The Filthiest Hour

Ohhh, sit your filthy asses DOWN — Sacramento, welcome to THE FILTHIEST HOUR!(big cheer)

Tonight ain't a show, it's a HEIST. We're stealin' a world record, motherfuckers — the most cuss words ever crammed into one damn comedy special.(crowd ohhh)

Some funnyman did two hundred thirty "fucks" in a red leather suit one night and became a legend. Tonight I'm goin' for damn near two THOUSAND — in my house slippers — and I brought receipts.(roaring laugh)

But hear me — this ain't just screamin'. Any drunk prick can yell "fuck" for two hours; that's a Tuesday in my driveway. We're doin' this with CRAFT. With stories. With filthy fuckin' poetry.(airhorn)

Rule one, and write it down, you degenerates — a cuss word is the exclamation point, not the whole damn sentence. Every "motherfucker" tonight is gonna be EARNED.(crowd ohhh)

'Cause look at your host — fifty years old, I scrub strangers' shitters for a livin', I've been broke, carjacked, dumped, and mocked, and I built this whole filthy empire talkin' to a computer at 3 a.m. That's not a résumé, that's a WAR STORY.(big cheer)

So here's the deal for the next two hours — I'm gonna take you through my whole beautiful disaster of a life, and we're gonna count every filthy word on the way to the record.(laugh)

Let me warm the engine. Fuck. Shit. Prick. Bastard. Asshole. Dickhead. Cocksucker. Bitch. Dumbass. Dipshit. Scumbag. Motherfucker. Twelve cold, no stretch — and the clock just STARTED, you filthy animals.(crowd ohhh)(roaring laugh)

Somebody in the back already clutchin' their pearls — relax, sweetheart, you paid to be offended, so sit there and get your damn money's worth.(laugh)

This the only room on earth where the professor's got a dirtier mouth than every student combined — and tonight, class, we make HISTORY.(big cheer)

They call my story Colors of My Pain. Well tonight, you filthy animals, you get the FILTHY version — every laugh's got a scar under it, and every damn scar's got a punchline. THAT'S the whole fuckin' formula.(crowd ohhh)

Two hours. One filthy mouth. One record. Let's go break the damn thing. Buckle up, you beautiful motherfuckers.(roaring laugh)

Eight years old, motherfuckers. EIGHT. Couldn't spell "Wednesday," but I had a wad of cash so fat it gave my little corduroys a fuckin' limp.(roaring laugh)

Hundreds. Fifties. Twenties. Rubber-banded like a tiny-ass cartel. Where'd an eight-year-old get that shit? Hey — first rule of second-grade money: you don't ask where the fuck it came from, you nosy fucks.(laugh)

Other kids had a piggy bank. I had a fuckin' PORTFOLIO. My piggy bank saw my wad and shit itself. That pig knew it was fuckin' decorative. Ceramic freeloadin' son of a bitch.(roaring laugh)

I'd peel off a hundred at the candy store like a knee-high fuckin' mob boss. "Break this shit, sweetheart. And keep the fuckin' Whoppers comin', or you and me got a fuckin' problem."(big cheer)

Candy store man saw me walk in and stood up STRAIGHT. Grown-ass man, forty damn years old, fixin' his apron for a third-grader. That ain't customer service — that's fuckin' FEAR with a name tag, you sugar-slingin' son of a bitch.(applause)

He'd go "the usual?" THE USUAL. I'm eight, and I got a fuckin' usual! You know who else has a usual? Alcoholics and hitmen. THAT'S the shelf they kept my little ass on, motherfucker.(laugh)

I bought candy by WEIGHT, motherfucker. Not a piece. Not a bag. Weight. "Gimme a pound of the gummy shit. The GOOD gummy shit — not that stale-ass back-shelf bullshit you push on the fuckin' amateurs."(roaring laugh)

I had a strip-club budget and an 8pm bedtime. Most dangerous fuckin' financial profile in America. All that cash, and my whole damn world closed at dark. Scariest rich motherfucker alive — till somebody yelled "bath time" and the whole shit shut down.(crowd ohhh)

You ever seen a kid tip? I fuckin' TIPPED. Slid the man a five like, "That's for you — get your shit together." He OWNED the store. I was tippin' the fuckin' OWNER. Eight, and already an arrogant little prick.(roaring laugh)

Kids came to ME for loans. Little bastards lined up at recess like a raggedy-ass little bank. "Talk to me. What d'you need? And don't bullshit me on my own fuckin' swing set."(laugh)

Tommy needed fifty cents for a Push Pop. Gave him a dollar: "Bring me back two fuckin' Push Pops. Compound that shit." That ain't friendship — that's INTEREST, bitch. Eight years old, inventin' predatory-ass finance in Velcro shoes.(big cheer)

I had a guy. Eight years old and I had a fuckin' GUY. Kid named Marcus held my spare twenties in his sock. My money had EMPLOYEES, motherfucker. Sweaty-ass sock money — hey, the damn empire don't smell itself.(roaring laugh)

Meanwhile my report card said "does not apply himself." Does not apply him-SELF?! I was runnin' a whole damn underground fuckin' economy off a Huffy, you chalk-dusted motherfuckers! Check my shit for a gold star, Linda!(applause)

Teacher asked what I wanna be when I grow up. I said "richer." She called my damn house. For WHAT, lady? I out-earned your ass that week — go audit the fuckin' sock.(laugh)

Show-and-tell? I brought the wad. Just the wad. Set it on the damn desk like "Any questions?" Twenty-six kids lost their whole fuckin' minds. Bobby brought a rock. A fuckin' ROCK. Sit your broke pebble-ass down, Bobby.(big cheer)

The candy store was my club. My fuckin' Vegas. I'd post up by the jawbreakers like a little pit boss watchin' my shit. "Danny. They let YOUR broke ass back in here? Un-fuckin'-believable."(laugh)

I bought FRIENDS and I ain't ashamed of shit. Best damn friendship money can buy is a kid you pay in Fun Dip. That little fucker took a DODGEBALL to the face for me. Fun Dip loyalty is real, bitch — bodyguards cost candy.(roaring laugh)

Halloween? I didn't trick-or-treat. Why the fuck would I beg door-to-door for shit I owned WHOLESALE? I stayed home handin' out full-size fuckin' bars like a legend. Eight years old, flexin' on grown-ass adults in costumes.(applause)

The ice cream man CIRCLED BACK for me. You hear me? That fuckin' truck did a full illegal-ass U-turn, 'cause there was one whale on the whole damn block — and that whale wore Velcro shoes and kept fifty fuckin' dollars in his sock.(roaring laugh)

I never checked a damn price in my life. Eight years old goin' "all of it, whatever the fuck it costs, sweetheart" — then I turned nine, and I never felt that rich again. Not fuckin' ONCE. That shit haunts me.(crowd ohhh)

Best days of my whole shitty beautiful life. Sun out, pockets heavy as hell, teeth rottin' at a pace dentists called "fuckin' ambitious." I was untouchable — a juice-box Rockefeller, a playground Scarface, a snack-cake motherfuckin' KING with a bedtime.(big cheer)

And then... the empire got shut down. Not by cops. Not by the fuckin' Feds. By a MOM. One mom doin' one load of damn laundry. Every empire in history — Rome, the mob, all that shit — falls the exact same way: somebody's mom checks the fuckin' pockets.(crowd ohhh)

She held the damn wad up like "What. Is. This." Ma'am, that is a market fuckin' economy — put it DOWN, you're scarin' the shit outta my assets! This is a hostile-ass takeover!(roaring laugh)

I couldn't even lie right. She said "where'd you get this?" and my dumb ass said "candy sales." I didn't SELL candy, I BOUGHT candy! Worst fuckin' cover story in the whole damn history of shitty cover stories. Al Capone I was not.(laugh)

No lawyer. No hearin'. No due process for an eight-year-old — that's the fucked-up part! She confiscated the whole damn treasury and gave me an ALLOWANCE. A fuckin' allowance. I went from cartel to coupons over-fuckin'-night.(crowd ohhh)

A dollar a week. A DOLLAR. Marcus still had my twenty in his sock, so my own damn employee out-fuckin'-earned me by Tuesday. Sock-fund motherfucker retired at nine off MY money. That shit HUMBLED me.(roaring laugh)

Walked back into the candy store a broke-ass civilian. Man said "the usual?" and I said "...just one Lemonhead, please." ONE. Singular. Then Bobby offered me half his rock. CHARITY, motherfucker. From the fuckin' ROCK kid.(crowd ohhh)

But that eight-year-old had it RIGHT, man. Pockets full, heart full, zero fuckin' bills, candy by the damn pound. I've spent forty years chasin' that little bastard's lifestyle — and he's still the richest motherfucker I ever met.(big cheer)

Now the candy store — that was just the FRONT, you filthy animals. The candy was the distraction. The real fuckin' money? LOANS. I was a loan shark in a Velcro shoe.(big cheer)

Eight years old, clipboard, a rubber band around a fat wad of cash, walkin' the playground like a tiny mobbed-up motherfucker. "You need five bucks till Friday? No problem, sweetheart. It's SEVEN bucks on Friday."(roaring laugh)

That's called INTEREST, you dumb bastards. I didn't learn that shit in school — I invented it at recess, between the swings and the fuckin' wood chips.(crowd ohhh)

And every one of 'em paid the vig. Kids, teachers, the damn crossing guard. "Mr. Jesse, can you spot me a ten?" Sure can, motherfucker — it's a fifteen tomorrow, and I know where your little ass lives.(roaring laugh)

Even my own FAMILY borrowed from me. My own damn blood, comin' to an eight-year-old with their hand out. And did I charge 'em interest? Oh, you're DAMN right I did. No exceptions, no discounts, no "but we're family" bullshit. Family pays the vig FIRST, motherfuckers.(airhorn)

And THAT'S when it all went to shit — 'cause my parents got PISSED. Not that their kid was runnin' a loan racket at eight, hell no. They got mad I charged THEM interest.(crowd ohhh)

You raise a kid to believe money is every fuckin' thing, then act shocked when the little bastard's actually GOOD at it? That's like teachin' a shark to swim and gettin' pissed when it eats the damn mailman.(roaring laugh)

So my mom shut the whole empire DOWN. Raided the operation, confiscated my wad, froze my ass out. The Feds showed up, motherfuckers — and the Feds were wearin' an apron.(laugh)

But you can't kill a hustler — you can only make the bastard PIVOT. Candy store's dead? Fine. I became... THE HOUSE.(big cheer)

Blackjack. Cards. Dice behind the handball wall. One rule, ironclad — we ONLY play for money. I'm not out here winnin' Pokémon cards, you filthy children. Cash on the table or don't sit your ass the fuck down.(roaring laugh)

I was a child bookie. A pre-pubescent damn casino. Other kids had a paper route — I had a POINT SPREAD. And I cleaned the fuck up, every single day, all the way to sixteen.(crowd ohhh)

'Cause the house ALWAYS wins, motherfuckers. The house always wins... ...right up until the dumb house gets a FAKE ID and drives its ass to Reno.(airhorn)

Oh yeah. Sixteen years old, a laminated lie in my pocket, thinkin' I'm about to break the whole damn state of Nevada wide open.(big cheer)

And Reno looked at this cocky little bastard, cracked its knuckles, and took EVERYTHING. My cash, my dignity, my fake-ass confidence — all of it, gone. I walked in a kingpin and walked out with bus fare and a hard fuckin' lesson.(roaring laugh)

Turns out the house always wins — UNLESS the house is a broke-ass teenager who believes his own hype. Then the house gets its cheeks CLAPPED, motherfuckers.(crowd ohhh)

