Top 10



Shortly after 9/11, I wrote an update with an "Al Qaeda Wish-List" - the premise being not that I WANTED terrorists to blow shit up but if they HAD to blow shit, here was a list of good places to start.

In it, I wrote "Al Qaida really needs a suggestion box. I’d love to hear the public outcry if they put out a serious, red-level alert that IRS offices were going to be nuked. Or, the DMV. Or, whoever made those Geico/Gecco commercials."

The list included targets like David Blaine, Clear Channel, People Who Sue To Compensate for Dead Relatives, Jim Rome and others.

I started to write an updated list for the new decade but was overtaken by Ambien before I finished it. And today, before I could get back to it, I heard about Joseph Stack flying his plane into an IRS building in Austin, TX.

I wondered if David Blaine and Jim Rome were okay or if maybe he'd taken them out on his way to the airport. I wondered how many times he'd listened to my albums in a row before mustering the stomach. I wondered if he plugged my website in his suicide note. But no, his band wasn't even amongst my Myspace friends. So much for being an influence.

That's fine.

Again, I am not encouraging anyone to blow things up or fly planes into things or anything of the sort. I am simply aware that such people exist and if you are going to senselessly end your life in such a manner, it would be a pity to do it to innocent co-workers at the meat-packing house that fired you or some embassy in a third world when there's so many better places to let yourself be heard.

Here's a few in no order of importance.

1. Tim Tebow

I don't follow college ball but this cunt is evidently some vaguely rated quarterback coming into this year's NFL draft out of Florida. All I know is he is a flaming Christ-head who did an anti-abortion commercial in the middle of the fucking Superbowl.

We finally are rid of Kurt Warner and his praising Jesus instead of Fitzgerald or Boldin or Beanie Wells only to have him quickly replaced by the Pro-Life squealings of some mediocre, daft college douche destined to disappoint some team that I used to like until they drafted him.

Fuck you, you dunce-cap fraternity stain. I hope you get drafted by Port-Au-Prince.

2. Photo-Enforced Red Lights

And photo-enforced speed zones and any other Big Brother shit like that. I am always saddened when I see piss-poor graffiti on businesses and public walls when kids could just as easily spray-paint the lenses of these mechanical thieves.

Every other deer-crossing sign in rural areas is littered with bullet holes from bored youth yet the photo speed-trap remains unmolested. If your kid is a prick and a vandal, get him a paintball gun and point him in the right direction. It's your job as a parent.

 

3. Airport Security

If terrorists would focus not on airplanes but on airport security, then the gov't would either get rid of airport security or create airport security security that you would have to go through before you went through airport security. Then the terrorists would go after airport security security until they had airport security security security. And so on until they finally admitted that airport security doesn't do shit.

Like I said before, you can't keep weapons out of prisons and in prison they look in your ass. Stop your nonsense.

4. Whoever Puts Shit on DVDs That You Can't Fast-Forward Through.

I just bought the box sets of The Wire and the beginning of each season has a run-on trailer for other HBO shows that you cannot fast-forward through. I paid for this yet I am forced to watch advertisements for other shows that either I don't wanna watch or that broke my heart (Deadwood, which ended on a cliff-hanger only to be cancelled - forcing me to actually go to Deadwood, SD to see how it ends. It ends as a goofball tourist destination where nobody is named Swearengen.)

The only DVD you can get that allows you to skip the Piracy Warning is a pirated DVD and I highly recommend that.

5. FreeCreditReport.com

I have wished this guy dead (the guy from the commercial, that is) with such passion that I have actually tracked him down on the internet so my daydream would have some graphic detail.

His name is Eric Violette and he lives in Montreal. And Canada is crawling with Al Qaeda.

Not only are the songs the absolute most annoying, stick-in-your-head-to-insanity levels but they don't make any sense at all if you break them down - which I do instead of playing with my dogs or telling my girlfriend that I love her.

Here's one for instance. Yes, I am aware that I am without question the shitbean for taking it this far. Fuck you.)

Well I was shoppin' for a new car, which one's me?
A cool Convertible or an SUV?
Too bad I didn't know my credit was whack,
Cuz' now I'm drivin' off the lot in a used Subcompact.
F-R-E-E that spells free,
Credit report dot com baby.
Saw their ads on my T.V.
Thought about going, but was too lazy.
Now instead of lookin' fly & rollin' phat,
My legs are sticking to the vinyl and my posse's gettin' laughed at.
F-R-E-E that spells free,
Credit report dot com baby.

