How to Talk Dirty and Influence People

by Lenny Bruce

  “Dear Mr. Moxie: You know, of course, that if these facts were to fall into the hands of some yellow journalists, this would prove a deterrent to my career. So I’m giving you, you know, my confessor, you know,” blah, blah, blah. “Also, this is not a requisite of a ticket seller, but I was wondering if I could have a ticket seller who could be more than a ticket seller—a companion.”

  Really light now. This is really subtle.

  “A companion, someone who I could have coffee with, someone who is not narrow-minded like the—I had a stunning Danish seaman type in Oregon, who misinterpreted me and stole my watch.”

  Ha! Ha, is that heavy?

  “Stole my watch. Am hoping to hear from you,” blah, blah, blah, “Lenny Bruce.”

  OK. Now I send him a booster letter.

  “Dear Mr. Moxie: My attorney said I was mad for ever confessing what has happened to me, you know, so I know that I can trust you, and I have sent you some cologne.”

  Ha!

  “Sent you some cologne, and I don’t know what’s happened . . .”

  Isn’t this beautiful?

  “And I don’t know what’s happened to that naughty postman, naughtiest . . .”

  Get this phraseology. I hadn’t heard, you know. Now I get an answer from him:

  “We cannot insure the incidents that have happened in the past will not reoccur. A ticket seller that would socialize is out of the question.”

  I think this is beautiful.

  “And I did not receive any cologne nor do we care for any. Dean R. Moxie . . .”

  (With drum and cymbal accompaniment.)

  To is a preposition.

  To is a preposition.

  Come is a verb.

  To is a preposition.

  Come is a verb.

  To is a preposition.

  Come is a verb, the verb intransitive.

  To come.

  To come.

  I’ve heard these two words my whole adult life, and as a kid when I thought I was sleeping.

  To come.

  To come.

  It’s been like a big drum solo.

  Did you come?

  Did you come?

  Good.

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  Did you come good?

  I come better with you, sweetheart, than anyone in the whole goddamned world.

  I really came so good.

  I really came so good ’cause I love you.

  I really came so good.

  I come better with you, sweetheart, than anyone in the whole world.

  I really came so good.

  So good.

  But don’t come in me.

  Don’t come in me.

  Don’t come in me, me, me, me, me.

  Don’t come in me, me, me, me.

  Don’t come in me.

  Don’t come in me, me, me.

  Don’t come in me, me, me.

  I can’t come.

  ’Cause you don’t love me, that’s why you can’t come.

  I love you, I just can’t come; that’s my hang-up, I can’t come when I’m loaded, all right?

  ’Cause you don’t love me. Just what the hell is the matter with you?

  What has that got to do with loving? I just can’t come.

  Now, if anyone in this room or the world finds those two words decadent, obscene, immoral, amoral, asexual, the words “to come” really make you feel uncomfortable, if you think I’m rank for saying it to you, you the beholder think it’s rank for listening to it, you probably can’t come. And then you’re of no use, because that’s the purpose of life, to re-create it.

  Mr. Wollenberg called me to the witness stand for cross-examination:

  Q. Mr. Bruce, had you a written script when you gave this performance?

  A. No.

  MR. BENDICH: Objected to as irrelevant, your Honor.

  THE COURT: The answer is “No”; it may stand.

  MR. WOLLENBERG: I have no further questions.

  THE COURT: All right, you may step down.

  THE WITNESS: Thank you.

  MR. BENDICH: The defense rests, your Honor.

  The time had come for the judge to instruct the jury:

  “The defendant is charged with violating Section 311.6 of the Penal Code of the State of California, which provides:

  Every person who knowingly sings or speaks any obscene song, ballad, or other words in any public place is guilty of a misdemeanor.

  “‘Obscene’ means to the average person, applying contemporary standards, the predominant appeal of the matter, taken as a whole, is to prurient interest; that is, a shameful or morbid interest in nudity, sex or excretion which goes substantially beyond the customary limits of candor in description or representation of such matters and is matter which is utterly without redeeming social importance.

