Текст книги "When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Pro sports is full of these hopelessly Daddy-addicted athletes who wouldn’t think of taking a shit without their fathers’ approval. I especially have no respect for the ones whose fathers coached them in high school or college, or whose fathers played the same position they did. When I hear the sons of coaches and former athletes talking on television, they sound to me like parent-pleasers and ass-kissers. Why don’t they grow up?

Ladies First

I notice a lot of this “comedy” they have on television is about relationships. Do you ever see this stuff? Relationship comedy? Well, I don’t know much about relationships, but over the years I’ve noticed a few things about the two sexes, and I’d like to discuss them. Men and women: the big, hairy, noisy male creatures, and the smaller, smoother, but nonetheless also quite noisy, female creatures.

Here’s all you need to know about men and women: Women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid. It’s not the only reason, but it’s a big one. And by the way, if you don’t think men are stupid, check the newspaper. Ninety-nine percent of all the truly horrifying shit going on in this world was initiated, established, perpetrated, enabled or continued by men. And that includes the wave and the high five, two of history his truly low points.

But as I say, besides knowing that men are stupid, it’s also important to remember that women are crazy. And if you don’t think women are crazy, ask a man. That’s the one thing men aren’t stupid about; they know for sure, way down deep in their hearts, that women are straight-out fuckin nuts.

But it doesn’t just happen; it isn’t an accident. Women have good reason to be nuts, the main one being that in the course of life, compared with men, they have far more to put up with; they bear greater burdens. Think of it this way: In the Big Cosmic Cafeteria, as human beings move down the chow line of life and reach that section where the shit is being spooned out, women are given several extra portions.

And please understand, my motives here are not selfish or personal. I’m

not saying all this stuff to get in good with womenalthough an occasional blow job would be nice. But it’s not a requirement. It’s optional. BJO: Blow Job Optional. No, I just think it should be evident to any person who’s being honestand thinking clearlythat women carry a lot more of life’s baggage than men.

To begin with, they’re smaller and weaker, so they get slapped, punched, raped, abused and, in general, get the shit beaten out of them on a rather regular basis. By men, of course, who are stronger. If women were stronger, this wouldn’t be happening. Men would not raise a hand if they thought the balance was more equal; they would back down quickly. Then again, if women were stronger, they would probably be beating the shit out of men just for the fun of it. It’s only fair.

APPEARANCE IS EVERYTHING

Another major problem for women: They have to look good all the timeor at least they think they do. So they’ll be attractive to their male protectors. “Gotta look good tonight, Joey’s gonna beat the shit out of me. Maybe I can get a nice kick in the fuckin’ mouth. Gotta look my best.”

And looking one’s female best requires a lot of things. Start with cosmetics. Just think of all the products and procedures a woman is forced to deal with in the world of cosmetics: cleansers, toners, foundation, blush, face powder, lipstick, lip gloss, lip liner, eyeliner, eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, mascara, nail polish, nail polish remover, manicures, pedicures, fake fingernails, fake eyelashes . . .

GIMME SOME SKIN

. . . face cream, neck cream, eye cream, thigh cream, root cream, day cream, night cream, cold cream, wrinkle remover, makeup remover, hand lotions, body lotions, bath oils, bath beads, shower gels, bubble baths, scented baths,

perfumes, colognes, toilet water, astringents, moisturizers, emulsions, exfo-liants, peels, scrubs, depilatories, body wraps, facial masks . . .

HAIR HAIR!

. . . shampoos, conditioners, bleaches, dyes, rinses, tints, perms, straighteners, wigs, falls, rats, extensions, combs, barrettes, bobby pins, hairpins, hairnets, hair curlers, scrunchies, ribbons, bows, debacles, headbands . . .

PROCEDURES

. . . streaking, frosting, teasing, spraying, moussing, blow drying, cutting, layering, curling, eyelash curling, eyebrow plucking, armpit shaving, leg shaving, crotch shaving, crotch waxing, leg waxing, eyebrow waxing . . .

