Текст книги "Brain Droppings"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Disregard spirit guides, centering groups, dream workshops, bioenergetics, pyramid energy, and primal therapy.

Ignore centering, fasting, Rolfing, grounding, channeling, rebirthing, nurturing, self-parenting, and colon cleansing.

And don’t even think about polarity work, inversion swings, flower essences, guided synchronicity, harmonic brain wave synergy, and psychocalisthenics.

You also need pay no attention to nude volleyball, spinach therapy, white wine hot tubs, jogging on hot coals, and the people who sing Christmas carols to zoo animals.

Forget all that. The only thing you have to know about California is this: They have traffic school for chocaholics. Okay? California is the only place where you might hear someone

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say, “Jason can’t come to the phone, he’s taking his wind lesson.”

The problem most New Yorkers have with Los Angeles is that it is fragmented and lacks a vital center. The people have no common experience. Instead, they exude a kind of bemused detachment that renders them intensely uninteresting. The West Coast experience is soft and peripheral, New York is hard and concentrated. California is a small woman saying, “Fuck me.” New York is a large man saying, “Fuck you!”

Still, I live in California. But I’m not “laid-back,” and I’m certainly not “mellow.” I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called energy.

New York has energy, and all I can say is this: If you can’t handle it, stay the fuck out. Living in New York is a character-builder; you must know who you are, what you’re doing, where you’re going, and how to get there. No bullshit tolerated! New York people are tough and resilient. All the rest of you are varying degrees of soft.

Most outsiders can’t handle New York, so they wind up back in Big Loins, Arkansas, badmouthing The City for the rest of their lives. Actually, most of the people who run New York down have never been there. And if they ever went, we would destroy them in nine minutes. People hate New York, because that’s where the action is, and they know it’s passing them by. Most of the decisions that control people’s lives are made in New York City. Not in Washington, not on Pennsylvania

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Avenue. In New York City! Madison Avenue and Wall Street. People can’t handle that. Pisses ‘em off. Fuck ‘em!

And I’m really glad the Yankees humiliated the Braves in the World Series. I’m glad the gritty, tough, Third-World, streetwise New York culture triumphed over the soft, suburban, wholesome, white-Christian, tacky mall culture of Atlanta. Overgrown small towns like Atlanta have no business in the major leagues in the first place.

Concerning L.A. versus New York: I have now lived half my life in each of America’s two most hated, feared, and envied cities, and you want to know something? There’s no comparison. New York even has a better class of assholes. Even the lames in New York have a certain appealing, dangerous quality.

As an example of how hopeless California is, when I first got there, a policeman gave me a ticket for jaywalking. You have to understand the kind of people who live in California. They are willing to stand, passive and inert, on a curb, when absolutely no traffic is coming, or maybe just a little traffic that could easily be dodged. They simply stand there obediently and wait for an electric light to give them permission to proceed. I couldn’t believe this cop. I laughed at him. The ticket cost me about twenty dollars in 1966. Since that time, I figure I have jaywalked an additional thousand times or so without being caught. Fuck that lame-ass cop! I’ve managed to prorate that ticket down to about two cents a jaywalk.

One thing I find appealing in California is the emphasis on driving. I like to drive, I’m skillful at it, and I do it aggressively. And I don’t mean I scream at people or flash them the finger. I simply go about my passage swiftly and silently,

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with a certain deliberate, dark efficiency. In the land of the h unassertive, the aggressive man is king. Of course, in Los Angeles, everything is based on driving, even the killings. In New York, most people don’t have cars, so if you want to kill a person, you have to take the subway A to their house. And sometimes on the way, the train is delayed and you get impatient, so you have to kill someone k on the subway. That’s why there are so many subway murders; no one has a car. Basically, if more people in New York had cars, the subways would be a lot safer.

I hope you can tell, the Apple is still number one in my heart. I’m so chauvinistic, I even root for New York to raise more money than Los Angeles on the Arthritis Telethon. And 4 we usually do.

