by Bill Hicks
I think it’s interesting the way people act on their beliefs, you know? I’m always interested in that. That’s my new little hobby of study. Why . . . how do you act on your belief, you know what I mean? For instance, a lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. Nice sentiment, but do you think when Jesus comes back he’s gonna want to see a fucking cross? Ow. Kind of like going up to Jackie Onassis with a rifle pendant on, you know? ‘Just thinking of John, Jackie. We love him. Trying to keep that memory alive, sweetie.’ Back and to the left, back and to the left, back and to the left . . . which, by the way, that action you see on the Zapruder film, was caused by a bullet coming from . . . up there, yeah! I gotta go back and take physics again, cos apparently I missed that day. Maybe that’s why Jesus hasn’t shown up yet. He’s up in heaven, going:
‘Dad, they’re still wearing crosses. I’m not going. Fuck it. No, they totally missed the point. No. Fuck it. No way, man. No! . . . OK, I’ll go back as a bunny, but I’m not . . .’
‘Hey aren’t you Jesus?’
‘No, I’m a fucking rabbit. Shut up. Here’s a chocolate egg – that’s about all you can handle spiritually right now. Could y’all evolve by next Easter? This suit is real fucking itchy. OK! I’m Jesus the bunny.’
(sips drink) Nothing better than water. They haven’t made it and it ain’t coming. God, I love water. Folks – and by folks I mean y’all – it’s time for a confession. This is not easy, but it’s my last show ever. I’m serious. But I’m gonna make a confession in the form of a question, all right? Is anyone here like me, in that they are compelled . . . beyond their will . . . to watch the show Cops every fucking night that it’s on? Someone? I’m not alone? Ohh. Thank God. Hi, I’m Bill, I’m a Cops watcher. ‘Welcome Bill. You’re in the right place.’ Oh, thank God I’m not alone. I’m like a guy with a sore tooth – I can’t quit touching it. I swear . . . Ow, owwww. Oh, Cops is on. Oww. Owww. I have never been in so many fucking trailer parks, man. I swear to God. I could buy a trailer right now, that’s how much I’ve learned about ’em from fucking Cops. Owww. Oh, that’s a Double-Wide. Owww. And what’s so compelling about it is every night it’s the same fucking show: a woman has been beaten by her husband, her head looks like a fucking melon, you know, someone makes a domestic call, right? The trailer next door, apparently, over her screaming couldn’t hear the results of the American Gladiator contest or something. I . . . I was surprised they had a phone, but . . . anyway, the cops show up, and every fucking time the woman stands up for the guy. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt me, Officer. He didn’t mean to hit me.’ 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. It’s kind of genetic mutation due to inbreeding. What does their family tree look like? A stump? ‘He didn’t mean to hit me, Occifer. I fell asleep in the driveway and he run over my head wi’ de truck. He’s a good man. He’s passed out under the trailer with his dog, Skeeter.’ What is the mentality of standing up for a wife-beater? I don’t get that, ladies. I know it’s a self-esteem thing, but fuck, it makes me feel bad. Cos I’m kind of like a nice guy, and I haven’t seen pussy in like three years, and meanwhile Burl in Plot 14 is balls deep in this hillbilly whore every fucking night, and you know, I’m just a little bitter about it, you know? I’m showing up with flowers, and meanwhile Burl’s hitting her with a crowbar and she’s sticking by her man, you know? And I know this is backed-up semen talking, I’m not lying to you, folks. I’m not gonna try and kid you either. I mean, next time I come it’s gonna be like a wax dart shooting out of my cock. ‘Woman killed by semen dart. News at eleven.’ ‘Sorry baby, it’s been a while.’ I mean, I’m a little upset by it. I even went to one of those rebirthing . . . you ever do that? You go to rebirth class to re-experience your birth, just to remind myself what a pussy was like. And I even got a woody, which is pretty scary. Freud’s doing backflips, meanwhile I’m in my mom’s pussy, going, ‘Oh, that’s what it’s like. All right. Just had to remind myself. It’s been so fucking long.’ ‘Oh, he’s a good man. He don’t mean to hit me wi’ de crowbar.’ Burl gets pussy every night, sure. Maybe I should have a dozen crowbars next time I go on a date. No, but it just makes me feel a little . . . It’s just weird. I know it’s a self-esteem and we live in a very sick society, but . . . and standing up for wife-beaters when there’s good guys out there, and also, ladies, I’m not fooled. I know you like Billy Ray. Don’t lie to me. The guys here didn’t buy his fucking albums. I know you think he’s a hunk. Bullshit. Don’t fucking lie. And you would break a pelvis trying to open your legs wide enough to get his cracker fucking member into your body to pump his homunculus seed into your womb. Don’t fucking lie to me. You would chainsaw your legs off to give him better access, to have that phoney, talentless fucking hump shoot his tainted, probably whisky-brown fucking semen into your body, Tennessee whisky-brown semen, cos you think he’s a hunk. And same with that fucking ratlike Michael Bolton. This little rodent-appearing human. Now, I looked in the mirror, I don’t look like a rodent, and yet you like that guy, and don’t fucking lie to me. I’m a little upset by it, man.
