Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Napalm and Silly Putty

SCENE 3 At your aunt’s house. Soon.

Act Three

Napalm and Silly Putty

SCENE 1 In a Shriner’s hatband following oral sex.

Napalm and Silly Putty

SCENE 2 Down where Arturo used to live. Not that long ago.

Act Four

John Lennon two songs. (not tonight)

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-66” ??HAVE A GOOD TIME ?

You know what bothers me? People who want to know the time. The ones who come up and ask me, “What time is it?” as if I, personally, were responsible for keeping track of such things.

Sometimes they phrase it a little differently. They’ll say, “Do you have the time?” And I say, “No. I don’t believe I do. I certainly didn’t have it this morning when I left the house. Could you possibly have left it somewhere? You know, now that you mention it, I believe the navy has the time. In Washington. They keep it in an observatory or something, and they let a little of it out each day. Not too much, of course. Just enough. They wouldn’t want to give us too much time; we might not use it wisely.” Sometimes, in a playful mood, when asked if I have the time, I’ll say, “Yes,” and simply walk away.

When Is It, Anyway?

I do that because I hate to disappoint people. You see, there is no time. There’s just no time. I don’t mean, “We’re late, there’s no time.” I mean, there is no time.

After all, when is it? Do you know? No one really knows when it is. We made the whole thing up. It’s a human invention. There are no numbers in the sky. Believe me, I’ve looked; they’re not there. We made the whole thing up.

So, when are we? Sometimes we think we know where we are, but we really don’t know when we are. For all we know, it could be the middle of last week.

And the time zones are no help; they’re all different. In fact, in parts of India the time zones actually operate on the half hour instead of the hour. What is that all about? Does anybody really know what time it is?

What Year Do You Have?

And never mind a piddly little half-hour difference in India, how about thousands of years? The major calendars disagree by thousands of years. To the Chinese, this is 4699; the Hebrews think it’s 5762; the Muslims swear it’s 1422. No telling what the Mayans and Aztecs would say if they were still around. I guess their time ran out.

Remember, folks, these are calendars we’re talking about, instruments specifically designed to keep track of time. And they’re all different. And they’re not just off by a couple of weeks, this is thousands of goddamn years we’re talking about. How did that happen?

Our current (Gregorian) calendar is such an amateur show that every four years we have to cram in an extra day just to make the whole thing work. We call it February 29. Personally, I don’t believe it. Deep down, I know it’s really March 1. I mean, it just feels like March 1, doesn’t it?

But even that simple quadrennial adjustment doesn’t fix things, so every 100 years we suspend that rule and dispense with the extra day. Unless, of course, the year is divisible by 400, in which case we suspend the suspension and add the extra day. But that’s still not quite enough, so every 4,000 years we suspend that rule too, and back comes February 29!

Here’s how we got to this sorry state: The Julian calendar was introduced in 46 B.C., the Roman year 709, but it was off by eleven minutes a year, so by 1582 there was an accumulated error of ten days. Accordingly, that year Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the day following October 4 would be called October 15. They just skipped ten days. Threw them out. Officially, in 1582, no one was born in France, Italy, Spain or Portugal during the period October 5 through October 14. Weird, huh?

But even weirder, Britain didn’t adopt the Gregorian calendar till 1752, when they dropped eleven days out of September. Since this also applied to the American colonies, officially, no one was born here from September 3 through September 13, 1752. Except Indians. By the way, during that same year New Year’s Day was moved from March 25 to January 1. The way it had been handled before, for example, was that March 24, 1750, would be followed by March 25, 1751. Pretty fucked up, huh? And you thought that big millennium party you went to was being held right on time.

Staying in the “Now”

We try hard to keep track of time, but it’s futile. You can’t pin it down. For example, there’s a moment coming . . . it’s not here yet . . . it’s still in the future . . . it’s on the way . . . it hasn’t arrived . . . it’s getting closer . . . here it is . . . Oh shit, it’s gone!

We use words like “now.” But it’s a useless word, because every time you say it, it means something different.

“Can you tell me the time?”

“Which time did you want? Now? Or the time you asked me? Or how about now? Is this the time you want? Speak up, this stuff isn’t standing still.”

And think of the phrase “just now.”

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Just now.”

