One of my favorite posters artists, @mike_holmes, has a sale on the posters he's made for me! Wow! https://t.co/n5XMBhPH62
Paul Joseph Watson: In France migrant gangs have brought rats, some of which find kitchen work. In this documentary by PIXAR a
Paul Joseph Watson: Migrant gangs dress children as Iron Man and send them out on Oct. 31st to threaten violence unless given candy.
This is a NYE celebration where some drunks fumble the fireworks. Just run the bar fight scene from HOOPER & say it… https://t.co/Zt8DInB2cX
How long before Ann Coulter records a "Milo" anthem to the tune of Peter Gabriel's "Biko"?

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Thu, Sep 23


COMEDIANS OF COMEDY SHOOTING DIARY: SEATTLE THEN SOUTH TO PORTLAND

@ 12:00 AM

   

   

I got to Seattle Wednesday morning. It was gray, drizzly and hopeless. The way I like it. Then I got to the hotel.

I've stayed in some pretty shitty places in my 104 years doing stand-up, but nothing could prepare me for the doom-soaked atmosphere of our Seattle residential hotel, which I'm going to call the James Whitmore Hangs Himself In THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION Suites. Take a look at the pic I took of my room. And how about my bed, made lumpy by the dozens of teenage hookers who fought for their lives as a trucker on black beauties tried to strangle them. Oh, and lost. I left that part out. The entire place smelled like the sad dreams of an old man who looks back on a life filled with failure, regret and bad food. The workout room was a broken stationary bike next to three snack machines filled with fruit pies that went stale the day Kennedy's head went blooey in Dallas. The desk clerk was the Patron Saint of Unsung Indie Bands, and snarled and snapped at us when we so much as asked if there was an ice machine. The documentary crew was levitating from happiness, all the good footage they were getting.

But the show was amazing. Neumo's Crystal Ball Reading Room was packed with cool drunks, and they laid snacks out on an autopsy table for us in the green room. Maria smiled and Brian listened to metal and I drank some scotch. We all got massive love before we even opened our mouths, plus a floor-pounding encore. Wow. And I sold a lot of copies of "222". I apologize to anyone who has the stomach to get through it.

   



   

The next morning as we loaded up the vans, some of the Whitmore Suicide Suites residents came out to watch us leave. They weren't used to seeing humans that don't have the grim angel of death hovering behind them, so they must have been confused. The ride down was pretty mellow, and Brian tried a new snack called Nerd Ropes that bummed him out. Maria slept. I listened to an iPod and ate peanuts. Don't you wish you could enter the exciting world of entertainment?

When I got to my Portland hotel, there was a stuffed bear on the mattress, which was creepy and cute at the same time. I'm going to listen to Bjork's "Human Behavior" and punch that bear later tonight, after the show.


 
 
   
   
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