Since I started doing comedy four years ago, I have been called an angry person on numerous occasions. Sometimes it is complementary, like after a rant on stage. Other times it is an accusation, like after a rant on stage. It strikes me as funny because up until I started speaking into a microphone, “angry” would be the last word somebody would use to describe me. “Smart?” Sure. “Funny?” Sometimes. “Alcoholic?” Occasionally. But never “angry.” The thing is I’m not an angry person. Sure I have hate and cynicism enter my thoughts on a daily basis, but honestly, don’t we all? Don’t you find yourself thinking things to yourself that you would normally never say aloud? For whatever reason, be it political correctness, etiquette or job security, people generally cannot freely speak what they think, even though we’ve all been raised to speak the truth. What they should have told us as kids was, “Try to speak the truth. However, if you do, many people might consider it angry, rude or judgmental. But truthfully speaking, those people are just assholes who have never been honest with themselves a day in their life and they’ll probably live a miserable life and die an uneventful death. Now go outside and play, ‘lil tiger!”

After several grueling seconds of contemplating what type of comedian I am, I have come to the conclusion that I am not an angry comic. I have a lot of fun on stage. What I try to do is tell the truth and sometimes that truth comes across as anger. So with that caveat, let’s talk about some truth.

Am I the only one that feels really good about this housing market? I can’t begin to tell you how much it pleases me to see these people on the news complain that their house is under foreclosure. “All the banks get a bailout but I don’t get any money? Where’s my bailout? How come I don’t get any money?” I’ll tell you why you don’t get any money. Cause you’re a fucking idiot. You bought a half million dollar home with zero down? You work at Auto Zone, dipshit. What did you think was going to happen? Did you think there would be a sudden shift in the market place and all of a sudden we were going to have a surge in demand for fuzzy dice and hubcaps? You get nothing but what you deserve, asshole.

Realtors are to the housing market what pimps are to 3rd world hookers. They’re greedy, unwanted and serve only to inflate the price of pest infested boxes.

For years I sat by in my rented apartment and watched greedy, impulsive fucktards make a killing for doing nothing. Buy a house. Wait six months. Sell it at a huge profit. “Let’s flip this house! I’m so smart. I flip houses. Real estate always goes up! I’m a goddamned genius. Look at me. Look at my Mercedes! Look at my chai latte! I’m so smart! Look at the TV in my car! It has a TV! I flip houses! Look at me!” And look at ‘em now. Maybe instead of a TV, they should have installed a shower in their car cause it looks like they’re gonna be living in it.
So sad. So true. So funny.

I’m growing tired of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Here is another group of people who don’t want to acknowledge the truth. Drunk drivers don’t kill people. Bad drivers kill people. Drunk drivers just pay the inflated insurance premiums. Don’t sit there and tell me that buzzed driving is drunk driving. It can be argued that driving buzzed is better than driving sober. Ever seen a buzzed person drive? It is the epitome of focus. You can’t even change the radio station in a buzzed person’s car. “Don’t fucking touch it! You’re distracting me! Do you know how much it is going to cost me if I get pulled over right now?! Well do you?!” Compare that with the average asshole boning out down the 101 at 90 miles per hour, texting on a cell phone, looking at their GPS, sipping on a cappuccino and searching for Lady Ga Ga on their ipod.

Now I’m not saying that everybody should get wasted and hop behind the wheel. If you’re too drunk to walk then you’re too drunk to drive. But get the fuck out of here with that .08 bullshit. That’s like 4 beers. I took my S.A.T’s with a.08.

And don’t try to tell me that all this is in the name of protecting life. If Mothers Against Drunk Driving were only interested in saving lives, they would take the $50 million dollars a year they raise and invest it in autopilot cars. Problem solved. But they wouldn’t do anything that fucking dumb because it would put them out of business. And that’s exactly what it is, a business.

The truth is, MADD is just another interest group that uses bullshit PR scare campaigns to raise more money to influence more legislation to lower the legal limit to bust more responsible drinkers to get more money to pay their inflated salaries and expand their political power. What a bunch of cunts.

I probably wouldn’t care so much if they just told the truth.

