Bill Hicks

Bill Hicks! Bill Hicks! Bill Hicks!

For your pleasure:

‘But where did this veneration of childbirth come from, I missed that meeting, I tell you that. “Oh, childbirth is such a miracle, it’s such a miracle.”

Wrong.

No more of a miracle than eating food and a turd coming out of your ass. You know what a miracle is? A miracle is raising a kid who doesn’t talk in a fucking movie theatre, there’s your goddamned miracle. If it were a miracle, then not every nine months any yin-yang in that world can drop a litter of these mewling fucking cabbages on the planet, and in case you have not checked the single mom statistics lately – the miracle is spreading like fucking wildfire.

Hallelujah!

Trailer parks, all over America, filling up with little miracles. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. “Look at all my little miracles.” THUNK. THUNK. “Filling up my trailer like a sardine can.” THUNK. THUNK. “You know what’d be a real miracle, if I could remember your daddy’s name, goddamn it.” THUNK. “I guess I’ll have to call you Trucker Jr. That’s all I remember about your daddy, was his fuzzy little pot-belly riding on top of me, shooting his caffeine-ridden semen into my belly, to produce my little water-head miracle baby-child.” THUNK. “There’s your brother, Pizza Boy Delivery Jr.” THUNK. “There’s your other brother, Exterminator Jr.” THUNK. “There’s your other brother, ‘Will Work For Food Jr.'” Thank you very much, good night. ‘