“You mean, ‘Just then.’ ”

“Yes, just then. Wait, there it is again!”

“When?”

“Just now.”

Everything we think of as “now” is either the very recent past or the very near future. There’s no present. “Welcome to the present.” ZOOM! Gone again!

Keep It Vague

It’s all so imprecise that people sometimes don’t bother with minutes and hours at all; they keep things purposely vague.

“What time you got?”

“Just after.”

“Just after? Jeez, my watch is slow. I got ‘goin’ on.’”

It’s amazing how something as precisely calibrated as time can be described so loosely. Especially where short periods of time are concerned. We say “at once,” “immediately,” “right away,” “just like that,” “no time at all,” “nothing flat,” “at a moment’s notice.”

And one that I never understood: “Before you can say Jack Robinson.” You don’t hear that much anymore, do you? Maybe Jack ran out of time. Maybe he was an Aztec.

And let’s not forget a “jiffy.” Or a “flash.” Do you know which is quicker? Well, I looked it up; in fact, there are two jiffies in a flash. And there are six flashes in the twinkling of an eye. No one seems to know how many twinklings of an eye there are in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. And, by the way, why is it two shakes of a lamb’s tail? Wouldn’t the basic unit of measurement be one shake of a lamb’s tail?

All of a Sudden

Another vague word is “soon.” For me, soon has an emotional quality; it has great potential for sadness.

“Is Daddy ever coming to visit us again?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Here’s a spooky one: “Sooner than you think.” Wow! Sooner than I think. That’s like “before you know it.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

ZOOM!

“Holy shit! He did it!!”

“Sooner or later,” “one of these days,” “any day now,” “from time to time,” “every now and then,” “a little while.”

“A little while” is nice. So gentle. “I’ll be home in a little while.” That wouldn’t bother you, would it? I think anyone could wait a little while. It doesn’t sound too threatening.

“Your father is sick, but he still has ‘a little while.’ ” That’s different from “a short time.” A short time sounds terminal.

“Your father has only a ‘short time.’ ”

If I were about to be executed, I’d much rather have a little while than a short time.

A Good Time

By the way, do you have a favorite period of time? It isn’t easy to select a favorite period of time, there are so many appealing ones. I have a few.

To me, the most useful period of time is five minutes. That seems to be the one most people choose when they’re pressed. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” “Give me five minutes, will ya?” “Whattaya, kiddin’? I could fix that thing in five minutes!”

That’s all most people want. Five minutes. A good, solid, respectable period of time. And it goes by fast. I think I could do just about anything for five minutes. Even the most distasteful task.

“Let’s go talk to George Bush.”

“Are you kiddin’? He’s an asshole.”

“Look, just five minutes, okay?”

“Okay, five minutes. But no more! After that I’m gonna puke.”

Fifteen minutes is a popular period of time. But it has an institutional ring to it. A regulatory quality. It sounds like it’s associated with something either compulsory or forbidden.

“The exchange window will only be open for fifteen minutes.”

“You have fifteen minutes to fill out the forms . . .”

“In fifteen minutes we will be coming around and . . .”

I like twenty minutes better. Twenty minutes sounds kind of free and sporty.

“I’ll be back to pick up those test papers in fifteen minutes. Then you’ll have a twenty-minute break.”

“Hey guys, cover me with the boss, will ya? I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. Just enough time to get laid.

Have a good time.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-67” ??SHORT TAKES ?

Why was brown excluded from the rainbow? And where did indigo come from? I was taught there were three primary colors and three secondary colors. What’s with this indigo shit?

After the hurricane is gone, where do people put all that plywood?

Standing ovations have become far too commonplace. What we need are ovations where the audience members all punch and kick one another.

Watching television these days, I often wonder what happened to the “vertical hold” knob. I miss that.

Don’t you hate when a rock band comes onstage and apparently the drummer has decided that somehow it’s cool to wear a funny hat?

There’s a store near my house with a sign that says, Unfinished Furniture. I must go in there. I’m looking for a nice three-legged table.

If you live long enough, everyone you know has cancer.

I once was dancing with a woman who told me she had a yeast infection. So I asked her to bake me a loaf of bread.

Why don’t these people who live in hurricane-prone areas just keep some batteries on hand at home? Seems like a simple thing to me. There’s too much last-minute shopping.

