Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Napalm and Silly Putty

Napalm and Silly Putty

??NAPALM AND SILLY PUTTY

ALSO BY GEORGE CARLIN?Brain Droppings

To sweet Sarah Jane,?the keeper of my magic.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-1” ??Acknowledgments ?

To begin, I would like to acknowledge those of you who read Brain Droppings. It did better than I expected, and I want to say thanks. By the way, if you haven’t read it yet, fear not. You can read this first and then rush out to the store to get Brain Droppings. The two are not sequential.

For those who did read the first book, you’ll find this is the same sort of drivel. Good, funny, occasionally smart, but essentially drivel.

Thanks also to my boyhood friends from 123rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue who listened to my street-corner and hallway monologues when I was thirteen and gladdened my young heart by saying, “Georgie, you’re fuckin’ crazy!”

Most of all, thanks to my editor, Jennifer Lang, for her patience and support, and for putting these thoughts of mine in order.

Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies lest they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth.

–Professor Byrd Gibbens,

Professor of English,

University of Arkansas at Little Rock.

From a letter to the author.

Those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music.

–Anon.

If you can’t dance you fuck a lot of waitresses.

–Voltaire

Sometimes gum looks like a penny.

–Sally Wade

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-2” ??Introduction ?

Hi, reader. I hope you’re feeling well, and I hope your family is prospering in the new global economy. At least to the extent they deserve. For the next few hundred pages I will be your content provider.

Regarding the title of this book, Napalm & Silly Putty: Sometime ago I was struck by the fact that, among many other wondrous things, Man has had the imagination to invent two such distinctly different products. One, a flaming, jellied gasoline used to create fire, death, and destruction; the other, a claylike mass good for throwing, bouncing, smashing, or pressing against a comic strip so you can look at a backwards picture of Popeye. I think the title serves as a fairly good metaphor for Man’s dual nature, while also providing an apt description of the kinds of thoughts that occupy me, both in this book and in my daily life: on the one hand, I kind of like it when a lot of people die, and on the other I always wonder how many unused frequent-flier miles they had.

The only difference between lilies and turds is whatever difference humans have agreed upon; and I don’t always agree.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-3” ??CARS AND DRIVING: PART ONE ?

Ridin’ or Drivin’?

You wanna go for a ride? Okay, let’s go for a ride. Well, actually, you’ll go for a ride, I’ll go for a drive. The one who drives the car goes for a drive. The other person goes for a ride. Most folks aren’t aware of that. Tell ’em when they’re gettin’ into your car. Say, “You assholes are goin’ for a ride, I’m goin’ for a drive. ’Cause I’m the one who’s makin’ the payments on this shit-box.”

Gettin’ in the Car

Now, for purposes of description, you’ll have to picture my car: an old, poorly maintained, dangerous collection of faulty parts from that wonderful time before safety became such a big goddamn deal in this country. And my car is like any other small car—real hard to get into. That’s important, because, after all, you gotta get into the car first. Otherwise, the way I look at it, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.

And let’s not forget, with any kind of car, just opening the driver’s door and getting in involves a certain amount of risk. Have you noticed that? The terrific way they designed cars so the driver’s door opens right out into the middle of goddamn traffic? Jesus! About the only intelligent thing the British ever did was putting that driver’s seat right over there near the curb where it belongs. Of course then they went and moved the curb to the wrong side of the street.

Park like a Man

Anyway, like I said, no small car is easy to get into, but especially if you park the way I do: illegally, two feet out from the curb, on a busy, high-speed thoroughfare right in the middle of rush hour. And that sort of car entry is even riskier if you’ve got a two-door, and you’re tryin’ to stuff a coupla shopping bags full of groceries into the backseat while everyone else is zippin’ past you, close enough to smell your breath.

Holy shit! Look out!! Here comes a drunken bus driver! Quick! Abandon groceries! Stand up straight! Squeeze against the car and pull that door as close to your body as you can, taking care of course not to cut off circulation to your feet. Holy shit, that was close! Good thing you went into emergency mode. And be honest, you didn’t really need them groceries, did ya? Goddamn! Look at how flat that bus made everything; imagine a flank steak with tread marks. And might that just possibly be potato juice on the ground?

