Small Town Shoes Big City Blues

I grew up in a small town in Kentucky. This town was so small that the population sign didn’t use commas. Heck, neither did their sentences.
Where y’all from?
"Louahvuhl"
I’m a goin’ to the pictures.
Why?
s’Friday.

I’m not saying we were isolated. I’m just saying that eighteen is a late age to know what a liberal is.

When Americans hear you’re from Kentucky, they always ask, did you wear shoes? Nope. Just holsters.

But Kentucky is actually a pretty nice place. It’s got culture, too. University cities. Music scenes. Arts.

I once dated an artist? This girl wasn’t just an artist, she was a fine artist. This means that she loved art so much she rejected all other possible employment on the face of the Earth. Well it’s a fun ride, dating an artist. You get to attend art shows, rub shoulders with sociopaths and autistic people, and other assorted riff raff for whom fingerpainting is the only therapy they can afford.

You think art isn’t important? Just try to take it away from some of these people, see what happens to society. Trust me, you don’t want a cubist giving you a massage. You don’t want an abstract expressionist giving you an enema. You don’t want a surrealist quality-testing your shark cage. Shall I go on? I’ve got more of these. You don’t want an impressionist fitting you for glasses.

Which lens is better? This one? Or this one?

What? This one looks like an LSD trip. The other one is like staring into an eclipse! My retinas! Hey, is the machine supposed to be glowing red hot like that?

Sorry, that’s my assistant’s fault. She had it near the kiln.

This artist I dated had a senior show and I helped her, with some other friends, put the whole thing together. The art, the warehouse where it was being shown, the band, the invitations, publicity – I even injured my back moving a 12 foot tall metal sculpture. Yeah, she was a metal sculpturist. I couldn’t date a duck decoy whittler like Dad warned me.

So she has her show, right, and it’s a huge success.

So she dumps me the next morning. I’m like, but, but, and she’s like, yeah that’s right!

So what did I learn from that, which I can share with you, so you can get some benefit from that really painful experience? After years of reflection all I can come up with is, duck decoys. Seriously. So when it goes to hell you can shrug it off and say, your ducks didn’t even look real anyway.

Yeah? Try telling that to an abstract expressionist. There’s nothing you can say! Duck doesn’t look real, they’ll just say, “Good. I wanted it that way. It’s abstract. If you knew what it was I’d consider that a failure.”

Artists. I thought about being an artist once. Problem was, I wasn’t good enough to be a fine artist, and I wasn’t mundane enough to sell at the Velvet Trucker Jesus flea market table. Only place I could sell my painting was in a lasertag arena. You think I’m joking. I made a sculpture once out of a mannequin and a busted up computer, this guy sees it and says, I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it right now. I said, yeah but you obviously know nothing about art, so no thanks. Amateurs.

You guys like the Mona Lisa? I don’t want to appear ignorant, but – I just don’t get it. They say she has an enigmatic smile but to me it looks like someone who’s posing for a picture but the photographer keeps tinkering with the camera settings, and then when he finally snaps the picture the person’s face is sagging and their attention is wandering around thinking about what went wrong with their life.

I guess in the days before cameras that happened a lot. Go to a portraiture all wearing their Sunday clothes, standing straight. But by the time the artist finishes, you know, they've gotten comfortable. Shoes off, clothes strung around the room. So people’s portraits come out, they’re sitting their half-naked and eating apples. You know, resting their hands in their vests. Girl falls asleep, artist just keeps on painting her. I think Maxfield Parrish was an artist only because they hadn’t invented the spycam yet.

Would Picasso’s Facebook page have any friends? No, because none of his high school classmates would recognize him.

Facebook. You know the only reason I signed up for that was to reserve my name. But next day I look and I have like a hundred messages from people I haven’t seen in twenty years. So, uh, how about that prom? I liked your green tuxedo.

I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do with my time than to leave messages for people I haven’t seen in twenty years. So – you’re on your third CEO job, and your kids are all honor students at Yale Law? I bought a new three-pack of T shirts! I’ve got a red one, a blue one, and a green one. Ok, check back in another twenty years.

The economy is funny. I tell you in a crappy economy you find out who your friends are. One day it’s “American is number one! USA!” and the next day it’s “Where did those Americans get such swelled heads? Spit on them!”

When you’re younger, you care about the politics of idealogies. When you’re older, you care about politics of greed. Those are the choices: ideology or greed. I just wonder if somewhere, on some alien planet out there, there isn’t some happy medium of politics without ideology or greed, or politics either for that matter. And no people either. That’s for me. That’s a party I can endorse. The “no politics” party.

If I had to design a political party, I mean if it were up to me, and you never know, its’ like the job Captive Monkey Louse Picker, I mean, someone’s got to do it, right? Scientist's in there picking lice - "I've got a PhD, dammit!"

Well if I had to design a political party I wouldn’t base it on geography or ideology. I’d base it on height. The rule is, the tallest person is the leader. No votes. No ideology. No arguments or lawyers. Just up against the wall, and we’ll make a little mark, and there you go. And you can’t wear shoes either. I’d call it the Doorbanger Party, cause the candidates would all be hitting their heads on the door frame.

