Now something else a lot of you are aware of. Those of you with illegal cable hook-ups will be aware of the fact that one of the things I like to do on my show is complain you know. It’s kind of a motif for me complaining. And of course. This weird culture we live in leaves you no shortage of things to complain about. So this next piece of material like some good ideas is fairly simple. It’s just a list of people who ought to be killed starting with these people who read self help books. Why do so many people need help? Life is not that complicated. You get up go to work you eat three meals you take one good shit and you go back to bed. What’s the fucking mystery? And the part I really don’t understand. If you’re looking for self-help why would you read a book written by somebody else? That’s not self-help that’s help. There’s no such thing as self help. If you did it yourself you didn’t need help. You did it yourself. Try to pay attention to the language we’ve all agreed on. And a similar. A similar mystery to me motivation books.

Motivation seminars. Why would anyone need to be motivated by someone else? I say if you lack motivation. A seminar isn’t going to help you. What you really need is to be smashed in the head or times with a golf club. That’ll fucking motivate you. Or else it’ll at least get you up and moving around the room you know locate your socks shit like that. Get the day rolling. Motivation is bullshit. If you ask me this country could use a little less motivation. The people who are motivated are the ones who were causing all the trouble. Stock swindlers. Serial killers. Child molesters, Christian conservatives. These people are highly motivated, highly motivated. And anyway I think motivation is overrated. You show me some lazy prick who’s lying around all day watching game shows and stroking his penis and I’ll show you someone who’s not causing any fucking trouble.

Here’s another pack of low-grade morons who ought to be locked into portable toilets and set on fire. These people with bumper stickers that say we are the proud parents of an honor student at Franklin School. Or the Midvale Academy or whatever other innocent sounding name has been assigned to the indoctrination center where their child has been sent to be stripped of his individuality and turned into an obedient soul, dead conformist member of the American consumer culture. Proud parents what kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the achievements of their children? How would you like to have to live with a couple of these misfits? How’s that science project coming along Justin? Fuck you dad. You simple-minded prick. Mind your own business and pass the Cheerios. Here’s a bumper sticker I’d like to see. We are the proud parents of a child whose self esteem is sufficient that he doesn’t need us promoting his minor scholastic achievements on the back of our car. Or we are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teacher’s attempts to break his spirit and bend him to the will of his corporate masters. Just be a nice little for a change. Here’s something realistic. We have a daughter in public school who hasn’t been knocked up yet. We have a son in public school who hasn’t shot any of his classmates yet. But he does sell drugs to your honor student. Plus, he knocked up your daughter. Then there are the people who aren’t too proud of their children. We are the embarrassed parents of a cross-eyed little nitwit who at the age of not only continues to wet the bed but also shits on the school bus. Something like that on the back of the car might give the child a little more incentive you know, get him to try a little harder next semester.

Here are some more parents who ought to be beaten with heavy clubs and left bleeding in the moonlight. These are the ones who carry their babies around in these backpacks or front packs or slings or whatever these devices are called. That are apparently designed to leave the parents’ hands free to sort through high end merchandise and reach for their platinum credit cards. Because it’s always these upscale, yuppie looking Greenpeace environmentally conscious assholes who have them on. I say hey Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers. I say hey Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers. It’s not camping equipment it’s a baby. Touch the little prick now and then. He’ll thank you for it someday. These are the same people who sort their garbage jog with their dogs and listen to Steely Dan. You just like to take them out deep in the forest and disembowel them with a wooden cooking spoon.

Here are some more people who ought to be smashed across the face repeatedly with a piece of heavy mining equipment These grown men, grown men who refer to their fathers as my daddy. You know yeah. You hear a lot of this stupid shit in the South these rebel assholes. My daddy my daddy my daddy. Well you know what my daddy used to say. My daddy used to say blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Oh. He did. Did he? Well. Wasn’t that fucking enlightening. My daddy used to say fuck your daddy. Fuck your daddy in his wrinkled. Rusted rural country asshole. Grow up Billy Joe Carl Bob Danny Frank, you’re not six any more. More like 9.

