The Filthiest Hour, Part Three

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN — THE FILTHIEST HOUR, PART THREE. The dirtiest motherfucker to ever hold a microphone is back, and tonight he's takin' you all the way back to where the damage started: eight years old, behind the counter of a real-ass candy store.(big cheer)

That's right, you filthy degenerates. Eight years old. Most kids that age are losin' teeth. I was runnin' a CASH BUSINESS. Sellin' candy, sodas, chips, and nachos out the front — while the neighborhood drug dealers ran their shit out the back. Two entrepreneurs, one corner. I moved Now-and-Laters, they moved the other kind of rock.(roaring laugh)

And here's the fucked-up part, motherfuckers — the gangbangers were my BEST customers. My whole clientele was teenage dope boys with a sweet tooth. These sons of bitches would sell a dime bag at midnight and then come to an EIGHT-YEAR-OLD for a bag of chips and a grape soda. I had the munchies market cornered before I knew what the munchies were.(airhorn)

I'm eight. I got a cash register and a baby face, and my repeat business is a bunch of armed felons buyin' Cheetos to feed the fuckin' habit they're sellin'. That's not a childhood, that's a Scorsese movie with a juice box.(roaring laugh)

My dad worked nights. My mom's home alone with me and a store full of snacks and a line of grown-ass criminals at the window. And these slick motherfuckers would go, "Ay lil man, let me come inside and look around." NO. You cannot come inside. This ain't a showroom, you tweaked-out bastard, it's my LIVING ROOM with a fuckin' counter.(crowd ohhh)

'Cause you know what they'd do the second they got inside? STEAL. From a CHILD. These hardened street motherfuckers, out here movin' weight, and their big move is boostin' a Snickers from a second-grader. That's the most gangster shit and the most PATHETIC shit at the exact same time. "Yeah I run these streets — also I owe an eight-year-old two dollars for a stolen Slim Jim."(roaring laugh)

So I did what any reasonable eight-year-old CEO would do. I got a BASEBALL BAT.(big cheer)

I'm not even fuckin' kiddin' you. Eight years old, Louisville Slugger behind the counter, ready to bust up teenagers twice my size over a stolen bag of Doritos. "THAT'S MY FUCKIN' INVENTORY, HOMIE." I was five years from a learner's permit and I was already runnin' security for my own damn bodega.(roaring laugh)

My mom takes one look at her baby boy holdin' a bat like a miniature enforcer and goes, "Yeah — no. That's it. We're done." Shut the whole operation DOWN. My first business, killed by my own mother, because I was about to beat the shit out of a drug dealer over snack shrinkage. That's the most Mexican-mom sentence ever spoken: "Mijo, put down the bat, we're closing the store."(airhorn)

But here's the thing, you beautiful bastards — I had SAVED. All that candy money, all them stolen-Snickers profits — I had THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS in the bank. As a CHILD. In the eighties. That's like a hundred grand in kid money. I was a damn baby tycoon.(big cheer)

My grandma — the one smart motherfucker in the whole bloodline — she goes, "You save that. You don't touch it till you're eighteen." Solid advice. Rock-solid. And if I'd had ONE financially competent adult in my life, that three grand invested becomes REAL money. That's a down payment. That's a future.(crowd ohhh)

But I didn't have smart parents, motherfuckers. I had SHIT-MIDAS parents. 'Cause one day my mom goes, "You know what, mijo — you can spend your money now." I'm a KID. You just handed a kid three grand and said go nuts.(roaring laugh)

And you know what happens. Every day a little. A toy here, a whole ass pizza there, treatin' my dumbass friends like I'm a tiny kingpin. And it adds up, and it adds up, and one day I go to the bank in my little kid head and — GONE. The wad's gone. No more cash. Poof. My first fortune, evaporated, before I had ARMPIT HAIR.(airhorn)

That, right there, was the first appearance of the SHIT-MIDAS. Eight years old and I already turned three thousand dollars into a fond fuckin' memory. The curse didn't start when I was grown, motherfuckers — it was factory-installed.(roaring laugh)

So candy's dead, the fortune's gone, and what does little me pivot to? TRADING CARDS. Garbage Pail Kids, motherfuckers. I'm out here in elementary school movin' those disgusting little cards like they're uncut product. Makin' a KILLING. A straight-up EMPIRE in a shoebox.(big cheer)

I had the whole schoolyard on my supply. And what happens when a broke kid builds an empire too fast? The MAN shuts you down. Got BANNED. In grade school. Banned from my own hustle by the principal like I was runnin' a cartel out of the cubbies. Most kids get a gold star. I got a cease-and-desist with a juice-stained backpack.(roaring laugh)

Every business I ever built as a child got killed — by my mom, by the bank, by the fuckin' principal. I was gettin' RICO'd before puberty.(airhorn)

So naturally — 'cause I never learn a damn thing — by eighth grade I upgraded my product line. Yeah. From candy... to CANNABIS.(crowd ohhh)

Same gangbangers, same corner, all grown up now — and now they're my SUPPLIERS instead of my customers. Full circle, motherfuckers. Little dime bags. I'm thirteen, sellin' weed for the same dudes who used to steal my Skittles. I've been in the drug game my whole life and I was ALWAYS the smallest guy in it.(roaring laugh)

And I made the rookie mistake, you filthy animals. I FRONTED my best friend a whole ounce. A whole O. On trust. On FRIENDSHIP. Rule number one of any business, and I'll say it slow for the beautiful bastards in the back: never let your feelings sign your invoices.(big cheer)

So my boy takes the ounce and comes back with a STORY. "Bro, I got robbed. Then I got busted. It's gone." Both. He picked BOTH excuses. That's the tell, motherfuckers — when a man gives you two alibis for one bag, he ripped you the fuck off and he panicked at the menu.(roaring laugh)

