Alien Night Club - Show 36?
Alien Night Club <the transcripts>
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Hello hello hello!
Show 35! Boxing Day!
Is it Boxing Day? I think it’s actually the day after Boxing Day.
Ooh, that’s an interesting title: The Day After Boxing Day.
Sounds ominous.
It has nothing to do with boxing, by the way. For the non-British as well as anyone who may not be aware, Boxing Day is a holiday in England. And probably the whole UK? I’d haff to check that. But in England, Boxing Day is the day after Christmas. It’s when the nobility would give gifts to their staff, all the people who make life livable by doing the day to day work around the house and the estate. The housekeeper, the butler, the maid, the groundskeeper, the farrier or equestrian expert takes care of the horses. The driver if they have one who isn’t also a butler.
I’m not British so I really know almost nothing about this. So if there are any Brits in the club tonight, do please let us know.
The name comes from the use of a box to gather up the gifts, I believe. What I originally heard was that the gifts were mostly the leftovers from Christmas dinner. Which was a banquet, I’m sure. But the staff wasn’t invited to sit down and eat with the family. That’s just not how it was. So the gifting of the leftovers was a show of goodwill and appreciation. Gotta make the awkward class-based society a bit more livable around the estate, I suspect. Pip pip and cheerio. Jolly good and do crack on.
Have you guys seen Lady Chatterly’s Lover? The remake, which is new, or at least newer, or the original from early- to mid-80s? Or, better yet, ready the bloody book?
Michael Caine says, If you haven’t already, read the bloody book! It’s Nathanael bloody Hawthorne. Oh, bugger, no it ain’t. It’s D.H. bloody Lawrence. My mistake. I was so upset about the fact that no one reads anymore that I forgot who wrote the thing I was trying to get you all to read. It was written in 1928 and has lots and lots of sex in it. It’s basically porn. If that helps. Which I suspect it will. It was even banned in multiple countries because it has a lot of dirty words, depictions as well as descriptions of sexual intercourse, and, worst of all — EGADS! — it has a depiction of a relationship between an upper-class woman and a lower-class man: Lady Chatterly, a woman of nobility from landed gentry, and her groundskeeper. There’s people having sex in a moving car, anal sex in a barn, and lust stains on a maid’s little frilly black maid’s uniform. What more could you possibly want? One Amazon reviewer called it the 50’s 50 Shades. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than stand around casting pearls to swine. I know you don’t know what that means, either, so I’ll just be on my way.
Um, thank you, Michael. Mr. Caine. For that erudite elevator pitch.
Don’t you just love it when you talk about something and then that very same something pops up all over your devices in various ads? And not even because you did a search for it, which is at least understandable. But because you only spoke about it. Say you discussed rice. White rice. And the next day, you have rice ads everywhere. How? Like Chandler said to Joey when Joey tried to pitch him on his discovery of his identical hand twin: How?
Spyware, that’s how.
But getting back to Lady Chatterly and D.H. Lawrence and Boxing Day, by Marshall Talbot. Please, stuff your faces with my mother’s crab cakes. Excuse me!
They had a thing for crab cakes.
I seem to have lost my train of thought.
Ergo…
Welcome, everyone, to the Alien Night Club. I am your host, Captain Blank. Welcome, all my fellow rageaholics. All aboard the sodomy meat train.
We were talking about Boxing Day. And The Day After Boxing Day. Which is just another day, I suppose. Back to work. Work, work, work, scrub, scrub, scrub, dig, dig, dig. You get the idea. And then a young man on a motorcycle rides up the country road to your estate. Or what’s left of your estate. It’s in tatters and ruins now. You simply haven’t the time or the knowhow to set it right again. It would take an entire team working months on end. So the lad on the motorcycle becomes a welcomed addition. It is just you and your mother, after all. And your mother’s lost her sight so it’s really just you. And he is a handsome lad. He smells of leather, and oil, and danger in that black jacket he wears. He doesn’t wear a helmet when he rides, of course, because this all happened years before the world went all mamby-pamby. If a person on a motorcycle doesn’t want to wear a helmet, he shouldn’t haff to. As Mr. Jerry Seinfeld once said, The only thing dumber than the helmet is the helmet law, a law aimed at protecting the brain of a person too stupid to protect the head that it’s in. He’s quite right. Even a minor spill could be deadly if one were to hit their head. And yet a helmet would mean the difference between life and death. But so many people don’t want to wear one. It’s mind boggling, really. I must admit I’ve ridden motorcycles many times. Sometimes I wore a helmet. Sometimes I didn’t. Mostly, I did. Very much because it was required by law where I lived at the time but also because I understood the risks. I hit my head once quite badly when I was a boy and that was whilst I was riding a friend’s bicycle. Not a motorcycle going 70 miles an hour. A bicycle. Now, obviously, one can go quite fast on a bicycle as well and a helmet is a good thing to have in your kit because even a minor bump can be quite dangerous. The bicycle I was riding belonged to the brother of my friend and I’d only borrowed it for an afternoon. It was too big for me. He and I somehow collided and I knew I was going to crash. And this was at very low speed, by the way, a mere 2 to 3 miles per hour. It was nothing. I knew I was going to crash so I attempted to jump off. I managed to land on my feet but I’d gotten turned around midair as my momentum carried me. I fell over backward and hit my head quite hard on the pavement. My whole head began to vibrate in a most frightful way and I knew at once something was wrong, that I had indeed injured myself. How badly I did not yet know. But it was a few days before Christmas and I’d not yet gotten a gift for my father. I wanted very much to give him a present on Christmas morning, something worthy of my love for him.
And so, despite my accident and trauma, we pressed on, my friend, my younger brother, and myself. I got back on my friend’s brother’s bicycle, the very same I’d only moments ago crashed on, and we rode to the shops. I found a gift for my father, though I can’t at the moment recall what it was. Because of the trauma, I suspect. You know how they say a knock on the head can impair one’s ability to lay down new experiences as permanent memories.
Anyway, after we’d finished our shopping we went to lunch. Just a little fast food establishment. In America, this was, at one of a chain of Mexican restaurants called Del Taco. Del Taco. Which I supposed in Spanish means of tacos or the tacos. I don’t really know, I must confess my Spanish is a bit rusty.
Nevertheless, as we were eating our lunch of burritos and fried potatoes — French fries in America — I suddenly became quite sleepy. Quite sleepy, indeed.
Now, most of you probably are aware that the immediate onset of severe sleepiness is a sign of concussion. That one is in fact concussed. It’s part of the body’s healing process, I suspect. It’s almost as if your brain wants to shut down and restart. A bit like we do with our phones when they’ve gone a bit haywire.
But there I was, sitting in a small booth with my friend and my brother, trying to enjoy my lunch but I was overcome with fatigue and exhaustion. I attempted to lay sideways in the booth in order to sleep right there in the restaurant. If I could but close my eyes, even for a moment, I was certain I could find relief.
