I’ll be taking over KBPI’s radio show in Denver tomorrow morning, Tuesday 9-29-09 from 7:30am to 10:30am.

In Denver it’s 106.7 and if you’re not here in God’s country you can listen to it online at http://www.kbpi.com/main.html

You can call in at 303-713-7625 or 303-713-7655  the last 4 digits of each phone number are “ROCK” and “ROLL”

How cute.  And how fucking annoying if you’re trying to call them from a blackberry and you have to figure out what the fuck those letters represent in numbers.  I actually had to ask to borrow someone’s phone once just to read the letters on the numbers.

I really wish people would stop that goofy practice.  Just give me the fucking number, please.  Anyway, call up, I’ll take as many calls as I can in between the songs that they have to play.  It’s always a good time on that station, and now that I’m living in Colorado I’m sure I’ll be on more often.

I got an incredible amount of responses to my last blog, so many and so varied that I thought I should probably address a few.   The vast majority of the people agreed with what I had to say, and applauded my stand against some of the more ridiculous trends infecting our beloved sport, but curiously quite a few folks felt I was unjustly “bashing” MMA fans, and a couple even arrived at the misguided opinion that by poking fun at some of the silly behavior and moronic wardrobe choices I was somehow “biting the hand that feeds me.”

To that I say, first and foremost I’m a stand up comic.  I make fun of everything, including myself.  When you get upset at something I say that reflects on you, just think about the shit I say about me.  I regularly describe myself as a short, balding, little chimp-man.  I drank my own piss and put the video of it up on youtube. Not only do I regularly wear a fanny pack – the most widely ridiculed wardrobe item the world has ever known – but I’m at the helm of an ill-conceived campaign actively trying to bring them back to popularity.

I’m a goof.
But guess what, fuck face – so are you.  We all are.
It comes with the territory of being a human being; we are innately goofy, odd little talking monkeys spinning around on this giant rock that’s flying through the infinite vastness of the universe.
The biggest and saddest goofs amongst us by FAR, however, are the ones that get angry when you make fun of them.

The bottom line in this life, is do whatever the fuck you want to do as long as it’s not harming anyone else.
Happiness is precious and there is no universal method of achieving it.
If it really brings you joy, and you’re not hurting anyone else, fuck what some dummy like me has to say.
When you’re taking a picture standing next to Vitor Belfort put TWO fists up, just for spite.   Right before the flash goes off, pull your pants down too.  He’s a nice guy, he probably won’t say shit.

Does that “Tap or Snap – the choice is yours!”  T-shirt really appeal to you?  If it does, rock that shit homey.
What, are you gonna live forever?
Fuck it – after you get that bitch home, head on down to your local “Hot Topic” and get yourself some glue and glitter, and pimp that motherfucker up proper.  Put a big, red, glittery dick on the front and wear it around the mall with your chest puffed out.  If it puts a smile on your face, that’s really all that matters.

To all you silly fucks out there that were actually upset at anything I said, my recommendation to you, is to get yourself a joint and a telescope.  Take a couple hits, look through that lens, and even if it’s just for a brief moment try to get yourself a different perspective.   You’ll thank me later.

I wasn’t planning to write this blog entry, and in the end I didn’t actually have that much to say, but I’m trying to really update this thing more often.  I’m sitting in a hotel room right now, and I’ve got to get some sleep.  I’ve been working on a movie for the last couple weeks in Boston, and after long days on the set I’ve got to force myself to bang something out on the keyboard.

It was 4:30 in the morning at the Clift Hotel in San Francisco when the alarm went off.

It woke me up from a deep sleep, and at first I was completely bewildered.  I thought it was the clock radio alarm in my room, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how to shut the fucker off.  I was pressing buttons, looking for a volume control… but the fucking thing wouldn’t stop it’s screeching.

I turned on the light, and as my eyes were trying to adjust enough to read the controls on the clock a voice came over the loudspeaker:

“Attention, there has been a fire reported in the building.  Please evacuate immediately.”

I thought at first it was some sort of a recording, but then I realized that it was just a live woman reading it in a mechanical voice.  I realized this when she kept the mic keyed open in between announcements, and I heard a much less calm and robotic man’s voice behind her saying, “We’ve got to get these people out of the building!”

The whole crazy picture was starting to come together.

The hotel is on fire, and I’m on the 15th floor.  FUCK.

I threw on my clothes, stepped out into the hallway, and was prepared to make a mad sprint down the stairs, but I encountered a river of sleepy travelers funneling into the single file stairwell.

FUCK.

