Saturday, July 01, 2006

Chris King Pop Icon's Greatest Hits

This one from the "cocksucking and killing" line of jokes. (I maintain that the two essential elements of post-9/11 comedy are cocksucking and killing; they describe everything that's happening in the world.)

Originally delivered about six months ago:


[Visualize me seated at a grand piano on stage, with patriotic bunting all 'round, me dressed with a bow tie, doing my political commentary.]

TV commercial opens with a voiceover: "You, too, can own this special collection of Chris King Pop Icon's Greatest Hits."

[Shot of me with a Donnie Darko look on my face, fists banging down on the keys in some discordant train wreck. The most perfect manifestation of collective American derangement, I sing:]

"George. Bush. sucks. cocks. and. takes-it in-the-ass!"

"I. am. in-sane; can't-get-down. with-your-bullshit!" [I grin at the camera with a "Mommy, mommy, look at me!" kind of expression on my face. I had long since lost the ability to get down with my host society's madness, so I took it up myself. "I can play the piano!"]

[Scene transitions to me at another performance. Still wearing the bow tie. Different shirt, though. Standing at the piano this time, my feet are dancing, playing is skilled and professional, some kind of ragtime number or whatever:]

"Camptown races sing that song. Doo dah, doo dah."

"I am so. gonna get killed, all the live-long day, hey!" [I hurry to the side of the piano and take a gracious bow as if I had just concluded an hour-long concerto. I smile triumphantly and wait patiently for applause which I will not get.]

[Transitions to another number, another performance, dark and foreboding notes, single stabbed notes that are allowed to hang in the air until they rot:]

"I. am. iron. man!"

"Bair, nair, nair, nair, nair,
dunna nunna nunna nunna nuh nuh nuh!"

"Born in a. mag-net-ic field! He is gon-na kick your ass-es!"

[Shot of a nonplussed audience. They smile nervously. Commercial ends with ordering information for this limited-time offer. Nineteen ninety-five, plus shipping and handling.]