W hen L enny B ruce died, he did not know th a t

his life an d s a tire would become a legend to a

gen eratio n of young A m ericans who h ad never
seen him p erform .
H is p latfo rm w as th e nightclub stage— tele­
vision would have no p a r t of th e scath in g and
hilarious tr u th th a t w as B ruce’s tra d e m a rk —
b u t his eye w as on the G re a t Society, th e hypoc­
ris y o f m o rality w ith a big “ M” , th e sp iritu a l
em ptiness in m uch of organized religion, the
ab su rd ity of ou r fe a r of w ords— p a rtic u la rly
w ords hav in g to do w ith sex. H e trie d to m ake
his audiences recognize th e tr u th about the
w orld and ab o u t them selves, and to accept it.
M uch of B ruce’s early m a te ria l is available on
records, but very little of his late r, m ore serious
w ork. The E sse n tia l L e n n y B ruce, compiled
fro m th e h u n d red s of h o u rs of tap e d recordings
of his actual perform ances, show s th e develop­
m ent o f L enny B ruce fro m a comic to “a s a tiris t
in th e tra d itio n of S w ift, R abelais and T w ain,”
th e g re a te s t m oral s a tiris t of our tim e.
 LENNY BRUCE . . .
“Lenny Bruce believed in free speech with a passion
that was often masked by the jokes he told. He was a
social satirist; one of the boldest and one of the best.”
— Washington Post (editorial in the
issue of August 5, 1966 reporting
Lenny Bruce’s death)

“His life and death are significant and serious atten­

tion must be paid. Bruce was a great stage artist, a
soloist of unbelievable virtuosity. . . . He had an un­
cannily accurate ear and a novelist’s eye for the sort
of crucial visual detail which could suddenly delight
spectators with a shock of recognition.”
— Jonathan Miller, The New York Review of Books

“One of the most brilliant social satirists and a moral

conscience second to none.”
— Ralph J. Gleason, San Francisco Chronicle

“His gospel was freedom, sexual freedom, racial free­

dom, religiosity freedom, cliche freedom, hate free­
dom—in short, happiness through truth. . . . Bruce
enraged many people, including some arresting offi­
cers and psychiatrists and judges and prosecutors and
critics who by the record of their lives and deeds were
at least as sick as he was. But wasn’t that what his
whole schtick was about?”
— Jerry Tallmer, Evergreen Review
 THE
ESSENTIAL
LENNY BRUCE
compiled and edited
by John Coken

BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

Copyright © 1967 by Ballantine Books, Inc.

SBN 345-01882-6-095

This book published with the cooperation of

Douglas International Corporation.

First Printing: December, 1967

Second Printing: January, 1968
Third Printing: March, 1968
Fourth Printing: June, 1968
Fifth Printing: March, 1970

Cover Painting by Wilson McLean

Printed in the United States of America

BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.

101 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10003
People should be taught what is,
not what should be. All my humor
is based on destruction and despair.
If the whole world were tranquil, without
disease and violence, I’d be standing in the
breadline— right back of J. Edgar Hoover.
— Lenny Bruce

“He was a sweet, peaceful and beautiful man.

We used to go sailing on the bay and Lenny
would sit and write poetry about love and
beauty—and about his own frustrations. I don’t
think he was a comedian, really, I think he was
a preacher.”
—Enrico Banducci, the hungry i, quoted in
the Los Angeles Times, August 5, 1966.
 CONTENTS
F orew ord ix
BLACKS 15
JE W S 35
R E L IG IO N S IN C .; C A TH O LICISM ;
C H R IS T AND M O SE S; A N D T H E LO N E
RA N G ER 52
PO L IT IC S 76
T H E SO U T H E R N SOUND 97
P E R FO R M IN G A N D T H E A R T O F
COMEDY 101
P IL L S AN D S H IT : T H E DRUG S C E N E 147
F A N T A S IE S , FL IC K S & S K E T C H E S 160
BA LLIN G , CHICKS, FA G S, D IK E S AND
DIVO RCE 191
T H E DIRTY-W O RD C O N C EPT 222
O B SC E N ITY BU STS A N D T R IA L S 241
BU STS I I : CA U SES A N D
C O N SE Q U EN C ES 263
SPO T T IN G H E A T , AND U N D E R ST A N D ­
IN G JU D G E S A N D L A W Y ER S 268
T H E LA W 274
W H A T IS O B SC E N E ? 281
T H E GOOD-GOOD C U LTU R E 287
Chronicle 305
E pilogue 307
Index 309
 E D IT O R ’S FO R E W O R D

Dead, Lenny Bruce has been lauded as a great satirist

“in the tradition of Swift,” as a great parodist, a moralist,
a preacher, even as a shaman exorcizing the demons of
our modem society. Whatever Bruce was— and above
all he was incredibly funny— two basic characteristics
were responsible for the effectiveness of his work: he
was a fine poet and a fine dramatist. He had a fantastic
ability to catch the perfect image at the perfect moment
and to phrase it exactly and uniquely; and he had a
beautiful sense of form and structure.
I have tried to make sure that Bruce’s poetry and
structure were not lost in the transformation of his ma­
terial from the spoken work to the printed page. Some­
thing had to be lost, of course, if only his intonations,
his accents, his rhythms, speeds, pauses and gestures;
but wherever possible I have described the type of ac­
cent Bruce was using, and when speed or speech quality
was extreme, I have suggested the effect by running
words together, through spacing, or through punctua­
tion.
Essentially, Bruce’s material has been left uncut and
uncensored. Fear of libel has forced the deletion of a
name or phrase perhaps a half a dozen times in the
whole book, and occasionally, when Bruce began a
sentence but then crossed it out himself—verbally— I
have left it out too. The only other deletion that has been
made occurred when Bruce fell into a “you know” fit__
when every sentence began and ended with “you know.”
This did not happen too frequently, and even when it
IX
 did happen I have removed only a few of the “you
knows” in the interests of easier reading; most I left in
in order to preserve the feel of Bruce’s language. In the
text, dots between phrases or sentences do not mean
that material was deleted; they mean that Bruce paused
momentarily in his speech.
When Bruce was performing at his best, he sometimes
gave an entire show a beautifully effective structure and
form, and the whole show works as a well-organized ar­
gument skillfully dedicated to the proof of Bruce’s point.
These shows are so beautiful, they move so smoothly,
logically and effectively from one bit to another, so
artfully and absorbingly from beginning to end, that
it seems a mistake not to organize the book as a series
of complete shows.
But suppose that on one night Bruce did a beautiful
show including six bits, in this order: a, b, c, d, e, and f.
The next night in another beautiful show Bruce used
bits a, g, b, h, c, i, and x in this order. If one were to
preserve both beautiful shows, bits a, b, c and d would
be duplicated. Even if space had permitted it, such du­
plication, as far as the reader’s experience is concerned,
would itself have ruined the beauty of the second show:
few, if any, would read the bits a second (or third or
fourth) time, and even those who did would not appre­
ciate them fully in repetition. Thus the feeling of the
beauty of the second show’s form, even printed com­
plete and unadulterated, would effectively have been
ruined for the reader.
In any case, Bruce seldom produced a show where the
entirety had such exquisite structure. Generally, Bruce’s
shows did hang together, and beautifully, but this was
less because of the structure of the entire show than
because all of Bruce’s material was permeated by Bruce’s
own philosophy, a well-developed set of ideas and ideals
which molded all his material. Each of Bruce’s bits ex-
x
 pressed a part of this whole outlook and was consistent
(generally) with the whole. And Bruce did not organize
his shows in advance . When he performed, he had at
his command a tremendous amount of material he had
already worked into shape, a brilliant mind and an
amazing imagination, and a fantastic memory. With
these tools, spontaneously, Bruce put his shows together.
Never did he do a whole show exactly as he had any
time before, just as he never redid any single bit exactly
as he had before.
So instead of organizing this book around complete
shows, I have tried a different method. Many of Bruce’s
shows concentrated on one dominant point or empha­
sized a certain topic: integration and segregation; the
law; obscenity; Jews; show business; the good-good cul­
ture. Seldom if ever did Bruce concentrate exclusively
on any such topic; but frequently he did spend almost
all of a show’s time on just one such topic.
It is into topics of this sort that I have reorganized
Bruce’s material, and I do not think that the organiza­
tion is too arbitrary. In many cases, it has been possible
to hook together a long string of bits exactly as Bruce
himself hooked them together at one time or another,
and for the most part the topics are ones which Bruce
himself liked to concentrate his shows on. Also, this or­
ganization has made it possible to arrange the material
so that Bruce’s thoughts and preoccupations are un­
veiled and explained progressively. This is not crucial
to the early sections, which could stand and explain
themselves independently; but the sections on the dirty-
word concept, busts and trials, heat, judges and lawyers,
the law, obscenity, and the good-good culture are close­
ly interrelated. They have been organized and arranged
in a way which I hope will make both the individual bits
and Bruce’s over-all thinking as clear and meaningful as
possible. And here, too, this has not caused any severe
xi
disruption of Bruce’s own typical organization. For the
most part, the bits follow each other as they did in one
or another of Bruce’s shows.
Above all, Lenny Bruce was a dramatist: the inter­
play of character and voice in a dramatic dialogue was
his natural mode of expression. Again and again he tried
to express ideas through analytic or descriptive phrases,
stumbled, started again, stumbled, and then moved into
a skit, a little play between voices, in order to grasp and
express exaetly what he meant. Usually, the plays
worked beautifully. Plays, of course, are meant to be
performed, and the text of Bruce’s plays will never be
as good as Lenny Bruce himself. But plays do make
good reading, especially Bruce’s plays—because they
are not total scenes with entire characters and complex
interrelationships between many persons; they are sim­
ple interchanges between exaggerated voices meant to
express only one or two particular characteristics.
This is the “essential” Lenny Bruce— the dramatist
and poet creating his fantastically funny, beautifully
structured, delightfully phrased and very important little
plays. If the reader opens up his imagination and hears
the words printed on these pages, as he does when he
reads poetry or anything that is made of lovely lan­
guage, the “essential” Lenny Bruce will come back to
life. And without Bruce around to do his material for
us, I think it is better for him to live this way, for us to
read his material exactly as he created it, than for it to
be forgotten completely, or for us to watch some imi­
tator’s second-rate attempt to recreate the magical ef­
fects that Bruce himself had.
THE ESSENTIAL
LENNY BRUCE
 Blacks

The reason I don’t get hung up with, well, say, integra­

tion, is that by the time Bob Newhart is integrated, I’m
bigoted. And anyway, Martin Luther King, Bayard
Rustin are geniuses, the battle’s won. By the way, are
there any niggers here tonight?
[Outraged whisper] “What did he say? ‘Are there
any niggers here tonight’? Jesus Christ! Is that
cruel. Does he have to get that low for laughs?
Wow! Have I ever talked about the schwarzes
when the schwarzes had gone home? Or spoken
about the Moulonjohns when they’d left? Or
placated some Southerner by absence of voice
when he ranted and raved about nigger nigger
nigger?”
Are there any niggers here tonight? I know that one
nigger who works here, I see him back there. Oh, there’s
two niggers, customers, and, ah, aha! Between those
two niggers sits one kike— man, thank God for the kike!
Uh, two kikes. That’s two kikes, and three niggers,
and one spic. One spic—two, three spies. One mick.
One mick, one spic, one hick, thick, funcky, spunky
15
boogey. And there’s another kike. Three kikes. Three
kikes, one guinea, one greaseball. Three greaseballs, two
guineas. Two guineas, one hunky funky lace-curtain
Irish mick. That mick spic hunky funky boogey.
Two guineas plus three greaseballs and four boogies
makes usually three spies. Minus two Yid spic Polack
funky spunky Polacks.
auctioneer : Five more niggers! Five more nig­
gers!
gambler : I pass with six niggers and eight micks
and four spies.
The point? That the word’s suppression gives it the
power, the violence, the viciousness. If President Ken­
nedy got on television and said, “Tonight I’d like to
introduce the niggers in my cabinet,” and he yelled
“niggemiggemiggerniggemiggerniggemigger” at every
nigger he saw, “boogeyboogeyboogeyboogeyboogey,
niggemiggemiggemigger” till nigger didn’t mean any­
thing any more, till nigger lost its meaning— you’d never
make any four-year-old nigger cry when he came home
from school.
Screw “Negro!” Oh, it’s so good to say, “Nigger!”
Boy!
“Hello, Mr. Nigger, how’re you?”

People remember. They’ll remember specific people

who broke their balls. That’s the way people are, and
they will be shitting for those people. You know, if
you’re thinking about the world, how the world looks
to the Negro— here’s how the world looks to the Ameri­
can Negro: he’s a convict rioting in a corrupt prison,
and if they do kill Pat O’Brien, so what? The conditions
are bad, and sloppy, and that’ll be the scene.

Dick Gregory said to me, “You wanna make the

16
 marches?” and I said I was going through a lot of litiga­
tion, and I probably would bring down some heat, you
know?
He said, “No, man,” he said, “make ’em.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m reticent about making the
marches, because I think people would assume it’s a
Joe Louis-Hoffa move— exploiting the issue for my own
dues, you know? Anyway, the marches are sloppy, peo­
ple shoving back and forth, A1 Hibler and Ray Charles
walking into people — ”
But he said, “No, really make it.”
Then he told me about his old lady being pregnant,
getting thrown in the joint, and his getting in jail— the
whole scene, all the hassles. Then he said something to
me, really whipped me around.
He said, “It doesn’t matter, you get thrown in the
joint,” he said, “as long as we trick Whitey.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “It doesn’t matter, the end result, as long as
we trick Whitey, fuck up Boss Charley.”
I said, “Trick Whitey, fuck up Boss Charley . . . I’ve
never heard that before. That’s an underground phrase.”
Then I started thinking: I’ve never heard any hos­
tility from any American Negroes. I did hear that from
Jews and Christians, but never from any American
Negroes. I’ve never heard any outward hostility, no
spoken word. If you hear in traffic,
tough voice : Hey, asshole, move it over dere!
That’s never a colored driver, Mack.
Isn’t that a little strange? I don’t think you’ve heard
it either. And they’re pissed off, and justifiably so. But
yet I’ve never heard that. Then I realized I’m going
to hear it. Oh, yeah. There’s going to be a vote, and a
change.
You see, there are a few more Negroes than you know
17
about. Oh, yeah. Because census-takers, I assume, have
been remiss in their duties, and passed a few Negro
houses:
census taker : Ah, frig it, I’m not going in those
houses— dogs, dirt— I don’t wanna go in there.
Ask that kid on the lawn. How many live on this
block, sonny?
kid : Ah, well, ah . . .
census taker : O.K., write it down.
You’d shit if you saw a half a million from one town
alone?
“Two billion, taken from Alabama; the vote’s still
coming in!”
“Two billion? Are you kidding? Two billion?”
“Where’re those votes coming from? Where’ve all
these people been?”
“They’ve been in the houses, man. Sixteen thou­
sand to a house— hunks, tiers— they’ve been living
there.”
So the vote’s going to bring a change. In a year you’ll
see an all-black jury and a black judge, and shit!
outraged voice : They’re all black! How’m I
gonna get a fair shake when they’re all black?
And you’re not. Haha, haha. That’s how it is.
And all the people’ll be screaming.
“Are you kidding? I was before those marches, I
was before Bayard Rustin. Me? Me? I was so
liberal— I’ll show you cancelled checks, for Chris-
sakes! I’ve been since 1939 with that integration
shit. Are you kidding with that?”
negro : Y ou are? You’re full of shit, you liberal!
I ’m tired of talking to you people. Every German
you talk to loved the Jews, and they’re all dead.
So you’re full of shit, Jim. That’s it.
Liberal schmiberal. Um, hm
18
Now, I don’t think Barry Goldwater knows anything
about that phrase, “Trick Whitey, fuck up boss Char­
ley.” I mean, he’s from Arizona; their god is the auto
club. They’re cut off from everything. Will he be ready?
Will he understand the language? Will he understand
that huge block of—
negroes : Look here, Ml. Goldwater, tell us what’s
happening. Don’t shuck us, you dig?
goldwater : What was that? What are they talking
about? This a trick or something?
negro : N ow don’t jive us, tell us what’s happening,
be straight.
goldwater : What is this, a trick? What are they
. . . what does that mean, ‘Be straight’?
negro : Y ou jive, motherfucker, you jive!
goldwater : Y ou what? ‘You jive, motherfucker,
you jive!’
aide : N ow Mr. Goldwater, please, before you
make any decisions, that term may be a term of
endearment with these people. It doesn’t always
relate to hostility.
Which is the truth.
negro : Hey, motherfucker, you’re something else,
Jim! That’s it!
How about that? I mean, we piss away a million dollars
on Radio Free Europe, and don’t know anything
about the country within the country— don’t know any­
thing about these people.

We got to stop pissing away all the money on Radio

Free Europe. Mississippi is like the Amazon, with those
missionaries down there. Let’s face it—you’d be afraid
to go to Mississippi— you’d be afraid to walk there alone
down the street. It doesn’t say that on your visa— “stamp
O.” We never give one nickel to Radio Free South—
19
ever. And I haven’t seen one newspaper report that un­
derstood anything about those people, it’s just rank
rank rank rank rank.

The geography in this bit is unimportant, but I’m al­

ways searching for new areas, so I ’ll change it tonite to,
limmm, Watertown, N.Y. That’s a little ways from
Buffalo and Niagara Falls.
Actually, its eighty tract homes, and we are now in
the “Medallion Model Home,” with a formica ceiling.
I ’m a construction boss. I built all these pads. This pad
I built for about eighteen thousand five hundred dollars,
I dumped it for sixty thousand— lotta built-ins.
Now, they have a party— when I sell the pad, the
people hold a big house-warming party, right? And who
do they invite? They invite the guy who built the house,
and the neighbors. Eric,* being colored, he would be a
musician, which does not make the people who have the
party bigoted in the least. Because many people do not
know colored people, though to invite them to a party
as a prop is Crow Jim. And there’s a good book on
Crow Jim: Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man, man,
which really lays it on the stick, man.
Now, the party is swinging, and the humor emanates
from the now-becoming-obscure white person’s concept
of “Just How Do You Relax Colored People at Parties?”
And in the bit, I play the white guy:
white man [rasping, aggressive voice]: Oh, boy,
what a hell of a party, eh?
negro [clear, well-educated]: Yeah, I’m enjoying
myself, having a wonderful time.
white : I really stuffed myself, boy, and I’m pissed
to the ears, too, on top of it. Oh, boy . . . Before
* Eric Miller, a Negro guitarist who helped Bruce occasionally
by taking The Negro’s part in this bit.
20
 you drink you should take a tablespoonful of olive
oil.
negro : I s that right?
w h ite : Thass the best . . .
negro : Oh.
w h ite : I didn’t get your name.
negro : Miller.
w h ite : Miller, my name is Mr. Anderson.
negro : Mr. Anderson, glad to know you.
w h ite : Pleasure to know you indeed, sir.
[Pause. Neither knows what to say next.]
w h ite : Y ou know, that Joe Louis was a hell of a
fighter.
negro : Yeah, you can say that again. Joe Louis
was a hell of a fighter.
w h ite : What a man, boy.
negro : Yeah, got right in there, right out.
w hite : He’s a credit to your race. Don’t you ever
forget that, you sonofagun.
negro : Well, thank you very much.
w h ite : Thass awright, perfectly awright.
[Pause]
w h ite : Well, here’s to Henry Armstrong.
negro : Yeah, here’s to Henry Armstrong.
w h ite : Awright . . .
[Pause]
w h ite : Y ou know, I did all the construction here,
you know?
negro : Oh, you did?
w h ite : I did all except the painting, and these
Hebes— [whispers] you’re not Jewish, are you?
n e g ro : No, man, I ’m not.
w h ite : You know what I mean?
n e g ro : Yeah, I understand.
w h ite : Someone calls me a Sheeney I’ll knock em
right on their ass . . . I wanna tell you sometin. I
21
 don’t care what the hell a guy is so long as they
keep in their place, you know?
negro : Right.
w h ite : So anyway, I tell all these Mochs— Jewish
people, you know— I say, I’m gonna put up the
lath. You know how they talk you know, “Vut
tchou doink, dahlink”? You know? I’ll tell you
some Aby-and-Becky jokes later. So anyway, they
say, “Vut tchou doink vit de paint,” you know?
That’s Chinese— I do all the dialects. And, ah,
then they pick out this color—themselves— isn’t
that a crappy color for ya?
negro : N o, I don’t think so. I think that’s very
interesting, how they use the Dufy Blue with so
many other pastels.
w h ite : That sounds like alotta Commie horseshit
to me— Du-fee blue.
negro : Yeah, that’s what it is, a Dufy blue.
w h ite : Whatthehellissat?
negro : Some French painter derived that color.
I dunno.
w h ite : Yeah? Du-Fee blue! I like that. That’s
pretty good. Du-fee blue. You didn’t leam that in
the back of the bus, you sonufagun! You’re aw-
right! Du-fee blue. How ’bout that. You know,
you’re a white Jew, you’re O.K. You’re really a
good guy,
negro : Thank you, thank you.
[Pause]
w h ite : Well, here’s to Stephen Fetcher.
negro : Yeah, here’s to Stephen Fetcher.
[Pause]
w h ite : I guess you know alotta people in the
show business, eh?
n e g ro : Yeah, I ’ve met quite a few in my travels.
22
 w h ite : Aaaah, I’m bad on names, what the hell
is that, aaaaah . . . You know Aunt Jemimah?
negro : N o, I don’t know Aunt Jemimah. I’m sorry,
I don’t know her.
w h ite : That guy on the— on the Cream of Wheat
box?
negro : N o, I don’t know him either.
[Pause]
w h ite : Well, here’s to Paul Robinson.
negro : Yeah, here’s to Paul Robinson.
w h ite : Yeah, boy . . . . You get anything to eat
yet?
negro : No, I ’m kinda hungry. I wish a had a
sandwich or something.
w h ite : I haven’t got any fried chicken or water­
melon, ahhh . . . raisins, or rice, whatever you
people eat, but, aaahhhh, we’ll get sometin up for
you there . . .
You know sometin, you’re awright, you know that?
And I’m a good guy too— you see what I just did?
I touched ya. Yeah! You’re awright. Come over
here. I like you, you sonofagun, you’re awright.
negro : Well, thank you . . .
white : I’d like to have you over the house.
negro : Well, thank you very much. I’d like to
come over.
w h ite : Wouldja like that?
negro : Umhum.
w h ite : It’ll be dark soon, aaahhh . . . I mean,
what the hell, you know, aaahhh . . . . You gotta
be careful they’re all movin’ in . . . you know?
I mean, what the hell, I read some jerk ovem the
paper, The Howard Star, there, they’re jus bein
smart, you know— that first, the Indians were here,
then when the white people came they said “Oh
Christ the white people are moving in,” you know,
23
 and they’re gonna be all over, you know—but
that’s dangerous, that kinda talk, you know?
[Pause]
w h ite : Here’s to all colored people.
negro : O.K.
w h ite : Awright . . . Now, I wanya to comover
the house, but I gotta tell ya somtin cause I know
you people get touchy once in a while.
negro : Oh, umhm?
w h ite : Yeah, ahhh, I gotta sister, ya see?
negro : Yeah?
w h ite : Well now cummere. [Whispers] You
wouldn’t wanna Jew doin it to your sister, wouldja?
negro : It doesn’t make any difference to me, just
as long as he’s a nice guy.
w hite : Whattayou, on the weed or somtin? Look,
nobody wants a Sheeney plowin’ their sister, an
I don’t want no coon doin’ it to my sister. What the
hell, that makes sense. You can come over my
house if you promise you don’t do it to my sister.
Promise?
negro : O.K.
w h ite : Awright.
negro : Here’s to the Mau Mau.
w h ite : Awright.
The guy in this bit, we assume— see, that’s the funny
thing about indictment— we assume that this cat is all
bad, then, and we destroy him. But you can’t, man. He’s
bad in this sense, cause he has not matured, he has not
been in a proper environment, cause if he were, to learn
and to listen, he would swing, cause there are sensitive
parts to him also, man. Cause the weird part we get hung
up with, “I am pure and I am good, and those people
are dirty and those murderers are bad and I am so pure,
I ’m so good that I have to murder those murderers.”
And then you end up getting screwed up. That’s right
24
[Fragments of conversation between a white and a Negro
musician at a party]
w h ite : H ow d’ya like this color they picked out
here? Isn’t this ridiculous color?
negro : Hm,mm, interesting, the Dufy blues and
pastels here . . . Margaret Sanger Clinic . . . We
never knock ’em up, that’s the, uh, thing about it.
white : And you really like to do it to everybody’s
sister?
negro : Well, no, you missed the vernacular, it’s
not everybody’s sister— I do it to sisters.
w hite : Waddaya mean, “sisters”?
negro : Just that— sisters.
w hite : Why, you don’t mean sister sisters!
negro : Yeah.
w h ite : Ah, that’s impossible. Oh, I never knew
that! Ah, that’s alotta horseshit, you can’t do that
to the— to the sisters . . . No kidding! Do they
put out, those sisters?
negro : Well, I mean, if you’re built the way we
are, you know, we’re, ah, we’re built abnormally
large, you know that, don’t you?
w h ite : I heard you guys got a wang on ya, ya
sonofagun, ya!
negro : Yes, uh, to use the vernacular, uh, it’s sort
of like a baby’s arm with an apple in its fist, I
think that’s what, ah, Tennessee Williams said.
w h ite : Well, uh, ya mind if I see it?
negro : N o, I couldn’t do th a t I’m just playing
guitar at this party.
w h ite : Whatthehell, just whip it out there. Let’s
see that roll of tarpaper you got there, Johnny,
yeah?
negro : No, I, uh, I couldn’t show it. . . .

I wonder if Tom McCann was originally Uncle Tom?

25
That would really be some strange things. Uncle Tom.
Turn him upside down and we’ll piss on his head and
drink beer. Sand— you know those dopey things that
stand on one side and you turn them over and the sand
runs o u t

Now, here is a good summation on the cliche “Would

You Want One of Them to Marry Your Sister?” Yeah.
I would like to do this even though it’s no tour de force
to do integration in Los Angeles— because we assume
you are integrationists, you know, because of economics.
Alright.
So I say, where can I really do it where it’ll count?
Mobile, Alabama. If I got any balls I ’ll do it there.
Right? O.K. I’m gonna do it in Mobile.
Then, I wanna do it for the Ku Klux Klan— and I
am being objective— the Ku Klux Klan. Again there’s
no good or bad. They are part of their environment, and
they think one way because they’ve been educated a
certain way. You take those same cats out of that en­
vironment, and you educate them— and you can teach
an old dog new tricks— that’s why you go from Repub­
lican to Democrat, like that! [snaps fingers] It’s that
simple.
O.K. So now I wanna tell him, “I’ll leave the sister
aspect, I ’ll get closer to home. You are a white, the
Imperial Wizard, a man forty years old, and now you
have a choice— and if you don’t th in k this is logic you
can burn me on the fiery cross. This is the logic: you
have the choice of spending fifteen years married to a
woman— a black woman or a white woman. Fifteen
years kissing and hugging and sleeping real close on
hot nights, watching her take off her garter belt, taking
her makeup off, seeing every facet of her—fifteen years
— with a black black woman, or fifteen years with a
white white woman. And these two women are about
26
the same age bracket, so it’s not an unfair comparison.
Fifteen years with a black woman or fifteen years with
a white woman.
The white woman is Kate Smith . . . and the black
woman is Lena Horne!
So you’re not concerned with black or white any
more, are you? You are concerned with how cute, how
pretty. And if you are concerned with how cute or
how pretty, then let’s really get basic and persecute
ugly people. Not black or white, cause you see, its a
facade, man.
And now, as far as your sister is concerned, you can
assume that your sister, boy, when she searches her soul,
she will jump over fifty Charles Laughtons to get next
to one Harry Belafonte. And ball him in front of the
fifty Laughtons. It’s gonna be a fifteen-year span, man.

Did you ever think about minority groups? You know

who was the most persecuted group ever? In my gen­
eration, the Irish. The Irish got schpritzed and
schpritzed and schpritzed. It’s a subtle persecution, but
it’s there, and the most vicious. When a Jew says a
schicka is a goy, he doesn’t mean the Greek. That’s i t
You agree. When the Italian says
"Manage, Irlandesi!”
When the Negro says
“That Paddy motherfucker!”
that’s it, Jim. It’s the Irish. Zing zing zing, continually
schpritzed. Now that’s the worst kind of persecution—
when it’s unspoken. It’s like this:
[Whisper] “They’re moving in. They’re moving in.
They’re moving in.”
Who said that? The American Indians.
Indian : Oh, Christ! The white people are moving
in—you let in one white family, and the whole
neighborhood will be white.
27
How come they’re not worried about the real fifth col­
umn— the Seminoles? The American Indian is waiting,
just waiting to turn on us.

This is a satire on a film that you might recognize— but

I ’m not gonna tell you what it’s from. Give me some
full music— anything, barrelhouse, something full. O.K.?
Blackout!
white [Heavy Southern white accent]: Come on,
Jane! Come on, Jane.
negro : Whaddayou keep callin me Jane for?
w h ite : Y ou don’ wanna be called “boy,” do ya?
negro : No.
w h ite : Y ou know, I tell ya sumthin. Come over
here Randy. You know, buddy, when us broke
outta here, I jus couldn’t stand to look at you, I
jus hated you. Boy, if my Daddy ever heard me
say this he’d sure whup me good— but Randy, I
wanna tell you one thing, buddy [almost crying],
since we broke out, I really can’t believe it, buddy.
Randy, come heah. Randy, you know what I tell
ya, when we fust broke outta here, as I toldja, I
hated ya, but standin next to ya like this, an being
chained to ya an runnin away from all them
hounds, well, it’s, it’s taught me a lesson, it’s, it’s
opened up mah eyes, Randy, standing nex to ya
like this has really shown me somethin.
randy: What’s that?
w h ite : I ’m taller than you . . . An Randy, being
taller than you is a lesson in equality itself.
randy: Speakin of equality, I wonder, will there
ever be any equality?
w h ite : Well, it is, Randy— don’t forget: To Play
The Star Spangled Banner It Takes Both The
White Keys And The Darkeys. Randy, in fact,
Randy, if you jus think about it, jus a little while,
28
all talk about equality— thats jus alotta nonsense.
Why, ewruthin’s equal, jus, them people’s tryina
cause trouble. I’ll tellya why, Randy. Look: You
ready for some xamples? On equality?
Now, at income tax time, don’t you getta chance
to pay income tax same as ewribuddy else?
randy: Yeah.
w hite : Thass equal, ain’t it? Awright. Now, you
gonna hoi up a store— don’t you get the same time
as ennybuddy else does?
randy: Yeah.
w h ite : Thass equal. Awright. Ready for the third
one heah? When it comes time for getting drafted
in the army, don’t you get drafted along with ew ri­
buddy else?
randy: Yeah.
w h ite : Well that’s equal.
randy: Yeah, but, but—but what about the schools
and segregated housing?
w h ite : Well those things take a little time. Ya
cain’t shove evvruthin down people’s throats there,
Randy.
Now I wanna tell ya, heah, heah? Heah heah
heah? N’luk heah. Someday, Randy, up theah, up
theah in Equality Heaven, they’ll all be theah Ran­
dy, the people who believe in it— Zanuck, and Kra­
mer. Thass why they make them pictures, [voice
trembling with emotion] cause, they believe in
equality, Randy, an up theah, it’s gonna happ’n,
cause they caused it, an, an, an then you gonna
be livin in Zanuck’s house with all yo colored
friends, and next dore to Kramer on his property
in Malibu, you be helpin them people, Randy—
polishin dem cahs. . . . Yeah, you— yessir, I’m
gonna tell you buddy it’s gonna be a, it’s gonna
be a Message World, Randy, that’s what it’ll be,
29
Randy, a Message World, and now, speakin of
messages, a message from our sponsuh:
sponsor : Hello out there. Are you tired and run
down? Do you lack the strength to throw that rope
up over a limb and put in a full day of lynching?
If so, try high-potency Lynch-em-all. And now,
back to our film.
w h ite : Y ou know what’s rotten, Randy?
randy: What?
white : With all this screamin heah we haven’t said
a damn thing in this picture yet.
randy: Wait a minute. When you say “yet,” re­
member you’re off to a good start, because “yet”
has only three letters.
white fpensively]: I never thought of it that way.
Maybe if ewryone in the world knew that “yet”
only had three letters it would be a different world,
Randy. If they knew that “yet” only had three
letters an “knish” had five letters, it would be a
world of three-letter and five-lettuh “yet-knishes.”
[Passionately] You’d like to say it, wouldnya,
Randy?
randy [whispers]: Yeah.
w h ite : Say it, buddy.
randy [Pauses. This means so much to him. Final­
ly . . .]: Yet-knish!
w h ite : Lemme say it withya. Say it togethuh:
both : Yet-knish, yet-knish! [begin to sing “Yet-
knish” to the tune of a hymn]
w hite : Kugel. Say it, Randy: Kugel.
randy: Kugel.
w h ite : Goddamn, you say that good Randy. Yet-
knish-kugel.
randy: Yet, yet-knish-kugel.
white [screaming]: Jus yell it out, Randy! Say it,
Randy!
30
 randy [screams]: Yet-knish-kugel!
white [screams]: GODDAMN IT MAKES YA
FEEL CLEAN, DON’T IT? Boy, Randy, think
of jus runnin round the whole world, and yelling
that. We just run over to Rooshia, then tell all them
Eyetalians about it an jus scream at ewryone and
jus run over theah and jus yell, “Yet-knish-kugel,
Mr. Khrushchev!” Boy, they’d really know it then,
wouldn’t they, buddy? An then, Randy, it won’t
mattuh, it won’t mattuh any more even if you are
colored and I’m Jewish, and even if Fritz is Japa­
nese, and Wong is Greek, because then, Randy,
we’re all gonna stick togethuh— and beat up the
Polacks!

I got white shoes now. I really like them. This is the

first present I ever got. The guy said to me, he said, “I
really dug your work and I wanna give you a pair of
shoes.”
I felt colored. Cause that’s what they gave colored
people— shoes. Shoes, or, “I’ll give you a jacket.”
Dig. Oh boy, I really thought of a good bit. Paul
Krassner, he’s editor of a newspaper, and he’s married to
this chick and she says to me, they’re talking about
help, you know, like domestic help, and the wife says
to me, “You know, every time we have a girl in clean­
ing, he’s always— he placates them, very obsequiously.
He lifts up the vacuum cleaner, and he does as much
work as the chick does.” And I wondered, Why? I
wondered if— not that he’s a good guy— but if he had
guilt for his mother and father, who exploited the shit
out of those people. Those schnorer bits: “Oh you’ll do
this and this, and here’s a bit of schnapps for this and
this.”
But there’s no more “help” help. Negroes knew that,
that you were considered schwarzes, second-rate help.
31
The Negro’s gone now. Puerto Ricans? Too much gar­
bage to get them to help us. So there’s nobody left.
Would any contemporary Negro serve you fried chicken
and watermelon? I doubt it. Nor would they send their
children to tap-dancing school to entertain Boss Charley.
It’s possible that in ten years the Negro will be out of
the entertainment industry. And the replacement? Per­
haps that’s why Pat O’Brien is at Basin Street East.

How the Negro got into show business— here’s how

I figure it. The Negro had a boss that worked him
twenty hours a day. So he wanted to get off for a couple
of hours:
negro : How’m I gonna just cool this guy out?
How’m I gonna stop for about eight hours a day?
. . . I don’t feel good!
boss: Bullshit! Back to work.
negro : My kid’s sick!
boss: Bullshit! Back to work.
negro [sings]: Hmm hmm, yessuh, my Lord, yes-
suh . . .
boss: Hey, I didn’t know you guys could sing!
What the hell is that? Come over here.
negro [sings]: Hmm, yessuh, my Lord . . .
boss: Hey, these guys are O.K.! Come on, put that
hoe down. Let’s see. Lemme hear that again. Get
. some more in.
negro [sings]: Yessuh, my Lo-o-o-ord . . .
He kept singing, singing— a party, right? And the weeds
are growing up over the people. . . .
negro [singing]: Yessuh, my lord.
And they split.

O.K. We’re gonna do a tune now. Lovely tune. We’re

gonna do all these bits on the Art Linkletter show, by
32
the way. Ah, P eny Como, they’ll let us— Jack Paar’ll let
us do these bits, sure . . .
first west indies negro voice : Well Buck, we
gwine to Hebben, on de boat an de lebby. What
is de fust ting dot you gwine—
dats getting some West Indian talk too, man, some
high class dere. That’s good really in-out, in-out—
What’s de fust ting you gwine do when you gwine
up dere to Hebbin?
second west Indian voice : Well mister, the fust
ting I gwine do when I gwine get to Hebbin, is fine
out what a “gwine” is.
first voice : Fine out what a “gwine” is?
second voice : Yeah.
first voice : Whaddaya gwine do when you get
that gwine?
second voice : I’m gonna schtup dat gwine.
first voice : Y ou gwine schtup a gwine?
second voice : Yup. I ’m gonna schtup a gwine.
first voice : Y ou gonna tote dat barge and schtup
dat gwine.
[both voices sing]
You gonna tote that barge and schtup that gwine,
Yes, Lord, yes.
Gonna tote that barge and schtup that gwine,
Yes, Lord, yes.
Gonna tote that barge and schtup that gwine,
Yes, Lord, yes.
southern white trash voice : N ow we gonna
sing a song, folks. It’s a patriotic song. And it tells
a stawry.
BOTH voices: Don’t forget, folks, To Play The
Star Spangled Banner, It Takes Both The White
Keys And The Darkeys.
Poor Richard’s Almanac.
33
[both voices]:
Damn your ass, Mr. Stalin,
Don’t come foolin’ round over here,
Cause iffin you come foolin’ round over here.
We’re gonna come foolin round over there.

And Texas is the best state in the Union.

Now Adolph Hitler, and Hirohito,
They tried it too, and Mussolini,
And then Eyetalians— damn their asses too.
Damn their asses too.

Damn your ass, Mr. Stalin—

Keep America free, for democracy,
Keep America free, for democracy,
Keep America free, for democracy;
And keep the Jews and the niggersssss—
Outta Tennessee!
Keep the Jews and the niggers outta Tennessee,
Keep the Jews and the niggers outta Tennessee,
Keep the Jews and the niggers outta Tennessee!

34
 Jews

Eichmann really figured, you know, “The Jews— the

most liberal people in the world— they’ll give me a fair
shake.” Fair? Certainly. “Rabbi” means lawyer. He’ll
get the best trial in the world, Eichmann. Ha! They were
shaving his leg while he was giving his appeal! That’s
the last bit of insanity, man.

Come on down, Christ and Moses, come on down!

I bet you, when Christ and Moses return, the shules
have had it first.
Saturday they would make every kind of shule— a
drive-in shule, Frank Lloyd Wright shule, West Coast
shule. West Coast? Santa Monica—there is that
A-frame shule that they just put the statues in:
“Are you putting a madonna in the shule?”
“Yes, it’s contemporary, that’s all.”
“Whew! Don’t figure out, man . . . that’s, uh,
they supposed to have one?”
West Coast reform shule. Reform rabbi. So reformed
they’re ashamed they’re Jewish. Rabbis that had this
kind of sound:
“Heyyy, mein Liebe, heyyyyy . . ”
35
These rabbis have turned into doctors of law. And
they’ve lost their beards, because they were called beat­
niks. And now they have this sound:
REFORMED rabbi [Clipped, hearty, good-fellow
British articulation] -. Ha ha! This sabbath we dis­
cuss Is-roy-el. Where is Is-roy-el? Quench yon
flaming yortsite candle! Alas, alas, poor Yossel
. . . Deah deah deah! Today, on Chin-ukka, with
Rose-o-shonah approaching, do you know, some­
one had the chutz-pah to ask me,
“Tell me something, doctor of law, is there a
god, or not?”
What cheek! To ask this in a temple! We’re not
here to talk of God— we’re here to sell bonds for
Israel! Remember that! A pox upon you, Christ
and Moses! Go among them and kiss your empty
mezuzahs.
j e w : Rabbi, that was a beautiful speech!
rabbi [Jewish accent]: Danksalot. Ya like dot? Vat
de hell, tossetoff de top mine head, dot’s all. Und
tsi gurnischt.”
So Moses is depressed. The shules are gone. No more
shules. He breaks open a mezuzah— nothing inside!
“GEVULT!”
But a piece of paper that says
“Made in Japan.”

It’s weird. I met a guy the other night, I wanted to, you
know, relax him. He was very La Boheme, he had the
beard, you know. So, I used to talk in a hip idiom, so
I started talking.
I said, “What’s shakin, man?”
And he started talking Jewish! He was a rabbi! Said,
“Gurnischt, health!” And he gave me a couple of pills.

Now the Jews celebrate this holiday, Rose-o-shonah and

36
Yom-Ky-Poor, where they, actually, they celebrate the
killing of Christ. Underground. You know, when they
all get loaded, and you know, they just
“Oh ho ho! We killed him! Ho hoi More Chicken
soup! Oh ho ho ho!”
You know, kids running around with wooden sticks in
the backyard:
“C’mon. Come up the hill! Come up the hill to
Gethsemane!”
You know.

I think that’s the challenge— that the Jews want to sit

for Jehovah. They’re wrestling for the position all the
time. They want to be the right-hand man, sitting at the
gate.
But Filipinos know this for sure: that as beautifully
liberal as any Jewish mother is— she’ll march in every
parade— yet, let the daughter bring home a nice, re­
spectable Filipino son-in-law, with a nice, long, black
foreskin and a gold tooth—
“Ma, this is my new husband. I met him at college.”
“Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh!”
“He’s a very sensitive man, and he’s Phi Beta
Kappa.”
"Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh!”
That’s all. Yeah.

I got this tattoo in Malta, in the Mediterranean, in 1942.

So my aunt, she looks at it, you know, and there’s a
thing, you know— Orthodox Jews, you can’t be buried
in a Jewish cemetery with a tattoo. That’s the truth. You
have to go out of the world just the way you came in,
with no changes— which certainly, the Rabbi, I dunno
how that figures in there; they keep philosophizing and
say, “It’s not ours to question.”
So she sees this, you know, so she looks— I dunno
37
 what it was, I was washing— so she looks, you know,
she goes
“Vaghhhh! Vaghhhhh!”
It’s a Jewish seagull—
“Look vat you did!
You got aunts who talk that way, like parakeets—
“Hah! Hah! Lenny! Vat you did! You ruined your
arm! Vy’d you do that? You can’t be buried in a
Jewish cemetery.”
I said,
“So what are you buggin me? They’ll cut this arm
off, they’ll bury it in a Gentile cemetery. Don’t
nudge me any more.”
She was really weird. You know, the mole with hair in
it, her breath always smelled from onion rolls, you
know?
“Don’t kiss me, Mema, I don’t like to kiss people.
Lemme alone.”

Look at that [j / i o w s a painting]. Do you like that? I

painted it. I did it.
LITTLE BOV: Do you like it Ma?
J ewish mother : Eh, it’s nice.
boy: Whaddaya mean it’s nice, Ma? Do you, do
you really like it?
mother : I like it, I like it.
boy: But I mean, don’t just say you like it, Ma.
Do you get any feeling from it?
mother : It’s very nice.
boy: N o. Don’t just tell me it’s nice. Whaddaya dig
about the painting?
mother : I like it because— 7 like it because you
stay home when you paint, that’s why!
H a ha! A real momma’s hearts kind of scene.

Faye Bainter, Andy Hardy’s mother, screwed up every

38
mother in the world. She really did, man. Dig, who
can be like Faye Bainter, man? Faye Bainter was al­
ways in the kitchen sweeping with an apron. And
Anglo-Saxon— and my mother was sweating and Jew­
ish and hollering, man. Why couldn’t she be like Faye
Bainter? And that’s what everyone wants their mother
to be. And she was a virgin. Yeah, she never balled
anyone because old Louis Stone would say, “Andrew,"
and that was all, man. Unless there was some kind of
pollination that way— through dates or some esoteric,
mystical thing, yeah. So that’s some heavy propaganda,
man.

Now we take you to a young boy who’s returning home

from Fort Loeb. But first we dissolve to the interior of
the home, on Second Avenue.
J ewish mother : Veil, jus’ tink. Soon, he’ll be
home. Our boy’s comink home from military
school. I saved every penny vot ve had to bring
him der success dot der outside vorld vud neffer
gif him Ah, soon our boy vill be home, from over­
seas in Delaware.
Now dissolve to the kid, on the steps, going through the
trauma of going home:
kid [Zvy League voice]: I don’t wanna be there
with those Mockies! I don’t wanna look at them
anymore, with their onion-roll breaths. I found
something new at Fort Loeb, and a girl who doesn’t
know anything about the Lower East Side.
Cut to parting scene by the cannon on the hilltop:
kid : I ’m going now, darling, but I’ll be back.
Now back at the apartment:
kid : Hello, Mom.
mom [overpoweringly]: Hello dollink!
kid : Aaaaggh!
m om : What’s da matta vit chew?
39
 kid: Nothing, Mother. I’m just so excited about
seeing Bellevue and Zeder, I just don’t know how
to say . . .
m o m : Awright, you’ll siddown, you’ll have some
soup get into.
kid : It’s not like that Philadelphia scrapnet school.
Bronx mockie! Aaagghh! [briskly] Well, Taddy, I
have to run back now to school and I hope that
you and your people . . .

Now that’s another thing that you sense— a street Arab.

I am of a Semetic background— I assume I’m Jewish. A
lot of Jews who think they’re Jewish are not— they’re
switched babies.
Now, a Jew, in the dictionary, is one who is descended
from the ancient tribes of Judea, or one who is regarded
as descended from that tribe. That’s what it says in the
dictionary; but you and I know what a Jew is— One
Who Killed Our Lord. I don’t know if we got much press
on that in Illinois— we did this about two thousand
years ago— two thousand years of Polack kids whacking
the shit out of us coming home from school. Dear, dear.
And although there should be a statute of limitations
for that crime, it seems that those who neither have the
actions nor the gait of Christians, pagan or not, will
bust us out, unrelenting dues, for another deuce.
And I really searched it out, why we pay the dues.
Why do you keep breaking our balls for this crime?
“Why, Jew, because you skirt the issue. You blame
it on Roman soldiers.”
Alright. I’ll clear the air once and for all, and confess.
Yes, we did it. I did it, my family. I found a note in my
basement. It said:
“We killed him.
signed,
Morty.”
40
And a lot of people say to me,
“Why did you kill Christ?”
“I dunno . . . it was one of those parties, got out
of hand, you know.”
We killed him because he didn’t want to become a doc­
tor, that’s why we killed him.
Or maybe it would shock some people, some people
who are involved with the dogma, to say that we killed
him at his own request, because he knew that people
would exploit him. In his name they would do all sorts
of bust-out things, and bust out people. In Christ’s name
they would exploit the flag, the Bible, and— whew! Boy,
the things they’ve done in his name!
This routine always goes good in Minnesota, with
about two Jews in the audience.
But he’s going to get it if he comes back. Definitely.
He’s going to get killed again, because he made us pay
so many dues. So he’s going to get whacked out. And
you can tell that to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who have
all those dates. As soon as he comes back, whacked
out again.

Now, a lot of people say, “Well, that’s certainly not a

very nice attitude, you know. You’ll bring back the
racial hatred.” But I’m going to tell you something about
that. See, I neologize Jewish and goyish. There’s like, the
literal meaning—first I’ll start with goyish, cause it’ll
really knock you out. Dig this. Goy— “one who is not
civilized, one who is not Mormon, one who is not Jew­
ish.” It’s “heathen,” that’s what goyish means. Now, a
Jew— dictionary style— “one who is descended from the
ancient tribes of Judea, or one who is regarded to have
descended from that tribe.”
Now I neologize Jewish and goyish. Dig: I’m Jewish.
Count Basie’s Jewish. Ray Charles is Jewish. Eddie Can­
tor’s goyish. B’Nai Brith is goyish; Hadassah, Jewish.
41
 Marine corps— heavy goyim, dangerous. Koolaid is goy­
ish. All Drake’s Cakes are goyish. Pumpernickel is
Jewish, and, as you know, white bread is very goyish.
Instant potatoes—goyish. Black cherry soda’s very Jew­
ish, Macaroons are very Jewish— very Jewish cake. Fruit
salad is Jewish. Lime jello is goyish. Lime soda is very
goyish. Trailer parks are so goyish that Jews won’t go
near them. Jack Paar Show is very goyish. Underwear
is definitely goyish. Balls are goyish. Titties are Jewish.
Mouths are Jewish. All Italians are Jewish. Greeks are
goyish— bad sauce. Eugene O’Neill— Jewish; Dylan
Thomas, Jewish. Steve is goyish, though. It’s the hair.
He combs his hah in the boys’ room with that soap all
the time.

Louis. That’s my name in Jewish. Louis Schneider.

“Why havn’t ya got Louis Schneider up on the
marquee?”
“Well, cause it’s not show business. It doesn’t fit.”
“No, no, I don’t wanna hear that. You Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“You ashamed of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Why you ashamed you’re Jewish?”
“I’m not any more! But it used to be a problem.
Until Playboy Magazine came out.”
Yeah. That’s right. IN— OUT. You just can’t be that
urbane bachelor and drive down the street driving a Jag
or a Lotus yelling “nigger” and “kike.” It don’t fit.
That’s what’s really happened.

Up to about six or seven years ago, there was such a

difference between Christians and Jews, that— maybe
you did know— but, forget about it! Just a line there
that would, whew! And the ‘Brotherhood of Christians
42
and Jews’ was like some fifth column bullshit. I don’t
know, it was like a phony dumb board.
No, I don’t think so— I don’t think Christians did
know it. Because only the group that’s involved— it’s
like: the defense counsel knows it because he has a
narrow view, where the D.A., he’s hung up with a
bigger practice. So it’s the same: the Jew is hung up
with his shit and maybe the Christian— because, when
the Christians say, like, “Oh, is he Jewish? I didn’t
know. I can’t tell when somebody’s Jewish.”
I always thought, “That’s bullshit.”
But he can’t. Cause he never got hung up with that
shit, man. And Jews are very hung up with that, all
the time.

I always try to search out the meaning of any cliches

that attach to any ethnic group. And I ’ve always heard
that stupid bubeh miseh about Jews and all the smut
books, and all. But here’s where all that must come from
— and in part it’s true. Dig. But I have to tell you by
way of a complaint report.
At the Troubadour Theatre in Los Angeles I was
arrested for putting on an allegedly obscene show. Now
the report said, he did a routine that related to his
ex-wife, and he said that his ex-wife was the type of
person who became upset when he walked into the
bathroom while she was “pressing the maid.” “Pressing”
is Yiddish; it means eating. Eating is an act of oral
copulation. So I’m putting on an obscene show. How’s
that for from Tinker to Evans to Chance?
But it ought to continue with, an act of oral copula­
tion is goyish. Because there’s no word in Yiddish that
describes oral copulation. In fact, there are no gutter
phrases in Yiddish— it’s amazing. Homosexuality is
known as “the English disease.” Emmis. There are no
43
 words in Jewish that describe any sexual act— emmis—
or parts, or lusts.
Dig: “schmuck” is a German word. In Yiddish (this
is the official Yiddish dictionary) “schmuck: a yard, a
fool.” So dig what happens, a weird thing happens. The
Jews take it humorously, make a colloquialism out of a
literal word— and some putz who doesn’t understand
what we’re talking about busts you for obscenity.

Dig this. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Jewish

judges, when it comes to obscenity cases, they’re never
the dissent? They’re never swinging for the guy being
not guilty. But Jewish attorneys defend alleged pomog-
raphers. Roth was Jewish. You should think about th a t
Why is that? Are Jews pomographers?
Or is it that the Jew has no concept? To a Jew f-u-c-k
and s-h-i-t have the same value on the dirty-word
graph. A Jew has no concept that f-u-c-k is worth 90
points, and s-h-i-t 10. And the reason for that is that—
well, see, rabbis and priests both s-h-i-t, but only one
f-u-c-ks.
You see, in the Jewish culture, there’s no merit badge
for not doing that. And Jewish attorneys better get hip
to that.
And since the leaders of my tribe, rabbis, are schtup-
pers, perhaps that’s why words come freer to me.

Now, the reason, perhaps, for my irreverence is that

I have no knowledge of the god, because the Jews lost
their god. Really. Before I was bom the god was going
away.
Because to have a god you have to know something
about him, and as a child I didn’t speak the same lan­
guage as the Jewish god.
To have a god you have to love him and know about
him as kids— early instruction— and I didn’t know what
44
he looked like. Our god has no mother, no father, no
manger in the five and ten, on cereal boxes and on tele­
vision shows. The Jewish god— what’s his face? Moses?
Ah, he’s a friend of god’s;
“I dunno. Moses, he’s, I dunno, his uncle, I dun-
no . . .
He has no true identity. Is he a strong God? Are there
little stories? Are there Bible tales about god, that one
god, our faceless god?
The Christian god, you’re lucky in that way, because
you’ve got Mary, a mother, a father, a beginning, the
five-and-ten little mangers— identity. Your god, the
Christian god, is all over. H e’s on rocks, he saves you,
he’s dying on bank buildings—he’s been in three films.
He’s on crucifixes all over. It’s a story you can follow.
Constant identification.
The Jewish god— where’s the Jewish god? He’s on a
little box nailed to the door jamb. In a mezuzah. There
he is, in there. He’s standing on a slant, god. And all the
Jews are looking at him, and kissing him on the way
into the house:
“I told the super don’t paint god! Hey, Super!
C’mere. What the hell’s the matter with you? I told
you twenty times, that’s god there. What’re you
painting god for? My old lady kissed the doorbell
three times this week. You paint here, here, but
don’t paint there, alright? Never mind it’s dirty,
we’ll take care of it. Alright.
Wait a minute . . . Maybe he’s not in there
any more . . . maybe the Puerto Ricans stole
him—they probably would, to make more garbage.
That’s it . . . I dunno what to do . . . You wan­
na open it up? . . . Yeah? . . . We’ll pry it
open, if he’s in there . . . Gevult! They stashed
a joint!”
Now there’s a curtain line for great Jewish theatre.
45
This would be a capper on Broadway. The old Jewish
couple, there they are, they open up the mezuzah, and
the guy goes:
“Gevult! They stashed a joint!”
Boom! Curtain.
That’s vernacular for a marijuana cigarette. You’d
make a bad vice officer, for Chrissake:
“They what? They what? What?”
“Ah, putzo, shut up! Just forget about it. Just get hot,
and that’s it.”

A mezuzah is a Jewish chapstick. That’s why they’re al­

ways kissing it when they go out.