The only problem I could see with this is the inevitable jockey protests. Jockeys. You know I once saw Willie Shoemaker the jockey and his lovely wife. When he put his arm around her, it affected her pantyline. Some people would say, why would you marry a man literally half your size? Is it the money? But it might not be the money. Maybe these women like their men short in the saddle because they like playing horsie, ever think of that? Have you ever played foreplay horsie? Then shut up, you don’t know.

I could never be with a woman twice my size. She’d have to be so big she’d stretch out a scarf.

You know something about living in China? They’re vicious to overweight people over there. Why do you think they eat with chopsticks? So that by the time you’ve finished your meal it’s time to eat again. No chance to overeat. You’d have to be like a typewriter with the chopsticks to eat enough to gain weight over there.

Chew chew chew chew chew Ding!

Yeah mom what you want?

Why is it with Chinese food, you can either have cheap crap ingredients or overpriced crap ingredients? Chinese recipes are great, but if they used quality ingredients too they’d actually get customers and have to provide customer service. Warm can of Pepsi? Two dollar. Stupid American. No taste. Fork it over. Yeah? Here’s two dollars. Now go feed your family for a month and free your uncle from his rock-busting reeducation camp, smart guy. You’re too clever for me.

Well I told you I lived in China. You know why I came back? American Chinese food. Yeah you can’t get it over there. Seriously. You can’t get the little takeout boxes and fortune cookies. You can still get the crappy attitude though. You just need it translated.

No, the real reason I came back is because I missed being able to complain in restaurants. At least here when they blow you off they understand what you said and can mock you with more accuracy.

But living overseas for a while and coming home presents all kinds of little problems. Like, I can’t cuss people out while smiling anymore. I wanna try on a pair of shoes and I gotta wear socks now! Can’t just barge onto an elevator as everyone's trying to get off anymore. Well - now I have to say excuse me.

You know what it’s like returning from Shanghai to a town that doesn’t use commas in its population sign? It’s a bit like when Deputy Barney Fife moved from Mount Pilot back to Mayberry. You know, if Mount Pilot was pollution-choked and swarming with Chinese.

And when you come back from living overseas you see things a bit differently. Like, you begin to realize that the boundaries of the universe are not defined in the colors of your local sports franchise. That your reproductive choices in this world are not bound by a population of a few thousand people. There are billions of people out there! In Asia, meeting a new girlfriend is like going to the Dunkin Donuts. I'll take one with sprinkles, a couple glazed fritters, and some jelly-filled munchkins too.

But most of all, you realize that the place where you grew up could hardly prepare you for the sheer variety and scope of cultural experiences this world has to offer, and that people, though different in ideas, are distributed everywhere in similar measures of smart and stupid, blessed and cursed, good and evil - and that’s just at the local karaoke bar. Oh there’s nothing more sinister in this world than karaoke used for evil.

But most of all you begin to realize that there are three kinds of people in this world: those who cut themselves off from each other, treating other beings as objects to be smited; clothing themselves in flags and robes of authority, uniforms, corporate suits, TNT vests, and high school gym shorts; who cannot love others because they never learned to love and accept themselves.

The second type of people are those who include everyone in the great teeming body of humanity, loving others as they love themselves, harmonizing their spirits with this abundant biosphere called planet Earth, knowing that above all there exists a totality which at once encompasses them and emerges through them like the ocean in the drop and the drop in the ocean.

And finally, the whack-jobs.

Coffee Jerk

Why do the people at the café always ask you if you want your ice latte for here or to go when they always put it in the same cup anyway? I think it’s to give you the illusion of choice. You don’t have any choices. You point at the menu and if it ain’t up there, it ain’t happening. Hot water, beans, cup, overpriced condiments, five bucks, some crappy pidgin Italian-Dr Seuss name, thanks don’t come again.

I once went into a café and asked for a plain, regular decaf coffee. Totally stumped the guy. Wasn't on the menu. I didn't use the "code". Latte? He asked. Cappuccino? Yes, I see the menu, there, Mensa boy. I can read and comprehend the words you are pointing at. I’m forty, perhaps I’ve had a latte or a cappuccino in my life. Can you comprehend that I don’t have time to learn which euphemisms your pretentious corporate café uses to describe its small, medium, large café au lait americano frappe? The Venti Massimo Grande Pequeño Gulp. Whatever!

Every restaurant on Earth has three cups. Small. Medium. Large. Don't give me any of that monkey business where large is medium and Stupendous is a fishing bucket. Or any of that movie concession stand crap where you can get a free thimble or a fifteen dollar jug of pre-urinated Mountain Dew. Regular. Cup. Of. Coffee. Imagine if you will a man-sized coffee cup filled with Regular. Coffee. No milk, no sugar, no sweetener, no flavorings, no whipped cream, no sprinkles, no cinammon, no parsely, and no spit.


