Текст книги "When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

BODY OF WORK: PART 2 TOENAIL CLIPPINGS

Saving the little things we remove from our bodies comes from our natural curiosity. We all have it. We’re curious about ourselves, we’re curious about our bodies, so were curious about the little parts that we clip, snip, pluck, pull or pick off of ourselves. Toenail clippings are a good example.

I’ll set the scene for you: You’re sittin’ on the bed at home one night, and something’ really shitty comes on TV. Like a regularly scheduled, prime-time network program. And you think, “Well, I’m not gonna watch Raymond Blows the Milkman. I’m gonna clip my fuckin1 toenails.’

So you start to clip your toenails. And every time you clip one of them, the little clipped part flies several feet away. You notice that? These things fly all over the bed. So when you’re finished clipping, you have to gather them all back into a little pile. You can’t leave them all over the bed, they make dents in your legs. You don’t need that. You have to gather them back into a pile. And did you ever notice this? The bigger the pile gets, the more pride you have in the pile.

“Look at this, Honey. The biggest pile of toenail clippings we’ve had in this house since the day the Big Bopper died. Get the fuckin’ camcorder! Call

the Museum of Natural History! Tell them we have a good idea for one of those diorama things.”

And then you search the bed for the largest clipping of all, the biggest one you can find, usually from the big toe, and you bend it for a while. Don’t you? Yes! You do! You bend it, you squeeze it, you play with it. You have to. Why? Because you can! Because it’s still lively and viable; it just came off your body, there his still moisture in it. It’s almost alive!!

And sometimes I save my toenail clippings overnight. Do you ever do that. You put em in an ashtray and try to save them till the morning? Its no use. They’re no good in the morning; they’re too dry. You cant bend them. I say, fuck em, throw em away. Who needs unbendable toenails? Not me. I’m not that sick. I don’t need parts that badly. No sir.

PICK OF THE LITTER

Little things, folks. Little things you pick off your bodyand your curiosity about them. Especially if its something you can’t really see before you pick it off.

For instance, you know how sometimes you’re picking your ass? You know what I mean, just standing out in the driveway, idly picking your ass? And as you’re picking and probing, you come across something that seems to be … a small object! And let’s be real, here, folks. After you manage to pull it free, don’t you smell it? Just a little bit? Sure you do. You have to, it’s only natural. And you get excited!

“Honey, c’mere! Look! (He sniffs) You want a couple of hits off this thing? While it’s still fresh? Remind me, baby. Did we eat at Fatburger this week? We did? (Sniffs again) Well, I don’t remember orderin anything that smelled like this. I believe this is a Shitburger. You know, tastes like a burger, smells like shit. Actually, it smells more like Ethel Merman. Call that Andrew Lloyd Webber fella. Tell him we have a great idea for one of those fine shows he’s always

puttin’ on Broadway. Then gimme the scrapbook, baby. This son of a bitch is going’ right next to that Lithuanian toe-jam we found at the Olympics.” It’s an exciting moment the whole family can enjoy.

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

(Two bachelors at a neighborhood bar.)

CHESTER: Tomorrow’s my fortieth birthday. I gotta go get candles and pick up my cake.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: You’re buyin’ your own birthday cake?

CHESTER: No, I ain’t buyin’ my own birthday cake. My mother’s buyin’ it, I’m just pickin’ it up. She’s givin’ me a surprise party but she don’t feel good, so she can’t pick up the cake.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: It’s a surprise party, and you’re pickin1 up the...

CHESTER: I ain’t gonna look at it, okay? It’s already wrapped. I’m just gonna pick it up.

LESTER: But how can it be a surprise party if you’re pickin’ up the cake and you know the party is comin ?

CHESTER: I don’t know when it’s comin’, do 1? It could be eight in the morning, it could be midnight.

LESTER: Eight in the morning? How can you have a birthday party at eight in the morning? Who the fuck is gonna come, the milkman?