The Puerto Ricans, their dues—what’s their eccentrici­

ty? They love garbage, oh yeah.
“They love garbage! Are you kidding? Puerto Ri­
cans, they bring it from Puerto Rico! And they
take the garbage and they have it on a string—
they won’t let people throw it away. They put it on
the street like flowers. Puerto Rican garbage. There
it is. They disperse it. Ya think they throw it away?
No, change it around, different neighborhoods.
Nice garbage. Puerto Rico, garbage. Roll in it, and
love it, and hug it and kiss it.”
Actually, the Collier brothers were Puerto Rican.

The Puerto Ricans are bad, bad, bad. We were bad,

once, too, the Jews. Bad Jews once. Our bad label was
that we were capable of screwing everyone.
You know why Jews are the smartest people in the
world? Cause everybody told them that, for years:
"They’ll screw ya, you can’t trust em, they’ll screw
everybody!”
And the schmucks really believed it:
“That’s right. We’re the smartest people— screw
46
 anybody! Goddamn right, we’re smart! We’ll screw
everybody. Boy, we’ll screw them all. We’re so
smart.”

“Dave Brabeck— he gets ten grand a night! Isn’t

that amazing?”
“Jewish— they all do that, you know.”

It’s all in the goyish mezuzah, the white plastic statue.

Break the head ofi and you open it up and there it is.

A schicka is a goy. That’s right. That was the concept

in the late thirties, that was the Jewish phrase. It meant,
literally, a Christian is a drunk. That was the concept
of all Jews that I knew then, that Christians were drunks.
And that Jewish mothers were the only mothers, and
Christian mothers sold their children for bottles of whis­
ky. And all their kids had grape jelly on their underwear
and rotten teeth. They even had rotten teeth on their
underwear. That was the badge of all Christians—they
had rotten teeth.
I’ll bet you that if I got a chance to listen at the Chris­
tian window I would have heard some “schicka is a
goy” in reverse. But I never got a chance to pass, cause
you never catch them without the mask on.
That’s weird. You never do catch the people— once
Belli got caught with the mask off. That’s a drag. Melvin
Belli. Yeah. Every once in a while, you know, if some
guy’s whacking out his old lady, or just some dumb
scene, he does get caught: like you drop peaches on the
floor and you’re eating them and somebody comes in the
room. Just that, kind of, caught with the mask off.
Once in a while you hear, “You mockie bastard!”
Or, “The goyiml” But just once in a while.

You know, Ruby did it, and why he did it was because
47
 he was Jewish— and the villain was his grandmother.
I really want to tell you that. I want to tell Christians
that, you know. I can tell it to you because it’s all over
now. I wouldn’t cop out when it was going on; but it is
all over now.
Why Ruby did it. You see, when I was a kid I had
tremendous hostility for Christians my age. The reason
I had the hostility is that I had no balls for fighting, and
they could duke. So I disliked them for it, but I admired
them for it—it was a tremendous ambivalence all the
time: admiring somebody who could do that, you know,
and then disliking them for it. Now the neighborhood I
came from there were a lot of Jews, so there was no
big problem with a balls-virility complex.
But Ruby came from Texas. They’re really concerned
with “bawls”— they got ninety-year-old men biting rat­
tlesnakes’ heads off! And shooting guns! And a Jew in
Texas is a tailor. So what went on in Ruby’s mind, I’m
sure, is that
“Well, if / kill the guy that killed the president,
the Christians’ll go:
'Whew! What bawls he had, hey? We always
thought the Jews were chickenshit, but look at
that! See, a Jew at the end, saved everybody!’ ”
And the Christians’ll kiss him and hug him and they’ll
lift him on high. A JEWISH BILLY TH E KID RODE
OUT OF THE WEST!
But he didn’t know that was just a fantasy from his
grandmother, the villain, telling him about the Christians
who punch everybody.
Yeah. Even the shot was Jewish—the way he held
the gun. It was a dopey Jewish way. He probably went
“Nach!”, too— that means “There!” in Jewish. Nach!

Italians and Jews— I can report that culture best—they

don’t hit their old ladies. They don’t punch them; but
48
they’re pinchers, and they grab their arms as though
they won’t hurt them, and squeeze a little extra. But
Anglo-Saxons are rifle people— they shoot their old
ladies.
Now, Italians are really tough to get away from.
Oh yeah. If you’re married for ten years, chick has
a lotta dues. You got to start maybe, oh, three years
before, just getting ready to split. You start out with
things like
“Listen, Rocko, there’s nobody else. I want you to
know that. But I just, someday I just want to get
away . . . and think. There’s nobody else! N o­
body else, I just want to get away, I just want a
little, maybe a convent! Maybe a nun’ll come and
pick me up and take me in a car, and I’ll be
watched, and examined every day by a doctor . . .
and I’ll just think. . . . But there’s nobody else!”
And maybe, maybe the chick will get away. Maybe, and
escape the spitting on the windows and clothes getting
cut up.
Alright. Now, the first thing that Italians and Jews
do, they malign the old lady’s reputation:
“That piece of shit! I didn’t tell ya about her. She
was a lesbian— I didn’t tell ya that either. And she
screwed Paul Robeson’s nephew, too. And, ah, you
better have paper cups over here, too— you know
what else she does, I didn’t tell ya that either.”
And he calls up her mother, the final touch:
“You wanna hear what a cunt your daughter is?”
Vicious poison, poison, poison, and more poison.

Chutzpah: I ’ll show you pictorially what it means: Life

Magazine did a recap of what they consider the groovi-
est-looking chicks of the last twenty-five years. They
started here with Katy Stevens, Gina Lolabrigida, Rita
Hayworth. Then they keep building— Janet Leigh, Grace
49
Kelly, to Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepbum, just really
groovy-looking chicks. And they build and build in a
crescendo, to the end chick— they give her a full page,
True Beauty, and this is it, man— Jackie Kennedy! Now
that’s what chutzpah means. A chick like that could
hitchhike from coast to coast and not be molested.

How The Jew Got Into Show Business.

The Jew had a hip boss, the Egyptian, oh yeah.
Couldn’t bullshit the Egyptian, you know. No, he was
pretty slick. But the Jew kept working at it, working at
being charming.
Egyptian : Never mind the horseshit, thank you.
We got the pyramids to build, and that’s where it’s
at. Gonna get it up, takes your generation, next
generation, do a nice workmanlike job here.”
j e w : Oh thank you, thank you.”
Egyptian : Get outta here with that horseshit! Now
stop it now!”
But the Jew kept working at it, working at being charm­
ing. And he got so slick at it—he never carried it off—
but he honed his arguments so good, he got so good at
it, that that was his expertise:
Egyptian : These Jews got bullshit that don’t quit!
I mean, it’s an art with them. C’mon. Let’s go
watch a Jew be charming. Hey! Jew! Do that
charming bit for us, there. We know you’re bull­
shitting, but you do it so good we get a kick out
of it. Do it for us, will ya please?”
See? That was it, and he was on his way.
Now dig the switch-around. Now the Jew gets into
show business. And, he writes motion pictures, he’s
making the images— he has the film industry knocked up
— he controls it! And the Jew naturally writes what he
thinks is pretty, what he thinks is ugly— and it’s amaz­
ing, but you never see one Jewish bad guy in the movies.
50
Not ever a Jewish villain, man. Gregory Peck, Paul
Muni— haha! It’s wonderful! Who’s the bad guy? The
goyim! The Irish!
And you see a lot of pictures about Christ— a ton of
religious pictures, in the most respectful position. And
the reason that is, I’m sure, it’s the way the Jew’s saying,
“I’m sorry.” That’s where it’s at.

51
 Religions Inc.; Catholicism; Christ and
Moses; and the Lone Ranger
Who wants to hear first? See, walk, and everything
like that?
I really am Father Flotsky. Yeah, I was a Catholic
priest for about two and a half years. Emmis. And I
really dug it. The only hangup is that— well, the re­
ligion is consistent, but the confessions are really a bore.
Whew! Ridiculous, man. It’s the same scene again and
again.
I’ve talked to a lot of ex-priests, and I ’ll say, “How
come you quit the gig?”
And they’ll all tell you the same reason: it’s confes­
sions. One out of fifty is sexually stimulating, but the
rest— whew! It’s the same trite crap over and over, week
after week:
“Look, why don’t you come up with a new story
already? Were you here two months ago? Are you
the bloomers-smeller?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong? Look, there’s nothing wrong with
smelling bloomers. But you like to tell me that
story, you meschugenah. That don’t get me hot.
52
 You always come in here,
‘Oh God, I smelled bloomuhs.’
They’re bloomers! Whatsa matter? They’re your
own bloomers, we found out. You wash them out
and they’re clean bloomers. And if you wanna
smell ’em it’s up to you. But don’t confess it to me,
and then say to me at the end of the story,
‘How’d ya like dat?’
I don’t like it. It’s not disgusting, it’s silly. And I
got a lot of people waiting outside with some real
good stories for me. If you could come up with one
horny story, maybe. But it’s always the same bit:
you choked a chicken, you did it to a horse, you
smelled bloomers. You’re a weirdo! I dunno.”
These bastards come in like they think they’ve got new
stories all the time. And a lot of them make it up, too.
A lot of horseshit:
“Weren’t you here last month?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do, every month you come back
here? Just come to the homy part and get outta
here! That’s all, man.”
And I got busted, cause I taped one of them. Yeah.
Made an album, Horny Sounds From A Booth.

Cardinal Spellman in Denver said that the sin of por­

nography— this really just whipped me right up out of
my chair—the sin of pornography is that it ends in self-
gratification. Pssshheeeew! That’s a definition of pru­
rient? Something that ends up in self-gratification!
Now here’s another case where we’re innocent, ig­
norant. Jews don’t know about that because most Jew­
ish psychiatrists have been justifying masturbation. So
these are the two different cultures. So how am I going
to ever know that pornography, something that leads to
self-gratification, is— ? Then I did some thinking. That
53
people bullshit him— Spellman— in their confessions.
How would he know about the people, but from what
the people tell him? Would they lie to him? In truth,
they would lie. I don’t think they would confess the
real sins that are laying heavy on the heart:
sinner : Father, father I want to confess that I
punch my eight-year-old son with the same force
that I’d punch a drunk. The reason I punched him
that hard is he was cruel to the cat— the cat that
I put in a burlap bag and drowned. But I wanna
say that I gave him a good home. I also exploit the
church and crippled people and blind people, and
screw the income tax people too.
No, I would surely confess the childhood sins.

The only the religion, actually, is Catholicism. I mean,

as far as strength— Patamonza Yogananda’s cute, but
The Church, that’s i t Catholic Church is really power
power power.

I’ve been really interested in Catholicism lately. I

figured out what it is. It’s like, there’s more churches
and people that work for the church than I think there
are courthouses and judges. So actually, what it is,
Catholicism is like Howard Johnson, and what they have
are these franchises and they give all these people differ­
ent franchises in the different countries but they have
one government, and when you buy the Howard Johnson
franchise you can apply it to the geography—whatever’s
cool for that area— and then you, you know, pay the
bread to the main office. And you have to, you know,
keep a certain standard. Which is cool. But it is definitely
a government by itself.
And I think that’s what we’re doing in Vietnam.
Because the Communists are a threat to those jobs.
That’s where it’s at, man, you know? And I think that’s
54
what it’s always been— that those two factions are al­
ways bitching and fighting with each other, and so
actually we have the Catholic government inside our
government, and they have this bitch with the Com­
munists, because they’re always fighting over the work,
you know, and they take over and do them out of their
gig-

Ha! Dig. Now, I know, just from the reaction, that a

good sixty per cent of this audience is Catholic. Isn’t that
strange? I know that you’re Catholic— this gentleman
here. This lady probably.
I don’t indict Catholicism anymore, cause I suddenly
woke up one day and said, “Well, Christ, I can’t knock
Catholicism because I’m not an ex-Catholic, I don’t
know it. The same as Communism. I can’t say I’d rather
be dead than Red unless I was an ex-Commie. Unless
I know what’s happening with it.
The thing with Catholicism, the same as all religions,
is that it teaches what should be, which seems rather
incorrect. This is “what should be.” Now, if you’re
taught to live up to a “what should be” that never ex­
isted— only an occult superstition, no proof of this
“should be”—then you can sit on a jury and indict
easily, you can cast the first stone, you can bum Adolf
Eichmann, like that!
There’s no right or wrong. Wrong means, Lost.

The Ecumenical Council has given the Pope permission

to become a nun. Just on Fridays, though.

The Pope is too much. Looks like the Birdman of

Alcatraz and Eichmann combined. He’s really cute. He’s
like a little bird. Spellman looks like Shirley Temple—
that’s what I got in trouble for in New York, for saying
55
that; but a priest told me that, that’s what burns me up.
That’s what really pisses me off.

I feel the Pope is devout. He’s a good man, and I

believe he is sincere. But what’s the job of religion? To
relate to mother, father, family; and he can do it in The
Vatican and around that area, but he can’t run his busi­
ness six thousand miles away.
The Pope cannot help American Catholics, cause to
help you he has to know you. No brain surgeon can
pick up a book and just do it—he’s gotta have flying
time. The Pope does not know about American Catho­
lics. He doesn’t know how to gear down a Porsche, he
can’t work a cigarette machine, doesn’t know about
Bank Americard— doesn’t know about any of your
problems.
And the big issue, contraceptives—he never makes
it with anybody! He lives in a state of celibacy, and I
respect him for this, but he cannot relate to a problem
about it, then, if he is that far removed from it, man.

I always wonder if he’s gonna come in and see me one

night. He could, and nobody would know it, man:
“I want to see this boy”
You know, he comes in:
“Well, you’re not gonna go in that outfit!”
Dig. They give him a Howard’s suit. Comes in, sits
down— cause he is a sweet man, a humble man, like all
prophets and teachers, right? And he would cool it and
watch me, too.
Angelo, the m aitre’d, would give it all away, though,
kneeling there.
What if I was one of those comics who involve the
audience?
“And what’s your name, sir? And your name? Your
name?”
56
And he’s a man of truth:
“Pope Pius.”
I’d figure that was another Henry Wilson bit, like Rock
Hudson, Rip Tom— Pope Pius.

You know, my attorney in Chicago told me, “Don’t

have a priest, because they’ll get two bishops, and you’ll
have to get three monseigneurs”— and that’s my last
case ace:
legal voice : Who’s that little guy over there? I
seen him somewhere.
defense attorney : Paul, don’t wear the hat, just
put that away.
legal voice : Alright, swear in your name.
po pe : GOWANUS VOBISCUM SPIRITUM [be­
gins blessing everyone]
defense attorney : Paul, are you gonna be sworn
in and stop that!
He owes me a favor, and that’s all. Would that be
weird? Would they flip out?

Every day people are straying away from the church

and going back to God. Really.
But I know that Christ and Moses are in heaven, and
they’re saying,
“What the hell are they doing with The Book?
They’re shoving it in motel drawers? Let’s make
Earth!”
Come on down, Christ and Moses, Come on down!
Come on down.
And they’re going to come down. They’re going to
come down, and they’re going to make you pay some
dues, you people who believe:
“This is Chet Huntley with Christ and Moses in
New York. And Mike Wallace. Tell me some­
thing: the fellow throwing up on the waitress’s
57
 tits over there— ah, it’s getting a little ridiculous
working in this shithouse! You wanna break it
up? . .
Christ and Moses standing in the back of St. Pat’s,
looking around. Confused, Christ is, at the grandeur of
the interior, the baroque interior, the rocoque baroque
interior. Because his route took him through Spanish
Harlem, and he was wondering what the hell fifty Puerto
Ricans were doing living in one room when that stained
glass window is worth ten G’s a square foot? And this
guy had a ring worth eight grand. Why weren’t the
Puerto Ricans living here? That was the purpose of
church— for the people.
Spellman is up on the lectern—played by Ed Begley
— telling about giving to the people and loving, Love,
Christian love, that is nothing but forgiveness and no
hostility. Bishop Sheen— played by Hugh Herbert—
spots Christ and Moses standing in the back arguing
back and forth, and runs up to Spellman on the lectern:
sheen [whispers]: Pssst! Spellman! C’mon down
here, I gotta talk to you! They’re here!
s p e llm a n [whispering]: Get back to the black­
board, dum-dum, and stop bugging me.
sheen : Dum-dum your ass! You better get down
here.
O.K. Put the choir on for ten minutes.
spellman : Hey, putzo, whaddaya mean, running
up in the middle of a bit like that?
sheen : Oh, it’s terrible terrible terrible. They’re
here! They’re here! Ohhh, owwwww! They’re here
they’re here they’re really here!
spellm an : Who’s here?
sheen : Who’s here? I’m here, you’re here.
spellm an : You’re not all there.
sheen : Hoo-hoo! It’s here, it’s here.
spellm an : Who’s here?
58
sheen : Y ou better sit down, you’re gonna faint.
Ready for a shocker? Christ and Moses, schmuck,
that’s who’s here.
spellman : Oh bullshit! Are you putting me on,
now? Where?
sheen : They’re standing in the back—don’t look
now, you idiot! They can see us.
spellman : Which ones are they?
sheen : The one’s that’re glowing. Hoo! Glowing!
Terrible.
spellman : Are you sure it’s them?
sheen : I’ve just seen ’em in pictures, but I’m
pretty sure— Moses is a ringer for Charlton
Heston.
spellman : Are they armed?
sheen : I dunno.
spellman : Poor box locked?
sheen : Yeah. I’ll grab the box and meet you round
the back!
spellman : N o, we better just cool it. You better
get me Rome, quickly. Now what the hell do they
want here?
sheen : Maybe they want to audit the books?
spellman : N o, I don’t think so. Well, we’re in
for it now, Goddamnit! Did Christ bring the family
with him? What’s the mother’s name? . . . Hurry
up with Rome! . . . If we just cool it, maybe we
can talk to them. . . . Don’t tell anyone they’re
here . . . Oh, shit! Who copped out they’re here?
sheen : Why?
sp e llm a n : Why? Schmuck, look at the front door!
sheen : What’s the matter?
spellman : What’s the matter? Putz! Here come
the lepers!
sheen : Where the hell do they live around here?
Oh, Christ!
59
 spellman : Phew! Alright. Get me Rome. Hurry
up------
[Cheerful loud voice] Hello, lepers! How are
you? Hello lepers, hello lepers. [Sings] Hello, young
lepers wherever you are. . . . Howareya? Look, ah,
nuttin personal, but, ah, don’t touch anything,
O.K.? Heh heh. That’s right. No offense, but, what
the hell, you can pick up anything—you might
get something from us! Heh heh. Right? So, ah,
why don’t you all get outside and get some air?
O.K.? Pick up your nose, your foot and your arm,
and split. That’s right . . . Now look, whatta you
doing? You waiting for St. Francis? Look, I’m
gonna level with you right now—that’s a bullshit
story. He never kissed any lepers. He just danced
with two merchant marines and we kicked him
the hell outta the parish. That’s all. What the hell
you wanna kiss a leper for? Put yourself in our
place. Would you kiss a leper? What the hell are
ya gonna get outta that? Awright? That’s alotta
bullshit— you try to kiss ’em and they fall apart.
Kissing lepers— you know how Ben H ut’s mother
and sister got leprosy, don’t ya? They didn’t put
paper on the seats, that’s all. Now come on, haul
ass! Can’t you be nice, you people? Just get the hell
outta here!
[Talking into phone] Hullo, John? . . . Fran,
New York. Listen, a coupla the kids dropped in.
. . . You bet your ass you know them. . . . Ah,
well, I can’t really talk now, there’s alotta people.
It’s really filling up here. . . . Well, one kid is like
[sings] “With the cross of blank blank . . .” No,
not Z orro!. . . Yes, him. Yeah.. . . I ’m not kidding
you. . . . Yes, he brought a very attractive Jewish
boy with him— excuse me. [Off phone] What is it?
60
 reporters : Ah, we’re from Life Magazine, and
we want to know if that’s really them.
spellman : Ah, just a moment— Sonny, will you
get off my hem here?— Yes, that is them. . . . No,
I don’t know if they’re gonna do any tricks.
[Back to phone] Hullo? . . . They’re standing
in back, way in the back. . . . Course they're white!
Look, this is New York City, mister, Puerto Ricans
stand in the back . . . Look, I don’t wanna hear
that. This place is filling up. What’re we paying
protection for? . . . I dunno . . . Look, all I know’s
that I’m up to my ass in crutches and wheelchairs
here!”

We take you now to the headquarters of Religions

Incorporated. And, seated around the desk on Madison
Avenue, sit the new religious leaders of our country:
Oral Roberts, Olin Jaggers, Billy Graham, Patamunzo
Yogananda, Herb Jeffries, Danny Thomas and Eddie
Cantor, Jane Russell, Frances Farmer, Pat O’Brien, and
General Samoff and the other people who feel insecure
in industry.
As we listen closely, the Dodge-Plymouth dealers have
just had their annual raffle, and they’ve just given away
a 1958 Catholic church.
Religion, big business. We hear H. A. Allen address­
ing the tight little group on Madison Avenue:
[Southern accent]: Good evening, gentlemen. Nice
to see so many boys heah tonight. Most of yew
religious leaders ah haven’t seen in many yeuhs.
Ah jus wus tawkin ta Billi this aftuhnoon. Ah
said, “Billi yew come a lawng way, sweetie, lawng
way.” Who woulda thawt back in ’31— we were
hustlin baby pittures then, an shingles an siding.
We’re swingin, yew know— we didn’t know what-
thehell we doin. The c.c. camps were stahtina
61
move, yeah. Ah didn’t know mahself, yew know?
An’ jus lahk that! we came on it, yew know? The
Gideon, an Bop! an theah we were. Hah!
Ah, the greyaph heah tells the stawry. That’s
about it. Faw the fust time in twelve yeuhs, Ca­
tholicism is up nine points. Judaism is up fifteen.
The Big P., the Pentecostal, is stahtina move, fi­
nally, and ah . . . . [aside] yew faggot! You’re a
Jehovah’s Witness! Got that five & ten franchise
weah tryna break up.
Now, gentlemen, we got mistuh Necktyuh, from
our religious novelty house in Chicago, who’s got
a beautiful selluh—the gen-yew-ine Jewish-star-
lucky-cross-cigarette-lighter combined; an we got
the kiss-me-in-the-dahk mezuzah; an the wawk-
me-tawk-me camel; an these wunnerful lil cock­
tail napkins with some helluva sayings theah—
“Anuthuh mahtini faw Muthuh Cabrini”— an some
pretty fah out things. Some real winnahs. Now.
As yew know theahs alotta religious leaduhs that
we’ve seen heah, boys we don’t know, this the first
time we’ve really yew-nited lahk this— theahs about
six thousand boys out heah from all ovuh the
country— an little favuhs, yew knew the commis-
sionuh promised that theah’d be no individual
hustlin, yew know. Ah mean, less make the scene
tugethuh, because lahk if we bum ourselves, wheah
we gonna end up, yew dig me? O.K. NOW! I
wanna introduce— Oh! We got Mr. Acton, heah,
a great man, our Seventh-Day Adventist who on
a leading tour of the lepuh colonies took some
beautiful coluh slides, that we’re doing for the
Mahaliah Jackson covuh. She’s doing a helluva
numbuh, “Are You Tellin Yo Beads More Than
Yo’re Tellin To Me?” Sure sell. On the flip side
of “Little Richard Goes Home.”
62
 An now, ah, heah is the greatest holy rolluh in
America today, a man who has talked from the
crisp, cool shores of Montauk Point to the shady
groves of Oregon, a great man an a great holy
rolluh, the wunnaful Mistah Oral Roberts! Oral?
ROBERTS [Shouting]: W ELL T H A N K Y A V E R Y
MUCH, A.A.! HEAH! Heah boy, have a snake.
Oh yeah, it is good, good to see faces, faces
[voice dies to trembling sentiment] I haven’t seen
in many yeuhs . . . faces that set awf a good time.
Oh boy, ah’ll tell yew, ah wuz tawking tonight
to some wunnerful people, an they said, Oral,
tonight you’re going to be facing a different awdi-
ence, [shouting] TONIGHT! TONIGHT YOU’RE
NOT GOEN’ TO BE FACING TH E PEOPLE
THAT STEINBECK W ROTE ABOUT! You’re
not going to be facing God’s Little Acre, tonight
yo’re not going to be looking into the face of a
factory workuh, tonight you’re not going to be
looking at the sawdust. TONIGHT! You’re not
gonna feel that heat of a gas-bumer on your neck.
NO! Tonight [voice hushes to a whisper] you’re
going to be speaking to men that are hip! that ah
know, that He knows, that ah know, [begins to
sing] that ah know, that yew know, . . .
NOW! GENTLEMEN! Ah have jus retuhned
from San Francisco, Sin Town—that BAGHDAD
by the beach, and When ah SAT in a San Fran­
ciscan restaurant ah looked out o’er the icy watuhs
of San Francisco Bay [whispers], and ah looked
at Alcatraz. . . ALCATRAZ! THIRTEEN ACRES
OF GREY GRANITE LIKE AN ANGRY FIST
THRUSTING THROUGH THE WATER GEN­
TLEMEN, AND I REFLECTED ALCATRAZ!
Ah tol the men ah was speaking to ah sayd Look
into your hahts gentlemen and suddenly gentle-
63
 men, a voice, from THIRTEEN THOUSAND
PEOPLE THAT SAT IN TH E COW PALACE
outside of San Francisco, a voice boomed up an
yelled at me, “DUMBBELL!”
Ah stopped, gendemen, an ah looked, an they
looked, [whispers] and ah said, There is one of
Satan’s armies, do not pounce upon him, AND
AGAIN THE VOICE REITERATED “DUMB­
BELL DUMBBELL!”
Ah said, Well, mah friend, you may have a
point. Maybe ah am a dumbbell, maybe that’s it,
maybe the man standing up heah is a dumbbell.
Why don’t you laugh at me, mah friends? Hah hah
hah! Theah’s the dumbbell. Ah’m dumb, ah tol
them, ah’m very dumb, AH’VE GOT TWO LIN­
COLN CONTINENTALS! THAT’S HOW GOD­
DAMN DUMB AH AM! Well, they all laughed
their asses off with that, ah can tell yew.
NOW. The point to bring, gentlemen, is,
W HERE IS THE HEAVENLY LAND? Did you
think about that gendemen? Does it sink innnnn?
Ah’ll tellyouonething, the Heavenly Land is not on
Wall Street, the Heavenly Land is not in the neigh­
borhood bar, and the Heavenly land is not [cre­
scendo1 in the burlesque house! You might say
to me, All right! [screaming] YEW SAYAD IT’S
NOT IN THE BURLESQUE HOUSE AN YEW
SAYAD IT’S NOT IN WALL STREET, THEN
WHY DON’T YEW TELL US WHERE IT IS!!!?
[Still screaming] WELL MAYBE GENTLEMEN
[voice drops to puckish whisper], that’s what ah’ll
dew.
It’s in the Bay area. In the Bay Area that has
three times the suicides and three times the alcohol
consumed [screaming again] AND SIX TIMES
TH E MARRIAGES DO YOU KNOW WHAT
64
THAT MEANS THREE THREE AND SIX?
WELL AH KNOW! IT MEANS TWELVE!!
Yes. Now, it’s theah, gentlemen, theah in the
Bay area, WHEAH IS IT? HUNTER’S POINT!
AND THEM SONS-A-B ITCHES ARE TRYNA
TAKE IT AWAY FROM US! WRITE IN
EVERY DAY! Now, gentlemen— [aside] What’s
that?—
aide : ’Scuse me sir, your long-distance call just
came in from overseas.
Roberts : Justa moment heah. We gotta nuthuh
man, a great man, who can tell us the message,
GIVE US THE MESSAGE! TELL US WHAT
TO DO WITH HEAVENLY LAND WHEN WE
GET IT! Tell us pleeeese, now! [singing again]
Tell us, now, why don’tja tell us now, what to do
with the heavenly land. We don know cause
’sgrand at the heavenly land . . . TELL US NOW,
what to do with the HEAVENLY LAND. . . .
RABBI STEVEN H. WEISS!
rabbi weiss [British accent]: Well, thankyou
veddy moch. I think we should subdivide.
Roberts : NOW. Before I go any futhuh gentle­
men, we got some—
aide : Sir, the call is still waiting—
Roberts: Alright . . . . Ah got a lawng distance
cawl in heah from headquarters, the Vatican— ah’ll
tawk to yew boys latuh . . . . Yes opuratuh, this
is Oral Roberts . . . . Yes, yes, alright, ah’ll take
the chahges . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . HELLO
JOHNNY! WHAT’S SHAKIN BABY? . . . yeah
. . . Meant to congratulate you on the election . . .
yeah . . . That puff of white smoke was a genius
stroke. Was in the papuhs faw six days heah . . .
Great! . . . We got an eight-page layout with
Viceroy— ‘T h e New Pope Is A Thinking Man.”
65
All'll send ya a tear sheet on it . . . yeah . . . yeah
. . . Same old jazz . . . How’s your Old Lady? . . .
No, nobody’s onna phone . . . Listen, Ah hate
to bug ya, but they’re buggin us again with that
dumb integration . . . NO, AH DUNNO why the
hell they wanna go to school eithuh . . . yeah that
school bus scene . . . Well, we hadda givem the
bus, but theah’s two toilets on each bus . . . that’s
what’s spending awl the money. We got awl toilets
for ewribuddi. An we got some mo advances—
we gotta new bus that drives from the back . . .
yeah . . . yeah . . . BUT THAT’S IT! . . . Yeas
. . . They keep saying, Integration, make the re­
ligious leaduhs tawk about it . . . No . . . Yes . . .
No they donwannany quaotations from the Bahble.
They wannus to come out an say things. Say Let
Them Go To School With Them . . . No you dunno
whatthehell is goin on heah! . . . Ah, ah did Walkin
Across The Watuh! . . . Yeah, an the Stop The
War Scene. He said, “Thou shalt not kill means
just that, it doesn’t mean ’Amend section A, it
means stop war” . . . Ah did Snake inna Cane
too. Ah did em awl ah’m tellin yew . . . . BUT
TH EY’RE BUGGIN US! . . . STEVENSON!
THAT BAWLBUSTUH! . . . Yeah, ah know it.
. . . No ah ain’t gettin snotty but we gotta dew
somethin! . . . WELL W HATTHEHELL YEW
THINK AH CAWLED YA FAW? . . . YEAH!
p o p e : Dominus vobiscum populus succubus . . .

ROBERTS: SURE, THAT’S EASY FAW YEW TO

SAY, YOU’RE OVUH THEAH! . . . Yeah . . .
Yeah we got the deal with Langendorff, the daily
bread scene . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Don lie to
me! . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Listen.
Listen, hold on a minute, heah?
66
 [Aside] Hey, Billi! Yew wanna say somethin to
em? . . .
[Back on phone] Billi wants to know if yew can
get him a deal on one o those Dago spawts cahs . . .
Ferali or some dumb thing . . . yeah . . . yeah . . .
Willie Mays threw up on the Alcazar? Ha ha!
That syrup! Really freaked awf! . . . Yeah . . .
yeah . . . yeah, sweetie . . . O.K. . . . yeah . . .
[lowers voice] Oh, lissen heah: ah’m sendin ovuh
a real winnuh— kid bout twenny-three from Ro-
dondo Beach. Greatest showman you’ve evuh seen.
We grossed seventi-three thousand dollahs in four
days in Oakland. Great boy . . . . Well, he does
Throwin Away the Crutches and See Again. Good
timing, knows when to quit. He can really knot up
them dayyim legs . . . yeah . . . A real Lon
Chaney . . . Yeah . . . Ten percent of the house . . .
But watch the W2 forms, though . . . He’s cool,
yeah . . . yeah, uh huh, . . . yeah . . . When ya
comin to the coast? I can get ya the Steve Allen
Show the nineteenth . . . Matinee Theatre dropped.
. . . Jus wave, thass awl. Wear the big ring . . .
yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . O.K., Sweetie
. . . yeah . . . Yew cool it tew . . . NO, NOBODY
KNOWS YOU’RE JEWISH!

Dig. Not the people, necessarily, who are involved with

the religion, but the religion itself, Catholicism, is a
genius religion. Four years ago I used to do a bit, you
know, Religions Incorporated, so my view at that time
was, “Here’s a rich church, and next door’s poverty—
so it’s hypocracy.” Obvious view. Then I started dig­
ging, digging, reading, reading, getting into it, and I
realized the reason for the baroque church, the grand
church in the poverty neighborhood, is that what the
church is, is a school. It’s a method of instruction.
67
 And people who have no understanding, who need in­
struction, don’t know about philosophy, they can only
understand material things. So a raggedy-ass guy won’t
go into a raggedy-ass temple:
“I live in a shithouse— whadda I gotta go in one
faw?”

I wanted to do a film showing— because I’m sure that

day in the cell, it’s just like in the tank, like four, five,
six people in the cell there, and there was Cestus, Distus,
and this guy who was probably crapped out in the
comer:
guard: O.K.— you two.
good th ief : What?
guard: Y ou get crucified today.
good t h ie f : Get my file down here. That’s bull­
shit.
guard: O.K. Get ready all you guys. You’re all
getting crucified in this cell.
good t h ief : I’m the good thief. Whaddayou bull-
shittin me for? I’m in here for checks!
guard: Come on, you. Get ready. You’re gettin
crucified.
good th ief : Heh heh. I’m not getting crucified.
Get my file down here. I’m the good thief. I’m here
for petty theft. Understand? Checks. How can I
get crucified now? I dunno what the hell that guy’s
doing, but. . . .
O.K. Now he sees they’re getting him all ready and
they’re moving him:
good t h ief : Hey! What the hell, are you kidding
with this shit? I’m not getting cruc— hey mister!
Do me a favor? There’s a mistake here. They think
that I’m with you, for some reason here.
And Christ says
Christ : Don’t worry—you’ll be with me.
68
 good t h ief : Come on with that! I’m not with you.
Tell them. Come on, it’s no joke now. WeTe goin
up the hill.
But he’s praying, everybody’s pushing,
good t h ief : Well come on! Hey! Get the public
defender. Come on, this is bullshit now, ahh . . .
O.K. Now. Up on the cross.
good t h ief : Hey mistuh! Please, before it’s too
late. Do me a favuh, O.K.? Tell them?
Christ : Don’t worry, you’re with me . . .
good th ief : STOP SAYIN THAT! Will ya? I’M
not with you, O.K.? I mean, I’m with you, I like
you, but stop telling these assholes I’m with you.
They think “I’m with you” means that I’m with
you, I conspired with you, I dunno . . . Look.
Don’t be pushy. I like you, O.K.? I dunno what
you’re talking about, I woke up, all I know I’m
getting crucified— I’m here for checks, I can’t get
crucified. I’m being denied due process, I’m en­
titled to do my time for checks first. And I don-
wanna get crucified. I can’t go now. O.K.? I’ll meet
you later. . . . Come on. Don’t be pushy now, O.K?
O.K. Mop. They all went. And then when the guy came
back,
“Hey . . . you were right . . . I knew you weren’t
bullshitting, but, uh, heh, heh, I had alotta faith
in you, but you get to meet alotta weird people in
the joint, you know? . . . You relax; I’U talk to
the press. That’s all.”
Remember this: I’m dying for your sins. For your sins
and your kids’ sins. I’m dying, so— well, just shape upl
That’s all. I’m dying so that, in the future, things will
be right, so you just realize what the values are. Good
things— remember the good: remember that being bom
is an original sin. And once we scrub that dirt off you
with lye, a few of you will stray and do it again. Try
69
 to fight it. Try to fight it, and remember that the physi­
cal is not the most desirable. The spiritual— that’s the
thing to look for, since spiritual trim— I’m getting off
here now, cause I see that dying for you does no good.
You don’t appreciate I’m dying for you. That’s what
I’ve done, I’ve suffered my whole life for you, and
whaddaya do, ya run away with some cheap shicksa.
Go be nice to people! Go get crucified! Look at my
hands: I’m Helena Rubenstein. That’s who she really
is— corpus christi.

There was only one guy— I just thought of a man now

— Selflessness— a guy who did it all for you, and wanted
nothing in return. Ohhhh [s/g/i], what a good man, a
man that never waited for “thankyou.” Who was that
good man?
The Lone Ranger.
He was truly that Corpus Christi image projected, a
man that never waited for “thankyou.” Cleaned up
towns of five thousand people. Always did the same bit:
The Silver Bullet; nod; and split— HHHHHYYYYYUU,
SSSLLLLLLW W W AA A. . . .
J ewish voice [High, whiny]: Hey! What’s with
that schmuckl He didn’t wait for “thankyou,” nut-
tin. We made coffee and cake . . .
negro voice : You don’t know ’bout him, man?
Thass the Lone Ranger.
J ewish voice : What’s his story? A feystich? Takes
the bullet and “nach!” and he runs. He don’t want
anything?
negro voice : Nothing, man. He’s a verbissener.
He goes “gruuuuuuhhhhh,” and runs off.
J ewish voice [Whistles]: That’s amazing, man.
Has anyone ever clocked him? But how come he
rides off? He never—not a thankyou! How come
he left us a bullet?
70
 negro voice : I dunno . . . That’s weird . . . After
he does his schtuck about, you know, “Why do you
wear a mask?” “T’m not an outlaw, nach” and he
runs. But a bullet . . . that sort of takes the good
out of it.
J ewish voice : Yeah?
negro voice : Y ou know what he meant by that
bullet, don’t you?
J ewish voice : Vas?
negro voice : Doctor Erlich.
J ewish voice : Whaddaya mean, Doctor Erlich?
negro voice : Y ou dunno, schmuckl Doctor Er­
lich— the magic bullet!
J ewish voice : I still don’t get it.
negro voice : He’s telling you the whole world has
syphilis!
J ewish voice : Get the hell outta here with that!
Are you kidding me? What a slap in the face that
is, man. [Whistles] Syphilis?
negro voice : Schmuck, that’s why he rides away:
“HHHHHMMMMMOOOOOSSSPPHHLS” . . .
J ewish voice : That’s too much, man. Emmis.
Well, we’ll ambush him and find out. . . .
[Voices change. The next scene opens with the slow
drawl of a Southwestern rural hick]
hick : Don’ you move, you psychotic bastard!
[Aside] Hold this gun, Maw. Hey, massed man,
what the hell is yo sto-ree? How come you never
wait for thankyous? You know these kids here
made up a homentash? And they made up a sawng,
Thank You Lone Ranger. And look at you— you’re
jus too damn good for ewribuddy. You jus gotta
run awff an never assept any love. You know thass
Anti-Christian in spirit—not to assept a thankyou,
some love?
lone ranger [in the oratorical, upright, deep
71
voice of an early American demagogue or poli­
tician]: Well, I’ll explain— if you’ll get your god­
damn hands off me. You see, the reason I never
wait for thankyous, I figure, supposing one day I
wait for a thankyou:
hearty voice : Thank you, Lone Ranger!
lone ranger : Whassat?
hearty voice : I said, “Thank you.”
lone ranger : Hmmmmmmm . . . I sort of
like thankyous. I’ve never had one before; can
I have one more?
hearty voice : Wright. Thank You.
lone ranger : Just one more.
HEARTY voice : What the hell, I’m not goin ta
kiss your ass all day. Thankyouthankyou.
lone ranger [back into explanation to hick]: Now
I’ve had my first thankyou, and I dig it, and I’m
riding all around: “Thank you!” “Don’t mention
it, donmentionit.” “Thank you, thankyouthank­
you.” But the real reason is [voice changes, be­
comes an old Jewish man], I sent two boice to
collich.
hick : Whassat?
lone ranger : Dots right.
hick : Well, goddamn, maw, the massed man’s
Jewish!
lone ranger : Of course, schmuck\ Dots vy, ven
I tuk on the radio, dots all you hear, is
HHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAA, SSSSSSUUUUU.
You vanna svitch it ova from sefenty-eight to toity-
tree-und-a-toid? You’ll hear [imitating slowed-
down record], HIGHH YOOOSILLL BERRRR.
I sent two boice to collich. You tink dey even sent
me a pustul cud? Hmmm. I got tebble bucitis of
my yarm. Alotta tsuris I have, mine friend. Zug-
nicht and goyim. [returns to original oratorical
72
voice, strong conman] So one week, when I’ve had
all the thankyous I need, and they say:
first voice [desperate]: Hey, get the Lone
Ranger!
second voice : Can’t get him—he’s too busy
getting thankyous. He wouldn’t get off his ass
without a thankyou.
first voice : Really mean that? We’re
screwed! We’re deaf mutes!
lone ranger [Original deep voice]: Oh, I
see.
second voice : Well, I tell you what— givim
a present.
first voice [turning Jewish]: He wouldn’t
take.
second voice [Jewish]: He’ll take. They’ll
all take.
first voice : The Lone Ranger’ll take?
second voice : He’ll take.
first voice : He’ll take?
second voice : He’ll take. They’ll all take.
Givim an Esterbrook Pen.
lone ranger : N o, I have it . . . An Ester-
brook pen . . . I’ll save it for Bert. You see,
I take my stuff an I hang it up. I put it away,
and then when I look for it, I know where to
find it. My brother Alfred takes his stuff and
throws it all around the room. Then he says,
“Where’s my stuff?” Ha ha ha. [singsong] He
hasn’t nothing left; I have mine, all hung up
. . . They call me a schmuck, hanging up a
pen, but I, I . . . Yessuh, an Esterbrook
pen . . .
And now, that’s the way it goes: I’m running
around getting thankyous and pens, and I love it.
Now a week goes by. The week has passed. No
73
 presents. No thankyous. What happened to them
all?
NEW VOICE [impersonal commentator]: What
happened? There’s no more tsuris.
lone ranger : What?
commentator : Yes. You see, you and J.
Edgar Hoover and Lenny Bruce and Jonas
Salk thrive upon unrest, violence and disease.
If there were none— and there is none now—
no more presents.
lone ranger [m his old man’s Jewish voice]:
You mean? That’s how I got my presents?
Because of tsuris?
commentator : That’s right.
lone ranger: Hm, hm, hm. Nach. I got one
left. Another bullet. [Changes back to deep
oratorical voice] This way, what I don’t have,
I don’t miss.
hick : Wall, goddam, massed man, that was a sorta
nice speech, but the kids still got the homentasch,
hear? And they wanna give you some. Can’t you
take, bend, jus assept love one time?
lone ranger [voice strong and demanding]: Aw-
right. Gimme that Indian over there!
hick : Tonto?
lone ranger: Whatever the Spic-halfbreed his
name is. Yes, Tonto.
hick : Goddamn, massed man, we can’t give ya a
hooman beeeeng!
lone ranger : Bull Shit you can’t give me a human
being! What did you think I was going to ask for,
schmuck, a dish? I knew it was going to be this
way: “Waddaya want? Vas? Forbis, schmuck, oder
yeda I’ll help you widda windows.” No. “Can’t
give ya a human being.” Well, I’m gonna take you
to the labor commission. I want that Indian!
74
 hick : Awright. What the hell you wannim faw?
lone ranger : T o perform an unnatural act.
hick : Whassat?
lo n e ra n g e r: Y ou heard me: to perform an un­
natural act.
hick : Goddamn. Blagh! Agh! The massed man’s
a fag. Blagh, blagh, blaghaghaghagh! Dja hear that?
Wall, goddamn, massed man, I never knew you
were that way.
lone ranger : I’m not, but I’ve heard so much
about it an how bad it is, the repression sorta has
me homy, you know, I . . . I’d like to try it just
once before I die. I like what they do with homo­
sexuals in this country— they throw them in jail
with a lot of men. Good punishment. Quite cor­
rect. Hahahaha. Thasright. Washim up an getim
ready! And I tell you what: while you’re at it, I
want that horse, too.
hick : Fawwat?
lone ranger : For the act.
hick : Blagh! Gawd, maw, djuhear that? Blagh-
blaghagh! The massed man wants a haws faw the
act, too, damn degenerate!
lone ranger : Oh, yes; this mask. I’ve made many
movies in Paris with a mustache and garters. You
didn’t recognize me, did you?
It’s like “Tilly, Mack and Tonto”— those would be really
good schmutz books.

I always wonder about the anonymous giver. Cause

the anonymous giver truly is the egomaniac: “I’m so
good— I’m not going to tell anybody.” That’s sick, man.
I ’m going to leave you with this, that the only anony­
mous giver is the guy that knocks up your daughter.

75
 Politics

I can’t get worked up about politics. I grew up in New

York, and I was hip as a kid that I was corrupt and that
the mayor was corrupt. I have no illusions.
You believe politicians, what they say? It’s a device
to get elected. If you were to follow Stevenson from New
York to Alabama you would shit from the changes.

It’s like two syndicates, man— the government syndi­

cate, and the Maf. Or the labor syndicate. But morals
don’t enter into it.
A Hoffa, for example, I assume is a giant intellect.
Intellect resolves into creativity, so if he doesn’t have
that—he doesn’t have the resources of the government—
they would’ve nailed him years ago, man. But, like, he’s
a hais mind and a mover.
So, where is the decadence? How can you say Anas­
tasia lived in decadence when there was a Governor
Long, who not only was whacked out schtupping strip­
pers, but a bust-out thief, man, who had relatives who
were thieves— which relates to a Mafia concept, then:
Earl Long, and Huey Long.
76
 Then New York with Jimmy Walker— a heavy gonij,
a master gonif, man. The Seabury Investigation— the
echoes faded away into a William O’Dwyer, who was the
district attorney of the largest city in the world, man.
He put guys in the joint who’ll never see light again.
As a kid, the D.A. was this concept:
deep , self -righteous voice : And it shall be my
duty as the District Attorney—
to smoke pot on the Perry Mason show.
Now, he became mayor, and good image, the mayor;
and schlepping, grabbing; and then they punished him,
not the way they did Jimmy Walker (they really pun­
ished him— Bob Hope did his life), O’Dwyer they
really gave it hais to— he moved to Mexico. As the am­
bassador.
And now he’s back in New York. What’s he doing?
Just laying on the floor laughing his ass off. That’s it.
Jail is for poor people. Cause Sherman Adams and St.
Bernard Goldfein never sat in the joint, man. Cause
it’s juice, man. That’s it. The only rights that you got are
knowing the right guy.
The epitome of juice would be this. Dig this. A card
you get:
“He can do anything.
Jack.”
From the president. Right? He can do anything. Forget
it, man. Go to the toilet on the roof of the Astor,
schtup president’s wives from other countries. “He can
do anything, Jack.”
“What’ve you got on Kennedy?”
“Zug nicht. Enough. I got enough.”
“Whaddaya know about him?”
“He’s Moslem.”
Would that be a twist-o? He’s a Moslem. Sabu is his kid.
77
 You going to vote any more? I mean—
“My father told me that all businessmen are son-
ovabitches. But I never believed him till now.”
You know who said that? You know? Do you? Who?
Kennedy, that’s right. And they’re going to bust him this
show. They’re taking in Truman for saying
“Drew Pearson is a sonovabitch!”
and they’re going to arrest Kennedy for saying that his
father said that. They’re going to schlep the father
in too. It’s going to be a big bust, and Birdie is going
to take over the government.
That word is pretty popular in the White House,
sonovabitch. Why do they say that? That some secret
ritual they go through?
“Nyanyanyanyablahblah sonovabitch!”
You gotta just chuck it in there any way—just get sonov­
abitch in. It’s like an Alfred Hitchcock movie— they get
sonovabitch in, somehow, in every administration. Be
weird if he’d stub his toe at the inauguration,
“Ow, sonovabitch!”
What is that, onomatapoeia?
“You sonovabitch!”
“Ah, Mr., ah, Kennedy, we have the boy scouts
here, and the Legion of Decency here, they’re ah,
giving you the, ah, plaque for the year, for the boy
scouts-girl scouts of America. What would you like
to say?”
“Ah, you sonovabitch! All businessmen are sonov-
abitches!”
“Hey, heh . . . I know, Mr. Kennedy, but we’ve
just got the boy scouts here, you know?”
“Well they’ll be sonovabitches too; if you’re a
sonovabitch you’re a sonovabitch!”
“Well, I guess you’re the president, you know what
you’re talking about. . . . Heh heh . . . where’d
you learn that?”
78
 “Ah, from President Truman. He called Drew
Pearson a sonovabitch.”
That’s the White House word— sonovabitch!

Now. Lyndon Johnson. Good guy. Good American.

B rilliant craftsman, brilliant politician. But because
there’s a lot of bigots in this country, Lyndon Johnson
never had a chance. Why? Bigotry, man, out-and-out.
His whole culture is into the shithouse. No matter how
profound Lyndon Johnson could ever be, as soon as he
opens up his mouth—
“Folks, ah think new-cleer fishing—”
“You think your putz, you dummy! Get that schlub
outta here!”
“But ah th— ”
“You don’t think anything, schmuck!”
Cause bigots say that
“Anybody tawks that way’s a shitkickuh, Daddy.
He cain’t know a damn thing.”

Because the liberals can understand everything but peo­

ple who don’t understand them. The liberal, the true
liberal:
“I’m so understanding, I can’t understand anyone
not understanding me, as understanding as I am.
I’m so liberal I ’ve never had any roch munas for
the white Southerner— ‘He tawks lahk that, he
tawks lahk that’— ”
The poor schmuck probably doesn’t even talk like that,
but some schmuck in the Bronx wrote a screenplay with
him ‘tawkin lahk that’ so the putz ends up ‘tawkin lahk
taht.’

Lyndon Johnson— they didn’t even let him talk for the
first six months. It took him six months to learn how to
say Nee-Grow.
79
 “Nig-ger-a-o . .
“O.K., ah, let’s hear it one more time, Lyndon,
now.”
“Nig-ger-a-o . . .”
“No. Can’t you say—look, say it quick— Negro!”
“O.K. Nigrao-o, Gigemao— ah cain’t help it! Ah
cain’t say it! Thass awl; Ah cain’t say niggera—
cussin in bed ’n’ ew ry thin, stutterin— ah cain’t!
What the hell! Niggera, Naggra, Nee-graa—lemme
show ’em my scar.”
“No, no, no. Just say it. Say it, and that’s it. Yeah.”
Yeah. He’s completely confused.
But they’re really— that family is so— phew! You
know, there’s a certain kind of non-Jewish look. They
could pass any test— they are the biggest non-Jews in
the world. No question, they’d walk right through the
line.
The wife, with the white flannel socks, with the zipper
up the front, with the nail polish— she’s beautiful, man.
She looks at home in a trailer park. Yeah.
Dig. The Catholic religion is a genius religion. And
the Ecumenical Council really are geniuses, and they
make some tremendous moves. But somebody talked
Lyndon Johnson’s daughter into converting; that set the
religion back two thousand years. That dress she had
on—she looked like a Guatemalan slave. A real Philo-
mena at the wedding. National Geographic picture.
But showing his scar is beautiful. That’s just where
he’s at. He’s just a shitkicker.

I was just thinking of that picture of Oswald, you know,

when he got shot? That’s Lyndon Johnson’s relation face
—you know, that guy with the hat on, the big Texan.

We take you now to the home of Governor Faubus.

The succulent smell of magnolias pervades the old
80
mansion, and as we listen closely we hear the governor,
played by Fritz Kuen, talking to his daughter, Sheila
Jordan. The daughter talks:
“Ah sweah, if yo’er dayaddy turned ovuh in his
greyave as menni tieyums as yew sayid he deeyid,
die whole— Dayaddy! Will yew tawk ta me? Ah’m
tahd of freakin awf with mahself!”
“Well, what is it, Belle of the South?”
“Well, Dayaddy, yo’er daughtuh, Sheila Jordan,
is goin ta get married!”
“Married! That certainly brings a warm spot to my
old Southern heart! Jus cain’t believe that mah
Sheila’s such a big girl— getting married! Are yew
marrying local boy, Sugah?”
“No Dayaddy, he’s a New York stayage actuh—
Mom an ah met him last year at Lynbrook, Long
Island.”
“A stage actuh? Well, ah don’t know tew much
about stage people— what’s his name, Sugah?”
“Harry Belafonte.”
“Eyetalian boy, eh? Oh yeah. Sugah, that’s adora­
ble.”
Cut to— the wedding:
“This is Vince Stevenson with the news here at
the Faubus wedding. Certainly lovely. They’re
rubbing tar on the groom now . . .”

O.K. George Lincoln Rockwell, the head of the Ameri­

can Nazi Party. Friends of mine always come up, “That
putz! Look at that paper!” And I’m reading, and I start
to dig something: Who’s always showing me these ar­
ticles? Liberals. Who’s interested in bigotry, reading
everything they can on it? Liberals. Hm hm.
George Lincoln Rockwell is a very knowledgeable
businessman with no political convictions whatsoever.
He’s just hip: he puts something verbissener in an ar-
81
tide; they keep reading it and buying it; and they sup­
port it! George Lincoln Rockwell probably works to
mass rallies of nothing but Jews shaking their fists at
him.
Yeah. He’s probably got about two followers, that
are deaf, and they think the swastika is an Aztec symbol.
That’s what it could be, right?

That schmuck Ross Barnett had more chutzpah than

Kennedy and that other putz, Stevenson. Because he
had the chutzpah to tell the president, gai schoin! You
realize what he did? This man, Ross Barnett, caused
Lyndon Johnson to lay on the bathroom floor drunk.
I don’t condone Ross Barnett, but still, he had more
chutzpah than Stevenson. Chicago is the reason that
Stevenson never made it; because Ross Barnett had the
chutzpah to tell the president screeve quanda rive,
where Stevenson never had the chutzpah to tell that to
the Maf.