Look at me Chachi. Stop spinning your bald tires and look up here at me. I’m a six foot world-traveling hillbilly who asked for a plain, regular cup of coffee. Do you think I want a thimble of espresso? An overflowing banana float? Do you think I want five cups to go and three for here? Do I look like a complicated man? Did I ask for a dingleberry scone plantain muffintop?? One. Plain. Regular. Cup. Of. Coffee. Do you know what country you are in? Shall I point it out on the world map for you Señor Barista?

So you gotta wonder about people’s mentalities sometimes. Do you bring your car into the repair shop and tell 'em you want 'em to make it a Formula One style Ford Escort? Do you go to the Men's Warehouse and ask for a Liberace Glitter Tuxedo and matching piano? Do you know anything at all about your product that is not already emblazend on the wall? Do you greet your customers who come in out of the rain soaking wet and shaking their umbrellas into the bucket "Hey, it's a little wet out there?" Some people comprehend the concept of a menu. Can you comprehend that you being an idiot now means I have to get a teaspoon of ridicule with my coffee now every day?


One. Regular. Cup. Of. Coffee. Just let me behind the counter, I’ll get it myself, ring myself up, and keep the tip. Do you believe the nerve of these people? They charge $5 for a cup of coffee and then have the nerve to put a tip jar at the register. Sorry, I don’t tip robots. These people are so drilled you could come in their wearing an overcoat made of howler monkey pelts and ask them to pour hot coffee down your pants and without even looking up they'll ask you "You want a scone with that? Pick up over there please." Here, have a tip. Have you ever seen an empty tip jar? Of course not. It’s always seeded with petty cash money. I’ve got a tip for you: stay in school. Get a job that doesn’t involve telling people to be careful because their hot coffee is hot.



And I’m sorry if it looks like I’m lowering the boom on café workers. I’m not. I mean, I know those guys work hard. It’s a busy job for that kind of pay. It’s not easy dealing with the public minute after minute after minute. I’m just saying – know your product. Learn to look at a customer and figure out what they want – especially if what they want is the most basic unit of your freaking product! But maybe that's a generational gap thing. Kids today all brought up believing coffee is something that should have chunks of fruit in it and cost as much as four gallons of gasoline.

Oh, I’m a problem customer? Here’s the problem: you have no perspective and your music sucks! I comprehend your cash register mental house of cards. Do you comprehend mine?


Here's an actual conversation I've had with a coffee server:
Large ice latte, skim.
What size?
Large.
Ice or hot?
Ice. Large ice latte, skim.
Latte?
Latte.
You want whipped cream?
Skim.
Whipped cream?
Skim. Connect the dots now.
WHIPPED CREAM?
Skim. Large ice latte, skim.
Go over there please.
Hold on, I've changed my mind. Medium hot cafe au lait to go in a dirty cup. And put a hurry on that, my jackass is running off with my prospecting equipment and Amway sampler pack.
Medium...?
Large ice latte, skim.
Large ice latte, skim?
There ya go.

So now I’ve worked my way around the coffee order problem. Here’s how I placed my coffee order yesterday:

"Give me the absolute largest café americano in a to go cup, double no-fat double sweet, whipped cream, shot of vermouth and some human spit. Now pour all that into the toilet except for the americano, from the dispenser into THIS cup that my finger is tapping, and call it whatever the freaking Klingon coffee language your menu is in. Here’s fifty cents, put the change in the jar! I’ll be over here humping your magazine rack and shouting out the contents of people’s computer screens and just generally mingling on behalf of the board of shareholders."

Guy looks at me, “Dude, regular decaf coming up.”

The Redistribution of Stupidity

They’re coming out with a surgical procedure that allows women to take the fat from their butts and put it in their breasts. This is a solution that’s good for both women and men, don’t you think? You know who’ll really clean up in that deal – the fat banks. You’ve heard of blood banks, well welcome to the 21st century fat bank. You think Red Cross takes donations, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Butt fat to the breasts. Your wife leaves home as the Grimace and comes back as Pamela Anderson. Oh I’m just kidding. She doesn’t come back.

Now if only there was the same kind of procedure for men. I’m six foot, I figure I could stand to lose six inches….

I think this is a brilliant idea that can be used to solve a lot of social problems, too. Take something you have too much of over here, and put it over there, where you need more of it. For example, homeless people. I’m wrong. It’ s morally wrong to compare homeless people to body fat. About the only thing they have in common is hanging out at McDonald’s.

But seriously, you can redistribute abundance to scarcity. Think about what society has too much of, and what it doesn’t have enough of:

Too many homeless people.

Not enough swimming pools.

Solution? Make the homeless dig your swimming pool in exchange for sleeping in the pool shed.

See? I’m all about solutions.

Too many drug users.

Not enough adult supervision for kids after school.

Solution? Make babysitting an official punishment of the penal system. Think you’re tough, dog? Handle a two year old every day for twelve hours. And you can’t do anything mean cause the government’s got a baby monitor on you.

Too much sexual harrassment.

Not enough sexual liberation.

Solution? Go ahead and give it up. Don’t make people have to ask.

Too much traffic.

Not enough jobs.

