Текст книги "Brain Droppings"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Brain Droppings

But, you know, stuff like this might not be dangerous enough for today’s happenin’ people. What’s really gonna be great is when the ozone layer is completely gone, and

brain droppings b everyone has melanomas. Then you’ll start to see “fashion skin cancer.” It’ll probably start in Malibu. People will use their skin cancers to form little designs. Since it’s Malibu, a lot of them will do their zodiac sign. Of course, if your sign is Cancer, you’ll be in real good shape.

I believe skin cancer will eventually become part of every American’s fashion arsenal. “That’s a lovely growth, i Bambi. Twenty millimeters and right between your eyes. God, I’m so jealous!”

Before I leave this subject, I have two more ideas for the truly avant garde: How about living small, live mammals medically grafted onto your skin? Wouldn’t you like to have a prairie dog living in the middle of your chest, sharing your blood supply? How about an adult male Norwegian rat sewn onto the top of your head, keeping an eye on everything? b

I think we also might take a page from Africa’s book and get into deliberate scarring. Not ritual scars that form coherent designs. Random scarring! Let a bunch of drunks with swords inflict hundreds of small, deep cuts on your skin. Or have a friend throw boiling grease all over you, then sit back and see what develops.

I don’t believe the body-decorating trend has reached its peak yet, and as it does, I shall try to be at the forefront, always pointing America toward the hot new look.

m glad sunscreen has been shown to be associated with more skin :r rather than less. It’s not in the mainstream media yet, but the st jump in skin cancer has occurred since the advent of sunscreens, kind of thing makes me happy. The fact that people, in pursuit of a ?ficial look of health, give themselves a fatal disease. I love it when oning” human beings think they have figured out how to beat thing and it comes right back and kicks them in the nuts. God bless aw of unintended consequences. And the irony is impressive: :hy people, trying to look healthier, make themselves sick. Good!

brain droppings

And then when you get there, no one cares at all. No one even tries to read the writing. And all the other guys turn out to be dorks who will wear any piece of shit that’s handed to them. Like “Property of Alcatraz,” “No Fear,” “Gold’s Gym,” and “Life Is a Beach.” What a letdown.

Personally I haven’t worn T-shirts with writing on them for about ten years, but I do own what I consider to be the coolest T-shirt in the world. It’s plain white, and inside a kind of faded maroon circle, in an odd, feminine sort of print, it says, “Fuck the Cows.” But it’s about two sizes too small. Ain’t that always the way?

finally escaped what I think of as the “Coolest T-shirt Trap.” I real-that no matter how cool I think my T-shirt is, no one else is gonna i so, because everybody thinks they have the coolest T-shirt, rhere are times when you take fifteen minutes to pick out which

to wear, because you’re going to a place where there’ll be a :h of guys you’ve never met; guys you might even secretly want apress. So you settle on that special black, limited-edition num-that your brother brought back from the Middle East. The one shows Saddam Hussein peeking out of a garbage can, flashing niddle finger and saying, “Ha ha, Mister Bush, you missed me. I here at home all the time.” And you think, “No one has ever . a shirt like this; this will make them jealous. They’ll all want it wonder where I got it. I’ll definitely have the coolest T-shirt.”

You know how sometimes, at a busy cocktail party, when you’re telling a group of people a story, a few of them may become distracted, and you lose their attention? So you concentrate a little harder on the ones who are still listening? You know that feeling? And then, because it’s a lively party, a few more of them drift away? And as your audience slowly peels off one by one, after a while you wind up addressing any person you can find who’s willing look at you. Even the busboy. And then you realize the busboy doesn’t understand English. Isn’t that awful?

Sometimes, a person some distance away from you will say something you can’t quite understand, so you ask them to repeat it, and you still can’t make it out. You try two or three more times without any luck, and by then you’re getting embarrassed, so you pretend to understand, and just say, “Yeah!” so you can be done with it. Later, it turns out they said, “We’re coming over tonight to remove your wife’s ovaries. Will that be all right?”

