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TOUR DATES

 

August 13

Hotel Congress
Tucson, AZ

 

August 15

Highline Ballroom
New York, NY

 

August 16

Highline Ballroom
New York, NY

 

August 17

Highline Ballroom
New York, NY

 

August 21

Comedy Store
Los Angeles, CA

 

August 22

Comedy Store
Los Angeles, CA

 

August 27

Cobb's Comedy Club
San Francisco, CA

 

August 28

Cobb's Comedy Club
San Francisco, CA

 

September 12

The Trocadero
Philadelphia, PA

 

September 13

State Theatre
Falls Church, VA
Cheapest tickets are at the Venue Box Office

 

September 18

San Jose Improv
San Jose, CA

 

September 19

The Mohawk
Austin, TX

 

September 27

Plaza Hotel & Casino
Las Vegas, NV

 

October 7

El Paso Comic Strip Comedy Club
El Paso, TX

 

November 11

The Greek Club
Brisbane, AU

 

November 14

UNSW Roundhouse
Sydney, AU

 

November 16

Venue TBA
Adelaide, AU

 

November 22

Venue TBA
Melbourne, AU

 

Sunday
Feb172002

Costa Rica, Part 2

And now...

 

The rest of the story.

 

You may have noticed that the ending of the Costa Rica story, the night I spent at the Del Rey Hotel/Casino/Whorehouse, was a bit vague. Reason being that shortly after my return, Renee- who I'd all but cut off my ear to be with- did a 180 and said she was ready to make a serious run.

 

 

Now Renee isn't under any false illusion of my previous hedonism. In fact most of the time she's downright amused and will come back with a few sweet stories of her own but I still didn't know if being a week off a Costa Rican whore binge might taint the deck enough to blow me out of the deal.

 

So I left it vague and we went on madly in love.

 

I can't quite remember what number beer made me throw it out there last night at O'Brien's in Santa Monica, maybe five or eight but nowhere near the last.

 

"I left part of the Costa Rica story out, you know."

 

"Really? Tell me."

 

"Uh.." and I get that stupid grin on my face, "the details about the night in the whorehouse."

 

"Well, no kidding." she smiles. "I mean, c'mon. I just assumed."

 

"I fucked four of em in six hours."

 

"Really???"

 

She's wildly amused and can't understand why I'd think she'd be upset. I probably thought that because of every other girl I have ever dated, married, met, seen, heard or read about or seen crudely sketched on an truck stop toilet wall. That's why.

 

She'd asked me earlier if I'd consider it cheating if she had sex with another woman. I wanted to wait a dumbstruck beat and then silently leap out of the moving vehicle for comedic effect. Said she'd like to find another woman for both of us, asked if I ever meet any hot, smart chicks that would be into it. I tell her she'd probably do a better job picking. Now she's enthralled in my tales of Costa Rican whores. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and I sit there full of beer and secretly probe my body for any signs of cancer.

 

So here - at the prodding of my beautiful Renee - is the rest of the story.

 

 

Costa Rican Whores

 

Anyone who says America is the greatest country in the world has never seen the work ethic of a Costa Rican whore. These girls are all customer service oriented and glad as hell to be there.

I wandered around the Del Rey Hotel on the last day of my Costa Rica trip just knowing it was only a matter of time. Problem was that with this many prostitutes, how do you choose? Like when you go to a tittie bar and ask "If you could fuck anyone of these girls, which one would you poon?" Only here you can. I'd asked a few of the guys hanging around at the bar what the rates were and it seemed to run anywhere from 50-100 dollars depending on the girl. Some of the rough ones even less, but at those prices why would you even bother with the rough ones?

 

There are between 40 and 80 girls working the place at any given time but there's one in particular I'm watching for. I'd been playing roulette the night before when this really American-looking blonde sat down and started working me in bad English. She was a bit Madonna looking with pink shades on and cute as fuck. I'm being real cool and I put a huge stack of chips on 23.

 

"Why 23?" she asks.

 

"You're 23 aren't you?" I'm guessing.

 

"Yes, I am 23" she tells me a half-second before the dealer yells out "23!".

 

I shrug and try to look bored as they slide what looks like a years pay in chips over to me. I move the stack from 23 to 00 and keep staring her in the eye as though I know something and I don't flinch when the dealer yells "Double Zero!".