CHESTER: Don’t laugh, my mother would do it. One year, on my birthday, I got drunk and didn’t come home. She threw the party without me.

LESTER: What’d she sing? “Happy Birthday to Him”? CHESTER: You’re a fuckin’ riot, ya know that? LESTER: How many candles ya gonna get?

CHESTER: Well, we already got sixteen from my kid’s birthday last year, and twenty-four is how many come in a box. I’m forty, so I only gotta get one box. I guess I could go ahead and get two boxes and leave my kid’s candles alone, but two boxes would be forty-eight candles, and what am I gonna do with the eight extras?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: Save ‘em?

CHESTER: Don’t laugh. At my house we do save ‘em. In fact, we don’t even light ‘em up.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: Why not?

CHESTER: Well, if you light em up, they look crappy the next time you wanna use embelieve me, we don’t waste nothing’ at my house. In fact, listen to this: A couple of years ago, my grandfather turned ninety-six. Ninety-six is four boxes, right? Four times twenty-four?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: Right.

CHESTER: Well, we only had sixty candles on hand, ’cause that’s all we ever need for my mothershe’s one of them people, when she turned sixty she decided to “stop havin’ birthdays.” So sixty is all we need. Two and a half boxes. So we bought three boxes. But that’s seventy-two, givin’ us twelve left over. Right?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: I’m takin’ your word for it.

CHESTER: Trust me, okay? So, we got twelve extra candles, and we decided to give them to my niece. She was just turnin’ thirty-six, and she already had a brand-new box of twenty-four of her own. She’s a widow with no kids, so she don’t need too many candles. I think maybe on her cat’s birthday or some-thin’ she sticks one on a cupcake. So with her, a box lasts a long time.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: Keep going’.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

CHESTER: Anyway, like I say, it’s my grandfather’s...

day and we only had sixty candles. That means we need thirty-six more, a box and a half. So we borrow thirty-six from my brother. He had two full boxes, because in about six months it’s his forty-eighth birthday. But that’s still a ways off, so we borrow thirty-six from him, which leaves him with twelve, and that works out nice, because his kid is gonna be twelve next week, so we’re covered all the way around.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: You got an interesting family.

CHESTER: Anyways, we put the ninety-six candles on my grandfather his cake, and we start to light them up, okay? But there’s so many of them, that by the time we get the last one lit, half of them are just little holes in the frosting with smoke comin’ out. But if you looked down into the holes, you could still see the flames. So, my grandfather blew out all ninety-six candles, but he had to do ‘em one at the time because he had to blow down each individual hole. Plus he’s short-winded. You know the good part?

LESTER: I can’t imagine. CHESTER: He got ninety-six different wishes. LESTER: Did any of em come true? CHESTER: I think three.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: You believe in wishes? I mean, you believe they...

CHESTER: Nah. I believe in wishes, but I don’t believe they come true. Not unless it’s a real easy wish, like “I wish I was at a birthday party.” But you gotta blow out all the candles, or else the wish don’t come true. If one candle stays lit, you don’t get your wish.

LESTER: Well, suppose you wished one candle would stay lit. CHESTER: Whaddya mean?

LESTER: I mean suppose you wished that one candle would stay lit, and then you blew them all out. What would happen?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

CHESTER: Well, it couldn’t happen. Unless you blew them all...

LESTER: But if you blew them all out, then one candle wouldn’t have stayed lit, so your wish wouldn’t have come true.

CHESTER: Don’t give me that college shit, will ya? Jesus! Herbie, y’ever notice this guy? As soon as you start talkin’ about something’ intelligent, he has to throw in that college shit. He says, “If you wish for one candle to stay lit, it won’t happen unless you blow all the candles out.” That’s the kind of shit they teach in college now.

LESTER: That’s right. It just so happens my major was Comparative Birthday Cakes, with a minor in Frosting.