Anyway, that’s all I have time for this week.

I hope it didn’t come off as angry. It’s just me telling my truth.

It seems many people, these days, are growing fearful about our future. Fearful that the economy will stay in the toilet. Fearful that the climate will stay in the oven. Fearful that the military will stay in the oven-toilet known as the Middle East.

Our kids get dumber as our computers get smarter. Our attention spans are getting shorter all the while our waistlines and our wartimes are growing longer. Money is shrinking as life spans increase. The food supply is tainted and the drug supply is pure. Inspiration and creativity are depleting as search engines and channel packages expand. Corporations grow larger and the work force diminishes. Your job sucks and they don’t care about you.

Do you feel it? Or is it just me? I think you feel it. I think everybody feels it; the growing tension that builds in the backs of our minds and subconsciously tells us that we’re approaching a tipping point.

Well I’m here to tell you to fear not, lil’ campers. We ARE approaching a tipping point and it is GOOD.

Now I’m not talking about some apocalyptic Biblical bullshit here. You won’t find me standing on a street corner telling you the end is near. Jesus ain’t coming. Neither is Allah, L. Ron Hubbard or Elvis. But eventually we, as a people, are going to stop and say, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore!” It’s just gonna take a little more time and a little more frustration. But, just like your unemployment extension, the check is in the mail.

We, here at Heavy Hitters, are constantly railing against the horrific absurdity of popular culture’s influence on the world. Fantasy and reality are colliding like accelerated particles in the Large Hadron Collider, and it feels like the resulting Dark Matter is going to consume us all. From politics to television to music to comedy to YouTube, all the signs point to end. The fantasy world and the real world have converged. When a vapid, pretentious, supermodel celebrity like Naomi Campbell is involved in a major world news story and her testimony is key to the prosecution of a war lord, the knee jerk reaction is to think this is it. A seal has been broken and behold a pale horse and its rider’s name was Naomi and Hell followed her and all that shit.

Our viewing habits have been dominated by mental masturbation programming like Jersey Shore and our top news stories are dominated by the imbibing habits of Lindsay Lohan and the sexual practices of Kendra.

We focus on the trivial. We are so consumed by it that it makes us blind.

Folks protest about the construction of a mosque and its location to the sacred World Trade Center memorial without realizing that perhaps the construction of McDonald’s next to sacred mosques is part of what led to the tragedy in the first place.

Our government debates about guns; who can have them and what type of guns. And then we arm the world.

We use clean burning fuel to extract oil.

People fight and kill under the pretense of protecting life.

And on and on it goes. It feels desperate. It feels hopeless. It feels like insanity has descended on the populous like a disease. But take a step back for a second. Look at the big picture. These things are not a disease. They are but symptoms of the real disease. And like any disease, if we treat it, the symptoms will disappear.

What is this disease, you ask? Simple; life, as we have come to know it, is not worth living. And we know it.

As a whole, we don’t have much to live for. Why do you think people watch these horrible, mindless reality TV shows where terrible excuses for human beings fight, fuck and forage for fame? Because even in that shitty world, it still provides an escape. It is still better than our lives, working for companies that shit on us as we help them shit on the world. Snookie is a celebrity because, compared to the average American, a life spent drunk, stupid, orange and televised is better than a life spent sober, stupid, enslaved and anonymous.

The American dream where you work hard for a nice house and a nice car and a nice life has turned into an American nightmare where you work hard for a house that is under water, your car burns too much gas and your life is just a never ending cycle of trying to keep your head above water. It’s enough to make a person say, “fuck it.”

People around the world pick up on these silly causes because they have nothing else to do. No real purpose. Some pick up a picket sign. Some pick up a gun. Some pick up a religious text. From Kansas to Kandahar, people seek to give their life meaning without realizing that life has no real meaning but what we give it.