You know, I used to really pray that one guy would

become president—Norman Thomas. I used to say,
Why doesn’t Norman Thomas make it? And just for one
reason— just cause I knew he wouldn’t be ready:
“You’re in. Norm!”
“In where? Bullshit! What time is it? Get the hell
outta here! What the hell are you guys doing here
with all the cameras an’ everything?”
“Norm, you’re the president!"
“Bullshit! Get outta here now! Come on, get outta
here! Damn pranksters.”
“Norm, you’re the President of the United States!
Look at this.”
“What? . . . Why, I didn’t run this year, did I?
. . . Am I really the president? . . . Damn!
[Shouts upstairs to his wife] Min! I ’m the presi-
82
 dent! . . . I said ‘Bullshit’ too, but they got a
paper down here, it says ‘Greetings I am’ not ‘From’
. . . [to reporter] You wouldn’t bullshit me* would
you? I been waiting forty years to be president. . .
Goddamn! I finally made it. . . . But I can’t be
president—haven’t got any clothes! . . . How
much does it pay?”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars a year.”
“Goddamn! Isn’t that a kick in the ass! Well, I
better call Wilkie. . . . Oh, I forgot . . . and I
got all these PMs I didn’t read yet—small towns
like this it’s the A&P page and the editorial page
. . . let’s see, now . . . which platform did I
run on? I don’t know . . . I’ll bring back Paul
Robeson!”
“He donwanna come back, Norm. He’s in alotta
trouble.”
“Awright. Let’s see, now. Ilmmm . . . I ’ll inte­
grate!”
“They’ve done it.”
“Oh, crap! They really have? Dammit! I gotta
read some papers . . . Let’s see . . . I got itl
I’ll discriminate!”
“D iscrim inate! That’s rather unique.”
“You like that? O.K. Write it down. That’s it—
I’ll discriminate.”
“Against who?”
“I dunno. There’s not many left . . . um . . . the
Filipinos!”
“Filipinos, Norm?”
“They’re disgusting! Make me sick to my stomach.
Ugh!”
“Do you know any?”
“No. That’s the trouble— they’re standoffish. Here
is the platform: ‘If you’re Filipino, watch your
ass, because Norm’s in!’ You like it? Say it
83
 again. ‘If you’re Filipino, watch your ass, cause
Noormnnmuns’— no, you gotta do it this way,
see? ‘If your Filipino, watchyourassbecause
Norrrrmmmms innnnn!’ Get the ‘Norrrmmmmss
innnn’ there— you can hum it— and then they’ll
really watch they’re ass. Boy oh boy! I just get sick
to my stomach every time I think of em! We’ll just
whack ’em out in one day. Pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good, Norm, but—how’ll we
find ’em?”
“I dunno. But get ’em up here— oh, goddamn it!
Forget about it.”
“Why?”
“They’re all in the Navy.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“That’s all you can do if you’re Filippino in this
country: become a chief in the Navy, get a gold
tooth, ball a hooker, come quick and giggle. That’s
it! . . . Let’s see, then, we need another group to
persecute. . . How do we qualify who deserves
to be persecuted? . . . A group that doesn’t join
in with us, rejects us . . . I got it! Midgets!"
“Oh, Christ! He’s whacked out. He’s sick. He’s
weird. Midgets! Norm, whatthehell you got against
midgets?”
“They’re snotty. Always combing their hair in
the boy’s room, with soap. They’re jus no damn
good. They’re unnatural. This is the platform:
Smack A Midget For Norm! Pow! You like that?”
“Well, yeah. It’s got a good ring to it. I never . . .
Are there that many of them?”
“There’s more than Negroes and Jews and any
other minority group. There’s thousands!”
“Where the hell are they?”
“That’s the idea! They are really vicious. Just
think about all the times you haven’t been helped
84
 by midgets. When you were a kid freezin your ass
off hitchhiking in those corduroy knickers, did
a midget ever stop once and pick you up?”
“No. . . .”
“And it just scares the crap outta ya—you don’t
see anybody driving. There’s no head at the wheel
— jus those little hands. No, they’re no good.
They’re jus no good. They jus wanna get jacked
off or picked up on your lap. They’re disgusting.
I wanna show you somethin. Look at this chair.
Under every chair there’s supposedly a tag, and
the tag will say, ‘Do not remove this tag under
penalty of law.’ Where is the tag? Who copped it?
Those goddamn midgets! They’re vandals. Every
midget ring we’ve broken up, we find piles and
piles of those tags:
‘Whaddayou steal those things for, you disgust­
ing perverts? ‘Whaddaya steal those for!’
‘I t’s all we can reach .’
‘You chewed the gum, too, didn’t ya?’
Dirty slobs. They’ve always got the same bitch, too,
you know?
‘When you’re a midget, you have a very limited
point of view— the whole world is a crotch!’
Very clever. Very nice. They’re so little! And they
hate to be called cute— they bite ya.”

I don’t like to go into politics, cause I know that

belongs to Mort Sahl and Phyllis Kirk, the Vic and Sade
of show business, but communism doesn’t make it at all.
Not for me. Cause it’s complete government control.
The capitalist system is the best, cause we can barter,
we can go somewhere else. Communism is one big phone
company. That’s it, man. Can’t go nowhere else, Tim.
Tell the phone company,
“I want a phone put in Monday at 9:30.”
85
 “You’ll have it at the end of the week.”
“I want it at 9:30!”
“Alright, schmuck! Go to the May Company for a
phone.”
That’s right, I’m screwed. Where’m I going to go?
There’s one desk to go to. That’s what communism is.
But a capitalist system is beautiful, man, cause we can
go here, there, and that’s the barter system, you know.
And I want to keep my system.

The system starts here: I got 90, and my mother and

father hug and kiss me: “Did so good, he got 90!
MMMM, kiss kiss.” But that 90 don’t mean anything
unless you got a 20. And if I’m not a nut, and if 90
gets me loving and kissing, I hope you get 20, man.
I’m gonna hope you fail.
But later on I really jive myself and say, “May the
best man win.” May the best man your ass! I ’m going
to win out and get my kissing and hugging!
Yeah. The competitive system.

The Russians blew it. Thank God. But they always

tell the people those dummy bits— “The Russians are
godless”—forget it, man. That doesn’t work.
But this is the best system in the world. Do you
realize that if this were communist controlled and I
carried on like this, I’d have to pay a lot of dues. All
government control. Forget it. Communism is like one
big phone company— you’re screwed. That’s the only
reason it doesn’t make it. All those other things don’t
count, all those other bubah miseh.

Well, we are a second-rate power. And, it’s weird, we

know it, and we don’t believe it. Because Walker really
blew Africa for us completely. I travel a lot, man, and
the anti-American feeling is just overwhelming. In Aus-
86
 txalia—dig the headlines. They take everything out of
context: KENNEDY WILL CRUSH CUBA! And they
really have us as the villain over there. England, they
are the hipsters, the greatest diplomats, the greatest bull­
shit artists ever— so they’re gonna cook and go with
the wind, you know. Now we don’t have anybody really
cooking for us— you know how big Russia is? And
China? India?
And I ’m sure in the last days when Hitler was flipping
out, there was a lot of guys must have said “Christ,
they’re madmen there!” But it’s not that they were
madmen. It’s like, in the House of Representatives,
when you see that there’s a guy in there who says that
he knows the people that are going to try and kill Mere­
dith, and he’s too smart— you kidding with that, man?
You had a governor that was schtupping Blaze Starr;
a governor who defies the president. And it just really
bugs the shit out of me, cause I really do dig this coun­
try.

Harold Gray— I’d like to bring him up before the House

Unamerican Activities Committee. When I handle it,
it’ll be O.K. Heh heh. I know what bad guys to get:
“Now, ah, Daddy Warbucks, ah, what we wanna
ask you about is this, is your house and your activi­
ties, acts, practices. You’ve got this little girl,
this A nnie . .

Warren Harding was a quadroon. D’you know that?

Who is running, anyway? I’ve been in court so much
this week— maybe that’s sort of a barometer, because
from the little that leaks in through the courts, I notice
certain names. Goldwater’s name, Scranton— and that’s
about all I heard. Who else is running?
Goldwater, how amazing. Having a Jewish president
really knocks me out. Can’t believe that there. Too
87
much. And tell me, has there been much Jewish sup­
port? Singing in Jewish? Forget “Goldwater.” “Barry?”
Barry!? Are you kidding with that? Mogen David.
Barry! Where is there one goy with the name of Barry?
It’s the most Jewishjewishjewish. You know Barry.
Yeah. Barry is always the name of the one Jew that
sings with an octilla, brandy wine, and a farbish finkle.
And at Jewish theatres there’s always one dopey Jew
with the black hair— he sings American and Yiddish
songs, Barry. He’s a ventriloquist.

Not many Jews feel hostility towards Goldwater

cause he is Jewish and changed his religion. See, all
Jews did that. I’m Leonard Alfred Schneider, not Lenny
Bruce. I’m Lenny Bruce, legally, but it was a pain in
the ass, man. A lot of dues.
So dig. Goldwater lives in Arizona. He did a switch,
man. He says "Frig it. I’ll keep my name and I ’ll change
my religion.’’ That was his bit.

That’s weird, you know? Finally we have a man in—

that’s going to be Goldwater’s last step: gets in, gets
before the T.V. cameras for the acceptance speech, and
he rips off the mask and you see the big nose and the
Semitic look and the spittle coming out and
[Goldwater screaming vindictively] Y A H A H A H -
AAAAAA! WE’L L B U RN ALL THE
CHURCHES!”

That’s what we’re planning, yes. Three days after the

election— all of our smut factories have been working
for years—hot books and swinging and everything.
What’s going to happen? Vere vill ve go vrom here?
Maybe in a year— God! Think of it— we’ll all be walk­
ing around naked! What a horrible thought! We’ll all
die immediately. That’s worse than communism— to
88
walk around naked. Imagine that. All those naked
women— nay-nays— phah!

The presidency is a young man’s job. He rides herd on

one hundred and eighty million people. That’s it—
physical gig. So big industry and educators continually
have told me— especially big business— that a young
president, even a thirty-year-old president, is better.
Because, here’s the parallel: You want to take a
chance on a man over fifty-five when Mutual of Omaha
won’t? That’s just for a policy— this is the presidency.
Rayburn is 78, and Allstate would kick him in the
keester, man. So what a paradox that is. It’s a young
man’s gig.

Now this is no slam against President Eisenhower—

there was a great man and a great American, and I like
him for that— but he’s too old now for the job. And
soon I’ll be too old for my gig. That’s no indictment of
old age. I’m thirty-five. I’ll be fifty soon, and I’ll know
I can’t do the gig.

I would like Kennedy for president, cause he is a young

man. That’s the first thing in his favor. Second, he’s
got a pretty wife. Which is a plus factor. Cause you want
your wife to be pretty. Everybody wants their wife to be
pretty, so that’s really groovy. And he’s a bright man.
He is healthy. He thinks good.
Now, to say, “Should a Roman Catholic be presi­
dent?” is again, bigotry. Course he should. And boy,
they really said what I’ve been saying these last few days,
they said, “Let’s stop talking about religion,” because
they realized, and they’ve said it, that religion is a dis-
organizer. That being Protestant and Catholic and Jew­
ish is a big hangup. And they saw it defeated them. So
they said, in essence, Don’t be Catholic any more, don’t
89
be Jewish any more— there’s one Jehovah. Because if
we break it up, we’ll break up our campaign.
Now, he has no allegiance to the Pope— I don’t.

Now here’s something the guys will dig in the audience.

I voted for Kennedy, too. What was the big winning
factor? His punim. How many chicks have I talked to,
man, that said, “He’s a doll.” What is that? Is that a vot­
ing concept? It’s a good schtup image. Every chick digs
him, man. He’s a hais for them, which was a big
winning factor.

That is one of the reasons why I voted for him. Because

there’s the first time that I actually could identify with
a president that has some dimension. I’ll see a child
bom in the White House, and I feel that the only one
who can help me, as a leader, is a guy who knows my
problems, who can really identify with me. And my
grandfather cannot, man. He can play with my kid,
but he’ll spoil him. He won’t really know what is con­
temporary, what is happening today. And the Kennedy
scene is right there— mother, father, family. It’s a groovy
thing with Kennedy— he’s real. And I actually dig th a t

Now President Eisenhower— I could never even fanta­

size him kissing his wife. Not on the mouth, anyway.
No. He never took his clothes off; he never went to the
toilet; he just stood there.

Eisenhower— no one listens to the war stories any more.

Keeps trying on the uniform. He likes the one salute
that he does— always does it wrong. Got an ’06 rifle . . .

Did you watch the television yesterday? You must have

all watched it yesterday. The thing that was really cute,
you know, Kennedy’s in the car with his old lady,
90
driving along, and the thing that really knocked me
out was that he puts the hat on, and then— you know,
that far away, you can just see pantomime— the wife is
looking the other way, then he puts the hat on, then
she sort of turns to him and looks, you know, up at the
hat, and you see the mouth move, then you see the hat
come off, man.
And you just know she said, “You look like a
schmuck with that hat on.” I know that was what hap­
pened! It was really great.

Did you see when Jacqueline Kennedy schlepped the

people around the house? I was praying for one quick
shot— the door opens, the old man is standing there in
his underwear, drunk.

Kennedy was just a genius at organization, and just a

sophisticated man. I mean, sophistication just means
knowledge, learning, a lot of background. And the other
guys— I’d like to get some tapes of those people. Yeah.
That would really be a treat to hear them.

Nixon? I like him, but he hung out with Eisenhower

too long. Environment. You know. That’s why he’ll
never make it. You know that. In your heart, he can’t
make it. He’s a good cat, and I appreciate the fact that
he went to South America, I really do. I wouldn’t want
to make that scene, I don’t think that those students had
any intellect or any heart or any sympatico. What kind
of kohach is that, for two hundred thousand students
to stone one poor schmuck in a sedan— no, those stu­
dents don’t make it at all, Jim.
That goes for the Japanese students, too, that bugged
Hagerty. That’s only one or two cats, man. That’s a big
mob. So they’re not too nice either.
So I’m grateful for the dues that Nixon paid.
91
Nixon— Nixon is a megalomaniac, a complete nut. Ran
to Argentina twelve times already—has a Hitler thing
going. Let’s see now. Any women you would like to
know about in the White House? A lot of them stay
there, the wives. They dig it and they just stay there and
the old men split. Eisenhower and his wife are hydro­
cephalic cases, with that cap— their heads were cut.

We hear Ike talking to Sherm:

ike [drawling like a senile moron]: Well, Sherm
ya goofed, baby . . . that six iron . . . Let’s see, I’ll
make that little putt there . . . Ah, Sherm, ah, I
donwanna fire ya, baby, but, ah, I really have got
my hands tied now. But maybe we can beat this if
you tell me now. Now, let’s see. Get it straight.
You got a coat, right?”
sherm [shamefaced]: Yeah.
ike : And ya got the rug?
sherm : Yeah.
ike : And, ah . . . [irritated] Now what did you do
in the hotel for two thousand dollars? What I wan­
na know is, did you get anything else?
sherm : Well, no, I didn’t take . . .
ik e : Don’t lie to me! Cause, you know, I won’t
hit ya if you tell me the truth. Tell me the truth,
get it off your chest now. You know I hate a liar.
If I find out later, then I’ll, you know, rap ya
around a little.
sherm : Well, I, I got one more thing.
ik e : What’s that?
sherm : Delaware.
ik e : Oh, how could you take that? You can’t do
things like that! What’s the matter with you?
sherm : I dunno.
ike : Well, how’re we gonna get outta this?
92
sherm : I sorta got an idea. You’re gonna laugh
at me for saying this . . .
ik e : What?
sherm : The newspapers are really bringing all
the heat on us, so if we could think of a headline
to sorta wipe it out, just for four or five days . . .
ik e : Well, what could we do?
sherm : How about getting one of the cabinet
members assassinated?
ike : Well, I dunno. Some of those things backfire.
sherm : Maybe if we could just get them— not
in this country, somewhere else.
ik e : I got an idea! Switch on the intercom. Cel,
send in Nixon! . . . Hello Nix, sweetie! Siddown,
baby . . . Oh, isn’t he cute? Howsa black curly-
haired devil? Ah, get some of that twelve-year-old
Scotch over there . . . Little Havana, huh baby?
Huh sweetie?
nixon : [suspicious, like a delinquent kid]: What’s
goin on here? Don’t put me on, Ike.
ik e : Nobody’s putting you on. I got the greatest
idea for you— how’d ya like to go to Lebanon?
nixon : Why don’t you stop, Ike? I donwanna go
on any more trips!
ik e : Why not? You kiddin? They’ll love you over
there.
nixon : Na, they won’t love me over there, an I
donwanna go. Lemme stay for a few days, awright?
What don’t you send Dulles? He’s been home for
two days.
ik e : Oh, now, is that ridiculous, huh? Send my
sweetie over there, huh? Come back with a Moroc­
can wallet? Wouldn’t ya like that?
nixon : I donwanna go, that’s all! Lemme alone! I
donwanna go anywhere any more. I just wanna
stay [wistful] jus to see the cherry blossom s.
93
ike : Oh, don’t get maudlin now. I don’t knowj
why you donwanna go. You did great in Caracas!'
nixon : Are you kidding? They hated me there!
They spit at me! Look at this suit— I never had it
cleaned. That’s just to remind you. They spit at
me, they hate me, they threw rocks at me—
ik e : Y ou gonna go by a few people, a few squares
that didn’t dig ya, a few rabblerousers? I got letters
from people who really like you. I got a ton of mail
on my desk now.
nixon : I donwanna go anyway.
ik e : I s that a nice way to talk to me? Create a
monster, is that what I did? The boy I helped?
I capped your teeth . . .
nixon : I donwanna be ungrateful or anything like
that. I know ya been nice to me, I know, but, just,
I don’t, I don’t—you know, if I did good in one
place . . .
ik e : Y ou did good in Biloxi.
nixon : Ah, yeah, but I had alotta people on my
side— Father Coughlan . . . I think it’s about time
that I took a stand: I just donwanna go anywhere
any more!
ik e : Why?
nixon : I just told you why— they just don’t like
me, that’s all. I’m not gonna fool myself, I just
haven’t got it, I guess. Something about my hair,
I think.
ik e : Want me to tell you the truth?
nixon : What?
ike : They like you— it’s your old lady.
nixon : Pat?
ike : That’s it. Everybody dug you—it’s her. She
overdresses. Besides, who brings their wife on a
trip? You’ll go! You’re not even going to fly tour­
ist this time!
94
Wait a minute, I’ll stamp out the bomb! That went out
too, like jazz. The bomb was another thing that every­
body cherished and stamped out and students marched
17,000-strong. Kennedy had left, and there was Lyndon
Johnson in the White House:
s tu d e n t: Mr. Johnson, I represent 17,000 stu­
dents. We’re here to stamp out the bomb. We
wanna get some pictures of it, too.
l b j : Son, ah dunno what ta hell ya think’s goin
on here. Ya see, this place is a shithouse— they
steal linen, silverware here. Ah cain’t find a damn
thing. Whaddayou wanna, bomb? That’s bullshit.
They pissed all the money away— never was no
bomb. Two Jew writers from Hollywood made up
a story about a bomb and that was it. No bomb,
not a bit, but there’s this piece of shit inna garage,
here.
student : I’m not gonna tell those kids that— that
there’s no bomb. They marched from Maryland!
“Kids, there’s no bomb.” “Say it isn’t so, Joe.”
Uh uh, I can’t tell those kids that. Come on, you
got a piece of a bomb, something that looks like
a bomb.
l b j : Son, ah ain’t got a damn thing, I ain’t got a
popped piston— you see this place, there ain’t
even no groceries here. Now if I had a bomb, I’d
give it ta ya.
s tu d e n t: Well, give us a button, then.
lb j : What button izzat?
student : The madmen are always gonna push a
button.
l b j : Okay, son. Turn around. Here it is.
s tu d e n t: That’s the button? “USN.” Your pants
are falling down! That’s a button off your fly!
l b j : That’s right. I kept it there all during the war.
95
 Mah wife was frigid and she never would touch i t
student : That's the bomb button, eh?

The bomb— it’s dropped already. What they found out

is— dig the bomb. When it went up there— the Russians
sent theirs off, we sent ours off— and when it hit that
stratacaposphere, something happened to change it, and
it came down and hit only bomb shelters. Attracted to
nothing but bomb shelters. Phoomphoom— just really
on target. Anything that would have dirt around it and
was a hole. Bomb shelters and cheap swimming pools
in a valley.

I’m gonna leave you with a nice thought to depress you.

I’ve been thinking about this, and I want to share it
with you— the Bay of Pigs. See, Castro— see, I’m a little
closer to him than you are. You know, propinquity: I
used to go to Havana a lot— Havana was a delightful
place for tourists. Tell you what a bad guy Castro is.
Since Castro came, you can get no narcotics, no abor­
tions, and there’re no prostitutes there. He’s really
screwed it up for vacationers. That’s right. He’s really an
asshole, this guy.

96
 The Southern Sound
I wonder if we’ll ever see that— if we’ll ever see the
Southerner get any acceptance at all. I mean, it’s the
fault of the motion pictures, that have made the South­
erner “a shitkickuh, a dumb fuckhead.” He can’t be
sensitive, he can’t be liked, and he sounds disgusting to
Italians:
“Luk heah, Eyetalian, mah momma made me some
pastafazoola— ”
Bloaghhhh! The back goes up.
“Gimme some scungiUi! Hey, momma mia, mom­
ma mia— ”
Haghhh!
But it’s just his sound. That’s why Lyndon Johnson
is a fluke— because we’ve never had a president with a
sound like that. Cause we know in our culture that
“peeple who tawk lahk thayat”— they may be bright,
articulate, wonderful people— but “people who tawk
lahk thayat are shitkickuhs.” As bright as any South­
erner could be, if Albert Einstein “tawked lahk thayat,
theah wouldn’t be no bomb” :
“Folks, ah wanna tell ya bout new-cleer fishin— ”
"Get outta here, schmuck!”
97
 “How come ah’m a schmuck?”
“Cause you ‘tawk lahk thayat,’ that’s why.”
“But ah’m tawkin some stuff, buddi.”
“Will you stop, you nitwit, and get outta here?
You’re wasting our time.”
They’ll damn you for your sound—you and your damn
sound.
You know, the singer that talks on the stage, I won­
der if he knows the dues he has to pay, that his sound
is not pleasant when he talks:
“Ah bin awl ovuh, buddi, an ah wanna tell yew
thayat . . .”
Yeah.
Now, Ruby— anybody can second guess, naturally—
but I figure that’s why he did lose it. Ruby had an at­
torney that sounded like that in reverse. Marvin Belli
handled a preliminary for me, and he’s a groovy lawyer,
except that he got caught with his mask off. In Texas,
Belli sounded to those people like the reverse of a
Southern attorney talking to Liebowitz and a Jewish
and Italian jury. Yeah, cause they didn’t like his sound,
the Northern sound. He sounded
“Lahk a dayim New York Jew-lawyer, buddi,
comin dressed to cawt lahk a dayim peeyimp, with
awl thayat shit on his nayils and ewrithin.”
And Belli, he forgot the geography. It’s the same kind
of law, but it really is in the words. You just have to
speak them slower in that area, and there are a few
changes, but they don’t change the substance of the law.
It’s like, as good a case as I could have with you, if
I pick my nose, although it’s not dishonest, it’s just going
to lose it, you know. So Belli didn’t wear the right suit,
because anybody whose suit fits him good in the South
“luks lahk a dayim peeyimp.” And he should have
known that, but he was offended with the judge chewing
tobacco—and that’s a natural thing down there.
98
 There was like a dopey picture I saw going around,
and it said, “This is your local police department,” and
it showed some kind of cops in this Southern place and
they were laughing and one guy was smoking a cigar.
That was it. But that’s just the behavior in the Southern
court. And the fact that everyone was laughing— South­
erners are just, they’re childlike in that area, they’re not
sophisticated. I mean, picture-taking: they see
“Picture?”
“Smile!”
That’s why they’re always smiling in the pictures—
they’re not arrogant, they just think they’re supposed
to smile when you take their picture. And the North­
erners are just hip— they do the cool.
So Belli trying to sell those jurors anything, the idea
of it must have just broke their balls! That qualifying
must have really got them good and crazy. Any at­
torneys here, forget that. If I was an attorney, here’s
what would be my pitch. First place, no qualifying. No
challenges at all. First jurors come up, they’re the jurors:
“You jurors, you’re people who think alot of the
community, cause you vote. That’s why you’re
jurors.”
And give them all a hundred bucks apiece and get ’em
laid and that’s it. I’d be a terrible law professor, eh7
student : What’d he say at the end there? “Just
give em a hundred bucks and get em laid?” . . .
Ah, professor, can we talk to you, ah . . . the con­
clusion that you made there, the hundred dollars
to get em laid?
pr o f : Yeah, yeah, get em laid, that’s all that
counts.
student : But that don’t fit with the beginning of
the conversation.
p ro f : That’s all bullshit, gotta figure around i t . . .
student : Ah, he’s bottled out, get him . . .
99
Yeah, Belli talking to those people, he sounded to that
jury like a Southern attorney would sound to Greek,
Irish, Italian, Jewish, Northern jurors:
“Luk heah, now, jurors, ah lahk Eyetalian peeple,
at’s fust off. Ah see we got some Eyetalian peeple
heah by the. . . . Ah’m gonna tell you a little
stowrey now. This ol buck nigger and this Jew-
boy— ”
"Aggghhhhhh!”
“What the hell ewribuddy get so hot faw?”
“Just shut up, don’t say any more!”
“What ah say? At’s a cute stowrey, ewribuddy
getsa kick outta it.”
“No they don’t! Just shut up. I can’t explain it to
you. You look South, your hair’s wet, I don’t know
what it is— just dummy up, that’s all.”
Yeah. If I had handled Ruby I certainly would have
given him an attorney that wore a suit three sizes too
big, that was blue and shiny, and who would’ve stepped
on his dick the whole time:
“Duh, Mr., duh, uh, wha? . . .”
And the jurors would’ve done what all jurors do— their
job— to forgive. Yeah, The Forgivers, man.

100
 On Performing and the Art of Comedy
And more people are coming into the little theatre off
Times Square . . .
usher : Seating in the outer aisle only!
Your cab is ready, Mister First-Nighter, at the little
theatre off Times Square . . .
tough voice : Never mind the theatre, driver—
I’ve got a few hookers waiting for me in Sausolito!

What’ll I do? What’ll I show you? That’s weird. I can

tell you this cause I like you. It’s such a problem for
me, you know. I’m the only comic I think that has this
sickness.
First place, I don’t write. I create everything that I do,
you know. I never actually sit'down and write before;
but I’ll ad lib things on the floor, and then they’ll become
bits, right? So— like the airplane bit—now I’ve done that
for about a year, right? Now I go to a new town, you
know. It swings, you know. But like I did that the last
time I was here, and I really get alot of guilt about doing
it, and I feel dishonest, and it gets to be a real bug, you
know?
I continually create things, but even though they’re
101
good things, I just feel a dishonesty, you know? It’s really
a terrible thing.
That’s why I’m studying hairdressing.

Here’s how I work. I never sit down and write anything

out. I’ve never sat down and typed out a satire. What
I will do, is I will ad lib a line on the stage. It’ll be funny.
Then the next night I’ll do another line, or I’ll be thinking
about it, like in a cab, and it’ll get some form, and it’ll
work into a bit.
Everything I do on the stage I create myself. If I do
an hour show, if I’m extremely fertile, there will be
about fifteen minutes of pure ad lib. But on an average
it’s about four or five minutes. But the fact that I’ve
created it in ad lib seems to give it a complete feeling
of free form. And the new stuff pushes the other— old
— out.

But I’m not original. The only way I could truly say I
was original is if I created the English language. I did,
man, but they don’t believe me.

The reason I don’t get hung up usually with doing any­

thing I ’ve done on records is that—well, the reason I’m
in this business, I assume all performers are— it’s “Look
at me, Ma!” It’s acceptance, you know— “Look at me
Ma, look at me Ma, look at me Ma.” And if your
mother watches, you’ll show off till you’re exhausted;
but if your mother goes, Ptshew! . . .
So I knew if I ever do everything you want record-
wise:
“What do you want me to do?”
“Do Religious Incorporated, and do the Hitler bit,
and do the Pope bit, and do this bit, and the
prison bit— ”
and I do all the bits you want me to, you walk out,
102
 “How do you like him?”
“Ah, alright. But every time you see him it’s the
same shit, man.”
I never want that, Jim, so I got to be one step this way,
this way this way, all the time with you.

But I’m going to do one bit for you. It’s a bit about a
comedian, a comedian that thinks there’s such a thing
as a “class room,” that rooms have identity. And he’s
got a manager, and the scene opens up in Sherman Oaks,
California. The pool isn’t in yet, but the patio’s dry.
Now the comedian is bugged, cause he thinks that
what’s wrong with his career is he’s never worked these
class rooms, and he talks to the agent:
“Hey, Bullets. Wanna talk to ya for a minute, aw-
right? Listen, I’m tired of working these crap-
houses, man. You know, everybody started with
me, they moved— Joey Bishop, Alan King, Frank
Marlow, Frank Fonteyn— they’re all movin’. Me,
I never went nowhere. Ya know why? Never
worked the class room. And you know what I
want? I want the Palladium Theatre in London.”
“The Palladium! You putz, you. Whaddaya you,
the Palladium? It’s a vaudeville house.”
“It’s a vaudeville house? Well, I wanna tell you
something about vaudeville houses. Alan King
played it— look, I don’t want no horseshit. I don’t
want to start going back to Montreal, that’s it!
You’re not going to get the com m issions from
Vegas, and we’ve had it!”
Alright. Two weeks later, the agent:
“Awright, ya creep, ya got it. Ya don’t belong
there. You open up the nineteenth with [star
singer], Bobby Breen and Bruno Hauptmann’s son,
But you don’t belong there, you creep, you. It’s a
class room.”
103
 “Look, I’m gonna fool you. You dunno my act.
I’ve got it down now. I work to Jewish people—
I’ve learned how to say ‘toe-kiss.’ I work to the
Italian people— I’ve got the mamma mia bit—
I got it all down. I got a Jolson finish, I’ll murder
them now! You kiddin? I got so many bits now—
you didn’t see me work in a year, that’s why.”
All right—the show. [Star singer] is on now, she’s
been on about two hours. She’s now into her Tribute-to-
Sophie-Tucker-Hello-God number. The comic, waiting
to go on; a n d ------- has got that kind of empathy going.
That show ------- has this kind of magic, that she breaks
her straps and she’s getting screams on her nay-nays.
Three hours, finally gets off:
“Ladies and gentlemen, a nice warm reception now
for America’s fastest-rising young comedian, the
dean of satire, Mr. Frank Dell!”
“Well, good evening ladies and gentlemen, I just
got back from a funny little place in Nevada called
Lost Wages!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh.”
“You know folks, funny thing about working Lost
Wages, you meet alotta weird people out there.”
“Ahhhhhhhhh.”
“Folks, I— ”
Alright, into the toilet. Nothing. Into the shithouse.
People are staring at him, complete blank-out. Now,
after fifteen minutes he’s starting to sweat, he’s doing
------- ’s numbers from out of left field. And in his in­
adequacy he vents his hostility on the audience:
“Ah, squares— bullshit!”
It’s embarrassing. The band’s reading Punch.
“Folks, um, I tell you what, here’s a bit that every­
body likes. But I’m not going to do it for you—
gonna fool you, right? Ha ha . . . Joly, I’m not
doing too good this afternoon, buddy, but you’re
104
 up there in show-business heaven, sweetheart.
Folks, I’m gonna do a tune now for A1 Jolson.
Now you can knock me, but don’t knock a guy
that’s dead, awright? Don’t knock a guy that helped
alotta servicemen, awright? O.K. Joly, I dunno
how they’re gonna like ya, but, it’s up to them.
They can rap ya, send ya away; but I’m on your
side. The hell with them! Rock-a-bye— ”
Rock your putz. Daddy, he’s had it. That exploitation
of the dead didn’t work, and it’s verfalien, and he’s back
to the dressing room, the comedian:
[Vomiting sounds, then a knock at the door]:
“Come in.”
[British accent]: “Oh, you’re getting it all over!
Here’s some kleenex. Here, son . . . hahaha . . .
and we just had the rugs done. Hahaha . . . Get
it on the dog, at least . . . However, my name is
Val Parnell, and I’m the house booker here. This
is Hadden Swaffie, the critic from the London
Times, and, ah, goddamn they were grim, weren’t
they son? I don’t know what went on out there, we
were in the box office, you know, when all of a
sudden I heard that unnatural silence. And we
walked out, and there you were, you poor bugger.
You were on there for about three hours, weren’t
you? I really wonder what it was? You’re quite
good—that reefer bit was quite unique. My wife
loved you— she’s been to the Catskyull Mountains,
she got all those, esoteric references about Grass-
hangers and the Concoward, and all those places,
but I, ah— what do you think, son? I mean, you’re
a clever chap, you’ve been around, ah, ah, I don’t
think it went over, did you? You’re too damn good
for them, that’s what it is. Too clever. Fact I got
some ideas. I said, Hadden, this boy here’s going
over their heads, he’s got all that hip stuff, ah, we
105
got one idea, think you’re going to get a kick out
of it. Look, ah, ah, about leaving Thursday, now,
I wonder if you’d mind signing this release here— ”
“Hey! Sign what? Sign your chooch! Whaddayou,
kiddin? Whaddayou, kiddin, sign a release? Look,
you had alotta kids out there, how you gonna make
kids laugh, huh? I didn’t do my fag-at-the-ballgame
bit yet!”
“Thank God, son! Ah, ah, look, ah, I’m only the
manager here, but it would seem to me that— son,
this is no reflection on your talent, you’re damn
clever! Here, sign it, you’re too good for them!
You’ll laugh at them years from now, Here, sign
it, here.”
“Now look, I dunno if your kiddin me or what,
but, ah, I gotta hot temper, you know what I mean?
I wanna tell you somethin, now, c’mere. C’mere!
Where you going? [very angry] C’MERE! I wanna
talk to ya now! Now look, I’m not horseshittin you,
now, now, ah, I dunno if you think you’re dealin
with some Johnny-come-lately here, I worked
alotta good rooms, now, and I wanta tell you
somethin. You can’t cancel me after one show! I
got union here, and, ah . . . [Collapses] Look, man,
I’m sorry I got hot with ya, but ah, ah . . . look
man, you don’t . . . you see . . . I donwanna hafta
work in shithouses my whole life, man . . . My wife
didn’t want me to have this date, and my, ah,
manager didn’t want me to have it . . . I hate to
cop it to ya like this, man, but, ah, ya can’t let
me go like this, you unnerstan what I mean? . . .
You gotta let me do the nighttime show. I gotta
lotta bits, I’ll change around, but, ah, you know
— they gave me a party an everything . . . I’ll tell
you how much this date means to me— I ’ll kill
you! Really would, man. You think I’m horseshit-
106
 tin? I’ll kill you! . . . You gonna let me do the
nighttime show. I don’t give a shit about the
money, man. Look. I tell you w h a t. . . I’ll give you
my guitar, man. I got two hundred dollars that I
brought over with me— you can have it, man. Just
don’t junk me after the first show. Whaddaya want
me to do, awright? Gimme a break, or I’m gonna
kill ya. I’m not horseshittin ya, I ’m telling ya the
truth.”
“. . . You’re obsessed! You’d really do me bodily
harm? Dear, dear! Well, if you think one show’ll
do it, well, ah, . . . Son, ah, isn’t comedy, ah, it is
a bit or a joke, isn’t it rather the totality? I know
it’s rather an amorphous craft, son— ”
“Look, never mind widdat Commie horseshit!
Lemme do the show, awright? Don’t break my
chops. You said it’s o.k., its o.k.”
That night, the show. Now, for some cats this would
really be good trauma, a scar that you’d never forget.
This cat is very light. Delicatessin; pastrami; and he’s on
his way. N ow ,------- is on; he’s waiting to go o n .--------
is now into her tribute to anyone in show business that
may ever die. She’s doing the bond drive and she’s really
got it wrapped up, and he’s waiting to go on, the comic:
“Whatthehell is she doin, that talk out there. Go
ahead, talk, ya fat-ass broad! I ’ll sing when I get
out there. Hey Bobby, she supposed to do all that
talk? Ahhh, sing some of this, awright? ’At cunt,
what is she, kiddin with that horseshit? Hey, toot­
sie! Hey, what’s she gonna do, ten hours out there?
. . . I’ll do my Peter Lorre . . . no, I’ll do my army
bit first. . . [rings] Racing with the moon . . .”
Meanwhile she took a bow— he didn’t know that—bow,
and now, dig what she does for an encore, an encore
before the comedian comes on:
“Oh, thankyou very much. Oh, God bless you. Oh,
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 you’ve been so good to an ugly American. You
know, I’m going to ask for a favor now: a mo­
ment of silence. How do you like that? You’d never
expect that from a ham like me, a moment of si­
lence for the poor boys who went to Dunkirk and
never came back, a moment of silence for the poor
boys . .
Go follow that. You can follow that with Art Baker
whacking it in Bert Parks’ face, but, you know, forget it!
So the whole audience is crying their eyes out, jumping
from the balconies, sobbing, Rachmaninoff out of the
dead— bows, alright:
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s comedy time! C’mon,
cry-babies! We all lost a boy or two in the service!
Now here’s Frank Dell!”
“Well, good evening ladies and gentlemen! You
know, I just got back from a place in Nevada
called Lost Wages. A funny thing about working
Lost Wages . . .”
Into the shithouse. Forget-it city. Now the manager’s
watching him in the wings:
“Hey, Hey, why don’t you go up on the roof, there,
hey? Hey, tootsie?
He’s a whack-out—it’s the manager:
“Racing with the moon— ”
It’s granite. ML Rushmore’s out there:
“Hey, come on, you Limey assholes, what are you,
kiddin? I was in the service too, you jack-offs, what
are you provin, or sometin, eh? I can tell you got
a kick outta it— ya gotta dry sense of humor. Haha.
You’re awright.”
Now it’s ridiculous— fifteen hundred people, an oil
painting out there. Manager’s still watching him:
“O.K. folks, ah, before we have the movie, ah, we
gotta nother bit, everybody gets a kick outta here.
How about this, ah, SCREW IRELAND! How
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 bout that, eh? They really bum-rapped ya, the
I.R.A. Screw the Irish, awright?”
A heckler in the balcony:
“Well that’s the funniest thing you’ve said all night,
boy! That’s right. SCREW IRELAND!”
“Now take it easy, buster, that’s just a joke, ya
know.”
“NOT HERE. SCREW THE IRISH!”
The manager:
“What’s going on out there?”
“SCREW THE IRISH!”
“Get him off stage! Go to the newsreel, Johnny!”
“BLAST THE IRISH!”
“Get the newsreel! Wind it up!”
“SCREW THE IRISH!”
“Get the bobbies!”
“RIP THE SEATS OFF!”
Alright. Back to the dressing room:
[Vomiting. Knock on the door.]
In comes the house booker.
“Oh, goddamn, son, you’re a bloody Mau-mau!
Oh, dear! Bar the door, Freddy! Oh, dear! Whew!
I don’t believe what’s going on out there. You’ve
destroyed the second balcony. Go ahead, you leper,
get in there, do it up right! I’ve never seen anything
like that! God damn son, do you know what’s
going on out there? You’ve changed the archi­
tecture of the oldest theatre in London! Oh, well,
we’ll get you out of the country some way— here,
sign this release right over here— I believe someone
left a wig in the closet many years ago. D am n !
Here. Sign it right here.”
“Now, just a minute.”
“What? Did I hear ‘Just a minute’? Just a minute
for what? To return to the crusades? Look,
Bomb-o, you stunk it up out there, you know that,
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 don’t you? Son, you don’t use narcotics, do you?
Cause that’s the only rationalization I could have
— you could be oblivious to the cacophony of
sound that went on out there. Son, well, why . . .
what are you looking at me for, you psychotic
bastard, you? You’re not funny, you sonovabitch!
Get up! When I came out this afternoon I thought
that— you’re not funny. Everyone in the whole
world is funny and you’re not funny. That’s crude,
you see. But, I mean, the world is filled with un­
funny people, and you’re one of them, you leper!
Now, you sign this or I’ll black your eye right now!
And I’m not a violent man. You sign this right
now.”
“Now, just a minute.”
“Just a minute for what?”
“I didn’t do my spicey-blue-riske number yet.”
“Get my digitalis— my face is becoming paralyzed!
Your spicey-blue-risk6 number? What did you call
that, ah, what did you call that bit of classic mime
you did? What was that for the women and chil­
dren out there? Hm? What was that? HM? What
was that? A new writer? Hahaha! What would that
mean to everyone? What was that? Table for one,
mister, Hm?”
That’s the bit. The bit is, ah, naturally, part me.

See, it’s a weird thing, some performers are that naive

that they think there’s such a thing as a good audience
and a bad audience. A good audience would mean an
audience that agrees with the comic’s point of view or
the singer’s selection of tunes. This means that the whole
audience has the same mother and father, same upbring­
ing, same ethnic, whole schtuck. Impossible. It’s the
ringside, Jim, and how he reflects and feels that night.
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The only way I can at least justify in my own mind the
prejudices I have— it manifests itself with fear, rather
than hostility. I’m frightened, I’ll get inhibited.
If I have old people sitting ringside, it really, whew!
You give me an audience over sixty, then you’ll see an
entirely different show. I feel, all I can tell people over
sixty is,
“Thank you, I’ve had enough to eat.”
Cause I always figure, Oh, they’ll get offended.
All performers, I think, work to ringside. Cause the
whole thing is “Look at me. Ma! Can you see me Ma?
Watch me, Ma.” And if your mother watches, you’ll
show off till you’re exhausted; but if your Ma goes,
pass, then forget it. So actually, eight people do it. That’s
why the schtarkers are a deterrent to the show.

It was absurd, obviously absurd, but people got upset

when I said, “Bobby Franks was a snotty kid, anyway.”
Today’s comedian has a cross to bear that he built him­
self. A comedian of the older generation did an “act”
and he told the audience, “This is my act.” Today’s
comic is not doing an act. The audience assumes he’s
telling the truth. What is truth today may be a damn lie
next week.
The truth. When I’m interested in a truth, it’s really
a truth truth, one hundred per cent. And that’s a terri­
ble kind of truth to be interested in.

It’s like, any comedian, see, all comedians— it’s “To

th in e own self be true.” The guy, he paints a certain way,
he’s consistent. That’s the only way he can paint, and
he’s painting, and then people who like that go to see
him. It’s like Stravinsky, you put Stravinsky on concert
in The Bronx, and the same people dig him there as in
Toocomecatrol, as in Biloxi, Mississippi. Presley will
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schlep out the same people at Loc Shodric as he will
here, Jim.
With an art form, there’s no right or wrong, man.

Dig. The only honest art form is laughter, comedy. You

can’t fake it, Jim. Try to fake three laughs in an hour—
ha ha ha ha ha—they’ll take you away, man. You can’t

Talk about my mother for a minute. And I really love

her, and the reason I dig her is I realize— I’m not doing
Don Rickies, who killed his father for a finish— because
I got a lot of humor from her. She exposed me to many
areas that I never would have been hip to.

Sometimes I look at life in the fun mirror at a carnival.

I see myself as a profound, incisive wit, concerned with
man’s inhumanity to man. Then I stroll to the next mir­
ror and I see a pompous, subjective ass whose humor
is hardly spiritual.
I see traces of Mephistopheles. All my humor is based
upon destruction and despair. If the whole world were
tranquil, without disease and violence, I’d be standing
on the breadline right in back of J. Edgar Hoover and
— who’s another real heavyweight?—Dr. Jonas Salk.

The kind of comedy I do isn’t, like, going to change the

world; but certain areas of society make me unhappy,
and satirizing them—aside from being lucrative— pro­
vides a release for me.

Last night I was very bad, you know, like you sort of
revolt, you know, just, all of a sudden you’re working
and— I do that— and all of a sudden you say, “Aghhh!”
And then you start really getting vicious with the audi­
ence. But sometimes they hit back. So I decided with this
size crowd I was really going to do a nice haimish kind
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of show. And to open it up I’ve got an audience partici­
pation thing, a thing I worked out here with the sprinkler
system with gasoline. It’s nice. You’ll go quick. It’ll be
enjoyable.

Yes, I’m tired. I’m very lethargic. This is the second

show tonight. The first show I met alot of hostility to
my left, if you call throwing up on my suit a bit of
rejection, as I walked off. And the second show— I’m
a little apprehensive.
No. Saturday night I feel insecure. I’m always a little
apprehensive of Saturday night audiences. It’s sort of
like people who come to nightclubs on New Years Eve
at eight-thirty, you know? They sit there with a hat and
a horn, waiting, you know? For what? For something
to happen there. But I feel good. I feel alotta love for
all of you.

I keep getting a different kind of audience every year.

Three years ago my audience was comprised of—no­
body drank in my audience three years ago. And my
audience was thirty per cent Negro. Then after that I
got sort of a doctor audience— that’s when I was going
through the narcotics trial. Yeah. Then when I first got
started with the obscenity scene there, I got just lawyers.
Then I got a little esoteric, and then I got the appellate
court. Really. And then I got the teacher crowd.

Now I forgot what the fuck I was talking about. That’s

very good. I blew it completely. Where was I? Once in a
while if I lose it, you know, and then try to bullshit, but
then when it’s really gone it’s gone.
You see, that’s the problem of being a performer. A
judge can get away with that shit, you know:
“Ummmmmmm, wellll..........”
Completely dunced out, you know?
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 “Ahhhhhhh . . . I ’ll take that under consideration,
ahhhh . . .”

Oh, by the way, how about the decor here? They just
re-did the place. In Early Gangster.
The way I figure it out is that the owner here must
have been captured in the Phillippines, and this was a
high school gym, and he rebuilt it, you know, he’s one
of those kind of nuts, you know—
“I want every brick!”
What could they do with this place, finally? Except pour
kerosene on it.
First place, it’s not functional from an artistic stand­
point. This area— I don’t know what it’s for— they give
you like little challenges, you know. I don’t want any
proscenium there, but at least, you know, you feel a
closeness with the audience.
I ’m not going to do anything offensive, you know, I’m
not that Rickies type— audience attack. But if I were
this close— that’s what it is! That’s the success of a
stage. That’s the success of a club that’s intime, that
you’re this close to the audience. I just realized why it’s
a success. It’s not that there’s that rapport with the audi­
ence-performer, but they’re embarrassed not to laugh.
That’s what it must be, right? So you get all that fake
approval.

Sometimes I lapse into complete fantasy. I’m doing a bit

now which I thought about on the way over in the cab.
I’m going to do it for the first time for you. I started
thinking about, comics are the only ones, as performers
— you know how they’re always getting bugged with
reviewers, you know, they say “This guy bum rapped
me, and this and that?” Well, if they could band to­
gether, they could have a Celebrity Killing Service,
where they could, you know, maybe knock a few guys
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off— as other big organizations do, you know. They send
out a little warning, like a bag of cement. So dig. It could
work both ways. You know, get this organization to­
gether, you figure, “Who’s a threat to me?” In the cafe
industry. All right, we’ll say Mort Sahl. Who by the way
I think is a genius, I love him. All right. Say I wanna
get rid of Mort. Celebrity Killing Service.
“All right. Now, let’s see. Now, whaddawe do with
Mort Sahl? Well, it’ll cost you about fifteen grand.
What we’ll do is, we will buy up all of the news­
stands within a fifteen-mile radius of the club. Then
we will hire a newsboy and we’ll start delivering
nothing but old newspapers.
Understand? So Mort will come out,
“Well, folks, a funny thing happened tonight—the
Von Hindenburg exploded.”
And he’ll get completely whacked out.
Now, suppose we want to assassinate— I haven’t
thought of this figure yet, that we’re going to assassinate
— but this guy is eccentric. He’s very well guarded. You
can’t get at him. You know, they’ve tried all devious
methods to get at him. And he has one eccentricity—
he likes to watch Civil War veterans’ parades.
“Alright. O.K. Now, whaddawe gonna do? He’s a
freak for watching those parades. O.K. We gotta
get in an old assassin. O.K. Look in the files.
Lessee. Here’s a guy, he’s over a hundred years old,
and he’s, yes, a pretty good assassin. O.K. Get him
over here.”
They get him over.
“O.K. What’s the name there?”
“Booth.”
“Awright, ah, come in, Mr. Booth.”
“Pleased to see you, child.”
“Awright, never mind the acting bit, we’ve got a
wonderful job. Listen, Mr. Booth, I don’t like to
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 bring it up, maybe you’re a little touchy about it,
but, ah, you’re the one who gave it to Abe?”
“Yes. That was my job. Course, when I jumped—
I can’t dance any more. My leg jiggles.”
Now, for me to satirize the assassination of Abraham
Lincoln, which— I don’t know if he’s done it or not—
but Sid Caesar, that’s his type of humor or, Steve Allen,
would satirize, you know? And it’s like, they’d plan the
satire out, and it’d have form, you know. It isn’t just
sort of ad lib. Everybody would laugh at it. I definitely
know that I could do a satire on the assassination of
Abraham Lincoln and really get screams with it on tele­
vision. Although Abraham Lincoln was a wonderful
man.
But, here’s the thing on comedy. If I were to do a
satire on the assassination of John Foster Dulles, it
would shock people. They’d say, “That is in heinous
taste.” Why? Because it’s fresh. And that’s what my
contention is: that satire is tragedy plus time. You give
it enough time, the public, the reviewers will allow you
to satirize it. Which is rather ridiculous, when you think
about it. And I know, probably 500 years from today,
someone will do a satire on Adolf Hitler, maybe even
showing him as a hero, and everyone will laugh. There’ll
be good fellowship. Hitler’ll be just a figure. And yet
if you did it today it would be bad. Yet today I could
satirize Napoleon Bonaparte. Because, you know, he’s
gone.

I ’m doing a new bit that you’ll just flip out with. It’s
social commentary. I do it with a colored guitarist, Eric
Miller. The bit is on integration.
So anyway, we do the bit together. Halfway through
the bit— there is a party of four to my right, and they’re
really bugging me, you know, saying “I don’t unnerstan
it.”
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 So I give the woman a quick stab: “You schlub, you
wouldn’t understand anything”— you know.
So her husband says, “What’d he say to her?”
The other guy says, “He said something dirty in
Jewish.”
So I said, “There is nothing dirty in Jewish.”
So dig, she takes this old-fashioned glass, and starts
winging it, man, vvvooom! Right past me, man. I ’m
shocked. It crashes behind me.
So I say, “You’ve got a bad sense of humor, and bad
aim .
So she gets bugged again, throws a second glass.
I said, “Well, assuming I’m the most vulgar, irreverent
comedian you’ve ever seen, you’ve capped it with
violence. You realize what a terrible thing— you threw
a glass at me!”
So dig what the husband says: “What else would a
lady have done?”
I said, “Faint!”

I satirize many subjects that are particular sacred cows.

In other words, I am a satirist basically. I am irreverent
politically, religiously, or any things that I think need
discussing and satirizing. And some people who are
involved emotionally with the subject I’m satirizing just
get bugged, get verbal, and some get physically violent.
That’s what happens.

“Ah, he’s not funny, he’s disgusting.

That’s what I always got in school. Every time.
“Up to a point he’s funny, but then he just get’s
downright disgusting. I mean, there’s certain things
that’s funny, and there’s certain things that are
downright disgusting. I mean, he starts talking
about snot— that’s not funny. Anybody can get a
laugh on snot. Ya slob, ya! Ya disgusting creature!”
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It’s a comedian’s duty to maintain a level of good taste
and this to me is a semantic beartrap. I’ve been accused
of bad taste and I’ll go down to my grave accused of it
and always by the same people— the ones who eat in
restaurants that reserve the right to refuse service to
anyone.
If you can tell me Christ or Moses, for instance,
would say to some kid,
“Hey, kid! That’s a white fountain— you can’t
drink out of there!”
You’re out of your skull. No one can tell me Christ or
Moses would do that. And people who do aren’t even
agnostics. They’re atheists. That’s where the bad taste
jazz comes from.

Is this comedy, or what? Now you know it’s not com­

edy— I’m pissing on the velvet, that’s what I’m doing.
It’s comedy. It’s comedy that gets laughs. It’s not funny.
It’s the same question: Is this painting?
“That a painting? I mean, that may be painting,
alotta horseshit to me, man. Maybe, maybe I don’t
understand it.”
Yeah. Humility is the worst form of the ego, man, that’s
it.
“I mean, maybe I am jerky, or somethin, for Chris-
sakes, I dunno— ”
No you don’t know, that’s right.
Here’s what comedy is. Now, all these people that
you saw leave, did not. They were all beat up at the head
of the stairs. I used to let them get away with it, but now,
they’re all coming back now, apologizing at the door,
with a note, “I ’ll be good.”

[People walk out]

More friends . . . Well, no one really enjoys rejection.
Certainly, I abhor any cat who does the wounded bird,
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but it’s, the whole motivation for every performer is
“Look at me, Ma.” . . . You know, the only thing that
confuses me, I lay in bed at night and I think, What the
hell did that guy come in for. . . . Does he, is that the
lowest form of entrapment? Does he come to bust me?
What kind of humor is his humor? Is his humor the
Joe E. Lewis, the Sophie Tucker, the double-entendre,
the naughty-but-nice, the spicey-haha-you-know-what-
that-means wedding-night jokes, motel jokes, Rusty
Warren, Johnny got a zero, Dwight Fisk, Mr. Yo-Yo
can’t get his yo-yo up, he’s got the biggest dingy in the
navy?
God, don’t have a stroke, that’s all I need. That’ll be
about the end press for me.

Remember the old bit, Religions Incorporated? Right?

I’m in New York, and I start out with a stream of con­
sciousness with this bit, at Basin Street, a third show, and
I had about one hundred and twenty Grey Line Tourers
there, you know? And I had forgot that they were there,
see? I went into the bit and all of a sudden I see about
ninety people— vvvooom!— an exodus! I dump another
sixty five minutes later, and the maitre d's are flippin,
man. A sixty-party walkout is a big taste, you know.
And then about an hour later I realized how much
I did offend these people— they left without the bus and
the drivers! That’s a heavy kind of move, you know.
Definitely. That’s a real schtark kind of move.
But I didn’t feel any hostility towards them. Cause I
wasn’t right, and they weren’t right. A right-or-wrong
concept isn’t involved there. Of course they gotta do
that! That’s only right.