I’m always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize I’m listening to it.

Why don’t network TV shows have a warning that says “Caution: You are about to watch a real piece of shit.” Actually, they could just leave it on the screen all the time.

All music is the blues. All of it.

I think it would be interesting if old people got anti-Alzheimer’s disease where they slowly began to recover other people’s lost memories.

Electricity is really just organized lightning.

You know what they ought to have on planes? A passenger voice recorder. So we could hear all the screaming when a plane goes down. I’m not really interested in the cockpit recorder; the pilots are always talkin’ a bunch of technical shit anyway. But the passengers! That would be fun.

When you rub your eyes real hard do you see that checkerboard pattern? What is that?

“Coming soon to a theater near you.” Actually, there is no theater near you. Look around your street. Is there a theater near you?

Attention certain women: Transporting children is not a license to drive slowly.

I saw a sign that said, Coming Soon—a 24-Hour Restaurant. And I thought, Well, that’s unusual. Why would they open and close it so quickly? At least try it for a week or two, and see if you can build a clientele.

Why is it when the two main characters in an action movie have their big climactic fight it always turns out that both of them are really good fighters? Just once, wouldn’t you like to see a fight between two leading male characters where one of them gets the shit completely beat out of him in about eight seconds? Especially the hero.

I’ve noticed my flax bill is not too high.

Would someone please explain to me the supposed appeal of having grandchildren? People ask me, “Are you a grandfather yet?” as if it’s some great thing. I’m sure it has its charms, and I imagine some dull-witted people want to see their genes passed along just for the sheer novelty of the idea. But overall, I don’t get it.

It’s been on my mind for some time, but I’ve never said it publicly. So here goes: “Vo-do-de-o-do and a scoddie-woddie doo-dah day.” Thank you.

Boy, am I glad to finally be rid of that fuckin’ Mother Teresa.

Masturbation is not illegal, but if it were, people would probably take the law into their own hands.

It used to be you got a tattoo because you wanted to be one of the few people who had a tattoo. Now you get a tattoo because you don’t want to be one of the few people who don’t have a tattoo.

Just when I discovered the meaning of life, it changed.

People in Washington say it’s not the initial offense that gets you in trouble, it’s the cover-up. They say you should admit what you did, get the story out, and move on. What this overlooks is the fact that most of the time the cover-up works just fine, and nobody finds out a thing. I would imagine that’s the rule rather than the exception. My advice: Take a chance. Lie.

The IQ and the life expectancy of the average American recently passed each other going in opposite directions.

Hotel fun: Smoke a big fat joint and then watch a complex spy movie with a lot of characters and plot twists. Then a few weeks later at a different hotel, smoke another joint and watch the same movie. It’s like seeing a whole new film. But the real fun is that about every fifteen minutes something happens in the plot that you seem to know already. It’s an odd feeling. By the way, this exercise can probably be repeated indefinitely with the same movie. As long as the grass holds out.

This is just one more way of starting a sentence with the word “this” and ending it with the word “that.”

Odd Slang: A woman who fucks a priest is said to have “taken a ride on the holy pole.”

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-68” ??PEOPLE I CAN DO WITHOUT ?

Guys in their fifties named Skip.

Anyone who pays for vaginal jelly with a platinum credit card.

An airline pilot wearing two different shoes.

A proctologist with poor depth perception.

A pimp who drives a Ford Escort.

A gynecologist who wants my wife to have three Quaaludes before the examination.

Guys with a lot of small pins on their hats.

Anyone who mentions Jesus more than 300 times in a two-minute conversation.

A dentist with blood in his hair.

Any woman whose hobby is breast-feeding zoo animals.

A funeral director who says, “Hope to see you folks again real soon.”

A man with only one lip.

A Boy Scoutmaster who works at a dildo shop.

People who know the third verse to the “Star Spangled Banner.”

Any lawyer who refers to the police as “the federales.”

A cross-eyed nun with a bullwhip and a bottle of gin.

Guys who have their names printed on their belts.

A brain surgeon with BORN TO LOSE tattooed on his hand.

Couples whose children’s names all start with the same initial.

A man in a hospital gown, directing traffic.

A waitress with a visible infection on her serving hand.

People who have large gums and small teeth.

