Alien Night Club - Show 18?
Alien Night Club <the transcripts>
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Show 18! Show 18! Show 18? Yeah, sure, Show 18! The big show, the big Black Friday show.
Dumbest fuckin thing in the history of things, by the way. Black Friday. Jesus.
Anyway…
Welcome to the show. Nice to have you. Insofar as I can have you, insofar as I am ABLE to have you, it’s nice.
My sixth grade teacher used to say that. If you raised your hand and said, Can I go to the bathroom?
He’d say, I dunno; can you?
And he wouldn’t budge until kids figured out that while, yes, they obviously CAN go to the bathroom, he was waiting for them to say, May I go to the bathroom?
At which point he would immediately say in a very nice tone of voice, very calmly, Yes, you may.
He was a good teacher, I guess. Didn’t take any crap but wasn’t a dick about it. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a 1950s TV show. A black-and-white sitcom.
And by the way, for anyone not familiar with TV shows on Earth in the 1950s, allow me to elaborate for a moment. Once television had been invented, people figured out that they could perform a play in front of cameras instead of people and they could beam that play through the air like the music in a radio wave and that people would sit in from of their radio with a window in it and actually WATCH the play and that big companies would pay a lot of money to have their products shown during that play, usually in a brief narrative aside that became known as a commercial.
Well, the first version of that technology used cameras that were only able to capture the play in such a way that when you watched it back on your television set, everything was in shades of black, white, and gray. And this was known as black-and-white.
It had nothing to do with White people and Black people being in the same play stroke television show. Because, actually, that didn’t happen right away. It was mostly White folks acting in the plays. But, eventually, some Black folks were all like, Hey, we want to be in the play, too!
And some White people were all like, Okay, come on in and let’s all create something together.
But some White people were fuckin dicks. And they were all like, No, dawg, we don’t want you in it. Just sit your ass at home and watch. And then go to the store and buy whatever shit it is that you see on screen during the commercials. Okay? So sayeth Jessie Pinkman.
And then, pretty soon, a lot of the Black folks were like, Man, what the fuck? Fuck those cracker-ass crackers. Goddamn. That is some racist shit. We can’t be in their precious little TV shows? Alright, then, we’ll make our own shows. Because fuck them!
And that’s what they did.
Point being that my teacher looked like a man from one of those old shows that most likely only had White people in it.
In fairness, though, back then the country was probably like 90% White. Caucasian. And people kind of like seeing someone who looks like themselves in a movie or show or video or advertisement. Not all the time, obviously. But seeing someone who looks like you helps you relate to the person in the movie or show or ad. It is more personal to you. So of course the people making shows and the advertisers making commercials used mostly White people; their audience was 90% White.
What’s the Whitest shit you can think of? Dog shampoo? Diamond-studded cat collar? Driving gloves? A $1000 golf club? Not a set; a SINGLE club.
Imagine seeing a commercial for any of that shit during Soul Train. Some middle-aged White guy in a Member’s Only jacket getting behind the wheel of his Porsche, one of those fat ones like in Bachelor Party, and he’s smiling while he’s putting on his driving gloves with all the tiny holes in the back so his hands don’t get sweaty. And it’s a White dude. He’s not Black, he’s not mixed, he’s pale as fuck.
You’d be like, What was that? A glove commercial during Soul Train? With a White guy? If you want to try to sell me gloves, that I’m only going to wear while I’m driving, or you want to try to sell me the entire Porsche – Porsh-UH! – or the big-ass house the White guy came out of, or the investment services that motherfucker needed to be able to afford that house and that Porsche, fine. But goddamnit, if you’re going to air it during Soul Train and you want me to take it seriously, you could at least put a brother behind the wheel. Or a sister. Not this cracker-ass cracker shit. We’re not going to relate to that. We want to see someone who looks like us walking out of a million-dollar house and getting into a hundred-thousand-dollar car and putting on motherfuckin $150 gloves. That helps us think that it’s actually attainable. And that it’s okay for people like us to live in a house like that and in a neighborhood like that. That all y’all aren’t going to freak the fuck out when we roll up with our moving truck and start unloading all our shit. And that when I pull up in a 911, which is a damn fine automobile, by the way, you won’t immediately think I STOLE that motherfucker. Because it’s mine. I have been working my fuckin ass off. Me and my wife. Or my husband. Or my nonbinary dog. Or whoever the fuck it is I’m cohabitatin with up in this big-ass house. Point being that it helps when we are able to relate.
Indeed.
Which is why TV shows and movies and commercials shown in a country that is 80% White show White people 80% of the time.
That ain’t the same, bitch! It’s racist!
It is?
Yes!
But we just established that Black people do prefer or like to see another Black person on TV at least part of the time. It’s only logical that there are Black stories to tell or products or services Black folks will use or want to buy.
Like what, motherfucker? Like what? You racist piece of shit! Like what?
Hair products? Isn’t Black hair different from White hair? Or Asian hair? Japanese hair? I kind of am regretting bringing this up now. Because people can get really worked up, to the point where they’re not really even listening anymore. A sensitive subject has come up and they’re on high alert and now some ignorant White motherfucker is running his mouth, talking about shit he knows nothing about, trying to tell billions of Black people that he understands what they want to see on TV because of their hair. Lord help us.
That’s not what I’m saying. I have no idea what you want to watch on TV. Because I don’t even know what I want to watch on TV. There’s too much shit on now. Too many streaming services and too much a la cart shit and I’m tired of messing around with all these different streaming services and I wish we could simply have Blockbuster Online, Blockbuster 2.0, and if you have a subscription, you can watch anything you want. You don’t have to jump around trying to find something. It’s all there. On Blockbuster 2.0. That’s what I want. I miss the video stores where you could at least FIND shit. And there was usually a frozen yogurt shop and or a pizza place next door. So if my Blockbuster 2.0 membership comes with a free pizza and free frozen yogurt delivered to my house once a week or twice a week, depending on my level of membership, that would be nice.
What do you mean: level of membership? You mean now there’s going to be TWO different types of membership? One for all you rich assholes and one for the rest of us?
