- [Host] From the Edinburgh Fringe Festival
It's Set List: Stand-Up Without a Net!
Taking some of the most fearless comics
from around the globe outside their comfort zones.
Creating stand-up comedy out of thin air
on the spot, under pressure and
without any preparation whatsoever.
(upbeat rock music)
- [Comedian] I have a friend
who likes to have sex with dead people.
Right?
I don't want to name him, but he's coming on next.
Ladies and gentlemen, will you welcome
the never-before-seen set list of Mr. Daniel Ha-bu-yan!
- [Daniel] Thanks.
C'mon let's do this fast, I gotta go fuck a corpse.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, that thing is
not getting any fucking fresher.
Right, so.
It's how I like it, yeah, you like this?
You like this?
You don't care do you?
You don't care.
You're giving nothing back.
That's the way I want it, nothing.
I'm getting fuckin' nothing off ya.
See, Ed, like your fucking crowd.
Yeah, boo!
Fuckin' nothing back.
Listen, sorry.
It's the only fucking show I'm doing the Fringe,
I'll apologize, I do have old material here tonight.
But, tell you, there's one thing.
Sometimes I'm looking and I go, fuck it.
Oh I'd fuckin' love to, I'll fuckin' just.
There's times you just wanna,
you just wanna see how high it'll blow ya.
You just wanna see.
You're just thinking if I put a Frisbee on it
and then jumped on it, if I put some sort of
tungsten fuckin' arrow thing, could I leap
onto it, and would I fly into the air?
Would that be a fun thing?
If I wanted to do a zorb.
If you put a zorb on yourself and rolled downwards
to the field, would they go off all around ya?
If you had like, antennae, or a system
of whiskers that you could run through
the field, just seeing how close you can get.
Teasing yourself, teasing yourself
with the proximity to them.
I know that's wrong, and probably more dangerous than that.
But fuck, to have me old dreams.
Have my old dream of the sheer elastic thrill
of being flung into the air and I'd be waving at people,
I know I've been tempted in my time.
Anyway, so one more, go on, what's next.
Oh, let me tell you about (gibberish).
It is both a marriage of science and ololomy.
Which is like science, but older,
deeper, more profound, more tied in with
the universe's natural rhythms.
I think only by actually understanding tololomy
can we truly advance ourselves as a people.
I know it's fashionable to talk about science.
I speak as a man who's slowly turning into
this generation's Johnny fuckin' Ball.
But nonetheless I-
Secretly, I don't believe any of that shit.
I'm laughing at those scientists as I interview them
because they are not olomologists.
They don't understand the power of olomolomology.
It just somehow renders science pointless.
And someday when we're bouncing around fields
with a corpse in our hands that we love most dearly,
we will know that we can go back to-
What the fuck is ol, I'm sorry.
(sighs) You just don't know though, do ya?
You don't know!
They're waving their fingers around,
they could be saying anything!
Half the time.
Half the time they're pointing, and they say,
and they know, they know what you're saying as well!
This is the bit that really freaks me out.
They know what you're saying as well.
Oh you're deaf?
(deliberately mumbles)
Well, your powers are weak now, aren't they?
We have nothing to give at this stage.
What is the anti-deaf agenda of this fucking show, right?
As a committed scientomologist,
I am furious at the way we are taking the deaf
and using their own lack of attending
just because they're the one community we know
are unlikely to be attending our art form.
Just because.
Oh, they're the new victims are they?
Oh, they're the new people we can pick on.
Well fucking paging Frankie Boyle
it's moved on to a new silent victim: the deaf.
Because they'll never know.
Well I'm in favor of their plans to strike out at us.
We'll never hear them, oh we will.
That's ironic.
We actually would hear them coming.
The motto is they're deaf, they make bad ninjas.
I've been hearing you coming for hours now.
Creak, creak.
I live by a number of credos and,
I know, I know, oh, I know.
Oh, eh no, no, no, wait no, uh, no.
Any, fuck no, no.
Nothing, what a fucking, what a hideous number to give.
Nothing has 92 in it.
Literally nothing bar the number
of teams in the football league.
And that is essentially it, yeah.
Thank you.
But fuck it, I am a fucking dweeb.
And even I, as a dweeb know, the 92 rule
is, never put fucking 92 in because it's not fucking funny.
Right?
37 is funny.
That's practically the 92 rule.
Don't ever fucking use 92 in a comedy show,
because ain't nothing funny ever happen with fucking 92.
Right?
I even have to do it in a weird accent
which is not quite (laughs), not quite rap musician.
Don't you never no' put fucking 92 in that.
Literally, the only good that would come out of this
is if you all were deaf and weren't aware
of how hideous an urban accent I just did.
Don't you fuckin', don't you, don't fuckin' 92.
That is my 92 which has no fuckin' rules
involving the number 92, and I fuckin'
live by it, ladies and gentlemen,
as a committed scientomologist.
You'd have known that is one of the reasons
of doing this thing is fucking ignoring
the shit that is on the screen beside you.
And simply doing the same rant as ever.
I'll tell you though, tell you though.
There's times you want to look at someone,
you look in their eyes and you say, you to me,
you are the inverted cross under which I live my life.
You are the goat's blood that drips
through my teeth in the moonlight song.
And they go, what the fuck?
This is the weirdest first date I have ever gone on.
I am never using Guardian Soulmates again.
How did you get past whatever form
of screening system they have on that website?
Take your fangs out of my neck.
Okay, so.
Oh, we're still on that?
Oh you've decided you want more?
God in the sky with your fucking PowerPoint.
(sighs)
One, just ask him how he feels.
You know, is it getting him down?
Is he just a bit depressed about being in prison?
Why do people communicate anymore?
Yeah, "Oh my god, how're you doing?"
Two, offer him the other bunk.
You know, because over 10 to 20,
depending on parole situations,
you can get tired of clambering into the top bunk
and slowly fucking shaking all over the place
when you're the bloke that (mumbles).
Uh, sorry.
And three, maybe draw a discreet veil around you
shitting on the pan in the corner of the room.
I haven't had that experience, let's face it.
And if I do I think I'd be an excellent cellmate.
But really I will kill the guy, and then fuck him.
Yes, yes.
Nothing makes me happier than
the deftness with which I have
reincorporated an older joke into the
grand finale of that particular routine.
The mastery of it.
I am agog at myself, ladies and gentlemen.
The sheer ego.
This is the only fucking appearance
I've made at this entire festival.
This is it, me riding a corpse.
Presumably I was already in prison
for previously having ridden a corpse.
You've gotta believe, of all the many things I've done,
that'd be the one that'd probably end up
with me being banged up in the first place.
So why do they give me a cellmate?
Surely that's asking for trouble.
I'd spend every night, looking at him breathe going,
"Fuck it if I had a pillow now",
every night wanting him, wanting him,
just to finish him off, and I fashion a shiv.
I fashion a shiv out of a lace or something.
I don't know how prison works!
If I had known I was doing this,
I would have researched or something, or watched a show.
Listen, just talk to the man, hold him.
Spend some time with him before you
quietly slit his major artery,
read your Satanic poetry as you pray
to the God of Scientomology and
ride that fucking corpse into the distance.
Thank you very much.
(upbeat rock music)