And you know what? Also the ramifications are frightening too. It occurred to me that we’re just fucked. You know, I’m sorry. I’m not a bitter . . . but we’re fucked. Satan is gonna have no problems ruling this planet. None! You know why? All the women in the world are gonna go, ‘What a cute butt!’
‘He’s Satan!’
‘You don’t know him like I do.’
‘He’s the Prince of Darkness!’
‘I can change him.’
I bet you can, too. I really do. I don’t give Satan a snowball’s chance in hell against a woman’s ego. No fucking way. He’ll rule the planet for about a day, a week later we’ll see him out cutting the lawn, you know? (makes lawnmower sound)
‘Hey aren’t you Satan?’
‘Shut up.’ (lawnmower sound)
‘You forgot to edge out back, Mr Prince.’
‘Shut up.’ (lawnmower sound)
He’ll be at the supermarket.
‘Tampons. Price check. Tampons. Satan’s here buying Tampons for his girlfriend.’
‘Shut up. I’m the Prince of Darkness.’
‘Yeah, you dropped your Cotex, Mr Prince.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’ll rule this planet . . . next weekend when she’s outta town. Grrr.’
Get outta here. A pussy-whipped Satan – that’s what’s in store for us. And hopelessness reigns. Until you see our Full House – ‘Let’s Hunt and Kill the cast of Full House Easter Special.’ Then I think hope will be reborn on the planet.
Speaking of Satan, I was watching Rush Limbaugh the other day. Very scary world we’re living in, folks. Doesn’t Rush Limbaugh remind you of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other guys pee on him? Don’t you see . . . do you see that? You know what I mean? Can’t you picture his flabby little corpulent body in a tub, and Reagan, Bush and Quayle around the edge? His little piggly-wiggly dick can’t get hard. ‘Uh-uhh, I can’t get hard. Piss in my mouth, Ronnie.’ He still can’t get hard, so they call in Barbara Bush. She sticks her pearls up his ass, squats over his face, undoes her girdle, her wrinkled, distended labia unfolds halfway to her knees, like some ball-less scrotum. ‘Uh-uh-uh.’ She squeezes out a link into his mouth, finally his dick gets half-hard, ‘Urghhhhh’, a little clear bubble forms on the end with a maggot inside, pops the bubble, rushes off to a pro-life meeting or something. Am I the only one that sees that? Sorry if any of y’all ordered the nachos a minute ago. He’s a scat-muncher and we all know it. He munches scat – deal with it.