Now. One thing I’d like to tell the people leaving, is,
that you’re very genteel. This is the first time I’ve had
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an audience that, they walk out, but they’re very nice
about it.
In Milwaukee, Phew! They used to walk out and walk
towards me. Milwaukee I had such grief, man—
Milwaukee, that’s like Grey Line en mass. Yeah. Really
got rank, the people there, with me, you know. Oh, it
was really grim in Milwaukee. The club was right next
to the river, and even that started to look good.
Dig what happened in Milwaukee:
First place, the reason that I worked there is that I’m
ashamed of the prejudice that I have within me. I pre­
judge a town right away, say “Ah, they’re squares.”
Downright bigotry.
But this guy hits on me, he sees me at the Crescendo
in Hollywood.
“You’ll do very good there!”
‘7 don’t think I’ll do good there.”
“You’ll do great! Have alotta fun— do ya bowl?”
"Uh oh____"
Conflict, back and forth. Then I think, “What the hell,
I’m not going to prejudge people; frig it, I’ll make it, I’ll
work the town.”
Now, I get there, and the first thing that scares me to
death, they’ve got a six-thirty dinner show. Six-thirty at
night, people go to a nightclub?
child ’s voice : It’s not dark out yet, I donwanna
go in the house!
There’s bikes outside the club— it’s a neighborhood
movie matinee. Kids there. I go into the men’s room,
and I see kids in the men’s room. Kids four years old,
six years old.
Now I see some poetry, it’s really beautiful. I see these
kids in the men’s room, they’re looking, and these kids
are in awe of this men’s room— this is the first time
they’ve ever been in a place their mother isn’t allowed
in. It’s am azing to them; they can’t figure it out:
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 first kid : Your mother isn’t allowed in here?
second kid : Nope. Not even for a minute. Not
even to get something. She’s not allowed in here.
And they stay in there for hours:
mother : Come outta there!
kid : Na! Hahaha!
mother : I’m gonna come an get you!
kids: No you’re not— you’re not allowed in here,
cause everybody’s doing, ~nd making wet in here.
O.K. Curtain. Christ! These people look familiar!
But I’ve never been to Milwaukee before. Where the
hell did I see— these are the Grey Line tourers, before
they leave! This is where they live. Sic semper Tom
McCann.
All right. As soon as I ever have to think of what
I’m gonna do when I get out here, then I ’m dead. Then
it’s a lie. You know, if I say I’ll do this bit and that bit,
then it becomes a bit, and its terrible.
I’m out there for about fifteen minutes and people are
staring at me in disbelief. Then the shock wears off,
and I start to hear:
“What’s ‘poots’ mean?”
“I dunno.”
“What is he supposed to be talking about?”
“I dunno.”
“What is he? What’s ‘schmuck’? He keeps saying
‘schmuck’ and ‘pootz,’ “pout,’ ‘poots,’ ‘parts,’ . . .
and, and ‘bread,’ ‘cool,’ ‘dig,’ “schmooz,’ ‘grap,’
‘pup’ ‘schluph,’ ‘murgh’— ”
It sounds like garble to them—these are Jews asking
this now.
“I dunno whatthehell he’s talking about.”
“I dunno, it’s a bunch of silliness.”
“It’s doubletalk, I think. That’s what he’s doing,
doubletalk.”
“Well, I dunno, it’s, ah, its, ah, good . . . I guess.”
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 “You like him?”
“I wanna go to the toilet.”
“Awright . . . I’ll go with ya.”
“I donwanna walk in front of him.”
“Yeah, but everybody’s walking out. And he’s still
up there— ‘poots,’ ‘brootz,’ ‘mugrup,’ ‘blog’— he’s
up there. Whaddishe, crazy? . . . How come he
hasn’t got any music? No singing, nothing. Sure,
even the band left him. Ha ha ha! There’s no band
up there! Sure, they know he’s crazy.”
“He’s crazy. He’s a weirdo. He’s on the dope.
Yeah. He’s on it now. Oh yeah, He’s right on it
now. Cloud seven.”
“How can you tell?”
“You can tell. You can just tell when they’re on it.
They act sneaky. Yeah. And they have the strength
of an insane man. Yeah. Don’t go near them.
They’ll twist your head off an everything. He
doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’ll probably stay
up there for two days, on the stuff.”
Now, it’s maybe thirty m inutes, and I’m just, I ’m just
fumpfing all over, I’m stepping on my dick, I dunno
where I’m at, man. O.K. And finally I get off and the
owner goes,
“Lenny, Christ! We had so many walkouts!”
“I ’m hip, man, they were stepping on my feet. Got
to be like a herd.”
“Well, Jesus, I never heard you do that religious
bit, and those words you use!”
“I dunno. You saw me work, man, I don’t do the
same bit every show, or the same way.”
“We’ll do something.”
O.K. Now, there’s walkouts, walkouts, every night walk­
outs. The chef is confused— the desserts aren’t moving.
Now, it’s Saturday night, I’m down to the end of the
barrel, I ’m doing these kind of bits:
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 “O.K. folks— bob white! Cheep cheep! And now,
a duck!”
And dig: the esoteric quality of the humor is further
championed by an age barrier. Little old grandmothers
with crocheted gloves sitting there, eating custard, and
spitting it back, with rouge, the whole family—it’s like
A Death in the Family. So the owner decides to intro­
duce me, to cushion it:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, before I bring the star of
our show, Lenny Bruce— who incidentally is an ex-
G.I., just got back from Iwo Jima— and a hell of
a performer, folks, and a great kidder, you know
what I mean? It’s all a bunch of silliness up here.
He kids about the Pope, and ah, the Jewish re­
ligion too, and the colored people and the white
people— it’s all silly, a make-believe world. And,
ah, he’s, ah, a helluva guy— he’s at the Veteran’s
Hospital now— doing a show for the boys— and
he’s, ah, and his Mom’s out here tonite too, hasn’t
seen her in a coupla years, she lives here in
town— ”
He gets walkouts, man. He gets fifty walkouts.
“Boy, they’re dropping like flies, tonight. Just blew
the whole balcony, it’s unusual. Something is dif­
ferent tonight.”
O.K. Now, the other clubs in the neighborhood are a
Socony gas station and a laundromat that didn’t make it.
Now, I hang out at the gas station between shows, and
get gravel in my shoes. And the conversation is really
inspiring.
“Hey, lemme see the grease rack go up again.”
“Awright.”
“Can I work it?”
“No. You’ll break it.”
“Can I tie your leather bow-tie?”
“Nope.”
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 “Married?”
“Yeah.”
“Ball your old lady alot?”
“Hey! . . . W anna see a clean toilet?”
“O.K.”
Really desperate, right?
“You been to alot of gas stations, right? Ever see
a toilet like this?”
“No. It’s beautiful.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“It’s immaculate, right?”
“Beautiful! B eautiful.”
“Eat off the floor, right?”
“Certainly could.”
“Wanna sandwich?”
“No!”
Then they’ve got the machines:
“What are these things for a quarter here, these
condums here? You sell alot of them?”
“I dunno.”
“Is that a lie, Sold for the Prevention of Disease?
Or whaddaya assume they’re really sold for . . .
You know, I think I saw a condum once, when I
was a kid. Aren’t they sort of terrible? Sold for the
Prevention of Love:
‘Are you wearing anything?’
‘Yeah. I ’m wearing an axe on my head.’
Do you wear condums?”
“Ahhh, I dunno.”
“I mean, ah, whaddaya do? Do you just have them
on all the time? Get up in the morning, ‘Well, I’ll
put a condum on, I’ll be ready’? I mean, it just
takes any love out of it, it just seems like a
planned . . . Gimme some of them.”
“Go get em yourself.”
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 “Awright. Wanna chip in? Ah, we’ll both wear one,
we’ll take a picture.”
“Getthehell outta here, you nut!”
I’ve just lost perspective, that’s all. Just lost perspec­
tive. Yeah. In another year I’ll have about fifteen real
hard-core followers— they’ll feel compulsed to support
me, you know, to fly all over. They get the S-O-S’s, you
know? Just three people out there, that’s all. Just three.
That constitutes a show. As long as I can get booked
for obscenity. Yeah. Over two people, that’s an obscene
show.

Oh. MCA sent me to a nice place called Lima, Ohio.

It’s really a swinging town. They should all end up that
way. It’s a cute little town, you know, and they’ve got
about eighteen thousand people, and MCA, you know,
they pioneer me, they send me to all these disaster areas:
“Listen, we want someone.”
“O.K., send him— he’s a trouble-maker. Let him do
Religions, Incorporated there! They’ll grab him.”
So dig. I don’t know why the town is there, ever, but
I ’m there, and the club— you ready for the name of the
club? Ciro’s. And the boss keeps telling me,
“You know, they sued us for the name, in ’45. Hah
hah! We won, you know. It was in Earl Wilson’s
column, did you see it?”
“Oh, yeah, got it in my scrapbook. Who could for­
get that? Everybody always looks at it and talks
about it, in front of the Brill Building.”
And he’s one of these guys, he’s really hung up on his
old lady, loves his wife. One of those real devoters, you
know? And he keeps telling me, you know,
“She’s brilliant! What a mind! She frightens me.
Got such a mind. In this town, she’s lost. She thinks
just like a man.”
Dig. She was about his third wife, and he married her—
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 she’s about the third act to play the club. But she wasn’t
an act, she was a magician’s assistant. You know, with
the skinny legs, net stockings that are sewed up so much
it looks like varicose veins.
“And now, the egg in the bag! Thank you, Wanda.”
And now she’s like one of these chicks, she doesn’t want
to give up, she’s still got the leopard leotards, and the
platform shoes, you know, and she’s got this cigarette
holder, la da da dum, you know, and you know, tanned
face, sagging keester, a real nothing.
And they always schlep you into the office. And he’s
showing me pictures, how the club used to look, you
know? And they added on, and on— looks like a fun
house. It looks nice inside, but outside it looks like
Frank Lloyd Wright is a junkie. He’s strung out there,
and he’s sort of fixed up the place.
And he keeps showing me pictures— you know, of
him on a pony, you know— on and on and on.
So now, I ’m working, and after the fourth night I start
to recognize people. And suddenly I realize they were
in the night before. And the night before that. And I
suddenly realize that the same people come in every
night; but not because they dig me— they’re drunk! This
town’s got four hundred people that stay juiced out of
their minds— cause they’re depressed because they’re
there. Or they’re like people that got hung up in this
town, for business, or they’re on the lam or something.
They don’t heckle, you know, they’re just loaded. But
they don’t listen. So I really feel rejected.
And the most depressing thing, you know, is that
there’s nothing to do in these towns. You go to the park,
you see the cannon, and you’ve had it. The library has
the latest Fanny Hurst novel. And the drugstores:
"Don’t take the magazines to the counter!"
So what can you do? You go to the five and ten, look
through that for a while. That’s the end of the day.
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They’ve got one Chinese restaurant in town, that serves
bread and butter, cottage cheese, and fig newtons for
dessert. No almond cookies. They give you tea in a real
cup. There’s no fantasy there.
You know, you always hear about these small towns,
you figure, “Well, I’ll go on the road, swing, they’ll
be some wild chicks.” So this town, eighteen thousand—
Peyton Place? It’s a lie! There’s no towns like that.
Nothing happens in these towns. And I’m really getting
lonesome.
And the waitresses there— nice elderly ladies, cardiac
cases with corrective stockings, Ace bandages, and
they’ve all got those handkerchiefs— starched, you know
— pinned there. And I’m looking to swing with someone,
and they’re bringing me in jelly, chicken soup, you know.
Now, I’m there and I’m really bugged. So, one night
I come off the floor, and the waitress says to me, “The
couple, they would like to meet you.”
So, solid, maybe someone will turn me on. So I go
over to the table, sit down, maybe sixty-five years old,
nice young couple. So dig. They like me cause I did
some things about Bruno Hauptmann. They knew some
people who knew Hauptmann, and the guy says to me,
“You from New York?”
“Originally.”
“Wha’d I tell you! Did I tell you?”
Wife’s a real schtolzer, short sleeve dress, vaccination as
big as a basketball, mole with a hair in it, real Philo-
mena at the wedding. Kind of dress you can see through
and you don’t want to. So he says,
“I recognized that accent. We’re from New York
too. I been out here for fifteen years. Yeah. It’s a
great town, New York, right?”
“It certainly is.”
“Yop, really great there. This is my wife. She’s not
from New York.”
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 “Oh! Hmm. That’s really something, boy.”
“Ever been to San Francisco?”
“Yeah, I worked there.”
“There’s a great town! Alotta restaurants there!
“Oh, yeah, aren’t there. Boy oh boy. And your
wife’s not from New York and there’s alotta res­
taurants there.”
“It’s not as good as New York, though!”
“No, you really said something there. It’s really
not as good. Cause there’s more restaurants.”
Getting sick by now, you know, waiting for somebody
to rescue me, but everybody looks alike! I’ve got nobody
to hang out with. The band, they’re the lowest. They
bring their lunch in a brown paper bag. And I know,
no music, nothing. All they talk about is that they fixed
their roof, and this one guy’s building his own trailer,
you know, that I wish that he’d take the town away in.
Now, all of a sudden, the guy stops talking and he
looks at me, and I see sort of a searching hope in his
eye. He says,
[lowered voice] “You’re Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“What’re you doin in a place like this?”
“I’m passing.”
“Why don’t you come over the house? My wife’ll
make you a nice dinner, you know, a gedempsteh
bliss, you’ll eat something.”
Usually I never fall into this trap, but I figure, It’s some­
thing to do. I’ll take a bus or something. O.K. Wet
cocktail napkin. The Scheckners. Write the address
down. Solid. Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Wonderful. I’ll
be there.
O.K. I’m staying at the Show Business Hotel— and
the show people? One guy runs the movie projector in
town, the other guy sells Capezio shoes. Anyway, you
know, I read a little, write a little— I just finished a
128
novel that will come out in installment form in Playboy
— so by the time I read, write, maybe it’s eight, nine
in the morning before I go to sleep.
O.K. Next day, eight in the morning, the phone rings:
“Hullo?”
“Hello! This is Mr. Sheckner!”
“Who?”
“Mr. Scheckner! The people from last night! From
New York!”
“Ohh. Solid.”
“We didn’t wake ya, did we?”
“No, I always get up about 12 hours before work.
You know, I need coffee, brush my teeth, get up.
I would’ve overslept. I’m glad you called me, there,
it’s wonderful. What’s happening, baby?”
“Listen, why we called you— ”
“Yeah, I been wondering when we’d get to th at
Is it any more about New York? Or the restaurants,
right?”
“Na, hah hah! You meschugenah, you! Why we
called you, we wanna know what you wanna eat!”
“What?”
“Listen, my wife’s gonna get, she might as well
get what ya like!”
“Ohhhhhh. Are you putting me on, man? At this
time of the morning? Chicklets.”
“Oh, you meschugenah you.”
“Yeah, a chicklet and a fig newton.”
“Na, na, na, you luff you, we wanna know what
you want!”
“Well, anything. Please believe me, I eat anything.
An avocado dip. A nything . A pretzel. Anything.
Some dentyne gum. Your old lady . . . Yeah,
I ’ll be there. Thank you Mr. Scheckner.”
And I get over there, and I do eat anything in the
world, except what they have— liver and brussel sprouts.
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That’s really a double threat: I don’t like like liver and I
don’t like brussel sprouts. You know. And she’s one of
these women who cooks it without water, you know?
It’s like eating paper. So I’m there, and I can’t stand
liver and I wanna be nice, and I’m eating it and stuffing
some in the couch— I’m not going to be over there
again, they’ll blame it on the kid. The kid’ll get rapped.
O.K. Now, they invite some chick over, for me to
look at. Real schlub with lipstick on her teeth, makeup
on her file collar, chipped polish on her nails. And
skinny. Did you ever see a chick who looked bad in
a knit dress? She looks like a hockey stick with hair
on it. And I don’t know what it is, but these chicks—
I’m really cool, I never come on— they start to get
hostile with me. For no reason at all, you know.
“That Hollywood, it’s really crazy, right?”
“Well, yeah, it’s a wild town. Any town is wild,
I guess.”
“Well, is that true about Liberace?”
So, then I really start to get vicious.
“Well, whaddaya mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, what?”
“Tee hee. That he’s a sissy.”
“Ohhhh! Oh, yeah! You kidding? But he’s straight.
Eddie Cantor’s a big fruit, did you know that?”
“No kidding!”
“Sure. They covered it up in the papers— the B’nai
B’rith cooled it. Sure. Rin-Tin-Tin is a junkie,
didn’t you notice?”
“I told you they’re crazy out there. Yona was out
there, at Republic.”
And now they take you around the house, got to show
you around the house. And the tour, the whole function
of this tour is to show you how dirty the last people
130
were who lived there. What can you tell people when
they take you around the house?
“Yes. That, um, that’s really a lovely closet. I like
the way the towels are folded. That’s pretty hip.”
And then they have the piano, that nobody plays, with
the lace on it, and the wax fruit. And I figured out, the
whole function of these pianos is that eight-by-ten pic­
ture, that nitwit in the army saluting, you know:
“That’s Morty— he’s bald now.”

Another expose: One thing you never knew about me.

I have a pen name: Ralph Gleason. I’m Ralph Gleason.
And you’re taking it good. I always thought you’d get
pissed off at me for that. In fact I wrote the column for
years and then just drifted into this, decided that I’d
like to do a little comedy on the side, and you liked me,
and I thought I was doing good, so what the hell, a few
write-ups don’t hurt anybody. And you’re taking it good,
that’s lovely.
I want you to know another thing, too. That I’ve
never been in jail. I’ve never been arrested. That’s all
horseshit. What it is, see, I got a publicity agent that’s
dynamite. And we have nine phoney cops that work for
Pinkerton, and we go from town to town, the same bull­
shit, you know. I get busted, I write the column the
next day, and that’s where it’s at, man.

The last time I was in town the press was very nice to
me. So the opening night the press was here, so, I
dunno, I must have said a few things that were a little
hostile, you know, and then I got a write-up that was
sort of vicious. I’ll show you. From a fellow, his name
is— wait, I got it here. This is yesterday’s paper. It’s
the Owl or something. Oh yeah. The Owl Steps Out.
Dig. This guy writes a bread-and-butter column. That
means like he’s afraid to knock cause they’ll lose the
131
ads. But he still wanted to be a little vicious, you know?
That’s the truth. That’s weird. In any town I work, guys
like Herb Caen always dig me, Ralph Gleason, but I ’m
the only one that gets bad write-ups in those “What-To-
See” magazines. Just, somehow I get real drug with
them, you know? So this is a typical example.
“Bring your anti-knock kit when you come to Fax
Number Two this week and next because Lenny
Bruce is one comic who doesn’t care what he says,
as long as he gets a laugh. He has a name for being
the most risque yuk-hustler—”
He must be talking about his old lady
“in show business.”
But finally, so after all of that— I was a little depressed,
you know, cause you can’t rise above that kind of thing,
you know, of being too big for it, but it did, it bothered
me— so finally, then, a newspaper of some integrity
gave me a good write-up:
[shows a Russian newspaper] “Last night a star
was bom!”
Yeah. I get bad reviews in every paper, except one with
integrity— The Enquirer.

Did you see Time Magazine this week? With the Shelley
Berman thing? They interviewed Shelley—but he sent
me a wire, said he didn’t say it—they interviewed Shel­
ley Berman, it says, like, ah, “I don’t want to be referred
to with those sick comics, and Lenny Bruce is the sickest
of them all . . . .” And the imagery was really weird.
He said that “Lenny Bruce, why his success, that people
have a need for him, and they also needed Hitler.” So
it really cracked me up. Cause it was so haimish. Dig
that!

Sick humor. I feel that they use the word sick— I think
it’s lazy writing, you know, for columnists. In other
132
words, if you notice when you read columns you’ll see
the word “beatnik”— I think they’ve already got it set
in type, and when they’re hung for a word they drop that
in, “beatnik” “sick”— you know, whatever is fashion­
able.
I think that a comic that satirizes— it depends where
your sense of humor lies—but the general picture of a
sick comic is an individual that satirizes handicaps, un­
fortunates. Joe E. Brown said that he wished that he
could be that kind of a mean, you know, comic, but he
just can’t do that, he’s just corpus christi, and he doesn’t
like sick humor.
I don’t think he was making reference to me, cause
I don’t do any, you know, deformity jokes in my act
at all.
But I think that the comedy they had before, I think,
actually was cruel. They actually did cruel comedy.
There was the Jew comic, they used to call them; the
Wop comic, they used to say; they used to do the
blackface, real stereotype Uncle Tom Jim Crow with the
curls and the fright wig. They did what they called the
German comic, which satirized and made fun of ethnic
groups, the way they spoke, and their racial character­
istics, which you don’t find too much today. I think the
comedy of today has more of a liberal viewpoint.

All right. This bit is about MCA, who I talked about

the first show. They’re a big agency, and they’re bring­
ing in an act that’s going to knock everybody out—
George Andrews really has alot of guts when it comes
to bringing in, you know, off-beat acts— a guy who has
never played San Francisco, wonderful performer, the
wonderful Adolf Hitler.
How did he get started, Adolf Hitler? He was pretty
wild. What the hell could he do for an act, right? Just
133
come on, you know, and they go, “Oh, that old crap.
You kidding? We heard that story.”
Here’s the way it happened. We take you back to
Bremerhaven.
The agents are in peril— it seems that they have
seventy-two hours to find a dictator, and now we hear
them talking, two agents:
first agent : Ven, ven vill de Cherman people
realize it’z no time for ze moralist, for individual­
ists? Do you realize zat ve haf seventy-two hours to
find a dictator? Zat Kaiser— I can’t believe zat he
split—veird. Zis is like a bad dream. He left just
like zat, you know. He vill never make it. Vat’s
he doink?
second agent : Selling cars, the schmuck. He’ll
never make it.
first agent : Zis is your fault, dot ve didn’t haf
him on paper, you know. You vent for dot hand­
shake jazz.
second agent : I never dug ze kaiser anyvay. He
vas a veirdo, mit dot big mustache he had, vas
dirty, mit de Monty Voolly bits dere, mit zat hat,
mit de dumb phallic zymbol.
first agent : Ya, zis is easy for you to talk like
zis, but we havn’t a dictator, ve haf to find some­
body. You know, I took a chance, und called up
central casting. You know, it’s a freaky business,
maybe ve get somebody. Ve try. They’re coming in
now . . .
Ya, siddown there, vere you vant, fellas, relax.
My name is Franz Eiser. I’m ze agent here, und
ve’re trying to find ze dictator today. Ve have no
script, a coupla pages— ve don’t know vere de hell
ve’re going mit ze project ourselves. Ve vanna zee
just today how you guys move, zat’s all. Just ad lib
it und do ze bit. Alright? O.K. Ve call up ze first
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fellow, Ben Visler. Benny, come over here. Zat’s
it. Just ad lib. Ve vanna see how you move today,
und maybe ve put a few bucks behind you, you
can’t tell. Alright? Benny, ah, you look familiar
. . . Did I do the Schlitz Playhouse mit you once?
No? Doctor Christian? Jean Hersholt? No? O.K.
Just sort of do ze bit, alright?
first actor [Deep, raspy aggressive German]:
Das ist ungespinnert alles gefrimmer, ya!— ”
first agent : Ah, zat method crap! Get out of
here with zat Brando jazz, you kidding mit that?
O.K. Paul Schneider. Paul? Do ze bit dere.
second actor [High, effeminate voice]: Das ist
ungespinn—
first agent : T oo faggy! Next?
second actor : Das ist ungespinn—
first agent : You’re a fruit! Now get out of herel
Don’t bug us no more. Call Bond-Loper and get
the hell out of here.
second actor : Thcrew you in the I. J. Farbin
building!
first agent : Get out of here, you fag! All of you
gentlemen, get out of here! Dat’s right. Get outl
Out, all of you. Ve vill call your agents . . . [Breaks
into tears] Oh, boy, ve are finished! Zis is your
fault, you fink, you! Zis is your fault, you und zat
hooker, Anne Frank! Zat you haf destroyed ze
Third Reich. Ve haf no dictator! You know vat
zis means? Ve are dissolving ze agency— ve are
finished! I never vant to look at you again. Zis is
kaput! I’m going into personal management— I’m
going to get a few acts of my own, that’s all. I get
Bobby Breen, Phil Bredo, dot’s vat I need. Sure!
Und I don’t need you again. Ve are finished, my
friend. You haf destroyed ze Third Reich. Ve haf
135
no dictator, und history vill remember you, my
friend. Ve are finished!
second agent : Hey!
first agent : Don’t bug me. I don’t like you, I
don’t vant to look at your face any more.
second agent : Hey!
first agent : You don’t understand, do you, ven
ve are finished? I don’t vant to be bothered mit you.
second agent : Hey!
first agent : Vat is it?
second agent : Don’t look now, but dig ze guy
on your right dot’s painting ze wall.
first agent : Vere?
second agent : Don’t look right avay, he’ll think
you’re doing bits mit him. Extreme right over dere.
first agent : Vere?
second agent: T o your right. Ze guy mit ze mus­
tache und ze hair in front of ze face.
first agent: Oh ya . . . Zis is really a veirdo!
Look at dot fink mit dot mustache! Hey, you!
Frenchy! Put down dot painting. You, ya, mit da
hair jazz there. Put down dot painting und step
around in front. Yes, you! Ve vanna look at you.
Right? Ya. Alright . . . Look at zis face! Is zis an
album cover? Hey, vat is your name, my friend?
painter : Adolf Schicklgrubcr.
first agent: You’re putting us on.
painter : Hey, come on, don jerk me around, you
guys, I got tree garages to paint in Prague today.
I gotta finish dem up.
f i r s t a g e n t: N o von is jerking you around, dere.
You ever did any show business bits?
p a in te r: Veil, I did a Chaplin impression at a
party once. Hey! Don’t jerk me around, you guys.
My brudder’ll punch de hell out ov you!
f i r s t a g e n t: N o one is jerking you around. Ve
136
vanna make you a dictator! You know vat dot
means? Ze money you’ll make?
painter : I dunno. I make pretty good mit my
painting.
first agent : Vill you stop mit dis painting?
You’re gonna maybe make in a minute vat you
make mit dis Kemtone crap in your whole life.
Stop mit dot dumb painting . . . I like dot first
name— Adolf— it’s sort ov off beat. I like dot.
Gimme a different last name. Adolf vat?
second agent : Menjou.
first agent : Vill you shut up, you nitvit? Menjou!
Alright. Ve need something to, sort of hit people.
second agent : Adolf Hit-the-people?
first agent : Vill you get the hell out ov here
mit zem dumb jokes of yours, you nitvit? . . .
Something . . . Adolf Hit— No. Adolf Hit-ler
— zat’s a vild name, right? A-d-o-l-f H-i-t-l-e-r.
Five and six for the marquee—nice und zmall.
Dot’s nice. Sure. Dot’s right. Ve get a little rythym
section behind him, it’ll sving dere. Jonah Jones,
maybe. O.K. Adolf Hitler. Adolf Hitler. Say that.
second agent : Adolf Hitler.
first agent : I like that.
painter : Vatdehell, ain’t I got nuttin to say?
first agent : Shutup! You nut, you’ll get later.
Ve’ll fix you up mit some broads. At’s all right.
A nice big boy like you, mit a mustache? Oh, you
freak you! Adolf Hitler. Yes. Ve’ll sving mit dat.
Alright? Dot’s it! Adolf Hitler, tomorrow mein
liebchen you vill go over ze Third Reich, call up,
maybe, um, call up Leonard Bernstein, ve get some
tunes from him. Something very light, a nice opener
[j/ngj]: “Goodbye, Denmark, goodbye . . . Poland,
how I love ya, How I love ya” . . . Ya. It’ll sving.
Ya. Call up Cy DeVor, get him something very
137
 commercial, ze mohair und ze cufflinks. Alright?
Tomorrow, Adolph Hitler, you vill get over ze
Third Reich—und ve need von zing more: an
armband. Ve didn’t do ze armband bit for a vile.
Ve need somezing lucky, zat people can identify
zemselves mit. Vat’s lucky? Somsing, an emblem. . .
I got it! Four sevens! Ya. Dot’s it. It’ll sving. It’ll
be good. You’ll see. Ve’ll get him in The Lounge.
That’ll be it. Tomorrow, Adolph Hitler, ve grow
mit ze third Reich!
painter : O.K., I still think you’re jerking me
around, but vat de hell, I like a buck like anyone
else. I’m gonna get them broads?
first agent : Yeah, you’ll get broads, you won’t
be able to stand up already. Tomorrow, fix him up
mit dirty Bertha. Freak him out. Start him out right.
Wear him out. Alright. Tomorrow, Adolf!
painter : O.K. fellas! Vatdehell, I’m gonna get
laid— dat’s de main ting, right?
first agent : Ya, you’ll schtup your brains out,
you freak you. You’ll vail, you’ll vail! You never
had it so good. Do the whole bit—knots in ze cord,
anyting mit zem.
painter : Alright, vatdehell, fellas, I’ll go along.
I’ll see ya tomorrow [departs, gives the fascist
salute],
second agent : Did you see that?
first agent : Vat?
second agent : Ze vay he vaved7 Adolf!
painter : Vut?
second agent : Vave again, sveetheart.
painter : I alvays vaved dis vay.
first agent : Who vaves zis way, but a beautiful
nut like zis? You can see ze possibilities of zis vave,
can’t you? It’ll catch on—it’s a vild vave! It’s free
form. It’s easy. I can see kids doing it. Zese thing
138
 come vonce in a tousand years, a vave like dis. It’s
veird! It makes ya feel good! Adolf! Zat’s vild! Do
it. Adolf, you ever get hung up for vords, give
zem zis bit, sveetheart!

There’s a show in L.A. to help talent. And what they do

on this show is sell automobiles. And then the gaff is
that they’re going to help young talent get there. And
they do help a lot of young people in show business de­
velop a lot of traumas. That’s how it ends up. And the
poor chicks come on this show, you know, with the
Lemer formulas, you know, the let-out panels, and the
brown-and-white spectator pumps with the whoopee
socks.
And the moderator, she’s very chic, with the Lily-Ann
suit, and she always smells from a sour sponge. Real
weird group. So she calls the votes in a la Ted Mack:
“Well, let’s see, now. The votes are coming in now,
and the bicycle act got 6,000 votes, and the young
fellow who sang Sorrento was deported . . . I see
here by your handwriting, young man, that you’re
good-natured, you’ve got a quick temper, and fun­
gus . . . We’ve got a wonderful show tonight, but
we’re going to switch you now to Big Brother, who
has a few words about that new, good car.”
“Well, thank you very much, sweetie [Answering
telephone]. Well, you want to get into our new
fleet scene, yessir . . . Well, actually I wanna
see the trade-in . . . Well, what are you driving
around now? . . . A ’36 Terraplane.. They’re
bombs. Good roadability— when they turn over
they really stay there, don’t they? Yeah, well, I’d
hafta look at it . . . Well, is it clean? . . . Well,
I could let you have, like, about six dollars . . .
Same to you, sir . . . Thank you . . . Same
to your Mommy too . . . Thank you . . . Thank
139
 you sporty . . . Uh huh . . . O.K. buddy, yeah,
anytime you wanna, I’d like to meet you down here
. . . You’re a real nice guy . . . Yeah, ya . . .
O.K. . . . Yeah, O.K., sport. Anytime you wanna,
you know? That’s right, pal . . . Uh huh! Yeah,
that’s right, buddy-buddy! . . . Come on down,
why don’t ya! Friend! . . . Thank you! [hangs
up phone]
“Just alotta nice people calling us up here. But
we’re not gonna bother you any more with those
kinda people, we’re gonna switch you over now to
Chatsworth with a few words from Fat Boy.”
“Well, thanksalot. Buddy boy, this is Fat Boy,
heah? Heah heah heah? Folks, we gotta lotta nice
cahs out heah in Chatsworth, as ah’ve said many
tahms onna television. We’re jus plain peepul, jus
lahk yew out theah— morons. Yew know buddi,
’tsa funny thing, about buying yewsed cahs, jus
lahk a dayim clock ora watch, know? Yew just
don’t know what yew got under the hood til you
bring it home. But one thing yew can depend on,
when yew see a Fat Boy cah goin off this lot, boy,
yew see an O.K. sticker onna winshield, and buddi,
when yew see an O.K. sticker onna Fat Boy cah,
yew know one thing, buddi— theah’s an O.K.
stickuh onnat winshield!
“Lotta peepul hahd-tawk ya, ya know? Right out
heah at Fat Boy’s, an we’re nice, conveniently lo­
cated— yew take the Santa Anna Freeway out 101,
then 76 through Bakersfield— we’re just a day-and-
a-half from Civic Center. Just come make a nice
pahty out heah. An, it’s good cahs, nice peepul.
Gotta lotta nice entertainment out heah. We jus
finished our Jew-punchin contest, an after that
we’re gonna bum up the resta them Chaplin fillums
just have a good, free, white, Protestant show.
140
 “Nice peepul, folks, nice cahs. Here’s somma the
cahs yew’ll be seein, buddi: Here’sa nice little
Baker. This cute lil cah just used once, in a suicide
pact. Just a lil lipstick around the exhaust pipe.
Rub that off with Bab-O. If yew lahk them foreign
cahs heah’s a nice lil thing, the Fugginsfug, it’s a
bewtiful lil— this cah was just used in Germany a
lil bit durin the wah, takin the peepul back n fo’th
to the furnace. Now the motor is good, but the up-
holstry’s a lil shot. But we’ll sew that up while
we’re re-groovin the tires.
“Now, there’s been alotta tawk about recession,
folks, an ah’ll tellya one thing about that recession
—it’s jus alotta propaganda spread around by
alotta unemployed peepul. Awl them peepul hahd-
tawkin ya. Jus lahk Uncle Rector used to say—
old Uncle Rector, he worked on, he had kinda a
dumb job, he worked in a sardine factry. His job
was sorta, well yew know before they put the lid on
the sardines he used to close awl their eyes. Now
that might sound real dumb to yew, but yew
wouldn’t wanna open up a canna sardines an have
awl them fish starin at yew, would yew?
“That’s it, folks. Fat Boy’s good cahs. But be­
fore you go to Fat Boy’s, we’d lahk yew to go awl
over town. Go ewriwhcre, say, ‘Buddi, yew been
tawkin on the television, now why don’t yew put
it down theah on papuh? Yew been tawkin, sayin
yew slashin prahces— just write it down!’ And jus
slip it in yo pocket n come back to Fat Boy, and
just look up at him lahk some lil ol doll, and say,
‘Fat Boy, ah been awl ovuh this daym town but ah
want it!’
“Just look up in his eyes n say, ‘I wan it, Fat
Boy!’ An he’ll really give it to yew! He’s been givin
141
 it to the public for thirty years! In the same loca­
tion!”

Sophie Tucker. What could her problem have been?

Narcotics? No. You’re going to flip.
She’s a nymph. A nymphomaniac.
And shock, man. For years the B’Nai B’rith and the
H av an a have been paying off, cooling it, right? And
she was very cool. She never fooled around in Lake-
wood; but like in Dayton, Ohio, she schtupped whole
yeshiva bands, real haisser, and finally they got fed up
with it; can’t pay off any more, right?
So she belongs to a thing like for alcoholics anony­
mous, only for celibates, you know. You know, when
she gets hais, she goes,
“I’m horny! What’ll I do! I’m hais. I can’t help it.”
“All right, Sophie, just read a Popular Mechanics.
We’ll be right over.”
Now there’s a guy in the gig, poor guy, that’s all his gig
is— in Las Vegas especially. He gets these poor Puerto
Rican busboys, and he tells them:
“Manuel? You know what you do to Miss Tucker
when she comes off the stage tonight, don’t you?
We’ve always been a friend to the Spanish people.
I’m sorry it’s been three times this week, but you
know we have a help problem. And you’re all set,
aren’t you?”
manuel [heavy Puerto Rican accent]: Look, can
you tell me something? Why do I have to schtup
her, O.K.? Why am I the one to schtup her all the
time? I can do to her no more, you fink! My legs
are chapped, I got cornstarch on them.”
“Do you wanna be deported, Manuel? Is that it?”
manuel : Come on, I no do to her. Go head, you
fress her, you like her so much! Get you frien’
------ to hack her.
142
 “Oh, is that nice, now?”

And now, a tribute to the greatest living Polish artist in

America today—Florence Zelk. Bom in Strasburg,
North Dakota, the only son of poor Polish immigrant
parents, his father a famous Dixieland drummer, Ben
Polack; his mother, who said on a recent interview,
“Dankyou veddy moch ladies ant chentlemen. I vuld
like to say bud von ting: dot Helen Hayes is a fink! I
yam da real Anastasia. She balled da proputty man ta
get da paht.” His stepfather, Francis Fey, and her half-
brother, Patsy Kelly.
Now, Welk. What’s behind Welk? A woman—firm,
with fantastic measurements: 96, 4, 53; 112 pounds;
two feet tall! Grotesque? But a balling chick.
Now, the band has been together for many years.
Suddenly he’s looking for a new trumpet player. The
whole rhythm section, Philly Joe Jones left him, LeRoy
Vinegar, Miles—they all split. And we hear Lawrence
Welk interviewing a new man for the band— with ten
minutes left before show time:
“Awright. Send in da new boy! . . . Huwwow,
thonny. How’re you? My name is Larry Welk. The
agency, Mr. Glazer, told me all about you. You’re
gonna be perfect boy for my band— you’re deaf.
Yessir. Ve vent shopping for the boys, ve got all
new ties. You like it vit the big horse’s head on
them there? And ve got nice shoes from Flagg Bros,
with the tick soles. And ve got a cricket and a
badge. I got the vistle, though.
Now, the rules are: Cooking in the dressing
room; Fem does the laundry, fifteen cents a pound,
fluff dry; you fold though. That’s it. Ve go right
on the road. We gotta lotta college dates— mostly
industrial colleges—vatsamatter vit you sonny?
How come you don’t talk to me?”
143
musician [stoned out of his kug]: Ah, like hello
man, ah . . . you know, like, ah . . . alotta cats
put you on, Mr. Wig, but, ah . . . you really
something else, sweetie, ah . . . really, you know,
like . . . like when I laid the scene on some peo­
ple, I said like I’m gonna make the scene with
Welk, you know that cat’s busted up, ya know,
but, ah . . . I said no matter what, you’re the best
banjo— or whatever your ax is— you swing . . .
that’s it, sweetie, swing with your ax . . . you
know, like . . . I got Byrd’s ax, man, he gave me
his ax, you know, like, and you’re pretty wild, Mr.
Funk, and, ah . . . I really wanna make the scene
with you baby, you know . . .
w elk : WHAT TH E HELL YOU TALKING
ABOUT?
musician : I’m, ah . . . I dunno, sweetie, that’s
my trouble . . . that’s my scene, you know, like
no one comes through to me, you know . . . like,
I’m on nez, you know, like, that’s zen backwards
. . . well, you know, sweetie, like everyone’s got
their own scene, like you got your bubbles, Jim,
I got my thing . . . like, ah . . . so, you know,
whatever you wanna do, you know, we’ll do the
thing, you know . . .
w elk : I DUNNO WHAT THE HELL YOU’RE
TALKING ABOUT! WHAT THE HELL, YOU
A QUEER OR SOMETHING? YOU A GOD­
DAMN COMMUNIST OR SOMETHING?
musician : Hey . . . don’t come on gangbusters’
style . . . cause I’ll bust you right in the chops,
baby, like, don’t come on corny, you know, like,
you ain’t that wild, Polack. You’re something else,
I swear to god . . . you’re really wild, really
wild . . .
144
 w elk : WHAT ARE YOU SCRATCHING YOUR
GODDAMN FACE FOR?
musician : Cause I’m allergic, baby . . . what the
hell you yelling at me for, motherfucker, what’s all
this screechin here . . . look, I wanna tell ya, I
jus wanna get a taste . . . can I get some bread
in front here?
w elk : Y ou hungry, wanna sandwich?
musician : Ahaha . . . haha . . . do I wanna
sandwich? . . . haha . . . shit, you’re really
something else, baby . . . do I wanna sandwich?
Yeah, wanna sandwich . . . You kiddin baby?
. . . you’re a freak, you know that? . . . look
out . . .
w elk : Vat are you talking so weird for? Stop act­
ing silly, now, and be nice, cause you’re gonna be
on the television soon. Now I’m gonna hire you,
cause I’m a good judge of character. You’re honest
boy. I can tell by your eyes— they’re tho thmalll
musician : Hey, I better tell ya pronto . . . ah, so
there’s no panic here, you dig? . . . I hate to cop
out on myself, Mr. Nook, but, ah . . . I better
tell you out in front, baby, that . . . I got a mon­
key on my back, you might as well know that, Mr.
Wick and that’s it, you know?
w elk : Oh that’s all right— we like animals on the
band. Rocky’s got a duck. They’ll play together.

This is my own observation, that this industry, you

know, show business, actually, not from this end, the
recording end, not from the motion picture end, but from
the cafe scene especially, is the most unimportant part
of the world. Actually. Cause this is the only thing that
if it doesn’t go on, no one is actually inconvenienced,
you know. But yet, there’s a great segment of cafe per­
formers who continually eulogize, you know, and really
145
get hung up that they’re really doing something, you
know?
So I figured that one day they’ll have a tribunal, and
the people will have to answer, you know? So they’ll
have it on Broadway:
authoritative voice : Now, the tribunal has
started! You will bring the performers to the fore,
state their salary— the money they’ve been stealing
for years— also their names. And the sentences will
be meted out. Bring them up here quickly! The
first one— your name?
“Frankie Laine.”
“How much do you make a week?”
“Eighty-five hundred dollars a week.”
“What do you do?”
[•rings “Ghost Riders in the Sky . . .”]
“Bum his wig, break his face and his fingers, twenty
years in jail!”

146
 Pills and Shit: The Drug Scene
Oh! I got busted since I’ve seen you. I’m going to lay
that on you first. I got two arrests. One: illegal use and
possession of dangerous drugs—which is a lie. They’re
not, they’re friendly.
Lemme get serious with that for a moment. That’s
how weird I am: I could never discuss or support any­
thing I’m involved with.
I don’t smoke pot at all. I don’t dig the high. The
reason I don’t smoke shit is that it’s a hallucinatory high,
and I’ve got enough shit going around in my head; and
second, it’s a schlafedicker high, and I like being with
you all the time. So therefore I can talk about pot, and
champion it.
Marijuana is rejected all over the world. Damned. In
England heroin is alright for out-patients, but marijuana?
They’ll put your ass in jail.
I wonder why that is? The only thing I can think of is
DeQuincy— the fact that opium is smoked and mari­
juana is smoked, and there must be some correlation
there. Because it’s not a deterrent. In all the codes you’ll
always see, “Blah-blah-blah with all the narcotics except
147
marijuana.” So the legislature doesn’t consider it a nar­
cotic. Who does?
Well, first: I think that there’s no justification for
smoking shit. Alcohol? Alcohol has a medicinal justifi­
cation. You can drink rock-and-rye for a cold, pemod
for getting it up when you can’t get it up, blackberry
brandy for cramps, and gin for coming around if she
didn’t come around.
But marijuana? The only reason could be: To Serve
The Devil— Pleasure! Pleasure, which is a dirty word in
a Christian culture. Pleasure is Satan’s word.
condemning voice : What are you doing! You’re
enjoying yourself? Sitting on the couch smoking
shit and enjoying yourself? When your mother has
bursitis! And all those people in China are suffer­
ing, too!”
guilty voice : I’m enjoying it a little bit, but it’s
bad shit, anyway. And I got a headache and I’m
eating again from it.

If we were to give Man A three glasses of whiskey a

day, and Man B were to smoke the necessary amount of
marijuana to produce a euphoria like that the alcohol
brings, and we do this now for ten years straight, stop
them cold one day— Pow!
The guy who juiced will suffer some absence syn­
dromes— he’ll need a taste, physically need a taste. The
guy that smoked the pot will suffer no discomfort. He
is not addicted. Healthwise, the guy who juiced is a little
screwed up; and the pot smoker may have a little bron­
chitis. Maybe.

Since marijuana is not a deterrent, no more than ciga­

rettes, it seems inhumane that they schlep people and
put them in jail with it.
“Well, maybe marijuana’s not bad for you, but it’s
148
 a stepping stone. It leads to heavier drugs— heroin,
etc.”
Well, that syllogism has to work out this way, though:
The heroin addict, the bust-out junkie that started out
smoking pot, says to his cell-mate:
“I’m a bust-out junkie. Started out smoking pot,
look at me now. By the way, cell-mate, what hap­
pened to you? There’s blood on your hands. How’d
you get to murder those kids in that crap game?
Where did it all start?”
“Started with bingo in the Catholic Church.”
“I see.”

Now lemme tell you something about pot. Pot will be

legal in ten years. Why? Because in this audience proba­
bly every other one of you knows a law student who
smokes pot, who will become a senator, who will legal­
ize it to protect himself.
But then no one will smoke it any more. You’ll see.

Do me a favor. I don’t want to take a bust. The code

reads that I talk, you smoke, I get busted. So don’t smoke
— drop a few pills, but don’t smoke.

Did you see the Post reviews? It said that

“His regulars consist of mainlining musicians, call
girls and their business managers.”
Isn’t that a little bit libelous?

I know that Californians are very concerned with the

modem. Seven years ago there was a narcotics problem
in New York, fifteen years ago in Los Angeles. Now in
L.A. it’s been like this:
They have a rehabilitation center, and they got this
group to attack these narcotic drug addicts. Now, this
group is attacking, and getting good at attacking. They
149
mobilize. They get good at it, and better and better and
better. First they learn the orthodox way to attack. Then,
by hanging out with these deterrents, these felons, they
learn unorthodox ways. They become bitchy-good at­
tackers— unorthodox, orthodox— and they’re wailing
their ass off.
Suddenly:
CALIFORNIA LOSING ITS WAR
AGAINST DRUG ADDICTS
There are eighteen hundred empty beds at the rehabili­
tation center.
“Schmuck, you’re winning!”
“No, were losing. We gotta fill up the beds!”
“You didn’t make one win? In fifteen years?”
“No. We’re losing, we’re losing!”
Well, I assume there’s only one junkie left.

Narcotics? Now they’ve finished with heroin— I think in

1951 there were probably about fifty narcotic officers
and seven thousand dope fiends in this state. Today,
probably, there are about fifteen thousand narcotics offi­
cers and four dope fiends. Fifteen thousand Nalline
testing stations, loop-o meters, and they got four dopey
junkies left, old-time 1945 hippies.
O.K. One guy works for the county, undercover; the
other guy works for the federal heat. O.K. So, finally,
finally they went on strike:
ju n k ie : Look, we donwanna use dope any more.
We’re tired!
agent : Come on, now, we’re just after the guys
who sell it.
ju n k ie : Schnook, don’tya remembuh me? Ya ar­
rested me last week. I’m the undercover guy for the
federals.
It’s like Sambo, running around the tree. He works for
the federals, he works for the county.
150
 agent : Look, we’re after the guys who sold it to
you. O.K.?
ju n k ie : But nobody sold it to me. I bought it from
him, I told you that . . .
agent : Well, will ya just p~‘z t out one of the guys?
junkie : Don’t you know him? There’s four of usl
I told ya that.
agent : Just tell us the names of the guys. Co­
operate now. Tell us everybody.
junkie [gives up]: O.K. He was a Puerto Rican.
Drove a green Buick. Hangs out in Forster’s.
agent : We’ll wait for him.
ju n k ie : O.K.
Three days with the investigation:
agent : Is that him?
ju n k ie : N o, I think it’s, hm, ah, I think he was
Hawaiian, anyway.
agent : O.K. Don’t forget. If ycu hear from him—
ju n k ie : O.K. I’ll call ya the first thing.
agent : O.K.
So now they’ve finished up that nonsense, and the guy
says:
“You mean to tell me that you guy_ are gonna
screw up our rehabilitation program? If you’re not
using any dope, you certainly know some people
that need help.”
junkie : We don’t know anybody. We don’t know
anybody. Please. I can’t use any more dope. I don’t
like it any more.
agent : Well, you really are selfish. You don’t care
about anybody but yourself. Do you know we have
a center to rehabilitate people with fifteen hundred
empty beds?
ju n k ie : I know, I’m shitty that way. I’ll try.

I loved that when he got arrested. He was a dope fiend

151
— Bela Lugosi. It was the worst advertisement for re­
habilitation: he was a dope fiend for seven years; he
cleaned up; and dropped dead.

There’re no more narcotic drug addicts, so we’re mov­

ing now to dangerous drugs. Dangerous drugs—no opi­
ates, nothing to send you to that lethal mania, but the
mood elevators, the amphetamines.
The big connections of the dangerous drugs are
Squibb and Park-Lilly, Olin Mathison and Merc and
Wyeth. Do they know that? Does the legislature know
that? I wonder why they’re not apprised of that situa­
tion. Dangerous drugs— that’s the legal phrase—relates
to all these medications that are mood elevators, not
made for sores or boils. They are made not in Guate­
mala, but in factories and for a purpose.
Then I said, “These senators, they come from the
South. Southerners don’t take pills. Nor do Southern
doctors prescribe pills.” I’ll bet you that when all those
people were dying of spinal meningitis at Moffitt Field
— and heretofore sulpha drugs had worked— you won­
dered what happened. Guys are dying there:
“They’re spitting out the pills!”
“They’re what? Whatsa matter with you guys?
You’re dying and you’re spitting out the sulpha
drugs!”
“Look. I’m a Lockheed worker, and I read all
about it in the Herald Express, about those dan­
gerous drugs. I’m not filling my body fulla those
poisons! I got spinal meningitis, I’ll get rid of it
the natural way— take an enema. I ’ll sweat and
I ’ll run around. Not gonna take none of that horse-
shit.”

O.K. Now, dangerous drugs. Now, the insanity in that

area is that the reason that heroin is verboten is that
152
it’s no good for people. It destroys the ego, and the
only reason we get anything done in this country is
that you want to be proud of it and build up to the
neighbors. And if the opiate schleps all that away,
then the guy goes up to the guy who builds a new build­
ing and he’ll say,
detached hippy voice : Hey, that’s cool.
And that’s it. So it’s no good. And that’s why it’s out.

You know what I’d like to investigate? Zig-zag cigarette

papers. Yeah. Bring the company up:
deep aggressive voice : Now we have this re­
port, Mr. Zig-zag . . . Certainly it must have seemed
unusual to you, that Ziz-zag papers have been in
business for sixteen years, and Bugler tobacco has
been out of business for five years! . . .
This committee comes to the conclusion . . . that
the people are using your Zig-zag cigarette papers,
to . . . roll marijuana tobacco in it.”
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s right. Lots of it—rolling it and smoking it.”

Dig. The beautiful part about it is that so many neigh­

borhood grocery stores have been kept in business for
years— the schmucks don’t know that, right?
young voice [trying to sound nonchalant]: O.K.
I’ll have Delsey toilet tissues, and, ah, another six
cans of soup, and a broom, and, ah . . . some
cigarette papers.
old J ewish voice : I dunno, ve stay in business so
long, it’s terrific. All the markets— but ve screw
em, we chahge top prices, and the people come in
here anyway. They like me.
O.K. where does this go on? At a place called Alfie’s.
Alfy’s. Open 24 Hours. Cigarettes, cigars, old Jewish
man behind the counter:
153
 young wise guy : Pa?
ancient j e w : Yuh?
wise guy: Pa, do you sell many cigarette papers
here?
old j e w : Uh.
wise guy: What do you assume that people are
doing with the cigarette papers they’re buying?
old j e w : De’re rollink cigarettes.
wise guy: They’re rolling cigarettes? In these
flamboyant times you assume people are rolling
cigarettes?
old j e w : Uhhh, so vut are you doink mit cigarette
papuhs?
wise guy: You don’t know?
old j e w : N o.
wise guy: They’re rolling pot!
old j e w : Vus?
wise guy: Pot.
o ld je w : V u s machts du pop?
wise guy: Marijuana, schmuck!
o ld je w : Marijuana? Hey! Uh, agh, vus? Hey—
Always talking to some schmuck in the back who’s not
there.
— you heard dot? Marijuana. All dese years I
never knew dot. Marijuana. Sig-sag papuhs, mari­
juana, roll the marijuana, meschugenah, mari­
juana.
Next night an eighty-year-old pensioner walks to the
stand:
old pensioner : “Hullo? Hullo? Solly, in the bek?
Hullo? Dingalingalingalinga?”
old j e w : Hullo.
pensioner : Listen, gimme a peckege Bugler’s and
some Sig-sag papuhs.
o ld je w : V u s ? Sig-sag papuhs? Justa m om unt___
[Aside] Hullo, policeman? Is gecamein a junkie!
154
All right. The kid, six years old, played by George
McCready:
“Well, let’s see now. I’m all alone in my room,
and it’s Saturday, and Mother’s off in Sausalito
freaking off with Juanita, so I’ll make an airplane.
Yes. What’ll I do . . . I’ll make, ah, an Me-110,
that’s a good structure. I’ll get the balsa wood . . .
cut it out there . . . there we go . . . rub it up . . .
Now, I’ll get a little airplane glue, rub it on the
rug, and, uh, uh, . . . hmmmmmm, I’m getting
loaded! . . . Is this possible? Loaded on airplane
glue? Maybe it’s stuffy in here. I ’ll call my dog
over.
“Felika! Felika, come here, darling, and smell
this rag. Smell it! You freaky little doggy . . .
smell the rag Felika . . . Felika! Felika! IT
WORKED! I’M THE LOUIS PASTEUR OF
JUNKIEDOM! I’m out of my skull for a dime!
“Well, there’s much work to be done now . . .
horse’s hooves to melt down, noses to get ready . . . ”
CUT TO, the toy store. The owner, Albert Wasserman.
The kid walks in:
tinglelingleling!
kid [affected innocent voice]: Hello Mr. Shindler.
It’s a lovely store you’ve got here . . . Ah, why
don’t you let me have a nickel’s worth of pencils,
and a big boy tablet, hm? A Big-Little Book?
Some nail polish remover, and, ah, [voice changes
to a driven madness] two thousand tubes of air­
plane glue!
owner [old Jew]: Dot’s very unusual! Ve haff nefer
sold so much airplane glue before. I’m an old
man— don’t bring no heat on the place! And save
me a taste, you know? I vouldn’t bum you for no
bread, you know?
155
Cut to Paul Cotes, Confidential File:
“This is Paul Cotes, Confidential File, and next to
me, ladies and gentlemen of the viewing audience
on television, is a young boy who’s been sniffing
airplane glue. Could be your kid, anybody’s kid,
whose life has been destroyed by the glue. I hope
you can sleep tonight, Mr. LePage. Pretty rotten,
a young kid like this. What’s your name, sonny?”
“I’m Sharkey, from Palo Alto.”
“Well, it’s obvious that Sharkey feels a lot of
hostility for the adult world. Sharkey, how did it
all start, kid? How did you start on this road to
ruin? With airplane glue.”
“Well, I foist started chippying round wit small
stuff—like smellin’ sneakuhs, doity lawndry, Mal-
lowmar boxes . . .”
“A little Kraft-Ebbing in there . . . That’s very
interesting, Sharkey. You’ve been sniffing it for
six months?”
“At’sright.”
“Are you hooked?”
“No. I’m stuck.”

This schmuck here was hooked on morphine supposi­

tories. Like that? Honest to God. If heroin is a monkey
on the back, what’s a morphine suppository?
When I was in England all these faggots were strung
out on sleeping pill suppositories. Emmis. So I says to
this cat, I says, “Do they really make you sleep, man?”
He says, “Are you kidding? Before you get your
finger outta your athth you’re athleep, Mary.”
That’s a beautiful ad:
BEFORE YOU GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF
YOUR ASS—
YOU’RE ASLEEP!
NEBYALTAL
156
 “What is that? What did he need that for?”
“He’s weird, that’s all. He’s on it, that’s all. He’s
on it.”
“How can you tell?”
“You can tell when they’re on it. He’s standing on
it right now. He has to have it. They gotta have it.
They kill their mothers for it in the mornings. They
get the strength of a madman.”
How does he take it?
[Deep bass voice, with pride] “I take it in the sup­
pository form.”
Haha! I got high just before the show:
[Urgently] “Get it up there, Phil!”
“O.K.”
“Hurry up! Hurry up! Somebody’s coming!”
Now the reason why I take it in the suppository form
is that I have found that even with the most literate
doctors, it’s not the substance, it’s the method of ad­
ministration, because if this man would take a ton of
opiates through a suppository, the imagery is: “If he
takes rubicane in the arm, it’s monstrous; but the guy
takes it in the ass— what can it be? The tuchus . . .”

