Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Gettin’ Even

Don’t you occasionally wish that instead of having headlights you had a couple of 50-caliber machine guns on the front of your car? So you could send several hundred rounds of burning lead into that slow-movin’ gas guzzler up ahead? Just incinerate the motherfucker and get his ass off the road permanently?

Or don’t you wish you were driving a rented car, so you could bash the asshole in the rear end, pay the deductible, and be done with the whole goddamn thing? BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Don’t mind me, folks. I’m just tryin’ to ease him into second gear.” BAM! BAM! BAM!

God, it would do my heart good.

Or if the offender is directly behind you, wouldn’t it be nice to have an electronic message board that would rise up out of the trunk of your car and let you type in any message you like? ATTENTION, ASSHOLE! YOU DRIVE LIKE OLD PEOPLE FUCK. SLOW AND SLOPPY!

You Light Up My life

Speakin’ of behind you, don’t you just love it when there’s one of those guys on your tail whose brights are on? Isn’t that a treat? Some shit-stain who just had his headlights aimed and wants you to see what a wonderful job his mechanic did? You know how you handle a guy like that? Slam on your brakes and let him plow right into you. It might cost you a little money, but it sure puts them fuckin’ lights out in a hurry. Let him find his way home in the dark.

Volume Control

Does this ever happen to you? You’re driving through heavy downtown traffic, block to block, street to street. Busy area. People hurryin’ home at five o’clock. Maybe it’s winter, and it’s already dark, raining a little bit. You got the window open, and you can hear the rain and the traffic noise. People honkin’ at each other. Got the radio on. Got the windshield wipers going. Everything’s happening at once: radio, rain, wipers, horns, traffic—lots of noise. And you’re just trying to get across town to run an errand. And then, after all kinds of hassles, you get over there and park the car, turn off the key, go inside, and take care of business. And then when you come back out to the car and turn on the key, THE GODDAMN RADIO IS THIS LOUD!!!

And you sit there, stunned, thinking to yourself, “Could I . . . possibly . . . have been . . . listening to that?”

What’s My Lane?

Here’s one of those things you have to do every time you drive, especially if you’re in a hurry. It happens as you approach a red light, and find several lanes of cars ahead of you. As you roll up to the pack, you have to decide which lane to get into. You have to guess which car looks like a good bet to take off quickly, so you can move out fast when the light turns green. With half a block to go you have to decide who’s the really fast asshole in this group up ahead.

Forget the Volvo, she’s listening to public radio, and drives the way she lives—with fear and caution. You’ll also want to avoid that Toyota with the fish symbol; Christians drive as though Jesus himself was a traffic cop. And, by all means, ignore the Lexus with the heavily made-up, bejeweled pig-woman. She has the reflexes of an aging panda.

Ahhhhh! Here’s the correct machine to get behind: a Camaro with four different shades of primer paint and a bumper sticker that says I DATE MY SISTER. This guy’s a real risk-taker; full of crank, and on his way to an AC/DC concert. You’ll be home before you know it.

Goin’ Home

Now, one last reminder before I tow this trusty little shit-box of mine into the shop for its bimonthly overhaul. And this should go without saying. That’s why I’m going to say it: Drinking and driving don’t mix. Do your drinking early in the morning and get it out of the way. Then go driving while the visibility is still good.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-16” ??HEIGH-HO, HEIGH-HO, IT’S OFF TO WORK WE GO ?

What wine goes with Cap’n Crunch? I have trouble selecting a wine in the morning. Sometimes I give up, smoke a bong full of Froot Loops, and just go back to bed. Try that sometime. Smoke a bong full of Froot Loops, go back to bed, and watch the midmorning movie. Call your boss and tell him you smoked some Froot Loops, you’re watching a movie, and you’ll be in around 2:30. That is, if you feel like it.