But the booth was made entirely of a hard plastic or fiberglass, I suspect, and it was painted a very intense and bright yellow. That I recall quite vividly. And sleep was really quite impossible. And we were trying to enjoy a nice lunch, besides.
I don’t recall if I did in fact eat my bean burrito filled with refried beans and tangy red sauce and oodles of melted cheese I normally so adored. Nor the French fries dipped in catsup that I’d discovered was quite the scrumptious combination when paired with the burrito. I do recommend it.
At any rate, we finished our lunch, climbed back atop our bicycles, and rode home, back to the house where I lived with my parents and brother and sisters. It wasn’t terribly far, only a few miles, really. But by the time we’d arrived, I was sleepier still, even more than I had been in the restaurant. So I went into my bedroom and did what we all do when we’re tired: I had a lie down and attempted to sleep. Which is of course the exact, perfectly wrong thing to do when you’ve been concussed. The brain can swell, you see, if the injury is severe, and it can put pressure on the brain stem, which is at the back of your head down low. And if that happens, it can put pressure on the part of your brain that tells you to breathe. You can stop breathing and perhaps even die in your sleep. Which is why if you or someone in your care hits their head, no matter how slight or severe, you must not let them sleep. You must keep them awake.
My friend hounded me to ride his brother’s bicycle back to their house but I couldn’t be bothered. I was simply too tired. My mother eventually offered to drive us in our Suburban, a very large SUV built by Chevrolet, and she became somewhat annoyed at the sight of me, as she was busy with a million other things, of course. I did my best to explain what had happened and she asked me if I wanted her to take me to hospital.
That was a terrifying prospect. So I of course said no. She and my friend and my brother took care of the bicycles and I returned to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed, still wearing my clothes, and I immediately fell fast asleep.
I awoke some time later that evening. My older sister was trying to awaken me in order to come and eat dinner. My parents had gone out for the evening and we were on our own. My sister knew our mother would be cross if she returned home and learned I’d skipped supper and that she would likely take it out on her. She therefore did her utmost to rouse me to dinner.
But I would have none of it. I only wanted to sleep. And so they left me alone. Which is of course the exact, perfectly wrong thing to do for a person who has just hit their head, no matter how slight.
Anyway, the next thing I knew, it was morning. I was still in bed, still dressed in my blue jeans and tee shirt from the day before. It was a school day and my siblings and friends had all gone off to school while I slept. I stumbled out of bed and recall feeling very much out of sorts and a bit scared, really. I went looking for my mum.
When I found her, she was again rather cross. She was on the telephone and ordered me to go change my clothes. Which I thought was a bit odd to say to a child who’d been through a head trauma. I was rather hurt, really. So I returned to my bedroom and went back to sleep, feeling rather somewhat dejected.
I don’t recall exactly what happened next. Obviously I woke up some time later and resumed my normal life. My brain did not swell in my sleep. At least, not enough to suffocate me. And life went on.
Point being — AHHHHH!!! — that had I been wearing a helmet, all of that could’ve been avoided. And almost certainly would have been, I suspect. The moral of this typically longwinded and quite boring tale is, of course, to wear a helmet when the wearing of a helmet is called for. My injury took place long before helmet laws had been enacted so that is my excuse. Today, we have no such excuse. We all know the risks, we all know the dangers. So, please, I implore you, wear a bloody helmet. Even though they all look quite stupid and you will, as Richard Hammond once said, look a tit. Now, on with the show!
Boxing Day, by Marshall Talbot.
Just kidding.
We’ve plumbed the depths of that joke. Let’s move on.
Getting back to the good stuff — the sex — I haven’t actually read Lady Chatterly’s Lover. I have come into possession of a copy recently. I’m reading it now.
Captain, you’re saying, how the fuck did you manage to get a copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover on a motherfuckin spaceship?
I don’t know. There was a copy here.
What does that say?
Of all the books that could be on a spaceship, that’s the one?
It must be really good. I’ve only read the first chapter and so far it is, it is good. It’s well written. D.H. knew what he was doing. If indeed it was a he. I think it was. We can call him they if you prefer. It could be a woman. I’m pretty sure it’s a man but maybe it was a woman pretending to be a man.
There was a famous science fiction writer a friend of mine told me about. He was awesome. Everyone who loved the genre knew his name and had read at least something by him.
Turned out to be a woman.
Because back then, editors and publishers believed it was far and away — did you guys see that movie? — by and large guys reading science fiction. And the belief was that guys wanted to read stuff written by other guys.
More patriarchy bullshit.
Mostly.
I’ll explain.
Remember Throw Momma from the Train? Great movie with Danny DeVito and Billy Crystal. And Anne Ramsey. She was the mom in Goonies. And Danny DeVito directed it. I always thought it was directed by Rob Reiner but I was wrong; it was Danny DeVito.
The point is — I almost said it — that Billy Crystal plays a struggling novelist who just cannot find the perfect opening line for his new novel. He’s trying to describe the night.
The night was hot and wet.
The night was moist.
Stupid, right?
He just can’t get it.
Anyway, he teaches a creative writing class in the evenings. That’s where he meets Danny DeVito, who is also writing a book.
At one point in the film, other students in the class are reading their work. A middle-aged woman reads her work. It is about people on a submarine. And she goes, Dive, said the captain. And the man pushed the thing, and they dove.
And you should see the look Billy Crystal gives her. It’s priceless. Stonefaced. He’s so appalled.
Is stoneface a racial slur nowadays?
Is it a slight on American Indians? Native Americans? I really don’t know how to refer to that cohort, okay? I mean no disrespect. I don’t think any of us do. It’s just that the language is evolving so quickly that we can’t keep up with it. What’s PC today won’t be a few years from now. And we never get the memo.
The only time you get the memo is after you’ve said it and they come for you.
The only time you get the memo is when it’s too late. The damage is already done. You’ve been cancelled. And now you have to wait 6 or 7 years before they’ll let you back in. It’s like you're a dog that shit on the floor because no one would let you out. You held it as long as you could but ultimately you didn’t take that shit; that shit took you. It jumped out of your little doggie butt and landed on the carpet. You tried your best to hold it. You sat by the door for hours, looking around at everyone in the house, trying to tell them. Whenever someone approached, you pawed the door. You looked up at it. Then at them. Imploringly as you could with your doggie facial expression and canine body language. Whenever someone came close, you stood up and panted and wagged your tail and tried to look excited at the prospect of going outside. But then they kept walking and did not open the door. So you stood there waiting and hoping they were coming back. But they never did. So you sat down again and leaned against the door, waiting, pawing, tapping at the glass with your little doggie claws, hoping to make enough noise to communicate your physical needs but without damaging the glass. But they never let you out. And finally, after many hours, almost an entire day, 24 hours, that shit took you. It slid out of your butt so you squatted like you always do and let nature take its course.