This is a benzedrex inhaler. I know the inventor, who

invented amphetamine sulphate, which was originally
used for just shrinking the mucus membrane, you know,
the air passage, but some fellows found out that you
could crush these benzedrine inhalers and—you’ve done
it— and put them in coca-colas, and it would become a
cerebral depressant. So, somehow they took out the
benzedrine and put in benzedrex.
The old thing— one guy ruined it for the rest.
Now, if you notice, it has a date when it’s exhausted.
Your nose? No. The inhaler. Smith, Klein and French.
Now it’s sort of weird, you know. I put this, and you
know, sniff it up there. But it’s about a year old, and
157
it’s probably exhausted; so I don’t know if I just did that,
or sticking things in my nose, you know? Or maybe
I’m just hooked on smelling my pocket!
Actually, is it lewd? That goes back to- taste. You
know that it’s just not good taste to blow your nose
in public or put one of these in your nose in public.
And I’ve never done it in front of anybody. But I just
feel like I wanna do it tonight.
For the first time, being recorded on tape, a man
sticking a Smith Klein French inhaler in his nose!
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here at Fax No.
Two. A hush is going over the crowd. He’s reach­
ing in his pocket. His neck is tightening. Some
ladies sitting ringside, traumatically, are sweating.
He’s taking it out, giggling nervously. Will he stick
it up there? Nervous laughs emit from the crowd.
He’s a degenerate. Two D.A.R. women are throw­
ing up. There go the people from the Mystery Bus
Tour.”
‘We want our $5.75 back!’
“There he goes, folks, he’s sniffing!
‘Hi, Howard, hi! Zowie! We’re really high
now, Howard. We certainly are. We’ve
solved the world’s problems.’ ”
And you’re only twelve months old, you little bugger!

Exploitation Films present: I WAS A TEEN-AGff

REEFER-SMOKING PREGNANT YORTSITE CAN­
DLE. With Sal Mineo and Natalie Wood. See Sal
Mineo as the trigger-happy Arty, the kid who knew but
one thing— how to love, how to kill! And see Fatlay
Good as Theresa, the girl who knew the other thing,
tenderness, and love. And see Lyle Talbot as Gramps,
who liked to watch. A picture with a message, and an
original Hollywood theme— narcotics.
158
 The film opens as we find Nunzio locked in the bath­
room with the stuff, the b a c c a la , the marijuana. Cut to
the exterior— Youngstown kitchen, there’s the wife, you
know, the factory-worker wife, the whole bit. He comes
home,
w ife [delighted]: Put me down, you big nut! Oh,
tee hee . . .
That scene, you know? Looking at her,
husband [ te n d e r l y ] : Where’s our son, where’s
Ralph?
w ife [ c o n c e r n e d ] : He’s in the bathroom again.
And I dunno whatsamatter with him. He’s nervous
and listless, and he’s not bothering with any of his
friends, and he’s falling off in his studies . . .
husband: In the bathroom again, eh? Tsk Tsk.
Hmmm. . . . [ k n o c k s o n th e d o o r ] Ralph? What
are you doing in there?
R alph [ s u c k in g in a b ig d r a g , th e n tr y in g t o h o ld
i t in a s h e a n s w e r s ] : Usta minud, I beyout in a
minud.
w if e : He’s got asthma.
husband: Will you stop with that, you nitwit! He’s
on the stuff!
O.K. Suddenly we hear a knock at the door, a whistle;
and he takes the marijuana, throws it in the toilet, rushes
to the door— there’s no one there! He’s thrown it away!
It’s g o n e , it’s t o o la te ! Beads of perspiration are break­
ing out on his forehead.
Ralph: It’s gone! There’s only one thing left to
do— s m o k e th e to il e t!

159
 Fantasies, Flicks & Sketches
You know, I left Hollywood, but I said, you know, I
might as well do some sketches. Then the sketches went
into a story, and I started working, and then I came up
with a book, you know, that I’ve been writing, a musical.
And this is not the whole thing, but it leads to a cre­
scendo, and it’s enough to open up with. So what I’m
going to do is sort of tell you about it— sort of like a
backers’ audition kind of thing, alright7
I’ll tell you about the story. It opens up in an F.B.I.
office in Washington. There’s some guy there, and he’s
seated, you know, and it’s not Hoover’s office, it’s ob­
viously—you see the White House, the dome in the
background, and you’ve got a big sign above the desk
that says T-H-F-I-N-K, which I gave the original to
George. And the guy’s on the phone, the agent, and
he’s talking, you know, and he goes
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . Hello Mr. Dulles . . .
Yes . . . yes . . . I . . . I realize the importance of
it sir, and I ’m sorry . . . I don’t know how it hap­
pened . . . yes . . . I do, and it will be taken care
of right away sir.”
160
Click.
“Gimme Fifth Precinct . . . Hello? Listen, which
one of you nitwits gave Dulles a speeding ticket?
. . . Yes . . . Well, take care of it right away— and
find out what happened to that case of tequila that
Benelli sent me . . . O.K. And see if you can score
for tonight . . . O.K. . . . Solid . . . Later.”
O.K. Now he’s busy writing at the desk, and the sec­
retary comes in and says, “The phone repair man is
here.”
He says, “Oh, yeah?” And he’s busy, and he goes
back to it.
The guy comes in, with the zipper jacket, the tool
box, and he picks up the phone, you know, dials 118,
repair cable, 104— he’s doing that telephone business—
and he does a slow take on me.
He says “Ralph Barton! What the hell are you doing
there?”
“Shhhh.”
“What the hell are you doing? What’s this bit? I
haven’t seen ya since, ah, where did we work together?
We worked in Phillyl Yeah. What are you doin in a
joint like this?”
I say, “Well, I’m— it’s a weird bit. About three years
ago I was working the Downtown, you know? And, ah,
wasn’t doing too good, you know, I was working too
hip, making the band laugh and all that jazz,” (this is
my story, you know) “so, ah, so I figured out, I ’ll try
for civil service, you know? So I went down, just for
the hell of it— I was loaded— and I made out an ap­
plication for civil service, for a talent co-ordinator in
the South Pacific and Alaska.”
He says, “Yeah?”
I say, “Yeah. I made out the test. Now meanwhile,
there’s another guy, another Ralph Barton”— (that’s my
name in the play)— “another Ralph Barton who made
161
out an application for the F.B.I. S.S.D., you know? And
somehow the papers got screwed up and I ended up
here.”
So the guy says, “That’s pretty wild. Where’s the
other guy?”
“He’s doing choreography in Aniwetok. That’s really
a bit. Isn’t that weird?”
He says, “Well, what happened?”
I says, “The funny bit is that the guy keeps writing
letters, protest letters, you know, and The Chief keeps
saying, ‘That’s great! What a sense of humor! Look at
this letter! Hahaha.’ You know? And it’s weird. So
finally the guy gets desperate, and he writes a big letter,
he calls the Chief a grey-haired pimp.”
So the guy says, “Yeah? So what happened?”
“Well, he’s in therapy now. But he’s getting out next
month, and he gets fifteen hundred dollars a month from
the medical, he’s happy, you know? And I dig the gig
here, so we’re swinging, you know?”
He says, “What happens if they send you a case?”
“I go! But most of the thing is the S.S.D.”
“What is that?”
“Well, it’s the security mail department, and I take
care of”— dig these speeches— “I take care of these
speeches, you know?”
He says, “What kinda speeches are they?”
“Well, the bit is that, if they have any crises, any
time there’s a crisis, I give these speeches.”
And here’s some of the crisis speeches. I can’t re­
member them all, but they’re really weird. O.K.
“Now they have a crisis. Suppose there’s about three
or four bombs that don’t go off, you know? And there’s
alotta heat on the White House right away, right? So
we come out with this speech. This is a good speech
for the President. This is after the fifth bomb hasn’t
gone off:
162
 loud, pushy , politico ’s voice : We’ve never been,
and never will be, a warlike nation. We demand
Russia disarm.
He says, “Well, that’s pretty wild.”
“Now I gotta speech if the other party wins, you
know. They’re holding all the seats in the Senate and
the House of Representatives. Now we give the president
a speech where we wanta be a nice guy but still give the
other party the shaft, you know?”
politico : Regardless of party, we’re all one. One
for one common good as Americans. We shall
help the other party in every way, to keep from
heading to the inevitable path of chaos and depres­
sion to which they will lead us.
So the repairman says, “That’s pretty wild. Gimme a
combination speech. Gimme a speech now for people
who want war, people who don’t want war, people who
are pro-segregation, pro-integration, Little Rock, the
whole scene.”
“O.K. That’s the blanket one. It’s called ‘Safety First.’
This one’s a capper. It’s a great applause-getter. This
is when the president, you know, when you’re really
hung in a crisis. And he comes out, you know, the presi­
dent does this speech, that we’ve had alotta success
with:
politico : In this country, regardless of race, color
or creed, the color has a right to know it becomes
everyone’s duty, the duty that has become the right
of every man, woman and child, a child that one
day will be proud of his heritage, a child that only
in these perilous times, when a man-bom menace,
a horrible bomb, that can only disfigure and defame
its creator, a horror, an evil, a bad, a lazy, a
lethargic. Lethargy and complacency we cannot fall
into. We’ve got a bomb that can wipe out half the
world! If necessary. And we will! To keep our
163
 standards, the strength that has come from Ameri­
can unity, that we alone will build for better schools
and churches.
Guy says, “That’s the wildest!” Now the guy says,
“Well, what about if they send you on a case?”
“Well, they got me on a case now. They feel coffee
houses are subversive. So I go in and I’m—this agent
in North Beach, with the Security Department, got me
a job as a comic in this expresso alley, this coffee house,
you know. And I dig working, you know— ”
He says, “Well, are they hip to what’s going on?”
“No. I’m doing the agent bit.”
He says, “Well, that’s pretty wild. Do I know any
of the kids on this show?”
“No. They’re all sorta beatniks, you know? But
they’re nice kids, you know.”
He says, “Well, could you get me a gig there? Cause
I’m real hung behind fixing phones, man.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“Well, they’re not buying magic acts any more.”
He says, “Can you get— ”
“Sure. FI1 talk to The Chief tomorrow. We’ll screw
up some more papers, you know. We’ll get some— the
guy in Aniwetok needs a replacement. So we’ll swing.”
Guy says, “Alright.”
“So you’ll meet me there tomorrow night at eight
o’clock.”
So the guy says to me, “Where’s your wife?”
“Oh, ah, we . . .”
“What happened?”
“Oh, we broke up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, you know, that’s the scene, you know?”
So we leave on that note— oh yeah: the secretary
comes in and we fade into the coffee house, the exterior
of the coffee house. It’s outside of sort of a brick build-
164
ing, alley-way kind of thing, you know, street lights.
And the stage entrance is about, here, and the two
chicks (By the way, who are very talented, who I sort
of made friends with the last time I was in San Francisco,
and I want you to come up. Come on up, sweetheart,
and sit down. Sure, cool.) So they are the two girls that
work in the coffee house. You know? They’re in the
show there. But they’re not hip to the fact that I am the
F.B.I. agent, who’s working as the comic.
Now, as the scene opens a classical pianist (Hey
Andre, wanna help me out? Yeah. I showed Andre
some of the music for the thing). Now, they’re there,
see? And we hear the classical music coming over the
scene. A recital is going on, you know. And you see the
signs, for the recital, you know; What’s going on tonight?
W HERE ARE WE GOING?
A Reading
by
Carroll Chessman
And then they have all the signs in the coffee house:
ZEN, OLE, you know. It’ll be a pretty outside thing.
And we hear the music, and I come on, and I’m sort
of late for the gig. And, ah (Give it a more— Andre,
that’s too good. Maybe a corny, what’s that song? Da
dah? Yeah, but real corny, like, a recital sound) [Pianist
begins hamming up Chopin’s C# Minor Waltz]. O.K.
The music is coming over, so apparently the show is on,
and I come on the scene, the F.B.I. agent posing as the
comic, actually a comic with previous cafe background:
agent : Say, ah, Felix is on. What time did the
show go on?
first girl : Nine-thirty. Where’s your wife?
second girl : Yeah, where’s Myma? This is the
! first time I’ve seen you alone.
agent : Ah, well, ah, it?s a scene we had. We broke
up. I’ve, ah, I ’ve had it with her. That’s the last
165
 beef I’m ever gonna have with that chick. She’s a
lunk! But I finally— you won’t believe this—but I
finally got rid of her. That’s it! I’m rid of her.
first girl : How’d you do that?
agent : She left me.
second girl : What happened?
agent : Ah, well, it’s . . . ah, you’re not married,
you dunno the scene. She’s always accusing me of
cheating. That’s what bugged me. Cause she was
always accusing me, and I was never guilty.
first girl : Y ou never cheated?
agent : Well, not when she accused me. And that’s
what really used to bug me. Because at least if
you’re guilty you don’t mind, you know. Anyway,
it was a long time ago when she went to visit her
mother in Phoenix. So actually it’s her mother’s
fault. Yeah . . . But I ’m better off. As long as I’m
gonna be accused of cheating, I might as well go
out and do it. That’s it! I’m just—but you know
the weird bit? I’ve been married for nine years and
actually, I forgot how!
second girl : H ow to do it?
agent : N o, ah, actually, how to go about asking.
second girl : Just ask!
agent : D o ya wanna do it?
second girl : N o.
agent : H ow ’bout you?
first girl : N o— but thank you anyway.
agent : Have you got any friends who wanna do it?
first girl : One in Glendale. Oh—but she has to
get up early.
agent : Yeah, you don’t care. You’ve got each
other . . . I think that I, I guess that I’ll just get
along . . . real fine . . .
Then you bring the lights down, and he sings a thing
called “Alone!”
166
 Alone, alone,
Oh joy to be alone.
Yeah, I’m happy alone, don’t you see?
I’ve convinced you— now how about me?
Alone . .. Yeah, but— you’re better off all alone.
Yeah, that’s it. You can save a buck, when
you’re single.
That’s what it is— I’m alone, I’ll get one of those
bachelor-type apartments, and I’ll fix it all up! I’ll
get a bullfight poster, and I’ll get some of that black
furniture. Did ya ever see that real sharp black
furniture? Real nice, you know? And I’ll, and I’ll,
I’ll get a, I’ll get a pearl-white phone, and I’ll, I’ll
just sit back and relax, and finally, I ’ll be all alone!
All alone . . .
All alone,
All alone,
Oh what joy to be
All alone, all alone . . .
Yeah. Ah, what the hell. Since ya can’t live with
em and ya can’t live without em. I’ll just five with
alot of em. That’s what I’ll do! I’ll, I ’ll get me
some sharp chick that— I’ll get me a chick that,
that likes to hang out, you know? Somebody that’s
not so square. I’ll get a chick that maybe, a chick
that likes to drink! . . . Boy, my wife sure used
to look good, standin up against the sink . . .
Yeah . . . It’s a drag, I guess, to be alone . . . If
I saw her I ’d miss her, but I guess . . . I do miss
her . . . I don’t want some sharp talker that can
quote Kerouac and walk with poise . . . I jus
wanna hear my ol lady say, “Get up and fix the
toilet, it’s still making noise.”
All alone,
All alone,
[two lines garbled]
167
Yeah. That’s it. Right. Then it goes to:
“Yeah, I guess I’m really getting to be a bring­
down.
But it’s this town that does it. There’s so many
phonies out here, I never saw so many goddamn
phonies in my whole life. That’s what it is. If there
was at least somebody here you could talk to; but
everybody’s so— they’re all grabbing, running, tun­
ning . . . Where’re you from?”
first girl : Lansing.
agent : What did you want to leave a nice town
like Lansing for? It sounds sorta nice and safe,
you know? And small and warm and— what did ya
wanna come out here to Phonyville for?
first girl : T o try to make it in pictures, just like
you. To be seen.
agent : Ah, you’re outta your skull. Who the hell’s
gonna see ya in a coffee house? Na, that’s no reason
at all.
first girl : There’s more to it than that:
[She sings a musical comedy type number]:
In Lansing girls with glasses
Never got any passes
made at them.
Even the so-called nice guys
Called us four-eyes.
So we said the hell with them.
There was no one to love,
And no one to pet.
But now with this Don’t-Matter Movement—
We’re the queens of the off-beat set!
[Chorus: the two girls sing together]
Thin girls with big feet
Are now interesting off-beat
With The Movement—
Hooray for The Movement!
168
 Curves are not an essenial must
Cause that’s just chic
To have no bust
In The Movement—
first girl : Stop! I used to worry about being over­
weight. Because I couldn’t get into a sheath dress
for the Lansing Country Club, I lost my savoir
faire.
second girl : But now with The Movement you’re
very functional with an oversized Viki-Duganesque
derriere!
Hooray for The Movement,
Oi veh for The Movement!
We’d love to be wanton women,
Our sin and lust to be flauntin,
But to be a wanton woman,
You need a guy to do the wantin.
[two lines garbled]
You got dumpy keesters
And no busts,
Forget Vic Tanny!
Put your trust
In The Movement,
Hallelujah The Movement—
first girl : Stop! In Lansing, I was just a blob, a
vegetating part of a vegetating mass. But now,
thanks to The Movement, one hundred and thirty,
including I, meet every Tuesday for our Neo-Physi-
cal Free Love Functional class.
second girl : There are one hundred and thirty
students in our Free Love class. If you could just
see it! It gives the words “group effort” a new
meaning.
first girl : Sort of on-the-job training.
second girl : In literate circles, it’s known as
“Freedom From Group Guilt Conscience Pangs.”
169
 first girl : Y ou know— sort of a group gang pang!
[lines lost]
Hooray for The Movement!
Oi Veh for The Movement!
Hooray for The Movement!
Hooray!
Next thing there, it goes to a very funny sketch, but the
actors are in Hollywood. No, actually, I’m using these
three guys who are. And it’s a satire on Forest Lawn.
So, it’s really far-out humor. I really came on all the
way with this one, you know? The guy comes in the
office, you know, and they’ve got this burial, and the
guy says
“Well, we have a dirt-saving plan, where we bury
you in cement. Wouldn’t you like to be part of
that new freeway that’s going out to Sawtell?”
And on and on. It’s real weird.
Now, the sketch— see, this then takes the form of
show-within-a-show, where Kobey is the mistress of
ceremonies inside. We’re now— cut! Cut!
We are now— I’ve never done theatre— into the in­
terior of the coffee house, and she’s on the stage, and
she does some real far-out things up there— slides, vis­
ual-aid kind of things. And she finishes with that bit
and then she makes a speech on existentialism, you
know, and she goes back to existentialism, and before
that nihilism and dadaism, and then a new threat—
“moral canyon-ism.” And Kobey is a swinging actress,
and she can really get that sort of Allan Zinar-Edna
May Oliver combo.
So she finishes with her scene and then in song— ah,
the existentialism speech precedes this song, “It Doesn’t
Matter,” which is the theme. It’s cut in the middle,
the sketch or farce, and then it goes out on “It Doesn’t
Matter.” And you can just sort of get an idea. I told
you what the sketch is in the center. (So Andre, in other
170
words, you’ll go right through it, see, the sketch. In
other words, it’s the thing where it’s the sketch— well,
crazy, you’ll swing with it. I know.) I guess you can
get a little fuller up on this. Can I have some lights?
Yeah, Crazy. O.K.
[First girl sings]
Since we can remember.
There’ve been sharks and cattle rustlers.
Folks scufflin for their piece of land.
Crooked politicians,
Also Polyander hustlers
With their pockets filled
With one another’s hands.
But the [word lost]
The sad thing
Even sharks who grab the brass ring
Have the juice,
The fix
The shmeer
The In.
All the land they can wind up with
Is a hole, four-by-six!
[chorus]
But it doesn’t matter,
It doesn’t matter,
Ya can’t get to heaven
On a golden ladder;
Don’t feel insecure about the thought of re­
jection.
Things could be worse,
You could wind up— up in this sectionl
Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha! ha!
While things move,
Don’t get the willies,
Just think of the pine box
That handles old billies!
171
 It doesn’t matter,
It doesn’t matter,
[word lost] overhead
Shovels, spades!
[line lost]
Ha ha ha!
It doesn’t matter
[line lost]
The most important factor?
To thine own self be true
Don’t worry about convictions
Don’t worry about disgrace
You’ll know it doesn’t matter—
When they throw that dirt in your facel
[Three lines lost]
[Tune switches to that of “I’ve Got the Whole World in
M y Hands’’]
And you’ll know
The whole world,
Will end in the hole;
The whole world
Will end in the hole;
The hole
Is waiting
For you.
Wait­
ing
For
You.

Alright. Now, since I’ve got my jacket off, I’m going

to do a bit— that jack-it-off bit—see, that came out
wrong.

Now, we take you to the town of Transylvania, and

Boris does the narrating. Alright. Boris Karloff, Bela
172
Lugosi. Oh— can you see my wrists stamped? The mark
of the Golem. The Dybbuk! Alright.
narrator [hushed voice filled with mystery]:
Soon, my friends, the town of Transylvania will be
visited by Bela, who’s looking for lodgings for the
night. Soon Bela will be knocking at the door, and
a woman will be answering . . .
tap tap tap tap
old woman : [Harsh, high, rasping voice]: Who
are you young man? I’ve never seen you before.
You’re a stranger in Transylvania . . . I said,
Who are you? Who are you?
dracula [Hammy, fake-cultured East European]:
Per-r-rmit me to introduce myself. Hahahahaha!
old woman [interested, voice softens]: Well, you
sound pretty wild. Come in! What is your name?
dracula: My name, madam, is Count Dr-r-racula.
And you see, ve are looking for lodgings for the
night. Ve have been fortunate enough to br-r-reak
down in your small town of Tr-r-r-ansylvania. Ve
are but a small cir-r-rcus tr-r-roop, you see, and ve
are ver-ry pleasant people. [Aside] It is getting light
out, I am getting veak . . . Excuse me madam.
There is yoost myself and my friend Igor.
igor [British accent]: You promised to straighten
out the hunch, master, you promised years ago
when I came to the laboratory! .
dracula: Shut up! I’ll punch you in the hunch!
POCK!
And don bug me no more! You look gr-r-r-roovy
that way. Look at the money ve made on the
parties at Fire Island, looking at you . . . Now.
Excuse, madam, for the small interr-r-ruption, but
ah, ve vould like lodgings, yoost for a vile, you
know.
old woman [Pushy]: Well, I know you show peo-
173
pie, and it’s usually customary that we get a little
money first.
dracula: Veil, I’m a little hung for bread now,
but, ah, I don’t, ah— per-rhaps you’d like to punch
Igor in the hunch?
old woman [interested] : Well, I’ve never done
anything like that before . . .
dracula: Yes, there is a whole chapter on this in
Kr-r-raft-Ebbing. Or maybe you vant to put on
some high leather boots and choke some chickens?
You like that? And you can talk dirty to them!
old woman : Hahaha! I’m not a freak! Teeheehee.
Oh yes. I remember years ago when A1 Donohue
was through here. Hahaha. I’ll never be the same.
No!
dracula: Alright. Vat is it you vant?
old woman [shrieking]: Money! Money! That’s
what I want!
dracula: Alright, alright. Get off my back. Here.
Here’s ten cents. Now, get out of here . . . Now
I vill take my family out of the boxes . . . [Irri­
tated]| I told you, don’t bring your mother! . . .
[Fondly] Bela Jr. . . .
bela j r . [popping out of box] : Ah, Poppa, Poppa!
Poppa, Poppa, Poppa!
dracula: Alright, shut up and dr-r-rink your
blood. And bite Momma goodnight. You hear me?
Don bug us no more! Go to the next room and eat
your blackboard and crayons. And pr-r-ractice on
sister’s neck.
mrs . dracula [nagging Jewish wife]: Sure, that’s
a nice vay to talk to the child! Isn’t it? Practice on
sister’s neck! That’s all you tink about, you de­
generate you! Aghh! I can’t stand to look at you
any more! Phah! You know vat it means ven a
voman can’t stand to look at a man any more?
174
pie, and it’s usually customary that we get a little
money first.
dracula: Veil, I’m a little hung for bread now,
but, ah, I don’t, ah—per-rhaps you’d like to punch
Igor in the hunch?
old woman [interested]: Well, I’ve never done
anything like that before . . .
dracula: Yes, there is a whole chapter on this in
Kr-r-raft-Ebbing. Or maybe you vant to put on
some high leather boots and choke some chickens?
You like that? And you can talk dirty to them!
old woman : Hahaha! I’m not a freak! Teeheehee.
Oh yes. I remember years ago when A1 Donohue
was through here. Hahaha. I’ll never be the same.
No!
dracula: Alright. Vat is it you vant?
old woman [shrieking]: Money! Money! That’s
what I want!
dracula: Alright, alright. Get off my back. Here.
Here’s ten cents. Now, get out of here . . . Now
I vill take my family out of the boxes . . . [Irri­
tated] I told you, don’t bring your mother! . . .
[Fondly] Bela Jr. . . .
bela j r . [popping out of box]: Ah, Poppa, Poppa!
Poppa, Poppa, Poppa!
dracula: Alright, shut up and dr-r-rink your
blood. And bite Momma goodnight. You hear me?
Don bug us no more! Go to the next room and eat
your blackboard and crayons. And pr-r-ractice on
sister’s neck.
MRS. dracula [nagging Jewish wife]: Sure, that’s
a nice vay to talk to the child! Isn’t it? Practice on
sister’s neck! That’s all you tink about, you de­
generate you! Aghh! I can’t stand to look at you
any more! Phah! You know vat it means ven a
voman can’t stand to look at a man any more?
174
Our knot is all gone, Bela. The stake is burned out.
You Fancy Dan vit the vaseline on the hair, dirty­
ing up all the pillowcases. Ve are finished now.
dracula: Alright! Get off my back, you vitch
you! You band rat! Sure, hanging around the Black
Hawk, everybody freaked off vit you! And I was
nice enough to take you avay from that—ugh!
sure, that’s appreciation!
mrs . dracula: Sure, you vit that vicious tongue,
that never brought me any pleasures! No no. It is
all over. Ve are finished! I ’m going off.
dracula: Go ahead. Go off by yourself, you freak!
Now, you hear? Ve are going into the next room
now, and I don’t vant to be disturbed.
mrs . dracula: Sure, you’re going to get high!
You’re gonna smoke some shit, some of those crazy
zigarettes again, and eat up the whole icebox!
dracula [a beaten old Jewish man\: I’m not get­
ting high—a coupla pills . . . Vy don’t you leave
me alone?
mrs . dracula: Sure, you stupid pimp, you— phahl
[to Bela Jr.] You like vat your daddy does for a
living? He sucks people on the neck. Hm hm! You
like dat? “Vat is my daddy doing?” “He sucks
people’s neck, for money.” Hm hm! You degener­
ate, you freak you!
dracula: Look, you knew vat I vas ven you mar-
r-ried me. Get off my back now. I’m no fr-r-reak.
mrs . dracula: Vat is a freak? You degenerate,
you’re sucking necks! Dot’s all you do: “Hello.
Vat does your daddy do for living?” “My daddy
sucks a neck for a living.” Hm hm hm! Dot’s nice.
Go head vit your friends, suck a neck, you per­
vert! Ptu! Phah!
dracula: Ohh, vill you stop? Vill you stop talking
this vay in front of the kid?
175
 superintendent [Tough American voice]: M r.
Lugosi, I hate ta interrupt ya, but I’m the super
here. You gotta knock of! this horseshit now. You
wanna hear me? I mean, the people just aren’t
goin for it. I dunno where the hell you people lived
before, but ya gotta move. I mean, I don like ta
butt in on your personal business, but that suckin
people onna neck is disgusting, now. I dunno
where you people come fr— get your kid off my
dog, Mr. Lugosi! God damn! The whole family's
sick. Come on, son! Get off there! He don’t like
dat . . . Kid’s weird, for Chrissake! Stop that,
sonny! The dog isn’t smiling, he don’t like that.
Mr. Lugosi, c’mon. I’m gonna give you the deposit
back. You gotta get outta here. I mean, you’re
pushy about it! You never ask people— you’re
sucking their neck before you even say hello to
them! C’mon, get outta here now. Damn fruit, you.
You’re not kiddin me. I don’t want ya to do it to
Father McGovern, either, trickin him into the con­
fession booth and getting him onna neck like that,
Damn weirdo . . .

I’m going to do a science fiction picture, dig this: It

opens up in Atlantis, you know, under the sea, and
there’re the two heavies, the scientists. One is a hate-
crazed skin-diver and the other is a moron physical edu­
cation major from S.C. who was thrown out for look­
ing over the lockers at the other guys and taking showers
with his underwear on. You know these guys, they saved
their brown underwear from the army— “It’s plenty
good! Plenty good, that’s all. I’m not pressing anybody.”
So that’s it, You’ve got these two weirdos, you know,
and they’ve got this monster they’re making. They’re
working on him, and he’s really a horrendous-looking
creature. And he’s ready for the ascent. You know, they
176
send him up, and he comes up in Coney Island. And he
gets up on the beach, and he comes dripping, monstrous
out of the water.
“ A r g h h h h h h h h h a n T h h h h h .”
And all of a sudden these old Jewish ladies see him,
and they start whacking him in the face with pocket-
books—
“What the hell is this?”
Kids are punching him, you know, and the sand is too
hot for his feet, and he’s w alking around there, and then
a cop gives him a ticket for changing his suit under
the boardwalk. So he really gets bugged, you know, and
the kids keep punching him, so he feels rejected. So he
goes down under the sea, and the scientists say
“Well, did you make it? What was the scene?”
“I bombed.”
“You’re putting us on.”
“Nooo.”
“What are you, kidding? You didn’t kill?”
“Nooo. They didn’t dig me. I dunno what the hell
it is.”
“Well, did you do all the bits? Did you

“Yeah.”
“Did you do
Graaaaaaaaaghl?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d they say?”
“They said I was doing Jerry Lewis.”
“That’s weird.”
“I dunno . . .”
The other guy says,
“Look, c’mere. We shouldn’t have sent bim to
Coney Island. They’re nuts there. Maybe Brighton
Beach. It’s a litde cooler there. That’s what it is.
He’ll flip those people there. Alright?”
177
So they get him weirder, and they give him directions:
“You make a left at the Andrea Doria, come
up, don’t fool with the sea urchins, and make it.
Now split. You ready? O.K. Cool it, and don’t bug
anybody.”
Now, he comes up, right? Brighton Beach, he comes up:
“Rrrrraaaagh!”
And this old Jewish woman rushes up to him, and she
says
“Are you married? My daughter Sophie . . .”
So he just wigs out, you know. And he’s ashamed, now,
to go back. So he hangs around for a while, but finally
he does, and they’re waiting.
“Hey, you made it, huh? You swung, I can tell!”
“Noooo.”
“Well, what is it with you? Cause we’re not up
there. You doing everything we told you to?”
“Yeah.”
“I know what it is. He looks wild, but maybe he’s
not thinking horror. He’s not projecting himself
. . . Look. Are you really a freak?”
“Yeah! I ’m wild.”
“Cause, don’t—you know, alotta guys say they’re
freaky, and they put ya on, and they’re not really
weirdos, you know?”
“Yeah! I’m a freak! I’m wild.”
“Cause we’re not gonna spend a fortune on pic­
tures and music and the whole bit, you know, if
you’re— it’s not bad not to be a freak, you know.
But tell us, if you’re a weirdo, you know. That’s it.”
“No! I’m the wildest! I got chicks—you wouldn’t
believe this. Lolita, the whole scene.”
“Alright! Alright! You got one more time, that’s it.”
Now, he comes up— they have a direct cut, and he’s on
the subway, standing there, you know. He’s so wild­
looking this time. He’s got an abalone on his eye, you
178
know? So these two chicks are there, with the black
stockings, the whole bit, you know, and this chick says
to her friend, she says:
“Look at him over there. He’s got a sensitive face.
He’s interesting.”
So she goes over, she wants to do him in charcoal. So
he gets so bugged— they’re going about eighty miles an
hour— he reaches out the window and he grabs this pole,
and that’s it: WRAP! CHUNK! WROMP! People
screaming, the girder, the whole bit. Everybody’s killed,
you know, and he made it— Show Business! Finally
made the scene. He’s just so grooved, you know? So
he runs back to the hotel—he finally made it, right?—
and he’s waiting for the newspapers to come out, you
know? Finally the papers come out, he looks:
MAFIA WRECKS TRAIN

A film that will be out soon: here’s the opener I’ve got
in my mind:
The mayor, speech. Parade. O.K. Now, here come
two schmuky cops chasing the gangsters: “Stop, We’ll
shoot!”
Pow! Pow! The mayor falls down, blam.

O.K. We take you now to— prison break! With Charles

Bickford, George E. Stone, Bruce Bennett, Frankie Dar-
row, Nat Pendleton, the woman across the Bay, Anne
Dvorak, Silvia Sidney, and Olivia DeHavilland, who’s
taking Vincent Price’s place in films now.
O.K. Eighteen prison guards hostage in the yard be­
low:
prison warden [harsh, heavy voice over loud­
speaker]: Alright, Dutch! This is the warden!
You’ve got eighteen men down there, prison guards
who’ve served me faithfully. Give up, Dutch, and
179
we will meet any reasonable demands you’ve got—
except for the light meters. Hear me? Give up!
dutch [hoarse bullfrog sound]: Yaydeyah! Yah-
dudeyahdudeyah!
w ard en : Never mind those Louis Armstrong im­
pressions. You’d better give up! You’re a rotten,
vicious criminal! You never were any good to your
family and you’re your own worst enemy, Dutch,
believe me. Hab mir gesucht. Give it up.
dutch : Yahdeyah!
warden : Shut up! You goddamn nut you! “Yah-
dayahdada”— putzo! [To the aides gathered
around him]. I’m sorry I gave him the library card.
That moron . . . I dunno what we’re gonna do with
these guys . . . Maybe if we kill about four or five
for an example. [Picks up telephone] . . . Tower
C! Kill about twelve down there! . . . The bullets?
Ask my wife . . . Look in the back of my brown
slacks, the bullets are there . . . Come on! Don’t
put me on. The ones in the grey shirts— you know
which ones to kill.
father flotsky [high voice with a thick brogue]:
Just a moment! Before there’s killing, I ’d better get
down there.
warden : Not you, Father Flotsky!
flotsky : I’m going down there!
warden : Ah, you don’t understand about these
guys. These are monsters! They’ve got knives and
guns—
flotsky : Son, you seem to forget, don’t you, that
I know things stronger than knives and guns—
w arden: You mean, ah—
flotsky : That’s right! Jujitsu, thafs it!
w ard en : You’ll be making a mistake, Father
Flotsky.
flotsky : The mistake is mine to make.
180
Now, the handsome, but eccentric prison doctor, Sabu:
sabu [combination Arab and Negro accent]: They
hate you. You’re corrupt. That’s why the men hate
you and cut you. Don’t you know that? That is
not the way to kill people. That is why the men
cut the men up. My father don’t know to do that.
warden : Get outta here, you big pill-head, you!
Quit buggin me!
sabu: Y ou jive, motherfucker—
warden : Get outta here with that, “You mother­
fucker!” So you learned something— now get outta
here and stop buggin me.We’re gonna start killing
them, right now.
O.K. Death Row, first cell:
negro prisoner [s/ngs]: Water boy! . . . Soon
Ih’m gwine up ta hebben. Yessuh. That’s one thing
that’s fun to be colored folk— that’s all you do,
is get up in de mo’nin, and gwine ta hebbin [sings']:
Ah’m gwine ta hebbin, Lord,
Yes, gwine ta hebbin, Lord,
Ah’m gwine ta hebbin, Lord.
white prisoner [weeping]: I don’t wanna die! I
don’t wanna die!
negro : Don worry, white boss, it ain’t so bad.
WHITE: Whaddayou care, you niggers are used ta
gettin lynched!
negro : Don worry. We gwine ta hebbin. Fust thing
ah’m gwine to do when ah’ve gwine ta hebbin,
is find out what a “gwine” is.
O.K. Some guy’s going to the chair:
“So long, Marty. Here’s my playin cards, kid.
Here’s my mezuzah, Juan. And there’s that door
. . . I donwanna go in there . . . I dunno what
to do.”
“Don’t siddown, Martha!”
Alright. Father Flotsky’s down in the yard, now.
181
flotsky : Hello, Dutch. You don’t remember Fath­
er Flotsky, now, do ya, son? You’d never hurt
Father Flotsky. Now, you’re not a bad boy, now.
Killing six children doesn’t make you all bad.
dutch : Yahdeyah! Yahdeyadedah!
flotsky : Oh, he’s disgusting! He’s a goddamn nutl
They’re no good, the lot of them— ‘Yaddeyahdah”
— They’re anim als! Pour it on— kill them all!
They’re no good! I’ll give them mass confession.
But first I gotta bless the motorcycles.
warden [over loudspeaker]: You men—the
prison guards! Look, I dunno what the hell it is,
but Dutch donwanna give up, and I got an election
comin up here, and, ah, it’s a dog eat dog, you
know what I mean. Dutch, c’mon now, don’t be
crazy. Give up! Ya got two seconds. You gonna
listen?
dutch : Ah, warden, will you get the shit outta
here! I ain’t gonna listen ta nobody! Nobody. This
whole stinking, rotten prison, nobody!
pinky [high effeminate voice over loudspeaker]:
Dutch, lithen to me, bubby.
dutch : Who is that?
pinky : Who ith it? Ith Pinky, the hothpital attend­
ant! Give up, you crazy vilde you! You’ll make it
life for uth.
dutch : Pinky, sweetheart! I’ll give it all up faw
you!
pinky : W oo! Give it up for me? Did you hear that,
all you bitcheth in thell-block eleven? Did you hear
that warden?
warden : I heard it, ya fruit you!
pinky : Juth watch it, warden, hmmmmm? Don’t
overthep your boundth. Are we gonna get our
demanth?
182
 warden : Whaddya want? You fag bastard you!
pinky : A gay bar, and one more thing.
warden : What is it?
pinky : I wanna be the Avon representative for
thith prithon.

Lost Horizons. In this scene the High Lama is giving

Ronald Colman the secret of eternal life. The secret
of eternal life— everyone’s dream, to live forever, in
happiness and harmony. The lion and the lamb shall
walk together, and the little child shall ball them both.
Now. We hear the High Lama talking:
high lama [barely audible, ancient, ancient voice] :
Well, my son, I’ve been here in the cave for many
years. I’m the High Lama. I ’m out of my nut. No,
you have never smoked the lotus lamoga, have you?
It’s wonderful . . . My son, I have sat here for
many years on this cold stone, suffering from itch­
ing sensations, until I found relief with Pazo. Pazo
is my guru, that I brought in from Patamonza,
many years ago when my astral body took off. And,
my son, I ’m going to give you the secret of eternal
life.
colman : My, my, you’re wondrous, High Lama!
Hm hm! If I were king I couldn’t have a fonder
wish'lhan to live forever. Tell me something, oh
wondrous High Lama, hand me the keys of wis­
dom: How can I live for eternity?
high lama : Well, my son, to live forever, you
must never smoke—
Get a load of this old joke, now—
— you must never drink, and most of all, you must
never never sleep with any bad women!
colman : Well, tell me something, oh wondrous
High Lama, if I never smoke and I never drink
183
 and I never sleep with any bad women, will I live
forever?
high lama : N o, my son, but it’ll seem like it.

John Graham. I don’t know if you remember this guy.

He blew up a plane with forty people and his mother.
And for this the state sent him to the gas chamber:
proving, actually, that the American people are losing
their sense of humor. Because, when you think about it
just for a minute, anybody who blows up a plane with
forty people and their mother can’t be all bad. The
guy’s got like a little thing going there.
But they sent him away. They tried to get a lawyer,
couldn’t get Otto Kruger, Sidney Blackmer was work­
ing on the Scotsborough case.
Now, back to that day at the airport. Was he guilty?
public address system : United Airlines paging
passenger Sylvia Green. Will a Sylvia Green report
to the United Airlines information desk or ticket
counter. Grand concourse now loading gate thirty-
one for Hawaii and the Philippines.
graham: Hurry up, Ma, we’ll miss the plane!
C’mon Ma! Hurry up. Hurry up now! C’mon, you
can walk— I don’t want those lies again. C’mon,
c’mon!
mother [cracked old voice]: I dunno why you
want me to fly all of a sudden. I dunno I dunno!
I’m gonna get claustrophobia closed in up there.
I know it!
graham : Don’t worry, Ma, you’re gonna get alotta
air— hahahaha! O.K. Hurry up! Hurry up! Throw
that cane away, it’s in your mind!
mother : Alright!
graham : Listen, I gotta game for you to play be­
fore you get on the plane.
' mother : Games! I love games.
184
 graham: Shut up! Not so loud, you freak. C’mere.
You’ll love this. It’s wild. C’mere. It’s called “Fill
Out The Policy.” Just write there. O.K. O.K., good.
Now, listen, Ma, I got a present for you, and I
don’t want you to open this up till you get halfway
across that shiny sea (and that’s all you’re gonna
get!) Alright. Now, I ’ll put it in your pocketbook.
mother : I love presents!
graham: Shut up with that parakeet voice of yours!
Alright, now, you’ll love this.
mother : It’s a music box.
graham: Yeah, you’ll get a good sound out of it,
uh huh. Plays “Rumania Rumania” and “Hot
Nuts” . . . O.K. Ma. Listen, have a good trip,
and, ah, don’t talk to anybody on that plane.
And now, the take-off: WALLAWANGDANG, WAL­
LA^WALLAZONGBONGBONGFLINGDIN G D IN G-
FLONGDONGBONGBONGFLINGDINGDINGDIN-
DINGWOMBOMBINGBINGBINGFLINGALINGAF
LINALINGA
graham: See ya around, ma! Ha ha! If ya believe.
WAMW AMW AMW AMFLINF ALFINFLINFF L IN G
ANENGAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUMMMMM
FLING
graham: First stop, Armageddon!
FLIN AFLLNG AF LING AFLIN G J G ANING ANING A-
NINGAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUMMMMMMM
stewardess [nasal public address system voice]:
Good evening. My name is Stewardess Stevenson.
We’re cruising— teeheehee!— at four hundred and
fifty miles an hour, at sixteen thousand feet above
sea level. Your captain is Captain Armstrong, and
your copilot is Mr. Noxton. If the passengers
would like to look over the left wing of the plane,
is the lovely island of Catalina; and to the right—
Guam? Hm. Hahaha. Well, well, the ever-chang-
185
 jug world. Now. We’ve got a wonderful trip in
store for everyone, and if the passengers want any
Chicklets, like, we’re out. But I think there’s a jelly
donut— no, I ate that. There’s some Greek cheese
that George left— no. I dunno. Anyway, please
| share the magazines. We’ve got two Arizona High-
i ways and one Argosy. Thank you for flying Non-
Scheddo Airlines. And now to the controls, with
your copilot and your captain!
MMMMMM— uh-uh-uh—MM—uh-uh
copilot : Where are we?
pilo t : I dunno, man, I ’m so juiced! Whew! That
airport bar . . . That guy can make a martini—
I ’m outta my nut, man. I’m really juiced, baby.
copilot : Look, man, you promised you’d cool it.
Like, you can’t make this scene outta your skull
alia time.
pilot : I know, it’s depressing, man. I don’t dig
height.
copilot : Hey!
pilo t : What?
copilot : Look. We gotta know where we are.
pilo t : Boy, you’re really a bug, man. Just enjoy
the high, baby, that’s all. They’re lucky they get
anywhere for seventy-nine dollars. Anyway, what
does it matter where we are?
copilot : Ah, don’t start with that existentialism
stuff again man, I’m fed up with that philosophiz­
ing.
copilot : Hey.
pilo t : What?
copilot : Hey, I don like ta bug ya, but what’s
that thing you’re always grabbin there?
pilo t : That’s the joy stick— moves the wings, the
rudder.
copilot : You’re putting me on.
186
 pilot : No, man, that’s really the scene. That’s the
way it happens.
copilot : Is that wild! Where the hell dja pick up
on that, Smiling Jack? That’s wild. Can I touch it?
pilot : N o. Y ou really ruin things, man. You’re not
mechanically inclined. Just goof, there. There’s
some more Jim Beam in the glove compartment. . .
copilot : Did ya ball the stewardess yet?
pilo t : N o, man. She’s really a drag, that chick.
BARRRRO O M !
pilot : What was that?
copilot : The back end of the plane just blew off!
Hey man! Seventeen people just fell out!
pilot : Cool it.
copilot : I s this weird? There go twenty more! Are
we gonna get yelled at!
pilot : Will you shut up with that! What the hell
are we gonna do now? . . . Look.
copilot : What?
p ilo t: Y o u don’t say anything, / don’t say any­
thing. It’s our word against their’s.
c o p ilo t: Whatsa matter with you, you nut you!
There’s twenty people left!
p ilo t: Let’s dump em.
copilot : You’re really insane! You can’t do a
thing like that, you monster! They’re awake.
pilot : I dunno what the hell—
copilot : Hey, I got an idea!
pilot : What?
copilot : Y ou remember that guy in the second
seat over the wing? The guy who was coming on
like he knew alot about planes? He was dropping
alotta big words, like “wing” and “propellor”?
pilot : Yeah?
copilot : Why don’t ya ask him?
pilot : No, man, like I don’t like to ask anybody
187
 for anything. You know, you get indebted to peo­
ple, you know?
copilot : Well, ask him, for me, man. I wanna
make it home once more.
pilo t : Well, I dunno, man. Then they’re always
on your neck for favors, you know.
copilot : But, like—
pilot : Awright! Switch on the intercom.
Click
“My name is Stewardess Stevenson— ”
pilot : Will you shut up with that, you nitwit?
Everybody knows your name, moron! And stay
outta the icebox. And get that guy up here over
the wing seat who knows all about planes. And
hurry up!
stewardess [to passenger]: Sir, would you help us
out? They’re cranky. Some people fell outta the
plane, I dunno what the hell is goin on. I never
bother anybody, I can live in an apartment ten
years, I dunno my next-door neighbor. I hate to
bug ya, but c’mon, help us out, will ya please?
I’ll give ya half a cheese sandwich. Come on. Will
you?
passenger [suave, superior voice]: I certainly will.
I’ll help anyone who’s in peril [whistling noncha­
lantly].
copilot [panicking]: Sir, sir, we’re in alotta trou­
ble!
passenger: Oh, really? Hahahaha! That’s a little
obvious, that you’re in a lot of trouble. I would say
you’re in trouble— everybody fell out of the plane.
Hahaha. Yes, that was a beautiful statement. Yes,
trouble. Very profound.
p ilo t: Well, whaddawe do?
passenger [lowers voice]: C’mere. First of all, like,
you gonna duke me in on the insurance bread?
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pilot : Well, yeah, I ’ll swing any way, man.
passenger : O.K. Gimme ten in front.
pilo t : We haven’t got!
passenger : Well, the watch. Gimme the watch.
O.K., I’ll take that.
pilo t : Alright. Now, what’s the bit?
passenger : Well, it’s obvious that you strip the
plane of everything. Now, there’s about thirty peo­
ple left out there. You’re going to have to ask for
volunteers.
pilo t : T o what?
passenger : [whistles]
c o p ilo t: What the hell are you smoking? What
the hell’s the matter with you? How you gonna go
out and ask people to jump out of a plane? I can’t
ask people to do a thing like that!
passenger : Let me ask them. I know how to talk
to people.
PILOT: Solid. Be my guest, man.
passenger : Good evening, everyone. I ’ve got a
surprise— hahaha! Ah, I know that you people
have been satiated with many motion pictures
where the captain and the copilot and the crews
jump out to save the passengers? Well, like, it’s
not happening. I donwanna bug anybody, but it’s
time to split. C’mon, anybody. Anybody! Come on
now. Sissies! Whatsa matter— didn’t anyone ever
ask you to jump out of a plane before? How bout
you— the old railroad man. You! The old railroad
man. Yeah, yeah, you!
old man : Please! No! I just got my watch. No!
passenger : Alright with those Gene Lockhart bits,
shut up and sit down.
passenger : Hey . . . The six year old kid! Yeah,
that schlub! He ruined the men’s room with the
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crayons. Is he sleeping? That’s cooler. O.K. [whis­
tling tune that changes to “The Bridge Over the
River Kwai”] Sonny! Sonny, wake up! Wake up
now. Wake up! Wake up!
kid [screaming]: Where’s my mommy? Where’s
Mommy?
passenger : Right out that door, Sonny. . . .

190
 Balling, Chicks, Fags, Dikes & Divorce

“Those girls!”
That’s what the chick will tell you, man.
“Look, Lenny, if you want those bums, go ahead.
I mean, if you want those— I’m not that kind of a
girl— it’s alright with me— ”
And every chick has got that groove: those girls, those
girls. And I’m dying to find them— where the hell are
they? You look for them, where are they? There’s an
elephant’s graveyard for hookers and swingers,
“Those girls those girls those girls”
Or
“It’s gotta mean something to me, Lenny. That’s
all. With those bums it’s like washing your hands;
I ’m different. To me it’s gotta mean something.”
“Well, schmuck, it feels good! Doesn’t that mean
anything?”
Then there’s another great classification— the promiscu­
ous virgin:
“I don’t go all the way. That’s all— I don’t go all
the way.”
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And these chicks better be careful. Because when they’re
gonna go, that may not be the way any more.

You know, I’m gon n a make a book up, see. The book
on its face will look like it’s, you know, one of those
very erudite, how-to-make-out, sane-sex-and-marriage
kind of things, nut books. But if you follow the instruc­
tions in this book, you’ll never make out at all. Ever.
Really constructed so that it’s a zero no-score. Sell it for
forty-five dollars in plain brown wrapping paper.
Now it says, “Instructions: Always go over to her
house for dinner and meet the folks, and don’t forget,
compliment”— and it gives just the dialogue the guy is
supposed to use:
“Oh Mr. Johnson, boy, your daughter’s got a ter­
rific shape on her! Hah! God bless her, boy, she’s
got a body, I’m tellin you— and your wife has got
a nice shape on her, too.”
Then when you’re out on the date, they like little jokes.
Just keep saying,
“Whaddaya got, the rag on?”
Keep saying that. They’ll like it. They like people who
are frank.
“Whaddaya got, the rag on?”
K eep saying it all night. And then w hen you’re in the car,
just ask them in a nice way for it, and be cute about it,
use euphemisms, double entendre. Say
[nonchalantly] “Oh, I wonder if I could get some
nookie?”
That’s very cute.
“Oh boy, I wonder who’d gimme some nookie?
Boy, I wonder.”
And they just think that’s so cute, you’ll get it right away.
Just say extra things, like
“Boy, would I appreciate it! Boy, I’d appreciate
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 that. I’d tell everybody what a nice person you
were, too.”

“I’ll be comfortable on the couch.”

Famous last words.
girl : Listen. If you’re gonna come up, now, there’s
no fooling around, you know.
guy : N o, are you kidding? I see that all day. I’m
just tired. Too tired to drive home. You live up­
stairs? Well, what the hell . . .
Sleep on the couch. Those kind of girls that like to make
you sleep on the couch— and then just rustle lingerie in
the next room.

“Look, I’ll sleep on the outside of the mattress,

you sleep on the inside. I promise I won’t fool
around . . . How come you put on toreador pants?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“That’s just a good slap in the face! They’re not
comfortable. And you can’t put your hand under
them—that’s why you put them on. You’re not a
real toreador.”

I think that a lot of marriages went West, you know,

they split up, in my generation, because ladies didn’t
know that guys were different. It’s very tough for chicks
to realize that, that although we speak the same lan­
guage— it’s like: No guy ever cheated on his wife, ever.
But ladies would get hurt and want to leave their hus­
bands because they thought the husbands cheated; and
they never did cheat, because what cheating means, I
know, to a lady, means kissing and hugging and liking
somebody. You have to at least like somebody. With
guys that doesn’t enter into it. Ladies are one emotion,
and guys detached. Not consciously detached, but they
just do detach. Like, a lady can’t go through a plate
193
glass window and go to bed with you five seconds later.
But every guy in this audience is the same— you can
idolize your wife, just be so crazy about her, be on the
way home from work, have a head-on collision with a
Greyhound bus, in a disaster area. Forty people laying
dead on the highway— not even in the hospital, in the
ambulance— the guy makes a play for the nurse:
outraged female voice : How could you do that
thing at a time like that?
ashamed male : I got homy.
“What?”
“I got hot.”
“How could you be hot when your foot was cut off?
People were dead and bleeding to death!”
[Apologetic]: “I dunno.”
“He’s an animal! He got hot with his foot cut off!”
“I guess I’m an animal. I dunno.”
“What did you get hot at?”
“The nurse’s uniform, I think.”
“He’s a moron, that’s all, he’s just an animal! I
don’t know how you could think of it. Your foot
was cut off and you could— ugh, disgusting!”
No. Guys detach, it has nothing to do with liking, loving.
You put guys on a desert island and they’ll do it to mud.
Mud! So if you caught your husband with mud, if some­
how you could get overseas there,
outraged fem ale : EEEEEEEKKK! Don’t talk
to me! That’s all. You piece of shit you, leave me
alone! That’s all. Go with your mud, have fun. You
want dinner? Get your mud to make dinner for ya.
That’s it, so you just can’t get angry at them. You can’t
wanna leave them for that, ever.

Yeah. Guys are carnal, and if chicks really knew that, I

think marriages would stay together. Cheating actually
is a lady’s word. If guys can do it to their fists, they don’t
194
cheat on you. They really don’t. If they did what ladies
call cheating, they wouldn’t come back to you. But they
do it to their fist, to mud, to barrels.
So if you knew this about guys, would you really feel
hurt if you came home and found your husband sitting
on your bed with a chicken? Would you really cry, hurt?
And wanta leave him? And that’s the end of the whole
marriage?
w if e : A chicken! [crying] A chicken! In our bed.
husband : Lemme alone. That’s all.
w if e : Don’t touch me! You want dinner? Get your
chicken to get it, you asshole, you!
In New York its illegal— “seemingly sexual intercourse
with a chicken.” That’s the literal. Now, how could you
even fantasize that? Doing it to a chicken. They’re too
short. How could you kiss a chicken? I can’t even
imagine that.
female : Where’s your chicken? How come you’re
alone tonight. Your chicken left town?
husband: I dunno the chicken. I was drunk. I met
her in the yard. Whaddaya want from me? Stop
already with the chicken.

“Whenever I cheat on my wife I always tell her.

