Things Nick Griffin wrote...

boxers and church shoes

2008-05-29T21:34:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this in my kitchen.
I am in my underwear.
I am in my kitchen in my underwear writing my writing.
I am also wearing shoes.
This is what it looks like.

Howard Stern plays on the radio behind me.
He keeps me company.
My penis is flacid...finally.

I read the news on the Internet.
The Bush Administration, the earthquake in China, Sex and the City - The Movie, The Lakers Beat the Spurs.
God hates me.

I'm sure he has his reasons.
If he doesn't, I can give him mine.
Or he can call my parents or any number of teachers that did their best with me.
There's my ex-wife, managers at jobs I showed up late and unmotivated for, brothers, sisters, therapists, Denny's waitresses, etc ad infinitum.

Did you know this?
I was a nervous child.
I went to Catholic school and in Catholic school you had to get permission from the nuns to use the bathroom.
Then they decided if you really needed to use the bathroom.

This made me even more nervous.
If the nuns wouldn't let me go, my human waste would end up in my pants.
There would be a wet stain and a smell.

If you shit your pants in grade school, you have two options: drop out or kill yourself.
So I had my mom write a note that I gave to the teacher on the first day of school every year.
It said, "Nick can go to the bathroom anytime he wants."

It sounds like she is bragging, doesn't it?
"Dear Sister Mary, my son Nick has an incredible talent. He can go to the bathroom anytime he wants! If you find extra time at the end of the day, you should have him show you. It is incredible."

Of course what she meant was that I was to be allowed to leave class and use the restroom regardless of time or place.
This worked.
The teachers let me go anytime the urge hit me.

However one time when I was caddying for a rich doctor on the golf course (14 years of age) and several times while drinking (14, 15, 16, and 18 years of age) I did mess myself.
But luckily no one knows because I wasn't in school.

my friend

2008-04-28T18:36:00.000-07:00

I want to have sex with a woman.

(minutes pass)

It's not working.

"Dear God, send a hot woman for me to have sex with."

(more time passes)

Still nothing.

"Hello, Satan, it's me, Nick Griffin. Yes, I realize it has been weeks since we last chatted. But I really want to have sex with a woman and I know that you know a few that are, shall we say "morally compromised. So cough one up, pointy head. or I'm going to throw in with the Lord."

(a dingo howls. the wind blows.)

"President Bush, you are a dummy. I hate you and your stupid dopey white guy nervous superiority. I hate your fake love of God and baseball and wearing shirts in your off time that are supposed to make you appear like a regular person. But If you get me a cool woman that will make sweet sex with me, I will vote for you come September and not talk bad of you to my friend Satan."

(one minute goes by)

"Dear, Satan. President George W. Bush told me he saw you in the bus station blowing a guy."

The room suddenly gets hotter.And I projectile vomit green goo but, alas, no girl.

"Oprah, this is the first time I have ever written a letter like this. But something has come to my attention that I think you might be interested in - my erection. Like the troubles in Darfur, this is a problem that is not going to go away soon. But if everyone does their part we can at least ease the pain of those most in need - my erection."

My phone does not ring. My email sits vacant.

"Alright, penis. I have some bad news."

Butts

2008-03-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

I am smoking again.
I know. I know.
It's not good for me.
If it makes you feel any better, I don't enjoy it.
I'll stop, just not sure when.
Why do I do it?
It's the best my brain can come up with.
Women hate it.
But when I stop smoking I cry.
And that's not exactly a turn on to the ladies either.
My goal is to some day cry while I am smoking.
What makes me feel better?
Ice cream.
A new joke.
A naked lady.
A good horror movie.
Yeah. I am a real classy guy.
I tried to follow the political campaigns but they are so gay.
"I am better than him."
"She's a doody head."
"I think God is so cool."
Ugh.
Sometimes I pretend like I have political views so people will pay attention to me.
Then they hear what I have to say and they think I am a dummy.
Mission accomplished.
I walk around a lot.
I drink water and coffee.
I shoot urine out of my weiner.
I eat pizza and burritos.
I stay up late.
I listen to the radio.
I am reading a book. The Easy Way To Stop Smoking.
It's taking forever.
I sleep in a bed in a small room.
i get up in the middle of the night and shoot more urine out of my weiner and when I am up I go to the window and smoke a cigarette and I think I shouldn't be doing this and then I don't enjoy it and I resent myself for doing it anyway.
Then I smash the butt in the ice cream lid i use for an ash tray and I go back to bed.
Sometimes I stop in the living room and write down an idea for a joke or a screenplay.
it usually doesn't work.
But sometimes it does and when it does I feel better for a while.