My dad is into him, of course. My dad . . . it’s unbelievable. I go through the den the other day, my dad goes, ‘Bill, Rush is on.’ I go, ‘Yeah, the rush is on, Dad, bye-bye.’ And he goes, ‘Why don’t you just listen to the man?’ I said, ‘Dad, you know, I’ve listened to this before. It was in 1972 a
nd it was a show called All in the Family and the character was Archie Bunker. This is . . . I’ve heard it. Unfortunately there’s no meathead playing counterpart with this fucking idiot.’ But anyway, I’m listening to talk radio shows, and everyone: ‘You know what Rush said about NAFTA? You know Rush is talking about NAFTA. I heard Rush the other day say about NAFTA . . .’ What y’all looking for, a new dad? Grow the fuck up. Take responsibility for your fucking lives. What do you think about NAFTA, man? I’ll tell you what I think: the cock-sucking elite who own and run everything in this fucking country are selling it out from under us, tomorrow. There ain’t no battle over fucking NAFTA, that’s a fucking charade, like our elections are a fucking charade, and tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, they’re selling your fucking life out from under you. Don’t you ever fucking forget it either. There’s dick jokes coming up, please relax. Folks, here’s the deal: I editorialize for forty-five minutes, the last fifteen I pull my ’chute, we all pull our ’chutes, and float down to Dick-joke Island together. We will rest our weary heads against the big, purple-veined trunks of dick jokes while bouncing on our spongy scrotum bean-bag chairs and giggle away the night like good American comedy audiences are supposed to, goddammit! With pee-pee jokes. ‘You know what Rush said about pee-pee jokes. “Dad, I’ve heard it.” It’s called Archie Bunker, who was another fat, white, fear-mongering, conservative, stupid white male ego talking. Hah, I’ve heard it! Rush has nothing to offer me. See Dad, there’s this little weird thing that grows on a cow turd. It’s really weird. Let’s go listen to it talk.’
Folks, it’s time to evolve, man. That’s why we’re troubled. Cos you know why our institutions are failing us? The Church, the state, everything’s failing? It’s cos they’re no longer relevant. (laughs) They’re not relevant any more. It’s . . . we’re supposed to keep evolving. You know, evolution didn’t end with us growing opposable thumbs, did you know that? There’s another ninety per cent of our brains that we have to illuminate. Illuminate. That brings me back to that little thing that grows on a cow turd. ‘Come on, Dad, I wanna . . .’ Actually, I tried to get my dad to trip with me, which is . . . very dangerous, you know. That could be very heavy duty for the man, he’s seventy-five, and I don’t know if he’d get what I get out of it, you know what I mean? He might get into a . . . I’d hate to have my dad weeping next to me:
‘I just love Rush.’
‘Dad, Dad, this is not the outcome we’re supposed to get from this. It’s supposed to be where your ego dissolves and you realize the true nature of our reality, which is mind, and that we literally all are one and there’s no such thing as death and our bodies are an illusion, and God’s eternal love is unconditional and never have we left it, other than the dream of the Fall from grace, which is just an illusionary dream, and never has God been unloving to us, and we can wake up and remember God’s eternal, unconditional love.’
‘I just wanna watch Rush.’
‘Oh shit, Dad’s not getting off on these like I am.’
I guess I have to do the only thing I can do: acceptance and forgiveness. It’s the only tools that you’ve got left. And evolution, if you’re interested in it.
I was down in Australia when the Waco debacle ended, the fiery inferno, which we all saw. And I was really bummed I was not here for it, because I thought it was the most fascinating news story of the year, bar none. And everyone was so pissed off about that guy cos he called himself Jesus, and I was saying, ‘Come on. The guy’s real name is Vernon. Let him be Jesus for a couple of months. What’s it to ya?’ Who’s gonna follow a messiah named Vernon anyway, you know? You gotta call yourself Jesus, it’s sort of part of the messiah deal. ‘And Vernon spoke and he spaketh and he sayeth . . .’ You know, what? ‘Let’s go get some beer, whoo!’ You know, Vernon just doesn’t have the necessary spiritual weight that I’m looking for.
But anyway, isn’t that weird too how everyone snaps in our country and thinks they’re Jesus? How come no one ever snaps and thinks their Buddha? Particularly in America, where more people resemble Buddha than Jesus.
‘I’m Buddha.’
‘You’re Bubba.’
‘I’m Buddha now. All I gotta do is change two letters on my belt. Bubba.’
‘Buddha. Vernon’s a false prophet.’
