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November 26

University of Auckland
Auckland, NZ
No other New Zealand cities/towns will be added



We Reap What We Sow and I Ain't Sown Shit


The only time I can ever remember doing a benefit show was at the Comedy Store fuck-teen years ago for legalizing weed in the days I would have done a spot anywhere for anything.

I don't do benefits for a reason. Most people don't like what I do. It's a simple fact. And benefit shows tend to draw caring, sensitive people cutting my demographic down to almost nil. Your friend is dying of face-cancer and all his friends and family are there at the show to show support and raise money and on stage you have some drunken asshole bleating on about justifiable homicide and corrective rape and the meaninglessness of life. And if that doesn't ruin the night, I'd probably not be able to stop myself from a couple face-cancer jokes to close it out.

I'm not heartless or greedy, I'm just not cut out to do charity functions. I'd rather just send a check than email apologies the next day.

The only way I can do a charity event is to simply do my own show for my own fans and just give the money to whatever organization without having someone's crying family staring at me uncomfortably.

So that's what I'm doing for the Humane Society of Southern Arizona.

If you haven't read THIS - I recently had a much-needed surgery pro bono from some extraordinarily generous surgeons in Tucson. In return, I told them I would do a benefit for whatever charity they chose. It was the least I could do, mathematically, in comparison to what surgery costs.

They chose the Humane Society which I love because unlike most of the human-related charities I mock, spay-and-neuter is at the core of what they preach. If that was one of the base messages of UNICEF or Habitat for Humanity then I'd be far more inclined to participate.

My big faux-pas was to book it in a theater that seats about four or five times what I can draw in that market. So I've been Twittering my dick off trying to find someone with a name that loves homeless kittens, who can sell tickets, and that doesn't need money. In Tucson. On a Saturday.

Funny how you go to call in a favor only to realize nobody owes you one. I should have been a better person I guess. I should have done more benefit shows when I had the act for it.

The good news is that a lot of my friends are still the funniest people in the world even if they aren't Big Names and the show will be a monster regardless. Brendon Walsh and Henry Phillips have signed on and we have local legends Nowhere Man & a Whiskey Girl as the house band.

Nobody is getting a cut of the profits. I'm paying everyone's expenses out of my pocket, not the gate. I'll be auctioning off Mother's Ashes as well as lots of other sentimental oddities. Bingo even said she'll auction off a lubricated handjob but I think that's illegal even in the free-thinking, progressive state of Arizona.

I'm only pushing this show this hard because some nice folks were nice to me and I don't wanna look like a dick in paying them back. So please spread the word and Facebook and Retweet and whatever the fuck it is you kids do.

Oh... and whatever you do... don't Twitter Sarah Silverman repeatedly about coming to this event. The sexual tension between us would be too palpable for mere comedy to overcome.

Here's to kittens and puppies,



Tickets available through Brown Paper Tickets.



Cunt Cancer Awareness - Take the Pink Out of the Stink




You've made it through another Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink ribbons, pink products, and pink accessories on football uniforms. 

Everywhere fucking pink for an entire month. I'll spare the details because you'll hear enough about it at my shows for a while.

The whammy is that - for the most part - Breast Cancer Awareness is a scam. A giant fucking rub.

Here's one quick but common example.

I'm eating a Breast Cancer Awareness-lidded Dannon Yogurt at an airport. I peel off the pink-ribboned foil top and notice that there is writing on the inside but in order to read it, I have to lick the yogurt of the inner lid. 

In small print - I'm at an awful place where I sometimes have to use reading glasses - it tells me that if I go to a website and register then I can enter the given code at which point the caring people at Dannon will give one thin dime to Breast Cancer.

You see the big pink ribbon and logo on the top and assume that you - by simply purchasing and eating this product - are DOING something to help. Total up the amount of people that actually take the time to lick, read, log on, register, enter a code and hit send and I'd guess that the total contribution to The Cause is less than nothing.

Multiply this by the amount of companies turning similar duplicity, the color pink and the popularity of Tits into huge third-quarter profits and all of a sudden you don't need to Occupy Wall Street to figure out that Breast Cancer Awareness is just another giant money-rake by the corporate house. 