Solution? One word: rickshaws. And you can’t get a driver’s license, either, until you’ve toted a rickshaw for a year. Solve that obesity problem too while we’re at it.

Low education standards.

High cost of college.

Solution? Stupidity tax. Dodge that, trust fund douchebag.

Look I’m not advocating taxing you guys out there, alright. I’m just saying, the option is there.

And speaking of school…

Too many cults.

Not enough bowling alleys.

Solution? Make bowling a religion.

“Our Bowling Captain, who art down at the Bowl-o-rama, sterilized be Thy rental shoes. Give us this frame our daily beer, and forgive us our tresspasses over the foul line, as we forgive those who tresspass in the karaoke bar. And lead us not into the gutter, but deliver us a pizza, for Thine is the Kingpin, and the Alley, and the League forever, amen.”

This is a lesson you can take home with you. Think about what you have too much of, and not enough of, and put ‘em together. Too much dirty laundry? Not enough sex? Stop wearing clothes around the house. Make your guests remove ‘em too. Hey, the solution is just staring you in the face! Hi, come to read the gas meter? Well I’ve got a gas leak right in here. But first you gotta ditch the threads. Sorry, house rule.

Well if some people can say, there’s no smoking in my house, why can’t you say there are no clothes in my house? Seem to me it’s a double standard! Sorry, you want to wear clothes in here? Take it to the balcony, pal. Freeze your hamhocks off in the rain. We’re all toasty warm in here despite our lack of vestments, habiliments, or raiment.

Yeah, I got a thesaurus. You know what the synonym for synonym is? How about an antonym for synonym? A subjunctive predicate? Passive voice gerund indirect object? What’s the square root of 2? Anybody? You ever need to figure the surface area of a guitar-shaped swimming pool? The volume of a basketball? Have you ever, in your life, dissected a worm for your job? Found the cosine of a tangent? Passed a bill through Congress? Sang a folk song?

I’ll tell you what knowledge I could have used in school:

How to remember people’s names. How to buy gifts for your girlfriend’s parents. How to know when someone is doing a background check on you. How to quit a job when they piss you off. In which order to drink hard liquors. Tax shelters and you. How to spot lies in the newspaper.

Oh there’s plenty of these:

What to do when a coworker stabs you in the back. How to eat for under $5 a day and still have it taste good. How to deal with unwanted sexual attention. How to get unwanted sexual attention. How to stand out in any empty room and blend in with any crowd. How to avoid aggressive beggars. How to get even. How to be honest with women. (They won’t let you).

How to be rich and famous without involving other people. How to lose weight while eating anything you want. How to spot a psycho. How to know when your therpapist is full of shit. Talk your way out of parking tickets. Recognize a bad hairstylist before you get in the chair. Spot the difference between a wise spiritual teacher and a book-thumping asshat.

I’m not finished…

How to get good customer service. How to know when it’s time to break up with someone. How to not get pregnant until you’re ready. How to pleasure someone. How to tell someone when you would really like a surprise party and when you would rather just hit them with your car. Spot the terrorist. Spot the STD carrier. Spot the jackass. Oh, they’re easy enough to spot – once you’ve started talking to them.

How to get rid of unwanted guests. How to avoid professional victimizers and professional victims. How to return something without the receipt.

And my number one choice for what they didn’t teach in school that they should have:

How to do your freaking job!

I once had a job interview and it was all going really well, and then finally for the last question she asked me, “What are your weaknesses?” I don’t know why but I had the sudden urge to be honest at that moment. I know, worst possible time to tell the truth, I’m telling ya. So I said, “I have no patience with stupidity.”

Didn’t get the job. I figure, I dodged a bullet with that one! What are your weaknesses? I have trouble listening to people who don’t listen to me. I don’t work well where my contributions are not appreciated. I refuse to work with sociopaths. I’m a little funny that way.

Now if only they could find some way to suck the fat out of people’s heads….!

Community Service

If dogs could vote, we'd have to run for office really fast.

Boy that Quentin Tarantino is hot these days, isn't he? Hear about his next project? He's going to remake Old Yeller. Yeah, only in this one, Timmy gets rabies and Yeller's an Irish Mafia enforcer.

Life after death. When you get my age the real question is, is there life after 7:30?

You know when life starts to go downhill? When you have to start wiping your own butt. That's why so many people refuse to do it. Always trying to get someone else to do it for 'em. If you work for a living you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I like people like I like poison - in small doses every day, or all at once and get it over with.

I almost read War and Peace, but I got distracted by a Mentos commercial.

You know what standup comedy is like in China? An army general singing karaoke on new year's eve. You gotta take your comedy where you can get it over there.

You ever tell a lie for no reason? No reason at all? You're just tired and you don't feel like talking so you just belch out a whopper? Like, someone asks you where you're from and you don't feel like explaining that your father is from Kentucky and your mother is from Massachusetts, and they met on a Naval base and you spent half your life in one little town an hour and a half drive from Boston and the other half of your life a half hour's drive from Deliverance, Kentucky, but you moved away from home into a third city, which is technically not your home, but you lived there fifteen years and you identify culturally with it, so maybe that's home, but you're thinking about moving to a new place at some point, and - oh there was that six years you spent teaching English in Shanghai, but if I said I'm from Shanghai you'd probably just want me to make you fifty copies of Batman movies in my sweatshop, and instead of going through all of this you just lie and say you're from Nigeria and you have the investment opportunity of a lifetime?

