I came up with a new game-show idea recently. It’s called The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn’t blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator.
When you are young, your potential is infinite. You might do anything, really. You might be Einstein. You might be DiMaggio. Then you get to an age where what you might be gives way to what you have been. You weren’t Einstein. You weren’t anything. That’s a bad moment.
When you’re in a relationship it means you are obligated to give a shit.
I don’t know what was worse – that I was duped by that fat fucking bachelor, or that it took seven of us to replace him.
Life was sweet… For a minute.
I’m not killing people… my future’s in television.
My name is Charles Prescott Barris. I have written pop songs, I have been a television producer. I am responsible for polluting the airwaves with mindnumbing, puerile entertainment. In addition, I have murdered thirty-three human beings.