Handle with Care

Now, one more thing about car entry: my car has got one of them tricky kinda door handles that’re recessed a little bit into the door itself. You know the ones I mean? Where your fingers actually go in a little bit, past the surface of the car, till you grab ahold of the handle? Don’t ya like them? I do. That’s why they don’t make ’em anymore. They found out I like ’em. That’s the way it is with everything. They find out I like it, they stop makin’ it.

Open and Shut Case

Anyway, back to my car. I also got me one of them doors that when you open it, it swings a-a-a-all the way open. You know the kind I mean? A-A-A-All the way open; perpendicular to the car. I ain’t got one of them fancy doors that hangs out there halfway and stays where you want it to. With my door, we got two things, open and shut. Pick one.

And if I should be tryin’ to do somethin’ really tricky, like get into the car? Well, in a case like that I gotta prop the door open with a broom handle. ’Cause otherwise, sure as hell, soon as I’m halfway in, that door’s gonna swing back hard as it can and sever my leg just below the knee.

“Eeeeeyyyyaaaaaaaiiiiiaaaahhhhoooooooo!”

God! That shit hurts for about a year and a half, don’t it? And them huge, purple blotches? Seems like they never go away.

An Up Front Guy

Now, I wanna mention one additional problem I have when I’m gettin’ into my car. Like I told ya, it’s kinda old, and upkeep has been minimal, so there’s another thing I gotta deal with. A long time ago, my driver’s seat got pushed way up forward on the runners about as far as it goes, and apparently it ain’t never comin’ back.

You see, what happened was, years ago, about thirty or forty of them little pop-top beer-can rings got wedged into the seat tracks, and now they’re all fused into one solid piece of metal, and that fuckin’ seat ain’t never gonna move again. Unless, of course, there’s an atomic attack, in which case it probably ain’t gonna budge more than an inch or two.

So, because of all this unintentional seat redesign, when I get into full drivin’ mode, I’m pretty much hangin’ out right behind the radiator. In fact, if I wanna check my speedo, I gotta look straight down into my crotch. But, hey! At least I’m in the car.

Tight Squeeze

But maybe you’re not! Maybe I oughta mention one more common car reentry problem: I know that some of you fainthearted folks like to play it safe by parkin’ right in the mall parking lot. And, of course when you park the car, you do so in such a manner that leaves you full access to the door. But while you’re in the mall chargin’ all that worthless merchandise, some asshole parks right next to you, leaves about six inches between cars, and now you can’t get your door open more than three or four degrees at best.

So, in order to gain access, you gotta try to wedge yourself through a tiny little crack, while balancing six gift-wrapped packages, all the time maintaining the integrity of a lit cigarette hangin’ off your lip. Besides which, your own particular lumbar spine is not the best one God ever put together, and everybody knows that even a proper back is not made for gettin’ into a car under circumstances such as these.

And, by the way, as most men know, tryin’ to squeeze into a car in that manner also creates a potential for serious ball-injury from the steering wheel. Many’s the family-planning program that’s gone out the window due to poor parking. Solution: Always park way down at the far end of the lot, where the homeless people live. Your back and your balls will thank you. And the walk’ll do ya good.

Door #4

Anyway, at this point I think we’re all in the car, so now I’ll just reach over here and . . . I’ll just reach over here and . . . awww, shit! Goddamn door is still wide open. Well, maybe if I lean wa-a-ay out, and stretch my arm as far as it’ll go; maybe without actually getting up, I can just reach out and . . . uuuuuhhhnnggh! Fuck it! It appears, folks, that today we’re gonna be driving with the door wide open. What the heck, it’s a lovely day, and they say an open driver’s door actually helps you a little bit on left-hand turns. Acts like a rudder, increasing the drag factor on the port side.

Idiots and Maniacs

Okay, now we’re gonna be takin’ our little drive in just a minute or two, but first a philosophical question: Have you ever noticed that when you’re drivin’, anyone goin’ slower than you is an idiot? And anyone goin’ faster than you is a maniac?

“Will you look at this idiot!” [points right] “Look at him! Just creepin’ along!” [swings head left] “Holy shit!! Look at that maniac go!”

Why, I tell ya, folks, it’s a wonder we ever get anywhere at all these days, what with all the idiots and maniacs out there. Because no one ever drives at my speed.

