Here’s a clip from my recent appearance at the Winnipeg Comedy Festival last year.
WOULD YOU SLEEP WITH THIS MAN?
NO. Not even if I were in a heroin induced coma.
Yesterday, Mackenzie Phillips, former child star on the 70’s sitcom, ‘One Dad At A Time,’ dropped a huge bombshell on the Oprah Winfrey Show. She revealed a family secret that would make even Jerry Springer blush. Reading a passage from her new tell-all book, she described how she woke up from a drug induced blackout to discover her panties around her ankles and her father having consensual sex with her. That’s right! Her famous father from the 60’s group, The MaMas and the PaPas. WTF? Does MaMa know PaPa has been sleeping with Baby? That is one Monday Morning I wouldn’t want to wake up to!
First of all, sex with your father is NEVER consensual. Well, maybe in the Appalachians.
This show interview with Mackenzie Phillips, must have been part of Oprah’s new fall, feel good series, ‘Live Your Best Life.’ Lately, Oprah has had some very uplifting shows. First, she had the interview with Crack-ney Houston, hocking her new comeback CD, I LOOK TO YOU. (Or, as I like to call it, songs I sing to my pipe.) Then, she had a show about Connie Culp, the woman who had her face shot off by her husband, because she shot her mouth off one too many times. And now, may I present to you the latest addition to the Oprah Book Club. HIGH ON ARRIVAL. A little light reading for back-to-school.
This book is worse than airing your dirty laundry in public. This is, “I had a little accident, and HERE are the pants I pooped in!” YUCK!
Then, she revealed another revelation. When she was 18 years old, Mick Jagger locked her in a room and had sex with her. Her father stood outside, loudly pounding on the door and protesting… “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE WITH MY DAUGHTER, AND MY WIFE?”
While telling the story, she seemed almost giddy and school-girlish . “C’mon, who wouldn’t want to sleep with Mick Jagger?” … ah, ME! (Raised hand) Not without a body condom and a hot Purell sitz bath. Remember, when you sleep with Mick Jagger, you’re sleeping with a guy who (allegedly) ate a chocolate bar out of his Marianne Faithfull’s ass!
After all the dysfunctional details were revealed, her little anecdote about sleeping with Mick Jagger seemed almost normal. Welcome to the new ‘normal’ – sick –
Once, Twice, Three Times? 360?
Oh No You Can’t!
Well, it’s happened just like I predicted. Yesterday, I blogged about companies trying to capitalize on the popularity of the new president and his family.
J-Crew stock rose 10% yesterday after it was discovered that the inaugural outfits worn by Sasha and Malia were designed by the company. Witness the power of the Obama brand.
Heck, I haven’t even discussed the popularity of the commemorative plates! This president could single handedly spearhead an economic turnaround through product placement.
Now, Tyco Toys has released two beanie baby dolls named Sasha and Malia in an attempt to exploit the popularity of the Obama girls. Oh no you di-n’t! SNAP! The girls are private citizens and First Lady, Mama Obama will have none o’ dat!
Expect a cease and desist order from the office of the First Lady.
The dolls sell for ten dollars each and all proceeds from the pending law suit will go to help feed the lawyers.
The New Generation?
After the inauguration, like many of you, I felt moved by this historical moment with feelings of hope and the promise of change, not just for the nation but for the world!
Then, I watched a commercial that made me aware of another change. The rebranding of Pepsi Cola. Look at Obama’s campaign logo on the left and the new Pepsi logo on the right. Notice anything?
Is this the new message of change? Yes we can, change our can?
I don’t recall Obama mentioning Pepsi in his speech…
OBAMA: “Each and every time, the choice of a new generation, has risen up and done what’s needed to be done. Today we are called once more — to go to the fridge – Take the Pepsi challenge, and have a Pepsi Day!
YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!
Volunteer work may require lots of energy but it also requires teeth. Don’t expect to do any community work if you haven’t gotten a little dental work first.
Oh well. At least they didn’t use boobs this time. Hey, wait a minute!
Obama and boobs! That’s it! GET ME OBAMA GIRL ON THE PHONE!