Well, yeah; pretty much. The pizza place and the yogurt shop have to spend money to make the pizza and the frozen yogurt and bring it to your house. So if the basic membership plan offers pizza and frozen yogurt once a week but you want it twice a week, you’re going to have to pay a little more for that. The government can’t subsidize it. It’s just basic economics.
Oh, so now you’re saying I can’t understand basic economics? And that I must be on welfare because the President of the United States ain’t bringing pizza and motherfuckin fat-free, sugar-free rocky road frozen yogurt to my house every other motherfuckin day?
No. I’m not saying that.
Get the fuck out of my way, motherfucker. I’m going to get in my 911 Turbo and put on my driving gloves and do a burnout on your motherfuckin lawn. And I’m going to call the fire department to come and extinguish that burning cross you have in front of your house, too, Joel. Burning crosses are not family-like. Especially not during the holidays. Jesus never said anything about virtue signaling your racial superiority by lighting a motherfuckin crucifix on fire on your front lawn.
That’s right, I didn’t! And if you have a racist, somewhat-annoying neighbor openly committing hate crimes, call the law offices of Jesus H. Christ, Esquire, Attorney at Law. I’ll help you sue that person for so much money, even their great grandkids will be poor and unable to afford the extra 9 bucks a month for the upgraded Blockbuster 2.0 Premium Package.
Anyway….
Welcome to the big show, the Black Friday Sale show that is exactly like every other show except that it is happening on Black Friday. If it’s not Black Friday where you are when you’re seeing or hearing or reading this, or you don’t have Black Friday where you come from, allow me a moment to elaborate.
Black Friday has nothing to do with Black people. Well, not directly. Black people enjoy it as much as other people of color, as well as people of no-color, also known as White people. Because if you take a bunch of different colors of paint and you mix them all together, you get black. But white is the absence of color.
More like the absence of SOUL.
Sheeeit, I heard that.
We’re just a bunch of soulless White people, sitting in our houses, watching our Blockbuster 2.0 Premium and shoving Papa John’s in our mouths, arguing over what time we should order the frozen yogurt: now?; so it’ll be here by the time we finish the pizza? Or later, so we won’t feel like we’re in a rush and so it won’t melt while we’re finishing our pizza?
And we close the curtains because we’re secretly watching Soul Train. Because we’re hoping we’ll be able to get a soul or our own.
Imagine all the poor, disadvantaged, soulless White people.
Who’s that White guy with the gray beard that does the TV commercials for hungry children’s charities? We need him to come on and say, 39% of White people don’t have a soul and can’t afford to buy one. And 89% of White people are Soul Insecure. Think about it: when’s the last time you went to a wedding where there were a lot of White people and you watched them quote unquote dance? There was no soul there. You knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it. But God bless them for getting out on the dance floor doing their best trying to imitate Black folks, because imitation truly is the highest form of flattery. These days you probably call it Cultural Appropriation. And now, for just 18 cents a day, you can help a needy White person in your neighborhood get some soul. Just 18 cents a day can turn your next-door neighbor into a person who can actually sort of dance. So no more full-body dry heaving at the next neighborhood barbecue they crashed even though no one said anything because they brought 2 ice-cold kegs with them and got so drunk they started handing out hundred-dollar bills.
But getting back to Black Friday…
Black Friday is something that happens on Earth, and probably all around the galaxy and maybe even in other galaxies, I don’t know yet but I will let you know when I do. Nevertheless, it is a day on which people go shopping to buy things they maybe shouldn’t be but they are because the things are on sale and are so cheap they just can’t resist.
And it takes place the day after Thanksgiving. Which is an American holiday, the politics of which I’m not going to get into because I’m already fried from talking about racial representation or lack thereof in the systemically-racist 20th century.
Point being that it is an American holiday but the Black Friday sales concept is practiced around the world.
The name Black Friday does not come from anything racial. Not directly. Indirectly, maybe. One could make that argument. But on the face of it, it’s not. Black Friday was the day when the stock market crashed a long time ago that really wasn’t that long ago at all. And that stock market crashing tanked the entire economy. And people lost their jobs. And people lost their homes. And people everywhere were fucked. Black people were fucked. Asian people were fucked. And yes, even the soulless pizza-eatin White people were fucked. You could even make the argument that they were the ones who got fucked the most. And the reason you might say that is because of demographics. If the stock market crash and the Great Depression caused the unemployment rate to go up to 30% – or more – and 3 or 4 out of every 10 people lost their job and the country was 90% white, then it was mostly White people who lost their jobs. That is not to say that Black people didn’t lose their jobs as well. They most certainly did. And when all the people were trying to get another job, it was almost certainly the White people who were chosen first ahead of the Black people. And that’s unfair.
But what would you have done in that position at that time?
If you are a business owner and you need to hire a new person to come and work for you, how will you decide whom to hire? You will probably meet a handful of people, sit down and speak with them, look over their resume, talk with them, get to know them a little, and decide if they would be a good fit, if they would be an asset to your business.
If you are a Black business owner who lives in a Black neighborhood and you need to hire a cashier or a delivery person, someone who is going to be visible to your customer base, who are you going to hire? A young Black person your customers will most likely feel comfortable with? Or the young White girl with a pony tail wearing pink fingernail polish? If you own a Popeye’s, who do you want working the register?
That is not to say that the young White girl with the bubblegum pink fingernails does not deserve the job if she’s the most qualified. But if you interview 10 young people and 9 of them have no experience in a restaurant and no experience working a cash register and taking orders but one person has four years of experience and will require very little training and will be able to come in and hit the ground running on day one, helping your million-dollar chicken restaurant serve more customers, do more business, and hopefully become more profitable so that you can open another one, who are you going to hire?
You are going to hire that person with four years of experience.
But what if she’s White? With long blond hair and pink fingernail polish and a brand new phone in her pocket that you know is more expensive than yours.
Then what?
Do you hire her? And probably make her the manager in about 3 to 4 weeks’ time because she’s that good?