The people were nervous and more than a little out of it, and the line going down the stairs was moving maddeningly slow.

It was one of those stairwells where you could see straight down from the top floor all the way to the bottom, and if you were so inclined you could really freak yourself out by leaning over the railing and thinking about how far a fall it was.

I looked down the well as the line slowly shuffled down the stairs, and at each floor more people were jamming into the herd. There was smoke obscuring the view of the bottom, and as we slowly creeped down this retarded single file pathway to safety I kept my eyes peeled onto that smoke as we went down, holding at bay all thoughts of drastic measures until I saw flames.

People were moving so fucking slowly.  It was a very nerve racking and helpless feeling.  My humanity and my chimp DNA were having a tense conversation in my head.  The humanity side was looking at all these people that were having a hard time walking; old people, obese people, the chronically timid that wilt under any sort of ordinary, every day stress, never mind being a part of a slow chain of hundreds of people making their way down a single file staircase into a hotel fire.

People were freaking out, and my humanity was feeling for them.  It must be a terrible feeling to not only be afraid, but to feel like you’re slowing down hundreds of able bodied people from getting to safety in time.  My chimp side, however, was ready to climb over their shoulders and run on the top of their heads all the way to the bottom.

The chimp in my head reported ready and able, “Just say the word, boss.  We’re ready to take over at the first sign of the flames.”  The chemical smell of fire extinguishers filled the air.  People were covering their mouths with their robes and t shirts.  I could hear humanity turn to the chimp, not quite dismissing him anymore, “Hang on, lets just see how this plays out.”

Some people were really freaking out and not handling it well.

It took at least 2 minutes to get from the 15th floor to the 12th floor, and it seemed like it was slowing down. The announcement got more specific:

“A fire has been reported on the second floor.  Please evacuate the hotel immediately.”  10 more floors until the fire, and we’re fucking crawling.  FUCK.

One guy stopped.

He just stopped walking, and slack jawed with fear turned around to face his wife, “What is happening?  What’s going on?”

It was at that point that humanity and the chimp started to sound rather indistinguishable in my head – “Move, you fuck.”  “Just let me yell at him, I won’t touch him…” He stopped in his tracks only for two or three seconds, but the urge to murder him was extreme and immediate.  He stuttered backwards a few tiny steps, feeling the will of the crowd, and his wife turned him around and pointed him down the stairs.

“I don’t know, just keep walking.”  She said.

He turned over his shoulder to look at her like he might argue with her, and decided to just keep walking.

I focused on him intently as he re-merged with the crowd, and as I studied his dopey shuffle I imagined reaching through his asshole, pulling out his guts and his skeletal system and wearing his skin like a fire suit to run through the flames.  This fantasy distracted me for the next 30 seconds that it took to make it half a flight lower.  Maybe it’s going to be OK.  Hopefully we’ll make it out.  Keep it together.

The painfully slow march down to safety continued.  It was around the 10th floor where the worry really cranked up a notch.

It was taking fucking forever to get down, and if I look down and see that we’re walking down into the fire, what the fuck am I going to do?  Do I keep walking and hope to get through it without getting burned?  Do I run back upstairs and hope they can get the fire out before it reaches the upper floors?  Just the thought of that was fucking terrifying.  What if the fire was out of control?

As we slowly got down to the bottom I was relieved to see how calm the hotel staff was.  That was comforting.  They were guiding people outside, and as I was stepping out onto the street, one guy who worked there informed me that some drunken douche bags on the second floor were horsing around and one of them started blowing off the fire extinguishers.  There was no actual fire.

Relieved, I got outside and walked across the street to find my friends.  We were all a little shook up, and as we stood out there on the street lined up on the sidewalk with hundreds of other disposed travelers, lit up by the flashing lights of the fire trucks, it really struck me how random things can be sometimes.

We were lucky as fuck, but it could have just as easily been a real fire.  Our reality had been severely jostled.

There was a sleazy little rub and tug massage parlor on the side street across from the hotel and one of their “masseuses” stepped out for a cigarette and to take a peek at all the commotion.  She was wearing a short skirt, and had some disaster of a tattoo on her fat tits that you could see spilling out over the top of her sports bra.  She looked over and made eye contact with me, and as she took a drag off her cigarette I imagined the smell of a thousand cocks on her hand mixing with the fumes of the Newport she was smoking, and I thought to myself, “That might be the saddest smell in the whole world.”

