I wrote an article. It got published in a peer-reviewed philosophy journal. Pears don’t know shit about philosophy.
I was arguing for a new criterion of aesthetics – I said that what we look for aesthetically is for something to be a little bit familiar, but different enough to be interesting – sort of like your girlfriend’s sister.
Most comedians go in for self-deprecation. I thought, fuck that, let me tell you about being hung like a horse – the major difference is that my tail doesn’t swish when the vertebrae snap.
Well, you’re probably all thinking that I lead a pretty enviable existence. Sex drugs etc. The sex drugs are expensive though, and even they lose their effectiveness after a while.
it’s because of this that i'm so worried about the decreasing levels of fertility as a result of increasing levels of oestrogen in the drinking water - that's why i regularly masturbate in the sink
but that’s had its down sides too. I wistfully remember how when I was younger, I thought that getting a carpal tunnel was something very dirty. back then, I used to masturbate furiously all the time – mind you, now I find it puts me in a pretty good mood
Unfortunately though, I got piles. I’m not ashamed to say it. The doctor says that I might have picked it up sitting too long in a fixed position – on the toilet, as it happens. Unfortunately though, I had no choice – that’s where the peephole to the women’s changing rooms had to be.
Piles is not a very attractive condition. Texturewise, it’s a little bit like when your shoelaces are undone, and they drag on the ground, so that if it’s been raining and you step in a puddle, then when you bend over to tuck them back in, they’re all stringy and damp and dripping.
I often trace my lack of self-confidence back to my childhood days. I had asthma, ezcema and hayfever. apparently it’s medical fact that they tend to all go together. it was after I found that out that I founded my religion based on the realisation that god is actually a sadistic small child.
when I was at school, they used to spike my hayfever spray with dandelion cordial, and put helium in my asthma nebuliser. I tried everything to cure myself– even acupuncture. the thing about acupuncture though is that it's a bit of a wild stab in the dark
anyway, things got better at college. I lived in a house with 8 people and 1 fridge, lots of milk, and a lot of milk-stealing. I hate milk theft. I had to use more and more elaborate ploys to catch them after they got wise to the beartrap.
First, I tried to convince them that my milk was really mouldy and off. I find that adding little pink bits of chopped-up marshmallow dipped in parsley are ideal for this - it looks just like rotting pussy ... no, *pus-ridden* bits of flesh
So eventually I got a mate who works in a hospital to get hold of some of those little urine sample beakers - unused. I dyed the milk a sort of deep uriny orange with some crimson added for a sort of menstrual suset effect, and decanted it into the piss-beakers. That really did the trick.
No one touched my milk after that. But - I developed a taste for piss. If you drink piss before going to sleep, it sends you right off to dreamland, and best of all, you don't have to warm it up like milk. When my housemates got wind of my ‘acquired taste’, they starting safeguarding their glasses of beer by disguising them – they’d dye them white and hide them in milk bottles and I wouldn’t touch ‘em.
I had an idea for a new revolution in user interfaces - replace the standard 102 key keyboard with a blow-up doll – I call it the point and clit interface
the terrible fallacy of ‘anything that does not kill me makes me stronger’ – cognitive gullibility test that natural selection has devised so it doesn’t have to bother with predators any more to weed out the maladaptive losers
Where possible, I like to offend. and the only thing I enjoy doing more than offending an entire group of people at once, is offending two entire opposing factions. So imagine this scene at the office party last year - the theme is 'Heroes and Villians'. Well, I misunderstood, and thought you had to go as a hero AND a villian at the same time. So I went as Osama Bin Laden cum Jesus Christ. the more i thought about it, there seemed to be quite a striking similarity. they both spend a lot of time in deserts, have big beards, and wear white. Admittedly Jesus hasn't been fingered for any suicide bombings, and Bin Laden doesn't preach a message of universal tolerance, but he is going to get crucified when the Americans catch him.