Always

2008-02-15T21:12:00.000-08:00

that's me with drew hastings.

No one said life would be easy.
Well my parents kind of implied it when they told me about an Easter Bunny, a Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I mean that is not exactly a warning of things to come.
So you're mad at your parents because they didn't tell you how fucked up life can get?
No. I just thought it would be easier.
You're a dummy.
I know. And that's because I ignored what smart people were telling me when I was a kid. I thought it would be more fun to drink beer and masturbate and sulk. And it was! Sometimes I would do all three in one night. It's been downhill ever since.
But still...
Yeah. I definitely fucked up.
But you're doing okay. Right?
I just wish I were smarter and more confident in my beliefs.
Which beliefs are those?
It doesn't matter.
What is the best advice you ever got?
Always wear a condom.
What do you think is the most common mistake that people make?
They don't wear a condom.
But if your dad wore a condom, you wouldn't be here right now.
Exactly. And I wouldn't be suffering through the worst blog I ever wrote.
It is pretty bad.
I'm in a bad place with my writing. Stuck. Blocked. Constipated. You get the point.
I do and it is exceedingly unfunny.
Penis. Vagina. Shit.
What are you doing?
Sometimes people find dirty words funny. Ass. Balls. Fuck. Doody.
It's not working.
Fart. Beaver. Testicles.
This is pathetic.
Plus, I'm running out of dirty words. Uterus. Dick. Bottom.
I'm leaving.
Scrotum. Nipple. Vulva. Wiener.

Blazing Saddles

2007-12-20T20:40:00.000-08:00

You are forty-one soon.
That is true. In three days.
Comment?
I will be forty-one on December 23 and that sure is something.
Does it bother you?
I suppose but so many things bother me that it gets lost in the pile.
The bother pile?
That's right, which is right next to my poopoo undie pile.
The good news: I found out I like craisins.
Craisins? That's a dried cranberry snack, right?
Oh yeah. You nailed it. "A dried cranbery snack". And the beatles were a "musical band." And having peepee relations with a hot sexy woman is "pleasant."
You dumbass. Craisins rule!
I stand corrected.
You stand dumb and fatass smelly.
What does that mean?
I don't know. I lash out when I am angry.
What are you angry about?
Vagina! Penis! Shit!
Let's change topics. What have you been doing lately?
Same old stuff. Although I did walk the picket line the other day.
What picket line is that?
I'm in the writers guild, you shithead. We're on strike. Don't you know anything?
How did you get in the writers guild?
I wrote for the Keenen Ivory Wayans Show one billion years ago. Only dinosaurs and Jesus watched it. That guy watches everything. I also wrote a pilot for ABC that didn't get shot.
Wow, you are a real success. What was the picket line like?
It was like any other kind of line except we were holding pickets and cups of coffee and gobs of envy and resentment. There were some famous people there walking with us. Mariska Hargitay. Chris Noth. Bylthe Danner. Eric Bogosian. I talked to the guy who co-wrote Blazing Saddles, Norman Steinberg. He is still funny.
I also saw my friend Mary Birdsong. She is in the above photo in her Reno 911 outfit. She is debatably one of the three most talented people I know.
She will be on Broadway in Hairspray soon.
I will go watch her.
Can I go?
With me?
Well, yeah.
You're not going to try anything queer are you?
I doubt it. What do you consider queer?
The normal stuff. Two men. Penis in bottom. Penis in mouth. Penis in hand. Hugging. Kissing.
I can't imagine why I would do any of those things.
You can't imagine? Or you definitely will not do any of those things?
I definitely will not do any of those things.
Because I don't want to embarrass Mary.
So you would be into those things if Mary wouldn't see you?
No!
Just asking.
Stop asking. It's a closed topic.
Anything else?
Regarding?
Anything.
Anything else regarding anything? What kind of interview is this?
A shitty one. I'm no good at this.
Slow down. What's wrong?
My mom caught me masturbating.
You have a mom? But you're a voice that lives in my head.
Wrong. I'm a voice that lives at his mom's house which is in your head.

