Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

If you really have to take a shit at the time, that’s great; you’re all set. But if you don’t, you have a decision to make. Because, although ethically there is nothing wrong with taking a fake shit, in a practical sense if the crew thinks you’ve been in there too long, and they decide to break down the door, you want to be sure that when they arrive you appear to be taking a genuine shit. Don’t forget, they’re going to check. And nobody wants to be arrested for shitting with his pants on, am I right? Although personally I can tell you I don’t care what the charge is as long as I get rid of the joint. Besides, shitting with your pants on is only a misdemeanor. And in my case it would be a first offense.

Which brings us back to my own personal airline-bathroom experience. One problem I always had was that after I got high I would wind up staying in the bathroom way too long. Pot brought out the superorganizer in me, so once I’d had a few good, deep hits and was securely locked in, I tended to go to work.

First thing I did was open up all those little compartments under the sink and rearrange the supplies stored in there. I’d restack all the sanitary napkins according to strength: regular, super, jumbo, teeny-bopper. I’d remove the outer wrappers from the spare toilet paper, making it readily available in the event some nasty bacterium found its way into the first-class entrees. Then I’d refill the paper towel dispenser, being careful to pack it so tightly that the towels would not come out without shredding. And—again, the old days—I’d make sure there were plenty of those little bars of soap lying out for people to steal. In the occasional instance when cologne, aftershave, and other amenities were made available, I would be sure to take them home for further quality-control testing. Ford is not the only place where quality is job one.

Then, my chores done, I would relax somewhat and reflect on the environment around me. I’d become fascinated by the little slot they had for used razor blades, and I wondered whether or not the blades actually dropped out of the airplane and fell on people’s houses, or if they just rusted and rotted somewhere behind the wall. I’d read the various signs posted in three languages and try to translate precisely the corresponding words in each language. Then, finally, a long, lingering look in the mirror, usually resulting in the discovery of some hideous facial flaw, previously undetected.

And then, suddenly, the little lighted sign would flash on telling me to Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin!

I’d think, Oh shit, trouble in the cabin. They need me. I should never have left them alone. I’d better see what’s up. And then on my way out, I’d spot one last sign: Please Leave Lavatory Clean for the Next Passenger. Well, that’s all I needed to see. And because I’m really into detail now—and even though I didn’t make a mess—I’m experiencing “felon’s guilt.” And I decide to clean up for the next person.

I rinse and dry and thoroughly polish the entire sink area, scouring all the burst-pimple residue off the mirror, and I even wash off the dried, gray dirt bubbles left on the soap by the previous person. Now I’m gettin’ into it! Pretty soon I find myself washing the walls and ceiling, throwing open the door, and yelling, “You people got some Spic and Span and a hard-bristle brush out there? I think I can get these blue stains off the toilet!”

And suddenly I realize my fantasy world has collapsed; the real world is watching. Adjusting quickly, and relying on my identity as a comedian, I chuckle weakly and say, “You gotta clean up for the next person.”

Then, as the fat woman waiting to take a shit passes me on her way into the john, I hiss, “Don’t fuck it up, lady. I worked my ass off in there.” And back to my seat I go, secure in the knowledge that, once again, thanks to my highly developed work ethic, along with some great Humboldt weed, I’ve managed to make the skies a little friendlier.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-84” ??SHORT TAKES ?

You know one of the biggest rip-offs in the world? Flowers. They grow free all over the world, and yet we pay for them. And then they die. That seems strange. Flowers are one of the few things we buy, bring home, watch die, and we don’t ask for our money back. Normally, we’d be screaming at a merchant over something like that: “Hey, what kind of shit is this? Gimme my money back! The fuckin’ things keeled over right on the piano!”

The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.

Tits always look better in a pink sweater.

You know what you don’t see enough of on television? A good parachute accident. It’s kinda fun.

Ask your dry cleaner if he can remove the stains from one pair of pants and put them in another. He should be able to do that for the same amount of money. While you’re in there, ask if he can remove semen from a wedding veil. That’s the test of a really good dry cleaner.

To me, fast food is when a cheetah eats an antelope.

Two men whose names you see a lot on air-conditioner dials: Norm and Max.

