by Bill Hicks
‘Hee hee he ha ha ha ha! This grew on cow turds! Heaven is in a cow’s butt! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I know where heaven is!’
‘Where?’
‘In a cow’s ass! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Zchurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Oh my God! Lift me up out of this illusion, Lord. Heal my perception that I may know only reality and only you.’
Stuff like that.
‘I took mushrooms and went to Astroworld and I had a really bad time.’ You’re a moron. They are sacred. Go to nature. Who wants to be on the Black Dragon, tripping. I would fucking be puking, man, about fifty yards, with each hurl of the Black Dragon. (screeches) Possessed Dragon. I just think it’s interesting to see how people act on their beliefs, you know what I mean? Cos all your beliefs, they’re just that. They’re nothing, they’re how you were taught and raised. That doesn’t make ’em real. That’s why I always recommend a psychedelic experience, cos it does make you realize everything you learned is in fact just learned and not necessarily true.
There’s dick jokes on the way, please relax. (laughs) You’re going, ‘This guy better have some good dick jokes, I’ll tell you that, honey. I mean, this guy better have a big, long, purple-vein dick joke to pull himself out of this comedy hole.’ Throw down the big purple-vein dick and I crawl out of it and that’s gonna be the joke at the end. Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, hey, the clown got the laugh: cool.
OK folks . . . it’s confession time. It’s a confession in the way of a question. Is anyone here like me in that they are compelled, obsessed and drawn beyond their will . . . to watch the show Cops60 every fucking night? I’m not alone? (hysterically) Oh, thank God! Thank God! I thought I was alone! Hi, I’m Bill and I’m a Cops watcher. ‘Hi Bill.’ I am OBSESSED by that fucking show. I can’t . . . I can’t not watch it. I’m like a guy with a sore tooth: I can’t quit touching it, you know. Ow, ow. Oh, Cops is on. Ow . . . owwww. I’ve never been in so many trailer parks, ever. Ow. Each night I’m in a different – I could buy a trailer right now, I know that much about ’em from the show Cops. Ow – ooh, a double wide . . . oww. This is sick, man, I can’t . . . you know. And I love it, cos every night it’s the same show. A woman has been beaten by her husband, her head looks like a melon, the cops are called on a domestic call, cos . . . the trailer next door . . . couldn’t hear the results of the American Gladiators contest or something, over her shrieking. I don’t know why they called. I don’t know how they had a phone, but anyway . . . The cops are called, right? And they come into the trailer, her fourteen little cracker spawn are peering around her gingham skirt. Their eyes are so close together, the left eye is in the right socket and the right eye is in the left socket – some genetic mutation due to inbreeding here, I don’t get it. What does their family tree look like? A stump? And every time the woman stands up for the fucking guy. Head looks like a melon.
‘He didn’t mean to hit me, Officer. He didn’t mean to hit me. He’s a good man. Don’t take him away. I fell asleep in the driveway and he run over my head with the truck. He’s a good man. He don’t mean no harm. He’s passed out under the trailer right now with his dog, Skeeter.’
Fuck cops, send in the swat team. She doesn’t need children. K? And that’s a judgement call that I’m making but it also happens to be true, which gives it the force, that extra oomph. She needs no more children. K? OK. Can’t support ’em! Can’t feed ’em! Can’t raise ’em! Don’t even love ’em! Poink. Bring ’em out, why don’t you just get the fucking Cops camera to shine it up your fucking pussy and film the little criminal COMING OUT! This is crime prevention. Here comes another illiterate, unwanted child. Cuff him, Banano. Wah! Wah! Wah! Can you calm down on your rutting just for a couple of seconds, until we figure out this FOOD/AIR DEAL? ‘Well, who are you to judge? Who are you judging? What makes you think you know better than Jesus?’ ‘He didn’t mean to hit me, Officer.’ And she stands up for this guy! This fucking cracker’s balls deep in that whore every night! I haven’t been laid in three fucking years! It’s not right!