EORGE C A R L I N MTRKAU

One recent morning there was something I couldn’t remember. rt of knew what it was related to, but I couldn’t quite bring it i0 ind. It seemed like the letter m was involved. Then, suddenly, it car^ me. That was in the morning. Then, later that afternoon, evun ough I was able to recall my experience that morning of not beiw >le to remember something, I could no longer remember what t’fle ing was, what it was related to, or what letter of the alphabet ha(j >en involved. But what’s strange to me is that that morning, the fiySf me I couldn’t remember it, the thing did eventually come back to nie-iter that afternoon, however, in spite of my earlier success, I dreT/y a )mplete blank. I still don’t know what it was, and the nice thing js lat a month from now I will have no memory of the incident )ever. Unless, of course, something reminds me of it.

Hi! How are ya? You got your stuff with you? I’ll bet you do. Guys have stuff in their pockets; women have stuff jn their purses. Of course, some women have pockets, and some guys have purses. That’s okay. There’s all different ways; of carryin’ your stuff.

Then there’s all the stuff you have in your car. You ;got ^ stuff in the trunk. Lotta different stuff: spare tire, jack, to

And you’ve got other stuff in your car. In the glove b,0X-K Stuff you might need in a hurry: flashlight, map, sunglasises>

brain droppings automatic weapon. You know. Just in case you wind up barefoot on the highway some night.

So stuff is important. You gotta take care of your stuff. You gotta have a place for your stuff. Everybody’s gotta have a place for their stuff. That’s what life is all about, tryin’ to find a place for your stuff! That’s all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time.

A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you’re taking off in an airplane. You look down and see all the little piles of stuff. Everybody’s got his own little pile of stuff. And they lock it up! That’s right! When you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn’t want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. ‘Cause they always take the good stuff! They don’t bother with that crap you’re saving. Ain’t nobody interested in your fourth-grade arithmetic papers. National Geographies, commemorative plates, your prize collection of Navajo underwear; they’re not interested. They just want the good stuff; the shiny stuff; the electronic stuff.

So when you get right down to it, your house is nothing more than a place to keep your stuff. . . while you go out and get . . . more stuff. ‘Cause that’s what this country is all about. Tryin’ to get more stuff. Stuff you don’t want, stuff you don’t need, stuff that’s poorly made, stuff that’s overpriced. Even stuff you can’t afford! Gotta keep on gettin’ more stuff. Otherwise someone else might wind up with more stuff. Can’t let that happen. Gotta have the most stuff.

0 R C E C A R L I N So you keep gettin’ more and more stuff, and puttin’ it in (y different places. In the closets, in the attic, in the basement, in the garage. And there might even be some stuff you left at your parents’ house: baseball cards, comic books, photographs, souvenirs. Actually, your parents threw that stuff out long ago. ^ So now you got a houseful of stuff. And, even though you might like your house, you gotta move. Gotta get a big– ger house. Why? Too much stuff! And that means you gotta move all your stuff. Or maybe, put some of your stuff in storage. Storage! Imagine that. There’s a whole industry based on keepin’ an eye on other people’s stuff.

Or maybe you could sell some of your stuff. Have a yard sale, have a garage sale! Some people drive around all week– 0′ end just lookin’ for garage sales. They don’t have enough of their own stuff, they wanna buy other people’s stuff.

Or you could take your stuff to the swap meet, the flea market, the rummage sale, or the auction. There’s a lotta ways to get rid of stuff. You can even give your stuff away. . The Salvation Army and Goodwill will actually come to your house and pick up your stuff and give it to people who don’t have much stuff. It’s part of what economists call the Redistribution of Stuff. OK, enough about your stuff. Let’s talk about other people’s ^ stuff. Have you ever noticed when you visit someone else’s house, you never quite feel at home? You know why? No room for your stuff! Somebody else’s stuff is all over the place. And what crummy stuff it is! “God! Where’d they get this stuff?”

And you know how sometimes when you’re visiting someone, you unexpectedly have to stay overnight? It gets

brain droppings real late, and you decide to stay over? So they put you in a bedroom they don’t use too often . . . because Grandma died in it eleven years ago! And they haven’t moved any of her stuff? Not even the vaporizer?

Or whatever room they put you in, there’s usually a dresser or a nightstand, and there’s never any room on it for your stuff. Someone else’s shit is on the dresser! Have you noticed that their stuff is shit, and your shit is stuff? “Get this shit off of here, so I can put my stuff down!” Crap is also a form of stuff. Crap is the stuff that belongs to the person you just broke up with. “When are you comin’ over here to pick up the rest of your crap?”

