This year I wanted the opening of my new special to feel, well, special. So I wanted to get somebody who is not only well known but who my audience will understand is very important to me personally. Wow, that’s, I’m honored Jimmy. Not you. Oh. No offense but I was kind of hoping for someone a little more famous. Oh why would I be offended, my best friend is a shallow twat that doesn’t think I’m famous enough to talk on camera before he does an hour of creepy dick jokes.
[LAUGHTER] Creepy dick jokes? It’s my comedy special. It’s not creepy. [Gasping] [laughter] Don’t be scared you little bitch, you doing good.
[CHEERING] I’m your number one fan, you’re my favorite character. I cried when you got shot. You’re one annoying mother fucker, you do know that right?
[KNOCKING] Come in.
[LAUGHTER] Everything alright? Yea, everything is good. Are those tits on your back? They do look nice. Ha ha, thanks. Please let me know when you’re done violating Mr. Norton cause he’s got to get on stage soon. Shit. Damn. Well in that case, everybody get on your mother fucking feet and lets give a warm mother fucking welcome for the legendary Jim Norton! Yea baby!
Thank you. Thank you very much, man. Thank you. Thanks. I am so happy to be finally shooting a special in Boston. Thank you for coming. It’s great to be here. Ah, I got to start off with some good news. Uh, Casey Anthony, uh, has announced that she’s bankrupt, which is nice to know. Ah, and she says she wants to change her name because she’s getting death threats, so she wants to change it to something less controversial. I vote for “Hitler 9/11 Cunt.” What a horrible woman. At worst-case scenario she killed her kid. At best case, she knew the kid was missing and she did nothing. I am this close from not wanting to fuck her. As of right now I still do. You know, one kid we’ve all lost, but one more dead kid and she’s on thin ice with me.
There’s a new pope. What a weird thing to see in our lifetimes. I like the new pope better than the last pope, because the last guy, Benedict, gave me the creeps. He just looked like a little mouth– [MUMBLING] He looked like that guy that gets stuff for Dracula in the afternoon. The new pope I like. I was hoping for a black pope. I think it’s time. And you know he would already own his own red shoes, purple robes and bulletproof car. I hope I didn’t offend the one black person in attendance. Thank God you’re here. I need a more diversified audience. My audience is white and Grand Wizard. I wish I had more black fans. I really– I feel like black people don’t like me. And I was talking to Patrice one time, and I said–
Yeah. I was talking to Patrice, and I’m like, “Why don’t black people like me?” And he goes, “I don’t know.” He goes, “I think that black people should like you, but we look at you and think we shouldn’t.” And it just made sense. I got it. I’m like, Yes, this is not the look that endears you to black people. This is not the friendly look. I look like every guy on the jury in 1955.
And I love coming up here so much. This is one of the few cities I actually go out and enjoy while I’m here. I literally am so obsessive with work. I don’t travel to do anything for fun. The last thing I did just for the fuck of it was I went to Chicago over the summer to see Sabbath at Lollapalooza, which um… Yeah, I went to see Sabbath. And I have this really weird thing. Like, during a comedy show you guys know that you can’t yell to each other, but why is it when you’re watching a band people feel free to put their stupid face this close and just tell you what a great time they’re having? “Dude, this is amazing.” With that fucking beer breath. And you’re like, “Ugh, well, it would be better if you were dead. Shutp.” I hate it. So I’m watching Sabbath. They had just come out. Ozzy was literally into the first verse of the opening song, and this girl comes up and starts talking to me. And I can see that she’s really drunk, and she looks high as well. So I’m like, All right, good, I’ll talk to her. Because it turns me on a lot when I see a girl trying to focus. Because I’m thinking, “Ooh, she’ll never remember this.” I’m just fast-forwarding until she’s puking out my passenger window and I can do this to her heinie. Or if we’re in England… But at first I didn’t know her. She walks up to me and it was like she was really loaded, and she goes, “Hey, are you Jim Norton?” And I said, “Yes, I am.” And she goes, “Oh, God, I love you.” And then she reaches out and grabs my dick and starts squeezing. That’s the whole story. That’s the beginning, middle and end of a story I call “Yay, Chicago.”