Or do you hire someone with no experience even if it hurts your bottom line because it falls in line with preconceived notions of historical race relations, even though today we know through the benefit of history and of hindsight and centuries of brutal, excruciating experience that race relations have often been tense at best and fatal at their worst. But at the heart of it, at our most basic level, we’re all just people. We’re all human. We all bleed red. If you’re a person of faith and you believe in God, and that you are a child of God, then all people are children of God. Which makes everyone your brother or sister. And even though you might fight like hell with them, at the end of the day, you should kiss and make up. Make amends. Not in an incestuous kind of way. But kiss and make up the way family members do. Family members who love each other and know better than to go to bed angry. Because it’s not how fiercely we fight that matters; it’s how we make up. Reconciliation is the more important part.
So if we’re all children of God and we’re all basically siblings and we’re all equal, why should it matter who works the register at the restaurant beyond their knowledge, skill, and ability to do the job in the most efficient way?
For all we know, that little White girl needs that job so she can save every paycheck in order to go buy herself a new soul. Because she hocked hers to buy that fancy phone.
Which brings us back to Black Friday. That’s today. A day to celebrate blind capitalism in all its glory. Even if it means trampling another person to death on the way into the store to grab the only 55-inch television set which you will take home to watch Blockbuster 2.0.
So.
Welcome, everybody, welcome. Good evening. Good evening Sammy, good evening SB, and a very good evening to The Hot Fudge Sundaes, who I’m sure are primed and ready to make love to our earholes.
So. Know thyself. That’s what I’ve been trying to get to this whole time.
Know thyself.
There was a guy back on Earth a long, long time ago who said that: Know thyself.
That means know who and what you are.
And if you’re an alpha, and you live in a house where there is another alpha, prepare for fireworks. And not the good kind. The shitty kind. Because when you have two people with strong, dominant, perhaps even domineering personalities and those two people try to implement their strategy for dealing with any given situation, they’re going to fight over which strategy gets implemented. And when you combine the familiarity that you find amongst family members who’ve lived together and you therefore take down or remove the Good Behavior stroke Manners facade that we use when we’re out in public or with friends, that’s when the shit really hits the fan.
So if you’re an alpha, congratulations, I guess. Try not to be an asshole. Try not to bully people. It’s very easy and very tempting to tell other people what to do when they’re someone who will do it.
And if you’re a beta cuck like me, well, I don’t really know what to tell you. Join the fuckin club, I guess.
So, yeah: Know thyself.
It takes a long-ass time to get to know yourself.
Speaking of which, we were talking about humans versus aliens. In a friendly sort of way, by the way, not an aggressive, let’s destroy each other and ourselves kind of way.
And not to be confused with animals dressed like humans. Wink, wink.
But what about, and this is the kicker, aliens dressed like humans?
Where’s my main weiner man stroke woman stroke non-binary stroke non-Human from before? I dunno; I can’t see shit up here with all the lights in my eyes.
Point being, what did he she they say before? That they’ve been doing that for a hundred years already, the battle of the network stars. Like, apparently Earth is a giant alien cosplay conference. A stage. Life is but a stage, but a poor player who struts and frets his her hour upon the stage.
Or something like that.
The point is, enjoy it while you can.
Also, for all you Humans back on Earth who feel like you don’t belong, take solace and comfort in this – find PEACE in the following – : It’s simply your star stuff exerting itself.
Remember what Carl Sagan said? We are all star stuff. And we are a way for the Cosmos to know itself. So if you have a big birthmark on your face, for example, it’s just your alien DNA exerting itself.
So embrace your weird.
Let’s put that on a tee shirt: Embrace your weird.
Remember how in the past, women and minorities with souls were oppressed by the soulless White folk? Women weren't allowed to work or go to school or have a job or a career or go to refrigerator college? And neither were Black people or other similar cohorts who weren't quote unquote in charge and it was all because of the patriarchy?
Because they assumed or had observed or believed that those groups weren't capable of doing all the things? Like in the Forties the Army didn't know if quote unquote The Negro could fly an airplane? They could, of course, and they eventually did and thank God for that.
But even today there's this undercurrent that suggests minority cohorts can't succeed without the help of the White savior. The soft bigotry of low expectation. In other words, they can't do it. So let's keep them where they are and protect them from themselves and spare them the embarrassment. Right? Or let’s lower the standards for them. That's sort of the base of that idiotic pyramid of deeply flawed logic.
But don't the aliens look at us, you, Earthlings, Humans, the same way?
Or if not the Aliens, capital A, then the government and the Powers That Be? Whomever has interceded between the Aliens and the rest of Humanity. They're keeping the secret because they believe the people of Earth can't handle it.
Right?
If they tell us, we'll freak out and there will be mass panic and murder and mayhem and the global economy will crash and civilization will grind to a halt and it'll be The Walking Dead without the zombies.
That's the fear, right? That's the official explanation.
We're not ready.
Then teach us.
It seems rather presumptuous and shitty to assume we wouldn't be able to learn.
It was shitty to assume that women couldn't understand politics and therefore shouldn't be voting.
It was shitty to assume that Black men couldn't learn to fly an airplane to help the war effort.
And it's shitty to assume the humans on Earth are too immature to handle the truth.
No matter what Jack Nicholson said in court to Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.
So. Are they right? Are they correct? The aliens, the visitors, the powers that be, the gatekeepers?
Are they doing the right thing? Because the truth is that Humans are not the apex species we think we are. And that actually we're basically cattle. We're equivalent to slaves being harvested from the African continent during the slave trade. We're little more than lab rats.
And there's nothing we can do about it.
And we have an uneasy understanding. We the Humans and them, the Alien Overlords who let us live here, there, on Earth.
The powers that be keep a lid on the truth and the alien overlords do the same.
And the reason why no one spills the beans is because the truth is actually a bloody nightmare. And they wish they could go back to not knowing. So they're sparing everyone else the ugly truth. Like the one guy in The Matrix who betrayed everyone in order to have his memory erased so he could go back to knowing absolutely nothin.