Have you ever been kissing someone, and one of you has a snot that’s whistling? It takes your mind off the sex, because it requires a three-step solution. First of all, you have to figure out whose nose it’s in. Then you have to determine which nostril. Finally, someone has to dig in there and, if not remove it completely, at least push it to one side so it doesn’t whistle anymore. By the way, during all this activity the man usually loses his hard-on.

A crumb is a great thing: If you break a crumb in half you don’t get two half-crumbs, you get two crumbs. Doesn’t that violate some law of physics?

I think I am, therefore, I am. I think.

Have you ever noticed that when you’re torturing a person, after a while you get real tired and you don’t know what to do to him next? Then you think of something, and you sort of get your energy back?

Any man with a small moustache wearing a bow tie and a loud vest is an asshole.

A cat will blink when struck with a hammer.

Reception lines would be a lot more interesting if instead of shaking hands, people greeted each other with a kick in the groin.

The reason the mainstream is thought of as a stream is because of its shallowness.

Actual bumper sticker: HORN BROKE—WATCH FOR FINGER.

Fun at the ballpark: Y’ever notice a lot of guys bring a glove to the game to catch a foul ball? Never mind that, bring a bat! When a foul ball comes flying toward you, BAM! Hit it back to the players. Everyone will sense you’re a fun fan. They’ll be glad they came to the ballpark on straitjacket night.

I read somewhere that for the average person fourteen farts a day are considered normal. Based on these figures, and judging from my own output, I have to assume there are millions of people who never fart at all.

I don’t have a fear of heights. I do, however, have a fear of falling from heights.

Isn’t it a good feeling when you read the tabloids and realize that a lot of famous people are just as fucked up as you are?

The justice system should have a penalty whereby they send you to prison, and for ten years the guards take turns doing that Three Stooges, jabbing-two-fingers-in-your-eyes thing. I think that would straighten a lot of guys out.

 .backwards sentences say to used I !shit Oh !again go I There

I noticed in the newspaper that track and field has an event called the women’s pole vault. It makes me wonder: With all the options available to her in this age, how does a young woman get interested in pole-vaulting? It seems like a bizarre choice. By the way, I hope you noticed I completely ignored the obvious opportunity for a cheap phallic joke.

If I ever lose my mind I hope some honest person will find it and take it to Lost and Found.

In some hotels they give you a little sewing kit. You know what I do? I sew the towels together. One time I sewed a button on a lampshade. I like to leave a mark.

What’s wrong with America: There are schools in Fairfax County, Virginia, where kids are not allowed to win soccer games. Whenever a team gets two goals ahead they have to give up one player. Pathetic.

The Asian country known as Mongolia used to be called Outer Mongolia. And just below the Outer Mongolian border with China there was an autonomous region called Inner Mongolia. And since each of them had its own inner and outer regions, that means that at one time there existed, fairly close to one another, an “outer Inner Mongolia” and an “inner Outer Mongolia.” I like that sort of thing. I like picturing the road signs and all the people taking wrong turns.

When someone with an artificial heart dies, I think they should take out the heart, hook it up to an artificial body, and let it go at that.

I never bite my nails; I consider it a health risk. Instead, I twist my nails off with pliers and burn away any excess tissue with a cigarette lighter.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-85” ??SPORTS SHOULD BE FIXED:?FIRST HALF ?

Everyone knows by now, sports is big business. But the major sports have grown boring and predictable, and the public has become jaded. So I’m suggesting a few changes that would add excitement to the games and increase their entertainment value.

Take Me Out to the Hospital

Baseball has one major problem: not enough serious injuries. A lot of baseball’s so-called injuries are just “a strained this” or “a sore whatchamacallit.” In today’s culture that’s not good enough. Fans are crying out for someone to be hurt really badly.

So, to raise the injury level, what I would do is place thirty to forty land mines in the outfield; the kind of mines that spray thousands of tiny nails when they explode. Not only would this add excitement, it would also provide a refreshing element of surprise: “There’s a high, lazy fly ball to right field. O’Neill drifts over, pats his glove . . .” BOOOOOOM! “Holy fuckin’ shit! Oh, good Lord! Oh, precious, precious Lord!”