I got backed up semen that’s about to make my head explode. Next time I come it’s gonna be like a wax dart shooting outa my dick. Sh-dooom! Some one-eyed chick my girlfriend, you know.
‘I’m not blowing you again. I wan– I’m gonna get through this life.’
‘Baby, I’ll buy you a dog. Please blow me.’
I don’t mean to let you all in on more than you care to know about me, but . . . it blows my mind.
What is the psychology of women that put up with wife-beaters, man? You know? What the fuck’s the psychology to that? It really makes you feel hopeless, man. You try and be a good guy, a nice guy, an’ an’ an’ you ladies, yeah, I know, and you know what? I know y’all love Billy Ray Cyrus. Don’t lie to me. He’s a . . . I’m talking to the women here. Yeah, bullshit! Fuck you. You do. Oh yeah, he sold 5 million albums and now all the guys here bought ’em. Fuck you! ‘He’s a hunk.’ Fucking homunculus mongoloid. No wonder this country’s becoming like dog patch if that’s who you wanna rut with. Fuck, any woman here would fucking almost break her pelvis opening her legs for that mongoloid fuck . . . to drop his filthy cracker seed into your fucking womb. Liar! Liars! LIARS!
All right, man. Good evening everyone– oh, Jesus Christ. I’ve had more people in bed before than this. Fuck, man. In fact they were at the hotel. I left them to come here and do this. Don’t I feel like a fucking idiot? Y’all . . . don’t – OK. This could be one of my last performances, ladies and gentlemen. This week. I’m serious. I’ve had it. Sixteen years I’ve pounded my head against the mentality of America, which I, I, I ascribe to about . . . I’d say it’s about an eighth-grade emotional level that we’re at, as a country. And ah . . . you’re doubting that? You don’t think so? Really. OK. Well, anyway. You know, go watch Who’s the Boss and then we’ll chat later, I ah . . . please don’t debate me, it’s my one true talent, OK? I have twenty-three hours a day to develop these little webs of fucking conspiracy, so please. Relax and enjoy your hair.
And your little cracker spawn are back at the hotel, choking down the minibar contents, probably fucking each other and producing more little crackers to come fuck with my life . . . you inbred, redneck, hillbilly, fucking tourist, you. Good evening. How are you tonight? Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to No Sympathy Night. Welcome to You’re Wrong Night. Boy, I’m in a mood. You know . . . could be this haircut. Every time I look at my hair I go, ‘Fuck it, someone needs to die.’ Generally I think it’s me, but ah, I don’t have the balls to do it so . . . so I continue to walk around with my hair.
Ha ha ha! OK, shut up. Shut the FUCK up. FUCKING morons. You FUCKING morons!
And God wept, I believe is the next verse. As did the world. As more knobby-kneed white guys walk the planet with their black nylon fucking socks, their fat, fucking tick-like wives and their little, fat, fucking hateful children. Blocking the doorway, it’s a doorway, MOVE IT! ‘Huh, we’re on vacation.’ You’re on a mental fucking vacation, that’s what you’re on, pal. Try waking up and enjoying the life you’ve chosen, OK? Instead of calling the travel agent and getting the big budget deal. It’s a T-shirt nirvana.
I am your herder. Kneel in front of me.