Or do you want the beautiful lie? That’s the name of one of Thirty Seconds to Mars’s albums. A Beautiful Lie. What do the Leto brothers know? Does it really only take thirty seconds to get to Mars? If so, how? And what’s with the album’s cover art iconography? Three skulls. Three arrows. Red arrows. Phallic arrows. Arrows are phallic symbols. They penetrate things. Targets. Hearts. Lovers. Look at Cupid? A little naked flying baby with what? A bow and arrow.
Skulls with arrows pointing at them. Alas, poor Yoric. I knew him well. Now fellate me, Yoric!
GargleGargleGargle.
Skull effing? Is that the point?
Anyway.
Speaking of effing, and of pushing buttons, have you seen Walk the Talk? It’s about a young man named Chris Foney who gets his kicks not on Route 66 but by going into churches and telling them his tale of sinful woe so that they will welcome him to come in and be saved and redeemed.
So he takes them up on their offer.
So he’s in there, going to services almost every day – because you gotta walk the talk – and that’s the title – and people get to know him. And he’s always up front with his tale about how messed up his family is and how messed up he is and how he wants to turn his life around. And he thinks only the Lord can save him at this point. And that maybe all those fine people can help keep him on the straight and narrow.
He then proceeds to drink, smoke weed, and have sex with every eligible woman in the congregation. And he winds up smoking weed with all the young men.
I initially thought this was a stupid idea.
It seemed malicious. Almost mean. Definitely sophomoric.
But if you’re interested in an anti-Big Church project, there you go, there’s a 3% for you.
Walk the Talk, starring Chris Foney and a young woman who looks a lot like
….
Shit, I forgot her name. Cute, pretty, bubbly blond from Knocked Up.
I’ll remember in a minute.
But yeah, she’s the pastor’s daughter and the organist. She plays the ORGAN.
The meat organ. And the skin flute.
And she and Chris are pretty opposite so if he can seduce her – sedooth – in a way that is convincing to us, the audience, that would be pretty impressive. Why do so many good girls lust for bad boys?
In the penultimate penultimate scene, they’re doing it backstage during a service. Right on the altar. And that part of the stage is still curtained off from the congregation. The service is only using the baby stage during this service, which they like to do when they have a lot of baby Christians in the church and want to bring them up on stage to confess. Having a smaller stage makes them more likely to agree to go up there and make fools of themselves by spilling their guts.
Point being that Chris and the pastor’s daughter who looks like…Catherine…Katherine Heigl – got it! – are fully humping, totally screwing their brains out during service. Her tits are out, his ass is in the air, it’s a spectacle. Especially when Chris hits the remote control he rigged up to make the curtain open.
And the whole congregation is watching them fornicate like animals up there right ON THE ALTAR!
Now…
What happens next? How does the church react?
Will they punish them and kick them out for their transgression or will they forgive them?
When Adam and Eve ate the apple, God kicked them out for their transgression. Kicked them out of the Garden. That’s not very good parenting. Your kid eats dissolvable dishwasher pellets from under the kitchen sink and you kick him her it they out of the house? They’ll die.
Your kid is a junkie and a meth head so you kick him her it they them out and then hire a lawyer and a private investigator to gather legal evidence of their drug use by following your kid around and photographing them associating with known dealers, buying drugs, and maybe even using it, or at the very least photos of it in their bedroom. And you use that evidence to blackmail them, ordering them to go away, leave home, don’t ever come back, and do not contact their siblings in any way.
Or their ass goes to jail. And not just to jail; to PRISON.
90 days in County is one thing. 9 years in the state pen is something else. Maybe they’re out in seven if they’re good.
Is that good parenting?
It’s hard, right? Because at some point, you feel like you’ve exhausted all your options. Your kid refuses to get clean and stay clean. It’s relapse after relapse after relapse. They’re getting high in their bedroom. They’re getting high in the garage. They’re getting high when they wake up in the morning. They’re bringing shady-ass people over to the house. You hear people climbing in and out of their bedroom window at all hours of the night. They’re hiding bags of weed in their desk drawer. And then kilos of it under their bed. And then kilos of coke. Like actual kilos. And even though you’ve never seen or touched an actual kilo, you’ve seen them in movies and on TV. So you know it when you see it. And then you start finding needles in the trash. Did your kid suddenly become diabetic?
No.
So what do you do? Eventually…eventually…after great suffering by you and your other family members and your kid’s non-junkie friends, and after more than one full-on bona fide intervention, you eventually get tired of it and cut ties.
And people won’t blame you for doing it. Some mental health and medical experts even say that at some point, that is what you should do.
Even if my kid winds up dead?
Even if your kid winds up dead. It’s their life. You can’t live it for them.
Although…
If you find a parent who cut ties with their junkie kid because it got to be too much and then the kid OD’d and died, and you ask that parent if they wish they’d done more or done something else or tried harder or tried one more time, what do they say? I have no idea; I’m genuinely asking.
So what does the church do when they find Chris and the pastor’s daughter HUMPING on the altar? Right when they’re both climaxing, too. Loudly. For full effect.
Chris acts chagrined and embarrassed but inside he’s trying so hard not to laugh. And the more angry everyone gets, the more assured he becomes in the hypocrisy not only of that church but of THE church. And of all humankind.
He’s Chris Foney and this is A Chris Foney Film. Walk the Talk. Starring Chris Foney and a bunch of people who didn’t know they were being filmed stroke recorded. And in the beginning, when Chris is narrating for us, telling us what he’s going to do – corrupt a church – before he actually goes into the church and starts doing it, he even jokes about how getting all these people to sign releases is going to be impossible. But he thinks he can probably talk them into it.
And then in the final film, the final DOCUMENTARY, which is up against Reese’s pig movie, as well as the others with Ed et al, but in the final cut of the film, the version that takes top prize at every festival it’s entered into, not one person’s face is blurred out. Meaning that Chris was, indeed, successful in talking all those people into signing a release.
Point being that if the church doesn’t vouch for Chris and agree to keep him in their flock or whatever, they’re Hypocrites. Hypo. Krights. Krights of the Hypo persuasion.
People hate that movie. REALLY, REALLY hate it. And him.