That’s the way you handle a boss. You can’t take shit from someone just because you work for him. Let him know who the real boss is. Tell him it’s your job, and you’ll do it your way. That’s what bosses like—people with spunk. Act the same way when you go in for a job interview. Let ’em know what kind of person you are. Have a beer opener and some swizzle sticks sticking out of your breast pocket. Put a little confetti in your hair. Tell them your primary career is partying and work is kind of a sideline.

Tell the interviewer you’ll need an office near the front door so you can leave in a hurry at five o’clock.

“I ain’t stickin’ around this fuckin’ place after hours, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Let him know what’s happening. Tell him you hope it’s not one of those chicken-shit places where they dock your pay just for taking off Mondays and Fridays.

Then, if you still don’t have the job, point to the picture on his desk and say, “Who’s the cunt?” That’ll clinch it. You’ll probably have a nice long career with that firm. Once all your medical procedures have been completed.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-17” ??SHORT TAKES ?

In the expression topsy-turvy, what exactly is meant by turvy?

I’d like to pass along a piece of wisdom my first-grade teacher shared with us kids. She said, “You show me a tropical fruit, and I’ll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.” I’ll always remember that.

I’m curious, what precisely is Zsa Zsa Gabor’s job title?

If free trade can really turn all these Third World countries into thriving economies full of entrepreneurs and investors, who’s gonna clean the fuckin’ toilets around here?

You know what’s fun? Go to a German restaurant and insist on using chopsticks.

I’m happy to say that during the 2000 Olympics I missed every single event without exception, managing even to avoid all the clips shown on newscasts. And although I sometimes watch NBC and MSNBC for other reasons, this time, whenever I ventured into those two locations it was with the remote control firmly in hand, ready to change channels instantly, in the event that depressing Olympic theme music or those repulsive five rings suddenly showed up.

If it requires a uniform it’s a worthless endeavor.

True Stuff There is actually a TV commercial in Las Vegas that advertises a service called “Discount Bankruptcy.”

There is now a Starbucks in my pants.

As long as you’ve decided to drink all day there’s nothing wrong with starting early in the morning.

Odd Fact When two women with different colored hair walk together on a sidewalk, the one with the darker hair will always be positioned closest to the curb.

I hope we’re not just human garbage drifting toward a big sewer. But I think so.

I like the fact that rap musicians are murdering each other. I don’t have a problem with rap music, it’s just that I like the idea of celebrities killing each other. Wouldn’t it be great if Dan Rather snuck up on Tom Brokaw during the news and stabbed him in the head? Or imagine Julie Andrews putting rat poison in Liza Minnelli’s triple vodka when she gets up to take a shit at Sardi’s. Here’s a great one: Richard Simmons and Louie Anderson grab Rosie O’Donnell and choke her to death. It’s just fun to think about, isn’t it?

Tennis tip You get a better return of serve if you let the ball bounce twice before hitting it.

People on a diet should have a salad dressing called “250 Islands.”

Can anyone explain to me the need for one-hour photo finishing? You just saw the fuckin’ thing! How can you possibly be nostalgic about a concept like “a little while ago”?

I tried to give up heroin, but my efforts were all in vein.

When I was a boy, on Good Friday in my parish, in order to dramatize the extent of Jesus’ suffering, a group of the priests used to get together and crucify one of the children.

If the reason for climbing Mt. Everest is that it’s hard to do, why does everyone go up the easy side?

By and large, language is a tool for concealing the truth.

What is all this shit about Dick Clark not looking his age? Take a closer look.

You know my favorite play in baseball? The bean ball. It’s great, isn’t it? It’s dramatic. Especially if the guy is really hurt. Sometimes the ball hits the helmet, and you feel kind of disappointed. Even though it makes a good loud noise.

Do you ever open the dictionary right to the page you want? Doesn’t that feel good?

Here’s my idea for another one of those “reality-based” TV shows: “No Survivors!” One by one, a psychopathic serial killer tracks down and kills all of the “Survivor” survivors. Think of it as a public service.

As far as I’m concerned, humans have not yet come up with a belief that’s worth believing.

People get all upset about torture, but when you get right down to it, it’s really a pretty good way of finding out something a person doesn’t want you to know.