Here’s another unfortunate pack of mutants who ought to be penciled in for a sudden visit from the angel of death these guys these guys who can’t tell you about a phone call they had without giving you this shit the fucking pinky and the thumb. Like they attended Mime college, studied under Marcel Marceau. So I call her up you know and I’m talking to her. And she fucking hangs up on me so I hang up on her. And she calls me back. I fucking hang up again. I say hey Bruno thanks for the visual aid. But we all understand the concept of the telephone. You hold it in your hand you talk into it. Excuse me. Bruno. Incoming call. Oh hey it’s for you.

Here’s another bunch of puss-headed telephone cretins. These self-important techno dicks who walk around with these hands free telephone headsets and ear pieces. Mr. Self Important doesn’t want to be too far from the phone in case Henry Kissinger calls. He’s got the Dalai Lama on line 2. I say hey Spaceman as long as your hands are free. Reach over here and fondle my balls would you please?

And answering machines starting with these people who think it’s cute to let their children record the outgoing message you know? And you can’t understand a word of it. Because the kid’s a fucking imbecile. Hi my name is Stacey I’m 5 years old, my mommy and daddy aren’t home but I’m galalgablallamabla. Beep. Here’s my message Stacey. I’m coming over to your house with a big knife. And I’m going to kill mommy and daddy. Then I’m going to peel off their skin and make a funny hat. After that I’m going to take out my huge ding dong and stick it right in your dooooooo.

These are the same parents who at Christmas time send you pictures of their children. Pictures you didn’t ask for and you don’t want. But it is fun throwing the pictures away isn’t it? I don’t even look at the fucking Christmas card. Who’s this? Luanne is this year. Fuck Luanne. I give a shit how old she is. Does she have any tits yet? Send me a picture of Luanne’s tits. Then I know I’m going to have a happy New Year too. Then just to compound your holiday pleasure, they enclose a family newsletter. Just what you’re hoping for, news about people you can barely fucking remember. We’re so proud of Brad he’s been accepted into dental school. Yeah in the Philippines after four tries. Fuck Brad and everybody who looks like Brad. Judging from his picture I think he’s jerking off too much. Keep him away from Luanne.

Here’s another bunch of genetic defectives who have been turned loose on answering machines. These guys who cannot resist the urge to put music on their outgoing message. You know some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack and suddenly he’s a fucking record producer. And because he’s busy in the basement jacking off his dog I have to listen to substandard music. And it’s always rotten music you know. It’s either new age that pointless meandering zombie noise played by pseudo spiritual lunatics who think wind chimes are a musical instrument. Or else it’s soft rock. Soft rock. That lame ass weak non threatening suburban white boy junk played by bands like Men Without Testicles. Oh. And folks. On these answering machines do me a favor. Would you please. When you record your outgoing message don’t bother telling me you can’t come to the phone. I understand that. Apparently that’s why we have these machines. And don’t tell me leave my name and number somehow. I figured that out. And if you work in an office. Never mind that stuff. I’m away from my desk. If you had to take a shit say so. Just say hi this is Mary Louise I had the Mexican Jalapeno bean chile dip and I washed it down with a gallon of gin. I’ll be in and out all day.

There are some more people who ought to be strapped into chairs and beaten with hammers. People who wear visors. Let me ask you something. What the fuck is the point in wearing half a hat? Either get a hat or don’t. No one’s interested in the top of your head. Go back to the store and tell them to give you the rest of the hat. They cheated you. Better still. Get yourself one of them little Jewish hats and sew it to your visor. Then you got yourself a full-fledged fucking hat my friend.

Here are some more musical vermin whose mothers we wish had medical plans that included abortion. These singers, these singers who think they’re so special they only need one name: Bono, Sting, Jewel, Tiffany, Prince. What a crock of shit. Get a fucking last name would you please. I got a nice two-word name for you: pretentious cocksucker. How do you like that? Bono, Sting. It’s not bad enough the music sucks. But with no last name. You can’t find out where they live to throw a fucking bomb through their window. It’s frustrating.