And when they saw it, they got mad. Angry. And they yelled at you and opened the door for you.
But now it’s too late. You stupid primates.
They say something like 80% of all communication is through body language. It’s not spoken words at all. It’s not English. It’s body language. Facial expressions and eye movements and eyebrows and lips and teeth, hand gestures, leaning forward or backward while talking, crossing your arms across your chest to signify that you’re closed off, or facing a person directly and squarely to communicate that you like them or that you hate them but at least you’re listening, they have your full and undivided attention.
So what does a dog haff to do to get the full and undivided attention of the hairless apes who control the opening and closing of the door?
Put the handle lower and the dog can open the door him or herself. It’s not that difficult. They see the longpigs do it and understand how it works. It’s just that the door handle is positioned in a place that’s convenient for them. Maybe put another handle down low so they can push it open with their nose. They’ll open the door for themselves and will go outside when they need to. No more dog shit on the carpet.
Because no one likes, enjoys, or wants to clean up dog shit, especially not when it’s on carpet. Carpet has fibers. Fibers trap stuff. Especially pasty stuff. They require solvents and cleaners and liquids and rubbing in order to be cleaned. Or a professional with a giant vacuum cleaner that blasts liquid into the carpet and then sucks it back out again. And even then, with all that equipment, the big van parked out front with the tank of water and all the cleaners, and the giant plastic pipes snaking from the van into the house, even after all of that, the carpet is still wet. It’s damp. And you’re not supposed to walk on it. Because the dirt from your shoes will get rubbed off and the carpet will get soiled again. Carpet is basically a huge pain in the ass. So why do so many people have it? Especially when they also have animals in the home. Dogs and cats who have pains in their own asses because they need to shit really badly. The dog must look at the cat’s litter box and think, What the fuck? They get to shit in the kitchen but I haff to go outside where it’s cold as fuck?
And the cat’s are like, Yep! Read it and weep, bitch.
And the dogs are like, We’re not playing poker.
Have you guys seen that commercial with Joe Theismann playing poker with a bunch of dogs? There’s a famous painting called Dogs Playing Poker. It’s dogs sitting around a poker table, literally playing poker. Holding cards and everything. In the commercial, they recreate that and they have Joe Theismann sitting at the table playing cards with them. And every few moments, one of the dogs picks up a Milkbone dog biscuit treat and snaps it in half. And it makes a gnarly CRUNCH! sound.
And finally, after several crunches, Joe goes, Okay, very funny, guys.
And the reason it’s funny — very funny, in fact, as well as actually quite twisted and dark and therefore hilarious — is because we know who Joe Theismann is. Joe Theismann played professional football for the New York Jets. And he was good. He was very, very good. But one day in a game, he broke his leg.
Badly.
Grotesquely.
It ended his career.
His leg was flopping around all over the place.
So the dogs snapping bones in front of him is hilarious.
Anyway, the point is that in the writing class Billy Crystal teaches, the woman writing about the submarine clearly had no firsthand knowledge of submarines or how they function or what life is like to live and work on one. Clearly she had done no research on the matter. So when she says, Dive, said the captain, and the man pushed the thing, and they dove, it’s really, really bad.
That was the fear back in the day. That most women — most; not all; most — didn’t really know all that much about science fiction writing. And it was mostly true. There were gender differences back then that existed rightly or wrongly — wrongly, you dumb fuck! they all shout — which dictated societal norms. It wasn’t right because plenty of women WERE interested in science, fiction, and science fiction and SHOULD’VE been allowed to read, write, and publish it.
Like they do today.
But let’s try not to get all worked up and angry and pissed off and triggered over the past. It’s in the past. And Phoebe says you can’t be angry about the past because it’s in the past. She says, Are you still angry about the Louisiana Purchase?
And Chandler says, Phoebs, I don’t think anybody is angry about that.
And Phoebe says, Exactly, because it’s in the past.
Now, obviously, I’m sure there are a lot of people who are in fact quite angry about the Louisiana Purchase. Just like they’re angry about Columbus and Andrew Jackson and the slave trade and ALLLLLLL the fucked up shit that happened throughout history. Of which there is a great, great deal, a great, great many things.
But don’t get all pissed off and try to make present-day life miserable. We’re all trying to form a more perfect Union. That’s the goal. Not a perfect Union. Because perfect is subjective and always changing. More perfect. Closer to perfect. And yeah, there is work to be done and we must always fight complacency. And I should just shut the fuck up because I’m a cis white male binary honkey fuck. Right? Okay.
You’re better off getting pissed off about little girls not being allowed to go to school in Afghanistan, by the way. Or people in Iran not being able to wear jeans with holes in the knees. Or being able to hold hands in public. Or being able to dance at a club. Not a strip club, either; a night club. A disco.
Think about that.
There are plenty of places where gay men were thrown off the roof of a tall building and died. They were murdered.
What about them?
I saw a video of some ISIS fucks executing a man for whatever reason. They made him kneel on a platform in front of a Howitzer. A Howitzer is a giant fucking military-grade cannon. When they fired it at him at point-blank fucking range, he was blown to bits. He sort of evaporated.
I’ve seen the videos of the American journalists getting their heads cut off by ISIS or Al Quada or whoever the fuck it was that did it. If you haven’t seen them, I don’t know what to tell you.
We shouldn’t even be talking about this. It’s so horrible.
Point being — ah — that a lot of fucked shit happens throughout the world. And not just in history. Not just in the past. But today. In modernity.
So I guess I’m just saying maybe we should try to look at the big picture and see how things fit together before we go off half-cocked rampaging about the injustices we see around us. Because somebody always has it worse.
Somebody always has it worse.
I guess that’s why about 10 to 15 years ago people started saying Think globally, act locally.
I think that’s mostly stuff like conserving water by not letting the water run while you’re brushing your teeth.
But I’m no expert. I’m just a guy on a spaceship.
That sounds like a song: I’m just a guy on a spaceship… Rolling slowly through space… I’m just a guy on a spaceship… standing here commenting on all the weird and wacky shit going on down on Earth with the human race….
Why are so many people so ignorant?
And why do we take so very berry much pride in being ignorant? It's not a good look.
That's right, I said very berry much.
That should be the name of our strand of weed. Let's all get together and create our own brand of weed. That's what Mike Tyson did.
Mike, you wanna be partners? You bring your experience and funding….
And I'll bring jack shit. I'll bring enthusiasm. That's all I have.
I think we’ll have fun, though. And we’ll make our partnership such that the % is fair.
Moving on, I have a few show notes.