Watch for more rebranding by the big corporations as they piggy back on the popularity of the new president in an attempt to capitalize on the Obama brand.
Green Rooms Must Go Green!
Graffiti. From the early cave drawings to public bathrooms hasn’t changed much. It’s basically a proclamation. “I WAS HERE.” The Comedy Club Green Room is no different.
The Green Room, (Which is very seldom green) is a place where artist can collect their thoughts before bravely stepping onto the stage. A tough task in the Green Room of the Atlanta Punchline.
As I look around the room, I see a few famous names. John Witherspoon, George Lopez, Joe Rogan, John Fox. Oh look, there’s John Fox’s name again on the opposite wall, just in case I didn’t see it the first time …or maybe he was here twice?
Why are all the names that are written the largest, the ones you don’t recognize? (That sounded very Andy Rooney)
There are a lot of proclamations on this wall.
I AM GOD
BILL HICKS IS GOD
I’M THE YOUNG EDDIE MURPHY (I thought there already was one of those)
A lot of the comics seem to have an oral fixation.
YOU’RE GOING TO SUCK
NO, YOU SUCK. DON’T BLAME THE AUDIENCE.
Some comics use the wall as a battle ground. Read this exchange between two comics.
MY FIRST WEEK AT THE PUNCHLINE AND THE AUDIENCE SUCKS
NO, IT’S YOUR LAST WEEK ‘CAUSE YOU SUCK
OH, AREN’T WE THE FUNNY LITTLE OPEN MIC FAG
AND AREN’T WE THE UNFUNNY BITTER LITTLE FEATURE ACT FAG?
I assume this conversation took place over the span of several appearances.
Sometimes the graffiti is helpful.
POT’S YOUR FRIEND
GOD BLESS SCRAMBLED PORN
QUIT TRYING TO BE HICKS
WHY DON’T YOU USE SOME OF THIS CREATIVITY ON STAGE YOU HACKS!
signed Anonymous Real Comic
Then someone wrote under that,
CO-MIDDLE WITH NO BALLS
I remember being in one club where Phylis Diller came into the Green Room, observed the mess of scribbling on the walls and demanded the room be painted. The club owner lamented the loss of all that club history but I cheered! ALL GREEN ROOMS MUST GO GREEN! I can’t stand looking at all that juvenile, egotistical crap! It’s an assault on my moment of zen.
Hey! I’m not without sin. I’ve signed a few walls and drawn a few pictures, but in the end I’ve realized it’s all futile. Leaving my mark on a tableau of plaster and paint only to find out years later that the club has been unceremoniously torn down to make way for a bank? (Rascals, W.O.) Today’s Green Room could be tomorrow’s Olive Garden. Let the archaeologists sort it out. The mark I leave behind is my life, and in time, that to will fade.
Microsoft, you have a problem.
That’s right, you heard me!
DON’T BUY THIS STINKING PIECE OF CHEAP PLASTIC CRAP!
The console needs a major redesign. It has a 33% failure rate, t’s flawed, and they know it. Why do you think they’re spending over a billion dollars in repairs.
If you’re a 360 fanboy and your Xbox breaks down, I say again…
DON’T BUY ANOTHER ONE! Don’t reward these pin heads for their piss poor product! It’s made in China at the same place they make dog food and toys with lead paint.
I guess you can tell by the above rant that my Xbox 360 broke down.
I had just purchased a brand new copy of Bio Shock. The shooter that has been hailed as potential game of the year. Am I psyched? You bet!
I turn the machine on. Place the disc in the tray. Press start and I’m no more than two minutes into the CG intro when the screen freezes.
Am I bummed out? That’s an understatement. How can this be my fault? I haven’t touched the machine in over three freakin’ weeks. I know it wasn’t an act of God because God loves me and he would never want me to stop playing video games.
I called Microsoft and they showed me no love. No sympathy. No compassion. I know that’s hard to do when you live half way ‘round the world. (I know you live half way round the world Mr. Tech Support because your name is RV, and I don’t know anyone named after a large recreational vehicle.)
They asked me to send them $100. for repairs because my one year warranty was up. My machine is barely a year and a half old. SCREW YOU!