 

I told them to cash me out and the girl is wide-eyed, asking me if I want to go up to my room. I told her I don't have a room and that I am with friends but I'd be back the next night. At that point I just wanted to get out while I still looked really fucking cool.

 

So now I am back and playing roulette again and I'm scouting the place for her quite a while before I spot her walking past. I catch her eye and when she appraoches me I grab another big stack of chips and say "23?" and set them on the number. She smiles and says that she'll be back in a minute. She turns and walks off and doesn't even here it when the dealer shouts "23!" Motherfucker. If she'd seen that she'd probably fuck me for free just thinking I'm a witch.

 

I wasted little time when she came back, striking a two-girl deal for 150 bucks. I shoulda picked the other girl myself rather than letting her bring her friend but I didn't want to be rude. Besides number 23 has already paid for the doings, may as well let her keep it in the family.

 

The deal at the hotel is that you have to pay a little under ten bucks to bring a girl to your room. They have thick-necked lackies at both the stairs and elevators to check the girls ID's and sign them in so you don't get fucked over. You can bring the same girl up again without paying but each different girl requires another 3,000 colones.

 

Once in the room it's all about pleasing the customer. No rush, no looking at the watch, asking you to hurry up and come. Fuck, they didn't even ask for the money up front, showered ahead of time and told me I had a really big dick like they meant it!

 

I didn't do anything weird, just smiled while they took turns blowing me and then pooned the Madonna chick, knowing she'd be earning her money what with a few drinks in me and a condom on, half a tab of Viagra soaring thru me. Yes they worked but never once acted like they'd rather be doing anything else. They washed up again afterwards. Even were happy to take pictures before they left.

 

 

Downstairs again I'm surprised at the lack of any hideous guilt feelings that you get when you fuck an American hooker. I hit the tables some more and run into a guy I'd met earlier at the bar. He was from Boston and had had four hookers the night before, his first night in town. I was glad I was ending my trip here and not starting it. This poor fuck was here for 16 days.

I drank for another while just taking it all in before I decided I was ready to hit another one. There was one who had been sitting in the corner of the bar with some 60 year old dude forever and I couldn't quite catch her eye but she looked hot in the shadows. A bit later I caught her near the entry to the bar and said hello. This one spoke almost zero English so I cut to the chase.

 

"60 dollars" I say, figuring that if she'd just had to tolerate some retired fertilizer distributor pounding one out on her in a cloud of Aqua Velva she'd be happy to take a low offer just to have someone without wrinkles on their back. I was right and she didn't even bother to haggle.

 

I made quick work of it and while she was hot with a nice set of fake tits, she wasn't quite so amused with me taking her picture as you can probably see in her face.

Now I am getting pretty liqoured up on the Pilsens and my shit-eating smile is hurting my face. I wander some more, running into girls I have turned down repeatedly with one lame excuse or another.

"Why you won't take me to your room?" they bust my balls, playfully.

 

"You don't understand - I've alreay had three tonite - I couldn't possibly."

 

Or could I?

 

There was another that I kept seeing, very young and always with the same group of girls that looked more like 21 year old girls on their first trip to Vegas than trench-warfare whores in a depressed economy.

 

This one I like especially cuz she had a lot of midriff showing, enough so that I could tell she hadn't had any young come out of her or, if so, then very small or stillborn. The other ones, while cute all had a bit of the mother gut and, with the exception of the one with the implants, tits that had one too many meal taken out of em.

 

I tell her 60 dollars, she tells me 80. Who's got time in life to fight over 20 dollars. She's signing in and I ask to make sure she has rubbers and she doesn't so the door flunkie tells me he has them for sale for 1,000 colones, about three bucks. I realize then that all my money is up in my safe and the girl puts up the money and smiles a cute, sideways smile.

 

She was very sweet, Colombian like the last one had been and seemed like she would have curled up and spent the night if she didn't have to go suck anybody's dick that asked her. Tough racket for a tender young girl, that whoring. Especially now after me dumping two loads and drinking half a cooler full of beer. I was pounding away like I was safety-checking her pelvic bone for structural damage and I could tell at some points by her face that it was getting a bit wearing on her pinker parts. I eeked out the last of the moisture in my body with an imaginary high-pitched cartoon ping and lay down exhausted.

 

At this point any American whore is half-dressed and checking to see if there's any way she can snag your wallet while you're fumbling for your jockey-boxers. Not these girls. She gets lotion out of the bathroom, rolls me on my stomach and gives me a massage, trying to make small talk with what little English she knows.