Actually, I don’t let people drive at my speed. If I see some guy in the next lane keepin’ pace with me, I slow down. I let that asshole get a little bit ahead, so I can keep an eye on him. I like to know who I’m drivin’ near. In fact, quite often at a red light I’ll ask for personal references. You can never be too careful.

Getting Started

Okay. Now, a few basic points about driving. One of the first things they teach you in Driver’s Ed is where to put your hands on the steering wheel. They tell you put ’em at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Never mind that. I put mine at 9:45 and 2:17. Gives me an extra half hour to get where I’m goin’.

Some Things Break Easy

Now, most drivers know that some things that happen in the car can cause great embarrassment. I’ve never done any of these things myself, of course, but I’m sure you’ll recognize a few of them. Here’s a good example: you ever been driving someone else’s car, and for some reason they’re in the car, too? You know what I mean? Let’s say they got pushed off the balcony of a crack house and broke both their ankles, and they can’t drive, so you’re takin’ them out to buy some crack? You’re drivin’ their car? But you’re used to driving your car. And their gear shift handle is mounted on the opposite side from where yours is, and suddenly you go to shift gears and [CRACK!] break their fuckin’ turn signal off! Just break it clean off the steering column!

“Holy shit, came right off, didn’t it? God damn! You’ll have to get a new one of them! Here, throw this old one out the window! It ain’t no good to ya now. Shit, that broke easy, didn’t it?”

Some things break easy. Just break right off. Like radio dials. The old kind, the knob kind. Damn, those things were fragile. You’d be drivin’ along just tryin’ to tune in somethin’ on the radio. Tryin’ to find some kinda music you could actually tolerate. And you’d just keep turnin’ and turnin’ and turnin’ that dial, until finally you got way over onto the right-hand side of the dashboard and ran clean outta radio stations, and then . . . CRACK!!!

“Holy shit, came right off, didn’t it? God damn! Gotta throw that mother away! Gimme a fresh one outta that little bag, would ya? I got about fifty of those motherfuckers. Damn, they break easy!”

So you stick a new knob onto the radio and keep turnin’ and turnin’ and turnin’, until finally you wind up past the glove compartment listenin’ to some radio station located over near the right-hand mirror. Damn. Some things break easy.

It’s Your Car, Have a Little Fun!

I’m a great believer in using every piece of equipment on the car. Every feature, every option, even if you don’t need it. Fuck it, you paid for the car, use everything!

Use the sun visor. Even on a cloudy day. Flip it up, flip it down; flip it over to the side like the French people do. Lower the passenger’s visor, even if no one is sitting there. Open the ashtray, push in the lighter; who cares if you don’t smoke? Turn all the knobs, press all the buttons. Have a lot of fun. Change the mirrors all around. Press the trunk release. Pop the hood open. Put your seat in a ridiculous position. Lower all the windows. Stick out your hand. Tell the other drivers to slow down. You have power. Use hand signals. Tell them to slow down. And then tell them to stop.

“Stop! Stop!”

Then let one guy go. Only one.

“Okay, you can go. Go! Go! Go! No, not you! Just him! Okay, now you! Go! Go!”

You have power. Use it. Fuck it. You’re makin’ the car payments, have a little fun.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-4” ??EAT A BOX OF COOKIES ?

Did you ever eat a whole box of cookies right in a row? Did you ever do that? I don’t mean take them into your bedroom or something. I mean open them right up in the kitchen as soon as you get home from the store and eat ’em while you’re standing there? Just stare at the toaster while you’re eatin’ a whole goddamn box of cookies? Did you ever do that? Isn’t it great?

And did you ever notice that printed right on the cookie box it says, “Open here”? Well, what did they think I was gonna do? Move to Hong Kong to open up their fuckin’ cookies? Of course I’m gonna open ’em here. I’m gonna eat ’em here, I’d almost have to open ’em here. Thank God it doesn’t say, “Open somewhere else.” I’d be up all night tryin’ to figure out an appropriate location.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-5” ??SHORT TAKES ?

Ah, to be a bird. To fly the skies, sing my song, and best of all occasionally peck someone’s eyes out.

When he got loaded, the human cannonball knew there were not many men of his caliber.

I don’t like porno movies. They piss me off. First they show a great-looking naked woman who starts playing with herself. And while I’m watching, she sort of becomes my girlfriend. And then, suddenly, in walks a guy with a big dick, and he starts fucking my girlfriend. It pisses me off.

