Bursting through the curtain with his shirt up and his gut out, David Alan Grier strutted around stage as the crowd screamed in approval. "They should change the name of Vegas to 'Fuck yeah!!’ You got to be wild when you go to Vegas. Be like, 'Fuck it; let’s eat three breakfasts! Ahhhhhhh!!!"
Two F bombs in three sentences (plus a scream), about the F word/sentence ratio that Grier kept up throughout the two hour show. He was on such a roll that management had to repeatedly motion him to wrap it up.
Like a southern preacher delivering an irreverent sermon on sex and dope, Grier preached and his congregation ate it up. "All we did is smoke dope and fuck," he said about "The Golden Age" in the late '70s and early '80s. "Now look at ya – white wine spritzers and Shirley Temples. I'm old-fashioned. Give me a bottle of Mad Dog double 20 and three or four Quaaludes!"
The world he grew up in was "kinder and gentler." Back then, a terrorist act constituted someone taking a premeditated shit in the YMCA pool.
"All you couples up in front, you got to listen to me like I'm Dr. Phil with a suntan, like I'm Oprah with a dick." His message was something about how you got to keep the love alive, after the 90-day honeymoon period when "all we do is fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck."
Then "two little white boys," as he called them, sitting in the audience with their scrawny frames in hoodies and baseball caps tilted over their pale faces, caught his eye. "What you two doin' here, who's idea was it? 'We're gonna go see a negro and he's gonna talk about his cock!'"
And he pretty much did. "What's long and brown and a quarter of a pound?" Grier asked at one point. I’ll give you one guess.