Kentucky borrowed a lot of town names from France. In France you have Versailles, in Kentucky it's called Ver-sayuhls. In France you have Paris, but Paris Kentucky is pronounced Pehrrus. Athens in Greece, Ayy-thens in Kentucky. I remember once an out-of-towner asked me how to get to Versailles, and I said "You're on Versailles road now" and he rolled his eyes and said "Uh, it's pronounced Ver-sigh" and I said, "Whelp, je connais le nom du lieu en France, mais vous êtes dans le Kentucky, et la ville est appelée Ver-sales. Et vous avez de très jolies lèvres. Which is French for, "I know the name of the place in France, but you are in Kentucky, and the city is called Ver-sales. And you've got real purdy lips." Cue banjo.

Boy how about the American roller coaster ride the past couple of years. Seems like everybody's got an idea how to fix the country. All you need is a microphone. Yeah, I know you got a PhD in economics from Harvard and have written twenty books on the economy but I'm gonna tell you my moonpie-induced visions of grandeur anyway: have you thought about giving out free donuts to voters? I'd go and vote. Every election year, you hear it, vote, vote, for pete's sake vote, who gives a crap who you vote for just get out and vote! Here, here's a free donut. No I don't think you can write in the inventor of Krispy Kreme. He's dead, isn't he? Well what's his position on Health Care? Probably pretty inflexible by now I'd imagine.

Since I'm obviously qualified, as the guy with the microphone, as it were, here's how I'd fix the country:
First I'd hire intelligent, nice teachers who force the children to be intelligent, and nice, or the students and their parents will be working side by side doing community service. And if the teachers couldn't pull it off, let them do the community service!

Then I'd take all the police forces and give them intensive training on how to treat law-abiding citizens with kindness and respect. What the hell, treat crooks with respect too; very respectfully lead them to their cells and conjugal visit trailers. From now on any cop that gives you the stinkeye is going to what? Community service. Yeah. You too, pal. Your authority is limited to maintaining and keeping the peace on behalf of law-abiding citizens. You do NOT have the authority to judge people or the way they live their lives. Your authority is professional. It is not personal. I respect cops. I do. What I don't respect is cops who expect law-abiding people to kowtow to them. A little too much time modeling your uniform in a full length mirror, there, Officer Fabuloso. I don't think the assless chaps are in the uniform code.

But that's me, I don't respect lawyers either who go around telling people they are a lawyer so back off or I'll crank up the justice machine for my own petty concerns, I mean, since I obviously have such a high respect for "THE LAW". Well let me tell you something; it's not that I don't respect the law, I do. It's that I don't respect your sanctimonious bludgeoning of other people with it. Hey, same goes for the religious. I love the bible; I just don't need you trying to shove it up my kilt. Sorry, I was taking the Lord's name in vain? By putting two words together? As opposed to sitting as judge, jury and executioner in the name of the Lord, you mean. Judge not, lest ye be ridiculed on American Idol.

Smart me, alienate cops and lawyers. Who's next, starbucks baristas? Show me where the pickup counter is again please? I don't comprehend this strange concept of pay here where all the people are placing their orders and paying, and pick up there where there's a long line of pissed off looking people waiting for their coffees for ten minutes while Kurt Cobain behind the counter there complains about making coffee, as if that was a big surprise to him. I applied in a coffee shop, I went to Barista University where I trained to make thirty kinds of coffee with an ice cream scoop, I'm wearing a namebadge with a cup of coffee on it, and I come to work and surprise! What the hell do you got me doing again? Making coffee? What do I look like to you?

Well, you look like a coffee flunkie with one foot over a financial cliff and the other one in a big bag of Columbian beans. Get to pouring and try to hold the mouth foam, barista. Barista? What is this, Barcelona? I don't know, you look more like a "coffee jerk" to me.

And no more of this business where if you get pulled over by the police they start mining for excuses to fine you.
"Sir do you know why I pulled you over?"
"Because I was speeding?"
"No because you're driving a thirty year old POS and I thought you might have expired tags and I was right."
"Yeah, because obviously I have a lot of spare money laying around. Got a wad of thousands right here under the passenger's lawn chair. I'm driving a 1974 two-cylinder chevette with four spare donut tires and a fire dragon painted on the hood. You think I can afford all these tickets?"
"No sir, and you don't look like you can afford a lawyer, either." Well you may have taken advantage of me when I was 20, but now I'm 40 and I've got a microphone and a lawyer on speed dial, Officer Thug.

