by Ron White
So now I’m picking up dog shit and reevaluating everybody else’s responsibility. And I notice a particularly huge piece of shit. Seriously.
I know it’s Sluggo’s. ’Cause he outshits the Scotties two to one.
And I’m looking at this pile of shit, admiring it, really. As only a man who picks up a lot of shit can admire a pile of shit. After a while, I start to think it says something on the side of it.
So I go in the house, and I get my glasses. ’Cause I can’t read shit without my glasses. . . .
I get back outside with my glasses, and I examine this turd carefully. And I can just make out these words in raised letters: MIDLAND PARK GOLF COURSE. It’s a golf glove that Sluggo has eaten, and shat, whole. Velcro and all.
I rinsed it off, and I’ve been playing with it for two weeks. Is that wrong?
I have never in my life shat a whole golf glove. I shat a rubber glove one time. It said JOHNS HOPKINS on it.
On that tour in Florida I mentioned earlier, we stayed at the Don CeSar hotel in St. Petersburg. It’s this great old hotel, built in the 1920s.
We always look for pet-friendly hotels. And the Don CeSar is like overly pet friendly—ridiculously pet friendly. They have a pet concierge that’ll come to your room and tell you the services they can offer your pet.
They said, “You can give your pet a massage while you’re here.”
I’m like, “Oh, sure. I’ll buy Sluggo a massage. But I’m gonna tell you right now, he’s gonna want a happy ending. This dog loves to get jacked off.”
They said they had aromatherapy for pets. I’m like, “What are you gonna make it smell like, ass? That’s what he likes. Do you have an ass candle for him?”
Give your home the fresh smell of ass, with your new ass candle.
We played the Foxwoods Casino last January in Connecticut. That’s the biggest casino in the world. Or it was then.
The people at the Foxwoods Casino were nice enough to let us park our tour bus in a remote parking lot. We’re gonna live on the bus while we’re there, and we don’t want to be too close to all the coming and going at the casino.
Now, the way they came up with the designation “remote parking lot” is this parking lot is nowhere remotely fucking near the biggest casino in the world. Couldn’t even see the place from there, right?
The Northeast gets slammed with the biggest snow-storm they’ve had in ten years. But I’ve still gotta walk the dogs in the morning. And there’s a thermometer on the bus that says what the temperature is outside the bus. And it was zero. And my wife hollers out from the back of the bus, “What’s the temperature outside?”
And I said, “There’s not one. This place doesn’t seem to have a temperature.”
No matter what the temperature is, I still gotta walk the dogs, because my wife ain’t gonna do it. Not the empress. No, no, no.
So I’m walking the dogs, right? And they pee, right? Which makes me want to pee. It’s freezing outside.
My dick is like this:
And normally it’s like this:
Huge cock.
It’s not long, but it’s big around, like a cheese wheel.
“I may not touch bottom, but I will stretch out the edges, with my cheeeese wheel. Don’t be afraid.”
Right after that I went to Fairbanks, Alaska. And my manager’s prediction that there wouldn’t be a lot of snow in Fairbanks in February was off by about seven and a half fucking feet.
I was stranded in Fairbanks, Alaska, folks, for three days. Count ’em: One, tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . THE FUCK TOCK. Stranded there with the Eskimo people. Not a great-looking group of folks.
And I mentioned that onstage, and they got pissed off. And I didn’t see why they got so mad. I didn’t insinuate that they had no character. I mentioned that they weren’t attractive. I thought they knew. Turns out I let some big cat out of the bag.
Have you seen their teeth? They could make keys.
Anyway, I got this scathing letter from the head Eskimo, Frosty or whatever the fuck his name was. Like halfway through the letter, it said that he would have me know that the Eskimo tribe was one of the purest races on the planet.
And I was like, that’s kind of what I’m talking about. Nobody will fuck these people.
And then later in the letter it said that there were less and less Eskimos every year. So I guess it’s getting to where they won’t even fuck each other.