One, Lamborghini? Ciao amici miei. Hello, my friends. My friends whom I hope very much one day to meet. I hope very berry much. Very berry. I love all things Italian. Italian food. Let’s start there. That’s the obvious one. Because holy shit. I can barely stand to even think about Italian food because if I do, I will eat it. I will go and I will find something to eat and I’ll make it so fuckin Italian it thinks it’s IN Italy. I’ll put some tomata sauce on it. I’ll put some cheese on it. And you know what kind of cheese, don’t you? Do not say… Never mind. Any Italian will tell you: You put mozzarella on it. It’s Mozzarella or nothing. Don’t fuck with the food, okay? We already perfected it. Just like we already perfected so many other things. Food. Clothes. Architecture. Art. Painting. Radio. Marconi. Okay? Marconi. Let’s talk for a moment about Marconi. Because nobody ever fucking talks about Marconi. These days, it’s Tesla, Tesla, Tesla. And that’s great. I love Tesla. If I were back on Earth — and had the money — I’d buy a Model X in a heartbeat. White with white Interior. I’ve slobbered all over that configurator, Elon et al, believe me. I like that vehicle. Jim Carey: I like it a lot.
So…
Guglielmo Giovanni Maria Marconi.
Born on the 25th of April in 1874. 100 years before…. Well, never mind.
Guglielmo — or the Gooj as I like to call him – was born in…. Guess what town.
Our friend is there: Louie.
That’s right.
Hey, Louie!
Yeah?!
How are you? How you doin over there in Italy?
I’m fine. Kinda busy though. I don't’ mean that in a bitchy way or anything. It’s just that there’s a lot of people here and I’ve never seen this much semen in my entire life. Italian men are like water fountains. Here’s what it’s like: Imagine pressing the button on the water fountain and the water shoots everywhere. It goes everywhere. It shoots high and it shoots far. Whomever invented Spider Man obviously did so mere moments after ejaculation. Mere moments after seeing this weird ropelike creamy white stuff come flying out of him, he thought of webs shooting out of your wrists. Because it’s the same motion. Someone do an overlay of a dude jerking off with his right hand and when he comes, make it so that the semen flies from camera left to camera right. And then do the same thing with Spiderman and have some webs shoot out of his wrists. By the way, guys, the last movie was pretty fuckin epic. That must’ve been insane to do that together. It kinda blue my mind when I saw it. Was not expecting that. Did I just say blue my mind? B L U E? I did, didn’t I? I guess I have blueballs on my mind from all the jizz. You guys, I’m telling you, please, you haff to belief me. You haff to. Okay? Seriously. There is so much jizz. I don’t know what to do. Okay? I don’t. I don’t know what to do anymore.
Louie, it’s cool. Dude, it’s okay. I hear you. Okay? I hear you. You are saying that there’s a lot of jizz. A lot. Of jizz. I haven’t had the experience so I can’t truly relate. But I hear you. Do you wanna stop?
Yes. No. I don’t…. I don’t…. Wait. Do I haff to stop? Do you think I should?
I don’t know, Louie. You certainly do not HAFF to. You can keep going. I don’t know if you should. I need more information before I can give you my opinion. Is that okay?
Yeah, that’s fine. So do you think I should stop?
I don’t know. If you want to stop, stop. Yes, stop. Immediately. No more jizz for you. It’s fine. You can just go home and no more jizz for you.
Well, see, now it feels like you’re takin something away from me. I’m a kid at a birthday party and you caught me diddling your cat or something disgusting and wrong like I would do and now you’re ordering me — fuckin ORDERING me — to go home and you’re doing it in front of all the other kids at the party. You’re doing it right there in front of everyone. You didn’t come over to me and talk to me privately and tell me to leave. No, you publicly humiliated me. In front of my peers. And I will never live this down. You asshole. You fuckin dick, you bitch, you whatever. And, what’s even worse, you said I couldn’t have any cake. That’s the only reason I agreed to come: I wanted the goddamn fucking cake. Look at me! Is it not obvious that I like cake? I do, okay? I do. I do. I like cake. I love cake. I love it. I love it so much. You guys have no idea what it’s like to go through life being so fucking in love with eating cake. Whether it’s actually eating it or even just the idea of it, I love it so much. I wanna do it so bad. I want to. I do. I want to eat cake. And I want to eat a lot of it. Because I never let myself eat it. Because it’s kinda fuckin bad for you, depending on how it was made and what’s in it. And it’s definitely fattening because it has calories and you are going to eat a lot of it. Maybe if you only ate cake all day and you washed it down with nice hot coffee, maybe you wouldn’t get fat. Maybe. That’s a big maybe. Because in my experience, man cannot live on cake alone. Or woman. Or a transperson. Or a mommy with a penis. Or a daddy with a vagina. Or a pregnant daddy. Or a birthing person. Okay? None of us. Fuckin none of us. That’s what I’m saying, okay? That we’re all similar so none of us can or should live on the cake. We at least need protein shakes. That actually is a really good combo. So if you’re trying to put on mass, try that. I’ve done that a lot. Even when I wasn’t trying to put on mass. And certainly not when I was trying to put on my pants. I had to go… You guys wanna hear something hilarious? Fucking hilarious and hilariously fucked? I had to go buy new pants. I did! I couldn’t fit in my old ones anymore. I just couldn’t close em. The waist finally got too small. You know how I know? The button broke off. It went flying, too. Just like webs out of Spiderman’s hands and the jizz out of the JESUS! I forgot about all this jizz. Fuck, I forgot for a second. Wow, it was nice. It was really nice. Not thinking about come for a change. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t really have a problem with come. I think that’s obvious. Now. By now. I never had a problem with my own come so why would I have problem with anyone else’s come. I didn’t mind it in all the porn I watched as a kid and growing up and in highschool and then college and then finally when I had my own place and I started watching a FUCKton of porn, okay? I mean, I was obsessed. I watched so much porn, I…. I probably should’ve died. I seriously probably should’ve died. It was that unhealthy. It was just me naked sitting on my desk chair with a towel draped over it so my you know what wouldn’t sweat all over it. My ass. Any more. And then I just went at it. I had so many usernames and passwords to so many pay sites. It was bad. It got up to 700 dollars a month on memberships. I’m not kidding when I say it was bad. Okay? I am not lying. I am not exaggerating. I am not boasting. I am not being prideful. Okay? I am not taking pride in the shameful amount of porn I was consuming. I did learn a lot, though. Because I watched everything. Every thing. I learned a lot. Which, actually, I think is at least partly the reason I’ve been able to come over here and even do this. At all. At all. But I don’t haff to stop, do I?
No, Louie, again, please, my friend, sir, buddy, do whatever you want to do. Today I read a story told by Chuck Palhaniuk about a story a friend told him after she set up the book signing for Stephen King at a certain event. 5000 people came and they were allowed to bring 3 items each for him to sign after the talk. And they did. And Chuck’s friend’s job was to stand next to Steve and hold an ice pack on his shoulder while he signed. Because he was going to be sitting there signing his name on stuff for 8 straight hours. That is insane. About every 15 to 20 minutes, he should get up and walk around and rest for a few minutes. Then get back to it. Or get a fucking stamp.