I’m just that kind of a husband. I just, if I cheat on
her, I just, I just gotta be truthful, I can’t lie, and
I always tell her . . .”
Never tell her. Not if you love your wife.
“I just can’t help it. I ’m honest, and when I chippy
on her I just gotta tell her—cause I like to hurt her:
‘Ah, sweetheart, ah, you didn’t find this hand­
kerchief with lipstick on it and I wanna show
it to ya. I wanna confess . . . Ah, I cheated on
ya again, and, ah, I always wanna tell you
when I cheat on ya, cause I know that you
should leave me— and take the eight kids with
195
 ya! I wouldn’t blame ya. And if ya had a jobl
in the five and ten and supported you and the
kids, it would be O.K.’ ”
Never cop out. Never ever ever. Not if you love your
wife. Cause chicks don’t know anything about guys at
all. All they know is about Billy Graham— the fantasy,
you know, about the kind of Norman Rockwell people
that never did exist. No, guys can make it on the high­
way. But chicks— the climate has to be just right. Guys,
nada.
In fact, if your old lady walks in on you, deny i t
Yeah. Just flat out, and she’ll believe it:
husband: I’m tellin ya, this chick came downstairs
with a sign around her neck, “LAY ON TOP OF
ME OR I’LL D IE.” I didn’t know what I was
gonna do.
w ife : Will you get outta here, you dirty liar—and
take that tramp with you!
husband: I’m lyin? Ask Mrs. Slobowski to come
down here! This chick came downstairs with a sign
around her neck “LAY ON TOP OF ME, I’M A
DIABETIC, OR I’LL DROP DEAD.” Now what
was I gonna do, now?
w if e : W ell. . . keep the door locked and don’t let
those tramps in here any more.

I’m really convinced that no guy ever leaves a chick.

When chicks get cold, they really get cold. Phew! It’s
over. Really, when it’s over with them it’s over. And
guys can never figure that out. They figure there’s one
more time.
Here’s what I figure it is. You always hear chicks say,
you know,
“Oh, I wish I could get me a man, you know, some­
one with some dignity, not this guy I can walk all
over, someone who’d be really a man, a man . .
196
But chicks don’t know that guys are like dogs. You
know, you take a dog, you beat the shit out of him
POW! POW!— but he’ll keep coming back. Ladies are
like cats. You yell at a cat once— Siamese cat—phsst!
They’re gone.
So that kind of quality that ladies are looking for—
they really want a guy to act like a lady.

If you’re going to break up with your old lady and you

live in a small town, make sure you don’t break up at
three o’clock in the morning. Because you’re screwed—
there’s nothing to do. You sit in the car all night, parked
somewhere. Yeah. So make it about nine in the morning,
so you can go to the five and ten, bullshit around, worry
her a little, then come back at seven in the night, you
know?

The bad break-up is like a long-time break-up. If you’re

married seven years, you gotta kick for two. Oh yeah, I
think if you’re married fifteen, eighteen years, then you
get divorced, then you must lose your mind. Yeah. They
get senile, then, the people. They get whacked out.
There’s a certain critical area there, you been married
about seven, eight years, where you really throw up for
a coupla years. Really, just go throw up.

And if you broke up and you go anywhere alone,

there’s always momzas that ask about your wife. Which
is really a hang-up. Especially if you’ve been married
about, well, ten years, say. And you’re very tight with
your old lady— you’d go everywhere together. And now,
you start to go places solo— whether it’s a supermarket,
laundromat, or a Chinese restaurant:
“Where’s the missus?”
“Oh, I got divorced— ”
197
There’s an embarrassed silence, while the guy’ll identify
you—
“Oh, you’re a lovely couple. You should get to­
gether. She’ll come back to ya.”
“Can I have my stamps? Yeah, I just wanna get the
hell outta here.”
Chinese restaurant. Some waiter, week after week, for
ten years. First time you go in alone, the waiter goes:
Chinese voice : Where’s maw-maw? How come
you don’t bring maw-maw in? Maw-maw sicka? Ah
so, maw-maw velly sick. You better bring maw-
maw home some cookies. Tell maw-maw say hello.
Tell her say hello to her.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Ohhhh. You bettuh awf.”
You bettuh awf. Christ, that’s really going with the
winner. What’s he tell her?

And what kind of chicks you going to hang out with, if

you’re over thirty-five? You just can’t— I can’t— go out
with any chick under twenty-five. I really do feel funny.
Cause you just, you just know if you met her father, you
know, he’d say, " You’re not going to marry her.”
So you hang out with chicks that are divorced. But
you never can go over to their pad. Every chick that I
know who’s divorced has got a seven-year-old kid. It’s
really a prop from central casting.
“Listen, I’d like to have you over the house, but I
have a kid— ”
“I know.”
I know I’m going to get schlepped into the bedroom,
right, to look at the kid.
[Whisper] “Shhhhhhh, don’t wake him up.”
“No, I don’t wanna wake him up.”
He’s sweating in his pajamas. Boy, that really kills the
image, man.
198
Or if they don’t have a kid they’ll have a French poodle
that wants to stay in the bedroom all the time:
“Hey, why don’t you let the dog go out?”
“He’s a little dog. He’s not gonna bother anybody.”
“I know, I just feel uncomfortable with the dog
here. Has no function. What’s he doing here?”
“Looking at us.”
“Pervert! Get outta here! . . . Look, I’m not an
exhibitionist, I can’t, the dog is making me un­
comfortable.”
Sick red eyes, tap dancing on the linoleum. Dumb
French poodles.

If some cat says to ya,

“Look, you goin to Detroit? I want you to call up
this chick, she’s a groovy chick, and she’s divorced,
and blah blah blah . . .”
Call the chick up.
“Hullo. My name is Lenny Bruce, and John Sal-
stom said say hello to you.”
And she sounds really corny on the phone:
affected voice : Oh, yes, I just saw Black Or­
pheus this afternoon—it was a private showing .
[SCreflfflS at kids in background] WOULD YOU
LET HIM PLAY WITH THAT? RONNY, PUT
THAT DOWN! [Soft affected voice again] Oh yes,
of course . . .
You can see four kids running up and down, grape jelly
on their underwear, and putty, and it’s, ahhh, yeah:
“I’d like to have you in, but the whole apartment
house is a mess.”
Yeah. Every storey in the place is a mess.

Whenever I hear some guy say,

“You know, I got custody of my kids. Boy, my
wife’s a tramp, and I got custody!”
199
Well, the unaware would assume, the unsophisticated,
“There’s a guy who loves his kids. He fought his
wife in court that much to get his kids.”
But I know “custody” means “get even.” That’s all cus­
tody means— just get even with your old lady. The only
get even you could have for the chick— cause they leave
you— is the kids. That’s the only get even. That’s the
sweet revenge. Get the kids! Course, you can’t be that
obvious with it, you know, just
“I’m gonna get the kids cause I’m gonna get even
with you, you shithead you!”
So all the structure and the foundation is,
“I went over there, the kid’s wet! I’m not gonna let
her— the kid’s not gonna live like that. Every time
I go over the kid’s wet! Kid’s wet, kid’s wet, and
that’s it. I’m taking that kid away from her, cause
the kid’s wet. And she’s havin guys over there!
That tramp!”
“Whaddaya mean, she’s a tramp? She goes in the
woods and roasts mickeys?”
“No. She sleeps with guys.”
“That filthy thing.”
“She does it in front of the kids!”
"So what?”
Sounds pretty bizarre, doesn’t it: "So what"? Well, I’ll
tell you. I’ve had that argument before. It’s like, again,
it’s:
Overemphasis of sex and violence o television will
be a deterrent to your child. Why? In the formative
years, what he sees now, later on he will do. He will
ape the actions of the actor.
Good logic. Correct. If so, your kid is better off watching
a stag movie than King of Kings. Mine, anyway. Because
I just don’t want my kid to kill Christ when he comes
back. And that’s what’s in King of Kings— but tell me
about a stag movie where someone got killed in the
200
end, or slapped in the mouth, or heard any Communist
propaganda. So the sense of values would be, the morals:
“Well, for kids to watch killing— Yes; but schtup-
ping— No! Cause if they watch schtup pictures,
they may do it some day.”
[back to original dialogue with outraged husband\
“Well, I don’t care. I got custody anyway.”
“Well, isn’t that kinda rough for you? You’re a
working stiff, you know, just, raising the kid—
whattaya got, somebody to babysit while you’re
working?”
“I have ’em with my parents.”
“Well, then you’re really fulla shit.”
Then you’re really getting even, man. “I love” would
mean at least, “I take, I raise, I pay the dues, I get up
in the morning, I make the breakfast, I put her on the
bus.” But not with grandparents. Your kid is better off
with a wife that sleeps with a different guy every week,
than with grandparents.
Cause no kid six years old is happy in a house that
gets dark at seven-thirty. Nor were you. Because old
people are always reading. Reading, reading newspa­
pers that have no funnies. And they smell weird. And
it’s just no fun going in your grandfather’s top drawer—
opposed to your father’s:
kid : What’s this?
[Blowing noises]
Pow!
kid : Whattaya hittin me for?
father : Cause you know too much already. Get
outside. They’re balloons. Get out and get some
air.
kid : Boy, did I get whacked in the house.
friend : What’d ya get hit for?
kid : Ah, balloons.
friend : They’re not balloons.
201
 kid : Yes they are. My father would never lie to me.
They’re balloons.
friend : Y ou and Hoover and your father are
dumb bastards. They’re not balloons.
kid : Sure they’re balloons. I think they’re balloons.
Thirty years later. The Surgeon General of the U.S.
Army:
“The women that you’ve seen in these training
films, men, the women that you may get these
diseases from in Mers-el-Kebir blah-blah-blah . . .”
soldier : Well, that’s a very impressive speech, sir,
but I just couldn’t wear a balloon. I’m sorry.
officer : What’s that, Schneider?
soldier : I couldn’t wear a balloon.
officer : Look, Schneider, they’re not balloons!
soldier : Oh yeah, they are. I know what you think
they are, but they’re really not. They’re balloons.
My father’ll tell ya that— they’re balloons.
officer : Look, son, I know what your Dad told
you, but they’re just not balloons, and you’ve got
to wear one.
soldier : I couldn’t wear a balloon. I’d feel like an
ass, sir. It’s silly. After the last speech I tried to put
one on; but it’s silly. That’s it— I’d use a guess-
what or a maryjane, but I can’t wear a balloon.
officer : They’re not balloons!
soldier : Sure they are. I got a whole box from the
last speech. I don’t want any. You can have my
balloons. It’s just dopey. I’d put bubble-gum on,
but
“Come to bed, darling.”
“Soon as I put my balloon on, dear.”
No, I can’t do that. That’s dumb.

Now if you go back together, the danger time— and

here’s back to the religion again. There’s only one per-
202
Io n you’re supposed to confess to— not anybody else.
Priests, solid; but not husbands. They have no authority
vested in them to hear any truth. So don’t listen to any
of their shit. Cause what happens— guy calls up his old
lady:
“Hello, Vera? The only reason I called ya, ya left
some of your crap over here. . . . I dunno, a hand­
kerchief, a glove, I dunno. . . . Listen, I ’m gonna
come over, we’ll shoot the shit, O.K.? See ya. Pay
the tax bill.”
All right. Back together. Kissin time, huggin time, and
bed time. After bed time:
“Hey Vera, ah, when we were broke up, ah, did
you make it with alotta guys?”
“Don’t be silly. Outta your mind? Make it with
anybody else— ”
“Ah, bullshit, man, what the hell, good for the
goose, good for the gander. We were legally sepa­
rated. I made it with alotta lotta chicks, you’re
entitled to make it with alotta guys. I’d just like
to know, for the helluvit. Did ya make it with alotta
guys?”
“How’m I gonna—”
“Ah, bullshit! Now, I ’m not gonna hit you now,
I’m not gonna get mad. Just for the helluvit. Who
did ya make it with?”
Don’t tell him. Don’t cop out. Never cop out. Don’t tell
him— if they’ve got pictures, deny it! Flat out.
“Ah, you’re bullshittin’ me. I got pictures here.”
“Where, idiot?”
“Look at this! You’re laying on the couch with
the guy!”
Moron! That’s a fag hairdresser.”
‘ Yeah? What the hell are ya laying on the couch
with him for?”
203
 “We were seeing who was taller, you idiot!” 1
“I’m sorry . . . ” 1
That’s all. Because if you ever do cop out— '
“Come on! I’m not gonna get mad. Tell me. I’d
just like to know for the hellofit.”
See, that’s what chicks don’t know about guys. It’s that
entrapment. Maybe it’s because their fathers did it to
them:
“Just tell me, who? . . . Him? . . . Phew! I don’t give
a shit, but this is, it’s a shocker! That’s, heh, heh,
that’s the only thing that shocks me. . . . I’m not
mad, but that’s. . . . what a kick in the ass that is!
. . . How the hell did ya—you know why, you know
why it shocks me, cause you tol’ me ya didn’t like
him. You tol’ me you didn’t want him over the
house, and then . . . How could you make it with
him? That fat, disgusting piece of—you cunt!
POW!

I always wondered, if you get married again— the only

problem with ever getting married again— you have to
go to some country, you have to marry somebody who
speaks a different language, and doesn’t speak any other
language. Cause you’d always be afraid, you know, with
the second old lady, that you might say something in
bed— and your first wife would jump up behind the
bed—
ex- w ife : You said blah-blah! How could you say
that to her— you said it to me!
GUILTY ex-husband: I just bullshitted her. I don’t
love her. I just said that cause I knew you were
behind the bed. That’s all.
I know that if Liz were ever to go back to Eddie, and
she said, “You know, in the whole time, I never made
it with him once,” he’d believe. Yeah, I’d believe, man.
204
Cause every guy’s a mark. Cause chicks are boss. Just
boss boss.

All chicks are boss. Oh yeah. Chicks are boss boss. If

you wanna test it out, pick any number in the directory,
call up some guy this morning:
male : Hullo? Hullo?
fem ale : Mister, look, I don’t know you, but I had
a terrible accident here on the highway, and I’m all
alone, and as a fellow Christian, do you think you
could help me?
Or you could use this approach,
fem ale : Oh, excuse me, I think I have the wrong
number.
m ale : No you haven’t, now who’s this?
female : Well, um, I was so confused, and, I had
a flat, and, ah, I was gonna call my friend and have
him pick me up, my girlfriend.
male : Don’t worry, I ’ll pick you up!
fem ale : Well, I don’t know where I’m at.
male : I’ll find ya, don’t worry.
Out, driving all night, looking, looking, looking. If you
only knew the power chicks have . . .

Chicks are always calling you a faggot. Yeah, it’s really

weird. Chicks are boss. Yeah. Chicks are boss boss. For
every Frick, Carnegie, Du Pont, and Big Daddy Mellon,
there’s always that one chick that he’ll pay the dues for.
Yeah, I know that Johnson stands in his underwear
for some chick, like a schmuck, saying
pleading male voice : Just touch it once? Will ya
just touch it once? Please, touch it once.
irritable fem ale : Look, you want me to touch
it when I don’t feel like touching it? That’s why I
don’t like to touch it— cause you always tell me to
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 touch it, then, when you tell me to touch it, I don’t
feel like touching it any more.
male : I dunno why you don’t—
irritated fem ale : Cause I don’t wanna touch— I
gotta headache.
male : Y ou got more goddamn headaches than
anyone in the world! You won’t touch it once?
Everybody says to me, “Let us touch it!” So many
people want to touch it, too— bust-out hookers that
wanna give me the money back. And I go, “No,
just my wife touches it, that’s all. Cause I love
her, I’m not gonna let anyone else touch it.” And
then I come home and you don’t wanna touch it.
fem ale : That’s all you got on your mind, is
“Touch it once, touch it once.”
m ale : Well, I’m gonna let some bust-out hooker
touch it!
female : Go ahead. Have a good time!
male [Pretending nonchalance]: I will. But I’m
gonna give you one more chance. Wanna touch it,
it’s up to you. Look: I’ll go to sleep, and if you
wanna touch it, wake me up.
Guys always have that fantasy, right?
wom an’s voice: I wanna touch it.
m an’s voice: No, no, sweetheart. I’m tired. Lem-
me go to sleep.
Yeah. What about those chicks? Are there those kind
of chicks, man?

We’re all the same people man, that’s what I dig about'
it, man. And it just discourages me that we try so des­
perately to be unique. Man, we’re all the same cats,
we’re all the same schmuck— Johnson, me, you, every
putz has got that one chick, he’s yelling like a real dum­
dum:
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 “Please touch it once. Touch it once, touch it
once.”
“You want me to touch it when I don’t feel like
touching it?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to touch it when I don’t get any
pleasure out of it?”
“Yeah. That’s all. I’m a dummy. I’m gonna get it
touched. Cause if I wait for you to touch it you’d
never touch it.”
“I touch it alot.”
“No, you don’t. You think you touch it alot—you
used to touch it alot— but now, it’s a favor to
touch it. You have a unique way of making your
own husband feel like a degenerate for wanting to
get laid. Touch it once, touch it once.”
“Alright here, I’ll touch it.”
“No, no, don’t do me no favors.”
“Touch it once, touch it once. Please touch it
once.”
“Look, do you want me to touch it when I don’t
feel like touching it?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that true? Just like an animal, huh?”
“Uhuh.”
“Is that all you came over here for?”
“That’s all, just to do it to ya. That’s all. I’m gonna
do it, and then I’m gonna go home. I don’t wanna
sleep over here because I’ll have to hide under the
sheets in the morning when the maid comes. And
you have a cat box. And Rome phone-number pil­
lows, and I don’t like em. Yeah, I’m going home.
I gonna do it to ya, and that’s all. I come over here
to do it.”

You know, that’s another kind of schmuck:

207
 “Hey, fix me up with that girl!”
“All right. Here. Do it to him. Right away. Do it
to him.”
“Hey, fix me up wid her.”
“O.K. Do it to him, and then do it right away to
him."

Any guy freezes with any chick who comes on. I oughta
know. If any chick says to me, “Wanta good time, Mis-
tuh?” I run. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to a
strange chick in my life. Ever. Anywhere. Cause you
just know they’ll yell, they’ll call the police. How can
you talk to strange chicks, man?
I would never have the nerve to talk to any strange
chick— even if she was a really beautiful chick. I’d never
have the nerve to hit on her. In a house, somebody intro­
duces us— solid. But guys who can, like, drive past in
cars and go “Hello!” even—no.
And the reason I have never had the nerve is that my
mother and my aunt, every day they would come home
and tell me stories about some guy that was behind the
bushes exposing himself. There was a band of dedicated
perverts who spent their whole lives in trick positions:
“O.K. Jim? Ready behind the bushes there? O.K.,
N.G.-7? You’ve got your position behind the news­
paper? You flash, O.K.? WOOHOO! LADY!
LOOK AT ME! WOOHOO! HELLO LADY,
HELLO!”
Find the schmuck in the bush. Yeah. They were all wait­
ing for them. So I said,
“Mama, you’ve got the market cornered! You
oughta film these guys. I mean, it’s amazing how
they always appear. The elevator doors open up,
'Woohoo! Here we are!’ “
But they had their pocketbooks. They were ready, boy.
208
That dopey big black pocketbook got everybody. With
a good parrot scream:
Aghhhhhhh!
Powl
After all these years I finally figured out that they were
bullshit stories. Maybe that was a dopey lie. They were
telling me they were good women, every day, right?

You know those guys in the park, the flashers?

“HELLO LADY!”
interrogator : Come over here, you! I wanna talk
to you. What’s your story? How come you go,
“Hello there!” in the park, but never in the Post
Office? All you guys, you’re always, consistently,
in the park behind a tree: “Hello!” Then running
away.
flasher : I dunno. Cause I read in the papers
somebody did it in the park, and 1 figured that’s
where you’re supposed to do it.
interrogator: Hm. How come you go ‘Hello
there!’ when you do that?
flasher : I dunno. It’s a good opening: ‘Hello
there!’ It’s friendly.
interrogator: Well, do you ever get any accept­
ance with this, like, ‘Hey, that’s terrific!’?
flasher : Na. It’s, ah, it all happens so quick— I
just get punched in the mouth and they take me
to jail, and that’s it.
interrogator : But you keep on doing i t You
must find it sexually stimulating.
flasher : N o— I’m a celibate.
interrogator: You’re a what?
flasher : Yeah. It’s no sex bit with me. I just, ah,
see, I had bad acne when I was a kid, and, ah,
you’d be surprised the attention you get with this:
“Look at that guy! He took it out in the park!
209
 And showed it to people . .
And they make a fuss over you, they put your
picture in the paper— it’s a hell of a half-hour once
a year.
interrogator : Well, if you don’t like to get ar­
rested, why don’t you figure out some gimmicks—
get a very expensive hat, make believe you’re sleep­
ing on a park bench, put the hat on it, see, and
then wait for some tramp to go by, he steals the
hat and you go
“Hello-o-o-o!”
Then he’ll get arrested.
flasher : Y ou think so?
interrogator : It’s worth a try.
flasher : Na, I like to stick to the old ways.
interrogator : Well, do you mind if I see it?
flasher : Na, not a chance, mister!
interrogator: Just clinically, I would like to see
it. I wouldn’t touch it.
flasher : Well . . . awright.
interrogator : Why, what a lovely bunch of
lilacs!
flasher : Yeah. I’m the only person who’s got
flowers there. I was in the Mayo Clinic for that.
interrogator : They really are beautiful flowers!
Well, what the hell would anyone arrest you for
showing a beautiful bunch of flowers for?
flasher : Well, they never see the flowers, you
know, they, ah—
“Hello there!”
and they know what it is and they whap me out,
punch me, and take me away.
The point? That the society is perverse: Tonight, if I
came to your door, knocked on the door, your mother
came out, I reached back and just rapped her in the
chops and broke away her teeth so she never kisses
210
your child right again, maybe, with the endemic laws in
this community, maybe I would get three to six months
for assault and battery. Maybe. But if I go
“HELLO MA!”
I get a year. That’s pretty twisted.

Why will you arrest Paul Newman for exposing himself

on a bus?
driver : Mr. Newman, you’ve got your joint out!
Ahem. I mean, ah, we don’t wanna cause your
family embarrassment and all, but, ah, you can’t
come on the bus that way any more.
newman : Aww, I can’t come any other way!
driver : Well, that’s, um, that’s kinda hard. Just
put it away, now. Here. Just put that away now.
newman : Hehehehehe!
driver : Come on now, put it away. Come on. I’m
gonna call the studio! . . . Hello? It’s Paul. He’s
got it out again.
[another movie star] takes it out:
“M r.------ , you’ve got it out!”
“But it’s a divining rod!”

Airplane. Guy is sitting there, sacked out, asleep. Fly

open, completely exposed. Alright.
Next aisle. Guy’s sitting there, looks over, and he
pins it, you know:
“Stewardess! Can I see you for a moment?”
“Yessir? Gum?”
“No. Ah, um, . . . tellya what, ah . . . Can you
give me a pencil and paper, please?”
“Yessir.”
“Thankyou.
‘Dear Sir.
I’m seated across the aisle from you, and
your fly is open and you’re completely ex-
211
 posed. And I knew this note would avoid any
embarrassment.
Yours Truly,
Frank Martin.
P.S.: I love you.’ ”

Dig what happened to me once. You always hear those

stories— you know, of guys being fooled by faggots
dressed up as ladies. I was working the Jazz Workshop,
across the street from Finocchio’s, and it was right after
closing, weird, two in the morning, and this chick
came up, and she was about six feet tall— really a beau­
tiful chick. She hit on me.
She says, “Look, I’m not the man, I not a hustler,
and, ah, I got eyes, I’d like to hang out with ya.”
Well, she looked a little too pretty, and faggots have
that kind of knack of taking the best from all chicks.
And she looked like she had electrolysis. So I was with
my friend, we were in a cab, you know, and right away
I want to kiss her. You know, Christ!
I say, “Are you a guy?”
She says, “No, I always go through that.”
Dig. She’s over six feet tall, and dig where she comes
from— Texas. So that really allows her any gawkiness.
So I said to her, I said, “Well, it’s really bugging me.
I think you’re a guy.”
But I’m not gonna be that gauche— “Lift up your
dress!” And it really did bug me, you know. So then
we get up to the pad— we’re staying at the St. Francis,
in San Francisco— and she goes to the bathroom, and
I said to my friend, I say, “Christ! If that chick is a . .
He says, “Well, what’s so important?”
I say, “I dunno, man, but I’m gonna flip out.” I
said, “If she comes out of the bathroom and says some­
thing like ‘I never take my girdle off,’ one of those kinda
sticks, you know— ”
212
 Sure enough, she comes out in a good black job.
I said, “You’re gonna have to take the girdle off,
really, cause I can’t— I don’t care what you do, what
you don’t do, but, ah, it’s gonna be weird. If you need
a shave in the morning, it’s gonna be forget-it-city.”
So finally I split— it just got to be too much for me,
the pressure.

Transvestite— that’s what Goering was. I love that.

Imagine the trouble Hitler had! Isn’t that amazing?
Goering was a transvestite! And a morphine addict.
In the bunker with him:
goering [Effeminate voice calling down]: Yoohoo!
hitler [Outraged]: Take that housedress off! Shut
up! I’ve had enough trouble with you people now!”
He really had a cartoon cast— Goebbels, Goering—
weird time. That’s it.
Poor Hitler. Hider’s alive, you know. He made a
deal— he’s hiding in the Police Gazette office.

Faggots . . . Dig. Isn’t the argument against pornog­

raphy— selling pornography, making it available to the
public? That the man is happily married, or he’s just
a happy cat, and you come along with some matter the
predominant appeal of which is to his prurient interest.
And what you’re doing, you’re entrapping him. You’re
inciting him. Something that the guy wouldn’t be think­
ing of ordinarily—you’re getting him homy. You’re get­
ting it up, and you’re not getting it off, and you’re creat­
ing a clear and present danger. And it’s worthless, and
so that’s the objection to it. And that’s a valid objection.
But when I hear about faggots who get arrested in
toilets, I say
“How’d you get arrested in a toilet?”
“Oh, I accosted a peace officer.”
213
 “Well, that’s certainly no concept of reality, I
mean, you certainly— ”
“Well, I didn’t know he was a peace officer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he didn’t have any uniform on.”
“Well, he wasn’t wearing a costume, was he? He
wasn’t wearing a low-cut gown— ”
What a low-cut gown to a faggot must be is like tight
Levis with a padded basket.
“— I mean, he wasn’t wearing Levis and leaning
up against the urinal like this— sultry— like that,
was he? Cause if he was, that’s bullshit, then. Cause
he was appealing to your prurient interest, then.
And entrapping you. You can’t do that.”

It’s a funny thing, all the different stages that we’ve all
gone through. My generation was so— well, me, phew!
Such hangups about ever being called a faggot that I’m
amazed at any guy who can go into a public toilet
and do anything but piss and leave!
Guys who can wash their hands are amazing to me.
I just unbutton, psshhhhht! up! out!
“Wait, I want to talk to you!”
“Not in here— are you kidding?”
Cause if somebody said
“What are you doing in that toilet?”
“I dunno, ah, uh, heh heh . . .”
"What were you doing in there! Did you make?”
“Yeah, I did, ah . . .”
“Alright. But don’t hang around here. O.K.”

Old Jewish mothers never know when their sons are

faggots. They just miss it somehow. Out-and-out scream­
ing queens— mothers are never hip. I know a guy, lived
with his mother for years, a real orthodox Jewish
woman, the whole bit. They lived in Brooklyn. And
214
this guy is such a faggot, he’s a truckdriver. That’s how
in he is: he passed through interior decorating, hair­
dressing— now he’s driving trucks, already. And there’s
no pretense— no pastels, berets, scarfs; he wears like
Lemer dresses. Corrective shoes. Out of it, completely.
He lived with his mother for years.
Now, they move to Miami. And I didn’t see these
people in ten years, so I go look them up, you know.
Knock at the door— comes out, he’s wearing an Anna
Mae Wong dress. So he goes
high voice : “Oh! Lenny! Jutht a minute, I ’ll go
put thomething on.”
“Where are you going, schmuck? I know you,
man.”
“Talk to my mother.”
Dig the mother, how unaware she is:
[Heavy Jewish accent] “Lenny, I’m gonna tell you
something about Ronny, you’re not gonna believe
it.”
And I go “Oh, oh, somebody copped out on him.”
“What is it Mrs. Nadel?”
“You’re not gonna believe it—Ronny still didn’t
get married!”
Oh what a shock that is. Christ, that’s beautiful.
“Whatsa matter with him?”
mother : I dunno. Maybe he’s waiting for the right
person. And you know? He ain’t got a quarter.
He’s so good-natured. A night don’t go past he
don’t bring some poor serviceman home, he ain’t
got a place to sleep.
“Oh yeah. I don’t wanna hear any more about
this, Mrs. Nadel.”
mother : But they don’t appreciate him They
punch him! They stole his cufflinks!
“I’m hip. I know, I know.”
215
 “He loves Halloween!”
“All right, get outta here!”

[Television star] took transvestitism to championship

bowling, and upset all the dikes that control that field.
He has really opened up my eyes. — has been doing
swish gag jokes on television for, what is it? Eighteen
years? Anyway, since faggots are such conformists, all
the young kids, the twelve-year-old, fifteen-year-old fag­
gots, are living up to — , taking their tune from — .
And in the most provincial towns people know what
faggots look like, from —------: there’s a fag.
But there’s never been a big dike on television— not
one that I could spot. It’s hard to spot dikes, cause
sometimes we’re married to them.
So you can pin a faggot right away; but a butch?
Uh uh. Cause there hasn’t been that much exposure.
So, consequently, in small towns lesbians get away with
murder.
I go into a town, see chicks— a real obvious diesel
dike with a Bruce Cabot face, Sweet-Orr gown, leather
zipper jacket, short hair, no nails, army shoes, really
classic— and the people are never hip. The top comment
you’ll hear is:
“That Mrs. Anderson, she’s a real tomboy!”
“Tomboy. I’m hip, man.”
“Boy, she can hit a baseball farther than a guy
can!”
“Yeah. Uh huh. That’s right. What does she do for
a living?”
“She’s the girlscout master.”
“Oh. Cool.”
She’s a tioop-fresser.

Now, dike is vernacular for lesbian. Dike is WAKs,

WAVEs, policeladies, all those kind of jobs. Oh yeah.
216
That’s a definite dike position. That’s a mensch job.
Now the reason you do a lot of faggot jokes— as opposed
to dike jokes— is cause dikes’ll really punch the shit out
of you. That’s all. And it’s embarrassing, too, you know.
They come in here with rings on all the time. And the
only cop-out is: “Ah, you’re lucky you’re not a man!”
Thank god. And they punch you again.

That’s strange— that lesbians have never got any

approval. That’s an interesting facet to go into. I’m not
a dike knocker, I like dikes— that’s what Will Rogers
once said, “I never met a dike I didn’t like.”
Somehow queens have always, like, swung; but dikes?
Never. No, they never get in anywhere— except trucks.

You know, it’s really weird. You’ve heard, no doubt,

that [movie star] is a faggot. Course you’ve heard iL
I’ve heard it, and everything’s in the papers:
“------- ’s a fag. He’s a fruit.”
“Y eah ,------- ’s a fag. A fag.”
I started thinking about it. I mean, he doesn’t look like
a faggot to me. Then I find out there’s two hookers, who
don’t know each other— East Coast, West Coast—that
balled him. So if he gave up some bread for some trim,
well, then he just can’t be a faggot.
Double gaited? No. That’s some bullshit some faggot
made up. I mean, I never did meet any cat who was
double gaited. You dig chicks, or you don’t, man.
It’s very possible t h a t------- is very sexual. He’s just
probably a very homy cat— makes it with guys, chicks,
mud, sheep, anything: his fist. He’s a real haisser— that
could be, couldn’t it?
Like all of us: me, you, you, you— put us on a desert
island for five years, no chicks, you’ll ball mud. Emmis.
You have, man. Knotholes.
“Are you kidding?— What are you doing next to
217
 that tree, you slob you? What are you doing?
Schtupping a tree!”
“It’s my tree.”
“Your back’ll get crooked.”
I challenge this audience. I challenge your manhood.
I will give you— hear me well (and the owner will back
me u p )— one thousand dollars. I will pay for the lie-
detector test. The daddy of the polygraph is here in this
town. His name is Reed. Now if it’s good enough for
Brinks and Powers, it’s good enough for you and me.
You take the lie-detector test. The purpose is to stop
casting the first stone: you cannot cast the first stone if
you’re stoned in front.
I challenge your manhood. Because if “homosexual”
means— like the cliche, no such thing as being a little
pregnant— if faggot means ever involved with a homo­
sexual, active or passive, then I just know I’m looking
at a room full of fags. Isn’t that weird? Whether you
were two years old or six years old, any time that scout­
master or gym coach jacked you off to a Tillie and Mack
book, your Uncle Donald wanted to kiss you, or that
truck driver that jacked you off when you were hitch­
hiking on Merrick Road, or you were experimenting and
playing doctor— that’s it, Jim: you’re a sometimes fag.
That’s the worst thing you can call us, right? God­
damn, man. It really bugs guys to call them faggot.

We’re all whores. How bout that? I sat next to a whore

in a plane. She didn’t know that—till I told her.
The plane took off, and she went and grabbed my
wrist, boy! And just squeezed it and started sweating—
chick was really scared—squeezed my wrist! Finally,
about forty minutes later, phew!
And I said, “You know, that shoulda been a great
lesson to you. Tell ya why. Because supposing we were
in an elevator and I, I grabbed you by the waist. You’d
218
probably call the heat. Cause there was no need for me.
But when the need was there, Hey Daddy!
“Yeah. Two dollars, five dollars, any goddamn thing,
but get some ass for you Jim and gimme something. You
didn’t need two dollars— you needed that. But you sold
out for the need. Yeah.”
So you can’t look down your nose at any hookers.
Uh uh! No.

Hooker— that’s a colloquialism for prostitute— though

the word hooker is correct. The word prostitute has been
neologized. Too many guys have “prostituted their a r t”
All these men all over the world:
“I’m prostituting myself. I can’t work for them.
I’m not gonna prostitute myself any longer!”
Now, some Shriner says to the bell captain,
“Son, go get me a one-hundred-dollar prostitute.”
“Yessuh.”
Ten minutes later a guy comes to the door with a beard.
He writes— some schmuck:
“Good evening. I’m a prostitute.”
“Not for me, you’re not. Get outta here. And get
the bell captain outta here. He’s a bit weird.”

But hookers aren’t gratifying, cause they won’t kiss you

on the mouth. They save that for their husbands. That’s
really weird. I wonder why they won’t kiss you? And
that’s all guys go to whore-houses for— to get kissed and
hugged. That’s the truth, boy. It’s really weird.
A hooker’s icebox— a piece of parsley pasted to the
side, a black carrot and a bouillon cube. There’s never
anything to eat in hookers’ apartments. They never have
anything in their iceboxes.
And Jews are famous— after they ball, they’re always
schlepping to the icebox. Nothing in the icebox:
“Hey, haven’t you got anything to eat here?”
219
 “I got, ah, an orchid.”
Schmuck eats the orchid.
Religious hookers are good to ball, because the statues
always hit you on the head. And the candles are burn­
ing . . .

I d o n ’t 3cc an y chicks th a t tu r n m e o n an y m o re H e re ’s
how I know I’m getting old— I haven’t seen any girls
that really stimulate me, that look good to me. And it’s
really corny, but dig what I miss: lipstick and powder.
That weird? I like ’em with paint on ’em. To smell like
ladies. And if I really get racy, pancake makeup; and a
cheap black crepe dress that’s low-cut.
Are there any real tits left? Damn your silicone!
“Are they real?”
“I told ya they’re real!”
“How will I ever know, though?”
“They’re real.”
“Will you take a lie-detector test that those are your
own tits?”
“Yes, I told you I would.”
“I can’t believe . . . I dunno . . . They’re too real
to be real.”

You know, the wonderful elastic phrase in the law, that,

you know, applying contemporary com m unity standards
— cause there’s always a shift in values, of what’s decent.
And my generation— it’s weird— it’s not that it’s im­
moral, but I ’d be embarrassed at a planned parenthood
clock. It would just, Phew! I could never make it, ever.
And the younger person would say,
“Well, that’s bullshit, I mean, you do that, don’t
you?”
“Yeah, but, it can’t be that prepared.”
“Well, it’s prepared anyway. You know you’re
gonna make it.”
220
 “Yeah, but, but but, but that precise, you know,
DING, DONG, DING, DONG!
It’s just, it’s like I’m working in a whorehouse. I
dunno.”
And what if it goes off and somebody’s over there, you
know:
“Go ahead! We’ll eat and sit in the other room.”
“No, no. That’s alright . .
Yeah, it’s just, my generation was hung up with th at

Now Scranton, Goldwater, that generation, the over­

forty-five people, and the people who live in the towns
and are only twenty years old but still are the over-forty-
five people, that generation was so concerned about the
absence of sex— when the banner was VIRGIN IS
BEST— that they are truly the most erotic, homy people
in the world.

Dig, you know what a beautiful duo is? German and

Irish. They are winner chicks. That is the most goyish
goyish— I’ll show you an example.

It’s the kind of thing, like— shicksas. Well, it’s not that
Jewish chicks are lushes, are not attractive, but it’s just
that pink-nippled, freckled, goyisha punim— that is
hais, boy, that is a rare tribe. And Elizabeth Taylor—
even if I can’t see the mustache, I know she’s got i t
That’s all. It’s enough. And a mole with the hair in it.
It’s just a cooking thing the pharaohs have. O.K.?

That’s why I can never get married again— I’m insatia­

ble. Just looking— I won’t touch or talk to, but I really
dig looking at chicks. Boy, they’re really pretty.

221
 The Dirty-word Concept

If you’ve ever seen this bit before, I want you to tell me,
stop me.
I'm going to piss on you.
Now, I tell you this because some of the ringsiders
have objected to it, and it’s just fair to warn you, that’s
all. I don’t make any great show of it— I just do it, and
that’s all. You can’t photograph it—it’s like rain.

The point of view there is to help you with bad early

toilet training. That fact is that you and I have had such
bad early toilet training, that the worst sound in the
world to all of us is when that toilet-flush noise finishes
before you do. I never could go over to your house and
say:
“Excuse me, where’s the toilet?”
I have to get hung up with that corrupt facade of
“Where’s the little boy’s room?”
“Oh, you mean the tinkle-dinkle ha-ha room?
Where they have just sashays and cough drops and
pastels?”
“Yeah. I wanna shit in the cough-drop box.”
“Oh, awright.”
222
The tsi gurnischt is what puts you into the toilet every
time, Jim. And unfortunately, intellectual awareness
does you no good.

And you know why we got this— this is really weird—

the censorship? It’s motivated by bad early toilet train­
ing. Every time—
old woman : He made a sissy! Call the police.”
Yeah.
old woman : Get the policeman up here, he made
a sissy. He’s not gonna make it no more? Get the
probation officer. That’s all.”
So if you’re thirty-six years old, you drive down the
street, you see the red light in the rear vision mirror—
you just crap out:
cop : You know what you did?
“Yeah. I made a sissy.”
cop : What?
“1 dunno, I . . . What’d I do?”
cop : You made an illegal left turn!
“Oh, damn, I ’m pissed with me. I’m no goddamn
good, man.”
That’s it. That’s the dues.

Words, boy, they’re too much. Forget it. Let’s see. I

started in show buisness in ’50. I won the Arthur God­
frey Show, then I went to the Strand in New York, then,
about ten years ago, I went right into the toilet, Bong!
But at this time I did, let’s see, the Robert Q. Lewis
Show, Broadway Open House, Arthur Godfrey and His
Friends Show, and the comment of the day was:
“Lenny, you’re gonna go a long way, because you’re
— you’re not like those other comics, you don’t
have to resort to filthy toilet jokes. Anybody can
get a laugh on toilet jokes, but you’re clever . . .”
And I started thinking about that. I was proud, but then
223
I started thinking, “How dirty is my toilet?” Yeah.
That’s sort of strange, that I have to resort to it, or even
protest against it, or my bedroom— toilet jokes, bed­
room jokes.
Then I would just lay in bed, and I wouldn’t even say
that word at that time, you know, I ’d just think it, you
know, then I’d thunder out of the bedroom and dash
open the door and
“Look at you, you dirty, dopey. Commie toilet,
you! And the tub and the hamper— you should
know better.”

Alright. I ’m going to do something you never thought

I ’d do on stage. I ’m going to a bit now that I was
arrested for. I’m going to tell you the dirtiest work
you’ve ever heard on stage. It is just disgusting!
I’m not going to look at you when I say it, cause this
way we won’t know who said it. I may blame that cat
over there. It’s a four-letter word, starts with an ‘s’ and
ends with a ‘t’ . . . and . . . just don’t take me off the
stage, ju s t. . . don’t embarrasss my Mom. I’ll go quietly.
The word is— Oh, I’m going to say it and just get it
done with. I ’m tired of walking the streets.
[Whispers} “Snot!”
I can’t look at you. But that’s the word: snot. I know
alot of my friends are thinking now,
“He’s so clever, and then, for a cheap laugh, he says
‘snot.’ He don’t need that, that disgusting char­
acter.”
But do you know anything about snot? Except that
every time you heard it you go Phah! Or Ich! or Kee-
riste!? Do you think I would just take snot out of left
field and use it for the shock value? Nada.
Suppose I tell you something about snot, something
that was so unique about snot that you’d go:
“Is that the truth about snot?”
224
 “Look, I’m gonna lie to ya? That’s right. That’s
about snot.”
“How do ya like that! I never knew that.”
Cause you never listen, that’s why. If you’d listen all the
time, then you’d learn about snot. I’ll tell you something
about snot— no. I know, you’re smug:
“We know all we wanna know about snot. We
smoked that stuff when we were kids.”
Well, I’ve done some research about snot. How about
this about snot: you can’t get snot off a suede jacket!
Take any suede jacket straight from Davega’s and
throw it in the cleaners and try to run out of the store:
“Wait! Stop them! Alright, block the door. Get
them! Tell the wife to stand over there. . . . Son, is
this your jacket?”
“Well, . . . yeah.”
“Son, do you know what this is on the sleeve of the
jacket?”
“No.”
“You wanna go downtown?!’’
“No.”
“Well, what’s on the sleeve?”
“W ell. . . ah . . . snot.”
“Son, you know you can’t get snot off suede. It’s a
killer. Kills velvet too.”
“No, I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that it was
snot.”
“You knew that was snot, son. You can’t get snot
off suede. It’s ruined. You can flake it off, but the
black mark will always be there.”
“What’ll I do?”
“Just snot all over the whole jacket! That’s the only
thing you can do.”
“Do you do that work?”
“No. There’s no money in it. Can’t get help.”
Now, you’ve seen a lot of snot. You’ve seen it in back
225
 of radiators in Milner hotels. Looks like bas-relief wood-
glue.
Now, I’m going to show you some snot. Just cause I
like you— if I really like you, boy! Then it’s a show.
Would Jack Benny or Bob Hope show you any snot?
Fake snot, from the magic store, maybe.
O.K. Snot. Snot that fools old Jewish mothers:
[Jewish accent] “You blew your nose in the Play­
boy Magazine again?”
Here we go [blows his nose]. I did it! And I did it for
one reason: to show you how well adjusted I am. Why
do I say I ’m well adjusted?
Why?
Cause I didn’t look later.
Now we see the same man, not well adjusted. See?
Slow motion.
A lot of people say to me,
“Lenny, how come you don’t look later?”
A lot of people ask me that:
“You never look once?”
“Nope! Nope. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em
all.”
Now I got a handful of snot! That’s what I got.
“Which hand has the M&M? Agh! Snot!”
I’m going to take it and put it on the piano. Now, when
the pianist comes back for the intermission, she’ll think
it’s a note:
“Oh, a request! They haven’t forgotten the old
tunes. Strange envelope. . . . Foo! That’s snot!"

The hangup is that the word repression— I’ll tell you

better this way. You know— what is it, on Forty-Eighth
Street here, next to the Latin Quarter?— Fun Shops,
they call them, those whoopee-cushion stores, the stores
that sell unjoyous buzzers, vomit, dog-crap. It’s really
226
Bizarre. It’s fool-your-friend, hurt-your-friend, put a fly
|n his ice-cube.
“We have a cute little article here, it’s, it’s fake dog
crap.”
“What?"
“Yeah—fake dog shit—very humorous. Ya see, we
take this fake dog crap and we put it on the stairs,
see”—
“Now who would buy that?”
“Oh, there’s a market for it.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem very humorous to— ”
“Oh yeah— cause you can take it two ways, see?
It’s double entendre. It could be real dog shit or
fake dog crap. And then we have this fake vom­
it— ”
“Now get the hell outta here! There’s no market— ”
“I’m tellin’ ya there’s a market for i t You just
donno how it works, see?”
“Well, just don’t bring the samples up here, that’s
all.”
“Look. I mean, just picture this. See, here’s what
happens. The guy comes home, see? The wife puts
the fake dog shit on the stairs. The real vomit or
the fake vomit or the real dog shit and the fake
vomit, see. And he comes home and goes
‘Yippee! Dog shit!’
And he grabs it and goes
‘Ahhh, it’s fake! Oh, here’s some vomit!’
That’s fake too, and then he cries his eyes out—
and that’s the fun. That’s after he drinks the fly in
the sugar cube.”
“Well, I dunno. That’s certainly, a weird kind of
humor.”

If I could just rob fifty words out of your head I could

stop the war. Just like that, Jim! It would end. Pow!
227
Fifty words. Semantics. Pchew! PowPowPow! Take ’en
away.
Hotel— three in the morning— filthy word. Motel—
every “well” comedian, as opposed to the “sick” come'
dian, has given motels such a schmutz connotation that
I couldn’t ask my grandmother to go to a motel if I
wanted to give her a Gutenburg Bible.
So hotel is dirty and motel is dirty— where’s there a
clean place to take some lady? A clean word that won’t
offend anyone.
Trailer!
guy: Hey, do you wanna come to my trailer?
girl : All right. There’s nothing dirty about trailers.
Trailers are hunting and fishing and Salem ciga­
rettes. Yes. Yes, of course I’ll come to your trailer.
Where is it?
guy: Inside my hotel room.
Then it’s dirty again, man.

Here’s a tip how the word suppression, the dirty words

that you swallow, are a deterrent to this community.
There is a disease called leukemia. Leukemia, there’s no
specific cure for/Talking about leukemia certainly would
not help it. Here’s a disease that’s above that. How
come? Cause no one talks about it. In fact, when the
Community Chest hits on you, do you say,
“Excuse me, how much of my buck is going to the
clap?”
Did you? No, I don’t think you did. Why didn’t you?
[Aggressive male voice] “Well son, I don’t ask
about the clap because only bums get it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And communists!”
And seven million war heroes that must be bums and
communists.
228
 “Awright, whaddya wannus to do? Just get some
people that’s had it not to cop out?—
ELEANOR ROOSEVELT GAVE LOU
GEHRIG THE CLAP!”
“O.K., that’s good.”
“Gave it to Chiang Kai-shek, too. That’s why he
couldn’t get the puttees on.”
You see, if you or I ever had it, the doctor would
never cop out to us. Lose the account?
“Mrs. Schekner, you got the clap.”
Forget it!
“Little discharge, dear, we’re gonna give you a lit­
tle, ah, tell you what, ah, I got a little, ah, vitamin-
booster, a little penicillin.”
No. She’s not hip. No.

I wonder: if I were to work to a Bert Parks kind of audi­

ence— he smiles when he defecates— and I were to ask,
“Hey, I wonder how many of the family people out
here, how many of the daughters— fifteen-year-
olds and older— might have the clap?”
I’m sure there would be a portion of the audience that
would want to punch me out.
Wouldn’t you assume that the guy who would feel
some hostility towards me for verbalizing, just asking
that question, if his daughter had the clap— what if his
daughter had the clap? Is she going to go to her daddy?
I doubt it.
And V.D., right up on top— although with Aureomy-
cins you could whack it out in one day. But it stays there.
“Well, you see, leukemia you get in a respectable
way, that’s all. You know how you get the clap,
and, ah . . .”
Because, doing it, well, that’s about the dirtiest thing we
can do. But dig how we have screwed the country. Dig
what the good-good culture’s done to you.
229
 You only know this if you’re about thirty-five or so,
and you made at least some of the war, the good war,
the war that I was in, from ’42 to ’45. And you know
that if that four-letter word is dirty and doing it is dirty
— the good people don’t do it, nuns and priests don’t do
it, and someday we’re going to rise above the physical
and the carnal, the lustful— well, you agree that it’s not
the nicest act. In fact, you don’t want me to do it to your
mother or your sister. You get arrested for doing it in the
street. It’s a filthy, rotten act.
That’s why they don’t like Americans anywhere.
That’s why we have lost the world completely—because
we fucked all of heir mothers for chocolate bars. And
don’t you forget it, Jim. Don’t ever forget th a t
And if you don’t think those kids have heard that
since 1942— that bumper crop— those kids that now are
twenty-three years old, that’s now in control—
“Do you know what happened? Do you know what
those Americans did to your poor mother while
your poor father threw up his guts in the next room
while those soldiers lined up your mother for their
stinking eggs and the chocolate bars and their frig-
gin cigarettes? Those bastards! What they did with
their money over here!”
And that goes from Marseilles, St. Tropez, all the way,
Jim, to Constantinople. That’s all they’ve heard, Jim.
Those cats over there were duking with their bread.
Now, intellectual awareness does them no good. They
know, like, if I’m hungry, I’ll sell my sister’s ass for an
egg. It doesn’t do any good knowing it: it happened,
Jim.
If this society was the least little bit correct, if religion
helped it out a little bit, and that act was the least bit the
antithesis of what is perverse, and you felt that it was a
true Christian act of procreation, if it was sweet hugging
and kissing—watch. The fellow comes off the plane:
230
 British voice : I s that the fellow who fucked
Mother? Oh, yes! How are you? Damn, I haven’t
seen you in so long, and you’re such a wonderful
person. You certainly made Mother feel good. I
certainly would like to thank you— that certainly
was a nice thing to do. And I understand you gave
her some candy besides.
But we don’t agree that it’s a nice act. It’s a filthy, dirty
act. In fact, that’s what any eighteen-year old chick or
thirty-year-old chick will tell you when you take her out:
“You don’t love me, you just want to ball me.”
Boy! Listen to that:
girl : He was a nice guy—he didn’t try to fool
around with me. But you don’t love me, you just
want to ball me.
guy : What? Of course I love you— I wouldn’t want
to sleep with you if I didn’t love you.
girl : N o, no. If you loved me you’d drive me to
Wisconsin; punch me in the mouth; read the Bible
to me all night; you’d borrow money from me. You
wouldn’t want to ball me. You don’t do that to
someone you love— you do that to somebody you
hate. Really hate.
In fact, when you really hate them, what’s the vernacular
we use?
“Screw you, mister!”
If you were taught it was a sweet Christian act of pro­
creation, it was the nicest thing we can do for each other,
you’d use the term correctly, and say
“t/nscrew you, mister.”
But the best people in the tribe don’t do it.

But you won’t admit that— that they think doing it is

dirty, filthy. They’ll never admit that the clap is here—
they’ll never admit that their son has it. Their son has
the clap— where can the son go? Can that boy go to his
231
father? Bullshit he can go to his old man. He could never
relate to his father. He can’t even go to the doctor; he’s
lucky if he can go to some schmuck who sweeps up a
drugstore:
“Hey Manny, mop later, can I talk to ya?”
“What is it?”
“I got the clap.”
“You? Where’d ya get that?”
•‘Painting a car, schmuck! What’s the difference? I
got it.”
“So whaddaya want from me? Why don’t you go
to your father? Why don’t ya go to a doctor?”
“I can’t. Gimme some pills— you work in a drug
store.”
“Awright. Here.”
“Dexedrine spansules . . . Is this good?”
“Yeah, it’s all the same horseshit. This is good—
keeps you awake, so you know you got it.”
“Awright. The reason I want these pills, I got a
good job, and I donwanna lay off.”
“Oh yeah? Where ya working?”
“The meat-packing plant. Want a couple of
steaks?”
“No! Just bum the doorknobs on the way out. Do
me a favor— stop kissing my mother goodbye,
O.K.”
Maybe Jerry Lewis would go on television, and instead
of getting hung up with muscular dystrophy, he’d have a
Clap-a-thon.

Dear Anne Landers:

This summer I met a boy on vacation, and I fell mad­
ly in love with him, even though he admitted he had a
boy back home. As a result of our affection I became in
a motherly way. I’m all mixed up— I’m only three years
old. What’ll I do?
232
Dear Knocked Up:
Call Doctor Mendoza, Tijuana 1-7300.

It’s very tough. It’s very tough to stop the information.

That’s where it’s all at. Because the word itself is of no
censequence. What the constitution forbids is any bar
to the communication system. It doesn’t want nobody
to abridge the right to say it one time, and one time to
hear it.
Because the information makes the country strong.
Because a knowledge of syphillis is not an instruction to
get it. Because if you don’t have the knowledge of it, and
you just know about the good, and they just let the good
come through, seeping through, what they think is good,
you end up like Hitler. Cause he really got screwed
around like that. He kept saying,
hitler : Am I doing all right?
first aide : You’re doing great! They love you.
hitler : Don’t bullshit, Marty. Someday they don’t
like me—
first aide : They love you!
second aide : Don’t listen to those liars!
hitler : Kill him! Who said that?

Now, the daughter that you love, yeah, the daughter that
you love, the daughter that you kill in the back of a taxi­
cab because of a bad curettage— that’s how you love
that daughter, because she’s a tramp, because she’s got
life in her belly and she ain’t got a hoop on her finger
that some witch doctor blessed—that’s how you love
that daughter. That’s that roch munas you’ve got for that
daughter, that she can just talk to her old man just like
that. Snap! When I hear that cat saying,
“Ah, that tramp! My wife’s a tramp, and I got cus­
tody of my kids.”
233
 “You’re wife’s a tramp? Whaddaya mean— stemo,
and the woods and all?”
“No, you know what kinda tramp I mean.”
“No I don’t, man, I dunno what kinda tramp you
mean at all.”
“She goes to bed with guys.”
“Well that’s certainly a very Christian act. I can’t
think of anything nicer to do for any guy.”
“Yeah, but she does it in front of the kids.”
Well, I am not that well adjusted yet, but you know,
man, I would rather your kids see that than you yelling
at your old lady or whacking her out. In fact, I guess it
really is no deterrent to his growth to see that, no. Isn’t
that the nicest time? Or is balling just balling? Or is it
just that—you just carry around a little aspirin box and
make it with that:
“Gimme a little bufferin.”
“There it is— a buck and a half.”
Chungchungchung! That’s it.

