Bill Burr: You People Are All The Same

Ladies and gentlemen, Bill Burr!

All right, thank you! Thank you.

Thank you, sir. How are ya? How’s it going?

-All right. -

All right, all right, all right. All right, everybody settle down.

I wanna get a gun.

I do.

I really do.

I never had that feeling before till I moved out to Los Angeles.

This city just messes with your mind. You know?

It’s overpopulated, technically doesn’t have a water supply.

Right? The dollar’s crashing. Shit keeps you up at night.

You’re just thinking, “What am I gonna do when the zombies come?”

Right?

Start reading up on shit.

“Get some powdered food.

Plant some zucchini.

Get a windmill.”

Right?

And that’s all well and good, but if you don’t know how to fight,

all you’re doing is gathering supplies for the toughest guy on the block.

Right? I was thinking about that.

What am I gonna do if some dude turns me upside down,

starts shaking the gold coins out of my pockets?

I gotta get a gun.

So I’m on the road. Right? I’m in Reno. Great gun town.

So I go down to that little gun store. Right?

Walk in, there’s some redneck there. I’m like, “Hey, man. I wanna get a gun.”

He’s like, “I hear ya. What you looking for? What you want?

Mossberg? Over/under? A .357 Magnum?”

Starts rattling off all this gibberish. Right?

I don’t know shit. I’m trying to play it off.

I feel like a bitch, ’cause I don’t know anything about guns.

So I was like, what do I do here? Ah, hell, I’m gonna go with honesty.

I go, “Look, dude, I don’t know anything about guns. They terrify me.

But I’m worried about the zombies. All right?”

Dude’s just like, “You need a shotgun.

You need a shotgun, man. It’s got a good spread.

It’s easy to load, doesn’t have a lot of working parts, got a good spread.”

He kept saying that. “It’s got a good spread.”

“What does that mean?”

He goes, “It means you ain’t gotta be that accurate.

It’s got a good spread. Further away you are, the more shit you hit.

It’s got a good spread.

You got a problem over here, you ain’t even gotta look.

You just turn-- Pow! That’s it!

You ain’t got a problem over here anymore.

Anything that was even remotely a problem ain’t there anymore. Trust me.

And then these people here, they saw what you just did here.

You ain’t got a problem here either. Feel me?

Ninety degrees, taken care of right there, one shot.

These people get smart, flip it over-- Whap! That’s it.

It’s got a good spread.”

I’m, like, laughing my ass off. “Dude, I just wanna shoot the guy.

I don’t wanna have to do a bunch of drywall work. You know?

Reframe my diploma.

Get my parakeet another friend. You know?

I just wanna shoot the guy. So how ’bout one of these pistols?”

So he does that classic, like, that redneck trailing off thing, like,

“All right, you want a pistol, go ahead and get a pistol.

What do I know? I just been here 20 years.

Get a shiny one, right?”

So I was like, “What’s wrong with getting a pistol?”

He goes, “I’ll tell you why, buddy. ’Cause life-- life ain’t a movie.

You feel me?”

I’m like, “No. Can you please stop speaking in these backwoods riddles?

Can you just say what you’re saying? I don’t know shit about guns.

Do me a solid here.”

He goes, “You ever watch a movie? Guy goes blam, blam, blam, kills three people.

Real life, man, you miss. You miss all the fucking time.

You miss enough times, man, you’re empty.

Might as well just be standing there with a big stapler in your hand.

Then what you gonna do?”

I was like, “Well, fuck it. Let’s get the shotgun.”

He’s all ready to box the thing up, and then I’m like, wait a minute.

I live with my girl. I can’t just show up with a shotgun. Right?

That’s not some shit you can just come home with.

If I found this stool on the side of the road, I can come home with this.

“Look at it! We can refinish it.

We can carve our initials in it. We can have a good time, right?”

Can’t just show up with a shotgun.

“Hey, I got it for us! Right?

One barrel for you, one for me.”

No.

So she kiboshes the whole thing.

Till the other night somebody broke into our car sitting in the driveway.

Starts fucking with her head. Right?

So she starts reading up on guns. You know?

But she’s reading too much, ’cause now she wants to get one,

but she’s just like, “I heard you gotta keep the bullets in a safe,

keep the stock in the garage.”

And then what?

I run around the house and assemble it as some dude’s chasing me with an ax?

You know? Are you even thinking this thing through, sweetheart?

She’s running around-- “Where’s the scope?” “It’s in the living room.”

“He’s in the living room!”

No, if we’re getting this thing, I want that fucking thing loaded

right on the bedroom wall.