Now, let’s talk about traveling. Sometimes you go on vacation, and you gotta take some of your stuff. Mostly stuff to wear. But which stuff should you take? Can’t take all your stuff. Just the stuff you really like; the stuff that fits you well that month. In effect, on vacation, you take a smaller, “second version” of your stuff.

Let’s say you go to Honolulu for two weeks. You gotta take two big suitcases of stuff. Two weeks, two big suitcases. That’s the stuff you check onto the plane. But you also got your carry-on stuff, plus the stuff you bought in the airport. So now you’re all set to go. You got stuff in the overhead rack, stuff under the seat, stuff in the seat pocket, and stuff in your lap. And let’s not forget the stuff you’re gonna steal from the airline: silverware, soap, blanket, toilet paper, salt and pepper shakers. Too bad those headsets won’t work at home.

And so you fly to Honolulu, and you claim your stuff– if the airline didn’t drop it in the ocean—and you go to the

GEORGE C A R L I N hotel, and the first thing you do is put away your stuff. Q There’s lots of places in a hotel to put your stuff.

“I’ll put some stuff in here, you put some stuff in there. Hey, don’t put your stuff in therel That’s my stuff! Here’s another place! Put some stuff in here. And there’s another 0 place! Hey, you know what? We’ve got more places than we’ve got stuff! We’re gonna hafta go out and buy . . . more stuff.!!” Finally you put away all your stuff, but you don’t quite feel at ease, because you’re a long way from home. Still, you sense that you must be OK, because you do have some of your stuff with you. And so you relax in Honolulu on that basis. That’s when your friend from Maui calls and says, “Hey, why don’t you come over to Maui for the weekend and 6 spend a couple of nights over here?” Oh no! Now whaddya bring? Can’t bring all this stuff. You gotta bring an even smaller version of your stuff. Just enough stuff for a weekend on Maui. The “third version” of your stuff. And, as you’re flyin’ over to Maui, you realize that you’re . really spread out now: You’ve got stuff all over the world!! Stuff at home, stuff in the garage, stuff at your parents’ house (maybe), stuff in storage, stuff in Honolulu, and stuff on the plane. Supply lines are getting longer and harder to maintain! Finally you get to your friends’ place on Maui, and they ^ give you a little room to sleep in, and there’s a nightstand. Not much room on it for your stuff, but it’s OK because you don’t have much stuff now. You got your 8 x 10 autographed picture of Drew Carey, a large can of gorgonzola-flavored Cheez Whiz, a small, unopened packet of brown confetti, a relief map of Corsica, and a family-size jar of peppermint-

brain droppings flavored, petrified egg whites. And you know that even though you’re a long way from home, you must be OK because you do have a good supply of peppermint-flavored, petrified egg whites. And so you begin to relax in Maui on that basis. That’s when your friend says, “Hey, I think tonight we’ll go over to the other side of the island and visit my sister. Maybe spend the night over there.”

Oh no! Now whaddya bring? Right! You gotta bring an even smaller version. The “fourth version” of your stuff. Just the stuff you know you’re gonna need: Money, keys, comb, wallet, lighter, hankie, pen, cigarettes, contraceptives, Vaseline, whips, chains, whistles, dildos, and a book. Just the stuff you hope you’re gonna need. Actually, your friend’s sister probably has her own dildos.

By the way, if you go to the beach while you’re visiting the sister, you’re gonna have to bring—that’s right—an even smaller version of your stuff: the “fifth version.” Cigarettes and wallet. That’s it. You can always borrow someone’s suntan lotion. And then suppose, while you’re there on the beach, you decide to walk over to the refreshment stand to get a hot dog? That’s right, my friend! Number six! The most important version of your stuff: your wallet! Your wallet contains the only stuff you really can’t do without.

Well, by the time you get home you’re pretty fed up with your stuff and all the problems it creates. And so about a week later, you clean out the closet, the attic, the basement, the garage, the storage locker, and all the other places you keep your stuff, and you get things down to manageable proportions. Just the right amount of stuff to lead a simple

GEORGE CARLIN and uncomplicated life. And that’s when the phone rings. It’s a lawyer. It seems your aunt has died .. . and left you all her stuff. Oh no! Now whaddya do? Right. You do the only thing you can do. The honorable thing. You tell the lawyer to stuff it.