And my manager’s always trying to get me to travel more. He’s always like, “You got to go out and see the world, because all you do is gigs.” Like, he’s been to Afghanistan, he’s been to Indonesia. He goes to, like, these hard-core Islamic countries. And he’s a Jew. And he’s just one of those guys who embraces all cultures, and they know to like him. I don’t know how he gets away with going to these places, but he’s like, “You just don’t understand the Middle East.” I’m like, “I know, and I don’t want to learn on the job.” But here’s the thing. Every piece of footage I see from the Middle East is they’re angry at us for some reason, and I never know what it is because I don’t speak the language. And I guess the last one was uh, Benghazi, over in ah, in Libya. And there was all these crazy riots, and– It looked like it was a 9/11 anniversary ah, thing. But at first they said, “No, it’s about a movie that Muslims found offensive,” which actually made sense to me, because I’ve seen movies I didn’t like. And I tried to gather up a group of people to burn the theater down and kill everyone in it, you know, while we all stood outside chanting “Caddyshack 2, Caddyshack 2.”
And what’s so scary is, like, whenever they riot in the Middle East, they always yell “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” That is scary shit. But it shouldn’t be scary, because I think literally translated it means “God is great, ” which shouldn’t that make you feel good when you hear it? Even if you’re not religious. Like, even if you’re an atheist, if someone yells “God is great,” you ought to go, “Ah, what the fuck. He’s all right, I guess.” But if you’re in Libya and you hear “Allahu Akbar,” duck. And, you know, fair enough. I’ve never seen it said at fun times. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve never seen, like, footage of a 9-year-old’s birthday party where everyone’s sitting around, you know, “Allahu Akbar.” If I did see that I’d be afraid when he blew out the candle the cake would explode. But then people accuse me of being anti-Muslim or anti-Islamic. I’m not at all. Hey, it’s not my fault “Allahu Akbar” has become the “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” of beheading videos.
And look, it’s not to say we don’t have violence in America. Obviously we have gun violence here, which is scary. And I have weird feelings about the second Amendment, because that’s like the big raging debate. Like, I believe in the second Amendment. I think that if somebody is responsible, they should be able to own a gun and defend themselves responsibly. However, I don’t think I should be able to own one. I firmly believe that if you’re qualified, God bless you, get a gun. I am not mentally able to own a gun. And I know this, because at least five times a day I think, “I wish I had a gun right now.” Like, not even to shoot people. Like, it must be so much fun just to brandish it. Like, if somebody cuts you off that’s not a murder-able offense, but how good does it feel to pull up to the light– Beep, beep, beep. –and then when they look, just show them. Just to see that look on their face. “Aah!” That I’ve tangled with the wrong fellow. And then you really freak him out: you put it under your own chin.
I came here, ah, I was in L.A. this week, and I came to ah, Boston directly from– and I realize I hate little weather jokes a lot. That just is something I– Do you know when people make little jokes? Just a little innocent joke about the weather, you know? Nothing too…like, it was kind of cold when I got off the plane, and someone said, “I wish you would have brought some of that sunny weather from California with you.” I just thought, How nice would it be to: “What?” And then as they’re repeating the joke, you take the butt of the gun and you crack their fucking nose. “You touch her again and you’re dead!”
I humiliated myself on the flight too. I mean humiliated myself. Because men have this really weird thing where we never want to seem, like, homoerotic or gay around each other. Like, we never want to be misinterpreted as being– hitting on each other, which probably robs us of a lot of nice moments. But have you ever been around another guy, and he smells really good? And you want to go, like, “Dude, you smell really good. What are you wearing?” But you’re afraid if you say that it will come off as homoerotic. So if you do ask, you have to ask like an alpha male. “Hey, what is that?” So I’m on the uh, I’m on the plane, and this guy gets on and sits next to me. And he smelled delicious. But I realize there’s no masculine way to go, “Hey, man, what are you wearing? Because I just want to gobble you up right now.” So I’m like, all right, I’ll just ask once we land, you know, because this way if it’s creepy or uncomfortable we don’t have to spend six hours next to each other. But I am not going to lie: I enjoyed him for the entire flight. I sat, like, closer than I needed to, and I kept leaning over sneaking sniffs, asking questions I didn’t even need the answer to. “So, uh, how much longer do you think it’ll be?” [SNIFFING] He’s like, “I don’t know. I’m sure they’ll tell us once we take off.” So we finally landed and I had to just ask him. I’m like, “Dude, not to be weird or creepy, but, you know, since the minute you sat down I wanted to ask about your cologne, because you smell amazing. What are you wearing?” And he goes, “I don’t wear cologne.” Good. Do you understand the subtext of what I said to that guy? “You know, I’ve really been enjoying your man-scent across the entire continental United States. I’ve been breathing you in through three time zones. You know that thing nature gives us so we find the appropriate mate? I just…
Hey, not for nothing, man, but your pheromones had me creaming.” And the really creepy part was that I said to him, “From the minute you sat down.” Like, why did I have to explain that? I’m such a douche. I basically told him, “Hey, you had me at hello.” But I could see after I said that he’s rewinding through the whole flight and getting grossed out, because he’s like remembering all those weird little moments, like when I accidentally fell asleep on his neck for an hour and a half, or when he got up to go to the bathroom how I didn’t sit back; I just let his ass cheeks brush across my face.