Most people with low self-esteem have earned it.

Haven’t we gone far enough with colored ribbons for different causes? Every cause has its own color. Red for AIDS, blue for child abuse, pink for breast cancer, green for the rain forest. I’ve got a brown one. You know what it means? “Eat shit, motherfucker!”

I enjoy young people because they’re really fucked up and don’t know what they’re doing. I like that. I support all fucked-up people regardless of age.

In that book Tuesdays with Morrie, Morrie Schwartz had Lou Gehrig’s disease. But what isn’t generally known is that because of a mix-up at the hospital, Lou Gehrig had Hodgkin’s disease, Hodgkin had Parkinson’s disease, and Parkinson had Alzheimer’s disease. Unfortunately, Alzheimer couldn’t remember whose disease he had. He thinks it might have been Wally Pipp.

Whenever you see more than two men sitting in a parked car after dark you can be sure drugs are involved.

You know what we haven’t had in quite a while? A really big fire in a crowded nightclub. What’s going on?

When I die I don’t want to be buried, but I don’t want to be cremated either. I want to be blown up. Put me on a pile of explosives and blow me up. Or throw my body from a helicopter. That would be fun. One stipulation: wherever I land, you have to leave me there. Even if it’s the mayor’s lawn. Just let me lie there. But keep the dogs away.

Isn’t it nice that once your parents are dead they can’t come back and start fucking with you again?

The trouble with a sitcom is that every week it’s the same irritating group of assholes.

People who say they don’t care what people think are usually desperate to have people think they don’t care what people think.

I never see any black twins. What’s the deal here?

You know what would be great? To be in a coma. You’re still alive, but you have no responsibilities.

“He owes me six thousand dollars.”

“He’s in a coma.”

“Oh, okay. Never mind.”

If I had my choice of how to die I would like to be sitting on the crosstown bus and suddenly burst into flames.

Have you noticed fluorescent lights seem afraid to come on? When you turn on a fluorescent light it flickers and hesitates and is sort of unsure of itself. Then after several seconds it seems to gain confidence and light up at full strength. What’s that all about? Cain’t these lamps receive some sort of counseling?

You know what would be fun? To fuck a grief-stricken woman.

THE CHRISTIANS ARE COMING TO GET YOU, AND THEY ARE NOT PLEASANT PEOPLE.

I recently bought a book of free verse. For twelve dollars.

One of my favorite things to do at a party is smoke a bunch of PCP and start taking people’s rectal temperatures without permission.

If the police never find it, is it still a clue?

You know an odd feeling? Sitting on the toilet eating a chocolate candy bar.

Have you ever started a path? No one seems willing to do this. We don’t mind using existing paths, but we rarely start new ones. Do it today. Start a path. Even if it doesn’t lead anywhere.

You can’t argue with a good blow job.

True Fact: There is now an “interactive food” called SNOT—Super Nauseating Obnoxious Treat. It squirts out of a plastic dispenser that looks like a man’s nose. God bless America.

I’ve thought it over, and I’ve decided pus is okay.

Every sixty seconds, thirty acres of rain forest are destroyed in order to raise beef for fast-food restaurants that sell it to people, giving them strokes and heart attacks, which raise medical costs and insurance rates, providing insurance companies with more money to invest in large corporations that branch out further into the Third World so they can destroy more rain forests.

When I was a kid, if a guy got killed in a western movie I always wondered who got his horse.

I have no sympathy for “single dads.” Most of these guys got married because they wanted steady pussy. Well, steady pussy leads to steady babies, and steady babies tend to cut down the pussy. So, once the novelty wears off, the marriage disappears. Single dads. Big fuckin’ deal.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-6” ??AIRLINE ANNOUNCEMENTS: ?PART ONE ?

Here’s something we all have in common: flying on big airplanes and listening to the announcements. And trying to pretend the language they’re using is English. Doesn’t always sound like it to me.

Preflight

It starts at the gate: “We’d like to begin the boarding process.” Extra word. “Process.” Not necessary. Boarding is sufficient. “We’d like to begin the boarding.” Simple. Tells the story. People add extra words when they want things to sound more important than they really are. “Boarding process” sounds important. It isn’t. It’s just a group of people getting on an airplane.

