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April 20

Nashville, TN


April 22

Comedy Caravan
Louisville, KY


April 23

2720 Cherokee
St. Louis, MO


April 24

Improv Kansas City
Kansas City, MO


April 25

Fayetteville, AR


April 26

Little Rock, AR


April 27

Phoenix Underground
Shreveport, LA


April 29

Addison Improv
Dallas, TX


April 30

Addison Improv
Dallas, TX


May 1

Backstage Lubbock
Lubbock, TX


June 10

Irvine Improv
Irvine, CA


June 11

Ontario Improv
Ontario, CA


June 12

M15 Concerts Bar & Grill
Corona, CA


June 14

On The Rocks
Bakersfield, CA


June 18

Sacramento, CA


June 25

Star Theatre
Portland, OR


June 27

The Showbox
Seattle, WA


August 21

Comedy Store
Los Angeles, CA



Belize Cove

Belikin is about the only beer you can get in Belize, or at least in Ambergris Caye and although it’s not very good it’s nice to be able to simply order “beer” without any specifics. And Belikin grows on you.

The thing about Belikin is that the bottles are about 4 times as heavy as American beers, like the old Coke bottles so you continue bringing an empty one to your mouth thinking it’s near full.

We ordered rounds, several of them, fresh off the plane at the Sundrift Hotel where they have the “world famous” Chicken Drop every Wednesday. Becker had read about the Chicken Drop somewhere in Alaska before the trip so I guess that would validate the “world-famous” claim.

Before he explained what it entailed, I immediately assumed that chickens were dropped for some high altitude and you would applaud in Third-World frenzy as the splattered. After our trip last year to Costa Rica, Becker and I toyed with the idea of moving there and starting a pig-skeet farm, where we would raise pigs and then fire them into the air on catapults for tourists to blast with shotguns. Chicken Drop sounded like it might infringe on our master plan.


The Chicken Drop in actually far less brutal. Simply, a chicken is tossed onto a board of numbers - 1 thru 100 - and whoever has purchased the number that the chicken shits on first, wins.

Chicken Throw

We bought 20 tickets and we won. The chicken shit on number 22, my new lucky number, and we won 100 dollars Belize, or 50 bucks U.S.



Meanwhile, the boil-goiter on the back of my neck kept growing. Quit pickin it, says Honey.

It was raining when we arrived and when it stopped it still stayed gray. The major form of transportation, besides walking, is the over-priced rental golf cart. The roads are dirt but in the rain turn to a fine, clay-like mud that - as Becker put it - made the cart steer like a Ouija board.


We didn't have time to fuck around and wait for sun since we were only there for four days. There was tons of shit to do and we didn't want to do any of it, to be honest. We'd considered the baboon reserve or the cave tubing but they were full day affairs and pricey and we were all kind of keen on just drinking on the beach and watching our fat grow. But we'd come all this way so we settled on snorkeling in Shark Ray Alley.

They call it Shark Ray Alley because of the Sharks and Rays. They could have at least used Spanish in lieu of originality but it sold us so there you go.

They take you out to the reef and give you a rote speech with all the excitement of a senior telemarketer on his last day of work, sucking any imagined risk out of the proposition and then you jump in the water and swim around with these enormous rays and other marine life. Don’t get me wrong, it was still fun as fuck but it would have been really fun if the guide himself had acted like he was scared out of his tit.

But instead, he pleasantly loaded us back onto the boat, handed out water bottles to all of us like children who didn’t cry at the dentist. He started up the boat, hit the throttle and after a moment of seeing no progress, he realized that the propeller had fallen off and was now on the bottom of the sea.

Back at shore - courtesy of another boat in the area that still had it’s propeller - we were now ready to drink for three days and make excuses for doing little else.

Becker likes Belize.


We stayed at the perfect hotel on the beach called the Playador which probably translates into "nice place" or some such thing. Every Spanish name translates into something vague and simple like "warm water" or "big house". They never translate into "misplaced ambition" or "blood-caked offspring", nothing but the obvious.

Becker likes Belize more than I do but I like it just fine. I just don't feel like I'm "away" as much as I did in Costa Rica.