I’ve been single for a while, man. You think this is a good way to meet a girl? If I see a girl sitting in a bar and her arms are up on the bar, I’ll walk over and go, “Hello.” You think the finger walk is sexy? “Somebody looks thirsty.” And then I say cute things, because women like it when you’re cute. Like, “Oh, boy, I sure would like to get to know you.” Oh, don’t listen to him, you know? I scold my fingers the way a ventriloquist scolds his puppet because they say sassy things. “I’d eat your ass even if it was bleeding.” Oh, guys!
And I love when guys say, “Oh, you just walk up to a girl and talk to her.” Like, that’s easier said than done. I find that certain professions of women are harder to hit on. It’s like, you know, if you’re talking to a bartender it’s fairly easy, because it’s okay to flirt, but I fly a lot. Flight attendants very difficult to hit on, because the nature of their work is they’re always busy, you only see them at their job and there’s all these people, like, in close proximity. So first of all it’s creepy to call somebody over to hit on them. I was on a JetBlue flight– And I fall in love immediately. You ever see somebody and you just go, like, I want her to be my girlfriend? Like, I love her. This girl just, like, made the announcements and I’m like, I want to spend the rest of my life just kissing her. But I didn’t know how to do it, you know? I felt– You know… doing You know, you’re in the window seat. “You want to go out?” That works in romantic comedies. Like, if you’re in a rom-com, all the people in the seats around you are like, “You ought to go out with him. He’s got a lot of pizzazz.” But in real life everybody just kind of avoids eye contact and they’re fucking humiliated for you. Oh, you douche bag. So I said, All right, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll write her a little a note, I’ll hand her a note. Because that’s kind of childish, but I’m like, this way she won’t feel pressure to be overly polite in front of me. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Because if I ask in front of people, then she’s got to, like, make up an excuse. Like, “Oh, no, I would but I’ve got AIDS and hepatitis.” You know? Then how stupid do I look going, “I don’t care, I’ll fuck you.” So I wrote her a little note, like, “Hey, let’s go out to dinner when we land.” And I handed it to her. And when I handed it to her, she looked scared. And then I realized, Oh Christ, you just handed a note to a flight attendant. So I panicked and I was like, “Oh, it’s not dangerous or nothing.” Which is like handing a girl a drink and going, “Come on, I didn’t roofie it.” Which is a lie. You want to creep a girl out, hand her a drink and then stare while she downs it. Follow the arch of the glass with your head. And then when she’s finished, walk by and mumble, “Good girl.” Sometimes situationally it’s hard too. Not even a job and not even about the woman. Like, there’s a girl in my gym I am dying to fuck, but I’m scared to hit on her and here’s why: I realize I can’t hide my agenda when I’m talking to her. Because, like, women– We always have to hide our initial agenda. Like, whenever you talk to a girl, she knows what you want. Like, if you walk up and go, “Hey, where are you from?” she doesn’t think, like, “Oh, he must be interested in my accent.” She knows you just want to stick it in her shitter. But we have to go through this little social dance with each other. It’s what separates us from the animals. But when I’m looking at this girl in the gym in her little skin-tight yoga pants and her camel toe, I can’t hide my agenda. Like, I immediately get creepy face. And no girl wants to go out with you when you look like Pyle right before he shot himself in Full Metal Jacket. And this girl’s– I’m an ass fanatic. Like, I like a girl’s ass. But her ass is so fucking juicy. Oh, my God. Dude, it’s plump. It’s like a Jessica from Roger Rabbit ass on a white girl, which is fucking mind-boggling. And, like, we’ve all seen nice asses before, but her ass, like, it changed me. Like, I’ve never talked to her once, but if she had nowhere to live I’d go, “Fuck it, just move in with me. I’ll pay for everything and you can have half if we get divorced.” I don’t know what kind of person she is. I don’t care if she’s a Nazi or if she’s manic-depressive and gets that white shit in the corner of her mouth. So what? What’s the worst that’s going to happen? She’s bipolar? All right, good. She’ll sit on my face and then be a little cranky. I’ll live with it. Whoo, is her ass juicy! Like two little plump, firm teardrops mushed together. And the way the thong– It goes so far in. Like, I love a deep ass crack. And I don’t know how she gets her thong in that far. I can picture her putting it in and then just yanking it… and handing it to somebody on a speedboat, and they take off. She hold on to the dock. It cuts in deep. Her ass is split deep. It’s like Mississippi in 1960. Good God, I love a deep ass crack. And there’s no way to tell a girl that. Like, it’s such a weird fetish to have. like, if you like a girl’s hair you say like, “Hey, I really like your hair.” But, you know, you can’t walk up and go, “Your ass crack… the depth of it. I mean, it looks like the McDonald’s “M”. I just…”