Tonight, check politics on your fucking porch while your wife wiggles her fucking dong and fucks her own pussy with it, you fucking redneck, hillbilly piece of shit, you. Fuck America, if that’s America, then fuck you too. Good evening, everyone. How y’all? Good? Everyone good? Welcome to my show. Hey . . . (laughs) ‘Moo. Moo.’ Coupla cows are getting arrogant out there. ‘Moo. Moo.’ Come on, Shep. Get that one cow who’s leaving the pack. (barks) ‘Moo.’ Go back to the herd, moron. OK? I have this weirdest style, don’t I? I . . . ha ha ha ha ha ha! ‘Bill, you do a little kind of joke that’s kind of funny, then you start telling us you hate us and you dig a fucking hole. Where’s Bill going? He’s going to comedy death. Boom! He pops out of it with another joke.’ It’s my particular style. Just— it’s OK. It’s all been done in ah . . . in hate. Now. I am like the angry
sheep-herder. That’s what I am. I’m ranting under the stars with my herd. ‘Gee Bill, are you talkin’ to us?’ I’m talking metaphorically about America, all right? Not y’all. I give y’all more credit. I assume that you’re ah enjoying this, or if not at least emotionally involved, which is important. Even if it’s anger. Really. It’s OK, man. That’s what this is all about, man. It’s supposed to be a fucking catharsis, man, you know? It’s supposed to be release from the fucking daily grind. I wish it worked for me. (wheezy laugh) I’m killing me, join me.
I was over in Australia and I was asked, ‘Are you proud to be an American,’ and I was like, ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have a lot to do with it, you know. My parents fucked there, that’s about all. You know, I was in the spirit realm at that time. “Fuck in Paris! Fuck in Paris!” but they couldn’t hear me, cos I didn’t have a mouth. I was a spirit without lungs or a mouth or vocal cords.’ They fucked here. OK, I’m proud. I hate patriotism. I can’t stand it, man. Makes me fucking sick. It’s a round world last time I checked, OK? You know what I mean? I hate patriotism. In fact, that’s how we could stop patriotism, I think. Instead of putting stars and stripes on our flags, we should put pictures of our parents fucking. Gather people round that flag and see your dad hunched over your mom’s big four-by-four butt. See if any boot rally mentality can circle round that little fucking image. God . . . damn, I’m out of here! Fuck it! Get your mom, shut up! Let’s go garden.
You never see my attitude in the press, that’s what bugs me. You never see my point of view. For instance, gays in the military. Now, I don’t know how y’all feel about it. Gays who wanna be in the military. Here’s how I feel about it, all right? Anyone DUMB ENOUGH to wanna be in the military should be allowed in. End of fucking story. That should be the only requirement. I don’t care how many push-ups you can do. Put on a helmet, go wait in that foxhole, we’ll tell you when we need you to kill somebody. You know what I mean? I’m so sick – I watched these fucking congressional hearings and all these military guys and all the pundits, ‘Seriously aww the esprit de corps will be affected, and we are such a moral’— excuse me! Aren’t y’all fucking hired killers? SHUT UP! You are thugs and when we need you to go blow the fuck out of a nation of little brown people, we’ll let you know. Until then . . . when did the fucking military get all these morals— ‘We are the military. Is that a village of children and kids? Where’s the napalm? Sh-boom! I don’t want any gay people hanging round me while I’m killing kids. I just don’t wanna see it.’ And don’t tell me it’s the military protects our freedom. Hey, ladies and gentlemen, there ain’t no one out there who’s a fucking threat to us, OK? They don’t exist. Oh – I’m talking now only of countries we don’t arm first. All right, if you wanna split hairs, you got a point. ‘Bill, what about the nations we sell arms to and then go blow the fuck out of ’em?’ OK, they might be scary for about a day. We give them the old weapons, we use the new ones on them, you know. Fucking Iraq found that out, huh? You have the Scud, we have the Patriot. The SCUD TIMES TWO, you fucks! Just keep selling ’em the shitty shit, you know. We’ll be fightin’ them next, they’ll have muskets. Dhoosh!
‘America won a war with this.’
‘Yeah, a hundred years ago! They got new shit now.’
‘Fuck!’
(Ssssssssss)
‘What is that?’
‘It’s musket repellent.’
‘I can kill you by looking at you.’