Now before you go and call a hotline and report that the Devil’s Advocate just posted a suicide note on Heavy Hitters, understand that I really enjoy my life. Don’t you worry about me. I’m not going anywhere. For two reasons; first, I think some really interesting shit is about to happen in my lifetime and I wouldn’t want to miss it. And second, if I was going to kill myself, I would do it in the coolest, most badass, memorable way I can think of. I would dress up in a seal costume and tow behind a boat through shark alley, near Cape Town, South Africa, where the great whites leap 10 – 15 feet out of the water looking for a meal. Of course it would all be filmed for your viewing pleasure and aired next year on Shark Week. But don’t count on it.

Fortunately for us, deep down in our psyche, in the reptilian part of our brains, is a survival instinct I am confident will save us and me from a painful, albeit sweet-ass, suicide.

I feel we are moving toward a new age. Call it what you want to, a new enlightenment, a revolution, whatever. Again, labeling it is just a product of our tendency to give meaning and compartmentalize things. But whatever name we give it, the world is going to end up better because of it. And it feels like it is already happening. It must be. If I feel it then certainly others do too.

A few weeks back I posted a column titled, “You Big Dummy.” Check it out if you haven’t read it but to summarize, I feel that humans aren’t as intelligent as we would like to believe. I stand behind that. However, we do have the capacity to think. To reflect on the world we live in and to learn from that world. It is through that reflection that I believe humans will eventually figure out that we create our own being. I won’t get into the typical philosophical rhetoric that turns everything into a paradox and turns many away from philosophy (myself included) I’ll put it into more tangible examples.

The internet has brought us unprecedented access to information from all over the world. Social networking and video sites offer access to information and entertainment from anywhere in the world. (Even China) However, because we are a little dim, the majority of the content on the internet is what a retarded person might call, “Fucking Retarded.” Cats that play piano and rednecks shooting roman candles out of their ass are still the majority genres on these sites. But consider this, it is a relatively new phenomena. The majority population of the planet is used to being a spectator. We grew up passively watching, listening and reading others’ ideas. And old habits are tough to break. But give it time. Eventually we’ll grow tired of video of nut shots and audio of autotune and we’ll figure out that we can provide the content. We will create our own being. Tune out the noise we find cacophonous.

Last week, Steven Slater, the flight attendant who quit so gloriously on a Jet Blue flight, became a folk hero. He is an internet sensation simply because he walked out on his job in a fashion many only fantasize about. Not for long. The days of being a “corporate man,” working loyally for a large corporation are going the way of the Dodo. People are realizing that they don’t need to work for bullshit. They are figuring out that it is not worth it. And it isn’t. They will create their own being.

The last American election proved to be, both, a major historical moment and a major wake up call. People are still amazed that a black man could get elected President through the will of the people and simultaneously disillusioned that the “change” we so desperately rallied behind was nothing more than a marketing ploy of half of our two-party, system. One that wants nothing more than to maintain the status quo. Still, it was an important lesson in creating our own state being.

The examples could go on and on just like this column. Sorry if it wasn’t funny. I just wanted to get this off my chest. I keep hearing too much discussion of fear and loathing and worry. We create the world we live in and we’re learning that. Of course, it isn’t going to be easy or pretty. But nothing worthwhile ever is. People will die. Suffering will happen. People will resist the change. But hey, if you want to make an omelette, right?

I have nothing against fatties. Honestly. Some of my best friends are friends with fat people. I recently started a job where I sit at a computer all day, and I can easily see how it could happen to me. I empathize. The intent of this piece isn’t to pass judgment on any individual from any walk (or in this case, wobble) of life. I just find myself growing increasingly weary of watching my Nation- a Nation that, once upon a time, exuded pride and dignity and performance- solidify the perception that we have gone from baddest to fattest. We’ve become an adumbration of Girth, Winded and Fire (roasted marshmallows). I find it especially disturbing that our government, and its bitch the media, are grooming an entire herd, I mean generation of Americans to be obese, desensitized, docile, complacent, apathetic consumer-bots.

