Dear Larry The Cable Guy,

Larry the Cable Guy

I don't know if we've ever met but my name is Doug Stanhope and I do stand-up comedy too! It's a crazy old bizness we're in, ain't it? Ohhhh goodness. Heh heh. Anyway, here's what I wanted to say... and I don't mean anything bad, see, but... I mean, I'm good friends with that Ron White fella and I think he's one of the funniest guys in the industry. I just think that...

*phew* (puts hand on shoulder and lowers voice)

It's just that, you know me and some of the other guys out there on the road have been having problems

with this (pauses and squints) ... "Git Er Done" thing. I mean, no one can blame you for taking the Wal-Mart approach of appealing to the absolute stupidest, water-brained Velveeta cheese flag-monkeys on the planet - no offense - but what you've gone and done is given them something to *say*. Out loud.

Are you getting me, Larry? (It is ok if I call you Larry? Great.)

You see, all of us road comics have to perform for these same nutlogs that enjoy your act. We go in, drink all the courage we can find and try to fulfill our contractual obligation. But until you came along, these people were usually too bereft of thought to ever speak out, save for the occasional Yee-Haw. Now, you went and gave em a catch-phrase to scream. At anytime, even when - especially when - it doesn't even make any sense. Do you see why we needed to talk to you about it?

It used to be that you could use pause as a tool to enhance the timing and effectiveness of a bit. Now it's the moment Gavin has been waiting for all week - to bellow out all the knowledge that you've impregnated him with - "Git Er Done!"

He doesn't even know what it means or why he's sayin it! Larry, I'm sure you're a great guy and all but please, you have to make this stop. I don't know how you stop it but - I mean, seriously - these people are puddle-noggins. These people laugh at commercials for car insurance. Surely you can make em stop repeating your mantra.

Here's an idea. Die. Hang on, hear me out. If you were to Die Tragically, then people would stop saying it. I mean, since they think that "Git Er Done" is "comedy", they would have a false sense of reverence about reiterating that in a comedy atmosphere if you had tragically passed on to Jesus. Same way a NASCAR fan would never jokingly yell "Dale Ernhardt" if you were doing a joke about bad drivers.

Listen, captain, I'm not saying I'm better 'n you. I've been out there on Whore Street before myself. Sure I only did it here and there. I don't yet have keychains, toddler wear and foam beer coozies on my website yet. But whoring, I have done. I did the Man Show and I didn't even have kids to feed. They had a catch-phrase too and the fucking tomato-headed fans waited like fat children with full bladders to hear it.

It went "Ziggy-Socky, Ziggy-Socky, Hoy Hoy Hoy!" and then their gaping mouths would open like urinals for their prize of beer.

But we put a stop to that shit. Even though we milked a few extra dollars out of that pig by keeping it alive another year, at least we refused to keep that moronic catch-phrase alive. Imagine if every time you took a sip off your drink on stage, you were barraged by Ziggy-Socky, Ziggy-Socky - like trained apes banging verbal cymbals together on cue? You'd want me dead, too.

Like I said, I don't know you and I haven't seen your act but I do know that 1,000 comics curse you nightly for inadvertently training these albino trailer-parrots to ruin our shows much the way Nazis trained dogs to eat Jews, no offense to German Shepards.

I hope this in no way offended you, it's just, you know, it get's a little old for me and the boys hearin it all the time. Hey, I've taken up enough of your time and I know your busy. I hope you have a great New Year and say Hello to Ron for me. Alrighty then.

G'nite.

stanhope

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."