  “The words ‘average person’ mean the average adult person and have no relation to minors. This is not a question of what you would or would not have children see, hear or read, because that is beyond the scope of the law in this case and is not to be discussed or considered by you.

  “‘Sex’ and ‘obscenity’ are not synonymous. In order to make the portrayal of sex obscene, it is necessary that such portrayal come within the definition given to you, and the portrayal must be such that its dominant tendency is to deprave or corrupt the average adult by tending to create a clear and present danger of antisocial behavior.

  “The law does not prohibit the realistic portrayal by an artist of his subject matter, and the law may not require the author to put refined language into the mouths of primitive people. The speech of the performer must be considered in relation to its setting and the theme or themes of his production. The use of blasphemy, foul or coarse language, and vulgar behavior does not in and of itself constitute obscenity, although the use of such words may be considered in arriving at a decision concerning the whole of the production.

  “To determine whether the performance of the defendant falls within the condemnation of the statute, an evaluation must be made as to whether the performance as a whole had as its dominant theme an appeal to prurient interest. Various factors should be borne in mind when applying this yardstick. These factors include the theme or themes of the performance, the degree of sincerity of purpose evident in it, whether it has artistic merit. If the performance is merely disgusting or revolting, it cannot be obscene, because obscenity contemplates the arousal of sexual desires.

  “A performance cannot be considered utterly without redeeming social importance if it has literary, artistic or aesthetic merit, or if it contains ideas, regardless of whether they are unorthodox, controversial, or hateful, of redeeming social importance.

  “In the case of certain crimes, it is necessary that in addition to the intended act which characterizes the offense, the act must be accompanied by a specific or particular intent without which such a crime may not be committed. Thus, in the crime charged here, a necessary element is the existence in the mind of the defendant of knowing that the material used in his production on October 4, 1961, was obscene, and that, knowing it to be obscene, he presented such material in a public place.

  “The intent with which an act is done is manifested by the circumstances attending the act, the manner in which it is done, the means used, and the discretion of the defendant. In determining whether the defendant had such knowledge, you may consider reviews of his work which were available to him, stating that his performance had artistic merit and contained socially important ideas, or, on the contrary, that his performance did not have any artistic merit and did not contain socially important ideas.”

  The court clerk read the verdict:

  “In the Municipal Court of the City and County of San Francisco, State of California; the People of the State of California, Plaintiff, vs. Lenny Bruce
, Defendant; Verdict . . .”

  I really started to sweat it out there.

  “We, the jury in the above-entitled case, find the defendant not guilty of the offense charged, misdemeanor, to wit: violating Section 311.6 of the Penal Code of the State of California . . .”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is this your verdict?”

  THE JURY: Yes.

  THE COURT: All right. Do you desire the jury polled?

  MR. WOLLENBERG: No, your Honor.

  THE COURT: Would you ask the jury once again if that is their verdict?

  THE CLERK: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is this your verdict?

  THE JURY: Yes.

  Isn’t that weird! It’s like saying, “Are you sure?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Marijuana will be legal some day, because the many law students who now smoke pot will some day become Congressmen and legalize it in order to protect themselves.

  You wouldn’t believe how many people smoke pot. If anybody reading this would like to become mayor, believe me, there is a vast, untapped vote. Of course, you wouldn’t want to be the Marijuana Mayor, so you’d have to make it a trick statute, like; “The Crippled Catholic Jewish War Children in Memory of Ward Bond Who Died for Your Bill to Make Marijuana Legal.”

  Just like the gynecologist who pretends “It doesn’t mean anything to me—I see that all the time,” there are untold numbers of men and women and college students all over the country who play the “I know and you know but we’ll both make believe we’re asleep” game with the Zig-Zag cigarette paper people.