 

I forget to have her hold my CD's when I take her picture and it's the last of the film. Appropriate enough as I am about all out myself. I walk her to the door and she's embarrased when she asks me for the 1,000 colones for the rubber. I give her 2,000 because I have that kinda scratch.

 

I got 4 hours to sleep before my flight. I spent around 300 dollars and I feel like the red-dicked King of the World

 

A week later I'm at the airport in Salt Lake City airport waiting Renee to step off the plane, guts full of squirm. She says she's ready to go full time.We drove that Sunday down to Vegas for the Superbowl at Tommy Rocker's. My Patriots, a 14 point dog win in possibly the best Superbowl ever played. We stay a couple days after on a bit of a runner as one tends to do in Vegas. At some point in the haze she suggests, only half-jokingly that maybe we should get a hooker so she could watch me fuck her. We went to a tittie bar instead and while I watched her off in a couch getting lap dances, I quietly slipped my hand under my shirt and probed my torso for any signs of cancer.

Thursday
Feb142002

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's day and I am in love. That Renee finally caved in after all these months and years of chasing her and it's about good Goddamned time. It's also nice to finally have a girlfriend that's not "good for me". I always get the "she's really good for you" girlfriends, which means they give you tons of shit for all your vices and dubious side work. This girl is horrible for me in all the right ways and will go down with me in flames when I go. There's a big difference between someone who accepts you for who you are and someone who actually understands who you are. This girl has all my demons and I am happy as pinworms in a black baby's stool.

 

The new CD should be ready on February 25th in time for Aspen and I think it might suck. I always hate my CD's and now I already hate this one. Who fucking knows. If you think it sucks I'll dump off the first run of 1,000 as a "collectors item" and record again in May with all the new fun war shit that was just getting going when I did the CD in October. Problem is finding 1,000 people who are into my shit. Hard to sell cd's to walkouts without putting the stage in front of the door.

 

Again, for you cheap fucks with lots of time - download my shit off Audio Galaxy. I recommended morpheus before but evidently it's not as good at finding my shit as it is great for porn.

 

In the upcoming Aspen Comedy Festival, I will be doing a show "Regarding 9-11" where the question of how 9-11 has effected comedy or the recurring "When will it be ok to do comedy again?" question will be widely discussed.

 

I put quite a bit of thought into that question. When will it be ok to do comedy again? The best answer I could come up with was this.

 

June 8th.

 

That's when it will be ok.

 

Considering in the five months since the attack, the death toll has fallen from 6,700 consistently down to now 2,800. I figure at that rate on or around June 8th no one will be dead anymore.

 

Then, let the jokes begin.

 

Even today when you consider the drop - 6,700 down to 2,800 - that's a difference of 3,900 people that are now undead. We have gained 1,100 more people than we lost. And they need jokes.

 

Why do death tolls always start high and go lower? Because the media is a pessimist? No, because death, if it doesn't directly effect you, is entertainment. The more dead, the more entertaining, the more papers it sells. No one rubbernecks at a car wreck to make sure everyone's 'ok'.

 

They even add death tolls where there aren't any. They'll say so many people died from a blizzard when they collapsed of a heart attack while shovelling snow. They didn't die from the blizzard, they died from cheese.

 

I remember the Olympic bombing in Atlanta where they claimed two people died when one of those people was a cameraman whose heart blew out while he was running toward the blast to exploit the person who actually died from the bomb.

 

And if people aren't directly effected they will always try to attach themselves to the tragedy. Everyone playing Six Degrees of Separation from 9-11.

 

"My sister's ex-fiance went to school with a guy who almost took a job at the World Trade Center and he could have been in there so that's not funny."

 

It's ok to do comedy now and it's been ok and comedy has actually occured all over the place - in barrooms and at kitchen tables and in break rooms and all over behind the backs of the people who are truely affected or would just get cunty about it. Just because it doesn't fall into a network slot between Friends and Leno doesn't mean it ain't comedy. It's ok for Leno to do comedy again when the Geico gecco tells him it is.

 

If you're gonna be in Vegas in March come to my birthday show - Tuesday, March 26th at 8pm until we all fall down at Tommy Rocker's.

Monday
Jan282002

Costa Rica, Part 1

This is the email I get from Mat Becker right before I fly down to meet him and his wife Becky for a week in Costa Rica :

OK I hope you get this.