I suggested that we all go in for hand jobs – my treat – to try to relax us after our ordeal.  We joked about the sweet pleasure of being handjob number 1001 for the day, then we all agreed that probably none of us would even be able to get it up.  As fucked up as the night had been so far, it would be far worse if it ended with my limp dick being tugged on impatiently by a stinky runaway.  I went back up to my hotel room an hour or so later, feeling humbled and thankful.

Redban wrote about it on his twitter, but to me it just felt a little too personal.

“LA is like a graveyard from the future.” – Hunter S. Thompson

For the last 15 years of my life I’ve lived in the overflowing hive of humanity known as Los Angeles, California.
I moved there in 1994 as a poor comedian seduced by the chance to make money, and stayed longer than I ever would have predicted.

I had some great times in that hot, stinky, shit-hole of a city, but there was a part of me that always knew I was going to have to escape eventually.  I would always give out the advice to anyone that asked, “LA is like a hot chick that’s completely crazy; it’s fun to play around with her for a while, but don’t get crazy and fucking marry her.”  Well, not really heading my own advice I lived with that crazy bitch for 15 fucking years until I finally escaped to the Rocky Mountains last month.

I always knew I would eventually leave, but I wasn’t sure how it was going to go down.  I had several escape scenarios I would play out in my head that varied in severity and likelihood from evacuating due to wildfires and earthquakes all the way to a suitcase nuke leveling the city and bio-terrorism triggering the zombie apocalypse of 2012.  In the end, I just decided to leave because I could, because it felt like it was a good time, and because I decided that for the first time in my life I wanted to live somewhere that I could see the stars at night.

Whenever I wanted to really see the stars I had to go on vacation, because looking up at the night sky in LA or any other city all you see is darkness and a handful of really aggressive stars that insist on being seen through the thickest of pollution.  When I say pollution, I don’t just mean the filthy air – and GOD DAMN LA has a lot of that – but light pollution as well.  It’s something that we very rarely think about, but all those city lights drown out the the visibility of the stars.  You don’t even realize what a tragedy it is until you see what you’re missing.

I was always vaguely aware of its effect on paper, but I never really appreciated how dramatic the the difference was until I took a vacation to the big island of Hawaii a few years ago.  We went up to the keck observatory visitors center, and at 9,000 feet above sea level the stars were so fucking incredibly vivid that the sheer jolt of the vision felt like it jump started some dormant section of my consciousness.

You could call it beautiful, but that would be just as weak as calling the ocean wet.
Not just awe-inspiring, but kick-you-in-the-dick humbling in a way that borders on a full blown psychedelic trip.  I just couldn’t believe that’s what it really looked like.

I can remember really clearly getting out of the car, looking up at this impossible vision in the sky and saying out loud, “My god, is it like this all the time?”
The milky way was so clear and vibrant that it looked like a photo from an astronomy book.  There weren’t just the standard few dimly flickering constellations to try to play “connect the dots” with, instead the entire night sky was an infinite swarm of magnificent nuclear explosions.

It was impossible for me to stare up at it and accept my default perception of the Earth as this stable, static thing of permanence.
The thick, stained curtain of bullshit that covers my standard view of the world instantly evaporated before my eyes, and space stripped down naked in front of me and revealed its true self.

I wasn’t simply a guy on vacation standing in a parking lot in Hawaii looking up at the pretty sky, I was a drone caught in society’s trance – an ignorant passenger unaware that I was really on a immense, organic space ship flying through infinity.
It was both amazing and terrifying at the same time.   I found this picture online, and it’s exactly what the stars looked like up there.

Just a few hours earlier I had been sitting around in a hotel room zoned out in front of the TV with my laptop open, trying to pay attention to “the world.”
I’ve spent countless hours doing the exact same thing, watching CNN or Fox news with a look on my face like the whole country just farted, absolutely convinced that everything I was paying attention to was very important stuff that demanded my focus.

I was listening intently to other drones speaking passionately about taxes, or politics, or some other mind numbing bullshit, and I was convinced that this was important stuff that I was supposed to be paying attention to.

I’ve often wondered since that night whether or not cities would function the same if we could see all the stars from them.  It’s way easier to put the blinders on and pretend that it all makes sense if you don’t have to look at a cosmic masterpiece above your head every night.

I’ve escaped.
I now live in a place where it’s so quiet that the silence itself has a specific sound.  Without the background noise of city life you can hear the actual sound of silence – an unexpected noise that’s somewhat like a high pitched vibration that you can’t really compare to anything else.  The vibration of the mother ship.

I’ve been writing like crazy since I’ve got here.  That was all a part of the “plan.”
The latest and greatest chapter on my journey through the universe, and I’m going to document it all here.

Much, much more to come.
Mad love to you all.