Think of how much information, in the form of radio energy, there is flying through the air, all around us, all over the world, right now and all the time. AM, FM, UHF, VHF, shortwave radio, television, CB radio, walkie-talkies, cell phones, cordless phones, telephone satellites, microwave relays, faxes, pagers, taxi calls, police, sheriff, hospitals, fire departments, telemetry, navigation, radar, the military, government, Financial, legal, medical, the media, etc., etc., etc. Trillions and trillions and trillions and trillions of separate little bits of electronic information flying all around the world through the air at all times. Think of that. Think of how busy the air is. Now realize this: A hundred years ago there was none. None. Silence. HEnTAl BRAIH TH0U6HTS

These are the things I think about when I’m sitting home alone and the power goes out:

If something in the future is canceled, what is canceled? What has really happened? Something that didn’t occur yet is now never going to occur at all. Does that qualify as an event? ;i

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There’s a place you’ve never seen, but for many years you’ve pictured it in your mind. Then you finally see it. After you leave, do you continue to picture it the old way?

Imagine a place called Moravia; a nonexistent country. See it in your mind. See a few details. OK, now Moravia ceases to exist. Is your picture of the original, nonexistent country different from what it looks like now that it ceases to exist? Why? They’re both nonexistent.

OK, picture Moravia again, the original way. Now Moravia is invaded by a neighboring country, Boronia. Picture Boronia. It’s completely different from Moravia. Different geography, different ethnic stock, beliefs, way of life, government, everything. See it? Anyway, Boronia invades Moravia and occupies it, and begins to make some changes. Now picture Moravia again. Does it look different? Isn’t that weird? It looks a little like Boronia.

Here’s another one. You’ve never been to your friend’s place of work, but you’ve pictured it. Then he changes jobs, but it’s a similar job. Do you bother to change your mental picture of where he works? By how much?

Or your friend works at one Wendy’s and gets transferred to a different Wendy’s. Do you picture a whole new Wendy’s? Or do you get lazy and say, “They’re all pretty much the same, so I’ll just go with the old one.”

If a radio station changes its call letters, moves its studio across town, hires all new disk jockeys, and changes the style of music it plays, but keeps the same frequency, is it still the same radio station? Suppose they change only the music?

On a given day, Flight 23 goes from New York to Los Angeles. The following month, Flight 23 goes from New York to Los Angeles again,

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I R C E CARL

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droppings

IHE EVER WRDR THIS SEHTEHCE BEFORE in the Feast of St. Stephen, I was driving my hearse to the whole-iverwurst outlet when suddenly a hermaphrodite in a piano truck sd out of a crackhouse driveway, and, as my shoes caught fire, I letted across Boris Karloff Boulevard, slapping the truckdriver six > in the loins with a Chattanooga road map, even though he was ming “The Pussycat Song.” ?Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z 3eople say, “I’m going to sleep now,” as if it were nothing. But it’s y a bizarre activity. “For the next several hours, while the sun is ;, I’m going to become unconscious, temporarily losing command ? everything I know and understand. When the sun returns, I will me my life.” [f you didn’t know what sleep was, and you had only seen it in a nee fiction movie, you would think it was weird and tell all your ids about the movie you’d seen. “They had these people, you know? And they would walk around lay and be OK? And then, once a day, usually after dark, they ild lie down on these special platforms and become unconscious. y would stop functioning almost completely, except deep in their ds they would have adventures and experiences that were comely impossible in real life. As they lay there, completely vulnera-to their enemies, their only movements were to occasionally shift n one position to another; or, if one of the ‘mind adventures’ got

too real, they would sit up and scream and be glad they weren’t unconscious anymore. Then they would drink a lot of coffee.”

So, next time you see someone sleeping, make believe you’re in a science fiction movie. And whisper, “The creature is regenerating itself.” FUCK THE FARnER8

Can someone please tell me why farmers are always whining and looking for a handout? If it isn’t a drought or a flood, it’s their bad loans. I was always told farmers were strong, independent people who were too proud to accept help. But sure enough as soon as something goes wrong, they’re looking for the government to bail them out. And they’re the first ones to complain about city people who live on welfare. Fuck the farmers. They’re worrying about losing their land? It wasn’t their land to begin with, they stole it from the Indians. Let ‘em find out what it feels like to have your land taken away by some square-headed cocksucker who just came over on a boat. They wiped out the bears, the wolves, and the mountain lions; they spoiled the land, poisoned the water table, and they produce tasteless food. Why is it in this capitalist society all businesses are expected to succeed or fail on their own except farming? Why is that? SnOKE IF YA GOT ‘EH