  And yet at this very moment there are American citizens in jail for smoking flowers. (Marijuana is the dried flowering top of the hemp plant.)

  I don’t smoke pot, and I’m glad because then I can champion it without special pleading. The reason I don’t smoke it is because it facilitates ideas and heightens sensations—and I’ve got enough shit flying through my head without smoking pot.

  At this time, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the State will present its closing argument in the case against marijuana: It leads to the use of heroin and other dangerous, addictive drugs.

  If this syllogism holds true, the bust-out junkie will say to his cellmate: “I am a heroin addict. I started smoking marijuana and then naturally I graduated to heroin. By the way, my cellmate, what happened to you? How did you come to murder three guys in a crap game? You’ve got blood on your hands. How did you first get obsessed with this terrible disease of gambling? Where did it all start?”

  “Oh, I started gambling with Bingo in the Catholic Church. . . .”

  The newspapers said that the late Pope John was being fed intravenously.

  “We don’t like to do this, Pope, but we’ve got to take you downtown. Those marks on your arm there . . . now don’t give us any of that horseshit about intravenous feeding—we hear it all the time.”

  I’m neither anti-Catholic nor pro-Catholic, but if I were Catholic myself I’d be quite hostile toward the press. To quote from the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner: “Short of a miracle, he [Pope John] could be expected to die at any moment.”

  Superstitious people all over the world waited and waited for that miracle, but it never came.

  Yes, brothers, anyone who does anything for pleasure to indulge his selfish soul will surely burn in hell. The only medicine that’s good for you is iodine, because it burns. That stone is lodged in your urinary tract because Nature meant it to be there. So retie that umbilical cord, snap your foreskin back on, and drown in the amniotic fluid, ’cause we’re havin’ a party and the people are nice . . .

  The religious factor enters (as opposed to the scientific) because the scientists ask for prima-facie evidence and the religionists ask for circumstantial evidence. The argument that medicine is not an exact science and is therefore circumstantial, is merely a wish-fulfillment posed by those who know that “When all else fails, prayer will be answered.”

  QUERY: “Doctor, I’m sorry to wake you in the middle of the night like this, but I have a serious question about opinion versus fact. In your opinion, can my wife and I use the same hypodermic syringe to inject insulin for our diabetic conditions? Because I’m almost in shock. Oooops, here I go. Take it, Sadie.”

  “Hello, Doctor, this is Tim’s wife. Listen, it’s serious. Should we share the syringe? I’ve got Staphylococcus septicemia and he’s got infectious hepatitis. You do remember me, don’t you? You told me it was all right to marry my first husband, the one who died of syphilis. I never regretted it. We have a lovely son who, incidentally, would like your address—he wants to send you some things he’s making at The Lighthouse, a broom and a pot holder.”

  Actually, I sympathize with doctors, because they perform a devilish job, and I certainly admire anyone with the stick-to-itiveness to spend that much time in school. They are actually underpaid in relation to the amount of time invested in training, no matter how much they make. A specialist may have nearly 20 years of no income at all to make up for. But people evaluate their time with his, and then they figure his fees are exorbitant.

  That’s why they have no moral compunction about hanging the doctor up with his bills while they’ll pay the TV repairman right off. Besides, they rationalize, the doctor is in it because of his desire to serve humanity. But they also say: “If you haven’t got your health, money isn’t worth anything.” Oh, yeah? If you’re deathly ill, money means a hell of a lot. Especially to the doctor.

  One illness I had, started out with a rash on my face. I received all the sage advice of my friends:

  “Don’t pick it.”

  “That’s the worst thing you can do, is pick it.”

  “If you pick it, it will take twice as long to heal.”

  I heeded them. I didn’t pick it—and there were times I could have. Times when I was alone and had the door locked. I could have just picked it to my heart’s content. And I even schemed that if anyone were to ask me later, “Have you been picking your face?” I would look very hurt and say, “Do I look like a moron? What am I, deaf or something? I’m not going to do the worst thing in the world!”