CHESTER: It wouldn’t surprise me. LESTER: Ya gonna have hats? It ain’t a party without hats. CHESTER: Naaah. No hats. LESTER: How come?

CHESTER: They come fifty in a box. What am I gonna do with forty-eight extra hats?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: In your family it might work out.

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

CHESTER: I know. That’s why I ain’t gonna do it. See ya...

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

LESTER: Okay, so long. Have a happy birthday!

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

CHESTER: I’ll do my best.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, LIL

One Christmas, when I was little, my aunt Lil gave me a book about railroads. It was just the kind of gift I hated. A book. I wanted a toy. Preferably a little car or truck, or maybe a few soldiers; I didn’t ask much. Just some kind of toy a boy could play with every day and not get tired of. No. A boring fucking book about railroads with pictures of fucking trains.

My mother forced me to tell Aunt Lil that I really liked the book; she

made me lie and say “thank you” and all that other drivel-shit parents are constantly trying to push into your head. She didn’t want to hurt Lil’s feelings. (Actually, she didn’t want to look bad in Lil’s eyes.)

Well, I made the mistakecommon in childhoodof listening to my mother and following her advice. I thanked Lil. Guess the result. Right! Every Christmas and every birthday from then on, I got a fucking boring book from my fucking boring aunt fucking boring Lil. First buses, then airplanes, then trucks and then cars. And on and on through the years, until she ran out of conveyances and had to switch to buildings. I weep when I think of all the soldiers I could have had. Probably a battalion or two. Ah, well.

I realize the problem now: I was too young to have learned the following sentence: “Hey Lil! Take your fucking railroad book and stick it up your ass. And get me some goddamn soldiers!” That would have nipped the whole thing in the bud.

TURN DOWN THE RADIO!

Does anybody really listen to that shitty music they play on the radio? FM radio music? What’s it called? Adult contemporary? Classic rock? Urban rhythm and blues? You know what the official business name for that shit is? “Corporate standardized programming.” Just what an art form needs: corporate standardized programming. Derived from “scientific” surveys conducted by soulless businessmen.

Here’s how bad it is: One nationwide chain that owns over a thousand radio stations conducts weekly telephone polls, asking listeners their opinions on twenty-five to thirty song “hooks” they play over the phone; hooks that the radio people have already selected. (Hooks are the short, repeated parts of pop

songs that people remember easily.) Depending on these polls, the radio chain decides which songs to place on their stations’ playlists.

Weeks later, they record the hooks of all the songs they’re currently playing on their stations across the country, label them by title and artist and sell that information to record companies to help create more of the same bad music. They also sell the information to competing radio stations that want to play what the big chain is playing. All of this is done to prevent the possibility of original thinking somehow creeping into the system.

Lemme tell you something: In the first place, listening to music that someone else has picked out is not my idea of a good time. Second, and more important, the fact that a lot of people in America actually like the music automatically means it sucks. Especially since the people who like it have been told in advance by businessmen what it is they’re supposed to like. Please. Save me from people who’ve been told what to like and then like it.

In my opinion, if you’re over six years of age, and you’re still getting your music from the radio, something is desperately wrong with you. I can only hope that somehow MP3 players and file sharing will destroy FM radio the way they’re destroying record companies. Then, even though the air will probably never be safe to breathe again, maybe it will be safer to listen to.

OH SAY, CAN YOU HEAR?

What is the purpose of having a person “sign” “The Star-Spangled Banner’? Don’t deaf people know the words by now? Besides, signing cant possibly convey the exact, personalized musical rendition the singer may be offering. How could a signer ever convey to a deaf person the elaborate, note-bending vocal gymnastics that black female singers put that anthem through? Especially those

last few lines; the ones from “O’er the land . . .” all the way through “. . . of the brave,” which sometimes can take more than six or seven minutes to complete. Why, I should think a signer would break an arm trying to get that stuff across. Besides, what does the national anthem have to do with sports in the first place? I never understood that. Play Ball!

PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE

During the Middle Ages, it seems as though every castle had a group of trumpet players who stood in a line and played loud, intricate fanfares whenever something important happened. And it occurred to me that occasionally those guys must have needed to practice. You know, “Fanfare practice, three o’clock, near the moat.” There could be any number of reasons: new guys in the group, new fanfares, the brand-new trumpets came in.

So I’m wondering, when these guys did hold practiceand they kept playing the fanfares over and overwere the people working around the castle required to constantly keep snapping to attention? Did maybe some of them do it anyway, out of force of habit? Or did everyone pretty much ignore the fanfares since they knew it was really only practice?

And, if so, at a time like that, when everyone had been lulled into a false sense of security, what if the king decided to walk across the yard to visit his sister in the dungeon? And they blew a fanfare for him? Half the people would probably just keep on working. Would that piss him off, or would he understand?

And what about coming-to-attention practice? Seems like fanfare practice would be a perfect time to hold it. You know, kill two birds . . . Ah well, fuck it. These are the sort of thoughts that hold me back in life.

JUMP, DON’T SCREAM

Here’s why I’m opposed to singing. Singing strikes me as an indicator of limited language skills. My feeling is that if someone has a valid thought, deserving of expression, but somehow that thought can’t be communicated without the assistance of a banjo or a tambourine, then maybe it’s a thought the rest of us don’t need to hear.

People will argue, ‘Singing has more to do with expressing emotion than it does with expressing thought.” Well, fine. But from my point of view, when it comes to expressing emotion, singing is not nearly as effective a tool as screaming. Let’s face it, if you want to express emotion, screaming is where it’s at.

And to be fair, the more I think about it, the more I realize that singing itself is nothing more than a modified form of screaming. It’s actually just carefully organized, socially acceptable screaming. And, folks, I think we have enough screaming in the world as it is.

Now, dancing, on the other hand, I can understand. Dancing is a highly developed form of jumping around, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with jumping around. Jumping around is fine in my book. In fact, I feel it’s essential. So, please, feel free to jump around all you want. But if you fall and break a leg, don’t come screaming to me. Write a song.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Have you noticed that whenever someone at a large gathering tries to get the attention of the crowd on a public address system, they always yell into the mi-

crophone? ‘ATTENTION!! ATTENTION PLEASE!! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!!” Don’t these people understand that the whole purpose of a voice-amplifying system is to amplify the voice? I think the idea is that when you speak into it, it makes your voice sound louder. Maybe I’m way off on this, but it seems to me that if there is a device that makes your voice sound louder, there’s probably no reason to yell into it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just wrong on this. I’m willing to listen. But hold it down, will ya?

CARS AS PERSONAL BILLBOARDS NEVER MIND THE BIOGRAPHY

I’m tired of people using their cars as biographical information centers, informing the world of their sad-sack lives and boring interests. Keep that shit to yourself. I don’t want to know what college you went to, who you intend to vote for or what your plan is for world peace. I don’t care if you visited the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore or the birthplace of Wink Martindale. And I’m not interested in what radio station you listen to or what bands you like. In fact, I’m not interested in you in any way, except to see you in my rearview mirror.

Furthermore, I can do without your profession of faith in God, Allah, Jehova, Yahweh, Peter Cottontail or whoever the fuck it is you’ve turned your life over to; please keep your superstitions private. I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to someday drive up to a flaming auto wreck and see smoke curling up around one of those little fish symbols with Jesus written inside it.

And as far as I’m concerned, you can include the Darwin/fish-with-feet evolution symbol too. Far too cute for my taste.

So keep the personal and autobiographical messages to yourself. Here’s an idea: Maybe you could paste them up inside your car, where you can see them and I can’t.