The inspiration for this column hit me like a bolt of lightning one dewy dawn as I was out in the farmlands, people tipping. I remember thinking to myself “people tipping? This shouldn’t even be a thing”; but it is, because that’s how bad it has become. It’s pretty ridiculous when a homeless guy with man titties is hitting me up for cash because he’s “hungry”. I don’t think my spare change should contribute to his spare tire. It puts me in the awkward position of having to feel sorry for the guy, all the while not allowing man tits to be the reason why. I had to feel sorry for him in spite of that fact. Needless to say, it took some adjusting. A 12 year old boy should discover voluptuous breasts while sneakily sifting through Dad’s Playboy stash or while watching Cinemax on a Friday night, not in the mirror.

Furthermore, kids shouldn’t learn everything they know about football from Madden 11. These sunlight-sensitive roly-poly’s grow into the guy in the NFL stands that applied his fanatic body paint with a wall roller. The very same sloth that spends 3 quarters of the game shouting instructions to hustle at the conditioned, self-disciplined, pro-bowl caliber wide receiver. There is something bizarre about a guy with a double neck and every square inch of his blubbery, living carcass covered in multicolored paint- a guy that resembles a Mini-Coop with its rape whistle-esque alarm going off- warning a World class athlete that he’s “looking like a fool out there”. That guy’s wife would offer her chubby hubby the same warning, if she weren’t blinded by her own tears.

The real irony sinks in during the commercial break. That’s when you get to see these lean-machine athletes hawk beer and high fructose corn syrup to their portly fan base. Obviously, these guys didn’t get to where they are and stay there by indulging in these products as often as they would like us to. Thanks to satellite TV, which is also endorsed by people that are too busy being successful and productive to have the need for 666 channels, we don’t even have to leave the house on game day. We can watch others make the best of the green grass and blue sky. Get yourself a nifty HD 3D television, and it’s almost as if you were looking out of the window….without getting up!

I think that dead-weight-headed man-tard Hank Williams Jr. belting out “are you ready fer some football?!?!” personifies the media’s manipulated perception of the average Monday Night Football fan. The American Broadcasting Company sees fit to open football’s biggest night with a simplistic jingle, fired out like a cannon ball from a bumpkin’s gullet. They also see fit to choose the ramblings of a more relatable, all be it less coherent, John Madden over Dennis Miller’s scrawny wise-ass and his uppity vocabulary. I believe the most common complaint from the fans, about Miller, was that he was a “word fag”.

It’s a small for instance that’s indicative of a bigger, more dire issue. The advertisement-fueled media wants Americans to be fat and simple minded. Most of the tripe they advertise is unhealthy and contributes to our Nation’s ever-expanding waste line. Why raise the ethical bar by using standards and discretion when it’s easier and more profitable to bring people down to their level. Nine times out of nine, fatties would rather go down in an elevator than walk up a flight of stairs, metaphorically speaking.

Given that the media, the seedy corporate underbelly and our façade of a government are all intertwined and internally dictated; having a dazed and confused populous makes for less questions and less resistance. The final product is obliviously “happy”, power conceding consumers. Everyone wins. Everyone that matters, that is. Never mind the 300,000 Americans that will croak this year, due to obesity related complications. Good hearted folk that will have to be cut out of their clothes, and possibly their homes. They are expendable like Stallone. Whatever it takes to keep the wheels that run the capitalistic nightmare machine turning. The millions of overweight Americans that won’t die this year, might be prone to anti-depression pill addiction, due to their infliction. They advertise that shit all day long, as well. Bonus points for the guys pulling the strings.

By the way, in case you were wondering, having a limb amputated due to diabetes doesn’t count as losing weight. Also, junk food doesn’t make your package fatter. It just makes it to where you’ll never see it again because you physically can’t and no one else will see it because they don’t want to. Like I said in the beginning, this isn’t a forum to put people down- whether they be Jeff Ross fat or Ralphie May fat. I’m genuinely concerned. Resist is my message. Question motive and don’t let the bad guys win. They want absolute power over our minds, our bodies, our financial surplus, our free will- all of it. They’re tics, whose swollen pouches are filled to capacity with our blood. If nothing else, we need to give ourselves a flea bath… Shake it off… Good boy.

Resist. Respect yourself, like that rap group Ninja’s With Attitude told us to do. As Eazy-E always said, “to thine own self, be true”. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m totally going to fuck up an animal style double-double from In and Out so the sadness inside of me can pass out. Catch you later, computator’s.