Even though I don’t smoke, I’m not one of those fanatics you run into. In fact, I love watching cigarette smokers in their sad little sealed-off areas, sucking away, deep lines in their faces, precancerous lesions taking hold, the posture and body language of petty criminals. You know what you do with these people? Give ‘em free cigarettes. Let ‘em smoke. Offer them a light! And you hope each one of them

EORCE CARLIN ts a small, painful tumor right in the middle of his body so it can ow in six different directions at once. And you pray they get a doc-r who doesn’t believe in painkillers, and their insurance runs out. I ink people should be allowed to enjoy themselves. LAHE IT On THE BOSSA nOVA

They try to blame movies and TV for violence in this country, hat a load of shit. Long before there were movies and television, mericans killed millions of Indians, enslaved millions of blacks, aughtered 700,000 of each other in a family feud, and attained the ghest murder rate in history. Don’t blame Sylvester Stallone. We ?ought these horrifying genes with us from Europe, and then we ive them our own special twist. American know-how!

Violent American movies like Die Hard, Terminator, and Lethal leapon do very well in places like Canada, Japan, and Europe. Very well. et these countries do not have nearly the violence of the United States. 11989, in all of Japan, with a population of 150 million, there were 754 mrders. In New York City that year, with a population of only 7.5 mil-on, there were 2,300. It’s bred in the bone. Movies and television don’t lake you violent; all they do is channel the violence more creatively.

Americans even manage to turn positive experiences into vio->nce. Like sports championships. In Detroit, in 1990, the Pistons won le NBA championship: eight people dead. The Chicago Bulls, 1993: ine shot, 1,000 arrested. Montreal, the Canadiens, 1993: 170 injured, 7 police cars vandalized, and $10 million in damages. I’m glad it’s Lappened in a place like Montreal, so these bigoted shit stains who all in on sports-talk shows can’t blame it all on the blacks.

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I could mention plenty of things that contribute to violence. One . simply the condition of being violent; the predisposition. Everyone knows this is a cranky species. It’s especially well known among the other species. And most people can see that the particular strain of critter found in America is especially prone to graceless outbursts, being, as we are, a collection of all the strange and restless castoffs and rolling stones who proved such an ill fit back home. God bless them all, and give them all the guns they want.

Two other things that contribute to violence are religion and government, because they seek to repress and regulate natural impulses like sex and self-gratification. Of course, the two of them will always try to scapegoat movies and television. The truth is, no one knows enough or cares enough to stop the real violence, so their answer is to tone down the pretend violence. It’s superstition: “Maybe if we tone down the pretend violence, the real violence will go away. Or not seem so bad.”

And maybe the father who forbids his son to watch violent television will not beat the shit out of him when he disobeys. Maybe. I”

A man is seated in a football stadium with a small TV set tuned to the game. The sideline camera takes his picture, and his image travels through the lens, out of the camera, to the truck, to the satellite, to a ground station several miles away, back into the air, and to the man’s TV set.

He sees himself on the screen. The image travels from his eyes to his brain. His brain sends a signal to his arm to start waving. The image travels to the camera, through the lens, to the truck, to the satellite, to another ground station a thousand miles away where it is

EORGE CARLIN :ransmitted into the air and picked up by a cable company that nds it to the man’s parents’ TV set.

The image travels from the screen to his mother’s eyes, along the >tic nerve to her brain, where it references her memory and recog-tion takes place. Her brain then sends a series of signals to her ngs, throat, lips, and tongue, and she says, “Look, it’s Mike!” Baseball is different from any other sport; very different.

For instance, in most sports you score points or goals; in baseball you score runs.

In most sports the ball, or object, is put in play by the offensive team; in baseball the defensive team puts the ball in play, and only the defense is allowed to touch the ball. In fact, in baseball if an offensive player touches the ball inten– tionally, he’s out; sometimes unintentionally, he’s out.

Also: In football, basketball, soccer, volleyball, and all sports played with a ball, you score with the ball, and without the ball you can’t score. In baseball the ball prevents you from scoring.