Anyway, Stephen King has huge calluses on his thumb and index finger from all this bullshit autographing he’s been doing the past 40 fuckin years. And they crack and bleed sometimes. They cracked and bled on this particular day that Chuck’s friend was standing there holding an ice pack on Steve’s shoulder. Poor guy. Jesus. Steve, if you want, I will come and ice your shoulder and put motherfuckin Tiger Balm all over it and some Icy Hot patches and I’ll hit it with some really good massage techniques and we’ll work out a tiny bit before you start signing, okay? We’ll take a 30-minute break so everyone can pee or poo or drink or smoke or blaze up or eat or drink or any or all of those things, okay? That’s what we’ll be doing, Steve. Well, maybe not the pooping. Unless we need to. But probably everything else. We’ll maybe have a little coffee or whatever beverage you prefer. Maybe a protein bar and some slices of apple. Maybe a little cheese and crackers if you fancy it. Nothing too heavy, though. And here’s why. I’m going to have you move around and we’ll do a little light cardio. Some basic calisthenics. A tiny bit of bodyweight exercises. And the reason we’re going to do that is because we’re going to get your heart rate up just a bit in a healthy way, a way that stems from oxygen demand from your muscles, not the kind that results from a shot of adrenaline. Just ask Amy Pohler about that. Please Cut Back on the Coffee, coming this Fall on dot dot dot. Dot dot dot because I don’t know what network or streaming service or production company would be putting it out. It should be on cable, probably. Or streaming in such a way that it can be adult. Frank. Rank. With crude humor, profanity, a bit of nudity and sex here and there. Simulated, of course. Most likely.
Point being — AHHHHHH! — that we’ll get you warmed up, Steve. We’ll get your shoulders and your whole upper body and arm warmed up. Get the blood flowing. Get everything warmed up. Then do a little light stretching and some resistance exercise on it. Maybe some shadowboxing. Some mitt work. I’ll hold mitts for you. You beat the fuck out of them. Then we’ll get super fuckin high and go and sign everything.
Anyway, here’s what happened: Steve asked her, Chuck’s friend, I’m sorry I don’t recall her name, but Steve asked her if she could get him some bandages. His calluses were cracking and he was bleeding. He literally dripped or smeared blood on someone’s book as he was trying to sign it. And he said, I’m bleeding all over the stock.
And people heard this and began demanding that Stephen King bleed on their book. They said it wasn’t fair if only some people got blood on their book. Because that obviously made it more valuable.
How much do you think you could get for a book with Stephen King’s blood on it? 250 grand? If I had one, I wouldn’t want to sell it. I’d want to hang onto it. It’s
I don’t know what it is.
Deeply profound or personal.
By the way, Marconi was born in Bologna, in the Kingdom of Italy, by the way.
But getting back to the book signing tale of terror, Stephen King — I would like him to one day call him Steve — sat there for 8 hours bleeding on everyone’s stuff. I saw a video of Conan O'Brien doing it once and when he was done they completely soaked his hands in alcohol disinfectant and he rubbed his hands together really, really well. Stephen King may have done that, too, afterwards, I have no idea. It wasn’t include in the story Chuck told about the story his friend told him about the fucked up Stephen King bloody book signing.
Anyway, Louie, I forget why I started talking about this. You asked if you haff to stop and I’m saying that, no, you don’t haff to. You can keep going if you want to. But if you’re tired and you think you’ve had enough jizz and your shoulders or wrists or back or knees hurt from all the jerking off of people over there, then by all means come on back here and you can rest and we’ll hang out and eat some yummy food together and sip on some beers or drinks or milkshakes or whatever and we’ll smoke some really good weed, maybe some of Mike Tyson’s Toad. And maybe Mike will come and smoke with us. Mike, please come and hang out with us, we’ll have a blast, consider yourself formally invited. Saw you on FullSend and I longed to be sitting there on the couch with you. And I can’t believe that one guy who works on the production wouldn’t smoke. Props for the effort, though. You looked like you were squeezing him fuckin hard. I would love to wrestle a little to see how strong you are. I’m not exactly weak but my back is kinda fucked up and my Achilles tendons are fucked right now and I keep reinjuring them every time I run and I don’t know what to do about it. But we could still hang out and mess around. You, me, and Louie and our requisite babes. For sure.
But anyway, Louie, do you want to come back?
Do I haff to come back?
No.
I don’t?
No.
We’re not like…out of money or anything like that?
No.
Really? We’re not?
No. We’re not.
Oh. So you’re not canceling the show?
No.
Oh. Really?
No.
You’re really not? I thought for sure that’s what this call was about. That you were calling to tell me I’ve been cancelled. Again. I just got my life back together, too, so I’ve been standing here this whole time trying not to panic. And I’ll I’ve been thinking about is how I fucked things up AGAIN. And that this was going to be the last time for me. I had my shot, I messed it up, I rode it out and everyone was pretty cool about it so I came back for a 2nd shot, a 2nd chance, and I blew that one, too. And now it’s over. There’s just…. There’s no way I’ll ever work again. Not in TV, not on the internet, and not anywhere else. I was actually in my mind thinking about my overhead and how much cash I have on hand, which is not a lot, by the way. I have some but it’s not a lot. I’d probably be okay for a year or so but then I’d be broke. So I was going to become a truck driver. Like longhaul over the road cross country truck driver. I see the Tesla Semi is pretty much here and I wanna drive one of those. So I was thinking that’s going to be my life now. And you know, I actually wasn’t all that sad about it. That’s how much I like the Tesla Semi. I love that you get to sit right in the middle. That makes sense to me. Because it’s more like a train. And I’m not going to have any passengers. This isn’t Oregon Trail. Remember that game? I kinda hated it. It made me feel dumb.
Yeah, me too, Louie.
You, too?
Oh yeah.
Okay, that makes 2 of us. I bet it’s a lot more than that. Raise your hand if you hated Oregon Trail. And if you didn’t understand the big deal. And you saw your friends or your parents or your friends’ parents or your teachers or classmates playing it and you looked at it and didn’t really know what to do. Because it seemed kind of dumb. It was mostly just words. On a computer screen. A small one. In green letters. It looked like The Matrix, actually, if you think about it. You know the green code you see at the beginning of The Matrix. And Morpheus, total fuckin badass, Lawrence Fishburne, holy fuck, Morpheus goes, he goes to Neo, Nobody can tell you what the matrix is… He trails off all cool and goes, You haff to…see it…for yourself. Fuckin A right you do! All that green code. That’s what Oregon Trail looked like to me. Anyway, the point is…. What the fuck is the point?
The semi.
