The genius of Bill Hicks

Bill winding up his show – known to most people from his ‘Relentless’ album.

Sheer unalloyed Libertarianism.

For Rantin’ Rab.

Here is my final point, oh thank you God. About drugs, about alcohol, about pornography, whatever that is. What business is it of yours what I do, read, buy, see, or take into my body as
long as I do not harm another human being on this planet? And for those of you out there
who’re having a little moral dilemma in your head about how to answer that question, I’ll
answer it for you – none of your fucking business. Take that to the bank, cash it, and go
fucking on a vacation out of my life.


But see, here’s their argument for that, each and every time: “But we have to protect the
children, we have to protect the children.” Let me tell you something, children are smarter than
any of us, you know how I know that? I don’t know one child with a full-time job and children.
Yeah, they’re quick, these kids, man. They’re fucking quick.


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 caffeineridden
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.