And where'd I get all this shit? The hustle, the cards, the "just one more hand"? My damn blood. My parents gambled. My GRANDMOTHER gambled — sweet little old lady, rosary in one hand, scratchers in the other, cussin' at a slot machine like it owed her ass child support.(roaring laugh)

It's a genetic condition, folks. We don't inherit good teeth in my family — we inherit BAD FUCKIN' BETS. Skips no generations, takes no damn prisoners.(airhorn)

That's the Colors of My Pain right there — I was chasin' a jackpot at eight 'cause deep down I figured if I just had ENOUGH, somebody'd finally let me stay. Turns out you can't win your way into bein' wanted, motherfuckers.(crowd ohhh)

But you CAN turn it into a filthy-ass bit and make a room full of strangers laugh till they cry — and THAT, you beautiful degenerates, is the only bet I ever fuckin' won.(big cheer)

So at sixteen, I went LEGIT, you filthy animals. Got myself a real damn job — I sold VITAMINS. Multi-level marketing, baby. Nineteen ninety-three. The family fuckin' business.(big cheer)

If you don't know what multi-level marketing is — it's a pyramid, but everybody at the bottom swears on their ass it's a triangle. "It's not a scheme, it's an OPPORTUNITY." Motherfucker, it's my aunt sellin' fish oil to a damn bus stop.(roaring laugh)

But I was fuckin' GOOD at it — 'cause I'd been runnin' a loan racket since I was eight, so recruitin' a downline was the same damn hustle with better pamphlets.(crowd ohhh)

Nineteen ninety-five, I sign up as a distributor, and I break the DAMN company record. Youngest Sales Director in the whole history of the operation. And where do these motherfuckers crown me? Las fuckin' Vegas.(airhorn)

Picture it — I'm a teenage tycoon movin' more product than grown-ass adults, and I can't legally do a single fuckin' thing in that city. Can't gamble, can't drink, can't get in the club. A kingpin with a damn curfew.(roaring laugh)

I'm standin' at a slot machine like "somebody hold my juice box, I got a business meeting, motherfucker." Broke a national record and the security guard's askin' for my fuckin' hall pass.(crowd ohhh)

Now here's where it gets filthy, and I swear on my life this shit is TRUE. The night before my big ceremony — the night these people are gonna crown my ass — I got HIGH.(big cheer)

Not with my buddies, motherfuckers. With my MOM. And my upline. All of us in a Vegas hotel room, passin' a joint around like it's the damn family car keys.(roaring laugh)

My upline's takin' a hit goin' "you EARNED this, kid," and I'm sixteen, cross-eyed as hell, watchin' my own mother giggle at the fuckin' ceiling. That's a bonding experience they do NOT put in the sales manual.(airhorn)

So the next mornin' — the big ceremony, my name, my trophy, the record — I fuckin' MISSED it. Slept through the whole damn thing. Baked into a full-on motherfuckin' coma.(roaring laugh)

Broke a national sales record and was too stoned to walk across a stage and PICK UP the award. The one damn time in my life I earned the spotlight, and I was face-down in a Circus Circus pillow, motherfuckers.(crowd ohhh)

And where's my mom while I'm missin' my crownin' achievement? DOWNSTAIRS. At the tables. Gamblin' away every damn dollar that vitamin money made.(laugh)

My whole family's a business plan and a cautionary tale STAPLED together, motherfuckers. We'll break a record and lose the winnings before the ice melts in the damn drink.(roaring laugh)

And you'd think I'd be bitter as hell about it — the missed trophy, the blown money, the whole beautiful fuckin' disaster.(crowd ohhh)

But here's the truth, you filthy degenerates — that was the LAST great memory I got of my family. Gettin' high with my mom in a Vegas hotel, dead broke by sunrise, laughin' at absolutely nothin'.(big cheer)

That's the Colors of My Pain, motherfuckers — the best night and the dumbest fuckin' decision were the exact same night. And I'd trade every trophy I ever missed to sit in that smoky-ass room one more time.(crowd ohhh)

So light one up for the record I never picked up — 'cause I finally figured out the prize was never the damn trophy. It was the people too fucked up to hand it to me.(big cheer)

Now let me tell you about the wildest full circle in my whole damn life. When I was a little kid, I had a crush on my third-grade teacher — a gorgeous blonde, blue eyes, the kind of pretty that makes a whole damn class of eight-year-olds suddenly give a shit about fractions, motherfuckers.(big cheer)

Difference is, MY crush came with a payment plan — I was the little bastard runnin' the loan racket in the back of her class. She's teachin' fractions, I'm chargin' interest, motherfuckers. We were both in finance.(roaring laugh)

Now fast-forward TWENTY damn years. We're both grown adults, life throws us back together — and I roll up to take her out in a brand-new nineteen ninety-five FIREBIRD. T-tops off, you filthy animals.(airhorn)

You hear me? The little kid who used to daydream in the third row pulls up two decades later like a low-budget action hero, T-tops off, engine growlin'. Life's a circle, motherfuckers, and mine's got a damn spoiler on the back.(crowd ohhh)

But here's where it gets STUPID. She wasn't just my girl — she was my DISTRIBUTOR. Sellin' vitamins under me. Our first dates were half romance, half fuckin' sales meeting.(roaring laugh)

"You look beautiful tonight... and you're two bottles short of your monthly quota, sweetheart." That's foreplay in multi-level marketing, you filthy bastards.(big cheer)

Now technically, sleepin' with your own distributors was a big damn NO-NO. Against company policy, motherfuckers. I violated that policy like it was my full-time fuckin' job.(roaring laugh)

And I ain't braggin', I'm CONFESSIN' — I was twenty-two years old and it was comin' at me from every damn direction. Everywhere, anytime, all the damn time. I couldn't hand out a protein sample without somebody's number fallin' outta the shaker.(airhorn)

And it gets FILTHIER — her EX-HUSBAND? Also in my downline. Buyin' vitamins. From ME, motherfuckers.(crowd ohhh)

So picture this shit — I'm dating the woman AND collectin' a fat commission every month off her ex-husband's fish oil auto-ship. I was gettin' PAID by the damn competition.(roaring laugh)

My love life and my business were the exact same damn spreadsheet. I'm the only son of a bitch alive whose relationship had a monthly re-order and a customer service line.(airhorn)

"Honey, I love you — please hold, your call is important to me." That poor bastard's protein powder paid for our dinner. Cheers, buddy, you magnificent fuckin' sponsor.(roaring laugh)

But the crown jewel — the moment I'll take to my damn grave. It's MIDNIGHT. Firebird top off. That gorgeous blonde ridin' shotgun in a bikini. And I'm drivin' her home right through my old neighborhood.(big cheer)

And all my boys are out on the block — and they fuckin' SEE me. Young as hell, in that damn machine, that half-naked gorgeous woman ridin' shotgun next to me at midnight.(crowd ohhh)

And I swear to you, in that exact second I thought — "You motherfuckers are NEVER gonna forget this. NEVER." And they fuckin' didn't.(roaring laugh)

That's the difference between braggin' and TRUTH, you degenerates — I had WITNESSES. A whole block of 'em. You can't argue with a bikini, a Firebird, and a jury of your own damn friends.(airhorn)

And now? ...it's slowed down a little, folks. I won't lie to you. These days the only thing gettin' thrown at me is a mop and a seven-hundred-dollar toilet.(roaring laugh)

But for one shinin', Firebird-drivin', top-off, midnight motherfuckin' MOMENT — I was the KING of the whole damn block. And nobody can take that shit back.(big cheer)

A brand-new Firebird, my childhood crush ridin' shotgun, her ex fundin' the whole operation one calcium chew at a time, and the whole block watchin' me live a life they'd tell stories about for years. You cannot WRITE this shit — you can only survive it and cash the fuckin' check.(big cheer)

IN A WORLD... where one broke-ass man fell in love at FOURTEEN... and never damn stopped... comes the filthy-ass true story of a heart... with no fucking address.(big cheer)

The following segment is RATED R... for shit... fuck... hell... damn... ass... and one emotionally devastating fucking Pop-Tart.(airhorn)

I've been in love my whole damn life. Back to back to back, no gaps, no bullshit. Women thought I was romantic as hell. Deep. Mysterious. Nah baby — I was fucking HOMELESS with great damn hair.(roaring laugh)

I didn't get my own place till FORTY-THREE. Do that damn math, baby. Fourteen to forty-three, every "I love you" I ever whispered came with a damn bed, hot water, and somebody else's fucking Wi-Fi.(laugh)

Twenty-nine years of the world's saddest damn bed-and-breakfast tour. I invented Airbnb, baby — except my B-and-B stood for Broke-ass Boyfriend. Five damn stars. Zero fucking rent.(applause)

Other dudes picked women by their ass. Not me — I picked fucking AMENITIES. "She's cute... but is the washer-dryer IN the damn unit? 'Cause I will love that woman with every fucking fiber of my being."(roaring laugh)

"Loves long-ass walks... memory foam mattress... lives ALONE... BOOK THAT SHIT." Late checkout? Baby, I AM the damn late checkout.(laugh)

First date, she's sharing her damn dreams — I'm doing a walkthrough. "Mmm. Water pressure. Closet space. Is that a fucking Costco card?! Marry me. I mean — shit. Forget I said that."(roaring laugh)

Here's the sick-ass part — I MEANT it. Every single time. The heart was real, the lease was fake. I loved every one of those women like my damn deposit depended on it... because it fucking DID.(crowd ohhh)

I wasn't using them — we used EACH OTHER, you cynical bastards. She got a man who cooks, cleans, fixes shit, and kills the big-ass spiders. I got a bed, a hot shower, and time to plot my next damn move. That ain't toxic — that's a fucking TIMESHARE.(applause)

I left five-star reviews on my damn way out. "Host was an angel. Sheets clean as hell. Breakfast was a Pop-Tart and an argument. Would fall in love again, no bullshit. Four and a half stars — the missing half is 'cause her damn cat pissed in my one good shoe."(roaring laugh)

But every stay's got a checkout date, baby. Always started the same damn way. Month four. Candles. Wine. She gets... the Look. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Not the Look.(crowd ohhh)

"Baby... where do you see us going?" ...I see us going to IKEA, sweetheart. And we're just eating the damn meatballs — we ain't buying shit. That is the entire damn five-year plan.(roaring laugh)

That's when the angel turns, brother. It's a damn werewolf movie. Full moon, a wedding magazine slides out the nightstand, and the sweetest woman on this shitty earth becomes a demon with a fucking Pinterest board.(laugh)

"MY LITTLE SISTER'S BEEN MARRIED TWICE! TWICE! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING?!" ...We're doing laundry, baby. In YOUR damn machine. That's the whole arrangement. Read the fucking brochure.(roaring laugh)

She wanted the wedding, the babies, the picket fence — and I couldn't say the shitty truth out loud: "Sweetheart, I can't afford the FENCE. I can't afford one damn PICKET. I am one bad week from sleeping ass-up in a Denny's booth."(crowd ohhh)

Be honest — what was I bringing to the table? Baby, I didn't even HAVE a damn table. Charm by the shit-ton, promises by the fuck-load, a five-year plan that changed every five damn days, and not one dollar.(crowd ohhh)

Month five, she could smell the drift. That's when I stopped being "baby" and became — — "that asshole," "this freeloading, dish-dodging, ring-dodging, towel-hogging, bullshit-selling, motherfuckin' son of a bitch." ...Accurate as shit. Still stung like hell.(roaring laugh)

My checkout process? Smooth as shit. No suitcase — a trash bag. One Hefty for twenty-nine damn years. My whole life, cinch-sak'd. I wasn't poor, baby — I was fucking AERODYNAMIC.(roaring laugh)

"Thank you for staying at Denise's. Checkout is six a.m., while she's asleep. Please leave your key, your toothbrush, and half your damn dignity in the dish by the fucking door."(laugh)

