Bill Hicks on Letterman, Finally …the routine began with a segment about a new TV show he was going to do called, “Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus.”
The next episode, Hicks said, was—even better—going to be
“Lets Hunt and Kill Michael Bolton.”
I once tried to explain, on a YouTube comment list (talk about futility) why Michael Bolton was despicable. My YouTube comment list street creds: I was There in the Sixties, I knew Country Joe (along with everyone else in Berkeley under 30—and who else, of course, mattered.) 
My, it was a long time useful, that dictum—I can only conclude that in your twenties, time passes at a snail’s wonderful pace. Like the endless afternoon I lay in the tall, fresh grass among my chickens, (having moved to the country, like all good hippies eventually did, or tried madly to do.) Hens, healthy hens, are besides being silly, quite gorgeous specimens. At the time I had mostly Barred Rock, who are striking hens indeed. I was curious about life at their level. The light spring breeze ruffled the grass and their tailfeathers alike. They hummed and clucked. It was peace.
But that kind of time (there are so many kinds) hasn’t been available to me for years. So, script kiddies, try and engrave the memories on your little neocortex, if it isn’t a burnt rind by now. For those are the only real treasures we gather up. I once asked my wealthy ex, who had by then given his life over to denying me a another dime, What are you going to do with all that money, have it stuffed around you in your coffin?
Flabbergasted, for once he fell silent, and I hung up, knowing the next item would be another comeback from his vast repertoire of hurtful tripe, because I still wanted a few of those floating hundreds that he used to let fly like feathers in the air, from where I so charmingly, so girlishly, plucked them. Yes, the money of a marriage ought to be handled in some other way.
But this was his. You just don’t understand.