How soon can we begin to execute these yuppie half-wits who name their golden retrievers Jake and put red bandannas around their necks? Apparently, this is viewed as amusing or ironic or some other quality yuppies value highly. It isn’t amusing; it’s precious, half-wit bullshit.

They say only 10 percent of the brain’s function is known. Apparently, the function of the remaining 90 percent is to keep us from discovering its function.

Ethnic-wise, I’ll tell you this: if I hadn’t turned out to be Irish, I would’ve really liked to be a guinea.

You know the good part about all those executions in Texas? Fewer Texans.

I’m tired of hearing about innocent victims. It’s fiction. If you live on this planet you’re guilty, period, fuck you, next case, end of report. Your birth certificate is proof of guilt.

I enjoy watching reruns of Saturday Night Live and counting all the dead people.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-18” ??AIRPORT SECURITY ?

I’m getting tired of all this security at the airport. There’s too much of it. I’m tired of some fat chick with a double-digit IQ and a triple-digit income rootin’ around inside my bag for no reason and never finding anything. Haven’t found anything yet. Haven’t found one bomb in one bag. And don’t tell me, “Well, the terrorists know their bags are going to be searched, so now they’re leaving their bombs at home.” There are no bombs! The whole thing is fuckin’ pointless.

And it’s completely without logic. There’s no logic at all. They’ll take away a gun, but let you keep a knife! Well, what the fuck is that? In fact, there’s a whole list of lethal objects they will allow you to take on board. Theoretically, you could take a knife, an ice pick, a hatchet, a straight razor, a pair of scissors, a chain saw, six knitting needles, and a broken whiskey bottle, and the only thing they’d say to you is, “That bag has to fit all the way under the seat in front of you.”

And if you didn’t take a weapon on board, relax. After you’ve been flying for about an hour, they’re gonna bring you a knife and fork! They actually give you a fucking knife! It’s only a table knife—but you could kill a pilot with a table knife. It might take you a couple of minutes. Especially if he’s hefty. But you could get the job done. If you really wanted to kill the prick.

Shit, there are a lot of things you could use to kill a guy with. You could probably beat a guy to death with the Sunday New York Times. Or suppose you just had really big hands, couldn’t you strangle a flight attendant? Shit, you could probably strangle two of them, one with each hand. That is, if you were lucky enough to catch ’em in that little kitchen area. Just before they break out the fuckin’ peanuts. But you could get the job done. If you really cared enough.

So, why is it they allow a man with big, powerful hands to get on board an airplane? I’ll tell you why. They know he’s not a security risk, because he’s already answered the three big questions. Question number one:

“Did you pack your bags yourself?”

“No, Carrot Top packed my bags. He and Martha Stewart and Florence Henderson came over to the house last night, fixed me a lovely lobster Newburg, gave me a full body massage with sacred oils from India, performed a four-way ‘around-the-world,’ and then they packed my bags. Next question.”

“Have your bags been in your possession the whole time?”

“No. Usually the night before I travel—just as the moon is rising—I place my suitcases out on the street corner and leave them there, unattended, for several hours. Just for good luck. Next question.”

“Has any unknown person asked you to take anything on board?”

“Well, what exactly is an ‘unknown person’? Surely everyone is known to someone. In fact, just this morning, Kareem and Youssef Ali ben Gabba seemed to know each other quite well. They kept joking about which one of my suitcases was the heaviest.”

And that’s another thing they don’t like at the airport. Jokes. You can’t joke about a bomb. Well, why is it just jokes? What about a riddle? How about a limerick? How about a bomb anecdote? You know, no punch line, just a really cute story. Or, suppose you intended the remark not as a joke but as an ironic musing? Are they prepared to make that distinction? I think not! And besides, who’s to say what’s funny?