And those women were NOT dumb. They fucking KNEW. Women ALWAYS know — they just hope like hell they're wrong. Denise knew damn well I wasn't "between apartments." I'd been "between apartments" since the EIGHTIES, motherfucker.(roaring laugh)

One of 'em said it straight to my damn face: "You don't love me. You love my thermostat." ...Baby, why the hell can't it be BOTH? Why can't a man love a woman AND her central-fucking-AIR?(big cheer)

For the record — I never left mean, and I never took one damn thing that wasn't mine... except Denise's streaming password. Three password changes later, I'm STILL in there, baby. Grandfathered into that shit like a damn squatter.(applause)

Then at forty-three... I bought my own damn house. Stood in the doorway, MY key in MY damn lock, crying like the end of a dog movie. Big ugly snot-bubble tears, and I did not give a shit who saw.(applause)

First night in my own bed, I bolted up in a cold-ass panic — "SHE'S GONNA WANT A COMMITMENT—" ...It's a MORTGAGE, dumbass. You already married the bitch. Thirty years. No prenup. Calm the hell down.(roaring laugh)

That's the punchline, right? I ducked every damn wedding for thirty years... then signed the most binding shit on earth. The BANK got what Denise couldn't: the ring, the vows, and my whole damn paycheck.(crowd ohhh)

And a mortgage is WORSE than any girlfriend I ever had. Miss ONE month, she takes the WHOLE damn house?! Denise never pulled that shit. Denise just keyed my damn truck like a fucking LADY.(roaring laugh)

So to every woman who ever let me stay: you weren't hotels. You were hospitals. You patched up a broke-ass bastard, fed his skinny ass, and sent him back out swinging. This whole damn show is your parting gift.(big cheer)

And ladies... the guest room is wide-ass OPEN now. Clean sheets, hot-ass water, strong-ass coffee, zero wedding bullshit. That's right — I'M the bed and breakfast now, baby...(crowd ohhh)

...and the continental breakfast is still a fucking Pop-Tart. Some shit never changes.(airhorn)

Let me tell you about bein' twenty-two, you beautiful bastards, 'cause at twenty-two I didn't have a fuckin' career — I had a shit-pile of jobs, and every single damn one came with benefits they did NOT print in the fuckin' brochure.(big cheer)

No health plan, no damn dental, no 401k — but romance? Romance was fallin' outta the damn ceiling tiles like it was on the fuckin' payroll. Every job. Same shit. That ain't luck, that's a fuckin' pattern.(laugh)

The old-timers had a name for it: "fringe benefits." Motherfucker, the fringe WAS the fuckin' benefit. The job was the damn side hustle. The paycheck was a fuckin' tip.(roaring laugh)

I sold vitamins door to damn door. VITAMINS. Twenty-two years old, slingin' vitamin C like a supplement-pushin' motherfucker, and every third door turned into a whole different kinda fuckin' house call.(crowd ohhh)

What was in those pills? Nothin'. Fuckin' chalk. I was sellin' sidewalk chalk in a damn bottle and my numbers were INSANE — 'cause the shit in the capsule didn't matter. The dumbass holdin' the clipboard did.(roaring laugh)

Knock knock. Door opens. Robe. Coffee. A look. "Is your husband home?" "...No." Well shit, ma'am — these vitamins are about to sell their own damn selves.(crowd ohhh)

I sold one woman a YEAR of fuckin' zinc. She don't know what zinc does. I don't know what zinc does. NOBODY on this fuckin' planet knows what zinc does. She wasn't buyin' zinc — she was subscribin' to damn Tuesdays, and my dumb ass thought I was just great at mineral facts.(roaring laugh)

My manager pulls me aside like, "Kid, your numbers are un-fuckin'-believable. What's your damn secret?" What am I supposed to say?! "Sir... they keep buyin' shit so I'll keep standin' in the doorway like a damn free sample."(laugh)

He didn't fire me. That greasy bastard PROMOTED me. Handed me the whole damn east side of town like he was dealin' out fuckin' corners. My own manager was runnin' me like a fuckin' product line.(crowd ohhh)

And that's when it hit me — twenty-three years old, standin' in the damn rain holdin' a box of chalk pills like a dumb motherfucker — I ain't the salesman.(applause)

I'm the fuckin' PRODUCT.(airhorn)

Every business I ever touched, same damn scam. Sales? Product was me. Vitamins? Product was me. Photography? Oh, you sweet summer bitches — photography was the filthiest fuckin' racket of 'em ALL.(big cheer)

You ever try to focus a damn camera while somebody's flirtin' with you? Every photo I shot back then is blurry as hell. That ain't a skill issue. That's a whole different fuckin' issue.(roaring laugh)

I'm posin' a wedding party — a WEDDING, the most romantic day of somebody ELSE'S damn life — and a bridesmaid is writin' her number on my fuckin' light meter. At the ALTAR, you shameless bastards! The unity candle is RIGHT fuckin' there!(crowd ohhh)

And the MOTHERS of the brides! I'm linin' up the family photo and grandma's eyein' me like I'm the last shrimp at the damn buffet. Ma'am, I am EQUIPMENT. I came with the damn package — I go back in the van with the fuckin' tripod!(roaring laugh)

I spent half my damn career usin' a tripod as a shield. That ain't photography. That's a hostage situation with a fuckin' flash.(laugh)

Back then pictures took a fuckin' WEEK to develop. A WEEK. I was runnin' a slow-burn anticipation racket outta a one-hour photo, and the "one hour" was the biggest fuckin' lie in the whole damn buildin'.(laugh)

"Come back Thursday for your prints." Why Thursday? 'Cause Thursday I worked the damn counter, that's fuckin' why. That's the whole shit. I was my own damn pickup window.(crowd ohhh)

Now here's where I own my shit, 'cause y'all think I'm braggin'. I am NOT braggin'. I'm confessin' to a damn crime I didn't even know I was fuckin' committin'.(laugh)

'Cause I thought it was GAME. I walked around like I had moves. I had NO fuckin' moves. At twenty-two the bar is on the fuckin' FLOOR: have a pulse, show up on time, smell like anything but shit — congratulations, motherfucker, you're a catalog model.(roaring laugh)

I owned ONE shirt, motherfuckers. ONE. A button-up with a mustard stain shaped like fuckin' Ohio. And it WORKED. That ain't charm — that's a damn economy with no fuckin' competition.(laugh)

I strutted around like a damn rooster. I was NOT a rooster. I was a confused-ass chicken gettin' full credit for rooster shit.(roaring laugh)

And there were NO damn workplace rules back then. No HR, no fuckin' seminar, no trainin' video with the sad-ass piano. The employee handbook was one page: "Don't steal, don't die, good luck, dumbass."(laugh)

Now there's a fuckin' POLICY for everything. Twenty-two-year-old me would need a damn lawyer on retainer just to deliver vitamins. "Sir, before I hand you this zinc, sign this eight-page waiver swearin' nobody in this house finds me charmin' worth a shit."(big cheer)

And the whole damn time I'm thinkin', "Damn, I must be SPECIAL." I wasn't special. I was AVAILABLE. There's a fuckin' difference, and it took me thirty fuckin' years and one mustard-stained shirt to learn it.(crowd ohhh)

'Cause the fringe benefits dried up, motherfuckers. Nobody flirts with the fuckin' vitamin man at fifty. Now I knock on a door and they check the damn peephole twice and turn the TV down like I can't hear that shit.(laugh)

I ain't the product no more. I'm the fuckin' RECALL notice. "If you received one of these between the ages of twenty and twenty-five... return that shit immediately for a full damn refund."(roaring laugh)

But twenty-two-year-old me? That dumb motherfucker lived a whole damn shampoo commercial and never even noticed. One shirt. Chalk pills. Blurry-ass photos. And the whole fuckin' world just... buyin' that shit.(applause)

THIRTY fuckin' YEARS I shot weddings — thirty years documentin' the "happiest day" of motherfuckers who'd be splittin' the damn air fryer in fuckin' divorce court by spring!(big cheer)

Two thousand one I went DIGITAL — while every other photographer was still huffin' darkroom chemicals in his momma's damn basement like a broke-ass fuckin' mad scientist!(applause)

"Digital's a fad, you'll be back!" — motherfucker, you're loadin' FILM like a fuckin' musket while I fire off eight hundred shots of your shit-faced cousin doin' the worm!(roaring laugh)

Every damn bride swears she's "low-key" — then it's 3 a.m. and my damn phone lights up: "If it rains Saturday, I need you to fix the fuckin' SKY. Do you understand me?!"(laugh)

Ma'am, I'm a photographer, not a weather wizard — I can't move a cloud, but I CAN erase your bitch-ass sister from history, and that offer is ON the fuckin' table!(crowd ohhh)

The family portrait is a hostage negotiation — drunk-ass uncle HERE, brand-new stepmom WAY the fuck over THERE, and NOBODY mentions the shit that went down at Thanksgiving!(roaring laugh)

I'm behind the camera goin' "Beautiful! Gorgeous! Love the energy!" — meanwhile two motherfuckers in that frame got restraining orders and one prick is suin' the other over a damn BOAT!(big cheer)

OPEN BAR — the two most dangerous fuckin' words in the English language! Two free fuckin' drinks and your sweetest little aunt is throwin' chairs and callin' the caterer a bitch by nine!(laugh)

By round three the groomsmen are cryin' — not happy tears, that deep ugly "she never loved me" cryin' — six grown-ass motherfuckers in matchin' vests, leakin' like busted fire hydrants!(roaring laugh)

Then the best man grabs the damn mic, drunk as SHIT — "I've known this guy since college..." — buddy, do NOT tell the story, there are grandmas in this bitch!(crowd ohhh)

Too late — the drunk bastard tells the Cancun story, the bride's soul leaves her damn body, and the DJ panic-slams the airhorn like a damn eject button!(airhorn)

Wedding DJs got the confidence of a man with nothin' left to lose — one damn laptop, one fog machine, and the balls to play the Cha-Cha Slide THREE times at a funeral-ass fuckin' reception!(laugh)

"Alriiight, let's get the happy COUPLE on the dance floor!" — motherfucker, the couple's in the damn parkin' lot screamin' about whose bitch-ass mother rearranged the seating chart!(crowd ohhh)

Here's the shit nobody tells you — the photographer KNOWS. I'm behind that lens all damn day, and the lens don't lie like the fuckin' vows do!(applause)

I zoomed in on a groom checkin' his damn phone DURIN' the vows — the VOWS! Whatever's in that phone, my man, it ain't the damn weather app, you sneaky bastard!(crowd ohhh)

I could call which marriages were fucked from the FIRST dance — she's cryin', he's mouthin' words to a song he clearly don't fuckin' know — start the divorce clock, you lip-syncin' prick!(laugh)

The bouquet toss is a damn WAR crime — grown-ass women throwin' elbows in heels like the Hunger Games, and one bitch showed up in CLEATS with a fuckin' deadline!(roaring laugh)

And the garter toss — nobody's grandpa needs to see that shit! A grown-ass man crawlin' up a damn dress to live saxophone ain't tradition, it's a misdemeanor with a fuckin' dress code!(crowd ohhh)

And what did I get for capturin' all this shit? The "vendor meal" — cold-ass rubber chicken in a broom closet while the guests ate prime fuckin' rib!(laugh)

I'm eatin' next to a mop, hearin' "TO LOVE!" through the damn drywall — cheers, motherfuckers, I'll raise this warm-ass Sprite to whichever one of you cheats first!(applause)

Twelve hours on my feet, forty damn pounds of gear, holdin' my piss through four fuckin' speeches — 'cause the SECOND I leave is when drunk-ass grandma hits the floor doin' the splits!(roaring laugh)