Ooh, do I want to put my face in her ass! I just want to sniff it. Just… I would wear her thong under my nose like a Halloween mustache. I would just walk around with it all day and do mustache things. Tie somebody to the railroad tracks. I’ve never talked to this girl, and she hates my fucking guts. She hates me, because I was following her up– I was walking up the steps, behind her, and I was following her. I didn’t care where she– If she was going up to the roof and jumped I would have followed her right off and tried to nose-dive right into her fucking juicy ass. But I was staring. She was, like, ten steps ahead of me. And I’m looking up into her ass crack, and I could see the juicy, deep crack. But when she stepped up I could see up into the camel toe. I didn’t mean to do it. It was totally involuntary. But I just went, “Aah!” And, of course, she turned around, because somebody’s making Young Frankenstein noises on the steps. Have you ever been so busted you could only make this face? “Boy, I sure would like to smell your heinie hole.” Now, now! I’ll tell you, there’s one guy in the gym I hate. I’m pretty open sexually. I don’t care what you like sexually. None of it is weird to me. But there’s a certain type of exhibitionism that I’ve learned to really hate. Some guys go to the gym just because they want to be naked in front of other guys. And there’s one guy, every time I’ve seen this fuck in the locker room, he’s naked. Doesn’t matter if it’s early or– Like, right now the gym is closed; if we flew to New York and kicked in the gym door and turned on the light, this bag of shit would be futzing around. Just futzing around naked. Every time I’ve seen him. And he always acts like he’s doing something. And first of all, he’s fucking 70 years old with a bald head and a big, stupid hard stomach. He looks like Danny DeVito when he played the Penguin in “Batman.” And he always pretends that he’s doing other stuff. That’s what annoys me. It’s almost the insult to my intelligence. It’s like, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Like, he’s always acting busy. If I walked into the locker room and he just went, “Huh?” I’d probably go, “Ah, you got me. Good one.” It’s like, don’t try to trick me, stupid. Like, you walk in and he’ll be cleaning his ears like naked in the mirror. And then you’ll come back 25 minutes later, he’s still cleaning his ear. Or you’ll go into the bathroom and he’s nude, barefoot, just brushing his teeth, looking in the mirror with his stupid dick mushed up against the sink. His fatty pubis mushed up against the sink. And that’s disgusting, because that’s where I put my lunch. And I’m not exaggerating for the bit. I swear to God, he has the smallest cock I have ever seen on a human being. Not even an adult. From baby up. It’s like a little fucking mushroom. It’s like I want to ask him about it. His cock is so small. I want to go, like, “Look, I know this is rude, but that is unacceptable.” I’ll bet if you get him drunk there’s a great story behind it. Like, “Well, I used to install windows for a living…” And it’s surrounded by an unkempt tuft of gray pubic hair, which I want to yank out with my bare fucking hands. And I know he’d be so shocked and upset. Like, “Why are you doing this?” And I’d have to be honest: “I don’t know, I don’t know, but it needed doing.” And I hate his balls so much. I’ve never had a visceral reaction to someone’s balls. His balls are this big. The whole thing, it looks like a hornet’s nest with a doorbell in the middle… and a filthy gray sunflower around it. I want to set his cock and balls on fire and then put them out with a shovel. By the way, do you know how many times I’ve had to see him naked to give you that description? I don’t stop him when he walks by– “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” That’s 20 or 30 accidental “Aah!” “Aah!” And I know he’s doing it on purpose. And I know you might think, Well, he’s a really old guy; that generation looked at nudity differently, so he’s not self-conscious. No. Here’s how I know it’s on purpose. A week or two ago I’m going from the shower to my locker, and from behind me I heard…
So I turned around. That sound was this creep powdering his balls. And that’s exactly how he was doing it. Not even in front of the mirror. Just in the middle of the locker room like a retarded bongo player. Do you know how loud you have to powder your balls for me to hear it in an open space? I actually stepped aside; I thought a horse was galloping behind me. We’ve all powdered our balls before, but it’s quiet. There you go. That’s what it sounds like. The rule of thumb is that blind people should never know when you’re powdering your balls. I could powder my balls over your face, you’d never know I was there. The next morning you’d probably wake up and wonder why there’s two muddy footprints on your pillow. I don’t know why my feet had to be filthy at the end of that joke. Obviously I just showered and powdered my balls, but I guess I walked through roofing tar on the way to your house. So uh, you know, I have been working out. And I came yesterday– Honestly, the first thing I did when I got to town was I got a massage.