Youtube in it’s infinite wisdom decided that my piss drinking video was too fucked up for their service.  I guess I could see their point if it wasn’t so easy to find stuff that’s way more disturbing on their servers, like these shirtless young black men attempting to seduce mentally challenged women by humping a couch.

That’s OK, but me taking part in one of the oldest forms of natural medicine in the world; urine therapy – that’s over the top?  Kinda weird, especially when there’s dozens of videos also on the subject readily available on youtube right now.

This is the letter that youtube sent me alerting me of my indiscretion.  Since I’m not sure exactly what they were upset with since all they’re saying is that I received a “community guidelines warning strike”, whatever the fuck that means.  I’m assuming from the tone of the warning that it was given because someone falsely claimed that they saw my penis in the video.  We’ve gone over the high definition version of the video with a fine tooth comb, and even brought in special dick sniffing dogs just to be safe, but the bottom line is that there’s no penis to be seen in that video.   My penis, much like Lyoto Machida, is very elusive.  When I put the image in this blog post it fucks up the tables, so I’m just going to leave a link to it.  You can view it here: http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2572/3832423645_28101a018d_o.png

The other possibility as to why youtube removed the video was that they felt like the discussion I was having with a woman in the audience about Spike TV’s decision to censor the word “faggot” from the otherwise uncensored version of my stand up comedy special.  I was talking onstage about the same thing I’ve discussed here in my blog about how a gay man told me that the word “faggot” is only for gay people to use, and that it’s their “nigger.”  Apparently those two words together were just too much craziness for some folks to handle, and they decided that a rational discussion of context and the intent behind certain taboo words was just way too much to see on the internet.  I’m assuming this was the case, because they removed the video from my good buddy Redban’s account as well.  He’s the editor and the creator of the video, and here’s what they said to him about why they took it down:

“Hate speech” refers to content that promotes hatred against members of a protected group. For instance, racist or sexist content may be considered hate speech. Sometimes there is a fine line between what is and what is not considered hate speech. For instance, it is generally okay to criticize a nation, but not okay to make insulting generalizations about people of a particular nationality.

I have neither the time nor the desire to get into how retarded it is that a discussion of the intent behind certain taboo words can be thought of as hate speech, but I can tell you this, if anyone ever said anything resembling that statement to me at a party, I’m definitely not going to ask them if they want to come outside and get high.  In fact, I’m not going to ask them anything other than to please politely shut the fuck up.  If that’s really the way you think, reality itself is far challenging enough on it’s own without any enhancement.

Could you even imagine the kind of douche bag you would have to be to say that to someone?

“Well, it’s generally ok to criticize a nation…”

Douche bag alarms go off, eyes roll all around, and people start looking for the door.

Anyway, the bottom line is you can’t see my penis in the video, there’s plenty of other urine therapy videos all over youtube, and if the words “faggot” and “nigger” are really so omnipotent that they can’t even be brought up without it being labeled “hate speech,” than my point has been proven.  To satisfy the easily offended we have re-edited the video and removed those horrible, evil words, but kept in the nutritious and healthy act of piss drinking.

Enjoy!

I’m sitting here on a plane headed to West Palm Beach Florida where I’m performing at the Improv comedy club this Friday and Saturday night, and I’m able to breathe freely from my nose for the first time since I was a little boy.  My timing is perfect, because the guy sitting next to me smells like my dog’s dick.  And he’s drinking, at 11 am.  Without an ounce of irony I judge him silently while I pop a pot cookie in my mouth.
“Weak ass stinky bitch.”
Actually I wouldn’t really think that, because he seems like a really nice guy.  I’m just being silly.  He does fucking stink though, I have have a feeling he’s going to get drunk.

2 weeks ago this tuesday I had surgery to repair a deviated septum, and yesterday I had the plastic splints removed from inside my nose and had my nasal passages cleaned and vacuumed.
If you’ve never had this procedure done, let me tell you – it’s pretty fucking intense.

Just getting the surgery done was a relief as I’ve had a fucked up nose since I was about 5 when I smashed it falling down a flight of stairs.  I’ve always wanted to fix it, but it was just hard to organize the down time. Last month I tore a hamstring muscle which I knew was going to take me out of action for a little while, so I figured now was the time to go ahead and get it fixed.  The surgery went off without a hitch, and once they removed the packing inside my nose it really wasn’t too bad.