The dirty here is more of an American dirty as opposed to an undeveloped dirty. You walk down the beach and you see conch shell followed by plastic cup followed by hermit crabs and styrofoam plate. Not East River pollution by any means but each peice of refuse I spot, I can't help but imagine it was left there in a malicious, purposeful manner by some American tourist. A raging fraternity wrestler from Arizona State yelling with his friends about some fruitless date-rape attempt that he was too intoxicated to consumate as he pisses of the pier - dick in one hand while the other tosses garbage. I don't consider that sometimes plastic cups just get blown into the sea, nor do I want to.


It doesn't take long before you get your fill of slogans like "You'd Better Belize It!". Becker found a Hawaiin shirt that had You'd Better Belize It all over it and bought it just to irritate me.

So we drank and we skinny-dipped and we slept and we ate and we took pictures of the girls skinny-dipping and when they sobered up we claimed that we'd deleted those pictures and then we drank some more. It was still overcast when we caught the puddle-jumper back to Belize City to catch the flight home.

Airport security? The 12 seater plane back to Belize City was full when I got on so I got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Nice.

Getting off, we had to claim our bags inside. I couldn't find my claim tag and the luggage guy didn't seem to care that I was the only person of the 12 on board left trying to claim that the only bag left. He asked my name and then checked the permanent tag on the luggage. The name was not mine though - it was the name of whomever left it at the thrift store where I'd purchased it. Becker was laughing at me and I told the luggage policeman that my camera was in the top pocket and had pictures of me throughout. I began to scroll through as he looked over my shoulder and immediately hit the vein of skinny-dipping pictures of our naked wives.

The laugh made the whole vacation.

Upstairs in the airport bar, the entire staff was wearing the exact same "You'd Better Belize It!" shirt as Becker.


Doug At The AVN Awards


Nina Hartley came over the afternoon of the AVN awards and told me good luck, have fun. Then she told me to stay away from sex jokes - that although you'd think they'd work in this audience, they won't.

Talk about a pre-show head-fuck. Like telling her before her first porn shoot "Have fun, be yourself. Just don't take off your clothes."

Turns out I could have read baking tips off a Ritz cracker box or blown my head off and no one would have noticed. Porn stars would have stood on my corpse, blood and spoiled dreams leaking from my skull, and tearfully accepted their award for Best Pre-Shoot Enema Blooper or Best Hung Tranny in a Prison Rape Scene.

I knew a painful death was coming but there is really no way to prepare for it. Like my upcoming vasectomy, which is now scheduled for January 27th, the day after the SuperBowl. Let's hope he doesn't drink like I do. But I digress.


Chloe, my co-host, was fucking great and really cool to hang with. Other than that, most of the porn stars avoided me - save for Seymour Butts.

Seymour Butts won my award for Coolest Porn Star Going Out Of His Way To Talk To The Comic Who's Been Eating His Own Dick On Stage All Night. Backstage, he was getting ready to go up to present an award while at the same time filming some reality show for Showtime. He came over to say good job and what-not and said that it was really fucked up that during my set they had been putting different porn chicks in the audience pulling out their tits up on the many huge screens in the showroom.

Thanks for noticing.

I didn't know it while I was on stage, since the screens all faced away from me halfway down a ballroom of some 3500 people. I guess I wouldn't have been listening either.

By the time they announced the Best Film (The Fashionistas - highly recommended), most of the people were gone. They call this the Oscars of the porn industry but it isn't. I'd love it if the Oscars were like this. If Gwenyth Paltrow won best supporting actress and then just got up with her whole party and left immediately afterwards - honest in the fact that she could give six fucks about anyone else, then they could call themselves the AVN's of mainstream.

Dave Attell was filming Insomniac across the hall at the shithole C2K after-party and we tried to do a segment but I doubt you could hear a word of it over the din of dance music and wall-to-wall thumping ego. By the time my wife and freinds pushed their way in, I had to get the fuck out.


I don't like any situation where someone's status-of-the-moment is their ticket in. My friends from Alaska were standing at the rail offering any lie or cash option to get into this shithole C2K and getting shut down while the manager told the meat-fuck door man that I was "obviously OK" to waltz in. Think if I go back next week and say that I'm the host from the AVN's that I'll be let under the rope? Fuck them. Fuck the shithole Venetian and the shithole C2K.