Baseball is also accused of being too slow. Here’s something that would not only speed up the game but also provide a welcome opportunity for serious injuries. Like most good ideas, it’s uncomplicated: if the pitcher hits the batter with the ball, the batter is out. That’s it. A simple idea, but it could make quite a difference.

And maybe if the ball hits the batter in the head it could be a double play. I don’t know, I’m not an expert on rules. But it’s certainly worth a try. And just think: a good “control pitcher” could have a perfect game just by hitting twenty-seven guys in a row. In fact, if you had two quality pitchers out there, the fans could be out of that ballpark in half an hour, on their way home to watch football on TV. Where they could see some serious goddamn injuries.

Gettin’ My Kicks

Now, football. For many of you fans, football is already a perfect game. Its particular combination of speed, strategy, and brute force seems just right for the American psyche. But even a well-thought-out game like football can use a little help from a fun-loving guy like me.

I would start by improving the coin toss, by making it a full-contact event. While the coin is in the air, the team captains should be allowed to kick the officials. It would get things going on a positive note. Remember, this is a sport that owes its origin to the practice of English soldiers playfully kicking around the head of a Dane during the lulls in combat.

Now, to the game itself. I think football should limit itself to only one rule: Each down begins in an orderly manner. That’s it. After that, the players should be allowed to do whatever they want. If there’s a fight, you move it off to one side of the field. Let it run its course; no restrictions. If several 300-pound linemen are crippling a placekicker, fine. Let them continue. We shouldn’t be trying to suppress the natural exuberance of athletes. Keep in mind these men are physical freaks, full of drugs and anger, and they’re here to entertain us. They enjoy being injured; let them go about their business.

So much for upgrading the violence. Here’s my suggestion for adding excitement. Currently, each team is allowed forty-five players on the squad, but most of them stand around watching the game from the sidelines. If I were in charge, this would not be happening. Instead, I would have all ninety men out on the field at all times. Offense, defense, special teams. Everyone. What football really needs is ninety steroid monstrosities geeked on amphetamines racing around the field trying to hurt one another.

Here’s another way to spice up the game: leave the injured players on the field. Let them lie there. These men are supposed to be tough, you can’t coddle them just because they break something. Let the other guys play around them. If they get stepped on, tough titty. These macho pinheads are always talking about how it’s “a big war goin’ on out there.” Fine. Let the Red Cross come around and pick them up.

And regarding this taunting behavior that so many people find offensive, I don’t see the problem. In fact, I don’t think taunting goes nearly far enough. In my opinion—and I’m certainly no professional athlete—after a good hard tackle the defensive player should be allowed to pull down his pants and masturbate on the man he tackled. It seems like a simple thing, but it would change the whole tempo of the game. And if he can’t ejaculate because 60,000 people are watching, you hit him with a 15-yard penalty for delay of game.

I end my suggestions for improving football by taking a look at one of those game-end rituals: the pouring of Gatorade on the winning coach. To my mind, this is far too fruity for football. It’s barely appropriate for a sixth-grade dodgeball team. What ought to happen is the winning team should be allowed to come across the field and spike the losing coach. Just spike him. Four linebackers turn him upside-down and pile-drive him headfirst into the ground. Give him an incentive to work a little harder on the next week’s game plan.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-86” ??CAPITAL PUNISHMENT ?

Many people in this country want to expand the death penalty to include drug dealers. This is really stupid. Drug dealers aren’t afraid to die. They’re already killin’ each other by the hundreds every day. Drive-bys, turf wars, gang killings. They’re not afraid to die. The death penalty means very little unless you use it on people who are afraid to die. Like the bankers who launder the drug money. Forget dealers. If you want to slow down the drug traffic, you have to start executing some of these white, middle-class Republican bankers. And I don’t mean soft American executions like lethal injection. I’m talkin’ about crucifixion, folks. I say bring back crucifixion! A form of capital punishment the Christians and Jews of America can really appreciate.

And I’d take it a step further: I’d crucify these people upside-down. Like St. Peter. Feet up, head down. And naked! I’d have naked, upside-down crucifixions once a week on TV, at halftime of the Monday Night Football games. The Monday Night Crucifixions! Shit, you’d have people tunin’ in who don’t even care about football. Wouldn’t you like to hear Dennis Miller explain why the nails have to go in at a specific angle?