Oh, yeah, right, the Tesla Semi. Thanks. Yeah, I really wanna drive one of those. You know how Stephen Segal became a cop? In Louisiana, I think it is. He went and became a cop. And he goes out and helps people and fights crime and tries to solve problems to make the neighborhood better and safer and stuff. If I were Stephen Segal and I were a copy, you know what I would do? Copy. I meant cop. I said copy. I meant if Stephen Segal, no, wait, if I were a copy… Of what, I don’t know. Myself? Am I a clone? Jesus, what if I’m a clone? I’m the worst fuckin clone of all time. Look at me. Look at what I’ve become. I’m over here in Bologna jerking off Italians. Complete strangers. And whining about the jizz and daydreaming about driving a Tesla Semi professionally and how if I were Stephen Segal and I were a real cop, I would go into the hardest, roughest, toughest neighborhoods, with force so no one fucks with me and I would go from business to business saying hello and handing out my business card, and asking who’s in charge. Who is really in charge. Who is actually in charge. Because it sure as shit ain’t the people in government or the cops. If it were, there wouldn’t be any crime. Because everyone would know that if they committed a crime, there’d be a cop knocking on their front door within about 20 minutes asking what the fuck was going on and what the fuck do you think you’re doing, but in a polite way, at least at first, and he’d be ready to raise hell if things went sideways. But that’s not happening. It’s all gotten out of hand. It’s probably organized crime and gangs. They’re the ones who control the streets for real. They know what’s happening in their neighborhoods. So I would like to go to them and say, What can I do to help? And they’ll go, Help what with who? And I’d say, What can I do to help you make this place less shitty? With less violence? Less shootings? Less people dying? Fucking dying? Like innocent little kids, children, getting shot and dying. It’s so fucked, you guys. We HAFF to do something. We do. We haff to. If I weren’t over here jerking off Bolognians and maybe hopefully not getting cancelled and fantasizing about driving a Tesla Semi, that’s what I’d be doing. And maybe what I will do — this is after I get canceled or after I can’t find any more eligible Bolognians, because it’s only one jerkoff per person for now, we’ll see how it goes and decide later after we finish — but maybe I’ll take that Tesla Semi and I’ll get a tractor trailer and I’ll make the inside of it my house and my office, my man cave, and I’ll drive around the country getting paid to do appearances, that’s how I’ll finance this whole thing, but really the money will be going towards filming comedy specials in which I invite the neighborhood rulers onto the stage with me and we all talk this out. We squash this and stop shooting and killing each other. And we’ll just talk it out. I don’t think it’ll be that hard, actually. I think once everyone gets together and we talk, we’ll be able to see each other’s humanity right away. Like…right away. Because it’s so obvious. Okay? It’s so obvious, you guys. You just need to look past all the silly petty stuff — the Silly Putty stuff, remember Silly Putty? Yeah. — Anyway, seeing each other as PEOPLE and not as enemies is actually really easy. That’s something I’ve learned through all these years of doing comedy and being on the road. I’ve been pretty much everywhere. Depending on my tour schedule, I always try to spend a couple of off days in every city I’m in. I like to visit local places. The places the locals go. Usually bars and little out of the way restaurants. And I talk to a lot of people. I listen to them and get drunk with them and get high with them and go to the men’s room to take a leak with them and I go to diners with them and I see what their lives are like and what they think about the world and the country and their town and everything that’s going on.
And they tell you?
Yeah, they tell me. They tell me everything. It’s crazy some of the stuff people have shared with me. Like really personal, poignant, sometimes sad, but always meaningful stuff.
And they’re honest?
Yeah. I think maybe it’s because I’ve somehow, despite my best efforts, have managed to carve out a tiny bit of notoriety so just enough people know who I am that it gives me some sort of impartiality and maybe some sort of authority. Not authority, exactly, but like I’m neutral somehow. I’m like a referee. They know I’m not there to argue with them and push my shit on them. That I truly will listen to them. And everyone wants their turn to speak, to share stuff and tell me what’s going on and what problems they see and what should be done about it. And so everyone works together in order to attain the goal of telling me what they think. So that is the solution right there. It’s already happened a zillion times. I’ve seen it. I’ve participated in it. If they can work together to accomplish having everyone talk to me, then they can work together to stop fighting and shooting the place up. We can all just start fresh and when something happens, talk to each other calmly and work it out. And if it’s genuine and sincere and it comes from the heart and it comes from a place of love, it’ll be easy to get worked out. If one person messes up, you just go to whoever you need to talk to and you say, You know what, I didn’t mean to but this happened. I messed up. I’m sorry. Like I said, I didn’t mean to. And I promise I would never intentionally do that nor will I in the future. So I’m here to tell you what happened so we can work together to get things figured out. And then the other person sits quietly and listens and when the other person is done speaking says, Okay, I hear you, don’t worry, it’s no problem. And then the two of you go off and do what you gotta do and then you go have beers together or coffee together or a meal together or you go work out together or you get high together and listen to records or watch a movie together. The activity is up to you guys because it doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that you’re doing it together. Because by eating together or getting really baked together and talking for a few hours, you’re creating a shared experience. You’re having good times together. You’re bonding over those good times. Over that enjoyment. Man, I did love that show Good Times, by the way. It was intense. We watched it almost every afternoon after school while we were having a snack or doing our homework. I remember the one where Janet Jackson was on. And she played the friend of one of the main girls on the show. And her friend discovered she had bruises on her body. Because her mom was beating her. Her mom was beating her with an iron. A clothes iron. Like you iron your shirt with. I don’t remember if it was hot and she was ironing her daughter and burning her or if she was just beating her with it. I think it was the latter, I think she was only beating her with it. Only. I remember Janet having big, dark blue, triangle-shaped bruises on her back and shoulders and arms. She had bruises rather than burns. Plus, a burn is more serious than a bruise. You’d haff to go to the hospital if you got severely burned by a hot clothes iron. That would mess you up. You’d haff to get a skin graft or something. So I’m pretty sure they were just bruises. Her mother was only hitting her with the iron, not burning her with it. Which is still fucked up, by the way. Of course. 