PROUD PARENTS OF ANOTHER DRONE

Here’s another segment of the bumper-sticker population that ought to be locked into portable toilets and set on fire. The ones who want us to know how well their kids are doing in school. Doing well, that is, according to today’s lowered standards:

”We are the proud parents of an honors student at the Franklin School.’ Or the Midvale Academy. Or whatever other innocent-sounding name has been assigned to the indoctrination center where their child has been sent to be stripped of his individuality and turned into an obedient, soul-dead, conformist member of the American consumer culture.

What kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the achievements of a child? How would you like to live with a couple of these blockheads? “Say, Justin. How’s that science project coming along?” “Fuck you, Dad, you simpleminded prick! Mind your own business and pass the Froot Loops. Fucking cunt dork.”

Here are a few parental bumper stickers I’d like to see:

“We are the proud parents of a child whose self-esteem is sufficient that he doesn’t need us promoting his minor scholastic achievements on the back of our car.’ That would be refreshing.

“We are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teacher’s attempts to break his spirit and bend him to the will of his corporate masters.’ A little Marxist, but what’s wrong with that?

Here’s something realistic: “We have a daughter in public school who hasn’t been knocked up yet.” And, for the boy: uWe have a son in public school who hasn’t shot any of his classmates yet. But he does sell drugs to your honors student. Plus, he knocked up your daughter.”

And what about those parents who aren’t too proud of their children? “We are the embarrassed parents of a cross-eyed, drooling little nitwit, who, at the age of ten, not only continues to wet the bed, but also shits on the school bus.” Something like that on the back of the car might give the child a little more incentive. Get him to try a little harder next semester.

PLATE TECTONICS

My car complaints include personalized license plates, which in California have reached really bothersome levels. Among rny least favorites are the ones where the guy tells me what kind of car it is, in case I’m fucking blind: BEAMER, BENZ, PORSH. How helpful. Then there are those very special guys who not only tell me what kind of car it is, but also who owns it: GARY’S Z, DON’S JAG, BOB’S BMW. What’s wrong with these cretins? Have they never owned a car before?

And what’s with these pinheads who feel compelled to announce their occupations? LAWYUR, SKINDOC, PLMBR, SHRYNK, POOLMAN. Why this pressing need to reveal one’s profession? Drumming up business? Job insecurity? Identity crisis? Or is it just the usual American disease: being a jackoff.

And since these things are called “vanity plates” (they should be called “ego tags”), it comes as no surprise that the show-business professions abound with this nonsense. Among the worst offenders are writers. If you drive the streets and freeways of Los Angeles long enough, sooner or later you will see every variation of license plate these allegedly creative people have managed to come up with.

Here are the best of the lot: WRITTIR, WRYTRE, WRYTR, WRYYTRR, WRYTAR, R1TER RITEUR, WRYTER, RYTER, TV RTR. God help them. Isn’t a scriptwriting credit recognition enough? Or carrying a Writers Guild card? What are they looking for? Do they expect to be nominated for an Emmy at a red light? If these hacks spent half the time working on their scripts they spend thinking up license plates, entertainment in America would be vastly improved.

But writers aren’t alone. It seems that any job in television demands an acknowledgment: TVGUY, TVMAN, TVHOSTl, TVNUZE, TWDEO, TVSOWND, TVBIZ, TVBIZZ, TVBIZZZ, TV SHOW. I suppose the idea is, “Why be involved in television at all if I cant tell the world?’ After all, everyone knows what an outstanding field it is to be proud of.

One last item. To me, the biggest mystery of all is why a good-looking woman would get a license plate that says HOT BABE, PARTYGAL, HOTLIPS or BABE4U? Isn’t she just asking for some crazy fuck with a hard-on to follow her home so he can find out if she’s as hot she says she is? Maybe that’s the point; to pick up horny freaks at random. Sounds dumb. I wonder how many of these women have been raped and killed by guys whose license plates said BIGDICK, HOTROD, KILLGAL or RAPEDUDE?