If I could fix the country I'd remove all the CCTV crap and say, you want to watch how people are living their lives, get yourself a lawn chair and sit in the rain. People don't need to give up their complete privacy in order to feel safe. Now that's a solution that's worse than the problem! How about this for a solution: for every one of us the terrorists kill with exploding sneakers, that's one more Britney Spears concert in their country. Blow up a bus? You get Celine Dion for a year. Fly a plane into a building? We're jamming all your stations with Howard Stern followed by Rush Limbaugh infomercials and replays of apologizing politicians.

McDonald's, Burger King, Taco Bell, all those fast food empires - new rule. If it tastes good, we leave you alone. If it tastes like feet, we remove all the pictures from your cash register buttons. Call it a Stupidity Tax.

Universities - all your scholarships based on race? Out. Disability? Out. From now on if you want a scholarship you've got to earn one the old-fashioned way, by earning it with performance. And I'd make academic scholarships more available, too. Got one leg and you want to run? Fine. But your new false appendage will be limited to the performance of your other working leg. No more gazelle-leaping on the hundred yard dash!

And people who want advantages because of the color of their skin? I thought people like that were what they were complaining about in the first place. Welcome to the land of equality, babe. Not the land of entitlement. Equality doesn't mean guaranteed success. It just means we can all equally pull each other down, or lift each other up. Either we find a way to live together in mutual peace and respect, and learn to see and be beyond these artificial constructs of color and culture and border and belief, or we all meet each other's self-exploding drama queens. Oh, we'll be the most righteous mutants in the Mad Max wasteland, but at least we won't have to listen to Television any more.

And schools? No more grade inflation. Grade inflation, everybody makes A's just for showing up and not drawing a bead on the teacher. Everybody gets a trophy. There's your trophy for playing the game, Ashley. A trophy for not wussing out and filling your fat face with cheetos playing with your wii. Here's your trophy for wiping your bottom, little Dakota. See? You're just like everyone else. All the other little children have a trophy too, so I guess that makes your efforts a waste of time. I mean, if the kid who quit early crying with a Boba Fett doll up his nose gets a trophy, that's your standard too.

And when you're all grown up, sit back and wait for that big trophy to just fall out of the sky. Yeah, tell your wife that's what you're waiting for. See how long she sticks around. Good luck with that. Hey, or maybe you can manipulate some shmo with a work ethic into doing your job for you - except people who actually work for a living can recognize in a split second when some blustering management parasite tries to steal their fruits and tells 'em a printout Employee of the Moon Festival Certificate is motivational. How's this for inspiration - job security and more money and a side order of dignity. Oh God! Anything but that! Razzle-Dazzle!

How many of you feel you are above average in looks? Intelligence? Skills? You can't all be above average. Half of you are below average. Me, my place is secure. I put on my own socks today.

From now on if you're average, your average. If you're below average, your below average. Sorry about your self-esteem there, Marshall, but the herd has to move on, and you never learned to like, move that hammock you call an ass, because you get rewarded for doing nothing and penalized for making any effort. But it's more civilized, yeah, you know, like Star Trek, or that other science fiction writer, what was his name, Karl Marx. You'd learn all about him if you, you know, survived to college. Yeah, but the herd, we're all thirsty, and we saw some lions back there.... You want a trophy? I don't know, maybe you can like, hit the lion on the nose with it.

And guess what? Plant your hammock and put the flabbiest muscle you have to work! Here's a test - is Mexico in Canada or Europe? Can't find it on a map? Community service, until you figure it out!

Can't divide fractions? Community service, until you figure it out.

Think capital punishment is when someone busts a cap in your ass? Community service. Or an actual cap in your ass, you're choice.

Welfare mothers will be out their with all six children, you know, picking up KFC boxes off the side of the highway, wearing matching orange vests like the Brady Bunch on their way to a talent audition. Be out there singing in step, be a nice change of pace driving down the highway.

Because folks it ain't religious that are the problem. And it ain't the atheists. It's zealots and sheep in both camps. The people who half-bake an idea and have no idea about what the other person is saying because they're too busy proseletyzing about the ultimate nature of the universe, as if something like that could fit a human definition. Oh - not a human definition. But me, my definition, that's got to be pretty close to reality. Oh I think religion is the same thing as praying to the vending machine for a free box of goobers, and I think atheism is the same thing as kissing a gorilla's butt, and evolution? That's just Transformers meets Jurassic Park.

People who think, if they talk first and talk more, they must be as impressive as they feel! Those people are the problem, and they are everywhere. In your job, at the movies, driving your taxi. The zealots want to push you around, and as long as they can rationalize it in their own little definitions, they will. The sheep, they wanna cry victim, come up to you and sit in your lap with their hands in your pockets, and cry foul when you stand up on your own two feet and they fall their hammocks to the floor.

But they're gonna point at you and cry foul. They're gonna point at you and call you a dirty purple racist. They're gonna try to keep you down and blame you for it. They're gonna stop you from "playing with matches" by burning your house down. They're gonna call black white, white black, kind people thugs, and thugs, the salt of the earth. Yeah - you're a pillar of the community? Well now you're a pillar of salt. Deal with it.