Guys who wear the same underwear until it begins to cut off the circulation to their crotch.

Any woman whose arm hair completely covers her wristwatch.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-69” ??CANCER IS GOOD FOR YOU ?

A lot of people worry that their drinking water isn’t safe, because it contains things that cause cancer. Not me. I don’t care if the water is safe or not, I drink it anyway. You know why? Because I’m an American, and I expect a little cancer in my water. I’m a loyal citizen and I’m not happy unless government and industry have poisoned me a little every day.

Besides, cancer never hurt anybody. People need a little cancer. It’s good for you; it keeps you on your toes. I ain’t afraid of cancer, I had broccoli for lunch. Broccoli kills cancer. A lot of people don’t know that. It’s not out yet.

It’s true. You find out you got some cancer, get yourself a fuckin’ bowl of broccoli. That’ll wipe it right out. Cauliflower, too. Cauliflower kills the really big cancers, the ones you can see from across the street through heavy clothing. Broccoli kills the little ones, the ones that are slowly eating you away from inside. While your goofy, half-educated doctor keeps telling you, “You’re doin’ fine, Jim.”

In fact, bring your doctor a bowl of broccoli, he’s probably got cancer, too. Probably picked it up from you. They don’t know what they’re doing. It’s all guesswork in a white coat. What you gotta try to do is develop more than one kind of cancer, so you can turn ’em against one another. That’s what you gotta hope for: that the cancers eat each other up instead of you. Fact is, the way I look at it, the more cancer you got, the healthier you are.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-70” ??THE HUMOROUS SIDE OF RAPE ?

Many people in this country want to tell you what you can and can’t talk about. Or sometimes they’ll tell you you can talk about something, but you can’t joke about it. Like rape. People say you can’t joke about rape. They say rape’s not funny. And I say, Fuck you, I think it’s hilarious. How do you like that? I can prove rape is funny: Picture Porky Pig raping Daisy Duck. See? Hey, why do you think they call him Porky?

And I know what men are gonna say. Daisy was askin’ for it; she was comin’ on to Porky, she had on tight feathers. Porky got horny, and he lost control. A lot of men talk like that. They blame it on the woman. They say, “She had it comin’. She was wearing a short skirt.”

Doesn’t seem fair to me; doesn’t seem right. But I believe you can joke about it. I believe you can joke about anything. It just depends on how you construct the joke, what the exaggeration is. Every joke needs one exaggeration. Every joke needs one thing to be way out of proportion.

I’ll give you an example. Have you ever seen a news story like this? Some burglar breaks into a house, steals some things, and while he’s in there, he rapes an eighty-one-year-old woman. And you think to yourself, “Why? What the fuck kind of social life does this guy have?” I want to ask him, “Why did you do that?” But I know what I’d hear: “Hey, she was comin’ on to me. She had on a tight bathrobe.” And I’m thinkin’, “Next time, be a little more selective, will you?”

Now, speaking of rape, but changing the subject slightly, you know what I wonder? Is there more rape at the Equator or the North Pole? I mean, per capita; I know the populations are different. I think it’s the North Pole.

Most people think it’s the Equator. Because it’s hot down there, people don’t wear a lot of clothing, guys can see women’s tits, they get horny, and there’s a lot of rape and a lot of fucking in general. But that’s exactly why there’s less rape at the Equator; because there’s a lot of fucking, in general. You can tell the Equator has a lot of fucking; look at the population figures. Billions of people live near the Equator. How many Eskimos we got? Thirty? Thirty-five?

No one’s gettin’ laid at the North Pole; it’s too cold. An Eskimo says to his wife, “Hey, honey, how about some pussy?” She says, “Wally, are you crazy? The windchill is 150 below!” Eskimo guys are deprived, they’re horny, they get pent up, and every now and then they gotta rape somebody.

Now, the biggest problem an Eskimo rapist has is trying to get wet leather leggings off a woman who doesn’t want to take them off. Have you ever tried to pull leather pants off someone who’s trying to kick you in the nuts? It takes a lot of effort. And, in the process, you would lose your hard-on. In fact, at the North Pole your dick would shrivel up like a stack of dimes.

That’s another thing I wonder. Does a rapist have a hard-on when he leaves the house in the morning? Or does it develop during the day while he’s walking around checkin’ out the gals? Just wondering.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-71” ??THE EVENING NEWS ?