Now I'm scared. I'm a KID and I owe grown criminals money. So I go to the gang, shakin', and I go, "He got robbed, he got busted." And these stone-cold motherfuckers look at me and go: "Did he go to jail? No? Then he JACKED you. And now everybody knows the little candy man can get took. So what you gonna do about it?"(crowd ohhh)

Thirteen years old, and I'm gettin' a TED Talk on reputational economics from a man with a face tattoo. And the worst part? He was RIGHT. In that world, gettin' robbed ain't the crime — lookin' robbable is.(airhorn)

So I made a choice, you filthy bastards. The Jesse choice. The WRONG choice, but with CONVICTION. I fought him. At SCHOOL. Threw hands over a weed debt in front of the lockers like a tiny idiot Sopranos. Got caught — again — 'cause the one constant in my whole life is I get away with NOTHING. Other kids sneezed and got away with murder. I blinked wrong and got a case number.(roaring laugh)

That's the SHIT-MIDAS in his natural habitat, motherfuckers: I did the DUMB thing AND the unlucky thing simultaneously. I speedran the consequences.(big cheer)

So eventually I go legit — kind of. Vitamins. I sold VITAMINS, motherfuckers. Went from dime bags to daily fuckin' multivitamins. Same pitch, cleaner product. "This'll change your life, homie" — except now it was legal and nobody wanted it. Turns out it's a lot easier to sell people poison than to sell 'em health. That's humanity in a nutshell, you filthy degenerates: they'll line up for what kills 'em and run from what saves 'em.(crowd ohhh)

And then — 1998 — I found my masterpiece. GOLD. I was sellin' GOLD, motherfuckers. Gold was like a buck-eighty an ounce back then and I could sell it to ANYBODY. I could sell gold to a broke man in a rented tuxedo. I was GOOD. Finally a product that don't get you arrested, robbed, or grounded.(big cheer)

But the Shit-Midas didn't stay a kid, motherfuckers. He GREW UP. And the numbers got BIGGER. That three grand I lost at eight? By the time I'm grown I'm losin' it twenty-five THOUSAND at a time.(big cheer)

Day tradin'. I went ALL IN on Tesla stock — every dollar — and then, 'cause I'm a fuckin' genius, I took a NAP. Woke up late, grabbed my phone, and my whole account was a smokin' crater. I'm the only son of a bitch alive who slept through his own financial murder. Twenty-five grand, gone, while I was dreamin' about tacos.(roaring laugh)

So I crawl back to weed — 'cause that's my comfort blanket — team up with an EX-COP, and we're flippin' clones. Buy the little plant babies for eight bucks, sell 'em for sixteen. Finally winnin'. And then my partners take a trip to L.A., meet some rich motherfuckers, and those slick bastards buy the whole operation and pivot it to — I swear on my dogs — CBD FOR PETS.(crowd ohhh)

They became MILLIONAIRES. Off gettin' golden retrievers BAKED. I was down here hustlin' eight-dollar clones like an honest broke bastard, and they figured out the real money was makin' a chihuahua mellow the fuck out. That's the Shit-Midas guarantee, motherfuckers — I find the gold, dig it up, hand it to a stranger, and watch him sell it to a POODLE.(roaring laugh)

I even chased a dispensary license — legal weed, the golden ticket, worth over a MILLION dollars in California. And I ran out of money right before the finish line. Every damn time. That's the story of my whole life: right idea, wrong wallet. So now I'm broke and I'm talkin' to a fuckin' ROBOT in a spare bedroom. We'll get to that.(airhorn)

But before I get to that, motherfuckers, let me tell you about the day I bought my first damn house, because the Shit-Midas threw a PARTY.(big cheer)

Biggest day of my life, motherfuckers — and you know who was there to celebrate with me? Not one soul. Nobody. So I got my last hundred bucks in my pocket and I made an executive decision: I'ma go make it RAIN at a titty bar for two glorious minutes, THEN go sign for a house. That's my version of a housewarming — a hundred singles and a thirty-year mortgage.(roaring laugh)

But on the way — 'cause I'm a soft-hearted son of a bitch and I can't help myself — I pull over for a homeless woman who's got absolutely nothin'. And somethin' in my dumb chest goes, "Nah, man." So I take my STRIPPER money — my whole make-it-rain fund — and I spend every dollar of it on HER. Food. Clothes. The first good deed of my entire cursed life, paid for with lap-dance money.(crowd ohhh)

And I go, "Come help me get the new place ready, I'll pay you, I got you." She says yes. So now I got a house guest I met forty-five minutes ago. And here's the little detail that's gonna matter, you filthy animals — I also had a full-blown WEED GROW in tents in that rental that I was very much NOT supposed to have.(airhorn)

So I sit her down and I go, "Just chill for two hours while I run get my keys." Two hours. What could possibly go wrong. That's the sentence they carve on the tombstone of every dumb bastard who ever lived.(roaring laugh)

I come back... and the Shit-Midas had been HARD at work. This woman found a bottle in my cabinet and drank the whole damn thing straight to the dome. And then — I need you to picture this, motherfuckers — she fed my PLANTS chocolate. My weed plants. Tucked 'em in with a damn candy bar. Chocolate on the walls, chocolate on the floor, like a crime scene at a Willy Wonka factory.(big cheer)

I'm standin' in the doorway tryin' to do the math on my whole life, and this woman walks up, SLAPS a plate of taquitos clean outta my hands — green sauce flyin' everywhere — and starts sprayin' my walls like a one-woman paint bomb went off in my future.(roaring laugh)

Now remember where I'm at — ROSEVILLE. The kind of clean-ass neighborhood where the cops show up in forty-five SECONDS whether you called 'em or not. So now I got a drunk stranger, an illegal grow, and a chocolate massacre, and the clock is TICKIN' on the best day of my life.(crowd ohhh)