Again

2007-11-22T23:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I was stuck in an airport.
Again.

I was sleeping on the ground in the corner because I had a layover.
I woke up.

Here is what came to mind:
"Wow. it's Thanksgiving and I'm sleeping on the ground in an airport. Maybe I should run on to the tarmac and jump into a jet engine."

But I stopped myself. "Perhaps that attractive woman looking at magazines near the kiosk will come over and have sex with me."

Then some guy steps up and kisses her on the cheek. Bastard. Look at him. All showered and sweatered and holding Fortune magazine.

Man, I need some hope. I look for it in the face of a young boy two rows away. He catches me and bellows out, "Mommy, that creepy guy is staring at me."

His mom is the attractive lady I was looking at ten seconds ago. Now she whispers something to her sweatered lover.

He puts his arm around her, pulls his son close and gives me that, "Why don't you just kill yourself, you creepy airport-sleeping motherfucker?" look.

Oh go play golf, you maincure-getting, comfortable-shoe-wearing dope.

I check my phone, see who called. Nobody. Hmmm. Okay.
I take out my notebook, work on material.

She says, "You're just afraid of your feelings." Of course I'm afraid of my feelings. Who am I? Michael Bolton. I don't know what to do with feelings. That's why beer was invented. So we didn't have to feel."

I peek over at the happy family. Now Dad is dozing. The kid is picking his nose. Mom is eyeballs-deep in OK magazine, wishing she was rich(er) and young(er) but not as lonely even though she has a kid and a husband and friends she shops with almost every day.

She truly believes if she had better tits and was banging George Clooney, she'd have peace. Maybe she is right.

I'll get a cup of coffee. That will help. Yeah. Then I'll be jumpy and have to urinate. Perfect. There is always action in the men's bathroom. "Hello, Congressman. Is that your shoe or are you just glad to see me?"

God, I hope my shows go well this week. I need my shoes to go well this this week. I have another two flights Monday morning. Two more airports. Lots of jet engines.

Brad Pitt

2007-09-29T10:32:00.000-07:00

Anyway, I am in Omaha this week performing stand up comedy. Earlier I went to the lobby and treated myself to a Granola bar and a weak cup of coffee.

I thought of a good quote for my tombstone.

Life - it was all so embarrassing and no one knew what they were doing.

There's a new movie out, The Assasination of Jesse James.
It stars Brad Pitt.
They say he might get an Academy Award nomination for his performance.

Bradd Pitt has been a major movie star for well over a decade, not to mention very very rich. He has banged scores and scores of world class, sexually dynamic women. And after getting all he could out of Jennifer Aniston, he now uses his man part on admitted bisexual Angeline Jolie.

And he might win an Oscar?? Who did Satan fuck to create this guy? Oprah? No one has a life like that. No one. He could have painful stomach cancer and boils covering his entire face every day for the next five years and still have had more good fortune than 99.9% of the world since time began.

Brad Pitt didn't hit the lottery. He runs it. God calls him for advice and Brad tells him to call back, because he is busy having sex with his Oscar winning girlfriend. How does he live with himself?

They say Brad Pitt campaigns for good causes, that he does things to help save the earth. Of course he is trying to save the earth! The earth loves him. If the world dies, his sexual and financial gravy train ends.

If the world ends tomorrow I get out of thousands of dollars of credit card debt and a two-decade-long depression.

People will tell you, "Famous people have problems too." And I tell them shut the fuck up. I realize they have problems. But their lives are so out of sync with what they deserve. It's not their fault. They got lucky. It's just irritating.

Why so much to so few? Why so little to so many? Why Ben Affleck? Why Rebecca Romain? Why Julia Roberts? Why Bon Jovi? Why Tim McGraw? Why George W. Bush? Why Sheryl Crow? Why Brad Pitt? Why do I care?