And a purse! A big fuckin1 purse so she can carry all this shit around with her. Especially the makeup, which must be close at hand at all times. “Gotta have my makeup. In case 1 run into Joey and he wants to beat the shit outta me. I gotta look my best. Maybe he’ll punch me repeatedly in the kidneys and the stomach so it doesn’t mark up my face. He’s so thoughtful.’

I NAVE NOTHING TO WEAR

And, my friend, I hope you’re aware that when we talk about women looking good, we’re also talking about clothing. Clothing is what generates all this shopping shit that occupies so much of a woman’s time. Because the truth is, women have to buy, own and wear an unbelievably bewildering number of garments:

TAKE IT OFF!!!

Slips, half-slips, camisoles, thongs, panties, pantyhose, stockings, half hose, knee-highs, anklets, socks, leg warmers, garter belts, girdles, corsets, training bras, padded bras, sports bras, nursing bras, push-up bras, strapless bras, Won

derbras, bustiers, teddies, petticoats, peignoirs, negligees, nightgowns, shorties, muumuus, body stockings . . .

TOP TO BOTTOM

. . . blouses, sweaters, jerseys, pullovers, halter tops, miniskirts, maxiskirts, slacks, suits, sunsuits, business suits, pants suits, culottes, capris, shorts, short shorts, hot pants, formal gowns, bridal gowns, evening gowns, street dresses, sundresses, cocktail dresses, housedresses, housecoats, winter coats, fall coats, spring coats, hats and scarves . . .

BAUBLES & BANGLES

. . . brooches, pins, necklaces, pendants, medallions, lockets, bracelets, ankle bracelets, earrings, wedding rings, engagement rings, friendship rings, thumb rings, toe rings and (optional, of course) nipple, nose and labia rings.

And let’s not even begin to talk about shoes. Oh, God! Sorry girls! I take it back. But at least let’s keep it brief: tennis shoes, sandals, open-toes, slingbacks, mules, wedgies, flats, half-heels and . . . high heels. High heels that damage a woman’s feet, ankles and knees, but make her ass and legs look great, so how can you blame a guy for the occasional rape? “Hey, the bitch was askin’ for it, she was wearin’ high heels.”

DOWN THE AISLE

Now, generally, all this obsession with appearance has one purpose. It’s supposed to lead to romance andit is devoudy wished by somea wedding. A wedding is another one of those good deals women get: The man “takes a wife,” the woman is “given away,” her family pays for the whole thing, and everyone stands around hoping she gets pregnant immediately.

KNOCK KNOCK!

Pregnant! Hey, another terrific treat for the gals! A chance to gain forty pounds, puke in the morning, walk like a duck, get sore tits and develop a nice case of hemorrhoids. What a deal! And such attractive clothing. Plus, she can’t get up off the couch without help. Well, it’s her own fault. This wouldn’t have happened if she had taken her birth contol pill or used her diaphragm. Notice: her pill, her diaphragm.

AND BABY MAKES WORK

But think of how fulfilling it can be. After all, now she has a baby; a baby she gets to raise practically alone. And if she decides to be a stay-at-home mom, she gets to cook, clean, sew, scrub, scour, wax, wash, dry, iron, do the shopping, drive the van and entertain the guests. She’s a housewife! An unpaid, in-family domestic servant. Admittedly, that description is a bit more in line with the old model. The new model is so much better: She ‘gets a fuckin’ job so she can be bringin’ something’ in.” But, somehow, she still winds up being an unpaid, in-family domestic servantafter she gets home from the job.

You know, the job? Where she gets paid less than men for the same work, does not rise beyond a certain level in the company and gets harassed all day long by some oversexed moron with a lump in his pants.

Probably better just to stay home where she doesn’t have to be bothered with that pesky paycheck crap, and there his none of that nonsense about Social Security, pension plans and unemployment money in case of divorce. Just alimony and child support… if the ex-husband can be located. The ex who probably thought she was looking a little used up and dumped her for someone whose milk glands hadn’t sagged yet.

