Please remove this dinner jacket

Elsewhere on the web, I read that the Feds are “cracking down” on steroids…they’re too busy with that exercise in futility to lend two or three snipers to take out “Dinner Jacket” the Iranian asshole.

I can’t really give props to Clod-dumbia’s kollij Prez for flying the camelfucker in and hitting him with “hard” and obvious questions.

We already know the persian fleabag’s responses about Jews, nukes and gays. We would get the same line of bullshit if Hitler from 1939 had been flown in, which Clod-dumbia claimed it would also have done in the name of “intellectual freedom”.

These tinpot dick-tators are all one-trick ponies. Though personally frail, they are as programmed as terminators in their delusions and just as relentless.

We should assassinate Dinnner Jacket, publicly and gruesomely. Iran would be glad we did, especially the persecuted persian poo-pushers.

Your mighty Emperor has spoken.

 

Quoticle – know the when of no-thing

One of the lessons of history is that ‘nothing’ is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.

~ Will Durant

So much anger, where will it go?

My last stand-up attempt was a fuckin’ failure. I was proud to at least get the jokes out, but they all fizzled.

Afterward one guy who sometimes-MCs said, “Good job staying in there.” He then proceeded to tell me about a series of comedy workshops. I didn’t bother asking if he had a monetary stake in the thing. I really don’t know him, so I don’t know his intent.  Why even give a damn, everyone is only thinking of themselves 99% of the time.

I don’t mean to be a jerk to other comics (by not smiling and trying to ‘reach out’ and make small talk) but the whole reason anyone does comedy is because they’re fucked-up (minus Seinfeld) and/or ‘see the world differently’. That’s not a license to be rude, and though I like to imagine I avoid rudeness and overt ill-will, my general hatred of people leaks out, a poisonous aura hurting those I’m attempting to make laugh, which of course breeds failure.

A gift unused is a curse; right now I’m attempting to use my “gift” and it’s still a curse.

Though I don’t make it obvious except around here, I’m a violently angry person…where can I get rid of this poison?

That’s a rhetorical question; don’t answer it.

Short editorial about the iranian terrorist president

The only reason to allow this fucking sandnigger to visit the USA is to ambush and kill him dead.

Ironically, its Abuyabbadoo himself who said, “Learn lessons from your past mistakes. Don’t repeat your mistakes.”

He’s right. Don’t let another Hitlerian psychopath cause widespread destruction, kill the motherfucker NOW; tear his throat out like Dalton did the evil Jimmy in Roadhouse.

Quoticle – come in handy

Do not think of attack and defense as two separate things. An attack will be a defense, and a defense must be an attack.

~ Kazuzo Kudo

Like Sand Thru Your Rectum, These are The Days of Our Lives

Another nigger day.  Who’s racist?  I’m the nigger, dumbass, save your Ralph Nader-righteousness for someone who gives a shit.   Too many chicken wings drowned in beer in my head.  If I have high blood psi I want to feel it…they call high-bp the “silent” killer, I say he takes too goddamned long.  I take so many pills each morn and night just to exist they should be M&M’s.  Look, here are some women walking along, this one has the face of a goddess and this one has big tits like happy floating moons and this one has an ass like a kidney-shaped swimming pool turned inside-out.  I’d like to poke all of their stomachs from the inside with my German helmet for 22 minutes then vanish like the Predator.  Each girl/woman is escorted by a ball cap-wearing jerkoff who looks like a cardboard cutout.  I don’t know what they have that I don’t:  I have the brains, the words, the humor and now thanks to chocolate protein powder and a few curls, a bit of bicep.  But I also have no money and only wear clothes I can afford and drive a car that looks like a green ladybug on wheels.  Now because I am lazy and want to beef this up and make a point, I’m going to hand you over to Dale Carnegie, long dead but still winning friends and influencing people:

“The average man who is happily married is happier by far than the genius who lives in solitude. Turgenev, the great Russian novelist, was acclaimed all over the civilized world. Yet he said: ‘I would give up all my genius, and all my books, if there were only some woman, somewhere, who cared whether or not I came home late for dinner.’“