I attended the 2010 Hemp Con this weekend. Here are some notes I took.

Saturday, 12:15 p.m. – There seem to be a lot of people with legal causes here. “Legalize marijuana! Yes on Prop 19!” I’m no conservative but it is difficult to take your political stance on the benefits of the legalization of marijuana seriously when you’re wearing a t-shirt with an Adidas logo in the shape of a marijuana plant and “addicted” is printed below it. Don’t talk to me about taxes when it’s clear you haven’t paid them in years, Moon Child. And Jesus Christ, man, try some Visine and Altoids before you hop on your soapbox with me.

Saturday, 2:27 p.m. – They have every conceivable way to ingest pot here. Candy, cookies, beer, you name it. They have it. I was just given a couple of free pot brownie samples. I’ll eat them now. They probably “watered down” the concentration of weed given that they’re free samples. Probably won’t do much.

Saturday, 3:15 p.m. – This is like a circus here. Every demographic is represented. The hippies, the rappers, the burn outs, the bikers. Haven’t seen any NBA players yet but it’s still early. I think those brownies are starting to kick in. This is probably as high as I’m gonna get.

Saturday, 4:04 p.m. – Just had a thought; chicks with gang tattoos are hot. Again, it’s a commitment thing. Dudes with gang tattoos scare me but chicks with gang tattoos? That excites me. Unless it’s a fat chick with gang tattoos. Then it goes back to scary. I think I’m getting fucked up here.

Saturday, 5:42 p.m. – Holy shit, those brownies were strong. Haven’t been this high since that Ice-T concert.

Saturday, 6:19 p.m. – Got the munchies like a motherfucker. Lot’s of food vendors here but for some reason I’m craving a Big Mac and an apple pie. I think I saw a McDonalds down the street. Do McDonalds signs have an apostrophe? Before I go, I’m going to eat a couple more brownies.

Saturday, 6:55 p.m. – Just got back from McDonald’s. Yes, there is an apostrophe. Told my friend about the bitchy chick at the counter who was bitter, angry and had terrible customer service. The first thing he asked was, “Black chick?” Yep. Stereotypes are funny.

Saturday, 8:05 p.m. – Had a funny idea for a joke but by the time I wrote, “Rape can be funny…” I forgot the rest. Holy Christ, I’m high.

Saturday, 9:12 p.m. – Had to get outta there. Too much going on for my fragile psyche right now. My friend and I are posted up at this little bar. Just a few people here. Why are they playing dance music?

Saturday, 9:57 p.m. – More people are coming in this bar by the minute. Lots of dudes. At least there is now a go-go dancer in front of us at the bar for our enjoyment. Adding a little beer buzz to this high. Contemplating existence. That’s how I know I’m in the pocket.

Saturday, 10:27 p.m. – Wow, I’m so fucked up, I didn’t realize this was a gay bar. You would think the amount of dudes in here would have been an indicator. This is a college town after all. Never realized until now how fraternity guys dress just like homos.

Saturday, 10:36 p.m. – Just about shat myself when my friend went to put a dollar in the go-go dancer’s mini shorts and she gave him a fist bump and said, “Good lookin’ out, nigga.” But in a man’s voice. Jesus, the only chick here is the bouncer.

Saturday, 11:17 p.m. – Observation: If you’re a transvestite, it’s probably not in your best interest to lift weights. I’m lookin’ at a tranny in front of me that looks like s/he just got done with P90X. Tony Horton in a mini dress is not a turn on – for anybody.

Saturday, 11:42 p.m – Just left the gay bar. Couldn’t take it anymore. Got hit on by a guy who looked like one of those fashion judges on Bravo. It was bitter sweet. Sweet in the sense that it is flattering to get hit on by anybody. Bitter in that it was the first time anybody has hit on me in years.

Saturday, 12:02 a.m. – Jesus, where is the after party? All of these tradeshows are supposed to have after parties. I guess a weed after party is just a bunch of people sitting on a couch, eating Ben and Jerry’s and watching the Discovery channel.

