Happy New Year, My Intestines Hurt.

"That's the problem with 'clothing optional' beaches. It's always the last people you'd ever want to see naked

I feel pressure in my lower intestine and, no, it's not cock. It's some sort of blockage. When I press on it, it gurgles. Seems to have been growing for a few years so I doubt its cancer or I'd be dead by now. I also doubt it'll ever get fixed unless shit explodes into my innards. I used to think it was my liver and I did jokes about it. I actually went to a Russian doctor in my old neighborhood when I first noticed that it was not going away. I told her my liver hurt. She put me on the table and started rubbing high above where I'd felt the pressure. I didn't say anything. For some reason when she was rubbing the wrong spot, I assumed she was fucked up and didnt know where the liver was in a human body. She said she couldn't feel anything wrong. Only later when I saw a diagram of the human innards did I realize what an onionhead I am. She asked me how much I drank and I told her. She asked what I usually drink and I said beer. She told me to stay away from beer, to drink vodka. I shit you not. You gotta love a broke-English Ruskie doctor who gives you that kind of advice. I think I'll keep her.

Now I just need a fuck-up attorney. We have big plans for the New Year and we are going to need legal assistance.

Do any lawyers come to this site? I wonder who does come to this site.

Are there any troops? Or does the military block this site?

How about black people? Are there any black people here?

What about gays? Or professionals? Or women? Where's my elderly
people at?

Who are you people? Talk to me!!!

Why aren't you on the message board? You learn things there that you'll never hear on the front page.

Sure, two people will call you a douchebag the first time you post but we don't like those two people anyway. We just keep 'em around for flavor.

The Private Party Mailing List Contest - which was rigged of course - went to the last guy that signed up on the message board, for no particular reason other than I wanted to go to Bisbee, AZ and he's in Tuscon, which is on the way. Who knows when it'll actually happen. The new Mailing List contest will be easy and, therefore, legit. I'll yank a name off every month and send out a bootleg of a recent show, a naked picture of my wife sleeping, an audiotape of my act from '93, a bootleg of someone elses show, etc. It's important to be able to get ahold of you. It's the only way you may know I'm in your town. Thanks.

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I'll be in Costa Rica for a few weeks and then Vegas. A lot of new dates will be coming up and I'll be trying to put together a Tour with the Un-Bookables. There's so much good comedy out there that you aren't seeing or seeing enough of that maybe it's time to start barnstorming some towns.

If you own a bar or have a hook-up at a venue, drop me an email. Doesn't matter where. It may be time to buy a bus off eBay and do a low-rent tour. Guys like Sean Rouse, Brendon Walsh, Travis Lipski, Andy Andrist, Lonnie Bruhn, etc. are wasting away because club owners are terrified cunts.

So get on the mailing list and get the people you know on the mailing list.

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A quick and overdue thanks to those who send me shit. I occasionally get some really cool books or t-shirts or CDs from people that I never get to thank you for and have no idea who you are. I just started reading the Principia Discordia that someone mailed me. I have no clue who, but thanks - to all of you. This is why I take time off, to realize what a self-centered douchebag I am.

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I'll be re-doing the site soon or, should I say, Redban will be doing it. I will be bloated on a beach somewhere. I'll get clips back up and some new merchandise. Anything in particular you'd like? Email me your suggestions. I have no funny for this update. I'm off the clock. Make a New Years resolution to stop following tradition. Quit working so hard. Sell something you like and do something you like with the money. Stop trying to make people like you. Steal from somebody that won't notice. None of this is real. Make the most of it. Come to the party. Wake up with a good story. You guys make this fun.

R.I.P. Dimebag Darrell

The remaining members of Damageplan are pale and shaking in the cramped office of the Alrosa Villaniteclub. The club owner sits behind the desk, open shirt with hair plugs coiffed to a near-pompador. He stretches his lips down across his teeth and exhales. Without looking up, he says -

"Sheesh, I don't know what to tell ya, guys. The contract said that you'd play until 1:30 and it looks like you played... let's see... five minutes. I just don't know what to say." "Wha...? You mean...? THEY FUCKING KILLED OUR GUITAR PLAYER, MAN!" "Geez, ya, I saw that. Phew. ... But the contract does say 'until 1:30'. I mean, I obviously can't pay you." "DUDE THE FUCKING GUY KILLED FOUR FUCKING PEOPLE! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???" "I understand that but you have to understand where I'm coming from. I mean, sheesh, I have people who paid 8 dollars a head for a night of live music and you play for five minutes? What am I supposed to tell my customers? I like you guys but I have a business to run." YOU TELL ME HOW THE FUCK WE'RE SUPPOSED TO PLAY WITH A DEAD FUCKING GUITAR PLAYER, YOU FUCKING FUCK!" "Hey, thats not my problem. I agreed to provide the venue and the sound system. It's your job to provide whatever musicians you'll need. I mean, let's be reasonable." "I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!" "Listen, we've always had a decent relationship and you've usually been very professional. I don't know what you were thinking tonite but ... let's do this - I'll take care of your bar tab and I'll put you back on the books for April 19th. But I'm going need more than just five minutes. "ARE YOU .....? ... FUCK! SO YOU"RE....I MEAN.... SHIT! (pause) Is that a weekend night?" "It's a Tuesday." "Uh, fuck. Alright." "Great then. I'll take care of the bar tab. Just make sure you pay Jerry for the chicken strips. You can close that door on your way out. I got a lot of paperwork here. Thanks guys."