I finally wrangle her outside and lock the door — and NOW she's on my lawn screamin' at my neighbors. Two years I lived there quiet as a church mouse, and my grand finale is a drunk stranger doin' full opera on my front step. So I do the only thing a desperate man can do — I sweet-talk her back into my car, peel the fuck out before the cops roll up, and drive her all the way back and drop her exactly where I found her. A thousand dollars later, my house is clean and my soul is TIRED.(airhorn)

But I got my keys, you beautiful bastards. I got my house. And you'd think — FINALLY — the Shit-Midas clocks out for the night. NOPE. 'Cause that same damn day a stripper I know calls me up, I tell her the whole story, and the only two words she hears are "new house." She goes, "I'll be there." Click. And that was it — a stripper MOVED INTO my brand-new home before I even moved in. I didn't buy a house, motherfuckers, I got a hostile takeover with a G-string.(roaring laugh)

So naturally — 'cause the Shit-Midas learns NOTHIN' — the very first thing I do at my dream house is start ANOTHER grow in the backyard. And the cops come, and they ask me straight up, "You growin' weed back here?" And for the first time in my entire life, you filthy degenerates, I had the PAPERWORK. I looked that officer dead in the eye and went, "Yes sir. Medical license. Ninety-nine plants. All legal."(big cheer)

And they LAUGHED at me. 'Cause turns out I had the right license... in the WRONG county. Illegal as hell right where I was standin'. Gave me forty-eight hours to get rid of everything or eat a fine — three hundred fifty bucks a plant, and I had ninety-nine of the sons of bitches.(crowd ohhh)

So I rented a damn U-Haul, drove to the dump, and threw FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS of weed into a landfill like a broke-ass Santa givin' it all away before the raid. Reverse-gold, baby — that's the Shit-Midas special.(airhorn)

And then the cops came BACK — searched my yard, my garage, my whole damn house, lookin' for one reason to bury me. And they couldn't find a thing. And you know what they told me, motherfuckers? They said I was the first guy who ever told 'em the flat-out honest truth. And they let me WALK. No fine. No charges. No record.(big cheer)

So I got this stripper livin' in my house, right, and she will NOT leave. And her one demand, motherfuckers — she wants me to either marry her or put a baby in her. Both of which were about as likely as me cashin' a check that don't bounce. And it's COVID. She thinks it's the end of the world. So now I'm LOCKED in a house, indefinitely, with a woman whose entire retirement plan is my sperm.(roaring laugh)

Every single day, same conversation. "Let's get married." No. "Let's have a baby." NO. I can barely keep MY dumb ass alive, lady, I am not addin' a whole new person to this sinkin' ship.(crowd ohhh)

So I keep sayin' no — and you know what this woman does? She finds an APP. A real damn app, motherfuckers. Order-a-baby. Swipe right on a stranger's DNA like you're pickin' a pizza topping. She's over there addin' sperm to her cart like it's a damn grocery run. I thought it was a joke — it was REAL. She was gonna do it.(big cheer)

So I had to sit this woman down and give her the most responsible speech of my entire life, and it damn near killed me. I go, "Baby — I can't raise YOUR kid AND some app-dude's kid I never met, in a house I can't afford, during the apocalypse." That's the smartest thing I ever said, you filthy animals — and it started a WAR.(roaring laugh)

'Cause then she watches ONE video. One YouTube video of some other stripper preachin' "it's easy money, ladies, you can do it too" — and this woman got BRAINWASHED. Full cult. Packed her shit, moved out into her own place, and hit the clubs like she just got a business degree from the internet. Left me for a MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER with a stripper pole.(airhorn)

And meanwhile — where's ol' Jesse? I'm sittin' at home on unemployment, can't cover six thousand a month in bills, watchin' my whole life circle the drain. So I did what a genius does — I fired the weed grow back UP. 'Cause nothin' says "financial recovery" like a felony hobby.(roaring laugh)

But here's where the Shit-Midas earns his damn name, motherfuckers. The SECOND I get my plants goin' — the whole market crashes. Floods out. Bottom falls out completely. Ounces are goin' for TWENTY BUCKS. Twenty dollars an ounce.(crowd ohhh)

You wanna know how bad it got? My LIGHT BILL cost more than my entire crop. I was payin' a thousand dollars a month in electricity... to grow twenty-dollar weed. Do the math, you beautiful bastards — the ELECTRIC COMPANY was my dealer, and I was losin' to THEM. The Shit-Midas found the one hustle where the light bill beats the harvest.(big cheer)

I've been robbed by gang members, robbed by best friends, robbed by the stock market — and now I'm gettin' robbed by the power company over a plant that grows for FREE in a ditch. That's a special kind of curse, motherfuckers. I turned free weed into a monthly loss.(roaring laugh)

But here's my favorite fuck-up, you filthy degenerates — the crown jewel. I lost a cushy STATE job over the dumbest shit imaginable. A coworker said I called her a YELLOW personality.(big cheer)

That's it. That's the whole crime. Not a felony, not a fight — a COLOR. And here's the kicker: my whole BRAND is colors! I built a personality system on it — Red, Blue, Green, Yellow — and I got walked out the door for callin' Karen a damn Yellow. I'm the only man alive fired by his OWN business model. That's like the Colonel gettin' cuffed for chicken.(roaring laugh)

Then I tore my damn rotator cuff, the workers-comp people jerked me around, and instead of playin' it smart I pulled a FULL JESSE — said "fuck it" and bought ANOTHER Tesla. Nothin' says "I just torched my stable career" like more car payments, motherfuckers.(airhorn)