And I’ll guarantee you one thing: you start nailin’ one white banker per week to a big wooden cross on national television, and you’re gonna see that drug traffic begin to slow down mighty fuckin’ quick. Why you won’t even be able to buy drugs in schools and prisons anymore.

Personally, I don’t care about capital punishment one way or another, because I know it doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t really do anything, except satisfy the biblical need for revenge. You know, if you read the Bible, you see it’s filled with violence, retribution, and revenge. So capital punishment is really kind of a religious ritual. A purification rite. It’s a modern sacrament.

And as long as that’s true, I say let’s liven it up. Let’s add a little show business. I believe if you make capital punishment a little more entertaining, and market it correctly, you can raise enough money to save Social Security.

And remember, the polls show the American people want capital punishment, and they want Social Security. And I think even in a fake democracy people ought to get what they want once in a while. If for no other reason than to feed the illusion that they’re really in charge. Let’s use capital punishment the same way we use sports and shopping in this country: to take people’s minds off how badly they’re bein’ fucked by the upper 1 percent.

Now, unfortunately the football season only lasts about six months. What we really need is capital punishment year-round. Put it on TV every night with sponsors. Ya gotta have sponsors. I’m sure as long as we’re killing people, Dow Chemical and Marlboro cigarettes will be proud to participate. Save Social Security.

And not only do I recommend crucifixions, I’m also in favor of bringing back beheadings. Wouldn’t that be great? Beheadings on TV, complete with slow-motion and instant replay. And maybe you could let the heads roll down a little hill and fall into one of five numbered holes. Let the folks at home gamble on which hole the head is gonna fall into. Interactive television snuff-gambling! Give the people what they want.

And you do it in a stadium, so the rabble can gamble on it too. Raise a little more money. And, if you want to extend the violence a little longer—to sell a few extra commercials—instead of using an ax, you do the beheadings with a handsaw. And don’t bother getting queasy at this point, folks, the blood’s already on your hands; all we’re talking about now is a matter of degree. You want something a little more delicate? We could do the beheadings with an olive fork. That would be good. And the nice part is, it would take a real long time.

There are a lot of good things you could do with capital punishment. When’s the last time we burned someone at the stake? It’s been too long! Here’s another form of state killing that comes from a rich religious tradition: burning people at the stake. Put it on TV on Sunday mornings; the Sunday-morning, evangelical, send-us-an-offering, praise Jesus, human bonfire. You don’t think that would get big ratings? In this sick fuckin’ country? Shit, you’d have people skippin’ church to watch this stuff. And then you take the money from the prayer offerings and use it to save Social Security.

And whatever happened to boiling people in oil? Remember that? Let’s bring it back. On TV. First you get the oil goin’ good with a nice high rolling boil. And then slowly, at the end of a rope, you lower the prisoner, headfirst, into the boiling oil. Boy, you talk about fun shit! And to encourage citizen participation, you let the rabble in the stadium control the speed of the rope. Good, clean, wholesome family entertainment. The kids’ll love it. No V-chip to spoil the fun. And all the while they’re enjoying themselves, we’re teachin’ them a nice Christian moral lesson. Boiling people in oil.

And maybe, instead of boiling all these guys, every now and then you could French-fry a couple of ’em. French-fried felons! Or dip a guy in egg batter, just for a goof. Kind of a tempura thing. Jeffrey Dahmer never thought of that, did he? Jeffrey Dahmer, eat your heart out! Which is an interesting thought in and of itself.

All right, enough nostalgia. How about some modern forms of capital punishment? How about throwin’ a guy off the roof of the World Trade Center, and whoever he lands on wins the Publishers Clearinghouse?

Or perhaps something more sophisticated. You dip a guy in brown gravy and lock him in a small room with a wolverine who’s high on angel dust. That’s one guy who’s not gonna be fuckin’ with the kids at the bus stop.