I’ll put that thing in my jam-jam sleeves. Whoof! Just like that.

There’s no other point.

It’s funny, though, when you talk about getting a gun, you know.

People, they’re either totally for it or completely against it. You know?

They either go nuts and start screaming. Right?

Or they start throwing out those stats.

“You know, actually, you increase your chances of getting shot by 80 percent

the second you get a gun in the house.”

Really? What, ’cause I’m gonna load it and shower with it, like--

The fuck? I know it’s dangerous.

You get a pool in your backyard,

you immediately increase your odds of drowning in your backyard, right?

You couldn’t do that before. Now you step on a rake, in you go!

No, I’m telling you, I don’t buy into any of that shit.

Stats are so fucking stupid. You know?

Not that they’re stupid. It’s the way people apply ’em.

you start memorizing a bunch of shit, then you just-- Blaaah!

Just throw it up at people.

This guy tried to get me to go scuba diving.

I go, “I’m not going. I don’t wanna get eaten by a shark.”

He’s like, “Actually, 90 percent of shark attacks actually happen in shallow water.”

It’s like, no shit. That’s where the people are.

You know? It’s called the beach.

Ninety percent of people are frolicking along the coastline.

It’s not like there’s people swimming to Europe.

“Let’s go to Iceland, you pussies!” Right?

I don’t know.

But I actually like Los Angeles.

One of the few East Coast people that likes it.

All my moron New York friends and Boston friends,

they come out there, try to get a good slice of pizza at 4:00 in the morning.

When they can’t-- “This fucking place sucks!

It’s not like exactly where I left.

What’s the point of traveling if it’s gonna be different?”

They’re so fucking stupid. Get a burrito and go on a hike.

What’s wrong with you?

You gonna go to Hawaii-- “There’s no pond hockey! This place sucks!”

I gotta admit, the only thing that freaks me out about Los Angeles

is all the plastic surgery.

I don’t get it.

Why do people get plastic surgery? You know?

Why can’t you just admit it’s over?

You know? You had your time.

Stop trying to look fuckable in your 50s.

It’s weird!

With their faces yanked back, looking all shiny. Right?

Not to mention they haven’t even figured it out. You know?

Why would you get a facelift?

Can’t you look at other facelifts and realize

they haven’t worked all the bugs out yet?

Right? That’s what you wanna look like?

Like you just lost a fight three days ago?

Don’t be a hero.

Let somebody else go in there, take the fucking beach.

You lay back.

Wait it out.

They’re just lying to people. “No, no, looks great.

Put a little ice on it, we’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Take it easy.

Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened?

We followed every step. Did we miss something?

Hey! Here’s your keys. Here’s your keys. There you go. There you go.

Almost didn’t recognize you, you look so young.

All right, take it easy.

She gone? All right, she’s gone? All right, shred everything. Shred it!”

No, you’re nuts.

You wait it out. Let ’em figure it out. Then you fucking go in.

Don’t be a goddamn hero. You know?

Look at hair plugs.

Hair plugs don’t look half bad now.

Saw this guy the other night on TV. “God, I wish I did this ten years ago.”

It’s like, no, you don’t!

Ten years ago, when they were stapling ant legs to the top of people’s heads?

Remember that? Your eyes would water looking at their hairline.

Like, “Is that-- Is that sewn in? I see pine tar!”

They used to put you in, like, a headlock. “Hold still!” Use, like, a nail gun.

“Hold still!”

Guys would tap out after a row and a half.

“Fuck it! I don’t give a shit!”

You wish you got hair plugs ten years ago.

Do you wish you got polio 60 years ago?

What else is on your wish list, sir?

No, you don’t fuck with your face.

Okay?

I understand liposuction. They screw that up, you can put on a shirt. Right?

There’s no shirt for your face.

Who do they think they’re fooling with their stupid-- You know?

And then you lie to yourself. “I’m just gonna do a little-- Just gonna do this.

Just gonna have this done.” No, you’re not. You’re not.

What, are you just gonna wax the fender on your car, then that’s it,

and the rest of it looks all shitty?

“Well, maybe I’ll just do the hood. And maybe I’ll do the back.”

That’s how it happens. Then you look like one of those real housewives.

Face all twisted up.

-Fucking idiots. “Hey, do I look--” -

Yeah, they’re idiots!

“Do I look like I’m in my 20s?” No, you look weird.

You look fucking weird.

You still look like you’re in your 50s.

I just can’t guess what year anymore because I’ve never seen that year.

I’ve never seen that shiny fucking look.

It’s almost like you discovered a new age between 52 and 53.

Yeah.