Here are some more people who deserve an inoperable tumor at the base of their spines. These guys who fly around the world in a fucking balloon. You know. What is this 1850? Get a fucking airline ticket will you please? When is the media going to realize no one’s interested in some rich trouser stain who’s so bored he’s got to fly around in a balloon all day. I hope the next guy gets hit by lightning. And flies around in little fart circles. And lands in a sewage treatment pond and sinks with the rest of the turds. Mr. Lighter than Air.

Here is another pack of jackoffs who ought to be strangled in front of their children. People who pay for inexpensive items with a credit card. You know. Folks. Take my word for this Raisinettes is not a major purchase. Get some fucking cash together. No one should be paying a bank percent interest on Tic Tacs. And you’re holding up the fucking line too some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack waiting to be approved for a bag of Cheese Doodles. I need this like I need an infected scrotum. Get some fucking money. Next guy ahead of me online pays for Newsweek with a credit card is getting stabbed in the eyes.

And I’m getting really sick of guys named Todd. You know it’s just a goofy fucking name okay. Hi what’s your name? Todd. I’m Todd. And this is Blake. And Blair and Blane and Brent. Where are all these goofy fucking boys’ names coming from? Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn. These are not real names. Do you want to hear a real name? Eddie. Eddie is a real name. Whatever happened to Eddie? He was here a minute ago. Joey and Jackie and Johnnie and Phil. Bobbie and Tommy and Danny and Bill, what happened? Todd. And Cody and Dylan and Cameron and Tucker. Hi. Tucker. I’m Todd. Hi. Todd. I’m Tucker. Fuck Tucker. Tucker sucks. And fuck Tucker’s friend Kyle. There’s another soft name for a boy Kyle. Soft names make soft people. I’ll bet you anything that ten times out of ten Nicky, Vinnie and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker. Thank you very much.

Here are some more people with missing chromosomes who ought to be thrown screaming from a helicopter. Gun enthusiasts, you know? I’m a gun enthusiast. Oh yeah well I’m a blowjob enthusiast. Want to see me shoot? Cock this. And I’ll discharge a load for you. And I’m not against guns. I’m not one of those mindless Hollywood cocksuckers. I’m not against guns, I’m not against bullets, I’m not even against people shooting each other. Shit shooting somebody is part of the American dream. I don’t care who it is. Parents, teachers, kids… fuck them. Let them get shot. Doesn’t bother me. But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers, before Charlton Heston became President of these dickless lunatics in the NRA, they had a different guy. He’s still one of their major spokesmen. His name is Wayne La Pierre. What kind of a name for a gun nut is Wayne La Pierre? Doesn’t it sound a little fruity to you? Hi, I’m Wayne, I’m a gun person. Bang-bang. You know what this prick’s name ought to be? Biff Webster. Spud Crowley, a man’s name. Chuck Steak.

Here are some more men who ought to be strapped to a gurney and castrated with fishing knives. White guys who shave their heads completely bald. They’re so ashamed they lost 11 hairs they’re going to try to turn into some kind of masculine statement. I say hey you goofy looking baldy headed fuck, looks good on black guys, on you it’s ugly, repulsive and disgusting. You want to be bald. Do what I did. Wait a while. Meantime, there’s no excuse for running around looking like a freshly circumcised dick.

And just to wind up this little group of complaints finally this is a group of social criminals. These people in the space program. Nassholes. I call them. In case you haven’t heard. The latest disaster for the rest of the universe is that the United States is going to go to Mars. Okay, aw yeah. We’re going to go to Mars. And then of course. We’re going to colonize deep space with our microwave hot dogs and plastic vomit fake dog shit and cinnamon dental floss and lemon scented toilet paper and sneakers with lights in the heels and all these other impressive things we’ve done down here. Let me ask you this, let me ask you this. What are we going to tell the intergalactic council of ministers the first time one of our teenage mothers throws her newborn baby into a dumpster huh? How we going to explain that to the space people? How we going to let them know that our Ambassador was only late for the meeting because his breakfast was cold and he had to spend half an hour punching his wife around in the kitchen. What are they going to think when they find out – it’s just a local custom – that over 80 million women in the third world have had their clitorises forcibly removed in order to reduce their sexual pleasure so they won’t cheat on their husbands. Can’t you just sense how eager the rest of the universe is for us to show up? Can’t you see them out there?