To begin their boarding process, the airline announces they will preboard certain passengers. And I wonder, How can that be? How can people board before they board? This I gotta see. But before anything interesting can happen I’m told to get on the plane. “Sir, you can get on the plane now.” And I think for a moment. “On the plane? No, my friends, not me. I’m not getting on the plane; I’m getting in the plane! Let Evel Knievel get on the plane, I’ll be sitting inside in one of those little chairs. It seems less windy in there.”

Then they mention that it’s a nonstop flight. Well, I must say I don’t care for that sort of thing. Call me old-fashioned, but I insist that my flight stop. Preferably at an airport. Somehow those sudden cornfield stops interfere with the flow of my day. And just about at this point, they tell me the flight has been delayed because of a change of equipment. And deep down I’m thinking, “broken plane!”

Speaking of potential mishaps, here’s a phrase that apparently the airlines simply made up: near miss. They say that if two planes almost collide it’s a near miss. Bullshit, my friend. It’s a near hit! A collision is a near miss.

[WHAM! CRUNCH!]

“Look, they nearly missed!”

“Yes, but not quite.”

Back to the flight: As part of all the continuing folderol, I’m asked to put my seat-back forward. Well, unfortunately for the others in the cabin, I don’t bend that way. If I could put my seat-back forward I’d be in porno movies.

There’s also a mention of carry-on luggage. The first time I heard this term I thought they said “carrion,” and that they were bringing a dead deer on board. And I wondered, “What the hell would they want with that? Don’t they have those little TV dinners anymore?” And then I thought, Carry on? “Carry on!” Of course! People are going to be carrying on! It’s a party! Well, I don’t much care for that. Personally, I prefer a serious attitude on the plane.

Especially on the flight deck, which is the latest euphemism for cockpit. I can’t imagine why they’d want to avoid a colorful word like “cockpit,” can you? Especially with all those lovely stewardesses going in and out of it all the time.

By the way, there’s a word that’s changed: stewardess. First it was hostess, then stewardess, now it’s “flight attendant.” You know what I call her? “The lady on the plane.” These days, sometimes it’s a man on the plane. That’s good. Equality. I’m all in favor of that.

The flight attendants are also sometimes referred to as uniformed crew members. Oh, good. Uniformed. As opposed to this guy next to me in the Grateful Dead T-shirt and the FUCK YOU hat, who’s currently working on his ninth little bottle of Kahlúa.

Safety First. Mine!

As soon as they close the door to the aircraft they begin the safety lecture. I love the safety lecture. It’s my favorite part of the flight. I listen very carefully. Especially to the part where they teach us how to use the seat belt. Imagine that: a plane full of grown humans—many of them partially educated—and someone is actually taking the time to describe the intricate workings of a belt buckle. “Place the small metal flap into the buckle.” Well, at that point I raise my hand and ask for clarification.

“Over here, please, over here. Yes. Thank you very much. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say ‘place the small metal flap into the buckle,’ or did you say ‘place the buckle over and around the small metal flap’? I’m a simple man, I do not possess an engineering degree, nor am I mechanically inclined. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Please continue with your wonderful safety lecture.” Seat belt. High-tech shit!

The lecture continues. The next thing they advise me to do is locate my nearest emergency exit. Well, I do so immediately. I locate my nearest emergency exit, and I plan my escape route. You have to plan your escape route. It’s not always a straight line, is it? No. Sometimes there’s a really big, fat fuck sitting right in front of you.

Well, I know I’ll never be able to climb over him, so I look around for women and children, midgets and dwarfs, cripples, elderly widows, paralyzed veterans, and people with broken legs. Anyone who looks like they don’t move too well. The emotionally disturbed come in very handy at a time like this. It’s true I may have to go out of my way to find some of these people, but I’ll get out of the plane a whole lot quicker, believe you me.

My strategy is clear: I’ll go around the fat fuck, step on the widow’s head, push those children aside, knock down the paralyzed midget, and escape from the plane. In order, of course, to assist the other passengers who are still trapped inside the burning wreckage. After all, I can be of no help to anyone if I’m lying in the aisle, unconscious, with some big cocksucker standing on my neck. I must get out of the plane, make my way to a nearby farmhouse, have a Dr Pepper, and call the police.