100%. I’m not saying it’s not. I’m saying it is. Hitting your child with a clothes iron is fucked up. And wrong. In every way. It is child abuse. It is a crime. But it happens. Which is why they decided to write and shoot and air — that’s the important part: they actually aired it — an episode in which a MOTHER is deliberately HURTING her own daughter. Her own literal flesh and blood. Well, no, that would actually be herself. Her own literal own flesh and blood would mean she was doing it to herself. Hitting herself with the clothes iron. I kind of enjoy saying clothes iron. It’s almost as good as… The law says you can look but you can’t touch. I think I see a lot of lawbreakers out there…. Am I right? Almost but not quite. Anyway, that’s not the point. Matthew McConaughey and Magic Mike and my…feeling…is not the point. The point is that on that episode of Good Times, Janet Jackson, a YOUNG Janet Jackson, by the way, like maybe 15 or 16, was getting beaten by a clothes iron wielded by her own mom. Her own mom. In her own house. Their little apartment that they lived in together. Where she had to sleep and do her homework and brush her teeth and put on her pajamas. And the whole time, she’s wondering if her mom is going to snap and come and beat the fuck out of her with a goddamn clothes iron. Clothes irons are fucking heavy, okay? If you’ve ever ironed, you know. They have that big metal fuckin thing on the front. On the bottom, where you iron with. That fuckin thing is like a big, heavy metal flat triangle pizza waffle thing with holes in it sometimes for some reason that I guess has to do with not burning the clothes while you’re ironing. But those things are heavy and they hurt. The corners are pointed. They are sharp. And the top of the iron comes to a point. And it has a stout, sturdy handle on the back, away from the metal part. Because the metal part gets hot. And the whole thing is very stout so you can really press your clothes properly with it. It takes effort. It is work. So the thing has to be made to a certain standard. It has to be engineered and designed and manufactured and assembled to be rugged. So it can stand up to a lifetime of punishment. Irons are tough. They’re like tanks. Like World War 2 big heavy green metal Army tanks. With lots of metal. They’re tough. If a tank is going to break, it’s usually because one of the tracks came off its wheels or the engine won’t start. With an iron, it’s probably the electronics and the heating element inside that makes that pizza metal slice waffle thing get so hot. The point is that they’re tough. They’re like the perfect weapon. Think about it. As household everyday weapons go, the clothes iron is a no-brainer. It’s that or a hammer. A big ol’ motherfuckin hammer with a claw on one end. It’s a lot like the iron. Metal. Heavy. Solid. Like the tank. Good handle for grippin and hammerin and bashin. Just like the iron. Good for ironin and pressin and beating the shit out of defenseless children. Here’s an SAT question for you: the abusive father, or stepfather, is to the hammer as the abusive mother, or stepmother but in this case mother, is to the blank? Fill in the blank. You all know the answer, right? It’s the what? The clothes iron. See? I told you I like saying that word. I think I see a lot of lawbreakers out there. Anyway, I liked Good Times. Not because I liked seeing Janet Jackson get beat with an iron — I think I see a lot of clothes irons out there — but rather because it was a fucked up situation. It was real. It was very real. Too real. It was obvious to me the day I saw it that that episode was coming from a place of truth. Undeniable truth. And I knew that that meant that somewhere out there, kids my age were getting the fuck beaten out of them by their own goddamn parents. And I swore — in my heart — that if I ever had kids of my own, and especially girls, that I would never do that to them. You hear that, girls? I will never beat you with a clothes iron.
Or a hammer.
That’s right, or a hammer. Thank you, Captain, for clarifying that. Hammers and irons, both off the table. Unlike the S E X between Ross and Rachel. God, where was I going with this? Oh! I remember: good times. The overall show, I loved it. Seeing Janet Jackson get pounded with an iron? Not literally, of course. They didn’t actually do it, you guys. It was just part of the story. It was a play. Okay? It wasn’t real. I just want to make it completely and perfectly clear: to the best of my knowledge, no one on that show actually hit Janet Jackson with a clothes iron. It was only a part of the story. But the mature subject matter I found to be of great importance and therefore of great interest. I admired them for tackling such a serious and delicate issue. The larger, overall point, however, is that I’d like to make peace between the warring factions. In my Tesla Semi. Just me driving around the country, meeting people, hanging out with them, eating with them, getting super totally fucking rip roarin rapids high with them, and then taping a comedy special while we’re all high as fuck. So we can all hang out together and get to know each other and be friends. Then things will go back to the way they were before things got super tense the past few years. And then things will be even better. We can maybe even get really close, like really really REALLY super close to having the Union actually be perfect. I mean, we could do it in a few days if we all really wanted to. If we had to make peace, like world peace, true actual legitimate global world peace, we could do it. We could do it in about a week. Probably even less. It would only take a few days. Because that’s how long it would take everyone to get the message. Half the population is sleeping half the time so it’ll take at least a couple of days for people to hear about it and flip the switch in their mind and go, Oh, yeah, okay, I see. This is how I can help. And then everyone would be on the same page. Like if aliens showed up and we all had to band together in order to fight them off, we could do it. I know we could. If our Godfather showed up, if he came down from the sky and was like, Alright, listen, fuckers! Knock off the shit or you’re all grounded. And by grounded I mean I’m going to murder you. And this was a bona fide superbeing. Remember on 9/11 when we all sat and watched as fucking airplanes, big-ass fucking airplanes, flew into buildings? Big-ass fuckin famous buildings. In New York. Fucking downtown Manhattan. Right in our own back yard. Fuckin New York City. The ultimate symbol of American fuck youism. American can-doism. Christ. Anyway, imagine that only it’s a camera following a superbeing as it comes down out of the sky and lands only he or she knows where. The fucking White House lawn? No, can’t land there, too many guards with guns who will start shooting. Maybe just hover in the sky over the city and take over all the airwaves and say, People of Earth. I am God. The one and only God. I am here today to tell you all that I am very disappointed in your behavior. You have been fighting and hurting and killing one another. This is wrong. You are all one family. You are supposed to love one another. You are supposed to protect one another. You are supposed to help one another. Not fight over resources. Do you honestly think that the planet I created for you doesn’t have enough resources for you all to share? Of course it does. But I put things in strategic locations so that you would be forced to work together. So stop killing each other and start working together. Because if you don’t, I am going to kill all of you. I am going to destroy you. I have done it before and I will do it again. You have one week to get your shit together. I will return in 6 or 7 days. I suggest you attain world peace by then. I am now leaving and will return in 6 or 7 days. And then he leaves. He flies back up into the sky and is gone. And everyone freaks the fuck out. And immediately begins fighting over whether or not it’s real. And 24 hours later, God’s voice rings out once more and goes, I realize you cannot accept the truth of my existence. So here is a sign that I do in fact exist. And then he makes the whole planet do weird stuff. Day becomes night and night becomes day, everyone becomes suddenly weightless and floats up off of the ground for about 30 seconds. And then slowly settles back down like they were. Then the entire Earth shakes. It rumbles. The entire Earth quakes. All at once. Everyone feels it. Within hours, every news outlet and social media platform is in agreement that seismologists across the globe confirm and concur that the entire Earth did indeed quake. And that day becomes known as The Day the Earth Quaked. Point being–
AHHHHHHH!!!