Can’t forget those milk glands, can we, girls? Tits! Two tits, sticking

straight out of your chest; in some cases sticking straight out. Well, for a few years, anyway. Yes, girls, just by virtue of being female, you get to walk around all your life with two vulnerable milk glands hanging out in front of you like lanterns. And if, somehow, you should get the idea that men don’t approve of the size and shape of those milk glands, you’ll find plenty of social pressure to have them artificially “enhanced.” Such enhancement usually will be performed and supervised by men.

Here’s another physical treat for females: periods! Cramping, bloating and bleeding five days a month. Fifteen percent of the time. And you can add the time spent with premenstrual syndrome. PMS. Men gave it that name. If women had named it, it would be called My several days of shrieking and crying and depression, just before my several days of bleeding, cramping and bloating.” Men don’t quite see it from that angle. Men experience PMS as a problem for them. “What’s the matter, Joey? You don’t look so good.” “Ahhhh, my wife’s got the PMS.”

Here are some more special female advantages in case you haven’t had enough: pap smears, mammograms, hysterectomies, mastectomies, miscarriages, abortions, labor pains, childbirth pain, episiotomies, stretch marks and breast-feeding. And postpartum depression. Can’t imagine why she wouldn’t feel good. And just to top it all off, menopause. Menopause! More strange behavior and exciting physical sensations.

And in exchange for all this, in exchange for all this abuse from nature, what is the woman’s payoff? Why, she’s allowed to get into the lifeboat first. At least theoretically. How often do you think that really happens? Oh, and let’s not forget, many men are quite willing to hold the door open for her. In fact, some men are quite impressed with their willingness to do this; they brag about it: ‘Yeah, I beat the shit out of her a lot, but when she runs from one room to the other, I always hold the door open.”

I’ll tell you what a bad deal women got: They’re in the majority on this planet, and they still wound up with the shitty end of the stick. That’s how big a hosing they got.

Oh, and one other inequity I neglected to mention; very unequal. But this one works in women’s favor: They live longer than men. And remember this happens in spite of all the shit they have to put up with. So who do you think is tougher? Men or women? Why don’t you guess. And don’t forget, women have the huge added burden of having to put up with men.

FREE BREAST EXAMINATIONS

As a public service, the Hell’s Angels will be conducting free breast examinations this weekend at their clubhouse behind the Chrome Sprocket Bar. If you prefer privacy, the Bikers’ Mobile Breast Patrol will be happy to perform their services in the privacy of your bedroom. Pelvic examinations and pap tests are also available but usually take a little longer.

IT’S A FEMALE PROBLEM

Beside a dusty road, in the open air, a physically repulsive man dressed in filthy doctor clothes stands at a rusted out examination table wearing a coal miner’s hat and heavy work gloves. A woman lies in front of him on the examination table, her legs extending out from under a torn sheet, the ankles resting in stirrups. Nearby, an unattractive ‘nurse” sits at a desk picking her nose and wiping it on a lamp. Women squat nearby on tree stumps, reading magazines, waiting their turns. Just above this tableau is a large sign reading DISCOUNT ROADSIDE GYNECOLOGY.

SMOOTH FLIGHT

I really enjoyed my recent airplane trip to Africa; everything went just perfectly. I had no trouble at all making reservations a month in advance, and I had my tickets in hand, including seat selection, a week before the flight. I even ordered a special vegetarian meal. I left home early the day of the flight and arrived at the airport with several minutes to spare. My friend dropped me off at the curb and left immediately.

My one bag, which was a light one, was easy to carry and did not have to be checked. I was able to take it on board and save time at each end. I walked into the terminal. There was no line at the security area, my carry-on bag passed inspection, and I didn’t ring any bells walking through the metal detector. Looking for my gate number on the departures board and spotting it without breaking stride, I headed for Gate 1, the nearest gate. With just a few minutes left until takeoff, I walked the few steps to the gate and boarded the plane.