Isn’t that weird, though? And it’s funny, it’s real funny, cos these Australians had a big contingency in the compound that burned down, and they were of course curious, and I’m from Texas, and I actually went to the compound the seventh day of the siege, cos it was right outside Austin, and I went to it, but these people in Australia were like, ‘Oh, Bill, isn’t he . . . he’s such an oddball, isn’t he? He’s so odd. He’s such a strange character.’ And I’m thinking, ‘Well, let’s think about this. Frustrated rock guitarist with a messianic complex, armed to the teeth, trying to fuck everything in skirts. I don’t know how to tell y’all this, but sounds like every one of my friends.’ I’m waiting for the Eric Johnson compound to come out, you know. I don’t know. I don’t think Eric’s frustrated, but . . . but anyway. And they said, you know, they had to break down the compound because child abuse was stepping up. Well, if that’s true, how come we don’t see Bradley tanks knocking down Catholic churches, you know? If in fact child abuse is your concern. Actually, folks, I don’t know if any of y’all have seen this, it’s a tape, kind of bootleg going around, showing film of the Bradley tanks not knocking, as the official story was, small holes to insert tear gas, but crashing the building off of its fucking foundation and fire shooting out of the tanks. The FBI and the ATF are liars and murderers, and Janet Reno and President Clinton either a) knowingly passed on a lie, or b) are so out of touch with their own fucking arms of their government that they’re incompetent and Clinton should be impeached immediately. Case fucking closed. And y’all haven’t probably seen the footage, but it’s sort of different than the official story, isn’t it? Small holes, tear gas/giant holes, flame-throwers. Ha ha ha! They burned these people in their homes. OK. That’s our government. OK. I’ve seen the tape and it’s fucking real, and whatever. Make your own conclusions. You haven’t seen it, so it’s . . . you know, whatever. But all Clinton . . . you know, I have no illusions about these cock-suckers. I know there’s twelve guys who run the fucking world, and they own every company, and it’s a fact. You can look it up. I’m not a conspiracy nut. This is all on paper. There really are twenty-two families who run and own fifty per cent of the mainstream media, which is where we get our news. And it’s true. It’s a fact. You can look it up. I don’t, you know . . . I can’t be this big of an asshole without having the truth to back me up; otherwise I’d be a fucking nut doing this. But see, if you have the truth with you, you can do this. Gee, I’m starting to sound like Koresh, aren’t I? Fuck. People have often said I remind them of Koresh. I’m like Koresh only without the guns or pussy. So basically I’m just an annoying fellow, but ah . . . and a frustrated rock guitarist, too.
But I knew Clinton was in with the big boys when he bombed Iraq. Do you remember that? Two-day news story: Clinton launches twenty-two cruise missiles on Baghdad in retaliation for the alleged failed assassination attempt against George Bush. We launched twenty-two, three-million-dollars-apiece cruise missiles to Baghdad, killing six innocent people. I think that was a little overdone, you know? You know what we should have done? We should have embarrassed the Iraqians. We should have assassinated Bush and said, ‘That’s how you do it, towel-head. Don’t fuck with us.’ And see, if Bush had been the one who had died, there would have been no loss of innocent life. Yeah, so you see. I mean, that would have saved us, ah, hundred million dollars. And I love that too, how the media called it . . . everyone in the government and the media called it a cowardly act on the Iraqians’ part, because some Iraqian guy was gonna drive a Toyota car bomb and blow himself up in the process of trying to kill the president of the United States, because that’s all they can really do since we’re the imperialist rulers of the New World Order, and we cal
l that a cowardly act. Meanwhile, we’re launching cruise missiles 200 miles away from floating iron islands. Who are the cowards again? OK. This is the material, by the way, that’s kept me virtually anonymous in America. You know, no one fucking knows me, no one gives a fuck. Meanwhile, they’re draining the Pacific and putting up bench-seats for Carrottop’s next show-time special. Carrottop: for people who didn’t get Gallagher, you know?
‘That Gallagher was a little heady. I ah couldn’t folla half of his stuff.’
‘Carrottop’s more my speed. You see, first of all he’s got red hair, an’ that just cracks me up all the time. I don’t even need material, ask my wife, I’m on the floor. Red-haired man! Red-haired man on TV! Whoo-oo! Don’t even need material or ideas. Red-haired man. So he’s got that goin’ for him.’
‘What do you like about him?’
‘He’s got red hair.’