California: bordering always on the Pacific and sometimes on the ridiculous. So, why do I live here? Because the sun goes down a block from my house.

brain droppings StiAll T0WH5 Tou know you’re in a small town lite yt The restaurant closes at lunch so the waitress can go home and eat. H The mayor’s nickname is “Greasy Dick” and besides appearing on the ballot, it also appears on his driver’s license.

The fashion boutique/post office is located in one corner of the hardware store between the used milking machines and the pay toilet.

The police station is closed evenings and weekends, but they leave lit the sign that gives the time and temperature.

The newspaper prints the crossword puzzle on the front page above the fold, and prints the answers just below.

The zip code has three digits and features a decimal point.

The Narcotics Anonymous chapter has only one member, and he’s strung out on ranch dressing.

I’ve begun worshipping the sun for a number of reasons. First of all, unlike some other gods I could mention, I can see the sun. It’s there for me every day. And the things it brings me are quite apparent all the time: heat, light, food, a lovely day. There’s no mystery, no one asks for money, I don’t have to dress up, and there’s no boring pageantry. And interestingly enough, I have found that the prayers I offer to the sun and the prayers I formerly offered to “God” are all answered at about the same 50-percent rate.

A Whatever happened to Eddie? Where did he go? Seems like he was just here. And where’s Billy? And Bobby and Jackie and John? Jimmy, Paul, Vinny, Tom, and Charlie? And Richie? Where did they go?

And where the fuck did Cameron come from? And Jordan and Justin and Shane and Parker? Tucker, Tyler, A Taylor, Carter, Flynn, Blake, and Cody? Who let these people

GEORGE CARLIN in? Brett? Brent? Blair? Cassidy? Where are all these goofy h names coming from? Say what you will about the national candidates in 1996, at least they had the decency to be named Bill, Bob, Al, and Jack. The popularity of first names is perishable; they pass in b and out of favor. Occasionally, newspapers will print the most popular names given to babies that year, and they’re never K the same as years before. You don’t run into many little girls named Bertha or Edith. Nor are there a lot of Netties, Effies, Opals, Hopes, or Pearls floatin’ around the day care. Ditto Ethel, Nellie, Myrtle, Agatha, and Mabel. And how many expectant parents are praying for a girl so they can name her Blanche, Clara, Agnes, or Lottie? None. You know why? 4 Because most of those women are in nursing homes.

But thanks to the “trendies”—and the sheer passage of time—someday our substandard nursing homes will be filled with Ambers, Kaylas, Tiffanys, Caitlins, Morgans, Courtneys, Whitneys, Cheyennes, Ashleys, Megans, Brittanys, and Heathers. And that’s not to overlook Judi, ” Lori, Suzi, Debi, Keli, and Wendi, and any other name that can conceiveably be spelled with a final “i.”

There are even some girls whose names don’t end in “y” who can’t resist that trend: “Hi, my name is Margaret, but somehow, I spell it with an ‘i.” There are women named Faith, Hope, Joy, and Prudence. Why not Despair, Guilt, Rage, and Grief? It seems only right. ; “Tom, I’d like you to meet the girl of my dreams, Tragedy.” ‘ These days, Trajedi. I had an uncle who was embarassed because he had a

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woman’s name. We told him not to worry, lots of men have 6 women’s names: Leslie, Marion, Chris, Dale, Lonnie. We tried to reassure him. But old Uncle Margaret Mary … I guess he just couldn’t handle it. I don’t know why, it never bothered

his wife, Turk. ^ Do you know why hurricanes have names instead of

numbers? To keep the killing personal. No one cares about a k bunch of people killed by a number. “200 Dead as Number Three Slams Ashore” is not nearly as interesting a headline as “Charlie Kills 200.” Death is much more satisfying and entertaining if you personalize it. Me, I’m still waitin’ for Hurricane Ed. Old Ed wouldn’t

hurt ya, would he? Sounds kinda friendly. “Hell no, we ain’t 4§ evacuatin’. Ed’s comin’!” Guess the white guy: Odell, Tyrone, Tremaine, and Sparky. Guess the black girl: Cathy, Joan, Peggy, and Vondella. First names can even suggest how tough you are. Who would you want on your side in a bar fight? Arnold, Seymour, 0 Jasper, and Percy? Or Nitro, Hacksaw, Rhino, and Skull?