The dirty-word concept is beautiful. Postmaster Sum-

merfield is concerned with re p o rtin g any pornography
and any Tilly and Mack books you have lying around.
Right? Now, for your child, who is perhaps in the for­
mative years, for his viewing in the schoolyard are the
dirty books, the smut peddlers which Postmaster Sum-
merfield is concerned with— and justly so: these are
formative years. But how about some other films that
he’s not concerned with?
Psycho, for example. If your kid’s going to see a dirty
movie, and be affected by it, then you must assume he’ll
be affected by Psycho. We have Anthony Perkins, a psy­
chotic misogynist who kills a beautiful chick, Janet
Leigh. No reason at all, man. Method: stabbing in the
shower, blood down the drain. Method of disposal of
body: wrapping it in the shower curtain, schlepping it
234
to the swamp, doing her in. For no purpose, man—
death, destruction.
Now, the stag movie, the dirty movie— the sixteen
millimeter reduction print that you drag from lodge hall
to lodge hall, the dirty movie that the Kefauver com­
mittee would destroy and then recreate for private
parties. Let’s inspect the subject matter. What are they
doing, that couple?
I can’t think of anybody getting killed in that picture.
I can’t see anyone getting slapped in the mouth, rapped
around. Is there any hostility in that film? No. Just a lot
of hugging and kissing. And the first time one instrument
of death appeared— that pillow that might have smoth­
ered the chick— it went under her ass, and that was the
end of the picture.
Please tell me what the hell the couple is doing that’s
that rank, vicious, rotten. The only thing I find offensive
in that film is that from an art concept, cinematically, it’s
a bore. Yeah, those schtup pictures— forget it, man. No
idea of the sensual, there’s no music track, you know.
But as far as hurting your child— what are they doing,
that couple?
No. It’s vicious and rotten and dirty— that you’ve
bred a generation of faggots and misogynists, lady-haters
and homosexuals.

Well, it’s part of our culture that we teach our children:

“These are your eyes, your nose, your mouth— and your
ga-ga.” Part of the guilt for the dirty I’m sure relates
back to several hundred thousands of years ago— when
everybody was giving up something for the Lord— and
how guys would cap each other and wait around, and
put it up on the bulletin board, and one guy said,
“I love the Lord better’n anybody in the tribe. I’m
giving up nine rivers for the Lord. Write it down.
How about you?”
235
 “Seventeen rivers, ten farms. That’s for the Lord.
How about you?”
“Well, today I ’m gonna be the best man in the
tribe cause I’m giving up seventy-eight rivers, fifty-
five farms, ten sheep, six oxen, and a mountain for
the Lord.”
And St. Paul just watched these people, and after every­
one had chucked in, and the best man in the tribe had
stated he was best man by giving it almost all away, St.
Paul said,
“Wait a minute! Before you give out the prize for
the best man in the tribe, I’m going to give up
something for the Lord you’ll all remember:
F-U-C-K NO M O RE PAUL! That’s it!”
“Hey, Paul, are you bullshittin or somtin? You’re
givin at up? Faw how long?”
“I’m giving it up for ever and ever!”
“Just to prove a point, huh? Well, that’s ridiculous.
He’s, ah . . . ”
"The best man in the tribe.”
Why?
“Cause I don’t do it, that’s why. You who do it—
second best. And you who talk about it— we’ll bust
your ass. Celibacy is the way.”
It’s the clean way, it’s the best way. So all the schtuppers
. . . turn into fressers! Ha ha! Didn’t figure on that! That
would really be weird.

Now. You’d assume that in a society that says, “Alright,

this is clean; this is dirty”—that in the entertainment
capital of that society, the entertainment capital of the
world, Las Vegas, that the attraction would be the
most austere. What’s the attraction at Las Vegas?
“Well, at the Stardust we have the Passion Play.”
“Correct; then they’re consistent. What follows the
Passion Play?”
236
 “Well, I think they’re having a Monet exhibit, then
Eugene Onnandy and the New York City ballet.
It’s a very spiritual type of show.”
Is that the attraction that all the purists support in Las
Vegas? No. What’s the attraction? Tits and ass.
"I beg your pardon?”
“Ah, tits and ass, that’s what the attraction is.”
"Just tits and ass?”
“Oh, no. An Apache team and tits and ass.”
“Well, that’s about all I actually go to see— the
Apache team. And that’s just one hotel. What’s the
second biggest attraction?”
“More tits and ass.”
“Get off it! The third?”
“Tits and ass, and more ass, and tits, and ass and
tits and ass and tits and ass.”
“Do you mean to tell me that Life magazine would
devote three full pages to tits and ass?”
“Yes. Right next to the article by Billy Graham and
Norman Vincent Peale. Life and Look and Nugget
and Rogue and Dude and Cavalier and Swank and
Gent and Pageant (the Legion of Decency’s Play­
boy) and millions of other stroke books— the ante­
cedent to Playboy, National Geographic with the
African chicks— oh yes, they’re stroke books.”
It takes the seriousness out of everything if you can
imagine Kennedy in back of the bathroom door whack­
ing it to Miss July once in a while. I stroke it once in a
while; I assume he does.
“Ah, well, that may be the truth, but you just can’t
put TITS AND ASS NITELY up on the marquee
outside on the strip.”
“Why not?”
“Why not! Cause it’d dirty and vulgar, that’s why
not!”
237
 “Titties are dirty and vulgar? Well, they’re not to
me. I like to hug ’em and kiss ’em.”
“No, you’re not going to bait me. It’s not the titties,
it’s the words, the way you relate.”
“I don’t believe you. I believe to you it’s the titty
that’s dirty. Cause I’ll change the words to TUCH-
USES AND NAY-NAYS NITELY.
“Hmmmm. That’s a little better.”
“Well, you’re not anti-semitic. That’s point one for
you. But how about making it very austere— Lat­
in: GLUTIUS MAXIMUS AND PECTORALIS
MAJORS NITELY.”
“Now that’s clean!’’
“To you, schmuck, but it’s dirty to the Latins. And
the fact that you’re an illiterate doesn’t get you off
the hook.”
“Well, I don’t care what you say, you just can’t put
TITS AND ASS up there. You have to have some­
thing a little, ah—LA NOVELLE VOGUE! LA
PARISIENNE! ”
“Ah, the Follies! Lou Walters! French tits and ass.
Class with ass.”
“I’ll buy that. Unless I can have something patri­
otic—how about THE MOST AMERICAN
GIRLS IN THE WORLD?”
“American tits and ass— Grandma Moses’ tits and
Norman Rockwell’s ass: draw my ass and win a
Buick. My ass you can draw; you can draw my ass!
My ass you can draw.”

That’s why the word isn’t dirty—the titties are dirty.

Oh yeah. The titties are filthy. That’s why you can’t have
a marquee reading
TITS AND ASS NITELY
Uh urn. Cause the titties are dirty and vulgar. And if we
deny that—then it’s all a lie.
238
 Here’s how the titties work. If the titty is bloodied and
maimed, it’s clean. But if the titty is pretty, it s filthy.
There’s a time and place for the titty. That’s why you
never see any obscenity photos that are atrocity photos.
Urn Urn. Any titty that’s cut off and distended, that’s
good.
Yeah, its really weird.

Eleanor Roosevelt had nice tits. She really did. A friend

of mine saw them and said they were terrific. That’s not
disrespectful; in fact, she would have liked that, I think.
Yeah. He walked into the bedroom and she was fixing—
guy: Excuse me.
e l e : That’s all right. You were looking at my tits,
weren’t you?
guy: Well, I wasn’t looking at them, I was looking
at everything—the wall, and everything—
e l e : That’s all right. You can look at them.
guy : Uh, they’re O.K.
e l e : People say they’re the nicest tits ever. Ever
ever ever.
guy : They really are nice tits. Could I touch them?
e l e : No. no. Nope. Cause alot of people want to
touch them and then they’d touch them too much.
That’s all. Just look at them. Just look at them and
say they’re nice tits.
guy: Awright— they’re nice tits. In fact, Fm gonna
tell my friends how nice they are. Heh heh. And
what a terrific person you are for showing them
to me.

Touch it once, touch it once.

What’s “it”? That’s what I got busted for: “It”. “It” is
Clara Bow. But I cannot be superstitious with that, the
doublf entendre. Because to me your titties are no joke.
They re pretty and they’re not humorous to me. It’s not
239
a hah aha. That elbow-nudging sly-innuendo hahaha
you-know-what-it-means, that Jack Paar with his cool,
Alexander King the junkie Mark Twain— your Uncle
Willie, who I would never let baby-sit for me. He’s a
nice moralist—when you’re eleven years old he’s always
grabbing your sister:
“What a nice little tickle-ikle-ikle!”
“Yeah, I ’m hip, you tickle-ikle-ikle.”

240
 Obscenity Busts and Trials
I want to read this, cause I like it. This is an arrest
report. And employee’s report, that’s what they call it.
Subject: Obscene show.
Sir:
On the above date and time I attended a Lenny
Bruce show at the above location, in the company of
policewoman Corlene Schnell, 100643—
in case you ever should see her—
During the half-hour show Bruce used the following
words on several occasions:
bullshit
shit
motherfucker
penis
asshole.
These words were clearly understood by both police­
woman Schnell and myself. The substance of Bruce’s
dissertation was primarily based on denouncing reli­
gions, God, and the police in general, in that order.
Sir:
At the above time and date I attended the entire
show of Lenny Bruce with policewoman Schnell.
241
 During this show the following words were used
repetitively:
shit
bullshit
motherfucker
fuck
asshole.
He had stories regarding unnatural acts with animals,
including the Lone Ranger and Tonto, and his horse.
The substance of Bruce’s shows was a degrading dis­
sertation on the subject of the Jewish religion, God,
and the acts of the courts in the United States.
O.K. There’s one really great thing in here. Oh yeah.
Since this time six teams of officers in this division
have viewed the Bruce show, and have submitted 15.7
reports. Some of the other obscene words used by
Lenny Bruce are as follows:
bullshit
ass
asshole
tits
penis
pricks
cocks
cunts.
He also referred to comic-book characters as dikes
and fags.
Now the thing I like about this is that— now this is the
last report— and the last report, I can tell that the guy
started to listen to me work, cause he says:
Bruce’s show in general made fun of his past experi­
ences with law enforcement and the courts. He also
makes fun of all religions and many people that are
currently in the news.

On October 23, 1962, at approximately 10 p .m ., Sgt.

242
 Klein and Detectives Frawley and Shire attended lo­
cation of suspects act. Suspect’s act primarily cen­
tered around sexual activities of various sorts. In one
anecdote the suspect described an individual as a,
uh, c -o -. .
\lright.
a term used to indicate the act of oral copulation.
Boy it’s weird how he heard just that.
Various descriptive words such as “bastard” “ass­
hole” “goddamn” were interjected at various times
during the performance.
O.K.
On October 24, 1962 at approximately 10 P.M., Ser­
geants Block and Klein attended suspect Bruce’s
show. As a result of what transpired on the previous
dates mentioned, District Attorney Hecht was con­
tacted and requested to attend the show for expert
advice, which he did. On this date suspect Bruce’s act
was similar in content to those performances previ­
ously mentioned. At one period suspect started com­
plaining to the person controlling the stage lights that
they were too bright, and after a brief period during
which the lights were not dimmed, suspect looked up
to the control booth and hollered, “Where is that
dwarf motherfucker?” He subsequently bent over to
the first table and said, “He thinks I’m kidding.” In
one of his anecdotes relating to New York policemen
dressed up as women to apprehend mashers he stated,
“This would never stop a real rape artist because
some of those cops really have nice asses.”
Now I didn’t say that. See, they’re really taking this out
of context. What I said, I said— dig how they hear:
Here s what I said: “There are many transvestites posing
as policemen.” There’s a big difference. [At this point
someone in the audience tells Bruce that the cops are
243
attending this show] Oh, really? Well, I hope they got <■
big van. You’re all going.
Alright. I said it would be really bizarre if they were
dedicated rapists, and it didn’t matter, and then all that!
that they heard. O.K.
On previous dates as well as this date the audience
consisted of approximately 50 to 60 patrons. Many of
them were females, both young and old. After the
completion of the suspect’s show on this date the
undersigned deputies conferred with District Attorney
Hecht who had viewed the show. Deputies were ad­
vised that there was sufficient evidence at the time to
warrant the issuance of a complaint.
And they arrested me and handcuffed me and took me
away in the patrol wagon.
Now, uh, I don’t want to get arrested any more. I
don’t like it. I was arrested in San Francisco— see, I was
reading the minutes, that’s how I happened to use the
term coc— um, the Company C.O. Here’s how it hap­
pened. In San Francisco I was doing some ad lib and I
talked about the first time I worked the town, and—you
always can tell when there’s a bust. Oh, it was really
strange when I got arrested here. About twenty minutes
before I was arrested I saw the peace officers. I recog­
nized them. I’d never seen them before, but I knew they
were peace officers. I really did. I always can spot them.
They never need haircuts, and, there’s never any hos­
tility, they’re just, ah, looking at it.
Now, I figured they’re there to see me work— you
know, they’re enjoying it, and laughing. All of a sudden
I see one guy make a move, like, checkmate! One guy
stands at the door. Now I’m about to get finished work­
ing, I figure he’s going to go to the men’s room, and oh,
oh! I see that guy’s making a left, then he’s coming up
on the stage.
I say, “Oh, I’m getting busted.”
244
 He comes up on the stage— and it’s on tape, it’s beau­
tiful! You hear the heat busting me. It’s too much. It’s
the most dramatic tape you’ll ever hear in your whole
life, man. You hear:
strong voice : All right, folks, that’s all. We’re
vice officers. That’s the end of the show. O.K.,
Lenny, come on.
O.K. Then you hear a little voice going
“I don’t have any I.D.”
Look. Heat on my left . . . heat on my right. . . .
M m m m m m . . . How do I know that you’re heat? Well,
I’ve never seen anybody sit that way. Hah! That’s sort
of strange. Now why would the heat be there?

I was arrested for obscenity in San Francisco for using

a ten-letter word which is sort of chic. I’m not going to
repeat the word tonite. It starts with a “c.” They said it
was vernacular for a favorite homosexual practice—
which is weird, cause I don’t relate that word to homo­
sexuals. It relates to any contemporary woman I know
or would know or would love or would marry. But they
got hung up with faggotry. Alright.
Well, the whole scene was that Dirty Lenny, Dirty
Lenny said a dirty word. And I got busted for it, and
schlepped away in a patrol wagon.
Now when I took the bust, I finished the show— I said
that word, you know, the ten-letter word— and the heat
comes over and says,
“Ah, Lenny, my name is Sgt. Blah-blah-blah. You
know that word you said?”
“I said alotta words out there.”
“No. That word.”
“Oh. Yeah?”
“Well, Lenny, that’s against the law. I’m gonna
hafta take ya down.”
“O.K. That’s cool.”
245
 “It’s against the law to say it and to do it.”
“But I didn’t do it, man.”
“I know, but, uh, I just have to tell you that.”
“O.K.”
Now. I get into the wagon. And the one heat is cool. He
said, You broke the law, and the specifics, and that’s all.
Now the other guy:
“You know that word you used? I gotta wife and
kids— ”
“I don’t wanna hear that crap at all, man. I don’t
want to get involved emotionally with this.”
“Whaddaya mean you don’t wanna hear that
crap?”
“I don’t wanna hear any of that shit, man, that’s all.
I don’t wanna get involved with personalities. Un­
less you’re that kind of husband that is that loving
that he shields his wife from every taboo deroga­
tory phrase. Or are you the kind of husband that
maybe just keeps his old lady knocked up and
chained to the kitchen and never brings her a
flower and does raise his hand to her and does rap
her out? But if I say ‘shit’ in front of her you’ll
punch me in the mouth— that kind of chivalry,
man? . . . Did your wife ever do that to you?”
BAM! Then it got very sticky.
“Never!’’
“You ever say the word?”
“No.”
“Never said it? Honest to God never said it?”
“Never!”
“How long you married?”
“Eighteen years.”
“Did you ever chippy on your wife?”
“Never!”
“Never one time in eighteen years? You never chip-
pied on your old lady?”
246
 “Never!”
“Then goddamnit I love you! Cause you’re the kind
of husband I would like to have been, cause you’re
a spiritual guy. But if you’re lying, you’re going to
spend some dead time in purgatory, man. ‘Let ye
cast the first stone.’ ”
You know, we really got into it, into it.
Now, get into court, take fingerprints. The judge?
A tough outside verbissener. Tough-o. Right? He comes
in:
“Blah-blah-blah. Siddown.”
Swear the heat in.
“What did he say?”
“Your Honor, he said blah-blah-blah.
The judge:
“He said blah-blah-blah?!”
Then the guy really yentaed it up:
“That’s right. I couldn’t believe it. Up on the stage,
in front of women and a mixed audience, he said
blah-blah-blah.”
The judge:
“This I never heard, blah-blah-blah. He said blah-
blah-blah?”
“He said blah-blah-blah! I’m not going to lie to
ya.”
It’s in the minutes— “I ’m not gonna lie to ya.” Alright.
The D.A.:
“The guy said blah-blah-blah. Look at him. He’s
smug. He’s not gonna repent. He’s glad he said
blah-blah-blah!”
Then I dug something: they sort of liked saying blah-
blah-blah. Because they said it a few extra times. They
really got so involved, saying blah-blah-blah. The bailiff
is yelling, “What’d he say?”
“Shut up, you blah-blah-blah.”
247
They were yelling it in the court.
“He said blah-blah-blah.”
“Blah-blah-blah!”
“Goddamn! It’s good to say blah-blah-blah.”
“That blah-blah-blah!”
O.K. Now, we’re into the second day of it, and the
judge kept schlepping me out about his grandchildren,
his grandchildren. What if his grandchildren? And I
said, boy, am I that much of a despot? Is he sincere
about his grandchildren? How would I know, how could
I find out? The only way would be to entrap him. Cause
if he would get that much out of line, then that kisses
off the grandchildren.
We’re both from the same tribe, so I know what kind
of chick to get. Boy, that’s one thing the goyim got, are
chicks, man, winner chicks! So I say, Let’s see, what
chick do I know? I know one chick who is really per­
fect for the part— a combination kindergarten teacher
and hooker. Yeah.
Now, I tell her, Sweetie, look, do me a favor. I want
to entrap the judge. And we talked it over. And so I said,
You gotta be very cool, you can’t come on with him;
he’ll freeze right away. Be very cool. Meet in the elevator
of the courthouse. Have a heart attack, a slight one,
cause all Jews identify with sickness.
And she goes into the elevator: “OH!” Thunk.
He runs over, “What’s the matter with you?” Rubs
her wrist, gives her the dopey Jewish doctor speech:
“Look, you’re a young girl, your body is like an
automobile. If you give it too much gas, and the
clutch— ”
That crappy dumb parallel. Alright.
But to get him to a pad is very tricky. Drive drive
drive drive drive. If she said she had to change clothes,
he would freeze. Cause he’d wait in the car. To r.hangp.
a bandage— that’s legit. He can watch her take a band-
248
age, nothing dirty about a bandage. But a bandage may
make it less than sensual.
Sup-hose! Perfect. A little vericosity. “Oi, got sup-
hose?” And he’s digging her. How do we get her over to
the sack? Another heart attack.
“OH!” Boom.
He runs over.
“What’s the matter, another heart attack?”
“Oh, Judge, I ’m just so embarrassed, I’m just in
from Oklahoma— ”
It’s homy enough to be white, but Oklahoma, it’s such
an ofay, the Jews’ll go blind if they look at her.
“— I’m in from Oklahaoma. I was doin a benefit
for the crippled Catholic Jewish war children from
the Ronald Reagan post, in memory of Ward Bond.
And you’ve been so good to me— ”
And she kisses his hand, very dry, very respectable, ex­
cept a little wet at the end.
Now the second heart attack had one deft move— a
pop-off bra, toreador pants, Pow!
Now we have to record all this, see? How to record it?
Six months previous, a genius operation, a tape recorder
set inside the threat: no wires, one small goiter scar.
Now the damnation.
chick : Judge?
ju d g e : Uh.
chick : I wanna tell you something, but I’m afraid
that, oh, that you’re gonna think that I’m, oh,
perverse.
judge : Look, who’s to say vuts normal? It’s what?
chick : Well, I— do you know why I was attracted
to you?
ju d g e : Why?
chick : Y ou remind me of my grandfather.
ju d g e : That makes you hais, meschugenah, you
like that, right?
249
 chick : Yeah, and I would, it would sorta knock
me out if you would sort of enjoy the phantasy
with me, and imagine I was your granddaughter.
ju dg e : Alright, meschugenah, you like that?
What’ll I say?
chick : Just, “Zug me, Zeda.”
ju d g e : Vuss?
chick : Tell me I ’m only six years old.
ju dg e : Alright. You’re six years old.
chick : Do you like giving it to your grand­
daughter?
ju d g e : D o I? Take it, Zeda! Give it to me, toch-
ter! That’s it, take it; sock it to me, give it to me,
you Litvak Lolita!
That’s all. Play that back in court:
tape recording: Give it to me Zeda. Rip me
Zeda. Sock it to me Zeda. Give it to me you Litvak
Lolita.
That’s the end of the lower court. That just blows it
right there.

For four days the testimony in the court in San Fran­

cisco we heard
“He did a man and a woman who were involved
in a perverse act. He accompanied him self on the
drum.”
A perverse act. The fifth day I brought a tape in. They
didn’t know I was taping the shows at the time. And
this is the “perverse act” they heard:
[To be accompanied by cymbals and drums]
Toooooooo
is a preposition
To is a preposition
Commmmmme
is a verb!
250
 To is a preposition,
Come is a verb.
To is a preposition.
Come is a verb the verb intransitive.
To
Come
To come.
I’ve heard these two words my whole adult life and
as a kid when I thought I was sleeping.
Tooooo
Commmme
Tooooo
Commmme.
It’s been like a big drum solo:
[drums rolling and cymbals flaring in a crescendo of
excitement]
To come to come, come too come too, to come
to come uh uh uh uh uh um um um um um uh
uh uh uh uh— TO COME! TO COME! TO
COME!
Did you come?
Did you come good?
Did you come good?
Did you come?
Good.
Did you come?
Good.
To
Come
To
Come—
Didyoucomegood?didyoucomegooddidyou
comegood?
Recitative:
I come better with you sweetheart than with any-
251
one in the whole goddamn world. I really come so
good with you— after being married for twenty-
two years— goddamn I sure do love you! I really
came so good with you— but I come too quick,
don’t I? That’s cause I love you so much.
Goddamnit! Do you know that with everybody
else I’m the best bailer in the whole world? But
with you, I’m always apologizing. If you just
wouldn’t say anything—just don’t say, “Don’t
come!” That’s what it is.
Don’t come in me
don’t comeinme
don’tcomeinme mimme.
D on’t com einm e m im m e m im m e.
Don’t comeinme m im m e m im m e
Don’t comeinme m im m e mimme
M im m e.
Comeinme
Comeinme
Comeinmecomeinmecomeinme—
COMEinme!
Don’t comeinme mimme
don’t comeinme—
unless you want to kill me.
Recitative:
My sister bled to death in the back of a taxicab,
with a bad curettage. Because she had a baby in
her belly. She was a tramp— my father said she was
a tramp. That’s why she bled to death in the back
of that taxicab— cause she couldn’t come home
with a baby in her belly. A tramp with life in her
stomach— so don’t come in me, unless you want
to kill me.
I can’t come, don’t ask me!
I can’t come—
252
 Cause you don’t love me.
I love you but I just can’t
come when I’m loaded!
Cause you don’t love me—
That’s why you can’t come.
I love you! Will you get
off my ass? I’m just loaded.
I shouldn’t juice and ball at
the same time.
Cause you don’t love me.
I love you but I just can’t
come when I’m loaded!
Now will you get off it?
Cause you don’t love me.
Awright! Awright. You want me to tell you why?
I’m gonna tell you the truth: You know why we
never had any kids? Cause I can’t come, cause
it’s DIRTY! All that bullshit in the books, but
it ain’t in that Sunday book, because the good
people don’t come. And I’m gonna rise above
the physical, the carnal— don’t you think I’m
ashamed of coming? It’s filthy and rotten. And
I ’m just sorry they blamed it on you. That’s why
we never had any kids; but they blamed it on
you and kept you in bed with those dumb tem­
perature charts. So if you want any kids you
better get a different old man. But I sure do
love you. But I just can’t help it— intellectual
awareness does me no good. I know its not dirty
but it is dirty. You know what I mean? God
damn it! Oh shit! Maybe we oughta adopt some
kid from some bum who can come.
If anyone in this room finds that verb intransitive,
to come, obscene vile vulgar— if it’s really a hangup
to hear it and you think I’m the rankest for saying it—
253
you probably can’t come. And then you really are shitty
— disposition-wise.
I bet a lot of censors can’t come. They wouldn’t be
going to the movies so much if they could come. How
ran you come and go to the movies? Weird.

Although it’s against the law, there are people who are
promiscuous who aren’t married and involve themselves
in liaisons. Now, what happens to that cat? Can he cop
out to the chick, and say, “I can’t come”?
“No, I’m not gonna tell her, listen to all that bull­
shit. What’ll I do? . . . I’ll fake coming!—
A homy hoax! Ha!
“That’s what I’ll do. I’ll just go,
‘OH GOD! OH GOD!’
That’ll do it.”

Now, I wasn’t hip— I never got arrested before— so I

thought, “Gee, I’ll get a chance to pick the jury!” What
a groove that was. Because I have looked at you for
the last twelve years and have talked about everything
wild there is to talk about, and I can clock you, I can
pin you, and I know what you will have some sympatico
with.
So here we come to picking the jury, and here comes
one lady, a Roman Catholic and, I know, a deterrent
to me. As a juror she would make me pay dues. But I
had alot of conflict about rejecting her— I’m ashamed
of the prejudice I have within me, so I say,
Oh, well, frig it, put her on. Maybe she was Gene
O’Neill’s mother, m an.”
Sure enough—
Would you people on the jury be prejudiced if
you hear any words blah-blah-blah?”
“No, no.”
254
The first word came up and this lady flushes. She
went whoosh! Just red, man.
I said, “Oh oh! Did her!” She just did a tum-around
every time that word got said; she just gets redder and
redder. And I say, “What’s she got on her forehead?
Dirt? What’s today? Wednesday? Oh oh! That’s gonna
be a lotta dues.”
But my attorney says, “Well, Christ! She’s not gonna
lie! She’s not gonna say that that word got her homy,
is she? She’s not gonna say that it aroused her sexually?”
I said, “She might lie for the Lord.”
Yeah. Cause it’s not even lying— I’m a despot, a nut,
a lunatic! Because what mattered was, The Despot Must
Be Destroyed:
“Yon are the murderers. I am pure and good.
There are the murderers, those dirty murderers.
I must rid the community of the murderers. I will
murder the murderers!”
Bang. The deed is done.
“Where are the murderers?”
“We just murdered them.”
“Thank God!”
And sure enough, when she went out, she was the
hangup. She was the hangup. And I knew the questions
were going to go down, and they did go down that way.
First thing,
"He’s guiltyP'
She didn’t want to hear anything. So two seniors in col­
lege— one of them’s a beautiful cat— he says,
“Well, look. The judge says that he shall not make
his characters speak falsely. If they are refined,
they’ll be refined, etc.”
They argue, argue, argue. But I won out! Because, as
I knew, this lady was a drunk. I says to my attorney,
“No, it’s cool. Cause they’ll lock her up three hours;
she’s gotta have a taste; she’ll split!”
 I was saved by Old Overholt.

Oh! I must tell you. Webster’s Third Unabridged—not

the Dictionary of American Slang, but I mean the public
school dictionary— has the word “bullshit” in it, in your
public school. And it says, “bullshit: nonsense.” It has
p-r-i-c-k in it. It says, “a disagreeable person.” It has
“shit” in it— “inferior.” It has “pissed ofl”— “angry.”
And Webster is current usage— contemporary com­
munity standards. “Fuck you” doesn’t mean “intercourse
you.” It did mean that, maybe way back then, but the
U.S. Supreme Court demands that you apply a con­
temporary community standard and give the words a
contemporary meaning. Because if you get literal literal,
you subvert the purpose of the law by taking one frag­
ment of it and screwing up with it.
Those words are now liberated from shame. They’re
in the dictionary now, finally. And the reason they came
to the dictionary, finally, was through continual usage.
Enough guys said to their wives
“YOU CUNT!”
POWi
And that’s why it’s in the dictionary now: c-u-n-t.

Alright. This is a part of the public records, so it’s not

obscene.
County of L.A. Sheriffs Department. Complaint re­
port. Violation 311.6: speaking obscene words in a
public place. October 24, 1962. Troubador Theatre.
11:40 p .m . Lenny Bruce.
Suspect was placed under arrest at above time and
location for the violation as listed as the result of the
following investigation. On October 17, at approxi­
mately 11:30 p .m ., Sgt. Block and Detective Hoga
attended the location to view a show featuring sus-
256
 pect. In the course of the suspect’s narration, he ut­
tered obscene and offensive words including a ref­
erence to his ex-wife as being the type that became
upset when he entered the bathroom while she was
fressing the maid. The word fressing, in Yiddish,
means eating. To eat a person—
And I never did say this—
— to eat a person is a reference to committing an act
of oral copulation upon that person. Throughout his
narration suspect interjected the words s-c-h-m-u-c-k
and (quote) p-u-t-s— (poots?)— which are Yiddish
and mean penis. Suspect also used the word s-n-t-f, a
Yiddish word meaning sexual intercourse. (Sntf?)
S-n-t-f. Also during narration by suspect the terms
asshole, jack-off, tits and ass—
Ah, that’s a very strange narration.

Dig. This last arrest— two weeks ago—I was arrested

by a Yiddish undercover agent. Isn’t that a slap in the
face? Emmis. Somebody wrote the thing up. Dig this:
Sick comic Lenny Bruce, out on bail on a narcotics
charge, was arrested by a Yiddish undercover agent
who had been placed in the club several nights run­
ning to determine if Bruce’s constant use of Yiddish
terms was a cover for profanity. The officer said it
was. Lenny asked the judge if he could bring his aunt
to court to cross-examine the officer to determ ine
how fluent the officer was in Yiddish.
Dig what I got arrested for saying: schmuck. And the
word schmuck—well, I was arrested by an illiterate
undercover agent. The word schmuck is a German word
and it means, literally— and I’m sure you’d insist on the
literal meaning, not hearsay— it means a man’s decora­
tion, in German, as a boutonniere or lapel watch. The
Yiddish dictionary, the Harcoff dictionary: schmuck, “a
257
yard, a fool.” So there we have the literal and the 1
colloquial. I don’t think any Jew ever neologized and
said,
“You’re acting just like a man’s penis!”
Did you? No. It’s
“We drove in from Yonkers. Who did all the
driving?
Me, like a schmuck.”
Now, “Me, like a schmuck” doesn’t mean “Me like a
schmuck”—unless you’re a faggot Indian:
“Ho white man! Me like a schmuck.”
“Well, if you do, don’t bring it in here.”
“ Y ou n o like a schmuck, eh?”
“Well, once in a while.”

Oh, we were in the cell together this morning. That was

beautiful! As soon as we got busted, some schmuck said,
“Ah, the gestapo!”
I said, “Shut up. Just do me a favor, don’t. No tumler,
alright?”
“No, I ’m with you!”
“You’re not with me. Daddy, you’re looking to
thwart authority, I don’t know what your schtuck
is, but cool it. Get outta here.” “No, no!”
This schmuck just wants to get arrested, man—he starts
really picking on the heat.
I said, “Look. Hey,” to the cop, “lemme get in the
car. Cool, cause the whole scene’s embarrassing, al­
right?”
And sure enough the schmuck ends up in the car
with me. I see this body hurtling towards me—
“I ’m with you, I ’m with you!”
“I ’m hip, you’re with me.”
“Well, Christ, I did it for you.”
“No, you didn’t do it for me— get off, ya nutl
Lemme alone.”
258
 Now, we got that cat— oh, that beautiful bartender—
— George saw a quick chance for a little front-page-o,
so he got very brave, and refused to show his draft
card.
“I refuse!”
“What?”
“Anything.”
He got schlepped away. Alright. So then Alan walked in.
“Hello.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the proprietor.”
“Oh. Come to jail.”
Bang-bang-bang. Alright, schlepped away.
Now, as soon as we get in the cell I start to get bad.
[singing] “Water boy. Yes, I ’m gwine up ta heb-
bin.”
I swear to God. Now, I got a very ludicrous sense of
humor. Now, there’s a guy in the cell next to us and
he says, “Got any matches?”
[tough voice] “Fo fi’ dollars. I ’ll give you a match
for fi’ dollars. An’ I ’m gonna take over dis cell, and
you’re gonna get the crap whacked outta ya, ya
hear dat?”
So I said, “I wish I had one of those matches that
makes a snake.”
Alan says, “You’re really cruel.”
“I wouldn’t really do it, dopey.”

Now, in New York, no jury trial. Yeah, strange. They

has a three-judge bench, cause it’s a misdemeanor. Col­
ored judge, Irish judge, English judge. Alright.
Now, Dorothy Kilgallen testified on my behalf, and
Nat Hentoff, someone from Newsweek, and several
others. Now. Dorothy Kilgallen on the stand in my
behalf. O.K. The obvious question the prosecution’s
going to ask:
259
 “Miss KilgaUen, do you use the word motherfucker
in your column?”
“No, I don’t use the word motherfucker in my
column.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my language, it’s Lenny Bruce’s
language.”
“Well, do you feel that your column has suffered
from the lack of that language?”
“N o.”
“Why should he be allowed to use it?”
“Well, because he’s doing a scene, and he shouldn’t
be made to put refined words in the mouths of
vulgar people, and a theatre’s a theatre, and he
never uses the words as a sexual reference to appeal
to the prurient interest.”

Now comes the real issue. The whole trial is about a

statement I made relating to the president’s assassina­
tion. Now, listen in context to what they consider
obscene: I said that when the president was killed and
the governor got it and Jacqueline Kennedy [crawled
onto the back of the car], the pictures that I saw in Time
magazine distorted that event. I think the guy got a
medal when he climbed up into the car for shielding her.
Well, it’s a conclusion on my part, naturally, but the
caption that Time magazine put under it— that she was
going to get help— is a distortion. Especially the last
picture— that she was helping him, the Secret Service
agent, aboard. No. She was leaving, and he was pushing
her back. She wasn’t helping the guy aboard at all.
Now why I found this repugnant, though not unlaw­
ful, is that I have a daughter, and if her husband were to
get shot and she were to panic, like all of us would do,
she would feel guilty, cause of that Good Woman that
stayed. And it seems dishonest to set up an image like
260
 ■at, to enshrine her, like, “These are the good people—
ley stay.” And really they don’t stay, and— bullshit.
I Now, “haul ass to save her ass” is about the only
lin g that smacks of, ah, Anglo-Saxon. But the judge
Lid to Richard Gilman of Newsweek—this is an exact
mote:
“Do you think that the use of this filth, disgusting
language, is necessary to get over this questionable
point of view?”
So, the judge was saying, in effect, that the point of
view was the hangup with him.
Now dig. There’s a colored judge on the bench. Now
I kept hinting that it was a Negro colloquialism, and
there’s the Negro judge, sitting in back. So now they
call Nat Hentoff:
“Mr. Hentoff. The word ‘motherfucker.’ Do you
use it?”
“No.”
“Have you heard it used?”
“Yes, many times.”
And he said that he’d heard it as a term of endearment
“Where?”
“I’ve heard it in penthouses as well as the gutter.”
Now we go to Alan Morrison, the Editor of Ebony
magazine, who had seen me do the show in question:
“Have you ever heard the word motherfucker?”
“Many times.”
“Have you used it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
Now the Negro judge is sitting in back going, “Hm,
well, hm hm, ahem.” Beautiful. You know, he really
looked dignified. I really have great respect for the
bench.
261
 But it would be a beautiful musical curtain line: Th
three judges just about to exit, and one turns to th
other at the end and says,
“See you later, motherfucker

262
 Busts II: Causes and Consequences
The police are here, so be careful you don’t spill the
heroin out of its paper. The first thing, I come in, the
waitress hit on me, “They’re here! There’s five of them
here!” How do you like that? There’s five guys who
never kissed any ladies or choked children!
Don’t you know that Nixon even comes to see me?
They’re here because they dig me, man.
What’s the opposite of paranoia? I really had that
thing going— I always twist it around that they like mel
It’s really sick. They like me, schmuck, and they’re doing
that for me.
But I’m paranoid enough. I got arrested so many
times this year— my fly is open, I’m on dope, every­
thing.

After a while ya get so many arrests, ya think “Geez,

everybody can’t be wrong.” But they are. It’s like para­
noids— classic paranoia is like, the com m unists are al­
ways chasing you and the Mafia. It’d be beautiful if we’d
find out years from today that the Mafia really was
chasing these people. There was no paranoia at all.
263
You may wonder what happens. Yeah, you figure: All
the publicity—he feeds on that. Well, I’d say that since
the beginning of these arrests, my money and career
have dropped seventy per cent. Yeah.
Classic illustration. Here’s what happened: I got ar­
rested in San Francisco. And I was in court, and these
photographers were taking my picture. After about a
half hour it got to be a bore, you know, so I said, “That’s
enough, man.” But they kept clicking, so I started to
implore them, and then I went and stood behind the
flag—for asylum. Alright, jerks the flag out. Then I got
really drug.
“When sick comic Lenny Bruce came to court in Los
Angeles the other afternoon in connection with his
narcotics rap, the photographers and newsreel and
T.V. cameramen waited for him. Bruce fooled every­
one by painting four-letter words all over his face
so no one could take his picture.”
Actually I put a tissue towel on my face. I mean, come
on! They took my picture for two hours. I got bored
with it.
Very interesting— in the court here, the guys stood
behind the judge and took my picture.
So then I started running a little, trotting, trotting
around the courthouse. L. A. is too much. They’re
beautiful. In the newsreel they dubbed sound to them
chasing me— da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
dum. Now, I’m running, running, and running, twice
around the courthouse, and I’m really getting exhausted.
So I wheel around, and as I wheel around, this guy’s
about five feet from me, he falls, and I hear a guy go
“I got it!”
O.K., now, a couple hours later, I’m arrested for
assault and battery and sued for one hundred thousand
dollars. You know, this cat, I never touched him. Then
I started thinking, I said, You know, I gotta figure a
264
defense—cause when you’ve been arrested this many
times, well, they just know that you’re wrong.

T’m just so weary of being arrested. Yeah, it’s just,

phew! Boy. In the first place, it’s whacked me out
financially— I don’t have any money left. I had to sell
my pad. And it keeps me from even working.

Captain McDermott came in here [Gate of Horn]:

“Who’s the owner here?”
“I’m Alan Ribback.”
“Well, I wanna tell you that if this guy Lenny
Bruce ever uses any four-letter words or talks
against religion, I’m going to pinch everybody in
this place, do you understand?”
“I’m not against any religion.”
“Well, maybe I’m talking to the wrong guy. Who
hired Lenny Bruce?”
“I did.”
“Well, I dunno why you hired him, you’ve had
alotta good people here; but this guy mocks re­
ligion. I’m speaking as a Catholic. And I’m telling
you that your license is in danger. And if he mocks
the Pope again I’m going to pinch everybody in
this place. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
I just hope that the Messiahs return in time. Because I
get this second bust, and the Curran Theatre, that seats
three thousand people, and’s always filled— all of a sud­
den it’s eight hours before showtime, and the booker
says, “We’ve sold six hundred tickets.”
“Oh, Christ!”
“Well, you’ve had two narcotics arrests, you’ve had
six obscenity arrests, an assault— hm. Who’d go to
see a dirty-talking dope fiend? You wanna pay for
the house? Give away tickets.”
265
That’s the next step— I get arrested and the whole audi­
ence gets schlepped in. For viewing a lewd show.
Dig, it would be so beautiful. If I had a real verbis-
sener audience that really doesn’t like me at all, and on
top of it they get arrested:
“Ah, now, lemme get this straight, now, Mrs.
Dolan. The man said ‘cocksucker’ and you stayed
there for forty-five minutes? He said ‘motherfuck­
er’—we got the tape there— and you stayed there
for another fifty minutes? Is that right? Well, I
think that thirty days on the farm aren’t gonna hurt
you at all.”

My generation saw a few of the freaks in the carnivals

—you know. Zip and Pip the Onion-Head Boys, the
Mongoloid, the Chinless, the Alligator Woman. Our
kids won’t see any of those freaks, at least only a few
of them. It’s a shame.
But we will see a few of them. Yeah. Thank God for
the Catholic Church— those thalidomide babies will
grow up to have a good time with Bamum and Bailey.
So they’ll still see Zip and Pip and Flip and Mip.
Yeah. That’s what I really got busted for. That’s what
I always get busted for. And it’s really strange. I know
that the peace officer that busts me really doesn’t even
realize that, that that’s what he’s busting me for.

The reason I got busted— arrested— is I picked on

the wrong god. If I had picked on the god whose replica
is in the whoopee cushion store— the Tiki god, the
Hawaiian god, those idiots, their dumb god— I would’ve
been cool. If I would’ve picked on the god whose belly
is slashed— he’s a bank. Chinese, those idiots, their yel­
low god. But I picked on the Western god— the cute
god, the In-god, the Kennedy-god— and that’s where
I screwed up.
266
Now the weird thing, and it really does annoy me, is
that there are people who are that unsophisticated as to
assume that the peace officers are the ones that arrested
me. You’re the ones that arrested me, not the peace
officers. Oh yeah, you are. We’re the lawmakers.
Like, the police officer doesn’t get up in the morning
and say,
“Let’s see, what’ll I do today, who’ll I arrest? Ah,
I think I’ll arrest Lenny Bruce, and . . .”
No. He gets the report. Protocol, that’s the scene, man.
No. Here’s what happened. There were people that
walked out of the club. They were offended, and they
went through the proper channels. They didn’t take a
brick and throw it through a window; they made a com­
plaint and then the complaint was answered by the peace
officer, and then the peace officer schlepped me away.
There’s no hostility at all. No. They’re very cool about it.
Didn’t involve personalities.

That’s one thing, though. With all these arrests, I

always feel like an American officer in a Japanese prison
camp. Oh yeah. Never any shame connected with my
arrests. That’s my feeling. I’ve brainwashed myself.

But here’s how it ends. One day I’m going to get an

order to appear in court: “Oh, shit, what is it this
time?” But when I get there the courtroom will be all
decorated, dig, with balloons and streamers and con­
fetti, and when I walk in they’ll all jump up and yell
“Surprise!" And there’ll be all the cops that busted me,
and the judges and DA’s who tried me, and they’ll say,
“Lenny, this is a surprise party for you. We’re
giving you a party because even after everything
that happened you never lost respect for the law.”

267
 Spotting Heat, and Understanding
Judges and Lawyers
Last night I pinned the heat, I see them. They were sit­
ting over there, see. All of a sudden— I’m working, I’m
into about twenty-five minutes of the show— Chung!
Pow! I see the heat. The minute I see them, I like them.
Yeah. One guy’s laughing. Now, all of a sudden the one
heat got a little bigger, and he took a cigar out. Then I
knew he was completely out of it. Yeah.
Over there’s sitting some guy, a real strung-out
junkie, schlafed out. The guy’s nodding, sleeping. So
I’m thinking, “Who’s he gonna bust first, me or him?”

How do I know heat? I’ll tell you how I know heat. I

am the capper capper capper at pinning people. Well,
cause I really love you, that’s why, goddamn it. And
I’ve been looking at you for so long.
Here’s peace officers: Number one, they never need
a haircut. That’s the first thing. You spot them, hair
always cut good. Now, we see two guys together. They’re
still on the gig, so the attitude, the position of sitting is
never sloppy posture. They’re cool, never hostile.
They’re detached— sort of with you and without you.
268
 The reason you can spot cop cops is like: all ac­
countants look alike cause they follow the stereotype of
the accountant— the lawyer, the engineer, he looks like
a, cause he’s supposed to look like a. O.K. Policemen—
plainclothes policemen— first place, they’re two guys
working. We see two guys walking, and they’re working
at it. They have ties on and they’re dressed. They’re two
guys together. Yeah, that’s heat. They’re not arrogant,
no. And they have a feeling of belonging anywhere. It’s
amazing. Any— I don’t care— any club, nightclub
they’ve never been in, they just go. Pchung! Done. That’s
afi.
Now, I feel no hostility towards heat. I just know that
you’ve got a job to do.

Yeah. The next time you see the policeman in a

demonstration, look at him. Look at him and then you
realize that he’s about my age, and he dies for less than
four hundred dollars a month. And he’s doing your gig
and he’s a second-class citizen. And everybody sees
him and says, “That shithead, look at him!” And he’s
lonesome. Yeah, it’s a lot of dues.

I found out that it’s sort of masquerade time when you

go into court. The attorney will say, “Get a haircut, and
get a blue suit— get a haircut and a blue suit and get
rid of those shoes.”
That’s so that the jurors are not confused, so that
that day in court they can pick out the felon—you know,
the one in the blue suit. Cause that day the man in blue
is bereft of gun and badge. No bullets. He’s got on the
brown suit. Judge has got on his black robes, and it’s
masquerade time.

Judges have said to me, “I’ve never heard such disgust­

ing language in my life!”
269
 About two years ago, I would say, “Ah, he’s fulla
shit!”
But I believe him today. Cause I’ve found out two
things. One, the paranoia is just ignorance. Because two
years ago I thought that the judges were lying, and that
they were persecuting me, which is illegal prosecution.
Then I find out that— T listen to the language in the
court— and the judge doesn’t hear those words.
For a while I had lost perspective— until I started
listening to the prosecution’s arguments. And now that
I listen, really listen to the prosecution— not listen for
their finish and then stop talking— listen to their point
of view, I see that there is a different culture. It has
different values and a different set of standards.
How did this happen? The judge in New York said
he’d never heard such filthy and disgusting language
before. That judge has been on the bench for twenty-
five years— what kind of a world does he live in?
The whole world dresses in blue suits. The judge
really believes that all of us have blue suits. That’s it—
we lie to them continually. Everyone has a haircut—the
biggest bum in the world has a haircut and a blue suit
and is charming. And the language in the courts: “I
pray you.” That’s it. You don’t say, “Shithead, get off
it!” Uh uh. People talk different in front of judges. We
talk different to librarians, judges, nurses, our kids.
The judges don’t really know what it’s like, because
everyone comes before the judge with a mask on. So
in a situation where the people are resisting and angry,
the judge figures, “Jesus! He’s absolutely nuts!” He
really doesn’t know how it is.
And peace officers just to a little bit lesser degree.
If you think that people talk that way to peace officers
— “Fuck you, Johnny!”—they don’t. They don’t talk
that way in front of them. And I’ve questioned enough
of them to realize that they live in a bit of a different
270
world. Peace officers, when they hear the words, they
don’t hear them colloquially. They hear, “Pissed off,”
they don’t hear “Urinate from afar.”

The halls of justice. That’s the only place you see the
justice, is in the halls. “Oh, how they beat me— they
rubber-hosed and Sam Levined me in their back
rooms.” Lemme tell you about police brutality— a lie,
a definite lie. Bullshit. You hear about it, but you never
see it. And I’m perceptive— I’ve been in the jails in
Europe— one half of one quarter of one percent is true.
And, I check every story out and I say
“Did it happen to you?”
“No, but this frienda mine— ”
Ahh, bullshit! And if it’s happened to you I want you
to tell me about how it did happen, cause I’ve really
asked thousands of guys already.
But now, the motivation for that lie— where would
it stem from? A guy gets busted for exposing himself or
shoplifting. Now, comes to court, guy figures,
“Everybody’ll put me down when I get outta jail;
but if I can get out and say,
‘They beat the shit outta me! They punched
me around—but I was a Bogart, a Garfield
— I didn’t sell out! I didn’t give em one
name!’ ”
Names? The schmuck was arrested for exposing him­
self!
“I want the names of udder guys who exposed
themselves!”
“I’ll never sell out! I would take twenty years in
prison before I would ever give em one of your
names and let you do a month]”
Is that bullshit? I would give names upon names of
those yet unborn, before I would do any time for you.
Unless you knew the Maf or some bunch of schtarkers
271
—then I’d give my life for you. They’d take mine if I
didn’t

In the court, the judge, you’d assume, is very concerned

with the Supreme Court. In the lower courts— nada.
He’s concerned with the spectators—his wife, his sisters,
daughter, I don’t know. That’s why judges continually
say, “Approach the bench!”
So you approach the bench:
ju dg e : You asshole, you’re not gonna steamroll
this court!

I wrote a lot of notes to the judges that got me con­

tempt. And I didn’t mean it for contempt, cause I’m not
contemptuous of anyone I don’t know. But I had like a
report: “You’re taking this case too lightly.”
Before I got there. So I said, “Hey, man,” in this letter
I told him,
“that ain’t the way it is. I’m not. This has cast a
leper’s stain that St. Francis could never kiss away.
And as far as lowering the standards of the com­
munity— San Francisco, which supports more fag­
got bars, Turkish bathhouses hung up with vag-lub
charges, and Fisherman’s Wharf, that shares ten­
ancy with a rock washed with the tears of Christ
and women left behind—no, man, I don’t know
how I could lower those standards.”

I, one time, was my own counsel. That’s all. That’s when

I got the year.
I didn’t realize what an attorney goes through.
Here’s what he’s doing. See, I ’m used to working to
just one audience. He’s working to the jury, then getting
it into the record, working to the judge, and his client.
Four people, four levels he’s working on.
And a guilty— Wow/ The few guilties I’ve got, I ’ve
272
watched the attorneys, and I know they never get used
to that. It’s heavy dues for an attorney—
“GUILTY!”
— and the attorney’s ears blanch. That’s right.
So when you’ve got a client with the kind of a guilty
that Ruby got— I’m sure that sentence— Whew! Can
you imagine sitting there
[deep threatening voice]: A L L R IG H T RU B Y,
YO U ’R E GONNA R ID E TH E LIGHTNING!
Whew! BARUNG! Jesus!
And Belli’s screaming in the back of the room
“Don’t worry, Jack!”
“Ouuuuuu, fug it . . .”
“It’s alright, Jack! I’m with you!”
“Ouuuuuughagh, whathefug, ouugh . .
“Come on, Jack!”
He’s talking, trying to make some sense to him there—
and I was just praying that when he walked through
that crowd, that just by some miracle, maybe, that some
cat from Winterset, Margo would come with mud and
blood on him
“I ’m Oswald, ya prick! Ya thought ya got me— ”
POWPOWPOWPOW! Thunk.
“Oswald?! Wattayou, kidding? He was dead!”
“Na, they screwed up! Dallas fucks up everything,
man. He had a tag, and he got a guy who had
leukemia, he got out of the hospital, he got in, I
dunno, some shit, and he lost his hair in there,
that’s all.”
Oh yeah. That would really be embarrassing.

273
 The Law
I figure, when it started, they said, “Well, we’re gonna
have to have some rules”— that’s how the law starts,
out of that fact.
“Let’s see. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll have a
vote. We’ll sleep in area A, is that cool?”
“O.K., good.”
“We’ll eat in area B. Good?”
“Good.”
“We’ll throw a crap in area C. Good?”
“Good.”
Simple rules. So, everything went along pretty cool, you
know, everybody’s very happy. One night everybody
was sleeping, one guy woke up, Pow! He got a faceful
of crap, and he said:
“Hey, what’s the deal, here, I thought we had a
rule: Eat, Sleep, and Crap, and I was sleeping
and I got a faceful of crap.”
So they said,
“Well, ah, the rule was substantive— ”
See, that’s what the Fourteenth Amendment is. It regu-
274
lates the rights, but it doesn’t do anything about it. It
just says, That’s where it’s at.
“We’ll have to do something to enforce the pro­
visions, to give it some teeth. Here’s the deal: If
everybody throws any crap on us while we’re
sleeping, they get thrown in the craphouse.
Agreed?”
“Well, everybody?”
“Yeah.”
“But what if it’s my mother?”
“No. you don’t understand. Your mother would be
the fact. That has nothing to do with it. It’s just
the rule, Eat, Sleep and Crap. Anybody throws
any crap on us they get thrown in the craphouse.
Your mother doesn’t enter into it at all. Every­
body gets thrown in the craphouse— priests, rabbis,
they’ll all go. Agreed?”
“O.K., agreed.”
O.K. Now, it’s going along very cool, guy’s sleeping,
Pow! Gets a faceful of crap. Now he wakes up and
sees he’s all alone, and he looks, and everybody’s giving
a big party. He says,
“Hey, what’s the deal? I thought we had a rule,
Eat, Sleep and Crap, and you just threw a faceful
of crap on me.”
They said,
“Oh, this is a religious holiday, and we told you
many times that if you’re going to live your in­
decent life and sleep all day, you deserve to have
crap thrown on you while you’re sleeping.”
And the guy says,
“Bullshit. The rule’s the rule.”
And this guy started to separate the church and the
state, right down the middle, Pow! Here’s the church
rule, and here’s the federal rule. O.K., everything’s
going along cool, one guy says,
275
 “Hey, wait a m inute. Though we made the rule,
how’re we gonna get somebody to throw some­
body in the craphouse?
We need somebody to enforce it—law enforce­
ment.”
Now they put this sign up on the wall, “WANTED,
LAW ENFORCEMENT.” Guys applied for the job:
“Look. Here’s our problem, see, we’re trying to
get some sleep and people keep throwing crap on
us. Now we want somebody to throw them right
in the craphouse. And I’m delegated to do the
hiring here, and, ah, here’s what the job is.
“You see, they won’t go in the craphouse by
themselves. And we all agreed on the rule, now,
and we firmed it up, so there’s nobody gets out of
it, everybody’s vulnerable, we’re gonna throw them
right in the craphouse.
“But ya see, I can’t do it cause I do business with
these assholes, and it looks bad for me, you know,
ah . . . so I want somebody to do it for me, you
know? So I tell you what: Here’s a stick and a
gun and you do it— but wait til I’m out of the
room. And, whenever it happens, see, I’ll wait
back here and I’ll watch, you know, and you make
sure you kick ’em in the ass and throw ’em in there.
“Now, you’ll hear me say alotta times that it
takes a certain kind of mentality to do that work,
you know, and all that bullshit, you know, but
you understand, it’s all horseshit and you just kick
em in the ass and make sure it’s done.”
So what happens? Now comes the riot, or the marches
— everybody’s wailing, screaming. And you got a guy
there, who’s standing with a short-sleeved shirt on and
a stick in his hand, and the people are yelling, “Gestapo!
Gestapo!” at him:
"Gestapo? You asshole, I’m the mailman!”
276
 at’s another big problem. People can’t separate the

f hority and the people who have the authority vested

them. I think you see that a lot in the demonstrations,
use actually the people are demonstrating not against
'ietnam— they’re demonstrating against the police de-
artment. Actually, against policemen. Because they
ave that concept— that the law and the law enforce-
nent are one.
What it is, I think, is that people really want to beat
he devil. And I think that started with the early, early
nissionaries, you know. That’s why the people never
;ould really separate the authority and the people with
lie authority vested in them. Cause, you know, with
h e savages, you know, the missionary would teach
them the religion, and after the speech the savage would
go:
savage: Well, are you God?
missionary: Well, noooo, but, ah, heh heh, ah,
what the hell, you know, just, ah, we never mind
that— I do you a favor, you do me a favor, that’s
all.
So that’s where it’s at. And I think that’s a hangup in
our country right now.
Cause you always hear that kind of a story, about the
peace officer who pulled a speeder over, and the speeder
turned out to be the governor. And he had the audacity
to give him a ticket. So the fact that people repeat that
story so much, that means that people don’t believe that
the governor could ever get a ticket. So then it’s just
the degree of the law that the governor could break.
That means he could kick you in the ass or anything.
But that’s bullshit. It’s really not that way. Cause
everybody’s vulnerable. Yeah. Everybody’s ass is up for
grabs. And it’s really a groovy system.
Now, the problem I had, of understanding the law,
was because of the language in the law, and the fact
277
that instead of taking each word and finding out th |
case that the word related to, once in a while I got lazj
and I would apply common sense. And then I got really
screwed up.