I could go on with shitloads more examples and angles but that's what my live shows are for - getting drunk and rambling on about something that disgusts me that I'll eventually forget about. But trust me, it's 93.4 percent scam and the rest is mostly useless. 

But it works because it's about tits. Tits are hugely sellable. In fact, there is probably no body part of either sex that has the marketing capabilities that tits have. Breast cancer is not the most common nor the most deadly cancer. It simply has a commercial aspect that makes it easy to exploit with a pretty color. Tits aren't even vital organs like your lungs, liver or brain and aesthetically they're really just a gateway organ to a vagina.

Try to sell the NFL or Dannon Yogurt on Vagina Cancer Awareness. No chance.

So instead, how about I just exploit their exploitation and sell you on it for sheer fun and little profit.

I made up pretty Polo shirts in a kind of Miami Dolphins blue with a brownish ribbon to celebrate Cunt Cancer Awareness. 

Show the world that you Care About The Cause in a high-quality Polo shirt that only shit-heads would normally wear and be fantastically amused (as I have been) at how many people don't notice! And the people who do, just tell em "It's all about raising awareness! It's all about saving lives!"

So as to keep myself on the same caring level of Corporate America, I will be giving back myself. Lick your own yogurt off your computer screen and read my fine print.

"Please sign up on the MAILING LIST at the top-right of the page after you've purchased the CCA POLO Shirt and I will give One Thin Dime directly to Nancy Grace, the worst cancerous cunt of our time."




And yes, I will actually be sending her checks. I'm all about transparency. If I spot a bigger cunt cancer on the horizon, we can shift our focus in that direction.

But now is the time for action. Only you can make a difference.

SOLD OUT! You can find one at my show while they last.



A quick note of recognition. Brendon Walsh - one of my favorite comedians of all time - randomly but frequently uses the phrase "Cunt Cancer" in his act and the world loves him for it. If you laugh at cunt cancer, you should seek him out and enjoy him.




As for the last batch of "Stanhope's Sausage Army" football jerseys that I re-called for shit quality - see that update HERE - I want to get rid of them in the best way possible. I figured sending them to the military in Afghanistan would be fun. They could give em to a village and pictures. The Pig logo would make that extra funny and make it worth the bad beat. 

If you know how to get em to those guys through the proper channels, email me with SAUSAGE in the subject. Thanks.




If you really want to support a cause, I am doing an actual benefit for the Humane Society at the Rialto in Tucson on December 10th. I don't do benefit shows for several reasons but I'm doing this one with ALL the profits going to sad kittens and puppies. Being that I never do anyone else's benefit shows, I haven't had the nerve to ask any of my Big-Name Draw friends like DAVE ATTELL, JOE ROGAN, RON WHITE, LOUIS CK, ETC to participate. If I were them and they asked me, I'd pretend I didn't get the voicemail. I mustered up the courage to mention it without asking SARAH SILVERMAN to but word is that she likes NiggerHeads more than starving baby animals.

Marquis names or not, I'm gonna do my best to make it something you should road-trip to be part of. We're thinking about auctioning off nonsense like my Mother's ashes, strange and weird memoribilia, something of Hedberg's, a SuperBowl weekend at my house here in Bisbee, a few other ideas that we have to check on the legality of and a tour opening for me.

Get your tickets now. 

Road trip.


At the request of Mayor Gnarr...



The Mayor of Reykjavik - The Honorable Jon Gnarr - met us coming off the plane at arrivals in Iceland. He was with his elder son Frosti and they wore monkey masks and held a sign with our name.
I started a random correspondence with His Highness Jon Gnarr earlier in the year. He has a brilliant story. After the 2008 economic crash in Iceland, he decided to start his own political party - The Best Party - and ran for office, along with a handful of other rogues and artists. At the time he was a well known comedian there and star of the Night Shift seriesLong story, the joke back-fired and he is now the mayor and his party holds 6 of the 15 seats on the city council.

There's a documentary titled "Gnarr" chronicling the entire run and it's hilarious and inspiring. I don't know when it's going to be released but look for it. As I mentioned in a previous update, we made arrangements to play Iceland's only maximum security prison and did just that hours after landing and a couple of breakfast cocktails, a shower and a beer on the hour-long drive. Thank fuck Frosti lets you smoke in his car. That might be why I fell in love with him but more on that later.