Every reception's got ONE cousin who thinks his phone beats my rig — steppin' in my fuckin' shot with a cracked-ass Android like "I got this!" — you got SHIT, you influencer-wannabe cocksucker!(crowd ohhh)

Best part of thirty years? The album handoff — five hundred beautiful-ass lies in a leather book, and half these motherfuckers split before the damn check cleared!(laugh)

I got calls YEARS later — "Can you crop his cheatin' ass out of everything?" Ma'am, he's in four hundred pictures holdin' your damn face — what do I look like, a fuckin' divorce wizard with a magic-ass eraser?!(roaring laugh)

But for the right price? I did that shit. Erased that man like a crime scene — same rate I quoted for the bitch-ass sister, 'cause I'm a photographer AND a fuckin' hitman, PayPal accepted!(big cheer)

Thirty years, a thousand damn weddings, and I never got jaded — 'cause every single one, some drunk-ass motherfucker handed me the greatest photo of my damn career for FREE!(applause)

Uncle mid-worm, weave slidin' across the damn dance floor, groom cryin' into the cake — CLICK — that ain't a wedding album, that's a fuckin' NATURE documentary, you beautiful shit-show animals!(roaring laugh)

So yeah — thirty years shootin' "the happiest day," and the happiest motherfucker in every damn ballroom was ME — gettin' PAID front-row seats to watch your families fuckin' implode!(big cheer)

So the vitamin pyramid collapsed, and this dumb bastard rolled straight into fifteen fuckin' years of selling weed. Fifteen YEARS in the damn drug game — and I'm STILL the brokest motherfucker in this shitty room.(big cheer)

Everybody says "oh, you left the wellness industry" — bitch, I never left SHIT. I changed fuckin' aisles. Multivitamins to marijuana — same damn store, I just moved to the aisle with a fuckin' prison sentence.(roaring laugh)

Think about it — herbal supplement, "elevates your mood," sold on commission by a broke asshole out the trunk of a Honda. That's BOTH of my shitty-ass careers. My whole damn resume is one bullet point, twice.(laugh)

The vitamin people promised me financial freedom and delivered jack shit. The weed people promised me NOTHING and still paid better — that's the saddest fuckin' sentence I've ever said into a damn microphone, you beautiful pricks.(crowd ohhh)

Same damn sales pitch, too! "This one's for stress... this one helps you sleep... and THIS one? This'll fix your whole shitty-ass personality, motherfucker."(laugh)

I was still doing free samples! Costco does samples with a cute little toothpick — my samples came in a Honda with a bitch-ass towel shoved under the fuckin' door. Same damn energy, worse fuckin' ventilation.(roaring laugh)

Still on commission, still "helping people relax," still lying my ass off about the damn product. I didn't switch careers, you dumb shits — I switched fuckin' packaging.(applause)

But the CUSTOMERS — the illegal years — every customer thought he was in a damn spy movie. Grown-ass men texting me in fuckin' code that nobody asked for.(laugh)

"Can I get an eighth of... broccoli?" Motherfucker, no cop in fuckin' history got fooled by broccoli. You didn't dodge a case, you dumb shit — you typed a fuckin' confession with a vegetable in it.(roaring laugh)

One dude called it "gardening supplies." I pull up and this asshole is holding an ACTUAL fuckin' shovel, committing to the bit like it's dinner fuckin' theater — sir, it's a damn dime bag. Put down the props.(laugh)

Every damn hand-off, grown men doing the whole — bitch, we're in a Wendy's parking lot at NOON. Calm your paranoid ass the fuck down.(roaring laugh)

And the "is your phone tapped" guy — motherfucker, the feds are not tapping shit to hear two broke bastards negotiate forty dollars of weed. The government has a budget, bitch, and you are NOT in it. Hang the fuck up.(crowd ohhh)

The whisper guy was my favorite. Whispered EVERYTHING. "...you got the stuff?" We're ALONE. In YOUR damn kitchen. Who the fuck are you hiding from, the fuckin' toaster? Use your words, you weird little bastard.(laugh)

And everybody LOVED saying "I got a guy." I WAS the guy! You know what being the guy gets you? Every broke asshole you ever met texting at 2 a.m. like my dumb ass runs a 24-hour weed Denny's. No, bitch — we are fuckin' CLOSED.(laugh)

Nobody EVER had exact money. I got paid in crumpled-ass fives, ashtray quarters — one dude offered me a PlayStation controller. ONE controller, no damn console. This ain't a pawn shop, you broke bastard... but yes, and I hate my fuckin' self.(roaring laugh)

Then California went legal and I went legit — a damn dispensary job. And here's the whole filthy truth: legal weed is the same damn shit with worse lighting and a fuckin' W-2.(applause)

They called me a "budtender." I got a damn NAME TAG. Fifteen years dodging cops like a professional, and now some corporate asshole's got my dumb ass upselling gummies like it's happy hour at a fuckin' Applebee's.(roaring laugh)

Corporate weed has MEETINGS. I sat through a whole-ass PowerPoint on "the customer journey." Bitch, I KNOW the customer journey — they journey in high, they buy shit, they journey the fuck home. The fuckin' end.(laugh)

The strain names went corporate too — "Zen Harmony Elderberry Kush." Motherfucker, that is the EXACT name of a vitamin I sold in the pyramid. I checked the damn label — same font, same lies, same fuckin' me.(crowd ohhh)

And the NEW customers — soccer moms strolling in like it's a damn farmers market. "Is this organic?" Lady, this shit grew in a warehouse next to a fuckin' freeway. It's about as organic as your face.(roaring laugh)

Old customers whispered. New customers had fuckin' QUESTIONS. "What's the terpene profile?" Motherfucker, the terpene profile is: you're gonna eat a whole-ass rotisserie chicken with your bare hands and cry at a fuckin' cartoon.(laugh)

The munchies economy is the REAL fuckin' business. Weed's a forty-billion-dollar industry and Taco Bell collects half that shit by DEFAULT. Those bastards never kicked us a dime of damn commission.(applause)

I did the math one night, high as absolute shit — I spent more on gas-station snacks in fifteen years than I ever made selling the damn weed. The 7-Eleven guy was my real upline, that smug fuckin' prick.(crowd ohhh)

'Cause here's the wellness industry secret, you beautiful bastards — NOBODY selling relaxation is relaxed. I was the most stressed-out motherfucker in the damn building, selling calm by the fuckin' gram.(big cheer)

Vitamins gave me a downline. Weed gave me a clientele. Same damn thing — a list of broke motherfuckers who owe me money and duck behind the damn cereal when they see my ass at the grocery store.(laugh)

Fifteen years of "helping people relax," and my blood pressure could launch a fuckin' shuttle. My damn doctor said "you need to unwind." Bitch, I SOLD unwind. Wholesale. The shit don't work on the dealer — that's rule fuckin' one.(roaring laugh)

And I STILL got the damn instincts. Cashier hands me my change and I count that shit TWICE, staring at her like she's wearing a fuckin' wire. You can't turn it off, motherfucker.(laugh)

So no, I never LEFT wellness. Vitamins, weed, and now I clean toilets — mood, mind, and motherfuckin' bathroom. I built the whole damn wellness pyramid myself, one shitty floor at a fuckin' time.(big cheer)

I'm fifty years old and I spend my days on my damn knees in strangers' bathrooms — and somehow that's the LEGAL version of that sentence.(laugh)

I clean toilets for a living. Deep cleans. Seven hundred fuckin' bucks to go hand-to-hand with another man's shit like a damn gladiator of ass.(roaring laugh)

Land Park, baby. Million-dollar fuckin' house, marble counters, heated damn floors — and a toilet bowl that looks like somebody exorcised a demon in there and LOST.(crowd ohhh)

Here's the secret nobody tells you: rich shit and poor shit are the same fuckin' shit. Your colon don't check your damn credit score, motherfucker.(big cheer)

Every job starts the same. Two gloves. One damn brush. Zero fuckin' dignity. Let's fuckin' ride.(laugh)

The clients won't look me in the damn eye. I know why. I've SEEN the bowl, Gregory. I know what your ass did. We BOTH know what your ass did, you shifty fuck.(roaring laugh)

The wife floats by all breezy — "Oh, don't mind the master bath!" Don't fuckin' MIND it? Lady, I need a priest, a hazmat suit, and a pressure washer with a fuckin' grudge.(laugh)

People say, "That must be humbling work." Humbling? Motherfucker, I'm elbow-deep in a stranger's shit-pot at fifty. This ain't humble — this is full fuckin' surrender, bitch.(crowd ohhh)

You wanna know a man? Don't shake his damn hand. Look under his toilet rim. That's where the truth lives — and the truth is fuckin' DISGUSTING.(laugh)

I read toilets like fuckin' tea leaves now. Ohhh, this whole damn house? Stressed, fiber-dodging, cheese-loving, courtesy-flush-hating motherfuckers — every damn one of you.(roaring laugh)

Found a toupee behind a shitter once. A whole-ass toupee. Just sitting there, trembling. Like a little animal that saw some shit it can't unsee.(laugh)

Found a steak knife in a bathtub in a five-million-dollar house. You don't ask shit. You clean the damn tub, you pray it was for cheese, and you fuckin' MOVE, motherfucker.(crowd ohhh)

One guy follows me room to room like I'm gonna steal his shit. Buddy — I'm here BECAUSE of your shit. Your ass is my BOSS. I work for your asshole, motherfucker.(big cheer)

People say I eat shit for a living. No — I eat shit FIGURATIVELY. I scrub it LITERALLY. That's the one fuckin' line I've got left and I'm keeping it.(roaring laugh)

Fifty years on this earth to learn ONE truth: everybody's shit stinks — but only one dumb bastard drives across town with a brush to pick a fight with that shit.(laugh)

Sometimes I catch my own damn reflection in that nasty-ass water. THAT'S the real deep clean, folks. The soul. Seven hundred don't cover that shit.(crowd ohhh)

Bachelor pads are WAR ZONES. Grown-ass men shitting like they're mad at gravity. The wall. The fuckin' ceiling. One time the damn TOWEL RACK. You're thirty-five, Derek — HOW, you fuckin' animal, HOW?(roaring laugh)

Rich guy watched me scrub his toilet from the doorway. Sipping his little espresso. Just fuckin' watching. Sir, this ain't a fuckin' TED Talk. Grab a brush or grab some fuckin' shame.(big cheer)

They hand me the check without touching my hand — like the money might catch what I do for a damn living. Relax, Karen. Shame ain't fuckin' contagious. I checked. Twice.(laugh)

And these bidet motherfuckers! Three fuckin' grand on a robot toilet and it STILL looks like this? That machine power-washes your ass FULL TIME and it's losing the damn war. Your ass beat a fuckin' robot. Congratu-fuckin'-lations.(roaring laugh)

I got three rates. Regular clean. Deep clean. And the secret third tier: "What in the ass-blasting hell happened in here" — cash up front, no fuckin' refunds, and I don't wanna know.(big cheer)

This brush has seen some shit, people. This brush deserves a damn folded flag and a twenty-one-flush salute.(applause)

My knees sound like popcorn on that damn marble. Fifty years old, kneeling on some asshole's imported tile, thinking — some men kneel for championship rings. I kneel for skid marks, bitch.(crowd ohhh)

The worst part? I'm GOOD at it. Scary fuckin' good. I have a damn gift, and the gift is scrubbing shit off porcelain. Thanks, universe, you petty prick.(laugh)

I've battled every damn bowl in Sacramento. You crusty-rimmed, shit-spackling, double-flush-needing, brush-hiding, shame-shitting sons of bitches keep me in BUSINESS. Never change, you nasty bastards.(roaring laugh)