The seat I had reserved was right next to the window, and the seat next to me was unoccupied; plenty of room to spread out. I was in first class with only three other passengers. The two female flight attendants were pleasant. . . and very attractive. They said my special meal was on board. I had plenty of legroom, and all my seat controls worked perfectly; seat-back tilt, contour button, leg rest, light switch, even the stereo controls.

Everything continued flawlessly. The plane’s door was closed exactly on time, and we taxied immediately to the end of the runway. Pausing barely an instant, we began our takeoff roll, which sounded and felt extremely smooth. There was very little vibration; just a steady increase in power and speed as we became airborne and gently glided up. I felt no bumps or strain, and we quickly leveled off to a quiet cruise speed at our assigned altitude. Then the plane went into a steep dive and crashed into the ground, killing all but two of us.

Fortunately, my cosurvivor was a fantastic-looking woman; a registered nurse who had taken survival courses. After a quick check, we realized neither of us was hurt, and then I remembered I still had two joints tucked into my sock. We got high and made love several times. The sex was great for both of us and we promised to see each other often if we somehow managed to get out of there. The only condition on her part was that there be no commitment of any kind between us; she wanted to be independent. I agreed.

After a short time, we found some sandwiches and beer. We ate and drank and laughed for about an hour and then we noticed that a signal-flare gun had landed nearby. We fired off one flare, and, almost immediately, saw a small private plane flying overhead. They spotted us and began to circle. They made a low pass at us, waggling their wings, and then headed off, presumably to get help. Thank God, everything was still going smoothly.

That’s when the gorilla showed up.

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

I don’t think it’s right that ugly women should be allowed to get plastic surgery and get fixed up to look real nice. I think if you’re born ugly you ought to stay that way. That should be it. It’s not right to let people get fixed up. It’s creepy to think that you could possibly find yourself fucking some woman you picked up because you thought she was great-looking, but underneath she’s really ugly. She got her nose fixed, her lips, her eyes; she got nipped and tucked and liposuctioned, and the surgeon did a good jobhe didn’t overdo itand now she looks really great. But underneath it all, she’s horrible-looking and you’re actually fucking a pig; someone you wouldn’t even ask for change of a dollar if you could see her real face. It’s not right. Ugliness should be a permanent condition.

THE CONTINUING STORY OF MARY & JOSEPH: “IT’S A BOY”

MARY: Joe, we’re gonna have a baby.

JOE: What? That’s impossible. All I ever do is put it between your thighs.

MARY: Well, I don’t know. Something must’ve gone wrong.

JOE: Who says you’re pregnant?

MARY: An angel appeared to me in the backyard and said so.

JOE: An angel?

MARY: An angel of God. His name was Gabriel. He had a trumpet and he appeared to me in the backyard.

JOE: He what?

MARY: He appeared to me.

JOE: Was he naked?

MARY: No. I think he had on a raincoat. I don’t really know. He was glowing so brightly.

JOE: Mary, you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take a few days off from the shop. The accounts can wait.

MARY: I’m telling you, Joe. This Angel Gabriel said that God wanted me to have his baby.

JOE: Did you ask for some sort of sign?

MARY: Of course I did. He said tomorrow morning I’d start getting sick.

JOE: But why should God want a kid?

MARY: Well, Gabriel said that according to Luke it’s kind of an ego thing. Plus, he promised the Jews a long time ago, it’s just that he never got around to it. But now that he feels ready for children he doesn’t want to just make them out of clay or dust. He wants to get humans involved.

JOE: Well, is he going to help toward raising the kid? God knows we can’t do it alone. I could use a bigger shop, and maybe he could throw a couple of those nice crucifix contracts my way. The Romans are nailin’ up everything that walks.

MARY: Honey, Gabriel said not to worry. The kid would be a real winner. A public speaker and good with miracles.

JOE: Well, that’s a relief. Anyway, I guess now that you’re officially pregnant I can start puttin’ it inside you.