Well, to answer your question, yes. There was a happy ending. I had to do it. But that counts as far as I’m concerned. She was not happy at all. She came back in: “What are you doing?” Uh, your job. The most common question I get– I get e-mails about this all the time. People say, “How do you make a regular massage turn into a happy ending?” And there’s no definitive answer, because to be honest with you, 90 percent of the massages I get remain massages, because I go to legitimate masseuses. But the 10 percent that become happy endings really spoils the other 90 percent. Because picture if every 1 out of 10 times you went to the grocery store somebody jerked you off in the frozen food aisle. It would make your other 9 trips seem a little lackluster. You’d be walking around with, you know, two heads of lettuce and a carrot. Ahem! Ahem! So the way to test the waters with a massage therapist is through body language. Because you have to be respectful, beuse massage therapists are not prostitutes. Now, I know this, because enough of them have screamed that in my face. And neither one of you knows the other one. You don’t know if the other one’s a cop and this whole thing is a sting operation, so you can’t say anything too obvious. “Would you touch my testicles for money?” So you ease into it. Like, say you’re laying there and she’s rubbing the hamstrings. I’ll start pushing my hips back a little bit and then making this noise. [GROANING] Oh, sorry for you people. [GROANING] Which is massage lingo for, “You’re getting warmer, warmer.” Now, she knows exactly what I’m doing, so she will answer nonverbally in one of two ways. She’ll either say no way by going from my hamstrings down to my ankles and rubbing, like, the ankles and the calves. So in my mind I go, All right, mission abort. It’s not going to happen. Because you have to be a psychopath to misinterpret ankles as the next step in a hand job. Ooh, she must want me to scooch down three feet. Sitting on the end of the table, my legs dangling off, just tweetling my nipples like a baboon. Or, after I go– [GROANING] –she’ll move a little higher on the hamstring towards what I call earning a tip. And then she’ll give me a very, very subtle signal. Because again, she’s not 100 percent sure. So she’ll do something like lightly brush my scrotum. Just a light little brush as she’s going from one leg to the other. Just a little heedle leedle leedle lee It’s such a light touch that she could go, “Oh, I didn’t mean to do that.” And I could go, “I didn’t even notice you did it, officer.” We both have plausible deniability. Now, the only thing to be careful is there are certain massage therapists who give little sexy signals. Like, they’ll flick your nips or do something sexy, but they have no intention on giving you a hand release. These women should be killed. By the way, do you know how much fun it is to come on stage and talk about this, and nobody gives a shit? I’m so lucky to, like, just be a fucking comic, and nobody– Like, it’s never going to hurt me to talk about my personal life. Like, you know, if I ever get busted with a prostitute, no Jim Norton fan’s going to go, “Oh, I won’t be buying his DVDs anymore.” You know, people would probably go, “Come on, let’s go to the show. I want to hear exactly what happened.” I feel bad for real celebrities and, like, actors and stuff who can’t have that kind of openness. Like, I feel like they have to live inside this bubble. And it just looks like a tortured way to live. Like, poor John Travolta. I feel very, very bad for him. Now, I’m going to phrase this really carefully: I am absolutely not saying he’s gay, I’m only saying it don’t look good. He does a few things that I think are on the gay checklist, like he was sued by male massage therapists for sexual harassment. That’s a check. He’s great in musicals? That’s eight or nine checks. And I had very mixed feeling when I was reading about the Travolta case. I think a couple of guys sued him for, like, $2 million each. And I believe since the cases have been dismissed. But I believed what the massage therapist was saying. I believed his account simply because every creepy thing he accused Travolta of, I’ve done 50 times during a massage. I wasn’t shocked by any of it. I felt like I was perusing a manual that I had written. Like, the one guy said he was, like, massaging, I think, right by Travolta’s buttocks. And he said Travolta was pushing his hips back, which shocked a lot of people, but as we just discussed, is move 11. It’s perfectly acceptable. He said Travolta was pushing his ass back so far that the cheeks were separating, which, oh, I was in awe of John Travolta. Nothing but respect. Do you know the ab/core control you need to tighten up your stomach and swing your asshole open like saloon doors? Do you know how good you have to be at Pilates just to make your ass wink on command? I’ve bn trying that for two years. All I’ve managed is to fire a log of shit onto my calf. And there’s nothing wrong with that. When your ass opens up like that, it’s just your body’s way of saying to a finger, “Get over here. Come