in fact, i'd like to dedicate this to a friend of mine, a 9/11 victim - who i imagine died the same way he lived his life - hoping that there would be a special someone who would rescue him from the pain, and that no one would notice his blatant attempts to be the first out of the office
on the iraq war - if they had spent $80b on hydrogen fuel research, they could have crack the problem wide open. having said that, they'll probably get their money back from merchandising anyway
it's funny actually - everyone thinks bin laden is holed up in a cave in afghanistan. I can reveal an exclusive – the reason we haven’t been able to find him is because he’s in london. he’s a smart bugger, and he realised that the way he could cause most havoc would be as head of the london underground train drivers’ union. he can fuck up a million people’s day and cost a Western country billions of pounds in one fell swoop. he’s been at this game for 20 years now, and it’s getting harder and harder to come up with reasons for striking. “the sandwiches were cold last week” – we can’t work in these inhumane conditions. we need showers and lockers. we want more rights for claustrophobic tube drivers. etc. then, a couple of months ago, someone comes up to him with an idea. “yeah, whatever, fly it into the building if you think that'll work – this, here with the tube drivers, is where the real action's at”. so that’s how it started.
I believe you should live each day as if it is your last. Which is why I don't have any clean laundry because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of their life?
i'm so miserable sometimes, i just want to slit someone's wrists
having said that, today was a pretty good day. i figured out how to get the bog roll in my bathroom to roll out smoothly today - my therapist says that i should look for triumphs wherever i can find them
i'll tell you something that irritates me. people screaming in concerts. you don't find that in the albert hall, do you? it's a particularly teenage phenomenon, as far as i can tell, and the ones just below bat auditory range are usually female. it's not a recent thing either. john lennon complained that the screaming was so loud when they played that fuckoff stadium in new york that no one could hear their music. if i was a front man for a band, and i was strumming my favourite track, about love or suicide or the trials of being rich and adored, and the pain of overly-frequent ejaculation, and all these girls were screaming at me, i'd just stop playing. till they stopped. maybe even hold up my hand, and make the audience sit quiet before i started again. because i'd feel like just some sexually-charged, sexual being, some sex object that people would just want to have sex with. but i'm a musician goddamnnit. all that sex. i mean, it's not the volume as much as the incoherent, wordlessness of it. i'd feel like a freak. walk on stage. everyone screams. i'd be, like, what's wrong. [touches face to check it's all there].
I’m such a carnivore, i'll eat anything that bleeds. actually that's not true. i draw the line at menstruating women.
if any of you have seen my show before, you're probably best off going and getting wankered at the bar, cos it's all the same. or, go and talk to the big men dressed in black at the door and tell them you'd like your money back. bouncers, if that happens, beat the shit out of them, so that i don't get bored while i'm onstage
the average punter asks himself, have I wasted my money on this bloke? do I feel embarrassed for him? if not, I’m going to fucking laugh, because I’ve paid fucking ten pounds. and so it doesn't matter a jot that i’m fucking crap at telling jokes. because you’re all laughing. you stupid fuckers. this is great. you nasty smelly desperate species. when the mothership lands, I swear, you’re all fucked. anyway. let me tell you about…
Would you do that in the theatre? you wouldn't, would you? would you? *would* you??? perhaps you would. you clearly have no manners whatsoever. i mean, why do you do it. it's not big, and it's not clever. i wouldn't mind if it was clever.
are you fat, or stupid, or in some other way discompensed and disadvantaged relative to the rest of the animal kingdom so that you feel bitter and justified in your uncomedic rancour?
i mean, do you really think that just because you are pitiful you have some god-given right to be irritating as well? please, be quiet. don't add public self-embarrassment to your list of achievements before dying in a messy and probably pathetic fashion.
I wonder, did your mother cry very hard when you were born? Do you think it’s normal that she’s still suffering from post-natal depression?
Listen, you were born a turd - there's no need for you to work at it
You like to stir, don’t you, sir – it’s just a shame that you’ve only got a little spoon
I'm terribly sorry sir, but you appear to have got your aesophagus and your anus confused - try speaking out of the other one
Mate, my job is to make you look like a dick, but you're doing just fine on your own, so if you just want to carry on, i'll go and get a drink
Were you abused as a child? Perhaps you should have been
Roll up, roll up – everybody, buy your tickets now to see the amazing maladaptive man – an evolutionary dead-end folks, only able to survive in today’s overly permissive society
Greg Detre, email@example.com, http://www.gregdetre.co.uk - updated June 29, 2003