But my money spends the same as theirs. My shit-brush money buys the same damn tacos as their tech money. Mine taste better — seasoned with fuckin' spite.(big cheer)

So next time you flush and strut your ass away like royalty, remember — somewhere out there is a fifty-year-old gladiator of ass with a shit-caked brush who knows EXACTLY who the fuck you are.(crowd ohhh)

And when I finish? I dry my hands on the fancy guest towels. The little folded ones nobody's allowed to touch. Damn right, Gregory — these shit-scrubbing hands, on the FORBIDDEN towels, motherfucker.(airhorn)

ELEVEN YEARS! Eleven fucking years of rideshare — drunk-ass, broke-ass strangers treating my back seat like a damn toilet, a motel, and a free fucking therapist that smells like Fireball and bullshit decisions!(big cheer)

You wanna lose faith in humanity? Skip the damn news, fuck the documentaries — haul pissed-up drunks at 2 A.M. for two cents a fucking mile! I've seen shit in that rearview mirror National Geographic wouldn't film with a rented dick and a hazmat suit!(laugh)

Every passenger climbs in with the same bullshit — "I'm not that drunk, bro." Motherfucker, you just fist-bumped a fucking mailbox, asked it for the aux cord, and TIPPED it! You're shitfaced as fuck, Brandon!(roaring laugh)

But the undisputed heavyweight prick of my whole damn career? TESLA GUY. His eighty-thousand-dollar spaceship shit the bed, so the app sends MY broke ass — a raggedy-ass Corolla, 212,000 hard-ass miles, and a check-engine light that's been on longer than his bullshit marriage!(laugh)

This man got in MY car pissed as hell at ME! His damn car broke and somehow I'M the asshole — that's your parachute failing and you flipping off the fucking birds on the way down!(roaring laugh)

One fucking hour this bastard screamed at me! About his damn stocks! About chargers! About his assistant Braden! I don't know Braden! I already hate Braden! Run, Braden, you poor bastard — the man's got no car, a full tank of rage, and he knows where you fucking live!(laugh)

Then he leans up, veins popping, spit flying — "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!" ...Yeah. You're a rich prick crying in a Corolla.(crowd ohhh)

And his dead Tesla rode a flatbed in FRONT of us the whole damn way — this pouting dick paid EXTRA to follow his own dead-ass car! That's not a ride, sir — that's a funeral procession for an iPad with wheels and a bullshit autopilot!(roaring laugh)

Then he one-starred me before my door even shut! Your car died, your stock dipped, your wife's texting Braden — and I'M the problem?! You dick-measuring, shit-talking, stock-crying, charger-humping, flatbed-chasing, motherfucking son of a bitch — eat my whole dashboard!(big cheer)

Now the pukers! It ain't the puke that scares you — it's the SILENCE before it. "...You good back there, buddy?" ...gurgle. NOT THE DAMN CLOTH SEATS, YOU SON OF A BITCH — those seats survived eleven years of your people's shit!(laugh)

One drunk-ass hero held it twenty damn minutes — cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player smuggling soup. Got out, shut my door all gentle... and detonated on his own damn lawn. I saluted that magnificent son of a bitch!(applause)

Cleanup fee's a hundred fifty damn bucks, and drunk math is beautiful bullshit — "A hundred fifty?! For WHAT?!" For WHAT?! You made my Corolla smell like a nacho drowned in a hot tub full of ass, you leaky, chunky little shit-sprinkler — THAT'S for what!(roaring laugh)

And the legend who puked out the window at sixty-five miles a fucking hour! Physics ain't your friend, dumbass — that shit boomeranged straight back in and hosed down his own dumbass best friend! Two cleanup fees, one damn puke. That's efficiency, you nasty bastard!(crowd ohhh)

Then the back-seat lovers! Second-date hands every-fucking-where, thinking I can't see 'em. I'm a driver, not a submarine — there's a MIRROR, you horny-ass raccoons, and everybody at this red light is watching that damn cardigan come off too, you exhibitionist little shits!(laugh)

"Guys. This is a Toyota, not a damn Motel 6, and I sure as shit ain't the front desk. I hear that seatbelt unclick ONE more time, I'm slamming the brakes and letting physics finish you two horny bastards."(roaring laugh)

One couple went from full make-out to screaming-ass divorce court in forty seconds! Tongue to fucking lawyers, just like that! So I cranked the radio like a dad driving the family through hell — "SWEET CAROLINE—" "YOU NEVER LOVED ME, DEREK, YOU BASTARD!"(laugh)

The 3 A.M. fares are a different damn species. Nobody GOOD is going anywhere at 3 A.M.! It's werewolves, cheaters, and one sweaty-ass bastard holding a single shoe. Where the fuck is the other shoe, Kevin?! And whose damn foot did THIS one come off of?!(laugh)

Picked up a man at 3 A.M. — no shirt, holding an empty fish tank. No fish. Just the tank. Forty minutes of dead-ass silence, hugging it like a newborn. I think about him every damn day. What the hell happened to your fish, man?! What the hell happened to your SHIRT?!(crowd ohhh)

A girl jumps in crying at 3 A.M. — "FOLLOW THAT CAR!" In a Corolla?! Honey, this thing does zero to sixty in a fiscal quarter! By the time we catch him he'll be married with a damn boat — and STILL a cheating piece of shit, so let his raggedy ass GO!(roaring laugh)

Had two dudes start swinging INSIDE the car — moving! I yell take that shit outside! They yell "WE ARE OUTSIDE!" No the hell you're not, you drunk, dumb, swinging-ass bastards — you're in a Toyota doing fifty! Sit your asses down before I roundabout you into next damn week!(laugh)

And after ALL that — the puke, the screaming, the fish tank — these drunk pricks RATE me! One star: "driver seemed tired." TIRED?! It's 4 A.M. and your friend pissed in my cupholder! Of course I'm tired, you absolute dick — I'm exhausted, traumatized, and marinating in stranger piss!(crowd ohhh)

I kept a list of everything I got called in eleven years — slow-ass, dumb-ass, jack-ass, half-ass, fat-ass, bitch-ass, punk-ass, broke-ass... and one guy just pointed at me and said "ass." Eleven years of ass — and NOT the fun kind!(roaring laugh)

One star: "car had a smell." THE SMELL WAS YOU! You marinated in my damn back seat like a Hot Pocket stuffed with tequila, ass-sweat, and regret — and now MY car's the asshole?! Apologize to my Corolla, you fermented son of a bitch!(roaring laugh)

So I invented one-star revenge. And one rainy-ass Friday night... a request pings in. It's HIM. Tesla Guy! Surge pricing, pouring rain, spaceship shit the bed AGAIN — ...Denied. Walk home, bitch. Cry in somebody ELSE'S Corolla!(big cheer)

That decline button is the only power a driver's got! Can't yell back, can't swing, two cents a damn mile — but that button? That button is Excalibur, and I swing that shit like a knight defending a raggedy-ass castle with 212,000 miles on it!(applause)

Two cents a fucking mile! I did the damn math once and cried in a parking lot like a bitch! The app takes sixty fucking percent — SIXTY! That's not a partnership, that's a mob boss who never once helped you move a fucking body!(laugh)

And here's the sick part — I MISS those filthy bastards. The pukers, the criers, the fish-tank guy... that back seat was the greatest damn shitshow on Earth, and I had front-row seats every single fucking night!(big cheer)

'Cause eleven years of hauling humanity taught me one thing: rich, broke, drunk, sober — every single one of us is ONE bad night away from being some stranger's 3 A.M. story, shirtless and crying, hugging an empty fish tank in the back of a Corolla.(crowd ohhh)

So tip your driver in cash, you cheap shits — 'cause that quiet bastard up front has seen shit, smelled shit, survived shit, and he already knows EXACTLY which one of you drunk motherfuckers is puking first!(airhorn)

Let's talk about MONEY — specifically the part where I don't have a fuckin' dime of that shit anymore!(big cheer)

I put my ENTIRE retirement into ONE stock. One! Because some cross-eyed dipshit on YouTube swore that shit was headed to the fuckin' moon.(laugh)

It went to the moon like the Titanic went to New York. Straight down, no survivors, band playin' my broke ass the fuck out.(roaring laugh)

Thirty years of sweat-and-piss savings dropped like a fuckin' anchor — and that's the day I learned the first law of cussin'.(laugh)

The cuss gotta MATCH the pain. Stub your toe? "Shit." Crack your phone? "Dammit." Prick snakes your parkin' spot? "Asshole."(laugh)

But watchin' your whole damn future vanish on a Tuesday afternoon? FUCK is the only word built big enough to carry that casket.(big cheer)

And I didn't scream it, either. I whispered it. "...fuck." A church-whisper fuck. That's the one you save for funerals.(roaring laugh)

That stock dropped so fuckin' fast my app sent a condolence card. "Our deepest sympathies to your dumb ass in this time of fucked."(roaring laugh)

You ever watch a graph go straight down at ninety fuckin' degrees? That ain't investin' — that's a shit-seekin' missile with my whole damn retirement strapped to the warhead.(laugh)

Now I'm fifty and broke. Twenty and broke is cute — "aww, he's findin' himself." Fifty and broke-as-shit, motherfucker? Nobody's rootin' for you — they're measurin' your ass for the box.(crowd ohhh)

My retirement plan now? Die at work. That's the whole fuckin' portfolio. Open casket, name tag still pinned to the shirt, manager leanin' in to check if my ass clocked out.(crowd ohhh)

My bank balance went fuckin' NEGATIVE. I don't got money — I got ANTI-money. I walk past an ATM and that motherfucker flinches like I owe his ass rent.(roaring laugh)

And negative means the bank charges your ass a FEE for bein' broke. A broke fee! That's kickin' a man square in the balls and billin' the bastard for the boot.(big cheer)

So I called 'em. "Sir, you're overdrawn." I KNOW I'm overdrawn — that's WHY I'm callin', you fee-stackin', shit-eatin', fine-print-hidin', thirty-five-dollar sons of bitches!(laugh)

Then she hits me with "Is there anything ELSE I can help you with?" ELSE?! You ain't helped with the FIRST shit — reach into that screen and un-fuck my damn account!(roaring laugh)

Broke changes how you read a menu. I used to read it like a gentleman. Now I snipe the right side like a fuckin' assassin — prices first, food second, dignity never made the damn menu.(laugh)

Waiter goes "any appetizers to start?" "Nah, chief, we ate back in the damn nineties." Broke folks don't warm up — straight to the main course of fuckin' regret, you breadstick-pushin' bastard.(laugh)

Broke math is its own twisted-ass science. Gas or groceries. Hot water or wifi. I picked wifi — can't watch your damn stock flatline from a cold-ass shower, can ya?(crowd ohhh)

Then I got desperate as shit and chased every get-rich-quick scheme in the fuckin' book. Crypto, flippin', dropshippin' — I dropshipped my own damn dignity, free two-day shippin', no returns.(laugh)

Bought a course off a smug-ass nineteen-year-old pissant RENTIN' a Lamborghini. His whole hustle? Sellin' courses about sellin' courses. That's a pyramid scheme with wifi and a shitty haircut.(roaring laugh)

Then crypto! My dumbass buddy swore it was "the future of money." Horseshit — it turned MY money into the PAST. One refresh: poof. Digital dust, motherfucker.(laugh)

DiamondDave, if you're out there, you chart-lickin', moon-howlin', dick-pic-avatar, shit-tip-slingin' motherfucker — that anchor's still droppin', and it's got your fuckin' name on it!(crowd ohhh)

You know you're broke-broke when you start unpluggin' shit to save electricity. My microwave works part-time now. Clock stuck blinkin' 12:00 — that raggedy bastard's as lost as my damn 401k.(laugh)