Really got to separate the judicial the executive and

the legislature. And the most dangerous department,
just the department itself, is the police, the district at­
torney— not the man, but the department. It’s very dan­
gerous for him. And the whole reason for the constitu­
tion was that, there was like one king. He was the
execution, everything.
And the king’s men got outta line, they got crazy all
the time. So you’ve got to keep them in check—that is
what the veto system is. See, at that time the Anglican
Church were really ballbreakers. That was one of the
words they used then, ballbreakers. Ballbreakers means
backbreakers. The Anglican Church caused us discom­
fort—they didn’t really break your balls, but they hurt
them. It’s not literal.
The Anglican Church were really ballbreakers. They
would stop us on the way home from our meetings—
the Protestants— and say,
heat : Where’re ya going? Whatta ya got under
that cloak?
Protestant: It’s mine. And you can’t stop me
without a warrant.
heat : Bullshit. Whattaya got under your cloak?
You got a Bible under there?
Protestant : You can’t search me.
heat : No— unless you make a furtive move.
[Aside] If he scratches his ass he’s dead. Aha! A
Bible! O.K., book him and take him down.
protestant : Look, when’re you people gonna
stop this crap, now?
278
 heat: When are you gonna stop with your dopey
meetings?
So they had more meetings. The guys said, “Let’s get
outta here. Let’s go to a different country. Let’s go to
a place where we can be safe in our houses, from un­
reasonable searches and seizures, where the only people
that can stop us are those with that warrant.”
Now “probable cause” means, certainly not the prob­
able cause to go without a warrant. They made it this
safe, that if you have a warrant, then you’ve got the
probable cause to get the warrant, then you can bust
the guy in his own house; but not otherwise. And the
reason for that safety valve is that judges are brighter
than peace officers—for one reason—they’ve had more
exposure. So you stand a better chance of being safe
in your house if the peace officer first has to go to the
magistrate.

Here’s how it works: Lagen Tfillin is a Jewish orthodox

rite. Here’s how that works: you take a leather string—
mostly rabbis use it— and they tie it around their arm,
as if one were a narcotic addict. A very devout scene.
You can imagine: some old Jew on the second story
there, he’s tying his arm up, dovining, and he’s got a
glass of tea. Puts a spoon in the tea, stirring it up— and
a narcotics agent from Oklahoma who never saw a Jew
in his life, would just knock the door down and drag
that old Jew into jail Pow! like that.
But if he had to go to a magistrate first, it’s quite
possible that the magistrate would say, “Well, what
section of town is it? Delancey St.? Houston St.? Well,
maybe it’s a Jewish religious rite. You better check this*
guy first before you schlep him down.”

Yeah,^ the king was everything, so they said,

“How we’ll do it now, we’ll really make it safe,
279
 we vote on the rule, Eat Sleep and Crap, that’ll
be the law, constant. Then, if anybody busts us
for breaking the rule, they have to go first, to the
judge, the judge has to look up the book, and then
we’ll make a round-robin.”
But what’s happening is that the crime rate, see, has
disappeared, and the task force that we hired is getting
bigger and bigger and bigger— there’s never any lay-off
in the police department. The welfare is up, and it’s
getting so, just so there’s no work left.
Here’s what I figure happened to the crime rate.
First—the basic need to steal is like, for coal, you know,
you’re hungry. All right. So now the economy is up, so
that went disappear-o. O.K. now the second need to
break the law was for some sort of status, some virility.
O.K. the fact that now we give these people analysis,
that went disappear-o. O.K. now the second need to
be sick. Now there’s just nothing left.

But the law is a beautiful thing. The people who attack

the law don’t really understand it. You know what it’s
like? It’s like the Supreme Court, that’s the daddy and it
runs the store because it knows how. All the state courts
and the civil courts, they’re just the clerks, and the
daddy says,
“Now you just sweep the floor and unpack the
stock and that’s it. I don’t want you to place any
orders or change the displays— and keep your
hands out of the register.”
But the minute he turns his back all the clerks think
they know how to run it better, and they start changing
everything and ordering the wrong things and it’s a
mess. The Supreme Court’s the Big Daddy, it knows
what is, but the little guys keep trying to run the store.

280
 What Is Obscene?
Right now there’s some bullshit with obscenity. There’s
an obscenity circus that’s been going on now for about
five years. And I really can’t believe that it’s not settled.
There’s a Los Angeles ordinance now, 1961, that this
guy got busted behind, when the judge said, “I don’t
need any art critics. I know what’s obscene.” But the
judge didn’t know, in that local court, that that wasn’t
the question the guy was asking. He was saying, this
ordinance is unconstitutional because it doesn’t have
“knowingly” in it. And that’s the principle of the whole
American law system— the intent.
“So how could I know it, schmuck, when these
people told me on the book jacket that this is art?”
So the lower court said bullshit and the Supreme Court
said bullshit to the lower court, and that’s when I started
getting into trouble.
Because from ’61 on came the argument between
petulant lower court judges and the Supreme Court and
spoiled rotten D.A.’s. The city attorney in Los Angeles
— every time he’d lose in Washington I’d get my ass
281
kicked when he got home. Just bitching, bitching, bitch­
ing:
“Frig the Supreme Court!”
They’re going to do it their way.

Now, the state really has given me an excellent edu­

cation—you know, continual prosecution and defense.
Now, what is obscene? Obscenity— I’ll hip you to some­
thing— it’s the prurient interest. If I do a show about
eating garbage, or dead children, or necrophilia, and
you say
“That’s the most disgusting— ”
No, that’s not obscene. It’s disgusting, distasteful—but
not obscene.
Or if I do a show and I talk about what sluts the
Voodoo ritualists’ wives are, or if I say that about the
Pope’s mother, or rabbis, etc.— that’s not obscene. If I
do a show blaspheming Voodoo:
“Voodoo is fulla crap!”
“Well, he’s not right, and he’s blasphemous.”
But if I blaspheme the Voodoos, the Catholics or the
Patamonza Yoganondas, that is not obscene.
If I say, “Shit in your fist and squeeze it!” Not ob­
scene for two reasons.
One, because of a new ruling in the Supreme Court
that if it describes narcotics, the word shit is not obscene.
In other words, if you shit in your pants and smoke it—
you’re cool. That’s in the picture The Connection.
And also, because to be obscene, I must stimulate you
sexually. That’s what obscene is— the prurient interest:
if I get you homy. That’s it.
Now, as far as me, if you get homy with me— well,
that’s good: the witness there would be very interesting:
“What did he say that was homy?”
Well, whenever I hear the old glutius maximus, it
gets me this rod on, heh, heh . .
282
That’s why the obscenity laws are very embarrassing to
the judicial system. Because of the latest decisions, you
hear the judges say, “You’re taking the teeth out of the
law. How can we administer justice?” And the problem
is that there’s no such thing as First Amendment pun­
ishment, just protection.
So, Nico Jacobellis, he owned a theatre and he showed
The Lovers, a film. In the film there was a guy kissing
a lady in bed, and his head disappeared off the screen
— towards the foot of the bed. So they said that the
film was obscene for what went off the screen!
Yeah. And it went up to the U.S. Supreme Court, and
the Supreme Court repeated a lot of things they said in
a case called Roth. Sam Roth was the guy who sold
dirty books in the mail, and the circulars he used were
obscene. So he did some time— he got a guilty. Now,
the first time, this was in ’57, they said,
“You, Roth, you are obscene, and obscene talk
hasn’t got the protection of the First Amendment.
Therefore you’re gonna do some time. Your ma­
terial is utterly without redeeming social factors—
patently offensive, appeals to the prurient inter­
est”—
The prurient interest is like the steel interest. What’s
wrong with appealing to the prurient interest? We appeal
to the killing interest.

You know, I got to do some reading, and I found out

that the Catholic Church had the best, clearest definition
for obscenity. It makes the Supreme Court decision
vague. Dig:
“For the matter to be obscene the intrinsic bent of
the work must be to the prurient interest.”
Now that’s where the Supreme Court stays. There it
gets vague. But dig the Catholic Church. It goes further:
283
 “To put it more concretely, the genital apparatus
must be in a position to unite sexually.” •
Now you want a clearer definition than that? That s
beautiful. How can anyone say that’s vague and indefi­
nite? And dig, they really got cute with it:
“And the words ‘vulgar’ and ‘disgusting’ shall not
apply, since human liberties are at stake.”
Alright. Now after that they say, that
“the test shall not apply if the person is sluggish.”
I really like that. Cracked me up.

If you check the records, there’s not one citizen who

bought a dirty book. Every case has been initiated by
the police department.

You know, the literal view of the law is that what’s

obscene is dirty screwing and fancy screwing. If a guy
can tear off a piece of ass with class, then he’s cool; but
if the author depicts factory workers who are not experts
with stag shows, then it’s obscene, which is just non­
sense.
Tract Home Chippy, for example, would be the trite
pulp book. Tract Home Chippy. The good book, they’ve
accepted then, is D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterly’s
Lover. All right. Now, it’s really absurd. You’ve got two
books. You’ve got Lady Chatterly’s Lover, and we’ve
got here, Tract Home Chippy.
Now we got two couples in each book. D. H. Law­
rence’s couple, they’re not married, but he knows how
to handle the scene. Nothing patently offensive: there’s
silk sheets, lebesraum— I mean the guy knows how to
go about it.
L ets go to Tract Home Chippy. They’re factory
workers. They’re both virgins. I mean, page after page
and this guy doesn’t know how to do anything. Never
did it before. H e’s ripping the clothes, conveying of
284
semen before the penetration, didn’t wear a contracep*
tive— it was disgusting!
Let’s go back to D. H. Lawrence. This guy can really
tear up a piece of ass— the third broad he’s on already.
I mean this book was really stimulating— you felt like
going out, getting a broad . . .
That’s what it is, it’s absurd:
“So, in the opinion of this court, we punish un-
talented artists.”
Which could never be, man.

That’s what I always figured the law was for— to protect

ladies. Not against vulgar sounds, certainly not; but to
protect ladies against homy guys. They knew that some
guy would come from the country, who had no exposure,
unsophisticated. So the legislature said,
“Well, this guy would come from the country and
he might go to the city and see a very homy show
or read a homy book, and he’ll get homy, and
then he’ll rape somebody who didn’t read the book,
or see the show.”
So they said. Well, we must have some laws to restrict
the behavior, to cool the people out.

But as far as disgusting is concerned— the reason we

left England was just for that right, to be disgusting.
If there’re any immigrants out here, by the way, who
are thinking of becoming citizens, then you might be
offended by some of the statements made by Jesuits or
rabbis, concerning their gods, that would deny your
gods. That’s not against the law in this country. Or
you Chinese people who might hear your god referred
to as “A fat slob, the Buddha”— but that’s our right.
In fact, that’s why we left England years ago— be­
cause we couldn’t bitch about the church, the Anglican
285
Church, we Protestants. And we had underground meet­
ings.
“I’m tired of this shit, let’s get somewhere else,
let’s go to a different country where we can have
our meetings and be Protestants. Let’s go some­
where else so we can be disgusting. And do dis­
gusting shows. No one can stop us— flaunt it in
their faces.”
“flow disgusting?”
“Well, go in front of a synagogue and sing about
pork.”
"That disgusting? What about the Moslems?”
“Fuck ’em. The Jews too, and the vegetarians.
Cause that’s our right— to be disgusting.
Prurient interest. That’s it. To the immigrant: If, after
the show, and taken as a whole, there’s no redeeming
social factor to this show, but if the show does appeal
to your prurient interest, if you’re sitting there with a
hard-on after I get off, then I should get busted. That’s
the way it is, that’s the way it goes.
But if you’re disgusted, well, that’s your ass, that’s
my right, because I’ll sing about pork, and wail about i t

Oh. Back to obscenity. The law relates, and justly so,

that I should be allowed the poetic license of theatre.
Legit theatre is not censured that way. So this is my
theatre, my platform, and, of course, when all the facade
is schlepped away— that word that I said, if that word
stimulated you sexually, well, you’re in a lot of trouble,
Jim.
And I’m sure your father will be quite unhappy.

286
 The Good-Good Culture
Paul Malloy, who’s sort of Christ in concrete, he’s got a
thing going, it’s “Decent-Indecent”— you know, “What
is Good?” And Good is God is Danny Thomas. So, I
want to show you some pictures of tramps.
[Holding up a pin-up nudie photo]
These are bums. This is an indecent woman. The
Paul Malloy culture would call this lady indecent.
Ohhhh, no! Are you kidding? Indecent? How can that
sweet, pink-nippled, blue-eyed, goyisha punim be in­
decent? Are you kidding? Indecent? God damn Paul
Malloy, man. I love that lady. And she’s religious— see
the beads? That’s how the sisters look before they take
the vows. They take one last picture, and that’s it.

Now, lemme hip you to something. Lemme tell you

something. If you believe that there is a god, a god that
made your body, and yet you think that you can do
anything with that body that’s dirty, then the fault lies
with the manufacturer. Emmis.

If I could be that Roman Chriswell, and this was the

second day of Christianity, and I could predict:
287
 “Hear ye, Christians! Hold on to a bit of Rome.
Because we come from an anthropomorphic so­
ciety, we can touch our God, and you have this
Christian god of yours that made your body. Do
you believe this phantasy, Christians? That God
made your body?
“I believe that two thousand years hence you
will arrest my daughter’s daughter’s daughter’s
daughter for having her titty out in the subway.
And you will ban bikinis and tell six-year-old little
girls to ‘Cover up! Cover up!’
“You say, ‘Nay, Nay, God made the body!’
But I believe you will deny this and you will say
that the body is dirty”
And then the guilt will lie with the manufacturer. And
then you have to schlep God into court with Belle Barth.
And that really offended me in court, when they swore
on the Bible, man, and they went blah-blah-blah-blah.
And I said, Whew! Look at them! What’s their story?
How can they lie? How can they look me in the face and
say that God’s the creator when they don’t believe that
God created the body?
You know why they don’t believe that God created
the body? Cause they qualify the creativity. They stop
it above the kneecaps— and they don’t resume it till it
passes above the Adam’s apple. Thereby giving it lewd
connotation.

My concept? You can’t do anything with anybody’s

body to make it dirty to me. Six people, eight people,
one person— you can do only one thing to make it dirty:
kill it. Hiroshima was dirty. Chessman was dirty.

For years I’ve been buying Playboy, Nugget, Rogue,

Dude, Gent, all those other stroke books. I buy those
books for one reason: to look at the chicks, m an I
288
don’t need a Nelson Algren short story for rationaliza­
tion.

Last year Paul Malloy was hung up with Hugh Hefner,

the owner of Playboy magazine. The column went some­
thing like this. He said,
“Hugh Hefner, the publisher of Playboy magazine,
sent me an invitation to the Playboy Club. I
wouldn’t show my kids the pictures of the half-nude
bunnies that Hugh Hefner sent to my home.”
But this lady here is not obscene to me at all. And I
dam n anyone who will say that my mother’s body or
my daughter’s body or my sister’s body is dirty. No.
You tell me about this god of yours that made this
body— but then you qualify it. You tell little children
to cover up. You make it dirty. The dirty body. Well,
I ’m going to tell you something: this is the most decent-
looking chick I’ve seen since I’ve been in town.

You know, in the backs of those “Fun Shops” you’ll see

guys looking through racks and racks of pictures of
ladies’ nay-nays wrapped in cellophane. All those pic­
tures. Those guys looking through the racks there. One
eight-by-ten nude photostudy of a chick that’s held
together by an aluminum hymen— that staple that the
guy will try to peer around. Wonder why a guy spends
all that bread— two bucks, six bucks, eight bucks— to
look at ladies’ nay-nays? And some of these guys aren’t
satisfied with looking at the flicks, and will violate your
daughter in a vacant lot.
How is it— and the records are there for you to view
— that consistently, the sex-maniacs that violate your
daughters, murder them after they violate them? And
have good religious backgrounds, consistently. Is it a
little possible that these guys came from that kind of a
289
family where the father might have been that moralist
who went on public record to say,
“I wouldn’t show my kids any picture of any half­
nude tramps! No tramp runs around my house
naked!”
And everybody covers up and the kid goes
“Christ! What can that look like? How erotic can
it be? How erotic that my father’s such a nut with
that telling my sister to cover up— and she’s only
six years old—that he would go on public record
to make such an issue of it? Well, I’m gonna see
what that looks like some day, and if it’s as dirty
as my old man says it is, I’m gonna kill it.”
Give me your next sex maniac, and every time out I’ll
show you:
“We don’t understand! He had a good religious
background!”
I’m hip he did, man. Yeah. And he’s gonna pay the
dues for i t

Tramp tramp tramp. You know how you can spot

the real tramps in the Paul Malloy culture? Real tramps
have babies in the bellies and no rings on their fingers,
and they get their just desserts by bleeding to death in
the backs of taxicabs.
Tramp tramp tramp the boys are marching.

Now, if you were from a different culture you’d say,

“This guy Paul Malloy is a ‘Christian’? I wonder
what these Christians were like? Let’s see . . .
Christ— what’s his story?”
“Well, ah, if he was here the Russians would watch
their asses. He was pretty good with a bowie
knife. He’d start on the Russians, then he’d get
Castro and he’d punch him out.”
“That was his stick— violence and getting even.
290
 That’s what he’s noted for.”
Phew! What kind of a Christian is this guy Paul
Malloy? What kind of a Christian would say, “Are we
gonna forget that Hiss was a convicted criminal? Are we
gonna forget that Hiss did forty-four months in the
joint?” Certainly no good Christian would forget that.
Then he goes on. Now he’s talking about murderers:
Why Must We Coddle Our Killers? He says he’s not
against rehabilitation— if the guy spends the rest of his
life in jail.
Do you know why they took the prayers out of the
public schools? Not only don’t we forgive those who
trespass against us; but we stick a hot poker up their
ass so they never can forget it. We make them pay the
dues, dues, dues. These people take the most perverse
part of Christianity, and they make it a hate-you god, a
suffer-suffer god.
I’ll tell you who the real Christian of the year is—
Jimmy Hoffa. I mean that sincerely. Um hm. Jimmy
Holla is sure more of a Christian than Bobby Ken­
nedy. Why? Cause Jimmy Hoffa hired ex-convicts, as
Christ would have— I assume Christ would have hired
ex-convicts. Unless he’s that Paul Malloy Christ that
makes you suffer and repent.
“The only medicine that’s good for you is iodine,
cause it bums you, sinner. Keep douching with
CN, or lysol that hasn’t been diluted.”
Ouuuuhhh!

I tell you, when Jehovah does return, you know,

they’re going to look back at this whole generation and
say, “It’s just fiends, beasts!’’ That’s what we are.
Do you know that, well, let’s see, in about a half-hour,
some guy will be walking to his doom? How can we do
that? How can we have people in prison for thirty years?
Open the doors! It’s enough.
291
 There’s a clergyman, he’s willing to be the hangman
in Australia—no one else would do it. He couldn’t get
a brown suit, though. But rabbis and priests get seventy-
five bucks a throw. Could Christ walk with anybody in
Death Row?
“Yes, my son, you must be brave.”
Sure, schmuck— you’re splitting, he’s sitting.

No, I guess I’m pretty much of an atheist. Yeah. Believe

believe believe. I’d have to all the way believe. I can’t
half-way believe. So if Adam and Eve doesn’t make it,
the “it” starts to fall ap art And then I say, “What color
is god?”
“He’s yellow.”
“Oh, he’s not yellow, he’s black.”
He’s all gods. He’s black, yellow, green and blue.
That’s right. He’s a Maryjane god. He’s any kind of
god you want him to be, god, that’s what he is. He’s
an anthropomorphic god. He’s got eyes ears nose— he’s,
ah, black! He’s Kasavubu, Lumumba . . . but I know
that he’s yellow . . . he’s Jewish, black and yellow . . .
he’s, well, he’s part Irish, and Jewish, and black . . . he’s
a pumpkin god, he’s a halloween god, he’s a good sweet
loving god who’ll make me bum in hell for my sins and
blaspheming, he’s that kind of god, too. He’s a god you
can make deals with:
“God, I promise if you do this— gimme one
chance!— if you do this I’ll never do that again,
alright? I didn’t jerk off for a year, now. I ’ll be
good I’llbegoodl’llbegood. I’ll be good honest I’ll
be good I’llbegoodgod.”
And he’s a god that you can exploit and make work for
you, and get you respect in the community, and get St.
Jude working for you, and all those other Catholic
priests, Jewish— Eddie Cantor, putz-o exploiter, George
E. Jessel and Kiss-it-off Santas. Yeah. He’s a god that’ll
292
look at this culture and say, “Whew! What were they
doing, man? They’ve got people in prison for thirty-five
years!”
How can we be out here tonight, man? How can one
Pope go in or out, or president, knowing that that jam
has been on some guy for thirty-five years? That’s ter­
rible, man. Let him up, just a little bit. Let him out
one time. Because when that guy went to the joint
political conditions were different, economic conditions
were different—he wouldn’t have gone to the joint to­
day. Whew! Boy. There’s a guy who hasn’t been kissed
or hugged for thirty-five years. That’s really enough,
man.
Whew! All the things they’ve done in his name. Um
umm. That’s why he stuck around so long. Like any
commercial art form. . . .

Now I really honest-to-god feel that way— there’s never

from a moral sense, right or wrong. It’s just my right
and my wrong. That doesn’t make it empirical—not at
all.

Somebody told me that we’re using monkey glands on

people to rejuvenate them. Then somebody coming back
from Mexico told me that they’re using human glands.
Yes!
I said, “Well, where do they get them?”
Guy says, “From live people, people that are dying,
and, uh, it’s very expensive.”
So I said, “What does it cost?”
“About a thousand dollars.”
Oh yeah. A lot of people are dying, you know, the
hospitals:
“Oh yeah, he’s almost dead— that’s alright.”
Sure. You’re gonna see. When there’s more demand—
293
the first thing— the state insane asylums are going to
be emptied out, quick! All died very quickly.
See, our moral concept is. What’s accepted, what we
will agree upon. That’s what the moral concept is. If
we agree that killing a few will save the most, then it’ll
be O.K. So if it comes right down to it, if we want to
live a little longer— the sophisticated class, the gentry,
will cook with it first:
[whisper] “Listen, I know a place, ya go . . .”
And with the first government control, then they’ll have
the farms— raising people:
“That’s a good liver, good heart . . .”
You’ll accept it. When it comes right down to the you-
go-bye-bye:
“These people don’t know anything. They’re raised
for that purpose.”
“Yeah? You’re sure?”
“I’m telling you. They like that.”
“O.K. But I wanna paper saying that he gave it up,
ah . . . Oh I can’t take the guy’s liver and his
heart and his balls! A ll that stuff?”
"Sure. Are you kidding me? He’s better off without
it. He gets it the next time, don’t you know that?”

“It’s the work of the devil, to stick any chimpan­

zee’s kidney in your kidneys, to use dead men’s
eyes. If I’m cockeyed, I gotta big back, the Lord
meant it that way.”

The Romans, they said, “We are moral and we are right.
But we have one group that is against everything good.
They are called Christians. And we take them and throw
them to the lions. Because they deserve it, man. That’s
the only way to look at it, you know. Our legislature
believes this is correct and we throw them to the lions.”
294
Yeah, the Romans really had the Christians pegged—
they worked their asses off:
“Here we are in Rome. Now, before you come
around with your liberal horseshit about these
Christians and all their bullshit, get close to them
a little, will ya? Don’t listen to all this shit you read
in the newspapers, first look at the record. It speaks
for itself. We have fifteen gods in Rome, and we
paid for every one of them, and they belong to
us. They’re our gods. We got everything working
here, the Christians wanna come in, Johnny-come-
lately, and take it all away.
“Did you ever get close to one of these people?
I mean, soap and water don’t cost much, does it?
They dress in rags! They stink to high heaven! Half
of them are on welfare.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever talked to these
Christians—you people live up on the plateau
don’t know what it’s like. You get down here, and
get near them— they stink to high heaven. They all
got diseases. Every Christian’s got leprosy, and
they don’t believe in birth control— give them a
condom and they’ll knock you on your ass! They
got a million kids and no way to support.
“And you say to them, ‘Hey! Look at our gods.
We paid for them. Where’s your god?’
“Then you get some horseshit: ‘You can’t see
’em’— that’s all they will tell ya. They haven’t got
none, that’s all! They can’t afford none.
“How would you like it if the Christians set
up headquarters in Rome, hey? That’s why we
must segregate— with lions.”

Now, as rough as segregation gets, boy—lion-eating, for­

get it! You know, there’s a big difference between being
schlepped away from a lunch counter—yeah, I’d rather
295
be refused the right to service than be served as refuse,
anytime.

No right or wrong. My right, your wrong—but as far

as anything that you can graph it with, you know, it
keeps changing.
I weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. Today this is
right. Twenty years ago it was wrong— I was on the
bench in an ad, a guy was kicking sand in my face, POW!
“Hey skinny!”
Right? And a schtarker came along and grabbed my
chick, “C’mon baby, let’s get outta here.”
And I was left alone on the beach, with a beach ball.
It’s hard to ball a beach ball. The air keeps coming o u t

Now, the real hangup is that intellectual awareness does

you no good. That’s why I have no faith in analysis. Pills
are the answer: cured syphilis, it’ll cure schizos. And
the two big problems, alcoholism and narcotics, they
back off. So they have a very embarrassing record. I
think that Catholicism is as correct and cheaper and
has more drama involved. That catharsis scene. Because
understanding the problem doesn’t help you. Doesn’t
help me.
I understand that intellectually—that a woman that
sleeps with a different guy every week is a better Chris­
tian than the virgin. Because she has the capacity to
kiss and hug fifty guys a year. And that’s what that act
is— kissing and hugging. You can’t do it to anyone
you’re mad at. If you’re just a bit bugged with them,
you can’t make it.
So that chick who’s got that much love for all her
fellowman that she can make it with fifty guys a year—
that’s intellectually; but emotionally, I don’t want to
be the fifty-first guy. Cause I learned my lesson early,
296
man. The people told me, “This is the way it is, Virgin
is Good, Virgin is Good.” Yeah, that’s really weird.

This conflict, you know, like you talk to the average guy:
“Isn’t that a pretty chick?”
“Yeah, she’s beautiful.”
“What’s her beauty— to you?”
“Well, ah, she’s got a pretty face, nutty jugs . .
“Well, ah, would you marry a woman like that?”
“Of course.”
“You’d like her for your wife?”
“Sure!”
“Would you let your wife dress that way?”
“No no no!”
“Why not?”
“Cause she got her jugs stickin out, man.”
“What’d you dig her for in the first place?”
“Cause her jugs were stickin out.”
“But you don’t want her to dress that way.”
“No, no!”
So that’s where the conflict is— we want for a wife a
combination kindergarten teacher and a hooker.

We’re all taught a what-should-be culture. Which means,

a lot of bullshit. Emmis. Because instead of being taught,
This is what is— that’s a beautiful truth, what man
always has been— we’re taught the fantasy, man. But if
we were taught This Is What Is, I think we’d be less
screwed up.
You know, if we could just shape up, man, and
admit, the jails would start to empty out. If you would
admit that perhaps you’ve always loved yourself above
all, that you have sold your country out and will con­
tinually, that you are first, that you are above flag—
It’s— well, you see, the trouble with the Paul Malloy
culture, it teaches Cast the First Stone, consistently. You
297
see, you may know that you’re not the Good Man,
you’re maybe a little weak; but you know that the Good
Man does exist, and the part of Good that doesn’t relate
to you relates to that other guy.

Did you see those flicks in Time magazine? They had

three dirty pictures about that whole incident [Kennedy
assassination]. A guy got a medal for—what? For risk­
ing his life— that was part of the medal. The first picture
I saw, when she went out of the car, he shielded her,
protected her. But I believe the one real action that did
happen was that he did place her back in the car. I think
that was part of the medal.
Now in Time magazine I see some different captions.
Now the conclusion that I’ve formed was denied by Time
magazine, which said that she was going to get help.
Now, I challenge them: to which checkpoint would she
go? Where’s her experience? “Oh, yes, when he shot
I knew and I went right off the car to get help, so I
could bring back the help.” No. I think that’s bullshit.
Now, why did the guy get the medal? Certainly not
the last caption, that he’s being helped aboard. That’s
bullshit. Yeah.
Why this is a dirty picture to me, and offensive, is
because it sets up a lie, that she was going to get help,
and that she was helping him aboard. Because when
your daughters, if their husbands get shot, and they
haul ass to save their asses, they’ll feel shitty, and low,
because they’re not like that good Mrs. Kennedy who
stayed there. And fuck it, she didn’t stay there! That’s a
lie they keep telling people, to keep living up to bullshit
that never did exist. Because the people who believe
that bullshit are foremen of the juries that put you away.
And indict:
“Goddamn it, I ’d never sell my country out!”
“You ever been tested?”
298
I “No, but I’m just not the kind of guy that would.
I know it. I’d never sell my country out. Powers is
a fink. That’s why I’m gonna cast the first stone:
he’s no good. He’s a wrong guy, bad apple. If I
get on the jury. I ’ll burn his ass. And he’s going
away for a long time. That’s it, no bullshit. I’ve
got the secrets right here. I ’m a loyal American.
No, I’d never sell my country out.
“They got the other guy? They got his pants
down? But I don’t give a goddamn what they do to
him, I’d never sell—What’re they putting a funnel
in his ass for? Can’t put a funnel in his ass! Geneva
Conference! Tell ’em to take the funnel out—
they can’t do that . . . What’re they heating up
that lead for?
“You’re not getting these secrets from me! For­
get that with those tricks!
“They wouldn’t put hot lead into that funnel
that’s in that guy’s ass, now, would they? For a few
dumb secrets! Would they? Would they? . . .
they are . . . well, that’s ridiculous!
“Oh, the secrets? Surprise! Here they are, buddy.
I, ah, I mean, I got more secrets, too, you wouldn’t
even believe! These are bullshit secrets. I’ll make
up shit. I’ll give you the president and the White
House!
“I just don’t want to get hot lead in my ass,
that’s all. It’s just, ah— Fuck you! You take the
hot lead enema! Are you kidding? I just don’t like
hot lead in my ass, that’s all. Yeah. Had it once,
didn’t agree with me.
“We got a million secrets! What the hell’s six
hundred secrets, for Chrissakes?”
That’s it, Jim. Any of you people can take the hot
lead enema, then you can damn Powers, or that Peeping
299
Tom, or that tramp there. But until then, Jim, hab rod\
m um s, get off his back, have some pity, Jim.

This is a publication called Variety. For many years

Frank Sinatra has projected a very virile image. I’ve
always suspected this, but I’ve never gone into it. Now
Sinatra goes to be a producer. Albert Maltz is a screen­
writer. Now, you know the old American cliche: “If
you’ve paid for your crime, then no man can be tried
twice.” I’m sure everyone agrees with that. You pay
your dues, end.
Alright. Albert Maltz has been suspected of being a
com m unist. He pleaded the Fifth and got into a whole
tumler, and for this, he has been censured as far as
writing is concerned. Now I ’ll tell you now, I would
never plead any Fifth. Com m unism ? Forget it. It’s an
archaic form of government that never can work.
But Sinatra hired this guy to write “The Execution of
Private Slovak,” and then chickened out and bombed
o u t Dig. This is Sinatra:
“In view of the reaction of my family, my friends,
and the American public— ”
I don’t know what family he’s talking about, and I
don’t know what American public he’s talking about,
but he instructed his attorneys to make a settlement with
Albert Maltz and inform him that he will not write “The
Execution of Private Slovak.” And he goes on and on.
He says:
“But the American public has indicated it feels the
morality of hiring Albert Maltz is a more crucial
matter, and I will accept this majority.”
Well, I don’t know if you know it or not, but Lawford’s
old lady is Kennedy’s sister, and Kennedy, naturally,
probably was the moral factor, probably put a lot of
pressure— not directly: Joe Kennedy probably called
300
lup Cardinal Stritch, who in turn called Spellman, who in
[turn probably called C a rm ine DeSapio, who called Vito
[Genovese, and then to Sinatra, and bandam! You know?
But this time Sinatra had enough money to afford
some integrity. That’s what I feel. I feel that this is not
a man, a guy who h alls a m illion chicks and gets juiced
out of his kug.
You know who was a man? Christ was a man. I don’t
want that decadent, debauched picture for the American
public. I don’t want a swinger, I want a down person,
who’s concerned with issues, who would have the chutz­
pah to stand by Maltz: I hired him, later, man. Not have
the kohach to whack out some guy in the toilet in the
Riviera.

It’s like the faggots who were busted, deviates. They’re

schoolteachers. So the Hearst paper wants to know
how come, that these faggots— they’re convicted, but
now they’re teaching school again— how come the school
board didn’t chuck em off?
Well, there’s two schools of thought. One, perhaps,
that they’re good teachers, that’s why they’re still teach­
ing, and there’s been no incident reported yet where a
kid came home and said,
“Today in school I learned five minutes of geog­
raphy and ten minutes of cocksucking.”
Now, if you’re the parent that says, “Well, no, that’s
not the factor. Even though they paid their debt to so­
ciety, my child is in imminent danger of being attacked
by these people— after all, they have a record for this,
and who knows? In the heat of passion they may do it
again.”
Alright. If that’s the argument— “I was a Jew lived
in dread fear of Christian schoolteachers. They’re well-
known for their missionary ways. Who knows? In the
301
heat of passion they may pervert my child, stick a StJ
Christopher medal in his hand.” '

You see, I can always relate back to theology. Christ

forgave, and if you say you’re Christians, then you for­
give. And then Albert Maltz, Dalton Trumbo, Ring
Lardner Jr., who were Communist writers—And I be­
lieve in judicial law. If you break my law, I want you to
pay your dues. And they did, they did a year in the joint
in ’48; but that’s all— they spent their time.
Now if you want to keep stringing them out and not
forgive them, you’re pagans. But if you are pagans, I
don’t care, man, but just be consistent. Say, “We’re not
Christians, we’re gonna persecute an ex-con, we’re
gonna lean on the flag and the Bible, we’re gonna take
those writers tomorrow and put them up against the
wall and shoot them— ”
But Ronald Reagan has to pull the trigger. No one
else, my friend.
You believe in a law, solid. But once the cat pays his
dues, that’s enough. Let them alone, man.

That’s what everyone is always offended with, just

hypocrisy. That’s why you’ve never been bugged once
in your life by cannibals. Cause they never said they
were vegetarians. “We fress people, man, that’s our
stick.” And they were consistent with it. Yeah, so . . .

This poem was written by Thomas Merton, and, it’s

a groovy poem, and it really says a lot to me:
My name is Adolf Eichmann.
The Jews came every day
to vat they thought vould be
fun in the showers.
The mothers vere quite ingenious.
302
They vould take the children
and hide them in
bundles of clothing.
Ve found the children
scrubbed them,
put them in the chambers,
and sealed them in.
I vatched through the portholes
as they would doven and chant
“Hey, mein Liebe, heyyyy.”
Ve took off their clean Jewish love-rings,
removed their teeth and hair—
for strategic defense.
I made soap out of them,
I made soap out of all of them;
and they hung me,
in full view of the prison yard.
People say,
“Adolf Eichmann should have been hung!”
Hein.
Nein, if you recognize the whoredom
in all of you,
that you would have done the same,
if you dared know yourselves.
My defense?
I vas a soldier.
People laugh
“Ha ha! This is no defense,
that you are a soldier.”
This is trite.
I vas a soldier,
a good soldier.
I saw the end of a conscientious day’s effort.
I saw all the work that I did.
I, Adolf Eichmann,
vatched through the portholes.
303
I saw every Jew burned
und turned into soap.
Do you people think yourselves better
because you burned your enemies
at long distances
with missiles?
Without ever seeing what you’d done to them?
Hiroshima . . . A u f Wiedersehen . . .

* * *

304
 Chronicle
May, 1959, The New York Times
“The newest and in some ways most scarifyingly funny
proponent of significance . . . to be found in a night­
club these days is Lenny Bruce, a sort of abstract-ex­
pressionist stand-up comedian paid $1750 a week to
vent his outrage on the clientele. . .

June, 1960, The Reporter

“The question is how far Bruce will go in further ex­
posing his most enthusiastic audiences . . . to them­
selves. He has only begun to operate. . .

September 29, 1961: BUSTED FO R POSSESSION

OF NARCOTICS, Philadelphia.
October 4, 1961: BUSTED FO R OBSCENITY, Jazz
Workshop, San Francisco.
September, 1962: BANNED IN AUSTRALIA.
October 6, 1962: BUSTED FO R POSSESSION OF
NARCOTICS, Los Angeles.
October 24, 1962: BUSTED FO R OBSCENITY,
Troubador Theatre, Hollywood.
305
December, 1962: BUSTED FOR OBSCENITY, Gate
of Horn, Chicago.
January, 1963: BUSTED FOR POSSESSION OF
NARCOTICS, Los Angeles.
April, 1963: BARRED FROM ENTERING ENG­
LAND, London.

March, 1964, The New York Post

“Bruce stands up against all limitations on the flesh and
spirit, and someday they are going to crush him for it.”

April, 1964: BUSTED FO R OBSCENITY, Cafe Au

Go-Go, New York City.
October, 1965: DECLARED A LEGALLY BANK­
RUPT PAUPER, San Francisco.

November, 1965, Esquire

“I saw his act . . . in Chicago. . . . He looked nerv­
ous and shaky . . . wretched, broken. . . . Y o u
thought of Dorothy Parker, who, when she saw Scott
Fitzgerald’s sodden and too-youthful corpse, murmured,
‘The poor son of a bitch.’ ”

August 3, 1966; DEAD. Los Angeles.

306
 Epilogue

Lenny Bruce did not die of an O.D.; he was mur­

dered. Murdered by the same people and for the same
reasons protesters are getting their heads cracked open
in Oakland and New York and Milwaukee and Wash­
ington, D.C. and on college campuses— because Bruce’s
words and gestures said too clearly just what people are
saying now in words not so beautiful or piercing and
in gestures much more meaningful: that America pro­
poses Christian Love and Democratic Goodness, and dis­
penses death and hate and corruption and lies. And if
you say this too loudly in the USA, you’ll get a bust on
the head or a bust on some Big Lie, like the lie that
Bruce was “sick,” like the lie that he was obscene, like
the lie that he was an addict.
Bruce wouldn’t have liked that paragraph. Despite
his philosophy of facing up to “what is” instead of swal­
lowing the legends of “what should be,” he never faced
the ultimate truth of what is in America. He never faced
the facts of what is with the police, the government, the
courts and the judges that busted and murdered him. He
was afraid to— it’s hard to split completely from the
Biggest Daddy of them all, the Establishment. Bruce
couldn’t do that—he couldn’t even mouth the words to
approach that. He satirized anything else viciously and
307
beautifully— the whole spectrum of the lies and the hate
of America—but he never really laid into cops, courts
or the government. He picked at them occasionally—he
had to— after all, everything he was saying drove to
that point. But he could ndver really make the final
break. Instead, he apologized for the agents of his per­
secution.
But this doesn’t change where Bruce was at. And when
you know where Bruce was at, most of the stuff that’s
been written about him becomes, to say the least, irrele­
vant: the early, nasty attacks published in the same
m agazines and newspapers that later, after Bruce had
been silenced, turned around and praised him; the carp-
ings by those who couldn’t bring themselves to go all
the way for a crude, uneducated hipster; the soppy obit­
uaries and post-obituaries by journalists, newspapers and
m agazines that never helped Bruce at all when he was
alive. Bruce was a subtle and complex artist; but even
the smartest literary criticisms and peans for him are
irrelevant. Polishing trenchant phrases for elite reviews
to draw astonished gasps from ad m irers in the cultural
establishment isn’t where Bruce was at at all. Bruce
was an artist, but he was dedicated to what he was say­
ing, not the fact that he was saying it. So from where
he was at, Bruce didn’t like the Establishment’s self-
appreciating culture, even when it was saying how great
Lenny Bruce was. For him self, Bruce preferred jazzmen
and hipsters and people who were where he was at.
Bruce wasn’t an activist, but anyone who says that he
digs Bruce and prints it in the Times or Time or the
Examiner or the Star, anyone who says he digs Bruce
and goes to work for Dow Chemical or IBM or the
Peace Corps, doesn’t comprehend. The only people who
really dig Lenny Bruce are the people who are doing
the same th in g Bruce did— cutting loose, turning on,
turning away, trying to turn America around.
308
 Index of Bits

I. BLACKS

Are There Any Niggers Here Tonight?.................. 15

People Rem em ber..................................................... 16
You Wanna Make The Marches?............................. 16
Radio Free South..................................................... 19
How To Relax Colored People At Parties.............. 20
Do Negroes Really Screw Sisters?........................... 25
Was Tom McCann Uncle Tom ?............................... 25
Would You Want One Of Them To Marry
Your S iste r? .......................................................... 26
Racist Indians .......................................................... 27
The Defiant O n e s ..................................................... 28
Negro “Help” H e lp ................................................... 31
How The Negro Got Into Show Business................ 32
Songs........................................................................... 32

II. JEWS

Eichmann Got A Fair Trial...................................... 35

The Contemporary Shule.......................................... 35
Rose-o-shonah And Y om-ky-poor........................... 37
The Jews Want To Sit For Jehovah......................... 37
309
I Got This Tattoo In M alta...................................... 37
Jewish Momma ....................................................... 37
Andy Hardy’s M other.............................................. 38
Military School Jew-Boy.......................................... 39
We Killed Him, Signed, M orty............................... 40
Jewish And Goyish.................................................. 41
My Name Is Jewish................................................... 42
Can Christians Understand Jews?........................... 42
There’s Nothing Dirty In Yiddish........... ............... 43
Are Jews Pomographers?........................................ 44
The Jews Have Lost Their G od............................. 44
A Mezuzah Is A Jewish Chapstick........................ 46
Puerto Ricans Love Garbage................................... 46
Why Jews Are The Smartest People In The World 46
A Schika Is A G o y ................................................... 47
Why Ruby Did I t ....................................................... 47
How Jews And Italians Split................................... 48
What Chutzpah M eans............................................ 49
How The Jews Got Into Show Business.................. 50

m . RELIGIONS INC.; CATHOLICISM ,'-—

CHRIST & MOSES; AND TH E LONE RANGER

Confessions................................................................ 52
Do Sinners Confess The Truth?............................... 53
Catholicism Is Like Howard Johnson’s .................. 54
Catholicism Teaches What Should B e.................... 55
The P o p e ..................... 55
The Pope Sees My Show.......................................... 56
The Pope Defends M e.............................................. 57
Christ & Moses R eturn............................................ 58
Religions Inc............................................................... 61
Religions Inc. Revisited............................................ 67
310
The Crucifixion...................... . . . ............................ 68
I’m Dying For Your Sins.......................................... 69
The Lone R a n g e r..................................................... 70
T ie Only Anonymous G iv e r.................................... 75

IV. POLITICS

I Have No Illusions................................................... 76
Politics Is Like Two Syndicates............................... 76
That’s The White House W ord................................. 78
Lyndon Johnson Never Had A Chance.................. 79
L iberals...................................................................... 79
LBJ Teaming To Say Negro.................................... 79
Governor Faubus’ Daughter M arries...................... 80
George Lincoln Rockw ell........................................ 81
Ross Barnett, LBJ, And Stevenson........................ 82
Norman T hom as....................................................... 82
Capitalism Is Best..................................................... 85
The Competitive System .......................................... 86
The Russians Blew I t ..................................... 86
We Are A Second-Rate Power................................. 86
HUAC ...................................................................... 87
G oldw ater.................................................................. 87
The Presidency Is A Young Man’s Gig.................. 89
Kennedy For P resident............................................ 89
E isenhow er................................................................ 90
The Kennedys In The White House........................ 91
I ’m Grateful For Nixon............................................ 91
Nixon Is A Megalomaniac................... 92
Ike, Dick And Sherm................................................. 92
The Bomb And The Button...................................... 95
B om bshelters............................................................ 96
C a s tro ................................................................. 96
311
 V. TH E SOUTHERN SOUND 97

VI. ON PERFORMING AND THE

ART OF COMEDY

The Little Theatre Off Times Square...................... 101

How I W o rk ............................................................... 101
On B i t s ........................................................................ 102
I Created The English Language............................. 102
Comedian At The Palladium.............................. .. 103
Good And Bad Audiences; Ringside;
“Look At Me, Ma!” ................................................... 110
Today’s Comedian Has A Cross To B ear................. I l l
To Thine Own Self Be T rue..................................... I l l
The Only Honest Art F orm ...................................... 112
My Kind Of Comedy................................................. 112
Audience Participation............................................ 112
Saturday Night A udiences....................................... 113
Different Kinds Of Audiences................................... 113
I F o r g o t...................................................................... 113
Early Gangster And Being Close To The Audience. 114
Celebrity Killing Service, A Theory Of S atire.. . . 114
Audience V iolence................................................... 116
I Am A Satirist Basically............................................ 117
Ah, He’s Disgusting!.................................................. 117
Good T a s te ................................................................ 118
What Is C om edy?...................................................... 118
When People Walk O u t ........................................... 118
Grey Line T o u re rs ................................................... 119
Working M ilw aukee.................................................. 119
Lima, O h io ................................................................ 125
I Have A Pen Name, And I Have Never
Been A rrested ................................................ .... 131
Press N otices............................................................. 131
312
T im e M agazine........... . . ............................................ 132
Sick H u m o r ............................................................. 132
MCA— Or, How Hitler Was Chosen D ictator.. . . 133
Fatboy, Automobile S alesm an............................... 139
Sophie Tucker Was A N ym pho............................... 142
Florence Z e lk ........................................................... 143
Cafe Performers’ Tribunal . . - ............................— 145

VII. PILLS AND SHIT: TH E DRUG SCENE

On Pot And Alcohol And P leasure..................... 147

Pot Leads To H e ro in .............................................. 148
Pot Will Be Legal In Ten Years............................... 149
Don’t S m oke.............................................................. 149
Post R ev iew .............................................................. 149
The War Against Ju n k ie s........................................ 149
Only Four Junkies R em ain ...................................... 150
Dangerous D ru g s ..................................................... 152
Zig-Zag Papers and H U A C ...................................... 153
Alfie’s, Open 24 H o u rs ............................................ 153
Sniffing Glue: The Louis Pasteur Of Junkiedom .. 155
Paul Cotes’ Confidential F i l e ................................. 156
Morphine Suppositories.......................................... 156
I Take It In The Suppository F o r m ...................... 157
The Benzedrex In h a le r............................................ 157
I Was A Teen-age Reefer-Smoking Pregnant
Yortsite C an d le............................. 158

V in . FANTASIES, FLICKS & SKETCHES

FBI Agent-Cafe Entertainer Musical...................... 160

Dracula ............................. 172
313
Monster F i l m ............................................................ 176
A Film That Will Be Out S o o n ............................... 179
Prison B re a k !............................................................ 179
Lost H orizons............................................................ 183
John Graham And The Airplane Explosion. . . . . . 184

IX. BALLING, CHICKS, FAGS,

DIKES & DIVORCE

“Those Girls!” .......................................................... 191

How To Make O u t ................................................... 192
You’re Not A Real T o re a d o r................................. 193
Guys Are C a rn a l....................................................... 193
Never Cop O u t ......................................................... 195
No Guy Ever Leaves A C h ic k ................................. 196
When You Should Break U p .................................... 197
When You’ve Broken U p ........... .............................. 197
Divorced C h ick s....................................................... 198
Custody, Or, My Wife’s A T r a m p ......................... 199
Balloons ..................................................................... 201
When You Go Back T o g e th er............................... 202
Getting Married A g a in ............................................. 204
Chicks Are B o s s ....................................................... 205
Touch It O n c e .......................................................... 205
Hey, Fix Me Up With That G irl!............................. 207
Strange C h ic k s.......................................................... 208
The F lashers.............................................................. 209
Paul Newman Exposing H im self............................. 211
Airplane E xhibitionist............................................. 211
The Transvestite From Texas And M e .....................212
Goering Was A Transvestite.................................... 213
Entrapping F a g s .......................................................... 213
My Generation Is Hung Up On F aggotry................ 214
Old Jewish Mothers With Fag S o n s......................... 214
314
Fags And Dikes ................................ • -il(J
Dikes’ll Really Punch You O u t ..................................216
I Like D ik e s ................... 217
-------------- Is A F a g . . ................... 217
We’re All W h o res.......................... 218
Hookers And Prostitutes........... -........................• • • 219
Hookers Aren’t G ratifying..................................... 219
Chicks Don’t Turn Me On Any M o re .................... 220
P lanned Parenthood d o c k ........................................ 220
Over Forty-five P e o p le ............................................ 221
Goyisha Punim vs. Jewish C hicks......... ............ 221

X. THE DIRTY-WORD CONCEPT

I’m Going To Piss On Y o u ...................................... 222

Bad Early Toilet T raining..................................... 222
How Dirty Is My T oilet?.............................................— 223
Snot ............................................ 224
Whoopee-Cushion H um or....................................... 226
Hotel-Motel-Trailer ................................................ 227
The d a p .................................................................. 228
How We Have Screwed The C o u n try .................... 230
You Don’t Love Me, You Just Want To Ball M e .. 231
Their Son Has The Clap— Where Can He Go?. . . 231
Anne Landers ......................................................... 232
It’s Tough To Stop The Inform ation.................... 233
The Daughter That You Kill In The Back Of
A T axicab ............................................................. 233
Isn’t That The Nicest Time? Or Is Balling
Just B alling?....................................................... 234
Stag Movies And P sy c h o ........................................ 234
Giving It Up For The L ord.......................... 235
315
Tits And A s s ............................................................ 236!
How The Titties W o rk ............................................ 2381
Eleanor Roosevelt Had Nice T i t s ........................... 239
That’s What I Got Busted F o r ............................... 239

XI. OBSCENITY BUSTS AND TRIALS

Arrest R e p o rts ......................................................... 241

San Francisco B u s t....................................... 245
San Francisco T r ia l................................................... 247
Blah-Blah-Blah................................................. 247
Entrapping The lu d g e ...................................... 248
To C o m e............................................................ 250
A Homy H o a x ......................................................... 254
Picking The lury (San Francisco) ........................ 254
Those Words Are Now Liberated From Shame. . . 256
Arrest Report—Yiddish O bscenity........................ 256
The Yiddish Undercover A g e n t............................. 257
S c h m u c k .................................................................... 257
San Francisco Bust A g a in .................................
New York Trial, Or,
“See You Later, Motherfucker” ............... 259

XH. BUSTS II: CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES

What’s The Opposite Of P aranoia?......................... 263

Paranoids Are R ig h t................................................. 263
You May Wonder What H appened......................... 264
I’m Just So W eary..................................................... 265
Captain McDermott Came In H e r e ......................... 265
316
fThe Whole Audience Gets Schlepped I n ................ 266
What I Really Got Busted F o r ............................... 266
I Picked On The Wrong G o d ................................. 266
You Arrested M e ........................................................267
Never Any S ham e..................................................... 267
Here’s How It E n d s ................................................. 267

XIII. SPOTTING HEAT, AND UNDER­

STANDING JUDGES AND LAWYERS

Last Night I Pinned The H e a t............................ 268

How Do I Know H e a t? ............................................ 268
Cops Are Second-Class C itizens............................. 269
It’s Sort Of Masquerade T im e ............................... 269
The Judge’s W o rld ................................................... 269
The Heat’s W o rld ..................................................... 270
Police Brutality Is A L i e .......................................... 271
The Lower Court’s C o n cern .................................... 272
Notes That Got Me C ontem pt.................................... 272
What An Attorney Goes T h ro u g h ........................ 272
Ruby, You’re Gonna Ride The Lightning................ 273

XIV. TH E LAW

How It Started: Eat, Sleep, And C rap............... 274

Everybody’s Ass Is Up For G rabs........................... 277
Illegal Search And S eizu re...................................... 278
The Crime Rate Had D isappeared......................... 279
The Law Is A Beautiful T h in g ............................... 280
317
 XV. WHAT IS OBSCENE?

Why I Started Getting In T ro u b le ........................... 281

What Is O bscene?..................................................... 282
The L o v e r s ................................................................ 283
The Catholic Definition............................................. 283
Dirty Screwing And Fancy Screw ing...................... 284
The Law Is To Protect L a d ie s................................. 285
Why We Left E n g la n d ............................................. 285
The Poetic License Of T h e a tre ............................... 286

XVI. THE GOOD-GOOD CULTURE

This Is An Indecent W om an?................................. 287

The Fault Lies With The M anufacturer.....................287
If I Could Be That Roman Chriswell..................... 287
They Qualify The C reativity................................... 288
My Concept? ............................................................ 288
For Years I’ve Been Buying P la yb o y.................... 288
Paul Malloy Was Hung Up With Hugh Hefner . .T~289'
Ladies’ Nay-Nays Wrapped In C ellophane........... 289
Tramp Tramp T ra m p .............................................. 290
This Guy Paul Malloy Is A C hristian?................ 290
The Christian Of The Y e a r ...................................... 291
Could Christ Walk Down Death R o w ? .....................291
What Color Is G o d ? ................................................. 292
There’s Never A Right Or W ro n g ........................... 293
Monkey G la n d s ....................................................... 293
The Romans Had The Christians P egged ............. 294
It’s Hard To Ball A Beach B a ll............................... 296
Virgin Is G o o d ......................................................... 296
Would You Let Your Wife Dress That Way?......... 297
318
The What-Should-Be Culture ..............................— 297
Hauling Ass To Save Your Ass:
The Assassination Of J F K .......................... — 298
Selling Out Your Country, Or,
The Hot Lead E n e m a ............................ 298
Frank Sinatra And Albert M a ltz ............................. 300
Five Minutes Of Geography And Ten Minutes
Of C ocksucking................................................... 301
Christ Forgave, And If You Say You’re
Christians— .............................................. 302
Adolf E ichm ann.............. 302

319