They think, as long as I can look in a mirror and see the slim, trim good-looking guy I was twenty years ago, before all the booze and drugs and abusing, then I can feel pretty good about who I am - a sanctimonious role model who's just a little bit better than you. Well, not you, but the two-dimensional shadow I perceive in what's left of my spongebob squarepants brain that wasn't burned out by all the partying I used to do.

Well ain't that a scratched record on the juke box!

I am what I am. Sure, a jackass, but - some people can paint!

If you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink, you can still lead a college girl into your van and hit her with a bat. I'm wrong! I'm wrong. Take what I say with a grain of salt, folks. A little grain of...you can't swing a bat in a van, I know! And the moving the chair bit doesn't work anymore since Silence of the Lambs. No, about all you can do is lead the horse, as it were, the old fashioned way. With a big diamond.

Ok boys? Any little boys watching this, that's the secret to women. Diamonds. The bigger diamond you can buy, the more women to choose from. Oh, and the other side of that equation - no, you can't lease diamonds. Sorry fellas. No such thing as layaway when it comes to a woman's heart. In real life, the layaway comes after the purchase. As does the markup. And the advertising. That's real life! That's real life.

Sorry boys, but someone oughtta tell ya, you know, some truth, in between your violin lessons and sunday school and one-armed biceps reps. (Yeah, I don't need to explain that joke, the males get it). Guess you gotta have a penis to really appreciate that one. Why do you think boys put posters on every wall in their rooms? To reduce neck strain. You know, keep the muscles guessing. Wouldn't wanna develop the right side of your neck and shoulder and let the puny left side shrivel up.

Ever see a guy with big muscular arms and puny legs? Can't do one-armed biceps reps with your feet. That's all I'm telling you. That's why you never see a guy with a fat johnson. Rolls hanging off of it. Sorry, hope my double chin doesn't put you off. Guy weighs four hundred pounds, but his piece looks like Conan the Barbarian waving his broad sword at an army of orcs. Sorry, was that reference too old? His member looks like, CGI Hulk, you know, trembling with rage...wearing a torn collar and waistband.... saying Hulk smash! Hulk smash! Pretty lady make Hulk angry!

They did a psychology test, once, to see if girls preferred these buff muscle men, or old doughy guys in blazers. You know who won? The old doughy guys in blazers. So men, that's the lesson for tonight. Instead of going to the gym tomorrow, get down to the JC Penny's, buy yourself a blazer. Man, I did high school all wrong. I should have been investing my grass-cutting money into an IRA, instead of buying up Plastic Man comics and Cracked magazine. Yeah, those were high school years well-spent. Driving around in circles in my friend's mother's brown Chevrolet Impala, screaming "Look Out!" to break up the monotony. But then again - screaming "Look out!" was sound financial planning, turns out.

Man, if I'd known then what I know now. You know? For instance:

Instead of going to college I would have gotten a job selling cars, worked my way up to Mercedes or BMWs. You can handle that kind of pressure when your boys haven't dropped and you've got .2 percent body fat. So what if you miss a few meals? You college boys can study your Marx and Engels, and your Aristotle and moonbeams. You know - I'll be the dumb guy with a steady paycheck and a nice car snaking the best genes for when you finally graduate and start at the bottom again.

When you're young you pine over women.

When you're old? You pine over erections.

If I'd known then what I know now...I would have gone to the prom in a trans-am, a white tuxedo and a mullet - oh wait, I did that. And I wouldn't have kissed my date goodnight like a gentleman, either. Man, did I ever buy the church youth group propaganda when I was a kid. Nobody home, and I'm kissing her at her door and leaving her confused and alone in her Scarlet O'Hara hoop skirt. I mean, the thing practically shouts "Hide under here!"

I was a naive kid. I thought spanking the monkey was how you taught a chimpanzee to wear a diaper. I thought submarine races were part of the cold war. You know. Wolverines! I thought flirting was when a girl tried to get you to do her...

- homework.

If I'd known then what I know now... I would have quit college, quit the workforce, slaving away only to have your country and economy usurped from you and leaving you middle aged with your don johnson in your hand...I would have quit college and started a rock and roll band, gotten a string of meaningless day jobs and did pretty much anything I wanted. Oh wait - I did do that! Who's laughing now, Wall Street? That's right, you are, cause I'm a comedian! That's my job! Customer service with a smile! But the best part is I don't have any complaint department. Oh occasionally some drunk guy will shout something unintelligible - insert drunken interruption here - but it's not like you can get fired for being heckled. Hey Frank, you had a good show, but - that heckler really had it in for you. I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go. What? Yeah, sorry. Well, can I stay here, have a drink and heckle the next guy that comes on? Oh that's ok? Then I'll take my act on the road. Go down to the hospital and heckle the children. "Hey, you know what? You suck. And your trucker hat is way too big. The I Have a Dream Foundation called. Yeah they want their hope back!"

Then I'd go down to Burger King and heckle a cashier. Hey buddy, you call that a paper hat? I could make a better hat out of a coffee filter and a grit magazine! Or, nice job pushing the hamburger button, fella! You know I saw a chimpanzee in college who could do the math in his head! And he got a banana every time he pushed the right button. What do you get? Sorry, didn't mean to bust your balls about the college-boy chimpanzees making more than you. Tell you what, yes I would like fries with that. Oh - there's another banana.

