As you know, I have a sardonic sense of humor, bordering on the sadistic.

It’s why I call myself the Hannibal Lecter of stand-up.

I must confess to you that I find it rather gratifying to ridicule your nation as it dies. I like pointing out that America is indeed Number One –of the one hundred percentiles.

You’ve got Western intelligence agencies flying drones into the Twin Towers; you’ve got those same agencies funding and equipping the new bogeyman du jour, ISIS, a rebranded Al Qaeda, that band of photogenic malcontents who could not have theoretically installed incompatible engine hardware on Flight 175; President Null and Void has instructed the Border Patrol to stand down and leave pedestrian gates open at night at the border; and you willingly submit to asshole searches at the airport because you’re such brave and free and everything.

When I worked at the liquidation store in 2006, some uproariously funny, cheap trinkets came through for sale. They were pocket knives and imitation Zippo-style lighters and such, emblazoned with patriotic claptrap, these worthless trinkets in their commemorative wooden display boxes, their certificates of authenticity proclaiming that “Freedom Isn’t Free” and some nonsense about how “We Will Never Forget” and that “These Colors Don’t Run.” Being the visionary that I am, I bought one of each, knowing that they would have value someday as the war propaganda that they were. My favorite is the patriotic combo pak (TM) of the pocket knife and the pocket watch, each emblazoned with the legend “United We Stand.” Don’t bother winding the pocket watch or trying to put a battery in it. There’s no movement inside. It’s an empty pocket watch. It’s just a case with watch hands stuck on a pin in the middle of the face. You can set the time if you want; I have, but you’ll have to pry off the crystal and move the hands with a pen or something. Set it to whatever time you want. I suggest setting it to Eastern Standard Time of Nothingness. The watch is a mock up. It’s a fake. It is very much like America in that regard. Your nation stands united in its total fraudulence.

(Where is this piece going? I’ve no idea. I just go with the flow when I write. Sometimes it goes somewhere and sometimes not. Maybe this will turn out to be an entertaining rant of mine.)

I’ve a dirty secret I’d like to share with you. I’ve long bided my time for the day when I’d ascended my stage of choice, to clear my throat in preparation for ridiculing your freak show of a society as it dies.

I have never been a welcome member of your society. I was pushed out of the herd a long time ago. Too weird, you know. Too kooky. Talks about weirdo stuff like what it would be like to learn how to mountain climb, or to become an astronaut, or what it would be like to write a novel. Not enough shitting of myself. Not enough drooling. Not enough vacant stares as my life force drains away as I play a video game.

And I look at people funny, you know. It’s “that creepy eye thing,” as I’ve heard from more than one person. I look at people intently when they speak to me. I’m looking for the slightest glimmer of a soul, usually finding none.

I didn’t learn to look people in the eye until I was about thirty. A friend of mine said, “Why do you look at my mouth when I talk?”

“Because that’s where the sound is coming from.” So he taught me to look people in the eye when they speak to me. But now people complain that I don’t blink when I’m looking at them. Can’t win for losin’. I’m just going to start looking at people’s asses when they speak to me from now on. Most people talk out of their asses anyway. (I accidentally stumbled upon a proto-joke just now. I should develop a bit where I pull people’s pants down and hike their dresses up and stare at their asses when they speak to me, as my experience in life has been that that’s where the sound is coming from anyway. Won’t that bit be a laugh riot? I’ll file that one away for fleshing out later if I have the time when I’m not raking leaves and waiting for my delightful audience to buy their tickets. You know what? Just to punish you, I pledge never to develop that bit. So let’s forget that I ever stumbled upon it. I’ve got way better things to do with my time than to entertain people who think that having their ear is its own reward.)

And I’m not actually queer. That’s just part off my stage persona. I don’t get any action anyway, what with looking at suitors with respectful attention when they speak to me. So how could I possibly be queer?

Maybe I’m a closet-case heterosexual. A proud member of the LGBTCCRAD community. What’s that, you say? Oh, that’s the society of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, closet-case rest area dwellers. Maybe I have a live-in girlfriend or common law wife or whatever but I still have a hankerin’ for what I call “secret penis time.” That’s right: I’m actually straight but I want to go on a Brokeback Mountain trip with myself and taste a penis and then pretend not to know myself if I see me on the street. Or maybe I’ll cover up my wedding band at a party and come up to me and stammer some weirdo nonsense about how I’m beautiful and that we should get together and mess around and then squeak like a timid little mouse and slink back over to his friends and nod my way and laugh about that faggot who (most definitely did not) put the moves on him. And later on he and his friends will probably drink beer and suck each other’s dicks for all I know.

Isn’t your society a treat? It’s pure industrial-grade kookery. Do me a favor: Don’t rope me into it, okay? I’ve got enough to deal with in my own immediate environment, trying not to get whacked or set up while discharging my professional duties as America’s Senior Comedian. I have professional considerations to tend to before I have room in my life for the garden-variety cultural nutjobbery of married men who want to hold my muscular little body in their arms at night.

What’s it like to be properly functioning? What’s it like to fuck pussies, and to eat and shit, and to do everything that your brain was already wired to do? What’s it like to be a total success story right out of the gate? What’s it like to have children, and to drink beer with your buddies and to ridicule those faggots? What’s it like to have never faced a challenge in your life? What’s it like to have coasted for so long that your character had atrophied? What’s it like to be so weak in character that it’s the malfunctioning faggots who do your own jobs for you, while all the tough guys in my audience piss themselves and sniffle and blubber at the prospect of catchin’ the bad men?

What’s it like not to have been to hell and back, not to have proceeded for ten years in the good-faith belief that you would be murdered long before your modest inheritance ran out? What’s it like not to have been blackballed? What’s it like not to have your hands shake when yet another overdue notice arrives in the mail, incapable of sustaining even one further iota of stress in your life?

What I’ve learned about myself is that I can handle anything. There is absolutely nothing in this material world that I fear. The fear of God is the beginning of all wisdom.

So what’s it like to be weak?

You can call me anything you like, but no one will deny that I am one strong son of a bitch.

I am a sovereign being, subject to the rule of no man. High-minded legal arguments aside, do you want to know what my argument really comes down to? What is the most fundamental moral aspect of my defiance of all earthly statutes?

It is this: The strong do not countenance the thoughts of the weak. Can you even conceive of anything more preposterous than weaklings honestly expecting the strong to have time to meditate upon their words, much less perceive them to possess moral weight?

Just as I predicted, this perambulatory stroll of a piece of mine had no clear destination. Maybe I’ll fix it later. I have to go rake some leaves now. So in my absence, keep waving your wands and keep talking and keep dreaming up laws that you demand everyone follow.

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