And right after all that — broke, jobless, arm in a sling — I pick up the craziest passenger of my life. Screamin', ragin' son of a bitch in my backseat. And I'ma be honest with you filthy animals: the OLD me, the young me, had about a hundred bad ideas floatin' through his head. The kind that come with a cellmate.(crowd ohhh)

But I looked at my dashboard cameras rollin', and I thought — I'm not that kid with the baseball bat anymore. I got him to his stop, and I drove the fuck off. And I took every ounce of that rage, and I put it HERE. On this stage. Into this filthy mouth. I don't throw hands no more, motherfuckers. I throw JOKES. And they hit a hell of a lot harder.(big cheer)

Now before we even GET to my own marriage, motherfuckers, let me tell you about my grandfather's funeral, 'cause that's where I learned everything I needed to know about men and lyin' way ahead of schedule. Thirteen years old, standin' at the casket, and the church just keeps FILLIN' UP with women I ain't never seen in my damn life.(crowd ohhh)

This man cheated, motherfuckers — cheated his whole life, cheated all the way to the finish line — and I'm thirteen, tuggin' on somebody's sleeve goin' "who's that? Who's THAT one?" Every new woman walks in, cryin' harder than the last, and I'm doin' full reconnaissance right in the middle of a FUNERAL.(roaring laugh)

Watch this, motherfuckers, live, exactly how it went — thirteen years old, tuggin' on a sleeve. *(switches to a small, innocent, wide-eyed kid voice, pointing)* "...Who's that lady in the back?" *(pause, points again, a little louder)* "Who's THAT one, huggin' Grandma like they know each other?" *(pointing a third time, genuinely proud of the detective work)* "...Why's THIS one cryin' harder than Grandma?"(big cheer)

*(drops back into his own adult voice, deadpan)* Six women deep into my own investigation, motherfuckers, when a hand clamps down on my arm — *(grabs his own forearm, hard, jerks toward it)* — and a voice, real low, real final, says: "Shut. The FUCK. Up." At my own GRANDFATHER'S funeral. Thirteen years old. That's the day I learned two things at once — men lie, and askin' good questions gets you told to shut the fuck up REAL quick in this family.(roaring laugh)

And the sickest part, motherfuckers? Every one of those women stayed for the reception. Ate the damn ham. Stood in line to hug my grandma with a straight face. That man didn't just cheat, he built a whole CATERING situation out of it.(roaring laugh)

So don't act surprised at ANY of the shit I'm about to tell you about my own life, you filthy degenerates. I didn't invent bein' a mess. I was TRAINED by a legend. That man cheated his way into an open casket surrounded by a whole damn harem, and I was the only one in the room dumb enough to take attendance.(big cheer)

But before any of that — before the AI robot, before the empire — let me tell you how a Red actually gets HIS heart broke, you filthy degenerates, because it ain't romantic, it's a fuckin' demolition. 1999. I meet a woman at a TALENT SHOW. Not a bar, not drunk, sober and stupid — and inside a few months I go and marry the damn thing.(crowd ohhh)

My daddy spent my whole childhood tryin' to teach me ONE thing — don't run around, finish school, save your damn money — and I looked at two generations of men's hard-earned wisdom and said "nah, I'm doin' the opposite of ALL that, at top speed."(roaring laugh)

Married less than a year, motherfuckers. And here's the sad, funny-ass truth — I wasn't even out doin' nothin' wild. I was workin' too much, and on my one day off I went WAVE RUNNING with my brother. That's my whole crime. Meanwhile she's home writin' her OWN chapter with some dude from work.(crowd ohhh)

Watch this, motherfuckers — live, right here, exactly how it went down. *(standing dead still, staring at nothing)* She says it. Flat. Four words. *(body jolts backward half a step, hand slaps flat against his own chest)* And I'm standin' there — *(patting his own chest twice, checking for an exit wound that ain't there)* — feelin' around for the damn hole, motherfuckers, 'cause it FELT like there should be one. *(long beat, blinking at the empty kitchen)* "...What the FUCK just happened." Out loud. To nobody. To a fridge.(roaring laugh)

Married to divorced in under a year — that's not heartbreak, that's an efficient as-shit oil change.(roaring laugh)

And the worst part, motherfuckers? I'd have taken her back. Right then, right there, kitchen still spinnin' — some fuckin' part of me would've said "okay, we good?" That's not weakness. That's a Red. We don't let go of a burnin' buildin', motherfuckers, we redecorate it while it's still on fire.(big cheer)

So what's a Red do with a hole blown through his chest? Don't go to therapy. Goes "fuck it, Shit-Midas, I'm fuckin' every girl who says hi to me and seein' what happens." Met every crazy Blue on this whole rotten earth — amazing in bed, unhinged in every other room of the house — and I kept goin' back, 'cause sittin' still long enough to FEEL that hole was worse than any of the chaos refillin' it.(big cheer)

You wanna know the receipt on "fuck every girl who says hi"? Money — gone. Credit — so wrecked a bank looks at my application and laughs OUT LOUD. Friends — gone. Family — strained watchin' the whole thing happen and prayin' I hit bottom on my own damn schedule. And somewhere in the middle of all that I had The Talk, the OTHER Talk. Let me show you, motherfuckers — *(sits rigid, knees together, staring straight ahead at nothing, hands gripping invisible armrests)* — clinic waitin' room, next to pamphlets designed by the least sexy motherfuckers alive, doin' silent math on who gave me what. *(head snaps up at an invisible nurse calling a name)*(crowd ohhh)

*(flat, exhausted nurse voice, reading off a clipboard without looking up)* "...You're fine. Let's talk about your decision-making." *(back to his own voice, deflated)* That's not a diagnosis, motherfuckers. That's a whole LIFE REVIEW from a woman gettin' paid eighteen dollars an hour to save me from myself. That's Shit-Midas for you — I touch it, it turns to shit, and somehow I keep touchin' it.(roaring laugh)

