My rage is so multi-faceted,

that each distinct side of my anger acts in concert, like the panels of some desert solar collector, to focus each sliver of my ire into one locus of all-consuming, seething, surface-of-the-sun, runaway nuclear fusion meltdown.

I don't comprehend how the human soul can withstand this much pure rage without being destroyed by it. How does the human organism even function while bathed in the glow of this much anger?

I know that I have the tendency to lash out and say hurtful things. This is because I have very little emotional control. So I will attempt to describe for you my anger, rather than act it out.

I am angry about the following things, in no particular order:

• I am angry that no one will speak to me. I suspect that I am on various terra lists, whereby no one may warn me that I am being investigated. We've got lots of secret laws now, where some claim the authority to demand that one not warn another that he is under investigation. I don't care. I don't take instruction from criminals. If one of them were to interview me about some suspect person and then demand that I not warn that person that he is being investigated, MY IMMEDIATE RESPONSE, BORN OF SOME SENSE OF PURE DEFIANCE, WOULD BE TO GET ON THE PHONE AND WARN HIM THAT HE IS BEING INVESTIGATED. It's how you treat the demands of criminals: you ignore them. The moral cowardice in this land is astounding.
• I am angry that fellow comedians steal from me. Not material, but approaches or aesthetics. How I approach something, how I engage a topic. It's not exactly theft, but other comedians derive value from watching me. They then apply to their own work what they've seen me do. This has been going on for several years. I make it safe to cover material. I cut a trail through the underbrush and get all scratched up. Everyone else comes in behind me. Do you think I'd get something so simple as a sip from their canteens? Nope. Nothing.
• I am not working in television for one simple reason: I have indicted the Beautiful People for their role in 9-11 and for their singularly disgusting, supremacist, chauvinistic beliefs that caused them to undertake that tactical error. Now Hymie Finkleman, TV executive, quite understandably, can't bear the thought of seeing my ugly face wandering around the halls of the office building, lest he be reminded of how his people ruined a perfectly functioning system of lawful government, completely oblivious to the dangers of authoritarian social systems, a sensitivity he would be expected to possess, what with the boxcars and ovens thing. Chris is the Nazi here, but, uh, he's the only one here who seems to despise Nazis.
  
• Barring working in television --which will never occur; Jews are a very petty, unforgiving people-- I am angry that I am being denied my tailor-made revenue model: No one will buy their ticket.
• I am angry that I am covering everyone's material for them. Jon Stewart, for example, ideally would be the comedian covering the material of how his people flew planes into the World Trade Center. Keith Olbermann, Newsman Extraordinaire, Mister Good Night and Good Luck himself, as if he were a journalist or something, ideally would be covering the material about how his producer's people flew planes into the World Trade Center. The New York Times, Printer of All the News that Fits Israel's Propaganda Model, should be playing Fourth Estate for once and explaining to the country how Israeli intelligence came to play such an instrumental role in 9-11.
• I am angry that, like the shark, the comedian must always move forward or he's dead. In five years of covering everyone material for them, of performing everyone's job for them, I have moved so far away from my original, simple goal of telling some fart jokes and finding love. Now I can't even date because I can't know if I'll turn up in some gulag somewhere. Who wants to get involved with someone who could be dead tomorrow? All gone, all is lost. SIX. FUCKIN'. YEARS. No closer; only farther. Covering everyone else's material has cost me every last thing and gotten me nothing. ALL COMPLETELY LOST. NOTHING WITHIN GRASP ANYMORE. GONE. EVERYTHING. GONE.
• Everyone gets to move on and have cocktail parties and careers and romantic weekend getaways while Chris gets to rattle around the house with a .45 on his belt wondering what that noise is. "Wouldn't you know it: Turns out that during the Bush Administration, all the pieces were in place for a dictatorship and they had domestic death squads and everything." Really? You're finally fuckin' figuring this out? Welcome to reality, dumbass. So while everyone got to have hookups and their romantic weekend getaways in complete blissful ignorance of reality, Chris got to try to conduct his life in such a manner as not to get killed. (And if you can sleep at night, then --almost by definition-- you have no understanding of what is happening in this country.)
• I am angry that I traveled to New York, bearing gifts, and not a single person could meet me at the train station. I gave the gifts to some homeless guy because I certainly was not going to cart them back to Vermont. I will never again set foot in New York.
• I am angry that I have given EVERY LAST THING I POSSESSED in service to others, and I have gotten nothing in return. NOT EVEN A KIND WORD. A single kind word would have made it all okay.

I short, I am angered that so many extract from me the things that they think they can use for themselves, and leave me with nothing but the castoffs. And that is what I am left with: the stuff that no one else wants.

I seethe with rage because I have spent so much of my time and energy and money over the past six years, and gotten nothing in return. But it's not like I was a failure; I was quite successful; I built my audience.

But they won't FUCKIN' buy their FUCKIN' tickets.

That's the failure.

ALL FUCKIN GONE. ALL FUCKIN LOST.