Everyone I know is not happily anything.  Same goes for everyone I know of.  I am sure that of the next 100 people I meet, not one will have read anything by Turgenev, whose name surely rhymes cadence with turkeyneck.  I’ve got to get to Tijuana and laid again, and not just a few times.  I need to save and save and leave that place with no bodily fluids, even my eyes must be dried apricots when I stumble out of the curtains into the piss-smelling Mexican air, happy for the first time in my life again.  I am so miserable sitting in this chair though the chair is doing its best.  The other day a friend drives us to the coffee place and an old fuck with a Walt Whitman beard is standing on his car’s passenger side with the door open, cockblocking the parking spot closet to the entrance.  I make a comment on how I could slit the old man’s throat and not feel a thing.  My friend continues to be my friend because he boils with the same rage, though configured differently.  Now we’re inside sitting on matching olive-green recliners and drinking iced fuckachinos; the dumb White kid with a mop of hair (see, no prejudice) had fucked up and put whipped cream on my drink, the dumbass.  When I went up the counter and ordered I said, give me your company’s version of a large-sized coffee-Slurpee, and he translated it into his magical coffee language and it was on.  And he fucked it up.  While we’re sitting on the recliners I recall the old man cockblocking us in the lot (I can still see him out there) and again express my desire to slit his throat wide open and piss in the gash.  I would be mildly horrified if someone else said this but when it’s me I know my limits.  The rage is forever there but the will to act senselessly isn’t in my blood, there are too many organized words keeping me from real happiness or joy or in this case one moment’s freedom releasing some ill-parked prick from his jail of karma.  Another man is going back and forth from the coffee store to his hybrid car, a liberal weenie straight from Central Casting.  He’s tall as a small tower so his hemp-cotton hybrid suit must’ve cost him extra, but let’s fess up, it’s cool to be him:  every year he gets a nice card from the rain forest thanking him for his efforts to change the temperature of the earth, even though the earth has felt exactly how it wants to feel for billions and billions of years without his or Yanni’s tampering.  Hybrid cars run on mouse farts and self-righteousness.  I would buy a hybrid if I were richer than dirt poor and it would be a Hummer that towed a backup Hummer behind it and both vehicles would have tires made of hemp.  Now the speakers in the coffee place are playing ugly clown circus music.  Why must everyone stick out their chest and be pretentious, even the music?  Some fat women arrive and leave.  Long after they’ve left my friend suggested we ask them to go home with us and suck our dicks (he can be an idiot).  His sister wouldn’t accept my offer to go down on her but that’s not his fault, I have this incredible aura of religious power, I can turn the loosest whore into a sex-fearing Christian just by saying hell-o.  These past few years have been the worst ever, because existentially I’m stuck in place treading diarrhea in a Jacuzzi filled with the same and having done it for so long, trying to keep my head above the liquid shit that passes for my fetid existence, I can spell diarrhea by heart, don’t even need spell-check.  I slit the old man’s throat and he bleeds all over his riceburning coupe.  That will teach you to hog parking spaces. old man.  One per cutomer here.  I had a dream of the future; there were computers that understood English, seven-story high shower stalls with walls covered in tiny square shower tiles and headless dogs—very much alive—running around.  Buses, however, were late.  I sometime wonder if/when I make it to 60 and everyone is a robot at last if I’m going to look back on these dark years and shudder, perhaps weep that I could not save myself, the 60-yr-old me is powerless to do so.  Left to my own wits this existence has been nothing but nightmare, paper towels that rip off the dispenser before they get started, married women cheating with goofballs instead of me, chocolate with maggots in it, batteries that die too soon, not enough juice in the cordless hacksaw for the whole job, rude home-schooled punkass kids taking over, bad music, spoiled milk, juicy girls young enough to land me in the clink forever ruining everything and their older legal sisters always demanding your soul like a slab of sushi tied to a bankroll with your bloody veins.  I can bench press hatred to 400 but I can’t say hell-o to the woman, there’s nothing to back it up, I don’t even own a ball cap, just two balls and a keyboard that sits bored too long, silent like the still-baking air gliding languorously between the legs of cacti far out in the desert where no one has ever cared and no one will.  I promise I will tell you what I see right when I die.  Other than that, we’re all on your own.        