MARY: I’m sorry, honey. God wants it to be strictly a virgin birth. JOE: I don’t get it. MARY: That’s right, Joe. JOE: Don’t I get to do anything?

MARY: He wants you to come up with a name for the kid. JOE: Jesus Christ! MARY: Joe, you’re so heavy.

GUYS & DOLLS, PART 2

Man, Oh Man!

To my way of thinking, men have only one real problem: other men. That’s where all the trouble starts. A long time ago, men gave away their power. To other men: princes, kings, wizards, generals and high priests. They gave it away, because they believed what these other men told them. They bought the okeydoke. The bullshit. Men always buy the okeydoke when it comes from other men.

Some stranger probably stood up at a campfire and said, “All right, boys, from now on, I’m the king. The sun is my father, the moon is my mother and

they’re the ones who tell me when to throw the virgins into the volcano. Til be expecting all of you to bow deeply when you see me, and give me half your crops. Plus I’m allowed to fuck your wife. And don’t forget, if I want to I can concentrate real hard and make your head explode.’

And the other men around the campfire nodded their heads and said to one another, “This guy makes a lot of sense.” A man will always buy the bullshit, because a man is not too bright.

But I’m not suggesting a man doesn’t have a great deal to put up with. He does. First of all, a man has to make believe he knows what he’s doing at all times. And while he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, he has to make believe he doesn’t need any help.

He has to make believe he can fix anything. And if he can’t fix it now, he’ll fix it later. And if he can’t fix it later, he has a friend who can fix it, and if not, it was no good to start with, it’s not worth fixing, and besides, he knows where he can get something better, much cheaper, but they re all outta them right now, and besides, they’re closed. This is the male disease. It’s called being full of shit.

The male disease includes the need to be in charge at all times. In charge, in control, in command. A “real man” sees himself as king of the hill, leader of the pack, captain of the ship. But all the while, in order to fit in and belong, he has to act like all the other men and do what they do, so he 11 be accepted. And get a good job and a promotion and a raise and a Porsche, and a wife. A wife who will immediately trade in the Porsche on a nice, sensible Dodge van with folding seats so they can be like all the other boring families. The poor fuck. The poor stupid fuck.

His manliness also requires that he refuse to go to a doctor or a hospital unless it can be demonstrated to him that he has, in fact, been clinically dead for six months. aNo sense going’ to the hospital, honey, I don’t seem to be in a

coma.” Therefore, he must learn to ignore pain. “It doesn’t really hurt. Bleeding from six holes in the head doesn’t really hurt. Just gimme the remote and get me a beer. And get the fuck outta here.”

Most men learn this stupid shit from their fathers. Fathers teach their sons not to cry. “Don’t let me hear you cryin’ or I’ll come up there and give you something to cry about!’ Great stuff, hah? All the problems in the worldrepeat, all the problems in the worldcan be traced to what fathers do to their sons.

So, little boys learn to hide their feelings, and society likes that because, that way, when they get to be eighteen, they’ll able to go overseas and kill strangers without feeling anything. And of course, that bargain includes a certain reluctant willingness to have their balls shot off: “Honey, I have to go overseas and have my balls shot off, or else the rest of the guys will think I’m too afraid to go overseas and have my balls shot off.’ The poor fucks. The poor stupid fucks.

And so, as a result of all this repression of feelings, the extent of the average man his emotional expression is the high five. Or sometimes, when really deep feelings emerge, both hands. The high ten. This is raw emotion. And that’s about all they’re capable of. And they have Dad to thank. Thanks, Dad.

But wait! Don’t think dads can’t be fun at times, too. After all, dads introduce their sons to the Wonderful World of Menthe male subcultures. The really tough-guy, masculine, he-man stuff. No wimps, no pussies, no softies.

There are five deadly male subcultures and they all overlap: the car and machinery culture, the police and military culture, the outdoors and gun culture, the sports and competition culture and the drug and alcohol culture. And, as a bonus, I’m gonna throw in one more: the “Let’s go get some pussy and beat the shit outta queers” culture. As I say, they all overlap. Many men belong to all six.