Airport security is a stupid idea, it’s a waste of money, and it’s there for only one reason: to make white people feel safe! That’s all it’s for. To provide a feeling, an illusion, of safety in order to placate the middle class. Because the authorities know they can’t make airplanes safe; too many people have access. You’ll notice the drug smugglers don’t seem to have a lot of trouble getting their little packages on board, do they? No. And God bless them, too.

And by the way, an airplane flight shouldn’t be completely safe. You need a little danger in your life. Take a fuckin’ chance, will ya? What are you gonna do, play with your prick for another thirty years? What, are you gonna read People magazine and eat at Wendy’s till the end of time? Take a fuckin’ chance!

Besides, even if they made all of the airplanes completely safe, the terrorists would simply start bombing other places that are crowded: pornshops, crack houses, titty bars, and gang bangs. You know, entertainment venues. The odds of you being killed by a terrorist are practically zero. So I say, relax and enjoy the show.

You have to be realistic about terrorism. Certain groups of people—Muslim fundamentalists, Christian fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists, and just plain guys from Montana—are going to continue to make life in this country very interesting for a long, long time. That’s the reality. Angry men in combat fatigues talkin’ to God on a two-way radio and muttering incoherent slogans about freedom are eventually gonna provide us with a great deal of entertainment.

Especially after your stupid fuckin’ economy collapses all around you, and the terrorists come out of the woodwork. And you’ll have anthrax in the water supply and sarin gas in the air conditioners; there’ll be chemical and biological suitcase-bombs in every city, and I say, “Relax. Enjoy the show! Take a fuckin’ chance. Put a little fun in your life.”

To me, terrorism is exciting. I think the very idea that you can set off a bomb in Macy’s and kill several hundred people is exciting and stimulating, and I see it as a form of entertainment.

But I also know most Americans are soft, frightened, unimaginative people, who have no idea there’s such a thing as dangerous fun. And they certainly don’t recognize good entertainment when they see it. I have always been willing to put myself at great personal risk for the sake of entertainment. And I’ve always been willing to put you at great personal risk for the same reason.

As far as I’m concerned, all of this airport security—the cameras, the questions, the screenings, the searches—is just one more way of reducing your liberty and reminding you that they can fuck with you anytime they want—as long as you’re willing to put up with it. Which means, of course, anytime they want. Because that’s the way Americans are now. They’re always willing to trade away a little of their freedom in exchange for the feeling—the illusion—of security.

What we now have is a completely neurotic population obsessed with security, safety, crime, drugs, cleanliness, hygiene, and germs! There’s another thing. Fear of germs.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-19” ??FEAR OF GERMS ?

Where did this sudden fear of germs come from in this country? Have you noticed this? The media constantly doing stories about the latest infections? Salmonella, E. coli, hantavirus, West Nile fever? And Americans panic easily, so now everybody’s running around, scrubbing this, spraying that, overcooking their food, and repeatedly washing their hands; trying to avoid all contact with germs.

It’s ridiculous, and it goes to ridiculous lengths. In prisons—and this is true—in prisons, before they give you a lethal injection, they swab your arm with alcohol. It’s true! Well, they don’t want you to get an infection. And you can see their point: wouldn’t want some guy to go to hell and be sick! It would take a lot of the sport out of the whole execution.

Fear of germs. Buncha fuckin’ pussies. You can’t even get a decent hamburger anymore; they cook the shit out of everything, because everyone’s afraid of food poisoning. Hey, where’s your sense of adventure? Take a fuckin’ chance! You know how many people die from food poisoning in this country every year? Nine thousand! That’s all! It’s a minor risk. Take a fuckin’ chance. Buncha goddamn pussies!

Besides, what do you think you have an immune system for? It’s for killing germs. But it needs practice. It needs germs to practice on. So if you kill all the germs around you and live a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along, you’re not going to be prepared.

And never mind ordinary germs, what are you gonna do when some super-virus comes along that turns your vital organs into liquid shit? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get sick, you’re gonna die, and you’re gonna deserve it, because you’re fuckin’ weak, and you’ve got a fuckin’ weak immune system.