And, guys, which women would you rather run into when you’re out drinking: Lillian, Priscilla, and Judith? Or Trixie, Bubbles, and Candy? 1 The Kennedy family changed William Kennedy Smith’s first name in order to influence the outcome of his rape trial. They changed it from Willie to Will because guys named Will hardly ever go to jail, while America’s prisons are chock full of Willies. Will is all-American, Willie is … well, just ask Michael Dukakis.

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GEORGE CARLIN Through all these years, I have kept alive my one rema}n_ 6 ing childhood Catholic fantasy: I’m hoping that someday a new pope will choose the name Corky. Just once in my tf^ j want to look up at that balcony and see His Holinessj Pope Corky IX. I think you’d have to skip straight to nine 10 give $ him a little credibility, don’t you? Somehow, Pope Coi-ky the

First doesn’t command a great deal of authority. K That’s because some names are inappropriate in the wrong settings. You won’t find many Schuyler Vanderpools t)iowin’ into a harmonica on death row; no one in need of brain surgery is breakin’ down the door to see Dr. Lucky l4pSnitz; and I’m sure only the most devoted aficionado wovjd pay money to see a ballet dancer named Bruno McNulty. 0 On the other hand, you’ll know that America has relaxed its hopelessly tight asshole if we someday elect a pi-esident named Booger. If we ever get a president named Booger, Skeeter, T-Bone, or Downtown President Brown, you’ll know that finally this country is a relaxed, comfortable place to live. . The point is, there are emotional values that attach to names; they carry psychological baggage. Just thinly of the Old West. I’m sure if Billy the Kid’s name had been ty[\y the Schmuck, people wouldn’t have been afraid.

“Who’s that ridin’ into town?” ^ “Billy the Schmuck.” “Oh. Well, fuck ‘im!”

Would anyone have paid to see a Wild West shoiw if the star attraction was Buffalo Shecky?

Using this approach, western movies would have been completely unbelievable:

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“Hey, Shemp! Go get Sheriff Quackenbush, there’s gonna be trouble. Two-Gun Noodleman and Wild Bill Swackhammer are drunk, and they’re lookin’ for Deadeye Stoopnagle.”

This also applies to the legendary criminals of the thirties. Do you think the police would’ve spent a lot of time looking ^ for Pretty Boy Heffleflekker?

And what about Jack the Ripper? If his name had been K Wally, I don’t think people would have been afraid to walk the streets of London. Not if they thought Wally the Ripper was on the loose.

“Who’s that? Wally who? Wally the Ripper? Ha-ha-ha-ha! Really? Wally the Ripper, indeed! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Religion presents an interesting situation. Jerry Falwell; it’s 0 simply an absurd name for a clergyman. The last person in the world I’m going to believe has an inside track with God is some guy named Jerry. Can you imagine the supreme being, in the middle of the night, “Jerry! Wake up. I got some revelations.” On the other hand, the founders of the major religions had . names that seem quite suitable. There’s still a certain mystery surrounding the names Buddha, Moses, and Mohammed. But the poor Mormons. All they could come up with was Joseph Smith. Not too impressive.

“Listen, Caleb, we got a new religion. You wanna join?” ^ “Who started it?” “Joe Smith.” “See ya later.”

You can’t blame him. I wouldn’t follow a guy named Joe Smith halfway across a continent, either. “C’mon, we’re goin’ to Utah.”

