyah. I get all… I’m allergic.” Personally, that’s unpleasing. I hate anyone who leads with their sexuality, homo or hetero. If I know your sexuality in the first 30 seconds of meeting you, You’re fucking annoying. Heteros are the same way. If you have naked lady mud flaps or you go, “after your show, you want to go to Hooters?” Or you just watch the game for the cheerleaders. Just go into a basement and jerk off, You fucking teenager, 13-year-old, And then come back when we can have a regular conversation. So, it’s not… That’s why I like to come out of the closet as just a normal dude. A guy on the plane going, “yeah, I remember “when stewardesses used to be hot. Now they’re all fat.” And you go, “yeah. I’m right with you, buddy. “I fucking… thank Christ I’m queer, ’cause they are fat as shit.” But just because maybe somewhere around you, when you just drop a normal “I’m gay” in a conversation, there is an adolescent kid who’s just coming to terms with the fact that he’s gay, and he’s fucking terrified, not only of just being gay. Maybe he thinks he has to be “jump out of the cake and ride a fucking float, assless chaps, ice capades” gay. And he hears you say it just like a normal dude, “I’m gay.” And he goes, “I can do that. “I can be just regular Anderson Cooper, Todd Glass, Joel Osteen f*ggot.” And you give them courage. And it’s in the supreme court now for gay marriage. And I hope you get it. Get the right to marry, and then don’t. It’s important to get the right, not just symbolically, but sometimes you have to be married to game the system. You need the insurance. You need the inheritance. You need to pull the plug. Maybe you just need to get someone cool into the country. So you need it for that. But don’t if you don’t have to. It’s kind of like the civil rights movement, where black people had to fight for the right to eat at the same lunch counter. Once you won that right, I hope you didn’t. Guy’s a fucking racist. Why would you support his business unless you’re just trying to fuck with him and show up just ’cause he doesn’t want you? Which I understand, and maybe that’s where you started not tipping. If so, every tradition has to start somewhere. Let’s just hope it was for a good cause.

Have a great night, Dante’s, Portland. It was nice to be back. I’ll see you soon. Have a good night.

So do you mind just coming back downstairs? Yeah. I just told them I would. Great. Sorry. We have another camera. No, that’s it. We said one camera. You want them to come back up too? Do you want them to follow you? What? Do you want… You just asked me to come back down the stairs. Yeah, do you want them to follow you Or do you want to just… They’ll just catch you. No, no. That’s fine. I was just confused. Yeah. Take two, I’m coming down the stairs. All right. Hi. That was a show brought to you by me.


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