But the more they hate it, the more they’re revealing themselves.
He even gets death threats. From the congregation.
I won’t tell you what happens after that but he definitely doesn’t get murdered on-camera by the father of the woman he bangs on the altar. The pastor.
Talk about falling. Being brought low. From King Pastor to cold-blood killer. Murderer.
It’s supposed to be a big parable about God overcoming Satan. Good overcoming Evil.
Your opinion will probably depend at least in part on which part of the Bible you think makes the most sense: Old Testament or New Testament.
Because the Old Testament is all God murdering his kids because they’re evil, sinful pieces of shit who refuse to listen to his instructions. Sodom and Ghomorra type stuff. All aboard the Sodomy train! Last train to Sodomy Town leaves in 5 minutes!
Whereas the New Testament is all about Jesus telling you to turn the other cheek, so when some asshole hits you in the face, you let them hit you again. Which pretty much goes against all of our laws about self defense. Whatever Stand Your Ground laws they had in ancient Israel and Palestine and that whole, huge area where Jesus walked around, places and towns with many names, apparently Jesus wasn’t so much a fan.
Imagine Jesus as a lawyer today doing a TV commercial for his firm: Been shot? Let em shoot you again. And then call the law offices of Jesus H. Christ, Esquire, Attorney at Law. If you don’t bleed to death, call me and I’ll get you almost as much money as I get for myself. Assuming you don’t bleed out. Which you probably will, depending on the caliber of bullet and where said bullet hits you. As long as it misses all your vital organs, and probably your brain, too, you’re rich! I’ll call my dad and we’ll totally make this happen. So get busy pickin out that new muscle car or that two-story McMansion you know will make your friends jealous. Because when you call Jesus H. Christ, Esquire, Attorney at Law, your money is on its way. And I won’t even make you take Communion! Because that’s some fucked-up zombie vampire shit and that was totally NOT what I meant! Call today! And by the way, stop putting the cross everywhere. I hate seeing that thing. That was NOT a fun 3 days. I STILL have PTSD from that shit. Fuckin hanging there all that time and no one helped me? That shit was brutal. I know I volunteered but goddamn! It was almost as bad as law school. Here’s one for you: Jack and Jill went up the hill, each with a buck and a quarter. Jill comes down with $2.50. Oh!
Somewhere, Dice Man’s head is exploding. He’s like, Jesus H. Christ, did Jesus H. Christ just rip me off? Did that motherfucker just steal my joke? I’m gonna beat the holy fuck out of that son of a bitch.
And everyone will be all like, Oh my goodness! He just said the Virgin Mary was a bad word for a female dog. Oh my goodness.
Especially if that female dog doesn’t identify as female. What if that bitch is non-binary? What if that dog is trans? What if she started out as a dog who was assigned the gender of male at birth but now that they’re older, they want to present as more female or gender fluid or maybe on days when they want to bite a postal worker and then run through the sprinklers, they’ll be queer.
If you went to the shelter and brought home a boy dog and then a year later you woke up one morning with a girl dog, and you kinda don’t like it, does that make you transphobic? Don’t you want your dog to be happy? Since when is this relationship about YOU? What difference does it make if your dog lifts a leg or squats? If it he she they pee on a fire hydrant or piddle in the grass?
Andrew Dice Clay got banned from MTV, by the way.
That’s really hypocritical and stupid.
Celebrate him and love him and pay him and reward him for what he does and then ban him after he comes and does what you asked him to do because he didn’t do it YOUR way?
Who the fuck are you?
If you’re such an expert, why are you hiring him? Why don’t you get up there and tell jokes with millions of people staring at you? See how easy it isn’t.
What were we talking about?
We were talking about knowing yourself.
Who said that?
Actually, many people said that. A long time ago.
The point is to get to know yourself. Take yourself on a date. Talk sweetly to yourself. Take yourself to dinner and a movie. And then, after several weeks, if all goes well, try to get into your own pants. See if you will let yourself get to first base. And if you do decide to go all the way with yourself, make sure you practice safe sex. You don’t want to get yourself in trouble. Because that’s not how you treat a friend. And if you’re not ready to have a baby with yourself, then you really shouldn’t be having sex with yourself. But no matter what, don’t let it be a one-night stand. Make sure you call yourself the next day to say thank you for a lovely evening, and to hopefully ask yourself if you’d like to do it again sometime.
Where does the word spliff come from?
Who invented that?
Does anyone know?
Or did it simply evolve through decades of drug culture across many geographical and socioeconomic landscapes?
Who is the foremost expert in drug culture?
When the History Channel or PBS need someone who knows everything there is to know about the history of drug culture, who do they call?
Does that person have a PhD?
Can you get a PhD in Drug Culture? Which schools have the best programs? How experienced are the faculty? What is the syllabus like? A shitload of Hunter Thompson and Philip K. Dick? A lot of discourse around Trainspotting and Breaking Bad and True Romance and Scarface?
I think Blockbuster 2.0 should be $2.99 per movie or $30 per month. If you rent stroke watch 10 or more movies, you automatically qualify for the $30 package, which means unlimited movies for the rest of the month – at no extra cost; you’ve already paid $30. You’re good!
And if you watch fewer than 10 movies, that’s all you pay. Each movie is a la carte up to 10. And each movie rented at $2.99 counts towards that $30. So if you go crazy and watch 4 movies on the 1st of the month and again on the 2nd and 3rd of the month, you’ve now watched 12 movies. But you only paid for 10: $30. The other two are free. As are any other movies you watch that month. Because you met the $30 threshold.
If you want, you can simply sign up for $30 per month or pay annually upfront and get 2 free months; meaning that instead of paying $30 x 12 ($360), you only pay $300.
And the best part is that you also receive one pizza delivered to your door and one order of frozen yogurt delivered to your door.
Because we wanted it to be as similar as possible to visiting the actual Blockbuster; there are always restaurants of some kind nearby.
The Premium package…
I have no idea.
Same stuff, just more pizza? Free cookie dough (that you absolutely MUST NOT eat uncooked; wink wink)?
Or something…more?