If You Can't Beat Em, Fuck Em - Pt. 2

The way I see it, the Religious Right Wing owes me money. Since the FCC's vague and oppressive crackdown on radio, the road can be even more lonely than ever. Where I used to do maybe 5 or 6 stations in a given market to promote a show. Now I'm lucky to get one or two - and half of those are pre-recorded to make sure they don't border on funny.

Reason being, the FCC provides no defined rules on what is obscenity. Therefore, the station doesn't know where to draw the line until after they have been raped, fined, fired and put out of business. So radio isn't taking any chances, especially when it comes to people like me.

I do less radio, less people know I'm in town, I make less money. This is bad.

The only radio I could do in Shreveport - oddly enough - was Gator & Cher on KRMD. Hardcore conservative country. Gator told me they don't even want them saying "hell" on the air. So rather than burn the bridge and jeopardize their jobs, I said everything their listeners wanted to hear. Go George Bush! To Heck with Michael Moore! We need to think about the Troops! Screw the left-wing liberal media. Sure, I may use strong language in my show but sometimes you need strong language when you're talking about OSAMA BIN LADEN!

And the phones at the club lit up. Book another table of four under the name "Walkout". All weekend long we'd watch the people line up and pick out the ones that were gonna walk. Red State Payback. It's one thing to tell an asshole how you feel about their political insight but to make them pay to hear it is a whole different level of catharsis.

Your bullshit family values have cost me a lot more than you spent tonite but thanks for making a small contribution in return.

Better still was watching them sit through Brett Erickson pounding them with some of the best Jesus jokes ever written, cringing and thinking that somehow I'd make it all better. Don't get me wrong, I don't like walking people. The inevitable hatred I get without trying wears at my soul like snowtires but this weekend we'd decided to embrace it. Invite it, even.

This gave more adrenaline to the prospect of drinking downtown after the shows, since you never know just how far the walkouts opted to walk. The closest we came to actual problems came about 3:30 in the morning ( you can drink til 6 am in Shreveport and we may have) at a bar I wouldn't recognize today if I owned it. The blurriest of memories at best.

There's a table of three military guys, the dumb and self-congratulatory type that punch each other in the chest after they masturbate in a huddle. Ooo-Rah. They want to tell me that I ruined the Man Show. I'll drink to that. Next thing I recall is me blathering on with my long-winded and under-educated points of view about how they all got fucked. Either it's not coming out right or they just didn't agree but it's turning into -

"Are you trying to tell me that what we're doing over there is worthless??? Are you trying to say that we weren't attacked on September 11th???"

I'm certainly too drunk to debate and I'm forgetting what I said seconds after saying it. I walked away once and they called me back over. Meanwhile there is a very small man next to me that is trying to ask me about getting into comedy but can't get words in edgewise over the meatheads that are trying to elevate this conversation to an Abu Ghraib situation.

I was keeping it light enough to avoid violent confrontation but that probably wasn't going to last. Seeing this, Brett Erickson stepped in and did what any guy would do to get a friend out of a beating. He came up behind me, pulled my head back by my hair and plunged his tongue deeply into my mouth. For a while. For several silent, prolonged beats. You'd think a terrifying display of shameless man-love would cause a negative reaction but it quelled the situation immediately. Maybe it confused them, maybe it excited them. Either way, I don't remember them ever saying another word.

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Just like me to brag about fucking with rednecks when my next gig is in Macon, GA. I'll be the Theo Van Gogh of comedy. Let me know if you got my back. Not in the Brett Erickson way, of course.

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December 1st I'll be pulling a name off the Mailing List for a private party of legendary proportions. Get on it, whore. And start burning off them CDs and DVDs. 2005 will be memorable, I guarantee. But the mailing list may be the only way you'll know about a lot of the shit.

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Did you get your tickets for the Emerald Theater in Detroit yet? It's my last show before I go to Costa Rica, meaning it's my last show without AIDS.

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Hey Brendon Burns -

I was going to plug your CD but you don't seem to have a fucking website. What up with that? I'll tell folks they can buy it off your Mum.

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Was I drinking during this update? Perhaps. Read The Lucifer Principle by Howard Bloom. You'll be drinking too.