MICROSOFT, knows they have a defective product and they want ME to send THEM $100. to fix THEIR defective product? It’s not just the three red rings of death. Screen freezing is an issue. Take a look on the internet. I spent over an hour watching Youtube videos and reading forum postings about this problem. They should be paying me a hundred dollars for the inconvenience of going to the post office and sending in my machine.
I don’t think that purchasing a piece of electronic equipment and expecting it to last for more than a year is an unrealistic expectation. ESPECIALLY WHEN I’VE PAID $400. FOR IT!
There should be a class action law suit against Bill Gates and these clowns. This is not a paper hat. It’s a $400. machine.
I have 26 games and most of them are $60 a piece. I have an extra controller, two head sets and a freakin’ plastic guitar! For the love of God, how about some loyalty here! Your faulty product breaks down and I have to send YOU a hundred dollars. NEWS FLASH! You’re not the only next gen gaming console out there!
They told me when I get it back, I have the option of buying an extended warranty.
WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO BUY AN EXTENDED WARRANTY? It’s almost like buying protection from the mob.
Okay, that’ll be $399 plus tax.
You wanna get the extended
warranty with that?
You know, you’re only covered
for 90 days. If something were to
happen… let’s say… it BREAKS!
My 360 is going to break?
I’m paying $400 for something
that’s going to break in three months…
Whoa, whoa, whoa. You puttin’ words
in my mouth over here? I didn’t say dat. .
Duh Tree-Sixty is a very good product.
I’m just sayin’, shit happens, you know?
You might wanna tink about
protectin’ your investment.
How much is the extended warranty?
I’M PAYING 400 BUCKS FOR THE
DAMN THING AND YOU WANT ME TO…
Whoa, whoa, whoa, keep your voice down, all right?
Now look, Mr. ah… ah…
Mr. Sucker. You look like a
pretty reasonable guy, am I right?
…and you certainly
don’t look like someone who was born a minute ago.
Let’s say somethin’ were to happen,
like, let’s say when you leave here, poor old
Mr. Xbox happened to have a little
accident or somthin?
You bring it in, we take care of it,
no questions asked.
No questions asked?
No questions asked.
Oh, well… all right
Where do I bend over, I mean sign?
Right here, and believe me,
you won’t be sorry. You’re not just
buying an extended warranty.
You’re buying piece of mind. .
So long, Sucker!
Dear XBOX 360,
Why have you forsaken me?
I paid my money, I took you home.
I kept you well ventilated and left you alone.
I put a fresh disc in your tray every day.
We watched movies together. Oh, the games we would play.
I’ve bragged about you to my Playstation friends.
We’ve played LIVE on the internet with other strange men.
Some say you’re too hot. They laugh and they scoff.
My wife says you sound like a jet taking off.
You awarded achievement points, for every goal I achieved.
I thought those points meant something, that’s what I believed.
I gave you the best gaming hours of my life
And this is how you repay me?
Good-bye and goodnight!
I’m going to go play with my Wii.
…that is, if I can find one.
by Greg Morton
My wife and I were in Vegas last week and even though we’ve only been coming here for the past ten years, I felt a little nostalgic for the old Vegas. Not the Bugsy Siegel Vegas, but the less crowded Vegas of ten years ago.
Seven thousand new people move to Las Vegas every month, and of those seven thousand, six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them can’t drive. The sign at the outskirts of town should read, ‘Welcome to Las Vegas, Where the worst drivers in the world come to rent a car.’ Sometimes I think i’d be better off renting a tank.
I usually rent a KIA because it’s the cheapest thing they have and I’m a cheap bastard. . My gambling budget for the week was three dollars on the nickel machines at Caesars. At this rate, we should get comped a free meal in about twenty-seven years.
In my act, I always complain about how good customer service is going to hell. In fact, I bet you’ld find better customer service in hell than you would on earth.
“Excuse me, Mr. Satan, would you mind sticking me in the ass with that pitch fork while lighting the rest of me on fire?”
“Why I’d be more than happy to Mr. Morton. I’ll even throw in some of our best eternal hell fire, fresh from the Lake of Fire.”