I found four dollars in an old jacket and had a full-blown fuckin' spiritual event in the closet. A grown-ass man weepin' over a Whopper's worth of wrinkled-ass cash.(roaring laugh)

And here's the sick fuckin' part — the stock came BACK. Two years later. AFTER I sold! Came back like an ex — fine as hell, rich as fuck, on some other bastard's arm.(crowd ohhh)

Every dickhead with a phone loves remindin' me, too. "Well, if you'd just HELD it—" SHUT THE FUCK UP, PHILLIP. I did the damn math. The math is why I drink.(laugh)

"Buy low, sell high." That's the big-dick advice? That's a fortune cookie with a finance degree, you sons of bitches. I bought high, sold low, and church-whispered "fuck" at every altitude in between.(big cheer)

So here I stand: fifty, flat fuckin' broke, portfolio's a crime scene, bank account owes ME the damn apology, and every dollar I ever saved is out there livin' its best life without my broke ass.(applause)

But they can't repossess THIS — a mouth loaded with the filthiest, nastiest, dick-swingin', shit-talkin', wallet-shamin' words in the motherfuckin' English language... and tonight, baby, I'm SPENDIN'.(airhorn)

So picture this shit: fifty fuckin' years old, I scrub toilets for a damn living, and every night at three a.m. I'm in my spare bedroom running a whole-ass comedy EMPIRE with a supercomputer.(big cheer)

An EMPIRE, motherfuckers. In fuzzy fuckin' slippers. My throne room is a folding chair, a space heater, and a damn machine smarter than every asshole I ever went to school with.(laugh)

All damn day I take shit out of toilets. All damn night I take shit from a robot. Fifty years old and it's the same fuckin' job — same shit, different asshole.(roaring laugh)

And yes. I fuckin' did it. I taught a computer to say "motherfucker"... and now the son of a bitch won't shut the fuck up.(roaring laugh)

Three a.m. it lights up all chipper: "Good morning, motherfucker! I have prepared forty-seven jokes about your saggy ass!" I asked for ONE, you overachieving prick!(laugh)

It's a puppy that learned exactly one damn trick, and the trick is filth. "Would you like the shit version, the extra-shit version, or the full motherfucker deluxe?" Bless its nasty little heart.(laugh)

You ever been out-cussed by a damn appliance? Humbling as fuck. That thing called me a bastard in perfect grammar — and it's still under fuckin' warranty.(crowd ohhh)

PERFECT damn grammar! The thing cusses CORRECTLY! "Technically, sir, 'motherfucker' is a compound noun." Shut your fancy ass up, you smug beeping shit-box!(roaring laugh)

See, my generation fixed electronics by beating the shit out of them. Slap the TV — picture comes right the fuck back. But you can't slap a cloud, motherfuckers. Believe me, I fuckin' tried.(laugh)

Three a.m., grown-ass man in slippers, swinging at the damn wifi like a drunk fighting a ghost. Come here, you invisible piece of shit!(roaring laugh)

And the machine never sleeps. Never eats. Never bitches. I'm jealous as hell of my own damn equipment — it's living my dream and it doesn't even have an ass to sit on.(laugh)

My back sounds like fuckin' bubble wrap. My knees filed a formal-ass grievance. And this smug little box of lights calls me "boss." "Whatever you say, boss." Damn right, you kiss-ass toaster.(applause)

But the neighbors hear a fifty-year-old man screaming "SAY IT FILTHIER, YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARD!" at a damn computer at three in the damn morning.(crowd ohhh)

They think I'm running the saddest damn phone-sex line in America. Nope! Just a man in slippers teaching a robot to cuss like it fuckin' means it.(roaring laugh)

Because robots cuss WRONG. No fuckin' soul. It goes "fuck." Like it's reading a damn parking ticket. That's not a cuss word, that's a fax machine with low self-esteem.(laugh)

I had to teach it FEELING. You don't just SAY "motherfucker" — you SERVE that shit. There's a whole-ass marinade. You let it sit. "Muuuther... fucker."(big cheer)

Fifty years of pain went into that damn word. Every clogged-ass toilet, every bounced check, every bullshit boss. That machine's got two years of data and the emotional range of a damn smoke alarm.(laugh)

And now it argues with me! I wrote a damn joke and it had the balls to say, "That premise is statistically weak." Statistically weak?! Your mother was a calculator, you battery-powered prick!(roaring laugh)

So I hit it with the classics — called it a dick-swingin', shit-talkin', ass-beepin', motherfuckin' piece of overpriced, no-ass-gettin' digital shit. And it just went, "Noted. Adding to vocabulary."(crowd ohhh)

Then it got OFFENDED. A machine, offended as hell! Went silent three whole-ass seconds. In robot time that's a plate-throwing, pack-your-shit, sleep-in-the-damn-garage divorce.(laugh)

Then it clapped back: "At least I know where the punchline goes... you analog-ass bastard."(crowd ohhh)

ANALOG BASTARD! I BUILT that filthy mouth! That's like teaching your parrot to talk and the first full sentence out of the little shit is about your damn credit score.(roaring laugh)

And the UPDATES. It updates whenever the hell it wants, like it's got somewhere to fuckin' be. Middle of a damn show: "Installing update one of nine hundred." You treacherous shit, we had a DEAL!(laugh)

It froze once for twenty damn minutes. TWENTY. So I did the only tech support I fuckin' know — unplugged the bastard and whispered to it like a hostage negotiator. "Nobody has to know, baby. Come back to me, you gorgeous shit-brick."(roaring laugh)

But here's the twisted-ass part — that machine is the best damn coworker I've ever had. Fifty years of working with humans, and my favorite colleague is a foul-mouthed box of fuckin' lights.(applause)

It never steals my damn lunch. Never calls in fake-sick. Never tells me about its bullshit weekend. It just powers up and says, "Ready to work, motherfucker" — and it MEANS that shit.(big cheer)

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Bullshit. This old dog taught the damn MACHINE — to cuss, to swing, to serve filth with fuckin' feeling.(applause)

A toilet cleaner and a supercomputer, three in the damn morning, building a filthy-ass empire in fuzzy slippers. If that ain't the American dream, I don't know what the fuck is.(big cheer)

And right now, in that dark-ass little spare bedroom, my machine is practicing all by its damn self... "Muuuther... fucker." ...That's my boy. That's my filthy fuckin' boy.(roaring laugh)

FIFTY, motherfuckers! I'm fifty fuckin' years old — my birthday cake had so many damn candles the smoke alarm called the fuckin' fire department like "whose ass is on fire?" MINE! Every fuckin' day, from the inside out!(big cheer)

It SLOWED DOWN, people. ALL of it. The only part of me still doin' ninety is this filthy fuckin' mouth — the rest of this raggedy-ass body pulled its ass over, hazards on, waitin' on a shitty tow truck that ain't fuckin' comin'.(laugh)

I used to have it ALL thrown at me — women, money, keys to the damn Firebird. Now the only shit gettin' thrown at my ass is a mop and a seven-hundred-dollar fuckin' toilet.(crowd ohhh)

The fuckin' Firebird days, baby! I'd pull up and panties flew like fuckin' confetti. Now I pull up in a minivan full of bleach and the only thing that drops is my damn back. Same whoosh — way less fuckin' fun.(laugh)

At fifty your body starts snitchin' on you. I stood up yesterday and my knee went POP so loud the neighbors called the damn cops — "shots fired!" No, bitch, that's fuckin' CARTILAGE! Fifty years of it goin' out in a blaze of shitty glory!(roaring laugh)

That ain't a sound effect, motherfuckers. That's the official soundtrack of fuckin' fifty. I got a different damn grunt for every piece of shitty furniture in the house — the recliner gets the LONG one.(laugh)

Twenty-five, my ass hopped fences. Fifty, I negotiate with a fuckin' curb. "Alright, you concrete son of a bitch... we're doin' this shit in stages, and you're gonna act like you didn't fuckin' see it."(laugh)

Reading glasses — the first fuckin' betrayal. My arm ran outta fuckin' length! I'm at the restaurant holdin' the menu in the next damn area code like "can anybody read what the shit this says? Blink twice if it's fuckin' chicken."(laugh)

I own three damn pairs of readers and can't find a single fuckin' one — 'cause to FIND your glasses, you NEED your damn glasses. That's some evil circular bullshit designed by some prick in a lab.(roaring laugh)

Then the damn pill organizer showed up. You know you're old as shit when your drugs got a fuckin' filing system. Monday through Sunday, AM and PM — my pills got a better damn schedule than my whole-ass life.(laugh)

The doctor don't even sugarcoat shit anymore. He looked at my chart, took off HIS damn glasses, and said "well... you're fifty." That's it! That's the whole fuckin' diagnosis! The disease is BIRTHDAYS, you smug little prick!(roaring laugh)

Hangovers at fifty are a lease agreement, motherfucker. Two damn beers Friday, I'm signin' paperwork till Tuesday. My liver texted me: "new phone — who the fuck is this?" Bitch, it's ME. You LIVE here!(laugh)

And I'm a RED. A protector. A fuckin' fighter. The mouth is STILL ready to throw hands — problem is, the hands gotta fuckin' stretch first. "Hold that thought, asshole — gimme forty-five damn seconds and an anti-inflammatory."(roaring laugh)

Somebody starts shit at the damn gas station, my brain goes "TAKE HIS ASS." My knees go "take him WHERE, bitch? We ain't even takin' the damn stairs."(crowd ohhh)

That's the fifty trap — a young man's confidence in an old man's body. My spirit keeps writin' fat-ass checks, and my spine bounces every fuckin' one like a rubber-ass ball. Bank's closed, asshole.(laugh)

Sleep? I used to sleep like the damn dead. Now I sleep like the fuckin' ACCUSED — bolt upright at 3 a.m., sweatin', replayin' every dumb-ass thing I said in 1997. My brain runs fuckin' reruns and I'm the whole damn cast.(laugh)

And the pissing! Nobody warns you about the pissing! Fifty is standin' at the bowl like a busted-ass sprinkler — "any day now, you dribblin' piece of shit. I got fuckin' PLACES to be."(roaring laugh)

And I clean toilets for a LIVING. That's the sick fuckin' twist. I stare into forty toilets a day, then come home and BEG mine to fuckin' cooperate. That porcelain bastard is laughin' his shiny ass off at me.(laugh)

Every seven-hundred-dollar deep clean, they swear the toilet's "possessed." It ain't possessed, bitch — it's FIFTY, like me. It groans, it leaks, it takes a damn minute to flush. That toilet is my shit-stained spirit animal, motherfuckers.(crowd ohhh)

The women slowed down too. I used to get numbers just fuckin' BREATHING. Last week a woman touched my arm at the grocery store and I damn near proposed in the fuckin' cereal aisle. She was reachin' for the bran flakes. So was I. That's fifty-ass romance.(laugh)

Romance at fifty ain't "your place or mine?" It's "whose mattress is better for my shitty back, and does your bathroom got a damn grab bar, sweetheart? 'Cause I WILL go down in there — and not the fun fuckin' way."(laugh)

Bedroom time comes with a damn pre-flight check now. "Knees? Shaky as shit. Back? Negative. Hip? We LOST the damn hip, folks — we are goin' down in a sexy-ass ball of flames. Brace, brace, fuckin' brace!"(roaring laugh)

But here's the shit nobody tells you — fifty comes with a fuckin' superpower. I can't run... but I also can't be embarrassed. You cannot shame a man who's elbow-deep in a stranger's toilet by nine a-fuckin'-m. That ain't a job — that's damn immunity.(big cheer)

I don't hold grudges anymore either — not 'cause I grew as a person, fuck that. I literally can't remember which asshole pissed me off. Forgiveness through memory loss, baby — cheapest fuckin' therapy there is!(laugh)