Let me tell you a true story about immunization. When I was a little boy in New York City in the 1940s, we swam in the Hudson River. And it was filled with raw sewage. Okay? We swam in raw sewage! You know, to cool off.

At that time the big fear was polio; thousands of kids died from polio every year. But you know somethin’? In my neighborhood no one ever got polio. No one. Ever! You know why? Because we swam in raw sewage! It strengthened our immune systems. The polio never had a prayer; we were tempered in raw shit!

So, personally, I never take any special precautions against germs. I don’t shy away from people who sneeze and cough, I don’t wipe off the telephone, I don’t cover the toilet seat, and if I drop food on the floor, I pick it up and eat it. Even if I’m at a sidewalk café. In Calcutta. The poor section. On New Year’s morning during a soccer riot.

And you know something? In spite of all of that so-called risky behavior, I never get infections. I just don’t get ’em, folks. I don’t get colds, I don’t get flu, and I don’t get food poisoning. And you know why? Because I have a good, strong immune system, and it gets a lot of practice.

My immune system is equipped with the biological equivalent of fully automatic, military assault rifles with night vision and laser scopes. And we have recently acquired phosphorous grenades, cluster bombs, and anti-personnel fragmentation mines.

So, when my white blood cells are on patrol, reconnoitering my blood stream, seeking out strangers and other undesirables, if they see any—any—suspicious-looking germs of any kind, they don’t fuck around. They whip out the weapons, wax the motherfucker, and deposit the unlucky fellow directly into my colon! Directly into my colon! There’s no nonsense. There’s no Miranda warning, there’s none of that three-strikes-and-you’re-out shit. First offense, BAM! Into the colon you go.

And speaking of my colon, I want you to know I don’t automatically wash my hands every time I go to the bathroom. Can you deal with that? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. You know when I wash my hands? When I shit on them! That’s the only time. And you know how often that happens? Tops—tops—two, three times a week. Tops! Maybe a little more frequently over the holidays. You know what I mean?

And I’ll tell you something else, my well-scrubbed friends. You don’t always need a shower every day. Did you know that? It’s overkill! Unless you work out, or work outdoors, or for some reason come in intimate contact with huge amounts of filth and garbage every day, you don’t always need a shower.

All you really need is to wash the four key areas: armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth! Got that? The hooker’s bath. Armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth. In fact, you can save yourself a whole lot of time if you simply use the same brush on all four areas!

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-20” ??BUT FIRST, THIS FUCKIN’ MESSAGE ?

Commercials use sex to sell things; why can’t they use violence and bad language too? Not all families are as “functional” as the ones they show you on TV.

MOM: Eat your fuckin’ corn flakes, ya cocksucker!

SON: Fuck you, Ma.

MOM: Why you little creep! ?SLAM! SMACK! POW!

DAD: Here, Son, try this. It’s new from Kellogg’s.

SON: Holy shit, raisins!

MOM: Hey, asshole! What’re ya tryin’ to do, spoil the kid?

DAD: Listen, cunt, I’m tired of your meddlin’! ?BLAM! POW! CRACK!

SON: Hey, Dad, when you get finished punchin’ Mom, gimme some more of that shit with the raisins in it, will ya?

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? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-21” ??SHORT TAKES ?

Here’s some fun: Stand on line at the bank for a really long time. Then, when you finally get up to the window, just ask for change of a nickel. It’s fun. They actually call other tellers over to look at you.

Regarding Pokēmon, Beanie Babies, and such: something is really wrong when a major news story concerns how hard it is to buy a toy.

I don’t know how you feel, but I’m pretty sick of church people. You know what they ought to do with churches? Tax them. If holy people are so interested in politics, government, and public policy, let them pay the price of admission like everybody else. The Catholic Church alone could wipe out the national debt if all you did was tax their real estate.

Whenever I see a large crowd of people, I wonder how many of them will eventually require autopsies.

Laptop. How can this be? A lap has no top; it has only two dimensions, length and width. It’s not like a desk. A desk has a bottom, a top, and sides; you place your “desktop” on the top of your desk. A lap has only one plane; when you stand up your lap disappears. And your computer becomes a floortop.