“Thank you Mr. Satan. Could you please tell me why in hell can’t I get this kind of service on earth?”
“Because the real hell is on earth Mr. Morton, that’s why!”
Well, imagine my surprise when I walked into Budget rental car agency in Las Vegas and my new good friend Kirby, upgraded me from a four cylinder KIA to a brand new, red metallic , Ford Mustang convertible! Now I’m tearing up from all the nostalgia because the new Mustang has that great retro styling that is reminiscent of the 60’s pony car.
I love the Ford Mustang! I wouldn’t want to sit in the back of one unless you bound and gagged me, but I love the Ford Mustang. When I was a kid, the Ford Mustang was my favourite car. I used to have a model of the 67’ fastback on my book shelf. I vowed that one day, if I ever had the money or a mid life crisis, I would buy a Ford Mustang. Well, it’s been forty years and I own a Ford Focus. What happened? I told you I was a cheap bastard.
As you may know, I perform at the Comedy Stop at the Tropicana which was celebrating it’s 50th anniversary. When I look at the old photographs on the walls, it’s difficult not to feel a little nostalgic. Then the bathtub in my hotel room backs up at six in the morning and starts spewing grey sludge accompanied by a strong sulphur smell and the nostalgia quickly passes.
The Tropicana hotel is so old it has its own smell. It’s not a grandmother’s house smell, but more of a stale nutty roasted smell. ( I’m guessing that’s from fifty years of cigarette smoke.) The tar from all the nicotine is probably the only glue holding the old girl together.
Actually, maybe it does smell a little like grandma. Some of the original cocktail waitresses still work there. “Here’s a tip honey. Why don’t you go buy yourself some new bridge work?”
Screw this nostalgia crap. If I was performing here fifty years ago, I wouldn’t even be allowed to walk through the casino let alone stay in one of their rooms. I want to feel like I’m living in the 21st century and not a museum. Somebody please implode this son of a bitch and put it out of its misery. Viva New Las Vegas! Sometimes, the good ole’ days ain’t so good.
Whoosh! That was the sound of my nostalgic feeling quickly passing.
Last night, I watched the crowd during the show and I noticed a disturbing trend.
I call it C-P.A.D.D. Cell Phone Attention Deficit Disorder.
I sat at the rear of the show room, stunned at the number of people talking, looking at pictures, and checking their voicemail during the show.
Someone needs to write a book about cell phone etiquette before this kind of crass behavior reaches a new multi-task level of idiosy. I’m just not sure if anyone has an attention span long enough to read it.
How can we ever hope to attain any level of spiritual evolvement when we can’t stand to be alone with our own thoughts for more than 30 seconds.
“Dear God, I was wondering if… hang on, someone’s trying to call me on my cell.”
Here’s the problem. These phones have too many features. The cel phone is so complicated, I don’t think half the people who own them know how to shut them off.
As a performer, I feel that many of my best performances have been stymied by these little devices. How can I compete with somthing that takes pictures, movies, surfs the internet, checks email, tells me the time, date and weather, plays music and video games, wakes me up, plans my day, and writes my best friend a short cryptic message that only Prince would understand? (I will dY 4 U) I can’t think of anything short of sticking two Roman Candles up my ass, setting them ablaze and running in circles screaming, “the Eagle has landed!”
I don’t understand text messaging. You’re holding $300 worth of technology in your hand, you can talk to anyone in the world via satelite and you’re going to write me a letter?
Over the holidays I had someone text message me that Saddam Hussein had just been executed. I paid 75 cents for that? I didn’t realize I was on the death watch list or in the Saddam death pool.
Was he a bad man? Yes. He was a dictator. It’s no surprise that the word dictator has the word dick in it. But was he worth 75 cents of my hard earned money? NO! Why would you text me how the movie ends? It’s the ‘Titanic.’ I know the ending!
A few weeks ago, someone made a call right in front of me while I was on stage, so I took his phone and shoved it down my pants.
You’ve all been warned!
Here’s your thought for the day.
Does Martin Cooper; inventor of the cell phone, feel the same guilt that Oppenheimer must have felt after inventing the atomic bomb?