0 R C E C A R L I N “Why?” “Joe Smith said that’s where we’re supposed to be.” “Well, I’m gonna finish this crossword. Why drop me a postcard.”

In ancient times, the rulers had magnificent names. Alexander the Great. Suppose he had been a less impt^w figure, do you think he would have been called Alex;m^er the Marginal? As it is, he had his detractors. You know, peo_ pie who called him Alexander the Scumbag.

History has given us other impressive names from si times: Edward the Fair, Charles the Bold, Catherine the These days, they would be Edward the Abuse Victim, Cnaries the Underachiever, and Catherine the Recovering Codepei^^

And let’s not forget the historical figures we never htar of. Tiberius the Wanker and Lucretius the Dog Fucker. Guys like ^at

And I’m sure history would not be the same if certajn names had been slightly different. For example, Worl^ II would have ended much more quickly if we had^ fighting a guy named Skip Hitler.

Suppose there had been a really outstanding eighteentn_ century composer who was better than Beethoven, Bacn an(j Mozart combined. But his name was Joey the Cocksucl^j. rj0 you think he would be famous today? “And now, fcugene Ormandy conducts the Philadelphia Orchestra as th&y per_ form the Requiem Mass in C-sharp Minor, composed fyy joev the Cocksucker.”

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Some names are embarrassing. We had a guy neighborhood, Michael Hunt, who called himself 26

b r a i n d topf injs because the only alternative was Mike Hunt. Of course, some (j| other names are just plain dirty: “Hi, I’m Peter Ball, and this is Dick Cox. We’re friends of Randy Bush.” Some people have funny names. They can’t help it, but it’s hard to keep from laughing when a guy named Elmo b Zipaloonie introduces you to his friend El Cunto Prickolini. And if you want funny, you can’t beat farmers with names k like Orville Pigdicker and Hooter Stumpfuck.

Speaking of funny names, do you realize Howdy Doody’s mother and father are known as the Doodys? And Bo Diddley’s parents are the Diddleys? How would you like to be at a party and have to introduce the Doodys to the Diddleys? And keep a straight face? “Mr. and Mrs. Doody, I’d like you to meet Mr. 6 and Mrs. Diddley. Mr. Doody, Mr. Diddley; Mrs. Diddley, Mrs. Doody. Mr. Doody, Mrs. Diddley; Mr. Diddley, Mrs. Doody. The Doodys, the Diddleys; the Diddleys, the Doodys.” Jesus!

Then, just as you Finish all of that, in walks Bo Diddley’s brother, Dudley Diddley, and his sisters, Dottie Diddley, Dodie Diddley, and Didi Diddley. And Howdy Doody’s sis-% ters, Judy Doody and Trudy Doody. I’d never get through it all. I’d be leanin’ over the punchbowl, thinkin’, “Please, God, don’t let Rootie Kazootie show up.”

In Hawaii, I once had the pleasure of meeting Don Ho (H and his lovely wife, Heidi. Plus his three brothers, Gung, Land, and Hy.

Hospitals often name a new facility after the person who makes the major donation. I grew up with a neighborhood guy who is now extremely wealthy, and I’m hoping someday

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artist currently *no«? astt ^ ^ ,e Chestnut Street, but you They have Walnut Street ^ ^ ^s wrong -Lt thev don’t have? Peanu Wouldn’t you

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the thing never comes off, but it hurts to put it on, and you gotta pay the guy. Plus if you do wanna take it off, it hurts again, and you gotta pay the guy again.

Another reason not to get a tattoo is that a tattoo is positive identification. No one should ever do anything to help the police. In any way. Especially when you may be the object of their interest.

So I never got a tattoo. But I had some good ideas. I was gonna get dotted lines tattooed on all my joints, wherever I bend. With little instructions: “Fold here.” “Do not glue.” I also thought about gettin’ a necklace of hickeys.