Police in Maine announced today they have broken up a ring of amphetamine users. Six of the speed freaks were arrested on the spot. Another four got away by sprinting completely across Canada.

It has been disclosed that several years ago when Mother Teresa won the Nobel Peace Prize, she returned the money, claiming it had germs on it.

A man who was attempting to walk around the world drowned today on the first leg of his journey, which would have taken him from San Francisco to Honolulu.

The owner of a Florida massage parlor has been arrested by police. “There weren’t any serious violations,” said the officers, “she just rubbed us the wrong way.”

Doctors treating a ninty-year-old pregnant woman claim that because of her advanced age she will have a grown-up.

A Boston man who last year shot and killed all twelve members of a jury that convicted him of murder goes on trial again today. Courtroom insiders say jury selection is expected to take quite some time.

Silent film star Mark Dunbar died today in Hollywood. He had no last words; however, he did wiggle his eyebrows and make several exaggerated gestures with his arms.

A Cincinnati man has revealed that last month a local hospital, instead of giving him a vasectomy, castrated him. A hospital spokesman explained, “It all started as a joke. The doctors pretended they were going to castrate him, but he got real snotty so they went ahead and did it to teach him a lesson.” The patient, though upset, seemed philosophical. “The way I look at it, it’s that much less to wash.”

A New Hampshire inventor has developed a machine he claims will grant him any wish. Reporters were greeted at his home by hundreds of naked women who said they had been blowing him for the past six months.

A sixty-five-year-old fitness expert trotting backward from Winnipeg to Chile in an effort to promote backward trotting was killed today when she was hit by a truck head-on from the rear.

And finally, on the lighter side, here’s a human-interest story about man’s best friend. It seems sixty-five-year-old James Driscoll was asleep in his downtown hotel room last week when he was awakened by the sound of a dog barking. When he awoke the room was filled with smoke, and he could not see to get out. The dog led him out of the room, down the hall, and into an elevator shaft, where he plunged eight stories to his death. It seems it wasn’t his dog.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-72” ??DANCE CALLED BECAUSE OF RAIN ?

When I think of the rain dance the American Indians used to do, I often wonder if they had to practice first. Wouldn’t you want to have rain-dance practice just to go over things again? To make sure everyone was doing the correct steps in the correct order? Maybe there were some new guys; maybe the dance master had some new things he wanted to try out. There are all sorts of reasons why the Indians might want to play it safe and practice first.

My question is, if they did hold practice, and the rain didn’t come immediately, how would they know they had done it right? If the dance is done correctly, shouldn’t it rain? Or did the Indians figure the rain god knew it was only practice and was waiting for the real thing?

Then again, if it did rain right after practice, why not just cancel the dance and figure the next time you need rain all you have to do is practice?

These are the kinds of thoughts that made it necessary to separate me from the other kids in school.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-73” ??THINGS THAT ARE PISSING ME OFF ?

Cigars

Haven’t we had about enough of this cigar smoking shit? When are these fat, arrogant, overfed, white-collar business criminals going to extinguish their cigars and move along to their next abomination?

Soft, white, business pussies suckin’ on a big brown dick. That’s all it is, folks, a big, brown dick. You know, Freud used to say, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Yeah? Well, sometimes it’s a big brown dick! With a fat, criminal-business asshole sucking on the wet end of it!

But, hey. The news is not all bad for me. Not all bad. Want to hear the good part? Cancer of the mouth. Good! Fuck ’em! Makes me happy; it’s an attractive disease. So light up, suspender-man, and suck that smoke deep down into your empty suit. And blow it out your ass, you miserable cocksucker!

Angels

What is all this nonsense about angels? Do you realize three out of four Americans now believe in angels? What are they, fuckin’ stupid? Has everybody lost their goddamn minds?

Angels, my ass! You know what I think it is? I think it’s a massive, collective, chemical flashback from all the drugs—all the drugs!—smoked, swallowed, snorted, and shot up by all Americans from 1960 to 2000. Forty years of adulterated street drugs will get you some fuckin’ angels, my friend!

Angels, shit. What about goblins? Doesn’t anybody believe in goblins? And zombies. Where the fuck are all the zombies? That’s the trouble with zombies, they’re unreliable. I say if you’re gonna buy that angel bullshit, you may as well go for the goblin-zombie package as well.