Bring clove cig. for Becky Dejarum (?) Couple more Copenhegans and when you land

you must now go to Golfito it is a town to the north.

We sent Becky and Shawn north but the roads are so bad we can´t get back to you in San Jose. We are at the air port in Golfito waiting for you. AS SOON AS YOU LAND GET YOUR BAGS AND TELL SOMEONE YOU NEED A FLIGHT TO GOLFITO ON TRAVELAIR OR SANSA. THIS IS NOT A JOKE YOU WILL SEE WHEN YOU GET HERE. IT IS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO CALL ANYONE SO IF YOU NEED TO MAKE ANY CALLS MAKE THEM NOW.OH YES BRING SUN BLOCK. THE PRICES SWING ALL OVER THE PLACE. WHEN YOU LAND GET ON A PLANE. BRING COPENHEGAN SUN BLOCK

AND CLOVE CIG. FLY (ONE WAY TICKET$55-85.00) TO GOLFITO. WE ARE AT THE HOTEL SIERRA TEL:775-0666 or 775-0336 in room 202. No phone but they have an alligator. Get ready to go back in time about fifty years. MAT (I hope you get this) ps hope you get this

His wife being there is the only reason I'm not sure we will soon wind up playing jug and washboard in the San Jose All-Prison Band and now I realize I forgot her cigarettes. The flight to Golfito was fucked, a 12-seater single prop landing on a dirt runway like I was a Colombian drug-runner. No airport, just some guy with one arm missing at the shoulder with an orange cone. Hotel is right off to the side, alligator and all.

 

Golfito is not, as Becker said, to the north. It's south, down near Panama. But it doesn't matter cuz we're leaving immediately. Mat is a bit of a paranoid and is sure "something fucked up" is going on wherever he is. And of course something fucked up is going on in Golfito so we check out, load up the rental and drink warm Pilsen beer as we tool up the windy jungle roads to Dominical, a little surfer hang out two hours north.

 

Mat is a bit of a paranoid and is sure "something fucked up" is happening wherever he is. And of course something fucked up is going on in Golfito so we to check out, load up the rental and drink more warm Pilsen as we tool up the windy jungle roads to Dominical, a little surfer hang out two hours north.

 

We get a room with a double and single bed for 45 bucks right on the dirt road that parallels the beach and I can barely manage to stay awake for the sunset. Between the travel and the beer I'm out by 6, half-hanging off the hammock outside the room. I wake up later that night about 10:30 to find the town is shut down. Completely. Not even a Coke machine. And I'm wide awake. I eat some cookies Becker had left on the nightstand (possibly for Santa, knowing Becker) and then break the first rule of travel by drinking the water. No mind. The way I drink beer, firm stool is something I've grown accustomed to living without.

 

Email home:

 

buenos huervos - spent 10,000 colones on pogo stick tour of kilamanjaro before thinking to look at a globe - waited two hours for him to come back with my change - still waiting -

 

current exchange rate; 2 dollar american-style breakfast equal to 4 days violent intestinal disorder -

 

local fashion for ladies is heft and they are wearing it spillingly! -

 

balls constantly clung to inner thigh - unsure if cause is humidity or if they're just plain scared -

 

must go bring jesus to locals as well as small pox

 

puente mal en estade,

douglas stanhope

 

In the morning we head North again to Quepos to the Tulemar Bungalows, octagonal bungalows overlooking the coast where monkeys regularly come right up out of the jungle that surrounds the pool/bar area. No monkeys came when I was there. They knew better. I been in this jungle without a woman for far too long.

 

Tonite we pace ourselves and are shitfaced by 7 instead of 6, hanging around the hotel bar watching the sunset and fucking with some tourists before heading into town. Town isn't much but a couple dozen bars but they had some slip-shod carnival going on - a pick-up-and-go type of thing that you'd see in any shithole Burlington, Iowa town in middle America. Becker and I cruised thru - opting to not take any chances with the "El Whirlo De Tilto" - and see a guy taking tickets at the door of this sheet metal ramshackled arena. I look in and see some kinda rodeo shit so we pay about 3 bucks and head in.

 

The place has about 6 rows of benches in a wide circle around the arena and looks like its built for cock-fights or Russian Roulette matches. About 6 feet down to the floor is this bullfighting/rodeo event where a guy rides the bull out of the gate until he gets thrown and then a couple of low rent matadors fuck with it like crazy.