 

Reep was sowed on LCS

Saw the Finale of Last Comic Standing, a two hour suckfest. I won’t even comment on the fucking puppets.

I felt really bad for Lavelle Crawford during the roast. I’m nowhere as fat as Crawford but I felt his humiliation from here. Most of the idiots doing the roast were practically strangers and they even managed to get that Jeff-Somebody-Jewboy that appears in every roast special. Crawford let them have it when it was his turn and that was great.

Reep’s roast wasn’t as good.

Either one of the final two could’ve taken established routes to the top, Reep with the Blue Collar set and Crawford with the bruthas, but I’d hardly call it Nostrdamusian to say Reep would win.
My opinion is that no working comic is a loser.

All in all, who cares. I’ve got my own shit to worry about.

Quoticle – a better job would also help, Rich

When you ain’t got no money, you gotta get an attitude.

~ Richard Pryor

Dragonflies and slitting throats

As I go forth to buy a sandwich, thoughts of comedy continue to haunt.

A 1985 book I borrowed called Funny Business (author:  Ken Berryhill) suggests that comics are either “naturally funny” or actors…or both.  Stan Laurel was naturally funny while Oliver Hardy was “an actor from start to finish”.

The book lists several comics who are both naturally funny and actors:  Steve martin, Buddy Hackett, and (ugh) Robin Williams, the last of whom I sometimes like as an actor but as a comic just throws shit against the wall.

Since I’m starting from comedy scratch, I have to figure out if I’m “naturally funny” or an actor.  Claiming to be both at this time would be ludicrous.

I’m leaning more towards “actor” as a self-descriptor, because a naturally funny person would be funny in most situations, while my humor’s energy source is rage and outrage (plus saying one is naturally funny sounds suspiciously close to pricks with the nerve to proclaim, “Well, you know, I’m a genius.”)

As for the actor-side of things, being able to turn talent ‘on and off like a switch’ sounds like sociopathy.  I’ve mildly felt like crying at the sight of a dragonfly with a damaged wing, yet if anarchy broke out, I could think of 3 people whose throats I would slit with the satisfaction of taking a hearty bite of cereal.

Since a real sociopath would feel nothing at seeing both the dragonfly and slitting throats, I’m just a regular paradoxical turd human and not a sociopath (I know throat-slitting is an unsettling topic, especially coming from strangers, but we have no choice.)

I don’t want to be an “angry” comic and I don’t want to use profanity.  Those are my parameters.

I’ll review my jokes later and study some stuff on the internet.   How is it done?  I wonder.

Ernie Elf is the only wigger I like

The main motherfuckin’ Elf in the Keebler Dynasty is named Ernie.  I know this now because I’ve eaten his image too many times from this bag of E.L. Honkies Double Stuffed (fudge) I bought at Wal-Mart tonight.

It’s almost 3AM.  Tho it’s a blessed day off–my first in 8 fucking days–I’ve still got shit to do tomorrow, but here I am, on the internets.  My head is buzzing from sugar and rage.

Comedy:  I went up tonight, brave but unprepared.  My shit bombed harder than Mecca will be after New York becomes Nuked York at some hazy date in the next two decades.  I don’t feel bad, just annoyed that my shit didn’t work.  Aside from a lack of rehearsal, the jokes as they’re written now simply won’t deliver:  they’re like a jumble of bicycle parts, incapable of going anywhere.

There’s a structure to jokes I’ve been neglecting.  I’m more determined than ever to improve, but even as I write lines like I’m more determined than ever to improve, I don’t believe them.  Fuck.