It has been my personal experience that a joke has a shelf life of three tellings. The first time I deliver a new joke, it’s completely organic and off the cuff. Thereafter it becomes rote and I just can’t bear telling it again, even to a fresh audience. I would never be able to do a canned show, at Las Vegas, say, because I get bored of my own material.
I will lay off you soon because it’s just getting boring to me that you can’t pound your limp little dicks enough to get a hard-on and indict me for not having paid a single nickel in federal income tax over the past twenty years. I have a beautiful work of art of a penis. It’s big and stiff. My index finger is pronouncedly shorter than my ring finger, indicating an in-utero exposure to a surfeit of testosterone, resulting in a square jaw, a deep voice, and a big, fat cock. I was verily born into this world to dominate.
Say, are you still indicting (other, less informed) people for the “crime” of tax evasion? I bet you are. You know that’s a felony, right? If I were governor, I would immediately arrest you.
Isn’t it kind of sad that a stand-up comedian had to explain your own laws to you?
Your profession is a sad joke, one that is now boring. Ridiculing your weakness is now boring to me. I guess you won; you outlasted me. I’m totally spent. I’m exhausted. You’re exhausting. You are the victors. I guess that’s my Achilles Heel: just bore me to death and you win.