Okay. So you went looking for a car but you didn't know your credit was "whack" so you had to get a shitty car. But if you went to FreeCreditReport.com, they could have told you - for a fee - that you had shitty credit. So you'd still have to get a shitty car. So your company is pointless and you need to lose your hands and face to an IED. Or, I do.

6. Donovan Dodge in Sierra Vista, AZ

I should just say Mazda in general but I'm sure other car companies are pulling the same shenanigans so let's just go with the specific fucks who I bought mine from. I have a 2006 Mazda mini-van and not just to abduct children and blind them with chemicals. Shortly after I bought it, I went in to get an extra key. I have a 2002 Mazda as well which I love and also purchased spare keys for - a drunk loses stuff and extra keys are important. The spare keys for the 2002 cost about $1.29.

The dealership told be that the spare key for the 2006 would be around 300 dollars, much of that for labor. You see they cant just make a regular old hardware store key. This is a special security key that needs to be programmed my a computer specialist. It will only start with this special key.

This secures my Mazda against auto theft how, exactly? I see. If a car thief broke into my home, stole my special $300 key, went out and made a $1.29 copy and THEN tried to steal my car with it, he would fail miserably! Imagine him sitting there, after breaking back into my house to replace the original, unable to start my car. Egg on your face, car-jacker!

Yesterday my engine light went on - at 50-some thousand miles. I brought it to my local mechanic who said that he couldn't do a computer diagnoses because it was some special shit that only the dealer can do. I called the dealer with all the manners that you can imagine. Indeed I would have to bring it there. Why do you sell me a car that nobody else can fix? Of course - because they have special computers that I get the best blah blah blah fucking-horseshit.

Just writing this makes me want to get a pilot's licence. Unfortunately, you can't find Mr. Mazda as easily as the touch-hole from the FreeCredit commercials.

7. Wasps

A wasp stung me in the knuckle today and I want all insects dead. First, we find the family of the wasp and pull off their wings. Send a brutal message. Then we kill a yellowjacket and leave it in a wasp's nest, starting a war between the rival sets of bees.

It goes on from there.

 

8. Dr. Drew

"Celebrity Rehab" is like doing Home Makeovers For The Rich and Famous. It's hard to feel sympathy for 'em. That doesn't make Dr. Drew Pinsky any less of a fraud. I know I've complained about him plenty here and everywhere. But I can't stop hating him and watching him and hating him and watching some more.

I have called around randomly to different rehabs and detoxes and none of them think it's a good idea to do a television show while you're going through violent withdrawal. None of them think it's a good idea to be re-united at rehab with an ex who went to prison for beating you half to death. They didn't think motor-boating with Gary Busey - or any other insane person behind the wheel for that matter - should be part of addiction therapy.

You suck the most and you are beyond an awful, human carpet-bagger. You are criminal and should be defrocked of whatever credentials you hold and jailed. You really fucking suck. And stay away from Artie Lange, you fucking parasite.

9. TMZ

I watched about 15 minutes of this show and became agitated to a state of pant-shitting fury. No need for paparazzi, TMZ just takes any cellphone footage from common Joe-douchebags harassing celebrities until the celebrity gets pissed and then talks about what a dick the celebrity is for getting bothered. This wouldn't upset me so much if they weren't credited by the supposed-legitimate media for so many "breaking news" stories.

It's the same as if your nosey, Gladys Kravitz neighbor who watches you come and go from between her curtains was suddenly acclaimed as an investigative reporter when she gossips about you at the coffee shop.

Yes, the fault does lay with bankrupt masses that actually give a fuck what Justin Timberlake is carrying in his back-pack on the way to the gym as much as the sponge-dick following him with the iPhone. But, if I had an Al Qaeda Wish-List that just said "Everybody" it wouldn't kill as much time. And killing time is important.

10. Me

Haven't we heard me moan and shit for long enough? I have to be the biggest hypocrite I have ever had the displeasure of being. The FreeCredit guy? Really? When I was the retard on Girls Gone Wild commercials for so very, very long? I still want me dead for those days. Complaining about my cars and box set DVDs that I buy while I get fatter and more useless each and every day? Poor fucking me.