It just seems like the people who won in high school are still winning. They always win. Winners win.

Losers mostly lose. Some losers have done okay. The Ramones. Jake LaMotta. Frederick Exley. Ulysses S. Grant. Howard Stern. Quentin Tarantino.

But most days it is not enough.

That's why beer is so popular. It makes everything okay in a person's mind. After a couple beers Brad isn't some grown up frat guy with a supermodel wife. He's that dude who was in Seven.

Maybe I am just jealous. No. I'm definitely jealous. Jealous and horny and broke. And angry. And other stuff that Brad Pitt isn't. It is all so embarassing.

Promotion

2007-09-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

So I taped that Comedy Central Presents a week or so ago.
That went well and the people were very nice. Comedy Central also aired this special I did for The Bob and Tom Tour last night. So...
Hold on a second.
What?
What's with all the bragging?
I wasn't bragging I was just informing people (fans?) of what I have been up to.
But you're only mentioning good stuff.
Yeah. So...
Well, that's just sheer promotion. You're doing nothing more than tooting your own horn.
Nice contemporary reference.
Be that as it may, if you were truly just

informing people of what you have been up to

, you would also mention the fact that you spend the majority of your time by yourself being exceedingly unfunny. Pacing your tiny bedroom, gulping coffee, chastising yourself for past mistakes, missed opportunities, ugly transgressions and staring at hundreds of photos of naked women.
People don't want to hear that shit.
How do you know what your fans want? You almost never talk to them. Acting all shy and uncomfortable when they come up to compliment you after your shows. You're such a phony.
Maybe I am.
Maybe?
So you think I am?
I try not to be.
How?
Well, I guess by saying as little as possible. That way I am keep track of all my words and make sure they are true.
I just think it is hypocritical of you to chastise people like Jennifer Aniston, Dane Cook, or Sara Jessica Parker, or Bob Saget or that Goo Goo Dolls guy and whomever else decides to put their name behind a product when here you are doing the exact same thing.
But the product is me...
What is so great about you?
Well I just taped a Comedy Central Presents a week or so ago...
There you go again. Stroking yourself.
You asked me a question. I'm answering it, you piece of shit!
So the best thing about you is that you taped some insignificant comedy special on a cable channel? And , oh yeah, I looked it up. They've been giving those specials to comics for the last ten plus years. Ten years, twenty plus comics a year. Yeah, you are truly one in a million, Nick.
Look. I don't want to argue. I'm just trying to do more blogging, because people say that's good to do for the fans. I don't know.
Hey, I'm not trying to bum you out. I'm just trying to keep you from becoming one of those people you hate.
Too late.
No. You're okay.
Really?
Yeah. Now take your pill and go to bed.
I am a little tired.
Of course you are. You're a weak little man with no backbone and zero integrity.
Fuck you!

You Again

2007-08-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

You're too uptight.
I'm doing the best I can.
You should do better.
How?
Just do better.
How?!! Give me one suggestion, you prick?
Yelling at me isn't going to help. That's part of the problem. You're so angry.
Of course I am angry. For twenty five years people have been telling me to do better, feel better. But no one has any good ideas on how to do that.
Drink less coffee
Oh, thanks. I can already feel my problems melting away. Less coffee. Of course. Why didn't I think of that when I was paying thousands of dollars for therapy, anti-depressants, double vodkas on the rocks and cigarettes? What a fool I've been.
Oh I get it. You are being sarcastic. And passive aggressive. Another sure sign of maturity.
Who even asked you to show up here?
Your brain.
My brain told you to come and make me feel like shit?
No. He said you were struggling with...everything. He suggested I come down and find out what the problem is. Think of me as a spiritual detective.
I have a better idea. I'm going to think of you as an assheadfuckpoo.
Whatever floats your boat.
How about I jam my boat up your ass?
Sounds latently homosexual to me.
I give up.
Of course you do. You're a coward. An angry latently homosexual passive aggressive coward.
You're the worst spiritual detective ever.
I'm trying to provoke you. It will help me better understand your problems.
My problems are the same as every other person on earth. Disappointment with myself and those around me.
Interesting.
Seriously. That whole spiritual detective thing is a joke. Right?
No. No. It's a real job. You have to take a six week course to get certified. Cost me eight hundred dollars.
You have money? I thought you lived in my head.
What are you stupid? Of course I have money. How else am I going to buy food and socks?
Where do you get food and socks?
At the Duane Reade here in your head. There's always a line.
It's the same down here. By the way, I am sorry I called you the worst spiritual detective ever. I just...I don't really have any experience with people in your line of work. Do you have a badge or a card or something?
Yeah, I got something. A business card. Here. Take one.
Nice.
Thanks. Only cost me sixteen bucks.
Where did you have these done?
Staples.
There's a Staples in my head?
And a Chipotle.
I knew it. my head is a sellout.