Everything beeps now.

First there was rock ’n’ roll, now there’s just rock. What happened to “roll”? And what did Sears do with Roebuck? And exactly when did Montgomery leave Montgomery Ward? I have a theory. I believe that somewhere on a stage tonight a show will be performed by the Montgomery-Roebuck Roll Band.

I think there ought to be a feminine hygiene spray called “Sprunt.”

Think of how strange we’d look if all the cuts, burns, scrapes, bruises, scratches, bumps, gashes, and scabs we’ve ever had suddenly reappeared on our bodies at the same time.

Regarding jam sessions: jazz musicians are the only workers I can think of who are willing to put in a full shift for pay and then go somewhere else and continue working for free.

When someone asks you what time it is, glance at your watch and say, “It’s either six-fifteen, or Mickey has a hard-on.” Guaranteed they’ll ask somebody else.

What’s with these super-cautious drivers who pull way over to the far end of a speed bump so their cars won’t have to go over the highest point? Are they really worried that speed bumps hurt their cars?

Griddle cakes, pancakes, hotcakes, flapjacks: why are there four names for grilled batter and only one word for love?

I would like to open a restaurant, call it the Marilyn Monroe Café, and put hundreds of pictures of Jeff Goldblum on the wall.

I notice that unlike on other holidays, the police don’t seem to make a big deal about drunk driving on Good Friday.

You know what I never liked? The high-five. I consider it lame white-boy shit. When a guy raises his arm to give me a high-five, you know what I do? Stab him in the arm. I’m tired of that shit. Sometimes I watch an old sports film on ESPN Classic, and I see a whole game without a single high-five. It’s great.

When you think about it, 12:15 P.M. is actually 11:75 A.M.

At one time there existed a race of people whose knowledge consisted entirely of gossip.

A crazy person doesn’t really lose his mind. It just becomes something more entertaining.

Instead of having truck scales on the highway, I think they ought to get one of those guys from the carnival and let him guess the weights.

An art thief is a man who takes pictures.

You know a phrase I never understood? King size. It’s used to denote something larger, but most of the kings you see are short. You ever notice that? Usually a king is a short little fat guy. You never see a tall king. When’s the last gangly king you can remember?

I hope the world ends during the daytime. I want to watch “film at eleven.”

Everywhere you look there are families with too many vehicles. You see them on the highways in their RVs. But apparently the RVs aren’t enough, because behind them they’re towing motorboats, go-carts, dune buggies, dirt bikes, jet-skis, snowmobiles, parasails, hang gliders, hot-air balloons, and small, two-man, deep-sea diving bells. The only thing these people lack is lunar excursion modules. Doesn’t anybody take a fuckin’ walk anymore?

The older a person gets, the less they care what they wear. Old people come up with some of the strangest clothing combinations you’ll ever see. I think of it as “cancer of the clothing.”

We’re not supposed to mention fucking in mixed company, but that’s exactly where it takes place.

The other day I was thinking of how many peanuts elephants owe us. Personally, I’m down about twenty-three or twenty-four bags.

Did you ever start hittin’ a guy with a big club for no reason? Just walk up to him and start beatin’ him over the head with a big, heavy club? It’s great, isn’t it?

If it’s true that our species is alone in the universe, then I’d have to say the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-22” ??INTERVIEW WITH JESUS ?

Interviewer: Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re privileged to have with us a man known around the world as the Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ.

Jesus: That’s me.

I: How are you, Jesus?

J: Fine, thanks, and let me say it’s great to be back.

I: Why, after all this time, have you come back?

J: Mostly nostalgia.

I: Can you tell us a little bit about the first time you were here?

J: Well, there’s not much to tell. I think everybody knows the story by now. I was born on Christmas. And actually, that always bothered me, because I only got one present. You know, if I was born a couple of months earlier I would’ve got two presents. But look, I’m not complaining. After all, it’s only material goods.