on, get in here. Don’t be shy.” I love a finger in my asshole. And I’m not just saying that because it’s the title of my autobiography. Just a little finger. Tickle it around. Friendly, neighborly. Like, you ever been home– Here’s what it’s like. You ever been home and you don’t realize your front door’s open? And your next-door neighbor walks in. And at first you’re like, “Aah…oh, it’s just you. It’s you, it’s you. What, you got four friends with you? All right, bring two over. Bring two. Aah! No, one. Bring one. If you bring two, all three of you are going to leave with Abe Lincoln hats on.” So while I believed the therapist’s tale because of the details, I hated these guys for suing Travolta, because I think a couple of them sued him for, like, $2 million each, claiming that they were wounded mentally during the massage. Get the fuck out of here, you litigious scumbags. Two million dollars because, what, Travolta played grab-ass with you? Go fuck yourself. One guy said something like he was massaging Travolta, and that John reached out and grabbed his scrotum. And then he said a few minutes later John reached out again and grabbed the shaft and head of his penis, like, quickly. So all I’m thinking is, All right, what kind of pants are you wearing while giving a massage that Travolta can grab three separate items in the dark? Because I want those pants in every color. And the guy said that Travolta grabbed his scrotum, and then he said a few minutes later he– Whoa, whoa, whoa. So you kept massaging him? Fuck you. How many legitimate interactions do any of you have on a daily basis where if you grab somebody’s scrotum, you only get a warning? I don’t know, try that the next time you go to the dentist. If he gets a little too close just reach out. [GROANING] Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’s just going to go, “Up, up, up. Come on, now. That’s the third time I’ve told you to quit poking and tugging my bag, you silly goose. Four more times and you’re out of here.” Two million dollars. We wonder why we’re such a country of like, you know, human resources, litigious douche bags. It’s because we can’t stop suing each other. Do you understand what John Travolta would have to do to me during a massage for me to want $2 million in punitive damages? As I started massaging him, he would have to pull out my dick and start punching it. And he’d have to put on brass knuckles and put it up against the edge of the table and punch it for the entire hour, and then take me up in his private plane and pull his dick out, and then say, “Now suck it, or I’m going to crash and kill us both.” And then once we landed safely…
Once we landed safely, if I said– [SPITTING] –“Hey, John.” I had to clarify that, because I didn’t want you to think it’s: “Hey, John.” If I said,Hey, John, you know, you punched my dick for an hour and then fucked my face and came in my mouth; could we take a picture together?” If he said, “No picture,” then I still wouldn’t sue him. I’d ask him to sign my “Pulp Fiction” and I’d shut the fuck up. But I feel really good. I feel– I finally feel awake tonight, because I’ve been talking for a long time in the shows: I have terrible, terrible sleep apnea. And I know some of you guys have it, because I’ve got a big fan response. Who has sleep apnea here? Some people have it? [SMATTERING OF APPLAUSE] I’m going to show you a picture of myself in my apnea mask, because– And I used to have it on my phone, and I would show people. But is there a more horrifying moment than when you hand your phone to somebody to look at a photo? Because all you’re thinking is, “Don’t scroll.” You stay within arm’s reach of your phone. If they move back a step, you scooch up a step. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Because I know what’s on either side of that apnea photo, you know? It’s apnea photo, cock pic, cock pic. So could we bring that down? This is me in my sleep apnea mask. That is not the look a woman goes for. I think women would be more turned on if I went to bed with a fleshlight taped to my face. Just look at that. If you have a pussy, I challenge you to keep it wet while looking at this. Impossible. That dries up a vagina faster than a hot fan. And it’s not just the mask that’s so humil– Because the mask is bad enough, but do you see the little white chin strap? Now here’s what that is, because the way the mask works, it’s over your nose and it forces air into your lungs, expanding your lungs as you breathe so you sleep through the night and you don’t wake up gasping. But because I have such a fucking weak chin and little shitty thin bird lips, my mouth kept going: [SMACKING LIPS AND GROANING] And all the air was shooting out of the front of my face. So I would wake up with my face queefing. I like to put it on after sex. Like, we have sex and then I put it on. I’m like, Ha-ha, look at who you fucked. Ah-ha, you fucd Bane. How do you feel about that?” So I had to buy that fucking little chin strap. “Ha, You want to fuck me? I look like I have the mumps in 1930.” All right, you can pull that up, because that is just fucking horrendous.