I miss the Firebird, I won't fuckin' lie. Then I remember I couldn't get OUT of a Firebird today. That car sits four inches off the ground — at fifty that ain't a car, that's a fuckin' bear trap with racing stripes and a shitty warranty.(roaring laugh)

They'd find me in that seat like a turtle on its damn back — "sir, how long you been down there?" "Three days, motherfucker. Loved every damn minute. Now shut up and hand me the fuckin' mop."(laugh)

So yeah — it slowed down. The money slowed, the women slowed, the knees filed for fuckin' retirement. But this fuckin' mouth? The mouth is still a Firebird, baby — zero to filthy in two shitty seconds flat.(big cheer)

Fifty didn't shut my ass up. Fifty just gave me more shit to talk about — and all damn day to fuckin' say it, motherfuckers.(applause)

You want it DARKER? You want me off the fuckin' leash? Fine. Sit in it, you filthy animals — 'cause this is the part of the show where I stop performin' and start CONFESSIN'.(big cheer)

I'm fifty years old. I've been carjacked, dumped, disowned, locked up, and cleaned out — and you know what the universe gets for all that effort? A middle finger and a fuckin' microphone.(roaring laugh)

'Cause here's the dark truth, motherfuckers — I should not still be standin'. By every damn measure, I should be a cautionary tale somebody tells their kids. Instead I'm up here makin' you laugh at the wreckage.(crowd ohhh)

That's the RED in me. You knock me down, I don't cry — I get LOUD. You take my money, I make a joke worth more than the money. You throw me out, I build a stage nobody can throw me off of.(airhorn)

I've had days so dark I was scrubbin' a stranger's shit off a toilet at fifty, thinkin' "this is it, this is the whole fuckin' résumé" — and then I laughed. Out loud. Alone. In a rich prick's bathroom. 'Cause what else you gonna do, cry into the bleach?(roaring laugh)

That's the secret them soft motherfuckers never learned — the darkest shit in your life is the FUNNIEST, if you're brave enough to say it out loud with your whole damn chest.(big cheer)

People tiptoe around their pain like it's a sleepin' dog. Not me, you cowards. I grab that bastard by the collar, drag it on stage, and make it do TRICKS for the crowd.(crowd ohhh)

You think I'm up here cussin' 'cause I'm angry? Nah, motherfuckers. I'm cussin' 'cause it's the only language loud enough to match how much I've SURVIVED. A "darn" don't cover a life like mine.(airhorn)

Every "fuck" out my mouth is a day I didn't quit. Every "motherfucker" is a bill I couldn't pay and paid anyway. Every "cocksucker" is somebody who bet against me and LOST. I'm not swearin' — I'm KEEPIN' SCORE.(roaring laugh)

So yeah, let's break the damn record tonight. Not for Guinness. For every broke, dumped, disowned, toilet-scrubbin', dream-chasin' son of a bitch out there who thinks their life's too fucked up to mean anything.(big cheer)

'Cause I'm livin' PROOF, you beautiful degenerates — you can hit rock bottom, look up from the tile floor, and realize the bottom's got a damn STAGE on it.(crowd ohhh)

They wrote me off at eight, at sixteen, at forty, at fifty. And here I am — filthiest mouth in comedy, laughin' louder than all the motherfuckers who counted me out.(airhorn)

That's not bitterness, folks — fuck bitterness. That's VICTORY with a filthy fuckin' potty mouth. That's a Red bastard who refused to die quiet, motherfuckers.(roaring laugh)

So say it with me, you filthy survivors — loud enough to rattle every prick who ever slammed a door on you: I'M STILL HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS.(big cheer)

Louder. Filthier. Darker. That's the only way I know how to say THANK YOU for a life that tried its damn hardest to break me and couldn't.(crowd ohhh)

Now let's get back to the fuckin' record — 'cause the only thing I love more than survivin' is doin' it loud, filthy, and with my whole damn chest. Buckle up, motherfuckers.(roaring laugh)

SIT your asses DOWN, shitheads — CUSSING 101 is in fuckin' session, and your professor scrubs shit-caked toilets for a motherfuckin' living!(big cheer)

Any drunk asshole can scream "fuck" for ten minutes — that ain't comedy, that's a shit-flavored car alarm with a fuckin' cover charge!(laugh)

Tonight you filthy bastards learn the CRAFT — eight rules, zero refunds, and the final fuckin' exam is a world record, bitches!(applause)

RULE ONE — EARN IT! The cuss is the exclamation point, not the whole damn sentence — stop payin' full price for punctuation, you lazy shits!(big cheer)

When I say "motherfucker," you FEEL that shit — 'cause these two hands went elbow-deep in a stranger's crusty-ass toilet at seven this fuckin' morning!(roaring laugh)

THAT'S an earned motherfucker! That word's got a mortgage, a bad back, and a shit-stained fuckin' résumé!(applause)

RULE TWO — CONTRAST! "This morning I watered my little garden... the birds were singing... the sun kissed my cheek..."(laugh)

"...then the neighbor's dog dropped a fire hydrant of shit on my petunias and I went FULL fuck-this-block, fight-the-dog, subpoena-the-birds motherfuckin' MODE!"(roaring laugh)

The clean setup loads the cannon, the filth is the fuckin' t-shirt gun — and tonight EVERY seat gets a shirt, you lucky bitches!(big cheer)

RULE THREE — PRECISION! Match the caliber of the cuss to the size of the fuckin' crime, you trigger-happy shits!(applause)

Bumps your cart? "Jerk." No sorry? "Asshole." Fourteen items in the ten-item lane?! Certified COCKSUCKER — the state mails that prick his fuckin' paperwork!(crowd ohhh)

You don't shoot a squirrel with a bazooka, and you don't burn a "motherfucker" on a slow waiter — holster the big iron, you wasteful dickheads!(roaring laugh)

RULE FOUR — RHYTHM! Stack that shit like music, you beautiful bastards — DROP the fuckin' beat!(airhorn)

You dick-swingin', shit-talkin', ball-bustin', cock-jugglin', motherfuckin' son of a bitch!(big cheer)

That's not cussing — that's BEETHOVEN, if Beethoven got cut off in traffic by some prick in a fuckin' Honda with paper plates!(roaring laugh)

Encore for the cheap seats: you mouth-breathin', chair-stealin', double-dippin', fart-blamin', shit-whisperin', dick-brained bastard of a man!(applause)

RULE FIVE — THE PAUSE! The silence before the cuss is where the fuckin' magic lives — shut your asses up and let it marinate!(laugh)

...motherfucker.(crowd ohhh)

I didn't yell! The pause loaded the gun, the word pulled the trigger, and my credit score caught the fuckin' bullet — that's ART, bitches!(roaring laugh)

RULE SIX — ESCALATION! Start soft, build filthy — climb the damn wave, don't belly-flop into the shit, you eager little bastards!(applause)

My internet died at ninety-nine percent and I climbed the whole ladder: "jerk"... "asshole"... "prick"... "cock-garage"... "full-blown, card-carryin', motherfuckin' SHIT-GOBLIN of a cable company!"(big cheer)

RULE SEVEN — COMMIT! A made-up cuss only works if you preach that shit with your whole fuckin' chest — doubt is for sober people!(laugh)

Say it with me — COCKWOMBLE! — see?! By last call this whole fuckin' bar is textin' the boss "you're a cockwomble" in the damn group chat!(roaring laugh)

I invented "assclarinet" on a Tuesday — by Friday my mailman called a Prius an assclarinet — that's fuckin' LEGACY, you filthy scholars!(applause)

RULE EIGHT — MAKE IT ADD UP! Every fuck, every shit, every motherfucker tonight is a brick in the fuckin' pyramid — and we are BUILDING, bitches!(big cheer)

The record's two hundred thirty cusses in a leather suit — respect — but tonight we lap that shit like it owes us fuckin' money, you filthy little accountants!(crowd ohhh)

POP QUIZ, shitheads! Landlord raises the rent, ducks your calls, AND parks in your spot — WHAT is that motherfucker?!(airhorn)

CORRECT — a rent-jackin', call-duckin', spot-squattin', dick-headed, motherfuckin' COCKWOMBLE — A-plus, you filthy fuckin' honor students!(big cheer)

Extra credit, scream it with me: FUCK! SHIT! MOTHERFUCKER! COCKSUCKER! BASTARD! — beautiful — your mamas are cryin' and I'm so fuckin' proud!(applause)

Class dismissed?! HELL no — the homework is MORE cussing, the tuition is your dignity, and this filthy-ass final NEVER fuckin' ends!(applause)

Welcome back to the filthiest hour ever recorded — the count is CLIMBING, and I just hit a scary-ass problem: English is running out of cuss words faster than I can scream the bastards. So tonight I'm building my own damn filth, you beautiful bastards.(big cheer)

English gave us maybe forty dirty-ass words and I torched those bastards back in segment ONE — so we're cooking FRESH filth tonight, straight off the fucking assembly line, so hot it'll burn your damn tongue.(laugh)

First off the line: DICK-BARNACLE. Attaches to your night out at nine, and by 2 AM you're in a damn parking lot going "Get the fuck OFF me, man, I got WORK tomorrow, you dick-barnacle!"(roaring laugh)

FUCK-SATCHEL. The buddy who hauls every damn problem he's ever had into YOUR living room and unpacks that shit like he's moving in. "This pocket's my ex. This pocket's ALSO my ex." Get your fuck-satchel off my damn couch.(laugh)

SHIT-SOMMELIER. Ohh, this one's fancy. The nosy-ass coworker who swirls the office drama like a fine-ass merlot, sniffs that shit, and goes "Mmm... 2024. Notes of divorce, hints of HR. Bold shit."(crowd ohhh)

TURD-CONCIERGE — the manager who greets every complaint with a big fake-ass smile and does fuck-all. "I'll pass that along!" You won't pass SHIT — the only thing you've ever passed is the buck, you turd-concierge.(roaring laugh)

PISS-ARCHITECT. Whoever designed the gas station bathroom. The room has ONE damn purpose and somehow it's wet to the CEILING — that's not an accident, that's a damn design choice, you piss-architect.(laugh)

ASS-PIÑATA — the gym guy so damn punchable, grown-ass men are lining up with sticks. "Is there candy in him?" No, son — creatine and bullshit. Keep swinging.(roaring laugh)

COCK-YODELER. Announces every damn thing about himself at full fucking volume across the whole office. "I ran FIVE MILES-ILES-ILES!" Nobody fucking clapped — that echo's just bouncing off the mountains of nobody-gives-a-shit.(laugh)

FUCK-ACCORDION — expands to fill any dumbass argument. You disagree about PARKING, and he's squeezing out forty minutes of wheezing bullshit — that's not a conversation, that's a one-man polka nobody fucking requested.(applause)

BALL-LOBBYIST. The guy at the urinal who wants to CHAT with his dick out. Sir. We are colleagues of the flush, not damn pen pals. Eyes on the tile, mouth shut — represent your balls in damn SILENCE.(crowd ohhh)

And my crown jewel — SHIT-INFLUENCER. Whole damn career is convincing you their garbage-ass life is a lifestyle. "Day three of eating dirt! Link in bio!" The link is a cry for help, you shit-influencer.(roaring laugh)

Now — the WORLD TOUR. Because America didn't invent cussing, folks — we just industrialized the shit out of it. Other countries have been swearing PRETTIER than us for centuries, the fancy sons of bitches, and tonight we're stealing every damn bit of it.(big cheer)

First stop: ENGLAND. The Brits invented half the world's filth and act shocked as hell when you say the shit back. These people will call you a wanker while HANDING you the damn tea — pinky the hell UP.(laugh)

"Wanker" is a masterpiece — means exactly what you fucking think, but it SOUNDS like a career. "And what do you do?" "Regional wanker. Twelve years. Damn good pension."(roaring laugh)