Oh, there’s a threat to America, yeah, yeah, yeah. Back to that fucking Cops show, cos I’ll tell you who the threat to freedom . . . no, no, not the threat to freedom. I’ll tell you who the threat to the status quo is in this country – it’s us. That’s why they show you shows like fucking Cops so you know that state power will win and we’ll bust your house down and we’ll fucking bust you any time we want. That’s the message. Why don’t they just have a show called Stormtrooper? Or better yet, how about IRS? Argh! Every week the IRS has a special celebrity guest.
‘This week it’s Red Fox on IRS Bust.’
(singing) ‘Da da da da! Da da da! Da da da da!’ (Ding dong!)
‘Who dere? Who dere at my door? What y’all want?’
‘The rings on your FUCKING FINGER!’
(singing) ‘Da da da da!’
‘See you next week when we go down to Texas and meet Willie Nelson! On IRS!’
Cos that is the message they wanna leave you with. To keep you afraid and keep you fucking impotent. Keep these lying scumbags doing their fucking dirty work.
‘What about Clinton? Is there any hope in Clinton?’ There’s no fucking hope in that guy. They’re all the same. I’ll show you politics in America. Here it is, right here.
‘I think the puppet on the right shares my beliefs.’
‘I think the puppet on the left is more to my liking.’
‘Hey wait a minute. There’s one guy holding up both puppets!’
‘Shut up! Go back to bed, America: your government is in control. Here’s Love Connection. Watch this and get fat and stupid. By the way, keep drinking beer, you fucking morons.’
Ba ba ba na.
(two gunshots) Hicks was shot by a quiet loner. Though the shots had two different calibrations, we feel that one gun shot them both. He was a quiet loner who had a family and kids.
How are you a loner with a family? How does that work?
I’m kind of bummed because I’m missing right now, even as we speak, my favourite cultural train wreck: The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I’m like a rubber-necker, man. Every night it’s the crash of fucking metal when that show starts. Me and my friends have a little office pool wondering exactly which episode and which guest is gonna be on the night Jay finally puts a 9mm in his mouth and blows his Dorito-shilling head off his fucking body. I think it’s gonna be Joey Lawrence from the show Blossom, ah . . . other of my friends beg to differ and think Patrick Duffy a more likely culprit.
‘Oh, hi everyone. Welcome to the show. Tonight we have Joey Lawrence. Hi Joey, how are ya? It’s good to see you again. Boy, it was always my comedic dream to be forty-four years old and interviewing a little Tony Danzer wannabe every three months. Boy, I’m fulfilled as a human spiritually. So . . . so, so, so anyway, Joey, you’re sixteen now? You’re sixteen years old?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s great, you’re sixteen. You got a licence? You drivin’? You drivin’?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s great, you’re sixteen, you got a licence. You got a car? You got a car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You got a girlfriend, hmmm? You dating somebody? Anybody special?’
‘Yeah. No. Well, she thinks so. I don’t. Hee hee hee hee.’
‘Good God, what have I done with my life?’
BOOM! His brain splew out, forming an NBC peacock on the wall behind him. Cos he’s a company man to the bitter fucking end. It all started when he did the Doritos commercial. Here’s the deal, folks. You do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call for ever. End of story. OK? You’re another corporate fucking shill, you’re another whore at the capitalist gang-bang. And if you do a commercial, there’s a price on your head, everything you say is suspect, and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink. (makes choking, then splashing sound) Selling Doritos on fucking TV. What a fucking whore. And not even when he needed the money, either. You know, if you’re a young actor, OK, I’ll look the other way. But the guy, you know, he makes 3 million a year, he decides to hawk Doritos to make more money. You don’t got enough money, you fucking whore? You gotta sell snacks to fucking bovine America now? ‘Hi everyone, I’m Jay Leno. Anyone remember when I was . . . when I was funny? Here, eat Doritos. They’re good—’ (makes choking sound) Satan fucking him in the ass on national TV. (snorting and snarling)
‘They’re good ’n’ crispy. Here Satan, try the nacho-flavoured ones.’