So, ah, the mask– Here’s the problem. And a lot more of you probably have sleep apnea than realize it. Like, if you snore that’s a big sign of sleep apnea. And it’s amazing how angry we get at people when they snore, because when somebody is snoring that person is dying next to you. But you ever just stare at somebody while they snore, and you get angrier and angrier? Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Shut up, you selfish piece of shit. You ever just look at their stupid lips quivering? And you want to just pinch their nose? [SNORTING] Do you understand when you pinch somebody’s nose, you’re daring them to die. You’re playing a game of chicken with the Grim Reaper. Like, all right, cocksucker, I’m calling your bluff. Now what? And then when they finally breathe– [GASPING] –that’s what I thought, scumbag. That’s like somebody being on a ledge going, “I’ll jump!” And you go, “Well, it’s cold in here. Fuck you.” And you close the window. But when you have sleep apnea, man, it scares you, because you feel like your body is against you. Do you know how scary it is to go to bed and I feel like my tongue and face are trying to murder me in my sleep. I mean, it’s so anti-nature. Your body is supposed to protect you. And I don’t understand why my tongue does what it does. Like, at least if you snore your body’s trying to get help. Because if you’re like– [SNORING] –that’s your body’s way of going, “Hey, hey, hey, can somebody elbow this jizz bucket? We’re dying!” But my tongue just lays over my throat. It’s like, “Shh, it’ll be over soon.” I would love to ask my tongue, “What do you think happens if I die, asshole? You live on and run the show?” Like, my tongue just wants to kill me because he’s thinking, “Then I’ll only have to go down on women I like. No more transsexuals.” Guys get so homophobic. They, like, beat up transsexuals. This is the face you should make if a tranny fools you. You’re good. Nicely done. Why get angry? You don’t get mad if somebody hands you peanut brittle and you open it and a snake pops out. Do you know how sad I am that only half of you understood the brilliant example I just gave you? And I hope I don’t get in trouble for saying tranny. That’s, like, an offensive term. You’re not supposed to say tranny. So I don’t want anybody to go home and blog about it. That’s what people do now. They say something offensive, like, blog, blog, blog. “I didn’t like what I heard in the comedy show.” Blog, blog, blog. Oh, I fucking hate people who blog about being upse– When I hear about people blogging because they were upset at a joke, I am suddenly for predator drones killing American citizens. People just love to be offended and they love to talk about it. They love to fucking blog about it. And comedians are supposed to say they’re sorry now. Like, that’s all it takes: somebody blogging. Like Tracy Morgan said he was sorry, Daniel Tosh. And I’m not shitting on these comedians. I understand why Tracy and why Tosh apologized. Because they had a lot of money at stake. They were smart to apologize. But it’s like, what are we, shocked that comedians make fun of offensive things? Tracy’s fucking always said crazy shit. That’s kind of what makes him really funny. And Tosh was making jokes about rape, and some woman stood up and, you know, “Rape is not funny!” And he said something like, “Everybody rape her, ” which is fucking hilarious. That’s the greatest thing I have ever heard. But, of course, victim country, she had to go home and blog,blog. “And I felt very threatened.” Blog, blog, blog. Oh, yeah, I’m sure you were terrified, because comedy club rapes happen all the time. I’m surprised you people came tonight, with the threat of rape in the air. Oh, yeah, we’ve all seen the news specials. Comedy and rape: can they be separated? And all these special interest groups who agreed with her ideologically. They sided with her interrupting the show. And they’re like, “You had every right to make your feelings known.” No, you did not. If you weren’t enjoying his show, you had every right to get up and quietly leave the performance. Because the minute you talk, you’re a heckler, bitch, and you got what you deserved. Fuck her. Fuck her and fuck her blog. Why is comedy the only form of the arts where people think that they have to agree with or approve the content? Why is that? You don’t walk through a museum with a towel and throw it over paintings you don’t like. “I don’t want anybody else seeing this, because I didn’t quite enjoy it.”