Faces

2007-07-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

I live in New York City now.
Why did you move?
So I could do more sets and sit on sweaty subways listening to music and looking at people.
What's so great about looking at people?
Their faces.
And?
The way they deal with a packed smelly fucking subway car ride after they worked some shitty job or lost some shitty job or had sex with someone they don't care about or someone they do care about but aren't sure how that other person feels, because he is a guy and a guy will never fucking tell. Because then he is vulnerable, which means able-to-vuln and men aren't good at vulning.
And you couldn't get this in Los Angeles?
I didn't ride the subway in L.A.
I got to be honest, it sounds like you didn't think this out completely.
I know I didn't. I'm horrible at thinking. Thinking and vulning are not my strong suits.
What are your strong suits?
Listening and being quiet.
Anyone can do that.
If you say so.
You don't believe me?
I'm just too tired to argue.
What made you so tired?
Brushing my teeth this morning.
Anything else you want to say?
Nothing comes to mind.
Nothing?
Can I go?

Kilkenny Comedy Festival

2007-06-10T01:46:00.000-07:00

I went to a comedy festival in Kilkenny, Ireland a week or so ago.
I think the official name was Smithwick's Cat Laughs Comedy Festival.
Smithwick's is a beer.

I don't drink beer anymore.
Turns out that I'm not very good at it.
That's why I only went to one of the after parties. Also I am horrible at small talk.

Here's a typical exchange between me and another comic at that after party.
"How was your show tonight?"
Good.
"How was yours?"
Good.
"How come you're not drinking?"
I don't know.
"Don't you want to?"
Sometimes.
(uncomfortable silence)

Anyway, it was a lot of fun.
Dom Irrera was there.
I went to two of his shows because he is so fucking funny.
I was going to ask him to take a photo with me but I didn't want him to think I was a dick.
So I didn't.
I wish I had.

The guy in the uppermost pic is Ed Byrne.
He's from Ireland and is an amazing stand up.
He had the best show I saw all week.
Incredibly strong.
Right up there with Dave Attell and Louis CK.

Ed said we met once before in Los Angeles and that we even went out and had drinks.
I pretended to remember that evening even though I don't.
He said I was with a girl the night we hung out.
How could I not remember that?

A lot of the Irish comedians were funny.
Andrew Maxwell, Karl Spain, Ed Byrne.
That's twice I've mentioned him.
Steve Hughes and Carl Barron were good too.
They are from Australia.

You know who was amazing?
Stewart Francis.
You can find out for yourself at his website.
That bastard is from Canada, but he lives in Spain.
His wife is Scottish.

Stewart told me he loves his wife.
He didn't seem to be kidding.
That made me uncomfortable.

Anyway, he's the tallest one in the second picture.
The guy in the glasses in that same photo is one of my favorite comics, fellow American Jeff Caldwell.
Why don't more people know about him?

The other guy is Mike Birbiglia, a fine comic as well.

Ireland was overcast.
The food was not very tasty and it was hard to find coffee after six p.m.
Many of the locals drank a lot.
Who knew?

The people who ran the festival were incredibly nice.
Unbelievably nice.
So nice that a couple times, when I saw them coming I walked the other way.
That is true.

Those people really love stand up.
It is so great when you meet people who are really into stand up.
I am.

I should have asked Dom to take a picture.

Scott

2007-05-27T23:41:00.000-07:00

I do things, then I feel stupid.
Cake.
I choose not to do other things and also feel stupid.
Vegetables.