Go ahead and fly a plane into my house. I had it painted all sots of kooky colors and put the pictures on the internet because I'm bored. Gas up the jet and find it on Google Earth. What do you need, a picture of Allah? Or is it Muhammed? Here's a picture to help you get started.

Isn't that enough? Come on, wash the sand out of your ass and ears and let's get this shit over with. I'm boring myself to tears. I am everything that you and I both hate about America. I am a glutton and a sloth with a wayward moral compass and little regard for the world or my fellow man.

And I have a Sacramento date coming up pretty soon. So do us both a favor.

---

I have omitted obvious boobs and vomit-piles who would otherwise fill any top ten death-wish lists. Glenn Beck, Nancy Grace, Sarah Palin, Nancy Pelosi, Jonas Brothers, etc don't need pointing out.

And I didn't double-up on the IRS. They are some evil motherfuckers and there's obvious reasons for not piling on. I'll save that for the live shows. The only folk I know that beat the IRS are Scientology. Google that story and see just how fucking ruthless Scientologists are. It'd be almost admirable how they did it except they are still Scientologists. It'd be like admiring AIDS for how it killed your crab lice.

There are people on this planet who for whatever reason need to kill other random people to make a point, to settle grievances, to be seen and heard or to further their cause.

Hopefully you find another way and you find peace and happiness and filet-o-fish sandwiches that make you fullfilled so nobody has to die.

But if you are one of those people and nothing can stop you, please - for the sake of all of us - be creative.

~Stanhope

Saints

They say you cannot love anyone else until you learn to love yourself but even the most self-loathing individual can still love the New Orleans Saints.

I always loved the 'dogs and I've loved the Saints since I was a kid - the image of fans with paper bags on their heads and "Ain'ts" written across 'em made me love them for a lifetime.

Bingo never liked football but had loved New Orleans since she spent her best years selling body shots on Bourbon Street and she cried watching the news of Katrina while I tried writing jokes about it. It took the triumphant and overly-hyped return of the team to the newly renovated Superdome for her to show any interest in the game. By the end of that season when they made it to their first championship game, Bingo knew more about the Saints than I did.

Saints For Life!

I got tickets for her birthday in November, tying a road date in Tampa in with a Saints road game against the Buccaneers. Second row, 50 yard line. I bought 'em well before the season started and if I'd have known the Bucs were gonna be 1-10 at that point of the season, I'm sure I could've got 'em a lot cheaper but it was all well worth it, nonetheless.

We checked into a hotel on Dale Mabry on Saturday afternoon, walking distance from Raymond James Stadium. Dale Mabry Highway is like most of Florida - an endless six-lane highway dotted with corporate franchise stores and malls and no sidewalks. We made it past the the steak house next to the hotel and just on the other side, parked in a giant empty parking lot was a mammoth tour bus painted from grill to tailpipe with "SAINTS" and images of players, logos, etc.

Saints Taligate Heaven

There were 15 or 20 people blasting music, drinking and dancing with a full PA and a trailer with a industrial sized BBQ and smoker they'd towed along with a two-man crew humping out meat to the folks.

"Who Dat!"

We u-turned back to the hotel, put on our saints jerseys and made straight back to the party.

"Who Dat!"

These were the Cajun-est motherfuckers you could imagine and they welcomed us like they'd known us all their lives. Coolers full of beer were everywhere and many beers were thrust into our hands. We were introduced around and offered everything of all they had to offer.

"Oh Help yo'self... this is all Jay's pahty... he don't cay-uh. He's a Millionay-uh!"

Jay was a wobbly-kneed drunk that looked at least 15 years older than his 50 years with wet eyes that drifted into his clammy, sun-raped skin. A young girl danced around him and he yelled over the music for us to make ourselves at home.

Then the mistake happened - someone asked what I did and I told the truth. Sometimes this can work in your favor but we were already in their good graces so it could only make things worse.

Next thing I hear by the de-facto MC on the microphone - "We got ourselves a CO-median here from TELEVISION whose gonna do some jokes fo' us!"