Oh, and you know the one group that owes us all an apology and they’re never going to give it to us is the mainstream media in this country. There has never been a greater assembly of vultures under the same umbrella of a profession. And they do things like continually show photos of the shooters. They continually print the manifestos of the shooters. Even though FBI profilers and personality profilers and psychologists have told them time after time after time: Do not show photos of these people. Do not print their writings, because it encourages other people to do the same. They know they are contributing to the violence, and they don’t give a fuck. And they’ve never had to say they’re sorry. Comedy never leads to violence. You’re never going to hear, “Two Jews walk into a bar; let’s kill those fucking kikes!” It’s never happened. And by showing photos of these guys– I don’t need to see the photos of these people. I’m not interested in what they look like. First of all, they all look exactly like you know they’re going to look. Are you ever surprised? They showed the guy from Connecticut. The guy from Connecticut looked exactly like the guy from Aurora, Colorado, who looked exactly like that piece of shit from Arizona. They all have that psychotic fucking lonely wide-eyed look, with their little shitty pupil dying in the middle with white surrounding– Here’s a rule of thumb: If you have white all the way around your pupil, you are a nut. You’re a nut. And they never smile in their photos. They’re always– They’re always trying to smile, but they can’t because they’re just thinking of murder, murder, murder. Me, me, me. Murder, murder, me, me, me. By the way, who are the photographers taking these psychotic head shots? We should give guns to photographers. You know who we’re looking for. We have your back. If you take a photo of somebody and their eyes are like that and they’re happy with it, blow their fucking brains out. And I love how the press does this. They honor the nicknames that these guys give themselves. That’s what vultures the media is. Like the Aurora, Colorado shooter. He called himself the Joker, and the press went with it. He didn’t look like the Joker. He had puffy, orange hair. The Carrot Top Killer, that’s what he should have been called. That doesn’t have an anti-hero ring to it. Nobody would have wanted to emulate the Carrot Top Killer. You know, the next creep would have been like, “Oh, that’s fucking humiliating. I’m just going to hang myself alone in the basement like I should.” I wish it was that easy to get a nickname picked up. You all would have come to see Big Cock Jimmy tonight. Come see Girth McGuillicuddy. Or they– I love how they perpetuate the story by looking for the motives. I love this fucking ridiculous exercise. Why did he do it? What are his motives? Gee, I don’t know, because he’s fucking crazy? Maybe that’s why he did it? I am not interested in the inner workings of a psychotic mind. I don’t give a shit. You’re never going to get a real answer as to why a guy walked into a theater in Colorado and shot people. What are we looking for? Well, he ordered tickets online and they weren’t available when he got there. Oh, all right, at least it was a real reason. Thank God, because that makes it feel less random and frightening. I’m sick and tired of searching for the motives. If he shat in his own hand and started eating it, nobody would go, “What are his motives? Why is he doing that?” We’d all be going, “Look at that crazy fuck. Back over his head with a truck and let’s get it over with.” One more thought on Colorado. I almost forgot. Do you know who really impressed me after the Colorado shootings? Christian Bale. Because I always thought he was a real piece of shit, like a cranky, douchy actor. But after the shootings he actually went to the hospital and talked to a bunch of the victims. I’m like, What a nice guy. And I wonder if any of them looked at him and said, “Where the fuck were you?” He’s a great actor, but I don’t like him as Batman at all. Like, I like him as Bruce Wayne, but that stupid stroke, lisp voice. “I’m Batman.” That’s what you– “Tell the Riddler I have Bell’s palsy. I’ll be doing the New Year’s Eve countdown from now on.” Blog, blog, blog. “I didn’t like that Dick Clark joke.” Blog, blog, blog, blog, blog, blog. Holy fuck, are you guys great.
I need to get laid badly.
Ooh. Nice. Are you by yourself, miss? I can’t see you, but I’m listening. Are you alone?
I like that sound. Where are you?
[MAN’S VOICE] Right here! Oh. That’s about the fucking– That’s the norm. I’ve gotten so much weirder as I’ve gotten older, sexually. Like, scent is a very sexy thing to me. I like the smell of a pussy. Like, yeah, I want it to smell like– I mean, again, subtle. Like, you know, you don’t want to notice when she’s coming up the driveway. Or even the smell of a foot. Like, I don’t have a foot fetish, but I kind of like a foot to be a little stinky. Not dirty, like you know what I mean? Don’t come over after you’ve been doing, taking a zumba class in a fucking warehouse barefoot. But if your foot’s a little stinky, I’ll suck your toes. But I don’t know what to do with a foot in my mouth. I always feel weird. Like, “Okay…” Because you just feel silly. “Ow, you’re scraping my gums, you whore!” But you feel weird sucking all the toes, because you feel like you’re giving five consecutive blowjobs, in order from black to Asian. And you can’t get mad at that joke, because I didn’t say what side of the foot I started on. But we all know, don’t we? Although my favorite thing to do is eat pussy. I eat pussy really well. And I know I’m good at it, because I stop every 30 seconds and go, “Huh? Huh?” And I like a big pussy. I like a fucking fat one. I like camel toe that will stop conversation at a party. The type of camel toe you can see with Google Earth. Like, I hate when you pull the panties aside and it’s just a little dumb pussy. Hi. Hi. Boo! Boo! I’d love to have a giant cock. Like, where you put it in and the girl’s like, “Aah, go slow.” You know how nice it is to hear, “go slow”? Because then you know the only reason you’re not in the hospital is because I’m a good guy. But if I tell a girl, “I’m going to fuck you hard, ” they’re like, “All right. It’s your money.”
Thank you, Boston. I love you very much. Thank you guys for coming. I appreciate you coming down. Thank you so much. Thank you.