Here’s one I almost went through with. I was gonna get my nipples tattooed as radio dials: “volume” and “tuning.” And the hair in the middle of my chest was gonna be the speaker. For stereo, I’d raise my arms. Armpit speakers!

I guess the most popular tattoo of all time is MOM. A lot of guys get MOM. No one ever gets POP. You know why? Cause you can’t read POP in the mirror. In a mirror, MOM comes out MOM. POP comes out “909.” What the fuck is that?

If you guys want to get a MOM tattoo and save a little money, just get two letters done. Get about a one-inch capital M tattooed on each cheek of your ass in pink and brown ink. Then when you bend over, it says “Mom.” Also, later on if you’re havin’ sex with your girlfriend, and her parents are in the next room, when you finish up you can just lie on your back, draw your legs up to your chest and silently say, “Wow!”

Here’s another good one for guys: at the top of your inner thigh, next to your groin, you put, “In case of emergency, pull handle.” Or get your penis tattooed to resemble a candy

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cane. Great for Christmas blow jobs. But be very careful not to let the tattoo guy bend your penis into a J shape.

Get the words, “tote bag” tattooed on your scrotum. Or “Bloomingdale’s” might be good. “Cartier” would be more appropriate; a little hairy pouch for your precious jewels.

How about a tattoo of the Three Stooges peering into your asshole? Or a serpent coming out? Or a nice tattoo of Madonna with her hand up your ass? Here’s a good one for right next to your asshole: “No gerbils!” Or, “Gerbils welcome.” Depending on what puts a smile on your face.

Here would be a great tattoo for right in the middle of your forehead: “I have colored ink in my skin!” Or, “Your message here. Fifty cents.” How about, “Yeah, it’s a tattoo, you miserable prick! Right in the middle of my forehead. If you don’t like it, suck my dick!” This will really keep you from having to deal with that bothersome job market.

And here’s a solution to an age old tattoo problem. If your girlfriend’s name, say, “Suzie,” is tattooed on your arm, and you break up with her, don’t have the tattoo removed. Just have the tattoo reworked so it says, “Fuck Suzie.”

By the way, you don’t actually have to do all these things; they’re just suggestions. Think them over first. Sit down, have six or seven vodkas, and give them a few seconds thought.

Besides, you wanna know something? Tattoos are passe. They’re yesterday’s thing. I’m lookin’ for the next big thing in body decoration. And I think I may have it.

Everyone’s skin has imperfections. It’s unavoidable. Pockmarks, wrinkles, bullet holes, scars, blotches, stab wounds, cysts, warts, needle holes, acne pits, enlarged pores.

6 GEORGE C A R L I N I think people should see these imperfections and disfigure-h ments as positive things. Flaws and defects can actually be forms of decoration.

Take moles, God’s punctuation marks. Moles are great, and they can be useful if you want a really interesting look. b The only problem is they’re usually randomly placed; they don’t represent anything. I think plastic surgeons should offer a new service: rearranging people’s moles. Think of your moles as fashion accessories. “God, look at all the moles that guy has!” “Yes, and aren’t they nicely arranged?” There are lots of things you can do with moles: make the double helix, do a happy Hitler face, spell out the name of your bowling team. And how about moles with velcro, so you 4 could change your look every day? Here’s something novel. Choose a good size mole on your arm, and tattoo little legs sticking out of the sides. People will constantly be trying to shoo the “bug” off your arm. It’s great for picking up girls. b

Next, body-piercing. Now, the piercing movement is off to a good start, and I like the idea behind it: self-esteem through self-mutiliation. I’ve always said, when in doubt, punch a hole in yourself. That’s fine, but I think the piercing people are missing a good bet. Vital organs. I mean, skin is one thing. That’s easy. But how about getting your lungs or kidneys K pierced? Why not some lovely diamond studs all over the surface of your liver? Or a couple of nice 18-karat gold rings hanging from your thyroid gland?