The Litla-Hraun prison only houses 80 prisoners, out in the middle of some endless, rolling lava-tundra and seems more like a summer camp for underprivileged teens. Some of the gates that were opened for us couldn't hold my dog Henry if she saw a rabbit on the other side. 

Before the show we got a guided tour from an amicable young man who seemed like a volunteer museum docent - not until later did we find out that our guide was a prisoner himself - and got to hang out with a lot of the guys in one of the cell-blocks.

When I say cells and cell blocks, think dorm and dorm room. I just played the new Mayne Stage Theater in Chicago - great fucking venue - and put myself up at the closest place I could find called the Heart O' Chicago Motel. The half-dozen amenities listed on Expedia included "alarm clock," "microwave in lobby," and my favorite "windows that open." And they didn't really have an alarm clock. The cell-block at Litla-Hraun was the W Hotel in comparison. You walk in and there's a rec room of some sort with a small Asian kid on a couch playing video soccer on a Play-Station or some such gaming system and a full kitchen to the left where the inmates make their own food from scratch, just like Mama used to make when she did time in Iceland.

There's a metal culinary table in the middle of the kitchen where large knives stick magnetically to the edges. The knives are on cords like a bank pen so that if you want to stab someone, you have to wait until he's rolling out the fresh pasta. At the Heart O Chicago, the remote control was tethered to the same type of cord.

Everyone was cool as shit. I'm a shit-head and I'm talking to a prisoner and we were both so overly polite that you'd think we were new lovers meeting the in-laws for the first time. One guy saw me fumbling with a cigarette, looking for a door to go outside to smoke.

"You want to smoke? Come with me!" and we went into his cell - you can't smoke in the common area but you can smoke in your room. And all the doors to the dozen or so rooms on the wing were open. He showed me his stuff (I didn't notice if there was an alarm clock) and his books and told me how he as well as many others were working on university degrees online. A few more smokers came in and we shot the shit while Bingo made best friends of everyone.

Then I had to do the show. Keep in mind - the first sober show I'd done in years. A few drinks over breakfast and lunch might lose you your AA chip but that doesn't count as being drunk enough to perform. The last time I'd done a show sober that I can remember was at Ohio University in 03 or 04 where I had roughly 1/3 of a theater walk out on me. I was listed as a "Family Friendly" act on Parents weekend. If I've been sober for a show since, it's because I was on drugs.This show was in a small, half-court gymnasium with folding chairs - again better than a lot of the venues I choose to play - with I'd guess 30 or 40 inmates. His Noble Mr Jon Gnarr opened in Icelandic for 10 or 15 minutes while I waited in the wings wishing I'd actually put some thought into what the fuck I was going to say.

I'll say this... If you saw the show, you'd say it sucked shit and you'd be right. I say I sucked shit. But it didn't seem to bother anyone there but me. I figured I could just riff every easily-consumed dick joke I'd ever written but turns out I forgot how most of go, so there was a lot of me staring at my shoes in between bits or ending them mid-way when I couldn't remember the payoff. You know... that place I get to when I'd usually scream at the bar for large shots of vodka and Red Bull.

Didn't matter. They were really fucking fantastic and I can go back anytime to redeem myself. And I will.

Afterwards while Bingo was getting everyone's email addresses, they  presented us with gift including t-shirts - the prison has their own t-shirt which is cool as fuck - and a large card hand-written in perfect calligraphy that says...

"Dear Doug Stanhope

Our initial idea of showing you our gratitude for you visiting us prisoners at Litla -Hraun was to give you a t-shirt with the inscription "I went to prison in Iceland and all they gave me was this lousy t-shirt which they gagged me with while f***ing me in the a**." This was deemed inappropriate so you get this nice card instead."

I'm having it framed.

I wish I'd had more time to hang out and find out more about the guys and how the whole system works. Prison on any level sucks shit but they seem to have a way to make it rehabilitative instead of just cruel and even more damaging to society at large. Next time maybe I'll stay a while, have some pasta and fuck the Asian kid with the X-Box.


We left and went back to Reykjavik to His Majesty Jon Gnarr's home for sushi with his lovely wife Joga and family, including his small red-headed child who - although he's only about 6 years old - I expect will see Litla-Hraun himself one day in Hannibal Lecter restraints. We ate and went through most of the vodka we'd brought though customs before we'd even taken a nap. I probably said the wrong thing more than once but hoped it would be chalked up to the very-slight language barrier. Thank goodness we could smoke in the house.