How about exclusive access to new releases before everyone else? 24 hours? 48 hours? A week? I have no idea. And how about more pizza, more frozen yogurt, or Ben & Jerry’s. By the way, can we stop demonizing the ice cream, please? Please? Let’s just enjoy it and use our love of ice cream as a reason to see and embrace our shared humanity rather than our cultural divisions. Because one leads to super happy fun time. The other leads to shit.
Have you ever stolen a screen out of the faucet in a public bathroom?
Not the screen in the window; the screen in the FAUCET.
Stoners steal them to use them in their bowl stroke pipe stroke bong.
Why, for fuck’s sake, they can’t simply BUY some screens is something I’ve never understood. If they can afford weed AND a pipe or a bong or even papers – to roll joints aka spliffs; there’s that word again – then they can certainly afford to buy screens. Screens are very affordable, even for the budget stoner; they’re like 10 for a dollar. 5 for a dollar. Give me a break.
SB, hit it.
SB: I thought you’d never ask. Ladies and gentlemen, owners of earholes everywhere, prepare yourselves for a musical tongue massage of epic proportions. Comin at you now with their latest intergalactic hit song Ballad of the Budget Stoner, put your appendages together and show some love to the one and only Hot Fudge Sundaes.
{musical interlude}
There you go. Ballad of the Budget Stoner. I don’t know about you guys but I haven’t been that aroused by music since the first time I heard All Along the Watchtower. That’s what that reminded me of.
Speaking of ballads, here’s an idea that writes itself: Talladega Nights 2 – Ricky Bobby Takes Europe…Roughly.
In a nutshell, Sascha Baron Cohen invites Ricky to come to Paris. After much debate, Ricky goes. Once he’s in Paris and it’s a fish out of water dumpster fire shit show fuck fest of grimace proportions, Sascha Cohen reveals the real reason he asked Ricky to come to Paris: he needs him to drive his racecar for him. Maybe he and his husband are trying to have a baby and the doctors say he can’t race for at least 90 days because the bumping and the G-forces are making him infertile. And since Ricky doesn’t care about things like crepes or democracy or fertility, he goes for it. And we soon have Will Ferrell in Formula 1 as Ricky Bobby. Doing the Driver’s Parade before every race, doing the pre- and post-race interviews and press conferences, all while squeezed into one of Jean Gerard’s Perrier racing suits and forever sucking on a bottle of water with a long plastic straw like all the other drivers do, even though his bottle is empty and he doesn’t know why everyone is doing it. Someone handed him a bottle and he just started sucking on it like the other drivers. And speaking of other drivers, where are all the chicks? Why aren’t there any ladies in Formula 1? Where’s Danica? He wants to take Danica at the top of the Eiffel Tower. No, not TO the Eiffel Tower; at the Eiffel Tower. Could you imagine Ricky Bobby in Monaco?
The story writes itself.
3%.
Please.
And a cameo.
If I’m ever back on Earth. Or Will can come up here. If the man with the red skin and white hair wants to pop down to Earth and fetch him.
And then imagine the reaction in the movie when they come to the states to race in Vegas. And Miami.
And Texas.
Imagine Ricky Bobby and Max Verstappen going at it on the track.
And Will and Danica going at it off the track.
And of course Cal shows up. Cal Naughton, Jr. The Magic Man. There to cheer on his old buddy El Diablo. Which is like a Mexican fighting chicken. With the claws. And the beak.
Because if you ain’t first, you’re last.
Ricky Bobby Takes Europe…Roughly.
The Griswolds can have a cameo. The Pig in a Poke winners.
So, here’s a question: Why would that be funny? Will Ferrell playing a redneck galavanting around Europe. Because he’s a redneck and isn’t educated or sophisticated? Because he’s, egads, an American?
At its core, is that any different than if he was Black?
Isn’t prejudice and bigotry prejudice and bigotry? Period? Full stop?
Or are certain kinds of prejudice and bigotry allowed? Like keeping the truth about Aliens under wraps.
And where is the line between prejudice, bigotry…and buffoonery?
Or does buffoonery exist in a hazy shade of winter gray zone that’s on a spectrum all its own kind of like your recently-trans canine?
If you’re a huge NASCAR fan, are you also a huge Talladega Nights fan? Why or why not?
One of the funniest lines of all time is in Friends when Chandler and Ross go home from college to Ross’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving and Monica makes mac and cheese for Chandler because he doesn’t eat any Thanksgiving food. And after dinner, he’s sitting on the sofa eating a piece of pie and Monica sits on the sofa next to him and he bounces up in the air because she’s really fat and weighs a lot. And she asks him how the mac and cheese was and he says, It was really good, you should be a chef.
And Monica goes, Okay!
And that’s how why and when she became a chef. That’s Chef Monica’s origin story. It’s all thanks to Mizz Chanandler Bong.
And remember the reason why Chandler doesn’t eat any Thanksgiving food? His origin story?
It was because during Thanksgiving dinner, his parents informed him that they were getting a divorce. His mom, the romance novelist, tried to assuage her son’s fears by saying, Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean that we don’t still love you. It just means that your dad would rather sleep with the pool boy than with me.
And she looks across the lovely, festive table and all the scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner trays and treats. At the man sitting across from her. At the other end of the table. Far away. Such that we only see the back of his head. And she grins the greatest shit-eating grin at him because she’s so pleased with her own joke and her brazen willingness to shock her son while disguising it as trying to console and love him.
And then the best part is when the waiter brings the platter of turkey around the table to where Chandler, young twelve year old Chandler, or maybe he was ten; I forget, and the waiter stoops down to Chandler’s eye level and he’s a young, handsome yet pretty olive-skinned young man with funkysexy hair. And he says, with an exotic and amused accent connoting gayness, More turkey, Meester Chand-lerr?
And Chandler then vomits.
We don’t see it because they cut away. But Chandler later informs everyone that he did so. And that’s the reason why he can’t eat Thanksgiving food: Because he puked it all up. Or, as he put it, he saw it in reverse.