It's broad daylight and I am one gulp of beer short of ultimate sobriety and the last place my material belongs is at an upbeat, pre-celebration for drunken coon-asses. So I begged off, citing my sobriety and the fact that my stuff wasn't appropriate for the moment.

"Well, shee-it, somebody get this man somethin ta drink!" The dancing girl brought me onto the decked-out party bus and offered me a shot. I was hoping for coke but instead refused whiskey. I don't drink whiskey and besides I had a real show to do in a few hours.

I tried to mix into the background but after every song the guy manning the microphone would re-introduce me and ask if I was ready. Some people were looking pissed off that I wouldn't do a set, as though I owed them in return for their courtesy.

Just then a hotel shuttle showed up and dropped off four or five younger guys who immediately piled into the party.

"Holy shit - that's Doug Stanhope! Hey man! We're coming to your show tonight!"

Thank fuck. At least there will be people who appreciate how awkward this is going to be.

"Who Dat!"

I tell 'em that I am about to be forced into trying to do comedy for this hootenanny and to have my back.

Slam another beer and take the mic. All the short-attention span dick jokes from the old days.

Tit-Fuck joke.

Apology.

Get rid of any traces of his DNA.

Apology.

Flip a coin in her cunt.

Apology.

Thanks and g'nite.

Nobody seemed upset but nobody asked for an encore, thankfully.

Of course the actual show at The Crowbar would suffer a bit from my day drinking but that shit happens. Or maybe it was better because of it. I'm no critic. But we made the game and ran into a lot of the folk from the parking lot who greeted us like long lost family. The Saints boxed the Bucs ears and I don't remember much of the second half save for the smoking area and taking a lot of pictures with odd people.

"Who Dat!"

And the Who Dat rained from all corners as we walked back to the outdoor bar of the steak house to watch the afternoon games and bring this drunk to a pinnacle.

Slow by slow, people we'd met came into the bar and the late games meant nothing. The guys who'd road-tripped from New Orleans for my show and for the game took up a table and we shot the shit. Different folks from the Saints bus came and went and we exchanged numbers we'd never call.

And at some point Jay the Million-ay-uh wandered in like he owned the place - which he might by now.

Jay the Million-ay-uh

I'd like to give a detailed account of the conversation but it was all a bit blurry. I know he started asking me about what I do, mostly about how much money I make and why it isn't enough and why or how I can make more. He was irritated at the fact that I said I didn't need more money and couldn't understand how someone could have goals that favored enjoying life over making money.

It was somewhere after trying to explain that I don't do "jokes" so much as social commentary that he asked about my political leanings. He then pegged me as a "liberal", leading to me saying that I fit into the category of libertarian - which still sounds like "liberal" enough that an idiot doesn't listen to the rest of the sentence.

Jay is obviously anti-liberal.

So what do I think of Obama? I say that I think he's pretty cool on the level of an entertainer and that's all any president is to me.

Why, what do you think, Jay?

"I think he's just a stupid niggah like any other nigger."

Let me say now - I use the word nigger probably as much as the worse racist you know. I use as many words as I can that are considered offensive, the more offensive the better. The difference is that comedians - the good ones anyway - talk in the most abusive terms when they are in the back of the room or the end of the bar. And never in all the times I have been involved in what outsiders might consider the most vile conversations - niggers and retards and fat cunts with prolapsed rectums and on and on - have I ever heard any hate. Just humor.

Jay wasn't being funny.

"Okay. What about Bobby Jindal?"

Maybe Jay's partisanship accidentally cascaded into race.

"He's just another niggah same as Obama."

As quickly as that, I saw the whole Saints bus party as clearly as if I had walked into it on mushrooms. This wasn't a bunch of people who shared a common love of the underdog and were celebrating what was at the time a perfect season together. It was a pathetic and soulless walking alcoholic who used money as bait to create a party that without all the gimmicks, he would not have otherwise been invited to.

He went on. Nigger nigger nigger.

All the people we had met that had been so absolutely pleasant must have know what a shitbag he was and probably never said a word, not wanting to upset the apple cart that brought the bus and the booze and the bar-b-que and the whole damn party.

Nigger this and nigger that and you have enough money that nobody is gonna say a word.

And, as this dawned on me and everyone just looked at their shoes, I stood up and said "You know what? You are a fucking douchebag and I don't even want to be a Saints fan anymore."