 

Thing is, there's about a dozen other people in the ring just running like hell from the bull and we realize that they are just people from the crowd. One of them is some American frat-boy shit-stick who waits for the bull to get lassoed up before taunting it and kicking dirt at it. No wonder people hate us. I ask the guy behind me if anyone can go in the ring and he says yes but I can't tell if he's fucking with me. Sarcasm is the last thing to transcend the language barrier.

 

We say "fuck it" and head back down the stairs and under the stands and sneak out thru the fence into the ring where we wait for the next bull. The fence is three wooden slats that people in the ring have been climbing up for safety when the bull comes at em but I'm not much of a climber and I'm drunk so I spot where there's enough room to go under if need be.

 

The first bull comes out and I jump to run and immediately slip in the gravel, eating shit and taking lots of skin off my hands and knees. The people are laughing with me, not at me, I'm sure of it. When the bull comes my way I dive under the fence, losing more skin and realizing I need a better plan. I find a place where there is a 2 foot vertical gap in the fence where I can slip thru if need be and set up camp.

 

When the bull finally does come my way, I just stand my ground and eyeball it. I'm drunk and think I'm Doctor Dolittle as this thing stops completely and stares me down from 5 feet away. For a moment he is peaceful and can obviously see that I am not like the others, that I mean him no harm. I'm sure of it.

 

Then it starts to get riled up again as I see red banners being shook at him over my shoulder right in front of my face. Some little cunt of a gold-toothed man was behind me, jammed into my escape route waving fucking red at the bull. I knock him out of the way as the thing comes at me and wish I knew at least one Spanish vulgarity.

 

He does it again on the next bull and I tell him very slowly "I will punch you in the face very hard." I know he doesn't speak English but the cop behind him does and gives me the appropriate stink-eye and we decide to leave.

 

We spend the next few days on the beach in Jaco, drinking beer and taking it easy. Took a zip-line tour of the rainforest, racing over a cable on a pulley from tree-house to tree house a hundred feet over the jungle floor. Becker was laid up for a day thereafter riding a Bogey board head-wise into the ocean floor. Took hair right off his head. Found out real quick that you can get pain-killers easy with no prescription. We all slept well from there on in.

 

Email home:

 

Arroz con Chorizo Chino!

 

After a wonderful morning of breakfast at Bob's Big Boy and souvenir shopping at Big K and Ross Dress For Less, we realize we are not in Costa Rica but Costa Mesa / Continued south after strong words with travel agent /

 

Newsflash! Becker goes head and neckwise into ocean floor in a 6 foot wave / concern for his wellbeing usurped by knowledge of readily available muscle relaxers with no prescription / not the panacea we had hoped as local diet requires some muscles, ie sphincter, to remain ever vigilant/

 

Today's exchange rate: One American picture is worth 38,160 Costa Rican words /

 

Locals drink Coke from old style glass bottles / impossible to figure out which one is God /

 

Upcoming presidential election all the talk / Have declared ourselves Perez men through and through and will have words with any who say otherwise / Lack of a Perez on the ballot is of no concern to us /

 

Coming Soon ... Paralyzing blood vomits.

 

Missing you very much

 

Douglas Gene Stanhope

 

We head back toward the city on the highway of death. The major highway that runs thru the country is a windy two lane that's more like a 1 /12/ lane that they somehow turn into a three lane. It's like Laurel Canyon, only here the guy in the flatbed pig-hauler ahead of you isn't losing his cell phone reception to his agent. The only reason there aren't more deaths is that it's rare you see a car in good enough condition to achieve the power to kill.

 

Becky is so frazzled by the three hour drive that we take the first easy hotel we see in the city - The Airport Hampton Inn - which we'd seen signs for 100 times during the drive up, like big American herpes dotted across the otherwise clear beautiful ass of Costa Rica. In times of frustration it's natural to move toward something familiar. We should have just stopped for a beer. The Hampton Inn sucked all the flavor straight out of the last 5 days and sanitized it for our protection. We plopped down 100 bucks for a room and I was immediately back on the road in Omaha, Dayton, Charlotte or a million other places watching CNN and getting mad at the world.