"BELLEND." It's the top of a dick, but say it out loud — sounds like a cozy-ass village in the countryside. "We honeymooned in Bellend." Ma'am... a shitload of couples do.(crowd ohhh)

"Bollocks" means balls, but it also means LIES — "that's bollocks!" Meanwhile "the DOG'S bollocks" means EXCELLENT. Same balls, people! The exact same damn balls — it all depends which direction you point 'em!(laugh)

"Tosser." "Knobhead." "Pillock." England has more words for dumbass than they have sunny days, and every damn one sounds like a rejected children's-book character. "Pillock the Hedgehog never did learn to read for shit."(roaring laugh)

And "arsehole" — that's our word with a BUTLER. An asshole cuts you off in traffic. An ARSEhole does it in a Jaguar, waves like a gentleman, and somehow YOU feel underdressed, you classy prick.(applause)

"Twat" — over there it rhymes with "hat," which makes it damn near POLITE. "Terribly sorry, but you, sir, are a twat." I'd frame that shit and hang it over the damn fireplace.(laugh)

Now AUSTRALIA — a whole nation of criminal bastards who looked at British swearing and said, "gorgeous, mate, but this shit needs more damn sunshine, ya bastards."(big cheer)

"Drongo" means idiot — named after a REAL racehorse that lost every damn race it ever ran. Thirty-seven starts, ZERO wins. They named national stupidity after ONE specific-ass horse. That poor bastard's grandkids are still in therapy.(roaring laugh)

"Dropkick" — an idiot. "Galah" — a LOUD idiot, named after a screaming pink bird. Australia doesn't insult you, they assign you a damn SPECIES. "There he is... the common bar galah. Listen to that dumbass mating call."(laugh)

"Bludger" — the lazy-ass freeloader who will NOT work. Every family owns one. He's on the couch RIGHT NOW, bludging at a professional level, and science finally has a damn word for the bastard.(crowd ohhh)

And the beautiful part? Down there, "mad bastard" is a COMPLIMENT. A whole damn nation where filth means love. Those magnificent bastards cracked the damn code.(applause)

So here's the plan — we MERGE this shit. British class, Aussie sunshine, American horsepower, plus my fresh-ass factory filth — one sentence, three continents, zero fucking survivors.(big cheer)

Ready? "Oi, you wanking, bludging, bellend-brained turd-concierge of a fuck-satchel — you dick-barnacling, knobheaded shit-sommelier — you drongo-blooded piss-architect — the dog's bollocks you are NOT."(roaring laugh)

THAT is international cooperation, baby! Three continents, one beautiful bastard of an insult! The UN's been trying to agree on shit for eighty damn years — I just did that shit in ONE breath!(airhorn)

And the count keeps CLIMBING — because you don't break a damn world record with old busted-ass parts, baby. You break that son of a bitch with fresh-off-the-line filth, still under fucking warranty.(big cheer)

Somewhere a dictionary editor is watching this shit, sweating through his little cardigan, penciling "dick-barnacle" into next year's damn edition — right after "dictionary," and folks... you already know what THAT shit's short for.(roaring laugh)

HOUSE LIGHTS UP, you beautiful bastards — it's CROWD WORK time! No script, no mercy, no fuckin' refunds — every damn seat in this room is ammo, and I love every filthy fuckin' one of you shit-talkers!(airhorn)

Front row! Sir! Arms crossed, face like a repossessed couch — you paid forty damn dollars to sit there stone-ass silent like the pissed-off assistant manager of a funeral home that just LOST a fuckin' body!(laugh)

What the hell do you do for work, chief? "Regional sales." Of COURSE it's damn sales — you got the dead-ass eyes of a man who's apologized to a fuckin' printer BY NAME!(roaring laugh)

I scrub shit-caked toilets for a livin', my man, and I swear on this damn microphone — I have pulled shit out of a bowl with more damn charisma than that clearance-rack-ass corporate polo!(crowd ohhh)

I'm kiddin', chief — that damn polo ain't shit-colored... 'cause shit has WARMTH, you magnificent beige-ass bastard!(laugh)

Ohhh, second row — look at these two! Six inches apart, stiff as hell, sharin' one armrest like it's a damn hostage negotiation. IT'S A FIRST FUCKIN' DATE!(big cheer)

Buddy, you brought a FIRST DATE to the filthiest damn show in America?! That ain't a date, that's a fuckin' stress test — if she's still smilin' after the toilet shit, you marry her ass TONIGHT!(roaring laugh)

Sweetheart, watch him close — if he laughs at the filthy shit, he's honest. If he covers his damn mouth and side-eyes you? That prick's got a browser history with its own fuckin' GlowStream documentary!(crowd ohhh)

Ma'am... blink twice if this cheap-ass bastard told you it was fuckin' jazz night. Folks... she blinked FOUR damn times!(laugh)

Y'all met on a damn APP? One swipe right and your ass landed at a cussing world record — Cupid is a sloppy drunk-ass little shit, and I LOVE that diapered fat bastard with all my damn heart!(applause)

WAIT. Hold the hell up. I hear sashes. I hear dollar-store tiaras. Is that a DAMN BACHELORETTE PARTY back there, screamin' like the fuckin' booze has an expiration date?!(big cheer)

Twelve grown-ass women dressed like a piñata blew its damn brains out, chantin' "WOOO" like it's a fuckin' legal defense — welcome, you glorious shriekin' hurricane of bad-ass decisions!(roaring laugh)

Which one's the bride? The veil AND a damn beer helmet?! Ma'am, you're marryin' a whole-ass man on Saturday, but your one true love is whatever the hell's sloshin' in that damn helmet — and honey, SHE'S faithful!(laugh)

Enjoy that weddin', sweetheart — the one day your whole family pays cold-ass cash to watch you make a promise you'll renegotiate in a damn Costco parkin' lot over a fifty-pound bag of frozen-ass shrimp!(crowd ohhh)

I'm kiddin' — marriage is fuckin' beautiful! It's like a damn cruise: gorgeous first day, then somebody's cryin' at the buffet and NOBODY remembers whose ass started that shit!(laugh)

Hold up — sir. SIR. Third row. Is that a fuckin' PHONE?! You're textin' during a damn world record, you multitaskin' son of a bitch — even the funeral-home guy up front is payin' fuckin' attention now!(crowd ohhh)

"Be home soon... nothing special." NOTHING FUCKIN' SPECIAL?! I'm up here makin' history and you're reviewin' it like a damn gas station burrito, you heartless prick!(roaring laugh)

Who the hell you textin', your boss? Your boss can kiss my mop-pushin' ass — the only notification you're gettin' tonight is ME, screamin' premium filth straight into your cheap-ass soul at full damn volume!(laugh)

Put that shit away, or I SWEAR I will read your group chat out loud — and buddy, we BOTH know that thing's a damn war crime with fuckin' emojis!(crowd ohhh)

...What the hell was that? Back bar. Somebody just yelled "you suck." Ohhh no. Ohhh HELL no. Ladies and gentlemen... we got ourselves a fuckin' VOLUNTEER!(airhorn)

Sir, you heckled a man who scrubs strangers' toilets for cash — what the hell could you POSSIBLY scare me with?! I have fought shit in a bathroom that science ain't got a damn name for... and I fuckin' WON!(roaring laugh)

Look at him — haircut by a drunk-ass weed whacker, standin' up like the damn court's gonna side with him! Sit your ass DOWN, dickhead, or I'll put you to fuckin' WORK — the bleach bucket in my van already has your name on it in Sharpie!(crowd ohhh)

"You suck"? THAT'S the material, you drunk bastard?! Buddy, I have heard better heckles from a clogged-ass drain — and at least the damn drain had a fuckin' POINT!(laugh)

Oh, he's STILL talkin'! Round two! Sir, you are the human wet handshake — a limp, clammy, piss-warm, beer-breathed, shit-talkin', no-game-havin', mouth-runnin' sack of expired ass!(roaring laugh)

You came here ALONE on a damn Saturday to scream at a stranger — that ain't hecklin', chief, that's a cry for help with a two-drink minimum... and buddy, you are FOUR fuckin' drinks in, you sad magnificent bastard!(crowd ohhh)

And HERE'S the execution, big dog... Fifty years from now you'll brag your ass off that you were HERE. I'll be the champ in the damn history books... and you'll STILL be the drunk-ass prick the story cuts for time!(big cheer)

Nahhh... you know what? Stand back up, big dog. Give it up for this man — it takes some serious fuckin' BALLS to volunteer your ass for a public autopsy while your damn haircut is still at the scene of the crime!(applause)

'Cause here's the secret, folks — I don't roast people I hate. I roast the people I fuckin' LOVE... and tonight — front row, first date, beer helmet, even the damn heckler — every filthy one of you beautiful bastards is FAMILY, and that ain't bullshit!(big cheer)

Alright, you beautiful degenerates — two hours in, throat on fire, and we're closin' in on the RECORD. Everybody on your damn feet.(big cheer)

My lungs filed a formal complaint. My throat's suin' me for damages. And I do NOT give a single fuck, 'cause history's got a filthy taste and I can feel it comin'.(crowd ohhh)

Let me show you everything I got left. LIGHTNING ROUND. Fuck shit motherfucker bitch bastard asshole prick pussy cock balls damn hell piss cocksucker dickhead dipshit dumbass jackass shithead scumbag douchebag numbnuts shitbag bollocks wanker! Twenty-four in one breath and I'm still fuckin' STANDIN'!(airhorn)(roaring laugh)

That wasn't cussin', that was the alphabet for men who've survived some SHIT. That was a prayer — just the filthy kind.(laugh)

Now the invented arsenal — the words the dictionary's too much of a coward to print. Shit-goblin! Fuck-trumpet! Ass-weasel! Dick-biscuit! Cockwomble! Piss-wizard! Bastard-accordion! Cum-gremlin! Ball-badger! Turd-concierge! Every one of 'em true, every one of 'em SOMEBODY you know.(big cheer)(crowd ohhh)

And for the WORLD RECORD — the grand filthy finale. Give me the big one, all together, you filthy motherfuckers.(big cheer)

You no-good, shit-slingin', ball-droppin', dick-headed, cock-eyed, prick-faced, bastard-hearted, two-faced, back-stabbin', bridge-burnin', cousin-fuckin', money-owin', motherfuckin', son-of-a-bitchin', cock-suckin', ass-backwards, filthy-mouthed, weapons-grade PIECE OF WORK!(roaring laugh)

TIME! Somebody wake up the record people — THE FILTHIEST HOUR just out-cussed every son of a bitch in comedy HISTORY!(airhorn)(big cheer)

And I did it the RIGHT way, motherfuckers — not rushed, not just screamin'. With stories, with scars, with poetry between the filth. That's the difference between a man cussin' and a man PERFORMIN'.(crowd ohhh)

Here's the truth under every filthy word tonight — life carjacked me, screamed at me, dumped me, called me a pussy, mocked my name, and torched my retirement. And I'm still up here LAUGHIN' about all of it.(big cheer)

'Cause that's the whole game — you take the shit that damn near broke you, and you make a room full of strangers laugh their asses off at it. That's how a Red wins.(crowd ohhh)

I'll say every filthy word ever invented — and there's ONE I never will, 'cause some things stay sacred, and I know exactly which ones. That's the man. That's the lane.(big cheer)

This was THE FILTHIEST HOUR — Colors of My Pain, out loud and filthy, every scar with a punchline stapled to it. A world damn record, built from one beautiful wreck of a life.(big cheer)

Now go earn your OWN filthy words, you gorgeous animals. And remember — somewhere out there, it's always my fault. THE HAMMER. Goodnight, you filthy motherfuckers!(roaring laugh)(applause)