Did you hear about the bear they killed up in Alaska? You can see it on the Internet. It was the biggest bear ever recorded in the history of—records.
This grizzly bear was so big, that when it stood on its hind legs it was fourteen feet tall. It could walk up to the average single-story house and look over the top of it.
Now, the bear was killed by a forest ranger, who was out there doing his forest ranger stuff. And then this big grizzly bear charges him, and he’s got a 7 mm magnum pistol. He unloads it on the bear, shoots him seven times. And the bear keeps coming.
You know there’s a stain developing somewhere, I guarantee you. But this forest ranger reloads and shoots the bear seven more times, kills it. This guy’s got balls to the max.
I would have crumpled like a cheap suit. I’d a been laying there praying the bear just wanted to fuck me.
I wonder if it likes blow jobs. “Hello, Mr. Bear.”
And then I’d shit in my pants just to ruin his meal.
That ain’t even the half of it. They’re gonna stuff this thing and put it on display in the Anchorage airport. As just kind of a warning to tourists: “Don’t go wandering off into the fucking woods, idiot.”
So they’re examining this bear, and they find five slugs from a .38 pistol in his chest. Then they open up the bear, and they find the gun and the guy who shot it. I shit you not.
Even I know better than to walk into a grizzly bear forest with a .38. What are you going to do, scare a bear with a .38? The bear doesn’t know what a fucking gun is.
You can wear handguns in Alaska. We were in a bar, and a guy comes in with a .38 strapped to his side.
I asked, “What are you gonna do with that gun?”
He said, “I’m gonna hunt bear.”
I said, “You know what? Here’s a little trick. File the sight off the front of the gun.”
He said, “Why? So it doesn’t affect my aim if the bear gets too close?”
I said, “No, so you don’t chip your tooth when you stick it in your mouth to commit suicide, rather than be torn limb from limb while you’re still alive to feel it.”
And then they were blaming the bear. They said he was a bad bear. He wasn’t a bad bear. He was a really old bear. He’s tired. But he’s smart. He’s looking at a deer running 35 miles an hour, and he’s looking at a hiker wearing headphones listening to Fleetwood Mac.
The bear’s like, “I think I’ll have the hiker buffet.”
The most dangerous bear of all is the polar bear, did you know that? That’s the most dangerous game animal in the world.
More people are killed in zoos by polar bears than by any other animal in the history of—animals. And you can blame Coca-fucking-Cola commercials for that.
“Let’s make the most dangerous animal on the planet look like it needs a hug.”
I’m on a diet right now, so my life’s not worth livin’. Don’t you hate that shit?
I’m getting dieting tips from skinny people. That’s fun. My mother weighs eighty pounds. Here’s her tip: “Drink lots of water. You’ll be less hungry.”
You know what happens if you drink a lot of water?
You’re less thirsty. Just as I suspected.
I still look OK sometimes. ’Cause I wear expensive suits now, and if you drape $5,000 worth of clothes over a pile of shit, it looks all right.
Look bad naked, though. Ain’t no hidin’ that.
The only person that knows what I look like naked right now, which is the worst I’ve ever looked, is my wife. And she has to have sex with me.
I cut a little hole right here the size of a cheese wheel. And I come in low under the radar.
I was having lunch with a buddy of mine, and my wife. And I was listening to somebody else’s conversation, which I know is not a great quality, but it is one of mine.
And it’s just kind of a pet peeve. I hate the analogy I heard this guy use. This guy’s talking to a friend of his, and he goes, “I have a good job, but I have my cross to bear. The guy I work with talks all day long.”
And I’m like, “ ‘Cross to bear’? That’s the analogy you’ve chosen?”
Folks, do you think at any point while Jesus was dragging this thousand-pound hunk of lumber through the streets of Jerusalem, he ever once said, “Man, this thing is heavy, but at least I don’t work with some chatterbox.”
I took six weeks off last summer. And then I realized, “I only work three hours a week. What the fuck am I taking a break from?”