In most sports the team is run by a coach; in baseball the team is run by a manager; and only in baseball does the manager (or coach) wear the same clothing the players do. If you had ever seen John Madden in his Oakland Raiders football uniform, you would know the reason for this custom. Now, I’ve mentioned football. Baseball and football arel K the two most popular spectator sports in this country. And,r as such, it seems they ought to be able to tell us something)

brain droppings about ourselves and our values. And maybe how those values have changed over the last 150 years. For those reasons, I enjoy comparing baseball and football: Baseball is a nineteenth-century pastoral game. Football is a twentieth-century technological struggle.

Baseball is played on a diamond, in a park. The baseball park!

Football is played on a gridiron, in a stadium, sometimes called Soldier Field or War Memorial Stadium. Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life. Football begins in the fall, when everything is dying. In football you wear a helmet. In baseball you wear a cap. Football is concerned with downs. “What down is it?” Baseball is concerned with ups. “Who’s up? Are you up? I’m not up! He’s up!” In football you receive a penalty. In baseball you make an error. In football the specialist comes in to kick. In baseball the specialist comes in to relieve somebody. Football has hitting, clipping, spearing, piling on, personal fouls, late hitting, and unnecessary roughness. Baseball has the sacrifice.

GEORGE C A R L I N

Football is played in any kind of weather: Rain, snow, 6 sleet, hail, fog … can’t see the game, don’t know if there is a game going on; mud on the field . .. can’t read the uniforms, can’t read the yard markers, the struggle will continue!

In baseball if it rains, we don’t go out to play. “I can’t go ^ out! It’s raining out!” Baseball has the seventh-inning stretch. Football has the two-minute warning. Baseball has no time limit: “We don’t know when it’s gonna end!” Football is rigidly timed, and it will end “even if we have to go to sudden death.” 6

In baseball, during the game, in the stands, there’s a kind of picnic feeling. Emotions may run high or low, but there’s not that much unpleasantness.

In football, during the game in the stands, you can be . sure that at least twenty-seven times you were perfectly capable of taking the life of a fellow human being.

And finally, the objectives of the two games are completely different: i In football the object is for the quarterback, otherwise known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault, riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz, even if he has to use the shotgun. With short bullet passes and long bombs, he marches his troops into enemy territory, balancing this aer-

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ial assault with a sustained ground attack that punches holes -r ;,, in the forward wall of the enemy’s defensive line. ,;f;r In baseball the object is to go home! And to be safe! “I hope I’ll be safe at home!” I

Being Irish, I guess I should resent the Notre Dame nickname, “The Fighting Irish.” After all, how long do you think nicknames like “The Bargaining Jews” or “The Murdering Italians” would last? Only the ironic Irish could be so naively honest. I get the feeling that Notre Dame came real close to naming itself “The Fuckin’ Drunken, Thick-skulled, Brawling, Short-dicked Irish.”

Here’s something I don’t care about: athlete’s families. This is really the bottom of the sports barrel. I’m watchin’ a ball-game, and just because some athlete’s wife is in the stands, someone thinks they have to put her picture on the screen. And I miss a double steal! Same with a ballplayer’s father. Goddamn! “There’s his dad, who taught him how to throw the changeup when he was two years old.” Fuck him, the sick bastard! His own sports dreams probably crash-landed, so he forced a bunch of shit on his kid, and now the kid’s a neurotic athlete. Fuck these athletes’ relatives. If they wanna be on TV, let ‘em get their own goddamn shows. Let ‘em go to cable access. 6

I also don’t care if an athlete’s wife had a baby, how she is, how the baby is, how much the baby weighs or what the fuckin’ baby’s name is. It’s got nothin’ to do with sports. Leave it out!

GEORGE CARLIN

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And I’m tired of athletes whose children are sick. Healthy men with sick children; how banal. The kid’s sick? Talk it over privately. Don’t spread it all over television. Have some dignity. And play fuckin’ ball!!

Nor do I wanna know about some athlete’s crippled little brother or his hemophiliac big sister. The Olympics specialize in this kind of mawkish bullshit. Either his aunt has the clap, or his kid has a forty-pound mole, or his high school buddy overdosed on burritos, etc. Can’t sports exist on television without all this embarrassing, maudlin, super-sentimental, tear-jerking bullshit? Keep your personal disasters to yourself, and get in there and score some fuckin’ points!