The safety lecture continues: “In the unlikely event . . .” This is a very suspect phrase, especially coming as it does from an industry that is willing to lie about arrival and departure times. “In the unlikely event of a sudden change in cabin pressure . . .” roof flies off!! “. . . an oxygen mask will drop down in front of you. Place the mask over your face and breathe normally.” Well, no problem there. I always breathe normally when I’m in an uncontrolled, 600-mile-an-hour vertical dive. I also shit normally. Directly into my pants.

Then they tell me to adjust my oxygen mask before helping my child with his. Well, that’s one thing I didn’t need to be told. In fact, I’m probably going to be too busy screaming to help my child at all. This will be a good time for him to learn self-reliance. If he can surf the fucking Internet, he can goddamn, jolly well learn to adjust an oxygen mask. It’s a fairly simple thing: just a little elastic band in the back. Not nearly as complicated as, say, a seat belt.

The safety lecture continues: “In the unlikely event of a water landing . . .” A water landing! Am I mistaken, or does this sound somewhat similar to “crashing into the ocean”? “. . . your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device.” Well, imagine that. My seat cushion! Just what I need: to float around the North Atlantic for several days, clinging to a pillow full of beer farts.

The announcements suddenly cease. We’re about to take off. Time for me to drift off to sleep, so the captain can later awaken me repeatedly with the many valuable sight-seeing announcements he will be making along the way. I’m always amazed at the broad knowledge these men have of the United States. And some of them apparently have really good eyesight:

“For you folks seated on the left side of the plane, that’s old Ben Hubbard’s place down there. And whaddeya know, there’s Ben comin’ out onto his porch right now. What’s he doin? By God, he’s pickin’ his nose. Wow! Look at that one! That is one prize booger. And look, he’s throwin’ it into a bush. Ain’t that just like old Ben? Over on the right . . .”

Zzzzzzzz.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-7” ??AIRLINE ANNOUNCEMENTS: ?PART TWO ?

Suddenly I’m awake. The flight is almost over, and somehow, along the way, the captain has become politicized. His latest offering:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just begun our gradual descent into the Los Angeles area, similar in many ways to the gradual descent of this once great nation from a proud paragon of God-fearing virtue to a third-rate power awash in violence, sexual excess, and personal greed . . .”

I drift off again and awaken just as the end-of-flight announcements are being made: “The captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign.” Here we go again. Who gives a shit who turned on the sign? What does that have to do with anything? It’s on, isn’t it? And by the way, isn’t it about time we found out who made this man a captain? Did I sleep through some sort of armed-forces swearing-in ceremony? Captain, my ass, the man is a fucking pilot, and he should be happy with that. If those sight-seeing announcements are any mark of his intelligence, the man’s lucky to be working at all.

Having endured enough nonsense from this so-called captain, I finally raise my voice: “Tell the captain, Air Marshal Carlin says he should go fuck himself!”

The next sentence I hear is filled with language that pisses me off: “Before leaving the aircraft, please check around your immediate seating area for any personal belongings you might have brought on board.” Well, let’s start with “immediate seating area.” Seat! It’s a goddamn seat! “For any personal belongings . . .” Well, what other kinds of belongings do they think I have? Public? Do they honestly think I brought along a fountain I stole from the park? “. . . you might have brought on board.” Well, I might have brought my Shoshone arrowhead collection. I didn’t. So I’m not going to look for it.

Then they say we’ll be “landing shortly.” Doesn’t that sound like we’re going to miss the runway? “Final approach” is not too promising either. “Final” is not a good word to be using on an airplane. Sometimes the pilot will speak up and say, “We’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes.” Well, that seems a little vague. “On the ground” could mean any number of things. Most of them not very good.

By this time we’re taxiing in, and the flight attendant is saying, “Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport . . .” Well, how can someone who is just arriving herself possibly welcome me to a place she hasn’t gotten to yet? Doesn’t this violate some law of physics? We’ve been on the ground barely four seconds, and she’s comin’ on like the mayor’s wife. “. . . where the local time . . .” Well, of course it’s the local time. What did they think I was expecting? The time in Norway?

“Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles or wherever your final destination might be.” Someone should really tell these airline people that all destinations are final. That’s what destination means. Destiny. It’s final. Think of it this way: if you haven’t gotten where you’re going, you probably aren’t there yet.