Actually, I hurt my knee, and I was laid up for six weeks. I couldn’t walk on it. I was just laying around watching TV. And I don’t really watch TV much normally.
Anyway, I’m watching these daytime talk shows. There’s like five of these shows. And I can’t understand how they all stay on the air.
Where do they get the fodder to fuel all these shows, an hour a day, five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year? Are they going around to trailer parks all over America asking people, “Do you fuck your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“Get in the truck. Montel, we have a sister fucker.”
I was watching an episode of Montel. And the theme of the show was male transsexuals who were single-handedly raising their children.
Now, the fact that they found six of these concerns me. I thought there’d be one, right?
No, they got a whole row of these cats, in taffeta ball gowns and bouffant hairdos. Kids in tow.
And I couldn’t help but wonder, what kind of stunt did these kids’ mothers pull, that would make a judge look at her, and look at “her,” and go, “You in the hot pants and the go-go boots, you get the young’uns.”
These are transsexuals, not transvestites. A transvestite is a man that wears women’s clothing. It’s perfectly harmless. We all do it.
And actually if a woman wears a man’s clothes, that’s also being a transvestite, but nobody gives a shit. A woman can put on a man’s suit and take out the trash, and nobody cares. But you let the neighborhood watch catch me mowing the lawn in my teddy one fuckin’ time, all of a sudden I’m the neighborhood freak.
A transsexual has taken this a step further. A transsexual has taken off the bat pole, and put in a bat cave. For whatever reason.
And the main guy that they were talking to was from Texas—the guy’s like six foot three. I just can’t imagine a big ole Texan sauntering into a clinic and going, “Doc, I got an idea. What I want you to do is cut off my dick and balls and build me a nice vagina right down there.”
You better make sure that’s what you wanna do before you do it. Or you’ll come back on Monday: “Doc, do you have my dick in a jar somewhere? I regret that whole decision, and I quit drinking tequila.”
“Yeah, we do. And we can thumbtack it to your forehead. Now you’re a dickhead.”
They turned the microphone over to the audience. And they were trying to ask questions that seemed sensitive and pertinent, you know. They’re asking questions like, “Was there a point in your life where society failed you, and failed to provide the things that you needed emotionally?”
And I’m like, “Shut up. Somebody ask the real question: What the fuck is wrong with you? You cut your dick off, man.”
I wonder if they do keep their dick in a jar. If you do, you run the risk of your kid finding it and taking it to school for show-and-tell.
“This is my mother’s old cock.”
Be really funny if the high school bully stopped him on the way to school and said, “I want your lunch. Umm, that needs mustard.”
I was at a party the other day, and, this is kind of weird, but I was talking to a friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in a while, and a guy comes up to us that he knows, that I don’t know. And while we’re having a conversation, he stops and introduces me to this fella.
And I’m not paying attention, which I’m usually not. And I go to shake the guy’s hand, and while I’m shaking his hand, I realize that it’s not really a hand so much as, as, um . . . It’s got, like, two pieces of bone with, like, a web or something that goes between them, and then nothing, and then, like, a little stump with a web.
It’s a flipper.
Now, no offense if you have a flipper, but if you do, don’t you feel some obligation to warn somebody? Especially if you know they’re not paying attention. Anything, like, “Watch out, it’s a flipper.”
Because I ended up accidentally hurting the guy’s feelings, you know. I’m like, “Nice to meet you. Wha?! What is that, a fuckin’ flipper?”
You feel bad. I’ll touch his flipper, I just gotta see it first. Then I’ll two-hand it to prove I’m not afraid.
“I’ll shake hands with you, Flipper Man. I bet you can really swim fast.”
I watched the Michael Jackson trial. And I’ll tell you what, Michael wasn’t convicted of anything, and I know for a fact that people try to scam rich people out of money.
But here’s a little parenting tip, whether Michael is convicted or not convicted, don’t let your kid go over to Michael fuckin’ Jackson’s house. How about that? You know, take responsibility as a parent.