Yes, indeed: Ahh. The point is that God came down. The Godfather, the Godmother, the Godperson, the Godbeing because we don’t want to offend nonpersons whomever and wherever they may be. And we all saw it, we all floated up off the ground, with zero vomiting, by the way. No motion sickness reported anywhere by anyone. We all floated up off the ground, we all floated back down again. And just when we were about to crap our pants, he followed up with an Earthquake. We all felt it. We all knew it was real. The scientists even came on later and confirmed it and we all knew it was real. We knew it in our bones. Or in our whatever, for those boneless folks out there. Like in Harry Potter when that douchebag professor played by Kenneth Branagh accidentally removed the bones from Harry’s arm. Boneless. No bones at all. Harry’s arm was able to bend completely backward like a piece of rubber. But at least it didn’t hurt any more. Where was I? What were we talking about? I think I’m high.
You say you’re high? Did you smoke some weed earlier?
No, I think I’m high from all the jizz. It’s really potent. Anyway, do I haff to come home now? Should I stop jerking off the Bolognians?
No, you do not haff to come home and no, you do not haff to stop jerking off the Bolognians.
I can stay? I can keep doing it?
Yes, Louie. If you want to stay there and keep jerking off the Bolognians, then by all means please do indeed stay there and continue doing that.
And I’m really not canceled?
No, you really and truly are not canceled.
Okay, good. I just wanted to get that straight. Because I don’t think I could go through it again. The last time it happened, I thought about some stuff. You know? Like, some bad stuff. The kind of stuff we’re not supposed to think about. And we’re supposed to get help or call a hotline if we find ourselves thinking about it a lot.
Louie, are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?
Yeah. I am. Don’t worry, though, I’m fine. I’m fine now. I was just saying that last time, when I got canceled, and everyone fuckin hated me, I thought about it. I thought about it seriously. For the first time in my life. And so, I guess I’m just saying that I don’t think I could go through it again. If all that happened again, I don’t think I could…. I probably couldn’t endure it.
But Louie, don’t you have girls who love you and need you?
Yes, I do. I have 2 girls. 2 wonderful daughters who mean more than anything else in the world to me.
So why would you ever seriously think about doing…that?
Killing myself?
Yes.
That’s exactly why. The amount of love I have for them is equal to the amount of shame I felt over what I did. I couldn’t face them. There are still days when I can’t. That beautiful thing we had is tainted. Forever. Because I fucked up. I did what I did. And it wasn’t even that much. It wasn’t. I’m sorry but it wasn’t. It was perverted and childish and sophomoric, yes. But I didn’t assault anyone. I didn’t murder anyone. I would never do that. I would never ever intentionally hurt anyone. Ever. Unless you hurt one of my girls. Then I’ll fuckin kill you dead and won’t lose a wink over it. But I think we can all relate to that. Right?
Yes, we can all relate to a parent protecting their children. As opposed to hitting them–
With a clothes iron. That’s right. I think I see a lot of law breakers out there. Um, okay, I guess I’m going to get back to it. To, um, to my thing here. With the Bolognians. And the jerking off of the. The jerking them off.
You’re going to keep going?
Yeah, I guess. It’s still kinda weird, like it was in the beginning, but I’m just meeting so many new people and it’s just been amazing. You really get to know someone when you’re manually stimulating them and bringing them to orgasm. It’s really quite something.
Okay, Louie. You get back to it and we’ll speak again very soon, okay? Call if you need anything.
Okay! Bye!
Bye! Louie C.K., everybody. Over there jerking off Italians in Balogna. Where Marconi is from. He’s the man who is primarily credited with inventing the radio or with discovering how it could be used to broadcast information.
The point is that he was born in Balogna, Italy. And we were talking about Italy and the Italians and all the cool stuff they’ve invented. Like food and cars and motorcycles and fashion and film and sexy men and women.
The French invented the kiss but the Italians invented the supercar. A shiny red Ferrari is like the automotive equivalent of a French kiss.
But getting back to show notes: the supercar shower. I’d be tempted to go with green and black. But I’d need to be in a green and black shower. With lights and chrome and metallic surfaces and all kinds of cool stuff. And then I’d need to see if I felt comfortable showering in there and getting it all dirty. Getting hair and shaving cream and soap scum and oogie stuff all over it. It would haff to be very berry easy to use and easy to clean. And the parts where the water droplets would land and evaporate and leave covered in white limescale ugly mineral crap will need to be either impervious to that or self cleaning. Ease of use is a huge factor. I don’t want to spend several minutes cleaning my shower every time I use it. I do not want to equate a nice long hot shower with a fuckloaf of work. I mean a fuckload of work. A fuckloaf. That’s like transponster: that’s not even a word!
I don’t recall what the other show note was.
Oh I just remembered! What would happen if Jane’s Addiction and Taylor Swift made some songs together?
I think that was it.
You guys remember that time George Costanza became a hand model? And that time Joey found his identical hand twin? And then George was on Friends and he was Phoebe’s first call the day she got the job selling toner? Someone from Seinfeld was on Friends. Were any of the Friends ever on Seinfeld?
I don’t believe so.
Oh, wait, didn’t Monica play a part where she pretended to be Jerry’s girlfriend or wife so they could get a discount on dry cleaning?
Oh, and Janice. Janice was on Seinfeld as Elaine’s friend.
Oh, and Susan. Ross’s ex wife Carol’s girlfriend stroke life partner. She was on Seinfeld as a quasigirlfriend to George. They went out a couple of times.
Oh, and Mrs. Knight. Phoebe’s brother Frank Jr.’s wife. She was on Seinfeld and played Jerry’s booking agent.
Oh, and Deedee Pfeiffer, sister of Michelle Pfeiffer.
Yeah! I was shocked, too.
She played the blind date Phoebe hooked Joey up with. She was also on Seinfeld and — get this — remember the Costanza Doctrine we talked about awhile back? The scene in Seinfeld when Jerry and George are in the diner and George sees a beautiful woman and laments his lack of courage and ability to go talk to her and says that every impulse he’s ever had was wrong. And Jerry says, Then the opposite would haff to be right.
Compelled by that clearly infallible logic, George gets out of the booth and goes over and speaks to the beautiful woman at the counter. He says, Hi, my name is George. I’m unemployed and I live with my parents.
And then the beautiful woman says, I’m Victoria. Hi!
And it’s Deedee Pfeiffer, sister of Michelle Pfeiffer, friend to Phoebe, blind date to Joey, consumer of martinis, swallower of swords, devourer of olives.
Those could’ve been Joey’s olives if he’d had the sense — no, the DECENCY — to actually remember her name.
In Joey’s defense, however, he was somewhat preoccupied with convincing Phoebe that he and Mike were actually friends.
But he still should’ve remembered her name.
Which was Mary Ellen Jenkins, by the way.
Also, before I forget, Elon, let's make sure we get a semi to Louie. He's definitely earning it. And I think his idea is stellar. His traveling mancave of peace. Louie CK's Traveling Roadshow. The trailer can be like an RV he lives in. Like Steve O’s RV. 10 years from now, he'll be President.
Imagine that: President Louie C.K.
That’s our show!
Thank you for coming!
Goodnight!
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