Here’s a good one. Something really nice. You take a high-speed catapult, and you shoot a guy straight into a brick wall. Trouble is, it would be over too quickly. No good for TV. You’d have to do a whole bunch of guys right in a row. Rapid-fire capital punishment. Fifteen catapults! While you’re shootin’ off one, you’re loadin’ up the others. Of course, every now and then you’d have to stop everything to clean off the wall. Cleanliness! Right next to godliness.

Finally, high-tech! I sense you’re waitin’ for some high-tech. Here you go. You take a highly miniaturized tactical nuclear weapon, and you stick it straight up a guy’s ass and set it off. A thermonuclear suppository. Preparation H-Bomb. Boy, you talk about fallout! Or, a variation: You put a bomb inside that little hole on the end of a guy’s dick. A bomb in a dick! And when it goes off, the guy wouldn’t know whether he was comin’ or goin’! I got a lotta good ideas. Save Social Security.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-87” ??FARM SYSTEM: THUGS, PERVS, NUTS, AND DRUNKS ?

Here’s another one of my really good ideas. I’m going to save us a whole lot of money on prisons, but at the same time I’m going to remove from society many of our more annoying citizens. Four groups are goin’ away—permanently!

First group: Violent criminals. Here’s what you do: You take the entire state of Kansas and you move everybody out. You give the people a couple of hundred dollars apiece for their inconvenience, but you get them out. Next you put a 100-foot-high electric fence around the entire state, and Kansas becomes a permanent prison farm for violent criminals. No police, no parole, no supplies; the only thing you give them is lethal weapons and live ammunition. So they can communicate in a meaningful manner.

Then you put the whole thing on cable TV. The Violence Network. VNN. And for a corporate sponsor, you get one of those companies that loves to smear its logo-feces all over the landscape. Budweiser will jump at this in half a minute.

Second group: Sex criminals. Completely incurable; you have to lock them up. Oh, I suppose you could outlaw religion and these sex crimes would disappear in a generation or two, but we don’t have time for rational solutions. It’s much easier to fence off another rectangular state. This time, Wyoming.

But this is only for true sex offenders. We’re not going to harass consenting adults who dress up in leather Boy Scout uniforms and smash each other in the head with ball-peen hammers as they take turns blowing their cats. There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s a victimless hobby. And think of how happy the cat must be. No, we’re only going to lock up rapists and molesters; those hopeless romantics who are so full of love they can’t help gettin’ a little of it on you. Usually on your leg.

You take all these heavy-breathing fun-seekers, and you stick them in Wyoming. And you let them suck, fuck, and fondle. You let them blow, chew, sniff, lick, whip, gobble, and cornhole one other . . . until their testicles are whistlin’ “O Come All Ye Faithful.” Then you turn on the cameras, and you’ve got . . . the Semen Channel! And don’t forget our corporate sponsor. We’re going to let Budweiser put little logo patches on the rapists’ pants: “This pud’s for you!”

Next group: Drug addicts and alcoholics. Not all of them, don’t get nervous. Just the ones who are making life difficult for at least one other person. And we’re not gonna bother first offenders; people deserve a chance to clean up. So, everyone will get twelve chances to clean up. Okay okay, fifteen! Fine! That’s fair, and that’s all you get. If you can’t make it in fifteen tries, off you go . . . to Colorado! The perfect place for staying loaded.

Each week, all of the illegal drugs confiscated in the United States—at least those drugs the police and DEA don’t keep for their own personal use—will be air-dropped into Colorado. That way, everyone can stay stoned, bombed, wasted, smashed, hammered, and fucked up around the clock on another new cable channel: Shitface Central. This is the real Rocky Mountain high.

Now, I’ve saved my favorite group for last. The Maniacs and Crazy People. The ones who live out where the buses don’t run. And I always take care to distinguish between maniacs and crazy people. A maniac will beat nine people to death with a steel dildo. A crazy person will beat nine people to death with a steel dildo, but he’ll be wearing a Bugs Bunny suit at the time.

So you can’t put them all away. You have to keep some of them around just for the entertainment. Like the guy who tells you the King of Sweden is using his gallbladder as a radio transmitter to send anti-Semitic, lesbian meat loaf recipes to Marvin Hamlisch. A guy like that, you want to give him his own radio show.