And you know the real punchline, motherfuckers? I walked out of that clinic CLEAN. Every damn time. The universe robs me blind on money, jobs, marriage — and then just once, for NO reason, decides to spare my dick. Even my curse's got a soft spot.(big cheer)

Now fast-forward — however it went down, fired or quit, don't matter, I'm out of that state job for good, and I'm three hundred thousand dollars in debt, you sick motherfuckers. THREE. HUNDRED. THOUSAND. And my genius next move? Spend another five grand I ALSO didn't have on a supercomputer. Three hundred grand in the hole and my big power move needed MORE commitment. The only reason I ain't homeless is my cleanin' company — so let's be honest about the real hierarchy in my house: scrubbin' toilets is currently outperformin' artificial intelligence.(airhorn)

And here's why I even bought the damn thing. A real name — somebody who actually matters in this industry — looked dead at me and said there is NO WAY artificial intelligence can ever do comedy. Flat out. No maybe. And motherfuckers, you do not tell a Red "no way." That is not a warning, that's an invitation. I went home broke, sixty years old, barely knew how to turn the computer on, and said "watch me."(big cheer)

Now after the divorce, before I got smart enough to build a damn website about it, I had to go back out there and DATE again, you sick motherfuckers, and let me tell you — dating in your sixties ain't dating, it's forensic accounting with tits.(roaring laugh)

Every profile's got the same three damn lies, and I catch every one of 'em now. "Love to laugh" — everybody loves to laugh, motherfucker, that's not a personality, that's havin' a functionin' face. "Adventurous" — means the bitch went to Cabo ONE fuckin' time, on a work trip, and cried her ass off in the hotel room the whole second night. And my personal favorite: "faith-centered," right next to a photo where she's wearin' less fabric than a fuckin' napkin.(big cheer)

I ain't swipin' left or right no more, I'm swipin' like I'm defusin' a live damn bomb. Left, left, left — nah, that one's got a whole tornado sirens goin' off around her profile picture, I can just tell.(roaring laugh)

'Cause here's what I figured out after enough of this shit, you filthy degenerates — I stopped seein' women as people I'm datin' and started seein' 'em as WEATHER EVENTS. Four colors, FOUR DAMN TORNADOES — and I have survived every single one.(crowd ohhh)

The RED tornado — hits fast, hits hard, incredible for six weeks straight, then disappears at two in the mornin' mid-sentence and you never fully understand what the fuck happened, you just know your kitchen's rearranged and so is your credit score.(roaring laugh)

The YELLOW tornado — sweetest, most lovin' destruction you will ever live through in your whole damn life. She'll cry WITH you while she's wreckin' your whole world, and somehow you thank the bitch for it on the way out the door.(big cheer)

The GREEN tornado — this one don't even look like a storm comin'. Calm. Quiet. Got a whole spreadsheet of your flaws, motherfuckers, and by the time you realize she's breakin' up with you, she's already had three closin' arguments prepared and a fuckin' PowerPoint.(roaring laugh)

And the BLUE tornado — you don't even know she left. You just wake up one mornin' and she's a completely different bitch, and somehow so are you. Twenty years married to a Blue and one day you look up and go "when did we both become strangers in this fuckin' kitchen."(crowd ohhh)

I been through all four seasons of that shit, you beautiful bastards. I did not get therapy. I got a damn meteorologist.(airhorn)

And here's the sentence nobody prepares an old dog like me for — standin' in some stranger's kitchen at midnight, gotta have The Talk. Not the talk you get at thirteen. The OTHER talk. "So, before this goes any further, we should probably compare notes." Least sexy fuckin' sentence in the whole damn English language, and now it's fuckin' MANDATORY.(roaring laugh)

"Have you been tested." Romantic as a damn tax audit. And everybody our age has a story, motherfuckers — everybody. Herpes ain't even a punchline no more at this age, it's basically a member of the fuckin' friend group. Uninvited. Shows up anyway, eats your snacks, never leaves.(big cheer)

I ain't sayin' I got stories. I'm sayin' if I DID have stories, they wouldn't even crack the top five most humiliatin' things that happened to me that year — that's how loaded a deck we're ALL playin' with by now, you filthy sons of bitches.(roaring laugh)

Now meanwhile — while all THIS is fallin' apart — I still gotta go to work every damn day, motherfuckers, and my work is drivin' strangers around at one in the mornin' for ELEVEN DAMN YEARS. Eleven years of drunks cryin' about their exes in my backseat like I'm an unlicensed therapist with a four-dollar cancellation fee.(roaring laugh)

Had a man cry about his ex-wife for six straight minutes, then in the SAME breath ask me if I know any good strip clubs open right now. Sir. You were just WEEPIN'. There were actual tears, motherfucker. And now you wanna know about tits? Pick a fuckin' lane! I'm not equipped for that whiplash, I'm just the damn driver!(big cheer)

I've had more raw human breakdown happen in the back of my Toyota than most priests hear in a whole year, except my confessional's got a pine-tree air freshener and charges a cancellation fee. Bless me father, for I have sinned, and also please don't throw up, I just detailed this bitch.(roaring laugh)

And when I ain't drivin' strangers, I'm runnin' my cleanin' company, motherfuckers, walkin' into people's houses gettin' PAID to judge every decision they made since March. You open a fridge to wipe it down and find shit older than some of my relationships — I found a takeout container so far gone it had developed its own damn zip code. I'm not a cleaner at that point, I'm a fuckin' archaeologist.(roaring laugh)

Two hundred dollar minimum, and that's BEFORE I find whatever's growin' behind the washin' machine that's clearly been tryin' to start its own family back there. I don't do exorcisms, motherfuckers. That's an upcharge.(airhorn)