The cleaning of the nasal passages, however, was one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever experienced in my life.  I can’t say it hurt too much, because the doctor sprayed the inside of my nostrils with a numbing agent called Lidocaine.  It numbs the inside of your nose pretty well, but the downside is that it tastes like rotten demon sperm.
The instant the doctor stuck the tube up my nose and started pumping out that horrible liquid tears were rolling down my face and I’m gagging and coughing while this vile shit drips down my nasal passage to the back of my tongue – way in the back where it feels like you shouldn’t even be tasting things.

Once the numbing kicked in, the doctor started the cleaning process which made Satan’s loads feel like they were just a warmup act.
I couldn’t exactly see what he was doing, but he was using these forceps to stretch open my nostrils, and then he was sticking various instruments in there and cutting out gigantic blood clots that could best be described as something you might expect to find in Amy Winehouse’s toilet after a weekend bender.
Big, thick, black clots that looked like aborted rat fetuses.

He would cut and clean, and scrape the clots off the wall, and then stuff a long metal vacuum up there to get all the loose blood and mucus.  And when I say up there, I really mean UP there.  It went so far back I didn’t even know that there was a tunnel back there. I was shocked.  It was like he found a secret cave in my head.  The vacuum had a long metal tip that looked like a car antenna, (remember those?) and he stuck this fucking thing way up my nostrils past my eyebrows.  I could hear the liquid, sucking sounds both outside my head, and far more disturbingly – inside it too.  There’s something extra freaky about hearing a biological, liquid, suction sound when it’s coming from in between your eyeballs.

Occasionally it would go too far and the vacuum would poke what felt like the wall to my brain.  Not even like a wall, more like a membrane that seemed about as thick as a truck stop condom, and this pokey little car antenna vacuum thing would jam into it and stick onto the back wall just like when the pay-per-suck hose at the self service car wash gets stuck on your floor mats.  I would even hear that same high-pitched vacuum protest noise in my skull when it happened, and every time it stuck up there I clenched up like my asshole just got tasered.

The whole procedure took over an hour, and every 15 minutes or so he would dose me back up with more Lidocaine when it was obvious that it’s magical pain-reducing spell was wearing off.
We had a nice little system going, where he would poke my brain, I would clench the chair like I was on the space shuttle reentering the atmosphere, and he would ask,
“More hot, bitter demon loads?”

“(coughing and gagging) Yes, please…”

As the slippery Lidocaine tube went up my raw, post-surgery nose, all I could think of was Satan’s dick – gray and slimy like a dead eel – shooting billions of individual evil sperm cells up there, each one of them looking like a microscopic version of the chest burster from the movie “Alien.” I envisioned them roaring down my throat, screaming in agony and ecstasy as they alternately fucked each other and eat each other alive.

I’m gagging and coughing, and as he’s pumping this vile shit up my nose, my head is pressed against the back of the chair and I’m imagining that the head rest is the Satan’s big, hairy, 6 fingered paw holding the back of my head like a selfish boyfriend getting his nut off.  Thankfully, Satan is a two pump chump.  5, 6 pumps at the most and I’m leaking tears like a bitch, and numb as an old whore’s clit.
“OK? Back to the nose rape?”
“(gagging and coughing) Back to the nose rape, please.”

The next hour was a repeat performance, with;  “Demon loads” opening the show, followed by “nose rape,” your middle act, and then, “asshole taser brain vacuum,” your headliner.
There’s 3 shows in a row, and each show has a two violent sneeze minimum. I mean sneezes so violent I thought I was going to blast a hole through the universe and blow my blood and snot into other dimensions.

Much like at a comedy club, if there’s 3 shows in a night, by the time the final show rolls around the audience is usually a fucking mess.
Just like the drunk people who worked all day and are falling asleep in the audience at a midnight show on a Friday night, when that third “asshole taser brain vacuum” act kicked in, as much as I try to see the humor in everything, I really didn’t believe that anything could ever be funny at that moment.

Finally, like all things, eventually it ended, and when it did, I was on a spectacular Lidocaine and endorphin high.  I walked out of that doctor’s office loving every person in the whole fucking world.  I was so happy that my “demon load,” “nose rape,” “asshole taser brain vacuum” loop had ended that I was just really appreciating everything.

No bullshit, I was in the elevator afterwards, and I was thinking, “Wow.  What a nice elevator.  It has a 3000 lb capacity?  That’s pretty impressive.”  I was LOVING that fucking elevator.  I wanted to buy one just like it.

I got a diet coke from the pharmacy downstairs, and when I stepped outside, cracked it open and sipped it in the warm sun I felt like a P.O.W. getting released from the Hanoi Hilton.
It’s kind of amazing that sometimes it takes something shitty to make us truly appreciate how great and enjoyable this life can be.