He’s got a Ferris wheel in his front yard. I guarantee you, every pervert in America is sitting outside of a school in a hot van with Milk Duds melting in their lap, going, “If I only had a Ferris wheel in my front yard, they’d be lined up at the gate.”
I can’t imagine as an eight-year-old, my parents sitting me down going, “You’re gonna spend a couple of days over at Perry Como’s house.
“Some other kids have been over there, and well, things haven’t gone so great. But it doesn’t hurt much. And we’re broke.”
I don’t know. You hate to judge. But they searched Michael’s bedroom, and they found life-size dolls of little boys, one of them dressed in a Cub Scout suit.
Now, maybe it’s innocent, but if they searched my bedroom and found a life-size doll of a woman, everybody would assume I was fuckin’ it.
And they’d be right.
Before I went back out on the road after I rehabbed my knee, I was doing a few small comedy clubs to warm up before doing big theaters. And I did a show at this little 250-seat club in Atlanta.
The crowd didn’t know I was gonna be there. And when I walked out onstage, I saw this big bachelorette party down front that I didn’t know was gonna be there. And if you’re a monologist, if you just talk for a living, a bachelorette party is never good news.
Because they’re a self-contained entertainment entity. They don’t need you. You’re just floating out there on their periphery.
Now, I love women. And I especially love drunk women. I always have. But you can’t compete with a bachelorette party for attention, because they’ve got novelty items.
They’ve got their own little straws, and the top of the straw is shaped like a little penis. Sip-sip-sip. And they’ve got pacifiers, and the pacifiers are shaped like a little penis. Suck-suck-suck.
And as the night went on, these ladies laughed harder and harder. Not at me, but at themselves. Because apparently the drunker women get, the funnier they find little tiny penises to be. Which I guess is why I like ’em so much.
Well, in twenty years of doing comedy shows I’ve seen a million bachelorette parties. But these ladies had something I’d never seen before. These ladies had an eight-inch-long chocolate penis on a stick, and it was wrapped in cellophane, and nobody was touching it. It was just sitting there in the middle of the table.
And try as I might to ignore it, I could not. Because instinctively I knew that
before the night was over, this big chocolate dick was gonna hurt me.
And I was right.
It’s a great show, I’ve got about five minutes left, and for some reason, these girls decide to get this thing out. And they start passing it back and forth to see how much of it they can get in their mouth at one time.
Nobody is watching me anymore. Everybody is watching this dunk contest.
And the thing that struck me as odd is that nobody was offended by it. All the women are watching them going, “Oh, aren’t they having fun! Don’t you remember when Becky had her bachelorette party, and how much fun we had, and where we went, and how much we drank, yakkety-yakkety-yak?”
All the men are going, “Is this free?”
And it’s a double standard, folks. Because I guarantee you, if a group of men had whipped out a little sack of gummipussies, everyone would get bent out of shape.
“Slurp, slurp, slurp!” Or however you do it.
I only tell that story because I love to say gummipussy. It’s one word by the way. If you say it as two words, it’s something else entirely.
5
BACKSTAGE: BANNED ON THE ROAD
In the early 1990s, there was a small stretch of my career where my behavior seemed, to some club owners, irresponsible.
I was performing in Columbus, Ohio, at this club I’d played many times. They loved me there. The audiences loved me, and the staff loved me. I was a popular fucking guy. The staff are all younger than me, and I party like a dog with them. When they know I’m coming to town, everybody naps beforehand to rest up and be ready.
Now, in all the times I’ve performed at this club, I’ve never had sex with any of the women there. Sunday night comes around, and I’m having fun. I’m at the bar, and I’m doing purple shots, green shots, red shots, clear shots, whatever—I’m taking all comers.
Well, there’s this girl there. Let’s call her Kathy, just for the purposes of this story; I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. She’s really cute. I’d seen her at this club every time I came to town for years, and she had recently become the girlfriend of the manager, a guy I really liked. Let’s say his name was Greg. It was kind of unspoken, but people knew they were dating.