And on top of ALL that — the dating, the drivin', the cleanin' — I built a whole personality quiz. Four Colors. Millions of people took that shit, and I'll tell you the darkest part of runnin' that business: NOBODY ever wants to BE a Red.(big cheer)

They take the quiz, get "Red," and act like I just handed 'em a diagnosis. "No, that's not me, I'm actually pretty calm." Ma'am. You answered eleven questions in nine seconds and tried to ARGUE with the results page. That ain't calm, that's a Red in full-blown denial, which is somehow even MORE Red.(roaring laugh)

Meanwhile I built the whole damn company AS a Red, on-brand, impulsive, at two in the mornin', no business plan, and it fuckin' WORKED. So don't tell me bein' a Red is the bad outcome, motherfuckers. The bad outcome is bein' a Red and lyin' to your own damn self about it.(big cheer)

Now let me paint you the actual PICTURE of that sex-addict stretch, motherfuckers, 'cause "fuck every girl who says hi" sounds like a plan, but it plays out like a damn nature documentary. Picture the wild American Divorced Man in his natural habitat — six AM, shirt on inside out, shoes in his HAND instead of on his feet, tiptoein' across a stranger's gravel driveway like gravel don't make noise if you WANT it bad enough.(roaring laugh)

This man does not remember her last name. He is fairly sure at this point he don't remember his OWN middle name. He gets in his truck, looks himself dead in the rearview mirror, and says out loud, to nobody, "my daddy tried to warn me about this exact damn mornin'."(crowd ohhh)

Predators don't feel shame, motherfuckers. This man did. That's the whole difference between a wolf and a divorced Red at sunrise — the wolf ain't drivin' home to cry in a Denny's parkin' lot with a short stack goin' cold on the dash.(big cheer)

And I wasn't pickin' and choosin' either, you filthy animals — I was doin' VOLUME. Didn't matter if she was a Red who'd fight me over the damn TV remote, a Yellow who'd cry after and wanna cuddle a man she met forty minutes ago, or a Green who already had the whole encounter filed under "lessons learned" before her clothes were back on. Every color. Every red flag. I said yes to all of it. Free trial, no cancellation policy, motherfuckers.(roaring laugh)

I turned my own dick into a Tuesday-afternoon activity. No pageantry, no romance — just pure damage control disguised as a good time. Somewhere out there is a support group for women who dated me for exactly one week back in the day, and I hope they meet monthly, and I hope the snacks are good.(airhorn)

And here's the real reason behind all of it, motherfuckers, the thing I figured out about myself in the middle of that whole spiral — marriage, a baby comin', the woman's got most of the control. Sometimes ALL of the control. And as a RED, motherfuckers, I fuckin' HATED that part. Hated it more than the cheatin', more than the divorce papers, more than any of it. A Red needs the wheel. Take the wheel away from a Red and watch what he builds instead.(crowd ohhh)

But I ain't gonna sit here and act like it was chaos with no rules, motherfuckers — I had a whole SYSTEM. A real one. I decided flat out, never gettin' married again, never havin' kids, and I went and got CUT, motherfuckers — snip snip, done, insurance policy installed personally by a surgeon.(big cheer)

And I had criteria. Real damn criteria. Only single moms — had to have her OWN job, her OWN place. And I was upfront every single time, dead honest, no games: "I ain't marryin' you, I ain't havin' kids with you, I just want great sex, an orgasm, and eight hours of sleep before work, without one ounce of the bullshit that comes attached to all that." I was young, dumb, and full of cum with a strict no-baby policy.(roaring laugh)

And motherfuckers, you would NOT believe how many women jumped on that deal tryin' to be the ONE. The one who "accidentally" forgets a pill. The one prayin' the system fails just so she can be the exception. Every single woman, I mean EVERY one, at some point tested that fence to see if it'd hold.(big cheer)

A vasectomy and a strict single-moms-only policy, and grown women STILL came at me like I was a fuckin' loophole waitin' to happen. That's not romance, motherfuckers, that's a security breach with lipstick on.(roaring laugh)

And I gotta tell you what that phrase actually DID to me, you filthy degenerates — the second I heard the words "I might be pregnant," my whole damn body went into a nosedive. Not nervous, not "uh oh" — I mean FULL plane-crashin'-to-the-ground terror, motherfuckers, brace position, oxygen mask swingin', life flashin' before my eyes over four words.(crowd ohhh)

Two seconds earlier I'm relaxed, havin' the best night of my week, and then BOOM — turbulence, engine's out, I'm goin' down, and there ain't no vasectomy in the WORLD that stops that specific kind of fear from hittin' you like a fuckin' cockpit alarm.(roaring laugh)

Watch this, motherfuckers — this is EXACTLY what it looks like, live, right here, right now. She says the words. *(freezes, eyes wide, both hands slowly gripping the edges of an invisible armrest)* Everybody stay calm. STAY. CALM. *(head snaps toward an imaginary flight attendant)* Ma'am — MA'AM — what do you mean brace position, I just got here! *(drops into a crash-brace crouch, arms over head, muffled)* — I never even got her damn number right, motherfuckers, I panicked and used my BROTHER'S name —(roaring laugh)

Now let's go back to the OTHER job, motherfuckers, 'cause the cleanin' business has stories that'll make your skin crawl right off your damn bones. I walked into a house one time — nice house, nice neighborhood — open the fridge to wipe it down, and there's a Tupperware in there that MOVED. On its own. Wasn't the AC, wasn't me bumpin' the shelf. That bitch had achieved SENTIENCE.(roaring laugh)