 

We had to get in city mode and that would first require beer. Then we got a shuttle to the mall and finally found Becky's clove cigarettes so everyone was happy. Our hotel shuttle driver, Geraldo, recommends the Blue Marlin at the Del Rey Hotel in San Jose for a good time. It says Hotel Casino on the sign but this is a whorehouse first and foremost. Wall to wall. Whores. And some really good looking ones. I'd heard about the hookers down here from many people but just the term "Costa Rican Whore" conjures images of bedraggled street-walkers with wiggly teeth and eye-rotting syphillis. Not the case at all. I been to whorehouses in Nevada and this place was in a different league all together. I decided this is where I have to stay on the next night, my last night before leaving. Fuck that Hampton Inn.

 

We played roulette, drank beer and watched whores for a few hours til Geraldo came back, just in time before we may have put Becky on the market. There's a tittie bar across from the Hampton so we pop in for a nightcap. Empty, dingy and dark with barely a half-dozen folks in there - we're immediately set upon by two Filipino girls who want drinks real bad. Must not have drank in days these girls. Of course their drink cost ten bucks a piece but I'd just won 50,000 colones (150 bucks sounds like so much less) in roulette so why not play the game. Becky whipped out the camera and I was surprised that they let us take pictures at all til I realized that ten bucks could buy a lot in this country, maybe even their freedom. Lap dances here are done fully clothed, the only place they get naked is on stage which is conveniently the darkest spot in the bar. As much as they talked about their babies, I'm sure that's a good thing.

 

Becky and Mat still had a week left here and we parted ways in the morning - them North to the rain forests and me just into the city to whore country. But not before we noticed the many signs in the Hampton Inn saying "100 % Satisfaction Guarantee!" And we weren't satisfied. I had been told that they had Internet service when I checked in but it was down all night. Therefore I was only 95 % satisfied and told them so. The girl was dumbstruck and bickered before getting her supervisor who did the same but finally caved in and gave me my money back. He was really pissed. Fuck him. This hotel is for the guy who kicked dirt on a tied-up bull and I hope you both die from lymphoma.

 

Email home:

 

Una Via Adelante!

Have sent the Beckers on their way and am now in the city - was stuck behind two steers pulling heavy farm equpiment on road yesterday, last night had one of them for dinner. It was like eating Jack Lalane -

 

Today's exchange rate = 34 colones for your thoughts

 

They call this a third world country but I can't see how it even made the top ten

 

100 whores downstairs in Hotel Del Ray Casino - for 50 American I make them wear your headshot like mask and speak words of love and devotion - your Spanish is excellent -

 

Back Wednesday at 4 unless locals draw up petiton campaign for me to stay -

 

Room spinning now from muchas horas on roulette wheel - 7 is considered the devil's number and I am believed a witch

asta lambada

douglas stanhope perez

 

 

The last day was perfect. Saw a midget waiter in the Hotel Del Rey lobby and knew it was a good omen. Walked around the city, ate on sidewalk cafes reading the New York Times from the day before like I was some kinda man of the world. Nothing can make bad music good like love, death and foriegn countries. I cried like a cunt after my Dad died listening to "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg, possibly the worst song ever wriiten and now I'm jumping around at the black jack table to "I Love Rock and Roll" by Joan Jett. Played more roulette, watched more whores. I like whores, I'm comfortable around whores. But it's difficult to drink a beer at the place in peace cuz it's always the skaggiest whores who have to hard sell and won't leave you alone. The good ones don't have to bug you, you would go to them. So to sit and drink a beer by yourself was to invite the most desperate and ugly of the pack to plead with you in bad English. I'd tell them I was just leaving. Then they would see me still there later and give me shitty looks. I asked the bartender for a polite way to turn them down.

 

"Just tell em "Otra dias", he says, "other days".

 

My flight left early the next morning. Coming thru customs at LAX was like walking from out of a blow job and into a AA meeting. Stink-eyed and finger fucked ever which way. Where were you? What towns? Who'd you go with? Who'd you see? Where are they now? Questions that are none of their fucking business. Free fucking country my ass. If you wanna know if I have drugs - search my fucking bag and shut the fuck up, you fucking low-life wart on a chicken's dick.. I pray to your dirty Jesus that all of your family members die in a fiery snowmobile wreck and the youngest ones live without legs.

 

"What's your occupation?" he asks finally.

 

"I'm a stand up comic. I make fun of you." I answer and am sent to the line to have my bag, full with the sweet stinking remnants of moldy, sand-filled, dirty Costa Rican vacation clothes picked thru like a Dollar Store shit.