I can totally understand that. When I was in fifth grade, I puked up a banana on a field trip. We went to the Lawrence Hall of Science in San Francisco.
San Francisco.
What is San Francisco known for?
That’s right: its hills.
And other stuff. Like mass theft and human poop on the sidewalks, for which there is an app, by the way. Like Waze for poo. Which, I guess, makes the poo like the police? The poolice?
But it used to be, once upon a time, back when San Francisco was a kick-ass city beloved the world over, the thing it was most famous for was its hills.
And the reason is because the man who drew up the plans lived back East. In like Boston or Philadelphia. New England. In the 1800s. And he’d never been to California. He’d never been out west. So he had no idea what it looked like. The topography. He had no idea it was so hilly and mountainous albeit with small mountains.
So he drew up a grid. His design for San Francisco was a grid. A bunch of streets facing north south and a bunch facing east west. And it was going to be fast and efficient and awesome.
And it is. In ways that dude could never imagine. Because his impractical design is exactly what makes San Francisco awesome. It’s so hilly. It’s nuts. Some of the streets are straight-up fuckin scary to drive on. God help you if you’re driving a stick and aren’t very good at it yet. Or if your brakes are shit.
I had to ride up and down those hilly, windy, winding streets in a school bus. And it took longer than it should’ve because the bus couldn’t take the most direct route. Because the most direct route was too steep. So we had to take a meandering pain in the ass make you sick route. And that’s exactly what it did. The ride made me nauseous. And I wound up puking on the grey carpet in the middle of the museum. Surrounded by people. Scrambled eggs, mostly.
A couple hours later, during lunch, we were all sitting outside on the grass. And the grass was kick-ass. It was lush, thick, long-stemmed green grass. Dark green. Perfect, too. No weeds. No burnt or brown or yellow areas. All green. Dark forest green. It was a very impressive lawn. And we all had sack lunches. And I couldn’t eat what was in mine. I was nauseous and had no appetite and the idea of eating made me want to puke again. I think it was a peanut butter and honey sandwich. Which was something I’d never even heard of let alone eaten. So I couldn’t eat.
Until one of the dads offered me his banana.
An actual piece of fruit. A yellow banana; not his penis; you sicko.
And a banana kinda sounded good. So I took it and ate about half of it before I realized it was coming right back up.
And I didn’t want to puke in front of a bunch of people trying to eat lunch. Which were namely the teachers. Because all the other kids had shunned me. I was therefore relegated to lunch with the teachers and parents who’d volunteered to come along and help corral us throughout the trip. This was an overnight trip, by the way. We slept in an old fort. It was crazy. Like a concrete shelter built into the earth overlooking the Pacific ocean. Built there I believe in the Forties lest any Japs succeed in taking the beach.
So I got up and went to find a secluded place to heave my guts out. And that turned out to be the center of the circle. The circle was comprised of all the kids in the two classes that had gone on this trip. About sixty kids. Two schoolbuses’ worth of kids. And everyone was sitting in a circle on the lawn because the trees were planted in a circle and that’s where the shade was. So I stumbled and staggered out into the middle of the circle, arms clutching my belly, because I knew only one thing: the Hell that is violent, painful vomiting. And I knew not therefore where I was going. Merely away from people. To a place which turned out to be the place with the most number of people. Basically center stage. The fifty yard line.
And one of the dads, I think it was non-penis-banana dad, hurries over to me and says, Okay, Captain Blank, where do you wanna do this?
And I answered by doing it right there. Up came the banana. It was hot and yellow and slimy and stringy with long white gossamer gobs of spit. And the sight smell and taste of it was almost enough to make me puke again. As is always the case when I puke. Which is why I’ve learned to do it with my eyes closed. I just make sure I have my hand on the flush handle before it even starts. Because I’m flushing immediately. I am not gonna sit there and stare at it. Or smell it.
And I didn’t eat a banana for about eight years.
It was a long time.
And then one day it sounded good again. So I had one. And it was very good. It was the perfect ripeness and sweetness. A tiny bit green on the peel but the yellow is bright and there’s no brown yet. And it’s still firm. You know it won’t mush on you when you peel it. And it’s firm and not mealy but also not bitter. It’s just about a perfect banana.
And now, coming back to the stage, ready willing and able to make love to your earholes with their brand new song about perfect sex, please slap your appendages together for the one and only Hot Fudge Sundaes!
{musical interlude}
Yass, yass, yass. That was exceptional. I almost feel like I just had perfect sex. And for some reason I imagine Steve Carell saying that. And grinning. Hands in his pockets.
And don’t worry about Ess Bee Vee not doing the intro for the boys. He’s busy eating nachos. So he’s feeling no pain.
But like Joey said to Ross when they were debating letting everyone eat Rachel’s Shepherd’s Pie meat thing, Vomiting stories, italics on, are funny.
And then, after little Chandler puked his guts out and was put off turkey and gravy and stuffing for life, I like to think that his mom took care of him. She helped him in the bathroom to clean up a bit from the vomiting. She helped him brush his teeth and gave him some water to drink. She helped him put on his jammies and climb into bed. And then she sat on the edge of his bed and soothed him. By saying, Listen, honey, your dad and me getting divorced is no big deal. He’ll move out, you and I will stay here together, and everything’s going to be fine. You can visit him whenever you like but you don’t haff to if you don’t want to. And when you get older, one day you’ll see that all of this was for the best. And one day you’ll grow up and get married and have a child of your own and maybe you guys will even stay married and maybe you’ll even live happily ever after. But maybe you won’t. It happens. Look at me and your dad. They say fifty percent of all married couples get divorced. Half of all marriages fail. So it’s actually pretty normal. So whatever you decide to do in your life is fine. Besides, being married with children is overrated. Just ask Al Bundy. Most of those people are secretly miserable. And the only time they’re actually happy is on special occasions and holidays like Christmas. Because everyone is so excited that they’re on their best behavior. And knowing that makes it better. Because there’s less fear that something’s going to go wrong. And the happy day will be ruined. And it won’t be a happy day ever again. No matter how many other men you sleep with. Just ask your dad, he would know. Goodnight, kiddo.