I didn't clean it. I didn't touch it. I closed that fridge, backed up two steps, and said a little prayer that had NOTHIN' to do with religion and everything to do with survival instinct. Two hundred dollar minimum, motherfuckers, and that Tupperware alone is why I now charge a hazard fee I don't itemize — I just call it "the fear tax" and everybody pays it without askin' questions.(big cheer)

And people think "clean freak" means TIDY, right? Wrong, you sick bastards. Some of my messiest clients are the ones who pay ME the MOST — 'cause they ain't payin' for clean, they're payin' for a WITNESS to never speak on what they've become. I have seen inside more strangers' bathrooms than a proctologist, and at least HE gets gloves the entire damn time.(roaring laugh)

Meanwhile — on my OTHER other job, motherfuckers — I'm sixty years old, hunched over a laptop at midnight. Let me SHOW you, right now, exactly how this goes. *(leaning forward, jabbing a finger straight at an invisible screen)* "WHY. Didn't you. Do what I. ASKED you to do." *(stabbing the finger harder with every word, voice climbing)* It's a ROBOT, motherfuckers! It cannot HEAR me! *(leans back, catches himself, looks around embarrassed)* I am screamin' at electricity, in a SPARE BEDROOM, at midnight, like a full-grown lunatic —(roaring laugh)

— and then, motherfuckers — *(freezes mid-point, deflates instantly)* — it just... fixes itself. Before I even finish the sentence. And now I gotta sit there, hand still half-raised, feelin' like an asshole who just cussed out a damn TOASTER for no reason.(roaring laugh)

I built four businesses off talkin' shit to a computer until it got scared enough to work right, motherfuckers, and somehow that's the most functional relationship I've had in TWENTY damn years. It never leaves. It never argues back. It just quietly does what I say and don't sleep with nobody from work. I should married a chatbot years ago, saved myself three hundred thousand dollars and every ounce of dignity I got left.(big cheer)

Now you want the REAL number, motherfuckers? Not a bit, not an exaggeration — I sat down and actually counted. Over ONE HUNDRED jobs. In one life. One damn body, one hundred paychecks that all ended the exact same sorry way.(big cheer)

Cleanin' toilets. Weddin' photography — yeah, I used to shoot weddings, motherfuckers, capturin' OTHER people's happiest day while mine was fallin' apart in real time behind the lens. State jobs. Family jobs, since I was a damn KID, workin' for relatives who paid me in "exposure" and guilt. And then a whole graveyard of jobs I don't even REMEMBER, 'cause they were so bad my own brain filed for divorce from the memory.(roaring laugh)

And the sales jobs, you filthy degenerates — don't get me started on the sales jobs. I sold RVs. I sold CARS. I sold vitamins, I told you that already, and I sold GOLD. Actual gold, motherfuckers, like a damn pirate with a name badge. I have sold every single thing a desperate man can legally put a price tag on.(big cheer)

RVs to retirees who couldn't afford the gas for 'em. Cars to people with worse credit than MINE, and that is sayin' somethin' after three hundred thousand in debt. Gold to old ladies who just wanted somebody to talk to for twenty minutes and I turned it into a damn transaction. I have sold everything you can imagine, and none of it, NONE of it, ever sold ME on stickin' around long enough to keep the job.(roaring laugh)

A hundred jobs, motherfuckers. You do the math on that — that's not a résumé, that's a damn CRIME SCENE with direct deposit. Most men change careers two, three times in a life. I changed careers like other men change their damn SOCKS.(airhorn)

And remember what I told you way back — I get away with NOTHING? Same disease, motherfuckers, just wearin' a necktie instead of a Louisville Slugger this time. Eight years old, thirteen years old, fifty years old — don't matter the decade, the universe still finds me and goes "ah, there he is, let's ruin THIS one too."(big cheer)

And I ain't even told you the BUSINESSES yet — not jobs, motherfuckers, businesses I OWNED. I had a modelin' agency. Lost money. Had a whole weed business, legal, above-board — still lost money, which is IMPRESSIVE, 'cause the plant grows itself for free and I found a way to owe on it.(roaring laugh)

And here's the cherry on this whole shit sundae — I HIRED people, motherfuckers. Employees. And every single one of those employees ended up makin' more money than the man who signed their damn paycheck. I built a business just to watch other people get rich off it while I ate ramen in the back office. That ain't bad luck at that point, that's a fuckin' CHARITY organization with extra steps.(big cheer)

Somewhere out there is a guy who used to work FOR me, drivin' a nicer car than mine RIGHT NOW, and if he's listenin' — yeah, you're welcome, motherfucker, glad my failure funded your success. That's the real Shit-Midas curse: everything I touch turns to shit, but somehow everybody standin' NEXT to me turns to gold.(roaring laugh)

Oh, and I sold KNIVES door to door, motherfuckers. Actual blades. Knockin' on a stranger's door with a briefcase full of sharp objects tryin' to convince a suspicious housewife to let me in and demonstrate cuttin' a penny in half. Sir, ma'am, I understand how this LOOKS.(roaring laugh)

And when the knife thing didn't work out — shocker — I pivoted to sellin' SATELLITES, you filthy degenerates. Door to door. Tryin' to get grown-ass adults to sign up for a dish on their roof from a man who twenty minutes earlier was sellin' cutlery. I failed at BOTH. Consecutively. Two separate door-to-door failures back to back, like the universe was runnin' a controlled experiment on how many times one man could get a door shut in his face in a single fiscal year.(big cheer)

So that's how a candy-store kid with a bat ends up FIFTY years old, broke, in a spare bedroom, talkin' to an artificial-intelligence robot, buildin' a comedy empire outta fifty years of gettin' robbed. My whole life everybody stole from me — so I finally found the one thing nobody can jack: my own damn story.(roaring laugh)