Bike Frauds

Here’s another horrifying example of a declining American culture. The continued pussification of the male population, this time in the form of Harley Davidson theme restaurants. What is going on here?

Harley Davidson used to mean something; it stood for biker attitude; grimy outlaws and their sweaty mamas full of beer and crank, rollin’ around on Harleys, lookin’ for a good time. Destroying property, raping teenagers, and killing policemen. All very necessary activities.

But now . . . theme restaurants! And this soft shit obviously didn’t come from hard-core bikers, it came from weekend motorcyclists. These fraudulent, two-day-a-week lames who have their bikes trucked into Sturgis, South Dakota, for the big rally and then ride around town like they just came off the road. Lawyers and dentists and pussy-boy software designers gettin’ up on Harleys because they think it makes ’em cool. Well hey, Skeezix, you ain’t cool, you’re fuckin’ chilly. And chilly ain’t never been cool.

The House of Blues

I have a proposition: I think if white people are going to burn down black churches, then black people ought to burn down the House of Blues. What a disgrace that place is. The House of Blues. You know what they ought to call it? The House of Lame White Motherfuckers! Inauthentic, low-frequency, lame white motherfuckers.

Especially these male movie stars who think they’re blues artists. You ever see these guys? Don’t you just want to puke in your soup when one of these fat, overweight, out-of-shape, middle-aged, pasty-faced, baldy-headed movie stars with sunglasses jumps onstage and starts blowin’ into a harmonica? It’s a fuckin’ sacrilege.

In the first place, white people got no business playing the blues ever. At all! Under any circumstances! What the fuck do white people have to be blue about? Banana Republic ran out of khakis? The espresso machine is jammed? Hootie and the Blowfish are breaking up?

Shit, white people ought to understand . . . their job is to give people the blues, not to get them. And certainly not to sing or play them! I’ll tell you a little secret about the blues: it’s not enough to know which notes to play, you have to know why they need to be played.

And another thing, I don’t think white people should be trying to dance like blacks. Stop that! Stick to your faggoty polkas and waltzes, and that repulsive country line-dancing shit that you do, and be yourself. Be proud! Be white! Be lame! And get the fuck off the dance floor!

A Day in the Life of Henry VIII

Wake up

Fuck the queen

Take a shit

Kill the queen

Eat six chickens

Get married

Kill the new queen

Eat a cow

Take a shit

Start dating

Belch for an hour

Eat a sheep

Kill my date

Defy the pope

Eat a goat

Take a shit

Fuck a bishop

Get engaged

Kill my fiancée

Eat a pig

Marry a pig

Kill the pig

Eat the pope

Vomit

Go to sleep

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-74” ??FAMILIES WORTH LOATHING ?

Are you sick of this “royal family” shit? Who gives a fuck about these people? Who cares about the English in general? The uncivilized, murderous, backward English. Inbred savages hiding behind Shakespeare, pretending to be cultured. Don’t be misled by the manners; if you want to know what lurks beneath the surface, take a look at the soccer crowds. That’s the true British character. I’m Irish and I’m American, and we’ve had to kick these degenerate English motherfuckers out of both of our countries.

But most Americans are stupid; they like anything they’re told they like. So when the duke and duchess of Wales or Windsor, or whatever, visit America, and people are asked if they like them, the simpletons say, “Yes, I like them a lot. They’re sort of fun.” If they asked me I would say, “Well, I’m Irish, and they’ve killed a lot of my people, so I wish they’d die in a fire. Maybe someone will blow up their limousine.”

The English have systematically exploited and degraded this planet and its people for a thousand years. You know what I say? Let’s honor the royal ladies: Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mum, Margaret, Fergie, and all the rest. Let’s give them the hot-lead douche. Get out the funnel, turn them upside-down, and give them the hot-lead douche. Right in their royal boxes. That’s my message from the IRA to the English.

And I’m really glad the black, tan, and brown people of the world, fucked over by the English for so long, are coming home to Mother England to claim their property. England is now being invaded by the very people she plundered. They’re flying, sailing, swimming, and rowing home to the seat of Empire, looking to the Crown: “Hey, mon! What about de food stamps?”