I say things and then think, "Why did you say that?"
Girls.
I keep my mouth shut and think, "Why didn't you say something?"
Girls.

My brain must hate me.
But I'll show him.
I won't use him anymore.

Gibby Haynes drank beer, swallowed drugs and put them in his nose and then sang songs.
It worked really well.

So did Scott Weiland. It sucked.
Scott has tried it without the beer and drugs too.
More sucking.

But Scott gets lots of girls.
He probably gets to second base with them in like twenty seconds.
Second base means he feels the most pointy part of their chest with his bare hand, while simultaneously kissing them (optional).

Maybe if Scott spent less time feeling chest and more time writing and finding out who he really is, the sucking would stop.
Or maybe Scott Weiland's true calling is sucking.
If so, he is doing a good job.
Sucking.

Decaf

2007-05-20T01:35:00.000-07:00

You've never had a real job?
I worked at a coffee shop in SoHo and rich people yelled at me.

Why don't you smile more?
My face doesn't work that way.

Why don't you want kids?
They are so loud in the morning.
And they freak out if you don't smile a lot.

Don't you get lonely on the road?
Yes.
Meet me in St. Louis and see for yourself.

You don't get nervous anymore?
No. Just lonely and horny.
Meet me in Virginia Beach and I will prove it to you.

What makes you happy?
Coffee and attractive women with no kids who could care less that I don't smile a lot.

What makes you sad?
Decaf coffee and attractive women with kids who hate it that I don't smile a lot.
And people at bus stops.

Are you satisfied with what you wrote?
No.

Hotel Room

2007-05-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

Hotel room.
It's almost five p.m.

I ate a sandwich.
I went to the drug store.
I bought a coffee.
I wrote.

Nothing good.
I sit.
Turn the television on and off and on, the computer too.

My attention flickers.
My stomach churns.
The circles under my eyes widen.

What a fucking waste of time.
I should've studied more, or at all.
I should've drank less, or a lot more.

I'm reading a book that got good reviews from people I like.
Early Bird by Rodney Rothman.
But it's very average.

I shouldn't criticize.
It's hard to write anything.
See above.

I took two pills that a doctor gave me to make me feel better.
Pills.
I'm going to need more than that.

A new head.
Better ideas.

Don't look at lighted screens anymore.
There is something behind the lights.
I think there is something behind the lights.

Funny

2007-04-30T01:56:00.000-07:00

I will never be as interesting in real life as I am on stage.
Why am I saying this now? Or at all, for that matter?
Because sometimes I hang out with audience members after a show.

After twenty minutes of me just listening, not saying much, someone will inevitably ask (usually a girl who is usually drunk), "Why aren't you being funny?"

You know why? Because it is fucking hard to be funny! I mean really funny. Look, in a pinch at a party, I could probably pull off amusing or witty. But funny?

For god sakes, lady, it took me nineteen years to come up with the fifty minutes you just watched.

Nineteen years of grossing less than thirty five thousand dollars a year. Nineteen years of living in run down, rarely-cleaned apartments.
Nineteen years of sleeping on a second handthrift store mattress soaked weekly in broken dreams and semen.

Nineteen years of cigarette smoke and chicken wings.
Nineteen years of having a high school dropouts wearing a tank top and a ballcap on a Saturday night yell at me from the back of a dark room, "Say something funny."

Nineteen years of self doubt.
Nineteen years of regret.
Nineteen years of bad decisions, bad dinners, bad flights, bad behavior, bad haircuts, bad girlfriends and bad sets.

Isn't that funny?

Hair

2007-04-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

I am tired or depressed.
I can't tell the difference anymore.

I'm embarrassed because in my work I never lift anything heavy and I never work longer than one hour a day.
Still, it is exhausting.

My hair is going gray fast.
Now I can't talk to girls in their twenties without feeling creepy.
Gray and creepy.

I could color it.
But then I would feel gay.
Brown and gay or gray and creepy?
Thinking.
Thinking.

Okay.
It is three o'clock p.m.
I am going to turn my day around.
I'll pay some bills, or write a joke, or finish pages in my unfinished monster script.

I write screenplays with monsters in them.
I am twelve years old emotionally.
Although you can't tell from the color of my hair.