The next day we met up at city hall and were given the full tour and were introduced to some of the other members of the Best Party including Einar Benediktsson, formerly of the Sugarcubes who thankfully smoked cigarettes and thankfully was with the Sugarcubes so I could Google his name. I forget everybody's name anyway but when they have Icelandic names I never really got em to begin with.  


Now we go for our Official Meeting at the Hofdi House where 25 years previously Reagan and Gorbachev held their famous summit meeting in 1986.

 The woman who ran the place greeted us and commented on how much she liked Bingo's shoes - a pair of knee-high black Chuck Taylor Converse. Of course Bingo immediately insisted that she have them. She took them off, put them on her and went home in a pair of plastic shoe-condoms that are given out to tourists so they dont muddy up the carpet. In return, the woman gave Bingo a gift basket of things from the house to take home with her, one that kinda took us both off guard. Wrapped in tin foil, Bingo opened to large, dried mushroom stems.   

"You know what this is?" asks the woman.

"Ooooh yeah!" says Bingo.

And with a wink and a nod we were off.

It was mushroom season in Iceland. On the drive to the prison they pointed out people on the side of the road and in the medium, picking mushrooms like dandelions. We could get psilocybin anywhere, they told us like they were bored with it. But to be given it here during an Official Meeting at the Hofdi House... fuck, it's too bad Reagan and Gorbachev didn't shroom during their failed attempt at working shit out.

We spent the next few days just hitting bars and meeting folks in town. Everything in Reykjavik is in walking distance, a beautiful village of a city with great sushi and unassuming folks and lots of things on menus that I didn't dare to eat. We also spent a lot of time curled up in bed the way a vacation is supposed to be.

But on the last night we still had the mushrooms and still had to meet up with Frosti and his friends. We weren't really in the mood to trip but sometimes you have to push yourself. How often will we have this chance?

Bingo crushed them up and wrapped them into moist bread-balls for some reason - saying we could just swallow them like a pill, as though you could eat a pill the size of your thumb. I chewed it down gagging the whole way like I was eating a cricket on a dare and then we waited for Frosti and the mushroom shivers.

When Frosti showed up, there was a bit more crushed up on a plate and Bingo offer it to him.

"There's not much left but if you want some mushrooms..."

Frosti looks at it oddly, touches it, smells it.

"That's sage."


"That is sage, not mushrooms."

"What the fuck is sage?" I ask.

"Sage. It's like uh... incense."

We had just choked down bread-balls full of incense thinking that the mayor's office had given us hallucinogens as an Official Welcome Gift.

You can go ahead and make all the "your shit doesn't stink" jokes you like. They did.

We had a fantastic night. Frosti and I fell in love. People might not accept it as he is 20 years my junior but true love sees beyond that. Ask Hef. 

We'll have to finish that part of the story down the road.

In the meantime, go to Iceland the first chance you get. I'd like to make it my second home. I'd really love duel-citizenship there. And did I mention gay marriage is legal in Iceland?










My favorite new band is Molotov Jukebox. Mishka Shubaly and the Mattoid will have to fight it out for silver and bronze because my new gold is Molotov Jukebox. Now we have to figure out how to get them to the States. You faggots figure that out. I'm not good at producer work. We met them on the radio in London. The lead singer Nat is one of the most stunning people we've ever met. She and the band are I guess what you'd call "bohemian" which means the probably don't shave or wash their genitals for months but to see them live is amazing. Strings and horns and accordion and fucking amazing.

Here's one - find more. 


After my "Eddie" episode of "Louie" of FX, I've just sat back waiting for offers to pour in so I could happily refuse them. So far, there have been exactly zero offers. So now I'm a bit miffed and am changing my tune. I will court acting offers so long as they are the same character of Eddie like Richard Belzer did with Detective Munch - same character in 5 different shows. It doesn't matter to me what the show is so long as I can still be the suicidal, washed-up alcoholic I already played. Eddie on Breaking Bad. Eddie on Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Eddie on Two and a Half Men. Even better if I can do the exact same dialogue. I don't like to learn new things or try. 

But it bothers me when nobody asks.