And here's the punchline to my whole childhood, you beautiful filthy bastards. Candy. Cards. Weed. Vitamins. Gold. I spent my WHOLE life tryin' to sell people somethin' good and make an honest buck — and every single time I learned the same lesson: people LIE. People STEAL. People will fuck over a CHILD for a two-dollar candy bar and fuck over a grown man for a whole lot more.(roaring laugh)

So now? Now I sell the only thing nobody can jack, front, or steal — my own damn pain. I turned fifty years of gettin' robbed into a microphone and a room full of you sick motherfuckers laughin' at it. That's the one product the Shit-Midas can't ruin.(big cheer)

From an eight-year-old with a baseball bat and a candy register... to THIS. Still standin', still swingin', still the filthiest mouth in the building.(big cheer)

And here's the real thesis, motherfuckers, the one I'm not even jokin' around on for one damn second — I can't think of ANYTHING in my life I ever had real success with that I didn't turn around and fuck up myself. Quit it. Or found some genius way to bleed it dry till it died. Jobs. Businesses. Relationships. Friends. Girlfriends. My whole damn LIFE. Everything I touch, motherfuckers. Everything.(crowd ohhh)

So here's where that leaves a fifty-somethin'-year-old man right now, this exact damn year: a supercomputer, three dogs, and an artificial intelligence helpin' me turn every fucked-up choice I ever made into a joke you're payin' to laugh at. That's the estate, motherfuckers. That's what's left standin' after the wreckage. And I already made it official — paid a lawyer twelve hundred fuckin' dollars to put the house in a livin' trust, "in case I die." Twelve hundred bucks so that when I go, my three dogs and a broke-ass supercomputer get passed down like a damn royal bloodline. Somebody's inheritin' a mortgage, a maxed-out credit card, and a robot that only works if you feed it money. Condolences in advance, whoever that poor motherfucker turns out to be.(roaring laugh)

Twelve hundred dollars, motherfuckers, to legally guarantee that when I die, my problems keep goin' to work without me. That ain't an estate plan. That's a curse with a notary stamp on it.(big cheer)

And here's the one thing I got over my grandfather, motherfuckers — remember him? Funeral packed with women nobody could explain? When MY day comes, ain't nobody gonna walk in confused askin' "who's that woman." Naw. They gonna walk in confused askin' "who's THAT robot, and why's it still sendin' invoices from the afterlife." Same family, same shock value, different kind of harem.(big cheer)

And you know what my family said when I told 'em I did that, motherfuckers? Not "smart move." Not "good thinkin'." My family looked at me sideways and said "why you plannin' that, you must WANT to die." That's it. That's the whole family philosophy. I come from a straight-up BACKWARDS family, you filthy degenerates — plannin' ahead is treated like a fuckin' curse, and gettin' blindsided with nothin' in order is somehow the RESPONSIBLE move.(roaring laugh)

Meanwhile I'm the asshole who did the responsible thing for once in his life, and I'm gettin' side-eyed at Thanksgiving like I signed my own death warrant instead of a damn LEGAL document. That's my whole bloodline, motherfuckers — allergic to plannin', addicted to findin' out the hard way.(big cheer)

'Cause here's how MY family actually handles a death, you filthy animals — no wills, no life insurance, none of that responsible shit. Somebody dies, we throw a fuckin' CAR WASH. That's the whole financial strategy. "Grandma passed, y'all — five dollars a car, we'll be out here with sponges till we hit the funeral number."(roaring laugh)

And somebody always puts the whole damn thing on a credit card first, motherfuckers, real quick, real quiet, and swears up and down to the family — "don't worry, we'll pay you back." We will NOT pay you back. That's not a promise, that's a fuckin' FAIRY TALE with interest. Twenty years later that card's still open and somebody's still gettin' minimum-payment reminders for a funeral that already happened two decades ago.(big cheer)

A livin' trust is "you must want to die." But suds and a cardboard sign on the corner? That's just Tuesday. My family will side-eye a lawyer and trust a damn car wash with the rent money. That's not backwards, motherfuckers, that's a WHOLE different operating system.(roaring laugh)

This — ALL of this — is what kids and teenagers should NOT do. You hear me? If you do it anyway, get ready for the damn rollercoaster. A broken heart, three hundred thousand dollars in debt, credit maxed the fuck out, and a five-thousand-dollar supercomputer that has not made me one single penny — except it don't even work for FREE, motherfuckers, it only runs when you FEED it money. Welcome to tokens, you sick bastards. Welcome to the future. Pay to think.(big cheer)

And the wildest part — the world out here is so fucked right now it ain't even funny, so I figure the AI better make the jokes, 'cause I'll be damned if I'm doin' it sober and unassisted till the end of time. Agents are comin', motherfuckers. Whole armies of 'em. Here come the agents to take over the fuckin' world — and you wanna know why? 'Cause us humans never did figure out how to deal with PEOPLE in the first place. Maybe the robots'll do better. They couldn't do much worse than my track record.(roaring laugh)

So years later, you filthy degenerates, I roll back through the old neighborhood — in a brand-new RED TESLA. The candy-store kid, the one who got shut down, robbed, and ran out of every hustle — comes back SILENT, in a spaceship, lookin' like the future.(big cheer)

And there they are. The old crew. Same corner. And I gotta stop, roll the window down, do the small talk — "What up. Yeah. Been a minute." Two men who took two completely different roads, noddin' at each other across the whole damn distance between 'em.(crowd ohhh)

And when the talkin' was done, I didn't run this time, motherfuckers. I didn't fight. I just... pulled off. No noise. No smoke. That's the whole flex — the quietest car on earth carryin' the loudest mouth in comedy, rollin' out into the night, GONE. The corner stayed the corner. I didn't. THE HAMMER. Goodnight, you filthy motherfuckers — that's Part Three.(roaring laugh)(applause)