I never had any expectation that my show would play on television. It’d be like trying to run fifty amps of electricity through a small, 14 gauge wire. The entire enterprise would immediately catch fire and I’d be right back here, doing my textual show on the internet. So let’s cut out the middleman.
I’ve not done a video piece in two years and I have no plans to do another. I refuse to work under these conditions.
There is a comedian by the name of John Oliver. He recently got himself a show on HBO. I have not seen it because I do not have cable, but I read an interview with him somewhere. I recall him saying something to the effect that “It’s a good thing I made it in comedy, because once you choose to go down that road, you’re not good for anything else. If you don’t make it, you’ll wind up living under a bridge.”
I know exactly what he meant. The comedian must inhabit an artistic space that is not conducive to any other profession. If he doesn’t make it, all is lost. He must start out all over again, this time permanently disfigured by the experience. And good luck with that.
I have paid my dues and I have done excellent work for ten years. I deserve to be compensated by my audience. I deserve those ticket receipts so that I might hire camera guys and writers and put on a proper show, a fifteen-minute daily video show.
This undertaking of mine has never been conceptualized as a “tryout” for a “real” show on television. This already is a real show with a top-shelf audience. If I need to speak to the President or the Attorney General on whatever matter, I just address them. No brag, just fact. I’m a draw. And I deserve that power because I have worked very hard for it. I have sacrificed everything for it. And I never did any of this for myself. I wanted only to put my talents to their highest and best use in service to some larger prize, human liberty. I don’t like bullies, thieves, or con artists. I use my spotlight to beat them back into their holes. Trust me, it is my pleasure to do so. But I gotta keep the lights on.
The ticket price is one hundred dollars per person, per year. No exceptions. There is no news media discount, there is no law enforcement discount, there is no kook court discount. I do not give out comp passes except to the indigent, which I highly doubt many people here are. And I expect to be paid in arrears. So if you have been sitting in on my show since 2007, the first year I started charging for tickets –and some of you have; I’ve smoked you out– then you owe me eight hundred dollars. (I’m talkin’ to you, Saunders. You and your buddies. Your single ticket purchase, Mister Saunders, would pay off my debt to the power company. And thereafter I’d be on Easy Street. You are not surveilling anything, mister. You are attending a show I had instructed you to attend. I am a master showman and I will gather my target audience by any means. You’re here, aren’t you? I don’t care that you may be here because of my good looks, my rollicking sense of humor, the topless dancers, the backup singers, or because you wanted to get in out of the rain. I couldn’t care less about precisely what reason you may have taken a seat in my theater. I care only that you chose to do so. Now buy your ticket. Did it dawn on you that one of our little tussles occurred right around the time that I was losing my house to foreclosure? “I’ll smoke those freeloading little bastards out yet.” I learned that trick from my father. He owned a hardware store and the high school kids would shoplift from him. So he’d set traps and then watch. He’d then shame them and demand that they pay for the merchandise in their pocket or he’d call the cops. Buy your ticket or I’ll call the cops, Saunders.)
I am now good for absolutely nothing but comedy. I couldn’t now work as a cable man even if I wanted to. I’ve forgotten anything I ever knew about it. I now have zero job skills. I am now good for day labor, that’s about it. And if you people think that I’m going to work as a day laborer for the rest of my life, you are spectacularly mistaken.
By attending my show, you get a front row seat to the event of the century. No brag, just fact. My show is certainly worth a hundred bucks. You are watching history in the making, and it is not because of me but because of the difficult material I have wrestled to the ground. If you disagree, please escort yourself out of my theater. (A man once sent me twenty dollars. Apparently he thought it was pay-what-you-will night at the local art house comedy club. I sent him his money back. There is no haggling here. Pay the price listed at the box office or leave.)
I gotta eat, folks. So take a hundred dollars out of what you otherwise would have had to send to the now-dead IRS and send it to me.
Send your cash or money order to Chris King, Grafton, Vermont 05146. It’ll find me.