No, the Maniac Farm will be used strictly for hopeless cases. Like a guy who gets a big tattoo on his chest of Madonna taking a shit. You know? Then he tells you that if he flexes certain muscles it looks like she’s wipin’ her ass. A guy like that, you wanna get him into custody as quickly as possible.

Now, for the Maniac Farm I think there’s no question we have to go with Utah. Easy to fence, and right next to Wyoming and Colorado. And Colorado is right next to? Right, Kansas! And that means that all four groups of our most amusing citizens are now in one place. Except for the big electric fences. And, folks, I think I have another one of my really good ideas for cable TV. Gates! Small sliding gates in the fences.

Think what you have here. Four groups: degenerates, predators, crackheads, and fruitcakes. All separated by 900 miles of fence. And here’s how you have some fun: every ten miles, you put a small, sliding gate in the fence. But—the gates are only ten inches wide, and they’re only opened once a month. For seven seconds.

And you know something? Fuck cable, this stuff belongs on pay-per-view. Because if those gates are only open seven seconds a month, you are gonna have some mighty interesting people trying to be first on line. Deeply disturbed, armed, cranky lunatics on drugs! You know the ones: a lot of tattoos; a lot of teeth broken off at the gum line. The true face of America. And every time you open the gates a few of the more aggressive ones are gonna slip through. The crème de la crème. The alphas! They’re gonna slip through, they’re gonna find each other, and they’re gonna cross-breed.

And pretty soon you’ll have the American melting pot: child-killers, corpse-fuckers, drug zombies, and full-blown twelve-cylinder wackaloons. All wandering the landscape in search of truth. And fun. Just like now. Everyone will have guns, everyone will have drugs, and no one will be in charge. Just like now. But Social Security will be fully funded.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-88” ??I’LL BE RIGHT BACK ?

I’ve never been impressed with people who tell me what they plan to do when they go to the bathroom. Doesn’t that bother you? People who announce their intentions?

“I’ll be right back, Trevor, I’m gonna take a shit.”

“Never mind, Pietro! Do what you have to and leave me out of it. And please don’t describe it when you get back.”

[Time, among other things, passes.]

“Boy, you shoulda seen . . .”

“Never mind!”

“It set off the smoke alarm.”

“Never mind!”

“The rest room attendant passed out.”

I’ve never understood people who describe their bowel achievements. Nor have I much cared for it. Especially at a fine restaurant.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-89” ??NOT EVERY EJACULATION DESERVES A NAME ?

Have you noticed that most people who are against abortion are people you wouldn’t want to fuck in the first place? Conservatives are physically unattractive and morally inconsistent. They’re obsessed with fetuses from conception to nine months, but after that they have no interest in you. None. No day care, no Head Start, no school lunch, no food stamps, no welfare, no nothin’. If you’re preborn, you’re fine; if you’re preschool, you’re fucked.

Once you leave the womb, conservatives don’t care about you until you reach military age. Then you’re just what they’re looking for. Conservatives want live babies so they can raise them to be dead soldiers.

Pro-life. How can they be pro-life when they’re killing doctors? What sort of moral philosophy is that? “We’ll do anything to save a fetus, but we might have to kill it later on if it grows up to be a doctor”? They’re not pro-life; they’re antiwoman. Simple. They’re afraid of women, and they don’t like them. They believe a woman’s primary role is to function as a brood mare for the State. If they think a fetus is more important than a woman, they should try getting a fetus to wash the shit stains out of their underwear. For no pay.

Pro-life. You don’t see many white, antiabortion women volunteering to have black fetuses transplanted into their uteruses, do you? No. You don’t see them adopting any crack babies, do you? No, that’s something Jesus would do.

And you won’t see many pro-lifers dousing themselves with kerosene and lighting themselves on fire. Remember the Buddhist monks in Vietnam? Morally committed religious people in Southeast Asia knew how to stage a protest: light yourself on fire! C’mon, you Christian crusaders, let’s see a little smoke. Let’s see if you can match that fire in your bellies.

Separate thought: Why is it when it’s a human being it’s called an abortion, and when it’s a chicken it’s called an omelet. Are we so much better than chickens? When did that happen? Name six ways we’re better than chickens. See? No one can do it. You know why? Because chickens are decent people.