I'm repeating shithole Venetian Hotel Las Vegas and shithole C2K because they are both shitholes and I'm hoping it increases the odds of that coming up on any google search of their names. If you stay in Vegas, Don't stay at shithole rigged machines overpriced baby rape cancer causing Venetion Hotel Casino Las Vegas or club at any shithole AIDS-related terrorist wholesale burn victim bowel affliction smallpox C2K


Stay off the strip - like the Plaza or any of the Station casinos.

All in all, it was a great time. Unfortunately I was too fried afterwards and had too many of my own friends and family to hang with to go delving into porn-party evil. When people travel that far to see you just to get the door shut in their face, I'd rather be outside the door with them.


Buy my stuff. Or buy my friendship by simply sending me money via Pay Pal. C'mon, I'm going to Belize tomorrow with my wife and the Becker's. I need money. C'mon, seriously. A lot of money. That's all I need.

Pete Townsend jokes seem easy right now but remember that "child porn" is a buzzword for "guilty" anymore. My friend, who has a cunt wife, was going to get a Tracy Lords tape on eBay and I hammered him not to because all she'd have to do is find it and tell a judge that he had "child porn" and he's automatically guilty, regardless of the details.

"Child porn" is a used as a buzz-word to get all porn taken away the same way "partial-birth abortion" is used to set precedent to eliminate all abortion.

Even if Pete really was whacking off to a 2 year old speared ass-wise on an old man's dick, the kid's not in therapy because of Pete Townsend. I go to and look at murder pictures all day but that doesn't make me a murderer or potential murderer. If anything, it makes me wear a seatbelt.

Thought Police, Thought Police...

You've all seen the news footage of the Cookeville, TN police shooting a happy puppy in the face. If you haven't - google search it.

If you watch the video and photo-shop the heads between dog and cop - you can jack off to it.

I've been calling the rat fuck titbag horse-blowing laugh when they get shot in the face pig shit Cookeville Police at 931.526.2125 and asking them an array of questions.

"My dog just walked in on me masturbating. Is it ok to shoot him in the head?"

"The neighbor's dog just brought a tennis ball towards me in a threatening manner. What's a good caliber to make his brains splatter like melon under a truck tire?"

"I'm from the Johnson City Babtist Churh and we're having a prayer session for that poor officer who shot that evil puppy and we'd like to have you pray with us. Dear Jesus. Please make Officer Eric Hall's children choke to death on their Christmas presents."

Am I suggesting you should do the same?


Email here -

Or send a postcard to

Cookeville Police Department
Public Safety Building
10 E. Broad Street
Cookeville, TN 38501


Happy New Years, Again.



Eugene is a phenomenal town where there you can still smell a faint air of fun and individuality in the world. We were at a market in town and the kid at the register had fashioned a cardboard box into a helmet - complete with the gladiator-style nose piece - and had written on the side "Employee of the Moment". Too bad that most of the world - both corporate and the antithesis - has sucked so much of the humor out of life.


Happy New Year, yet again. This was the first New Years since I started comedy that I didn't work. We ended up driving to Eugene, Oregon last minute to hang out with some of Renee's old friends and get tanked in someones garage, barely remembering hollering like a rookie at midnight.

New Years shows suck but at least you're getting good coin. If not for the money, there is no need to be in public that night. Fortunately, we weren't in public. We were drinking at a house party with regular people who didn't give a fuck about comedy and it was almost like being a real person, if not a real person who hates fucking New Years.


Aside from New Years, I hate getting Christmas presents. I suck at buying them and therefore I don't. So getting one makes me feel like that much more of an asshole. My wife got me Fante. I spent 7 hours shopping and got her a refrigerator magnet and a blow-gun for myself before swearing off gifts altogether.

I met with the AVN folks yesterday for a rehearsal of the awards show. My co-host and favorite porn star Chloe is a fucking riot and probably the only porn actress that wouldn't turn into a burning Hindenburg tragedy on stage.

She was bitching about her back being fucked up.

She said she threw it out fucking the guy from Great White and then aggravated it on New Years Eve banging the bass player from Danzig in a toilet.

I told her maybe she ought to try fucking a musician from this decade. Evidently you could be a guy from NightRanger and still be getting high-end stink.