  I didn’t pick it, though. And it got worse.

  Finally I decided to see a skin specialist. He laid me down on a cold leather couch and the first thing he did was pick it.

  He didn’t even use tweezers. He picked it—with his fingers.

  That’s the secret. The doctors are the ones who start the “Don’t pick it” campaigns, because they want to have exclusive pickings.

  “What is it?” I asked, as he washed his hands and smeared gook on my face.

  “It’s going around,” he said, intently.

  “What do you mean, ‘It’s going around’?” I demanded. “You haven’t got it.”

  “It’ll go away,” he assured me.

  Those are the two things all doctors must learn, just before they graduate. After they’ve spent years and years learning all the scientific knowledge accumulated by the medical profession, just as they are handed their diplomas, the Surgeon General whispers in their ears: “It’s going around, and it’ll go away.”

  It did go away. Just the way colds “go away” and headaches “go away.” Did you ever wonder where all the colds and headaches and rashes go when they go away? Back to some central clearing area, I suppose, to wait their turn to “go around” again.

  As a result of a severe case of hepatitis in the Navy, and a subsequent recurrence after the War, I have been plagued for many years with spells of lethargy. Some of the spells could even be described as attacks. The lethargy was more than just a drowsiness. I would find myself simultaneously dictating and sleeping—and since I speak in a stream-of-conscious, apparently unrelated pattern, secretaries would be typing into eight-ten minutes of mumbling and abstraction, such as one might expect from a half-awake, half-asleep reporter.

  Once, while driving a disc-jockey friend of mine into town about one o’clock in the afternoon, I fell asleep at the wheel.
>
  I woke up in a rut.

  The name of a good doctor was suggested to me. He asked me if I had any history of narcolepsy—that’s a condition characterized by sharp attacks of deep sleep. I said no. And he prescribed an amphetamine, which I believe is the generic term for Dexedrine, Benzedrine, Byphetamine, and the base for most diet pills, mood elevators, pep pills, thrill pills, etc.

  This was in Philadelphia. I was working at a night club in Pennsauken—which is really Philadelphia, only it’s in New Jersey geographically—just as Newark, New Jersey is really New York City. The Red Hill Inn is a 600-seater with a five-dollars-per-person cover and minimum.

  It was Thursday and I had a terrible seizure of uncontrollable, teeth-chattering chills. When I have the chills, I always like to talk while my teeth clack together and go, “Ja-ja-ja-ja-ja-Jeezus, I’m freezing ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-myassoff.”

  My doctor came and said not to get out of bed. I had a fever of 102 degrees. Next day it was 103. He came to my hotel twice that day.

  Friday night was six hours away. That’s the one correct thing about show business. The nighttime is specifically defined. “I’ll see you tonight” means 10:30. Evening is 9:30.

  In six hours either I would be on the stage or the boss would be guaranteed a loss of $6000. Now, what would you do if you had a 103-degree fever, knowing that if you didn’t get on the stage, you wouldn’t be paid the $1800 that was yours from the gross? Having a conscience and realizing that $1800 is a lot of friggin’ money—I naturally felt the show must go on; a trouper to the end—I worked, and came home with a fever of 105 degrees.

  My doctor called in a consultant. The consultant called a nurse to try to bring my fever down. The fever subsided and the Staph bug lay dormant. It woke up six months later nice and strong, and almost killed me for a month and a half; for a week I was on the critical list at Mount Sinai Hospital in Miami Beach.

  A year later, in September, 1961, I was arrested for the first time on a charge of following my doctor’s orders. I was playing Pennsauken again. I was staying at the John Bartram Hotel in Philadelphia, across the street from Evans’ Pharmacy, six blocks away from my doctor’s office, several miles away from the Red Hill Inn, and twenty-four hours away from my second visit to the hospital.