"I'd hate to be a dustbin in Shaftesbury tonight."
I'm listening to Bill Hicks' "Arizona Bay" right now. Excerpts abounds.
"Speak English! It's Crip...Blood. I picture a bunch of pale guys in penny loafers and no socks."
"If you corner me I might become a scallywag!...It doesn't sound scary at all, doesn't it?"
"This wouldn't be a long gang battle..I'm bettin' on the Bloods."
I did have a devastatingly handsome photo of my favorite English Hooligan here, all leather-jacketed-bad-ass-chain-smoking, but I didn't want to find myself arse-backwards inside a dustbin next time I popped over for a visit, so I kept it to myself.
Although I have little reason to pick on you folks (even if some of you ARE in marketing and advertising), since it was your prescient and intelligent nation that appreciated Hicks far more than ours in his time.
What makes me intensely sad is that "Arizona Bay" is essentially the work of a dying man, and that ain't no joke.
In other semi-related news, I'm fairly certain that I'm abandoning my 'comedy journal' on another website and moving all my bullshit over here. More bullshit, huzzah! Now 44% more efficient!
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