And she gets up and switches off the light and closes the door and leaves and goes down the hall to her glorious palatial peach and cream bedroom suite thinking she’s Mother of the Year because it takes guts to be honest with your children.
So that’s why Chandler hates Thanksgiving. And, if you think about it, we might say that the reason Monica is a chef is not because of Chandler but rather because of the pool boy. More turkey, Meester Chandlerr?
Jack and Jill went up the hill, each with a buck and a quarter. Jill came down with two fifty. Oh!
Dirty nursery rhymes.
By the way, if you’ve never seen Brainsmasher: A Love Story, you should. Andrew Dice Clay is in it with Terry Hatcher. It’s hilarious. They’re both really good.
Have we talked about this? It seems like we’ve talked about this. I’m getting a really strong day ja voo right now. That’s dee ee jay ay, vee oh you ess. It’s French. Or Fronch if you want to be toity. Fronch fries. Fronch dressing. And to drink, Peru!
That’s from Better Off Dead. Also worthy of your time if you’re not familiar.
Have you ever noticed that a lot of the great mythical heroes had long hair? Specifically the dudes. Look at Samson. The great Biblical Samson. He used to go into Gaza and kick the shit out of Gazans. That’s how he met Delilah. She was chillin on a rock, brushing her hair, and he saw her. And he was like, She’s mine! So he went to her dad and was all like, I want her! And her dad was like, You’re a rich man; okay! And poor ol Delilah didn’t have a whole lot of say in the matter. Which is perhaps why she schemed to cut off Samson’s hair. He had long hair that was the source of his great strength.
Look at Rapunzel. I know I said dudes but she’s probably the greatest example of all.
Did you ever see the adaptation with Jeff Bridges? When he falls from the tower and hits his head on a log and blood pours out of his eyes? It’s terrifying.
Look at Brad Pitt in Troy as Achilles. Long blond hair. Gorgeous.
Look at Henry Cavill in The Witcher as the Witcher. Long blond hair. Total stud.
Look at David Coverdale, lead singer of Whitesnake and husband to Tawny Kitaen, who didn’t care for Tom Hanks’s chunky style potato salad in the Eighties’ smash hit comedy Bachelor Party.
Okay, as a brief aside, here’s a quick question for the guys: Imagine you’re a single guy, late twenties, probably, still in your prime. Not married but there’s someone you’ve got your eye on who you want really bad. But she’s into this other guy. But you and she know each other and you seem to get along and she’s always really nice and she’s really hot and you think the two of you would get along great if that other guy wasn’t around. So you’re gonna kill him.
So on the night he has his bachelor party prior to marrying her, the woman you’re after, you book a hotel room in the hotel across the street from the one where he’s having his bachelor party with tons of people and hookers and dope and pills and a donkey and the whole thing.
And you’ve got your crossbow.
And you’re perched in your window like a sniper. You’re like Bradley Cooper in Iraq, pluggin bad guys from half a mile away doin overwatch for the guys on the ground who are the real heroes.
And just like him, you want the pink mist. You wanna canoe his head.
So when he leans out of the open window on the fourteenth floor, which is actually the thirteenth, of course, you have a clear line of sight. Pink mist in three, two, one oh wait, there’s a knock at the door.
oh fuck.
You quickly stash the crossbow and its totally not suspicious carrying case under the bed. You go to the door of your hotel room and open it, wondering who it could possibly be. Room service? Even though you didn’t order any. Maybe complimentary champagne because they saw you drive up in your brand new shiny black Porsche and they can tell what a great guy you are?
But when you open the door, it’s not room service. It’s not a guy in a vest carrying a tray.
It’s a woman.
A gorgeous woman.
A redhead. With huge tits. Sorry; ample breasts.
Wearing a baby-blue dress or gown that looks like a nightgown or lingerie and is very beautiful and sexy.
And she says, Make love to me…italics so on, please.
What do you do?
Ladies, what would you do in that situation?
Guys, what would you do?
If you wanna know what crossbow man does, you’ll haff to watch Bachelor Party.
And if you’ve already seen it a hundred times, you know.
Were they actually in the same hotel? I think so.
Doesn’t matter; anyway, the point is the long hair. And how musicians often have long hair.
Why is that?
Is it because they live a life of artistry which values heroism? And long hair?
Consider the corollary: a military man. High and tight. Why? Because in combat, long hair is a liability.
Why do you think MMA fighters get cornrows before a fight?
So, was Samson’s hair truly magical? Or was it all in his mind? Because after his wife cut it off while he was asleep, after she did a Lorena Bobbitt on him, a bunch of dudes she knew and was working with from Gaza came and grabbed Samson and kidnapped him back to Gaza. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was weak and feckless without his hair.
So they tortured him. They gouged out his eyes. And when he was almost ready to die from shock and blood loss, they dragged him into a big beautiful building where they were having a huge party celebrating his capture and defeat. And everyone beheld the once mighty Samson. Shimshone, they would’ve pronounced it back then. At one point, Samson manages to get the aid of a young boy and he asks the kid to guide him over to one of the great pillars so he can rest for a minute before he dies.
So the kid leads him over there. And then Samson pushes on the giant stone column and knocks it over and the roof collapses and kills everyone, and thus he has his sweet revenge because he killed all those fuckers.
He died, too, but who cares; he frickin got em! Haha!
Right?
So, was it his hair or not?
If it was, how did he knock down the pillar or pillars if he did two at the same time? You’d haff to be crazy insane strong to be able to do that. And if he was strong enough to do that, why wasn’t he strong enough to fight those fuckers off when they came and dragged him out of his bed after the bitch Delilah cut his hair off? Because it suggests that it was all in his mind. His strength and his weakness. Because he regained his strength at the end in order to exact revenge.
But his strength and his weakness were in his mind. They were internal. They came from him. So, did he not know himself?
What can we learn from that?
Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right?
Unless it really was his hair. In which case, what shampoo was he using?
That’s our show!
Thank you!
Thank you for coming, it was a pleasure, hope to see you again soon!
Goodnight!
Remember to tip your waitress!
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