I took off my Saints jersey and chucked it in his face and told him to go fuck himself and Bingo and I walked shit-faced out of the bar.

Bingo told me it was the coolest thing she ever saw me do and I felt that cool for about ten minutes back at the hotel until I realized I'd just left what was otherwise a cool crowd of people not to mention throwing away my Ricky Williams Saints jersey - I have more love for Ricky Williams quitting football abruptly after failing his umpteenth piss test because he'd rather get high than amuse shitheads like Jay.

So eventually we meandered back only to find that Jay had left and the guys from my show had keenly snatched back my jersey.

This really has nothing to do with race as much as it does idiocy. Racism is idiocy at it's most obvious but it has as much to do with people who find themselves above being called out due to influence or affluence.

Jay Roberts of Luling, LA - I would later find out through the magic of Google - made his millions as a de-facto carpet-bagger of Hurricane Katrina. He is vulgar, small-town power-junkie and parasite who for all his wealth, has zero-value on a human level.

I am quite aware that my overly-dramatic show was alcohol-induced and made no difference in the long or even short run but I still held that anger for quite a while. I don't hold many grudges and some of the ones I hold are of the most ridiculous. I know where I can find that shit-lips that does the FreeCreditReport.com commercials in case I want to go out as a disgruntled TV-watcher-gone-shooter.

Silly.

But the utter hatred for everything about Jay-duh-Million-ay-uh stayed with me so much that every time I heard "Who Dat," I forgot my beloved Saints and remembered how much I despise that chunk of shit.

It was ruining the best season of football that I can ever remember until I thought...

Hey, Jay...

Have you noticed?

Niggers own you. They own everything about you. They drive your bus. They cook your bar-b-que. They run for the touchdowns that you drive so long to see. Niggers are the heart and soul of the community you live in. For fuck sake, you have portraits of your favorite niggers on the side of your own million-dollar tour bus.

I understand you now as much as I understand why a black person who faced the worst of oppression hates white folk. You hate niggers because they own every part of your being. So it doesn't matter to me who wins on Sunday. I'm happy that the best underdog I've ever known has made it to the big game. And I'm happy that they own you like you were a thick, blue-gummed auction item. And every time I hear "Who Dat?" I will think "not fucking you, Jay."

Not fucking you.

Fear Black Friday...

...and holiday shopping no more because the new CD - Doug Stanhope: From Across the Street - is available right here, right now.

 

Yes you could go to Amazon or some other outlet that sucks out any profit margin and hates you OR you could just click on the merch button and in minutes, your order's on its way!

Great for everyone on your shopping list in that anyone who expects you to buy them something is a dickhole and probably wouldn't like my humor anyway. Fuck em! That's all they're getting from you!

BUT WAIT! Here's an added bonus to entice you! I'll sign the fucking things! You won't get that anywhere else (except on eBay when I am dead and then for a fraction of the original cost!)

I'm going to sit like a beer-filled Buddha for a day and just sign these fucking things - old and new - like factory work because YOU Deserve It! It'll be the only day I work all year!

I am your Deadbeat Santa!

Doug's NEWEST CD AVAILABLE NOW!

This being my fourth CD, you can get all 4 for 40 bucks SHIPPING INCLUDED! (Unless you are outside the US, the shipping is 15 bucks because shipping there sucks and is expensive, so move here.)

With prices this low, I must be Begging for Change! I'm picking up nickels with my flabby ass-cheeks for your Frat Brothers!

Exactly how funny is this CD? I have no idea. I don't listen to this shit. I sicken myself and just make me want to cry. But YOU - well, you are different. You are strong and proud and emit self-confidence like a skunk in a corner. Nothing shows this more than having 'Doug Stanhope: From Across the Street' cranking on Christmas Eve while they evict your neighbors and sirens wail.

And by all means, don't forget to tell your friends. That way you'll get eachother the exact same thing for Christmas and the day will be as much of a let-down as life itself!

By compelling you to buy my CD from me and only from me, I in no way suggest that you skip Black Friday all together. You should still go out and mob a Wal-Mart or K-Mart until you feel someone's final breath squeezed out under the thin sole of your Converse All-Star. It's what the holidays are all about.

~stanhope