Saturday, 12:17 a.m. – Fuck it. I’m going to bed. I’m stoned and buzzed and just realized that heterosexual males are not as dominant as we’d like to believe. Take a couple of straight guys and put them in a gay bar and all of a sudden we turn into bitches. “I’m going to the bathroom.” “Wait for me, I’ll go with you. I don’t feel safe here.”
Saturday, 12:28 a.m. – What a day. Hemp Con was cool. I think I’ll vote yes on Prop 19. But not for the taxes and all that political bullshit. I like getting high. Yes We Cannabis! I just thought of that right now.

Every year in the summer, during the lull of excitement between the NBA finals and the NFL season kick off, the Discovery channel quenches our thirst for exciting television with Shark Week. Have you been watching? I know I have. I’ve never missed a Shark Week since its inception many years ago. From the terrifyingly awesomeness of Air Jaws to the terrifyingly comedic Shark Attack Survival Guide, I catch ‘em all. So I thought I would use this column to give my tribute to my favorite week of summer television.

First, I would just like to take the time to mention that I am terrified of sharks. Always have been. Always will be. To me, the worst way to die, other than being beheaded by terrorists on YouTube, would be to be eaten alive by a shark. (And the terrorist thing is simply because I know it would get more hits than my stand-up)

Speaking of terrorists, I’ll be bombing tomorrow night at the Comedy Store…

People have tried to suggest to me that being eaten alive by any animal would be horrific and that I should be equally scared of any such carnage. Nope. Becoming lunch for a lion or bear or a pack of wolves would definitely suck, but it would pale in comparison to being attacked by Jaws for one simple reason; drowning. That’s right. When you get killed by a shark, not only do you have to deal with the fact that you’re being consumed like prime rib at a Hometown Buffet, you’re also drowning. It’s like the worst buy one get one free you could imagine. In addition to that little factoid, you also get the nightmarish dissatisfaction of knowing that your last thought would be, “I could have totally avoided this.” Let’s face it, we don’t belong in the ocean. Been that way for a few million years now, I suspect. So do the math, eaten alive + drowning + knowing that a trip to Vegas would have been a much smarter way to take a vacation = worst way to go, EVER.

If I make it back from this god damned honeymoon, I’m divorcing that bitch.

Still, I love to watch.

All of the programs they throw at us during Shark Week are gold, but if I had to pick a favorite, it would be the Survival Guide programs. The ones where a former Green Beret or Navy Seal jumps into shark infested waters to demonstrate how to “stay alive” in certain scenarios. Because it is well documented that our military’s special ops units go through extensive “punch evasion through nose impact of shark” training. Or “PENIS school” for you military types. This year, I found out what to do if my boat explodes at sea and all I have to survive is a beer cooler and an empty Fuji water bottle. Apparently, I’m supposed to use the empty bottle as goggles to see the harmless non-maneater reef sharks swim below me for about five minutes, then I’m supposed to get picked up by my camera crew. And not panic. That is the theme of any survival training, “Don’t panic.” That’s great and all. But to really convey the message and teach the lesson, I’d like to watch him not panic with some great whites in the water with him.

How about now? Can I panic now? It feels like I should be panicking now.

There seems to be a rule in television programming; making sense makes no sense when it comes to ratings. And the execs over at the Discovery Channel know this all too well. One hour of programming describes terrifying shark attacks in unlikely places, like Catalina Island (Did you know there are fucking great whites there that will eat you?) and rivers. (Did you know that man eating bull sharks can swim up stream in fresh water rivers and eat you?) They show these programs with voice over narration so ominous and terrifying that they make Quint from Jaws seem like a card carrying member for Greenpeace.

Remember, don’t panic.

Then they show a program with a bunch of hippie marine biologists talking about how misunderstood these beautiful creatures are and how we shouldn’t fear them. Well fuck that noise. I’m going to go ahead and fear them and I won’t go in the ocean and I won’t go on some shark killing spree. How’d that be? That sound good to you, Chief? But by all means, you keep getting in the water with these swimming flesh blenders and you keep giving me a great week of television during the summer. I’ll keep watching.