Then maybe I'll go down to the police station and heckle them. Hey officer, you call that unnecessary force? You hit like a girl! Oh you are a girl! Your husband let you out of the house dressed like that? Why don't - ow! Hey, this floor tastes like lemons and urine! When was the last time somebody mopped around here? Oh, here comes my sixth grade teacher with a mop! Her standardized test scores must have come in!

Hey teach, looks like you were right about me! Now quit goofing off and grab that bucket!

*** *** ***

Stand Up Comedy: A False Sense of Reality

When I was a kid, my Mom brought me to this little 5 and dime on Main street, you ever see one of those? Back when 5 and dime wasn't the size bag of pot you wanted. She took me upstairs one day, and I saw some great things, big plastic racecars and star wars figures. I don't know. You just can't go back. Now, what kid is content with a big plastic race car that doesn't run on its own power? Now I'm grown, and I've got a big plastic wife that doesn't run on her own power. What happened to the world?

Do you remember Rubik's cubes? What was that? Cubes.

Ha ha, do you remember those big standup video games? Yeah, me too. Quarters. They ran on tokens. Ha ha, cause that's the culture. I'm making common cultural observations, in my attempt at bonding with the audience.

Don't you hate work and airplanes? Me too, I really do. I especially hate taking my shoes off at the airport. I don't think it's for security, that they make us do that. I think it's for pervert sock profiling. Like, guards are back there on the monitors, "Look at that guy, white sneakers and black wool socks. I bet his feet stink. No, your feet stink. Oh, here comes a high school blond cheerleader, look at those dirty socks, I bet her feet stink. I'm gonna go smell 'em. Take a picture for my website, www.dirtydotsickfeetflash.comWdotslash.com.

You ever fall out of a perfectly good chair? I don't know why--but it happens to me all the time. My wife nearly pees in her pants laughing every time I fall down. I think she did something to my chair! Don't you hate when you do something so stupid like that, and somebody is there, you know, to witness it--and you'll never have dignity in their eyes again for the rest of your life after that. It could be like, "Look family, I won the Nobel Peace Prize," and your wife is like, "just don't impale yourself on it, chairboy."



Who would you rather wake up next to: a robot with big metal pincers for hands, or a chupacabra? I'd rather wake up next to the robot, cause they can't get pregnant. Chupacabra, I mean, you never know. I'm not paying child support for that, chupacabra baby. I'm sorry, call me a deadbeat chupacabra dad. You ever see one o' those at the hospital? Chupacabra baby?

Do you think robots have feelings? What a stupid question. Robots don't have feelings. They are big metal jerks.

Karl Marx was the least funny Marx brother. Even with the big clown beard.

I think we should force prisoners to serve in the army. No? That's cruel and unusual punishment, yes, a violation of civil and human rights. And that's just the CNN interviews.

Menage a trois. Literally it means, Eternal Triangle, according to the great oracle Google. That's French, you know, such a romantic language. I guess it's a play on Christianity, equating an eternal sex triangle with the Holy Trinity. As if the bible is really about getting it on. What ya got? Adam and Eve, Sodom and Gomorrah, Yoda and Chewbacca. So much more romantic than my sex life, in English, instead of "menage" it's a "Bermuda" a Trois. I don't know, I keep getting magnetic interference or something. I keep thinking that I'm soaring when I'm three feet from crashing and burning.











Money is unimportant. Just ask anybody whose got it, they know all about it. Not important.

When you know money isn't as important as say, the environment, you prioritize. You reexamine your priorities. You buy a hybrid car. Cause money isn't important to you. You're enlightened. Look at me, I'm too good for a car that runs on dinosaur poop and redneck blood. I drive a car that runs on hybrid hydrogenated radiation and dilithium crystals!



Yeah, I got it on my last vacation to Planet Risa. Yeah, supermodels lei you at the airport there. The car is only 4 feet long, 8 feet wide you have to lay down when you drive it. It's cool, it's got a satellite ham radio and a cowcatcher! Because I care about real issues like the environment. And looking like a jerk. Sure it's made out of carbon fiber and cap pistol caps, but in case of a crash there's this parachute deployment device, and the satellite calls my mom.

Orange juice is so refreshing. Hard to believe it's tree piss.

I've got something like 6 mp3 players. Each one can hold like, 10,000 more songs than the one before it. What do I need 6 mp3's for? I like to bring them all, put 'em in my pocket, and act like I actually listen to music. You know, it confuses people without them knowing it. Gives 'em a false sense of reality, and that's what I'm all about.



Elvis bought his friends Cadillacs. It wasn't because they were big, or beautiful, or expensive. It's because back then Cadillacs were forty dollars, and if you wanted a fill up all you had to do was give Goober a bottle of pop.

Then: Wow, Cadillac! Thanks E!

Now: Wow, an electric Tapioca Bumbeetle. What did I ever do to you??