This male universe is, of course, detectable by analyzing its combustible

chemical formula: gasoline, gunpowder, alcohol and adrenaline. A chemistry rendered even more lethal by that ever-present, ever-delightful accelerant: testosterone. Talk about substance abuse! If it’s chemical dependency you’re interested in, you might want to look into testosterone. TESSTAHSSTER-OWN!!the most lethal substance on earth. And it does not come from a laboratory, it comes from the scrotum; a scrotum located, interestingly enough, not far from the asshole. How fitting.

And, as it happens, all these male subcultures share a particular set of features: homophobia, coupled with an oddly ironic, complete, childlike trust in male authority. Men are attracted to powerful men. They also share a strong fear and dislike of women. This in spite of a pathological obsession with pussy. TESSTAHSSTEROWN!!

So why are men like this? I think the overriding problem for men is that in life’s main event, reproduction, they’re left out; women do all the work. What do men contribute? Generally, they’re just looking for a quick parking space for some sperm. A couple of hits of hot jism, and the volume on the TV goes right back up. It’s my belief that most of these flawed male chromosomes should not be allowed to go forward for even one more unfortunate generation. But such is biology.

And so, excluded as they are from reproduction, men must find other ways to feel useful and worthwhile. As a result, they measure themselves by the size of their guns, the size of their cars, the size of their dicks and the size of their wallets. All contests that no man can win consistently.

And let me tell you why all this happened. Because women are the source of all human life. The first human being came from the belly of a female. And all human fetuses begin as females. The brain itself is basically female until hormones act on it to make it structurally male.

So, in reality, all men are modified females. Where do you think those

nipples came from, guys? You’re an afterthought. Maybe that’s what’s bothering you. Is that what’s on your mind, Bunkie? That would explain the hostility: Women got the good job, men got the shitty one. Females create life, males end it. War, crime and violence are primarily male franchises. Man-shit.

It’s nature’s supreme joke. Deep in the womb, men start out as the good thing and wind up as the crappy thing. Not all men, just enough. Just enough to fuck things up. And the dumbest part of it all is that not only do men accept all this shit. . . they do it to themselves.

By the way, I’m not letting women completely off the hook. After all, the one part of the lower anatomy that is the same in both sexes is the asshole. But women who are assholes aren’t called that. They’re named for a different part of their lower anatomy. They’re called cunts. Isn’t it nice that cunts and assholes are next-door neighbors?

NINETY-NINE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW

There are ninety-nine things you need to know:

Number one: There are more than ninety-nine things you need to know. Number two: Nobody knows how many things there are to know. Number three: It’s more than three.

Number four: There is no way of knowing how many things you need to

Number five: Some of the things you need to know are things you already know.

Number six: Some of the things you need to know are things you only think you know.

Number seven: Some of the things you need to know are things you used to know and then forgot.

Number eight: Some of the things you need to know are things you only thought you forgot and actually still know.

Number nine: Some of the things you need to know are things you know but don’t really know you know.

Number ten: Some of the things you need to know are things you don’t yet know you need to know.

Number eleven: Some of the things you think you need to know are things you probably don’t really need to know.

Number twelve: Some of the things you need to know are things known only by people you don’t know.

Number thirteen: Some of the things you need to know are things nobody

Number fourteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that are unknowable.

Number fifteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that can only be imagined.

Number sixteen: At any time the list of things you need to know can be abruptly suspended.

Now you know.

EUPHEMISMS: Shell Shock to PTSD

Earlier in the book, in the first section on this subject of euphemistic language, I mentioned several reasons we seem to employ so much of it: the need to avoid unpleasant realities; the need to make things sound more important than they really are; marketing demands; pretentiousness; boosting employee self-esteem; and, in some cases, just plain, old political correctness.

But no matter their purpose, the one thing euphemisms all have in common is that they soften the language. They portray reality as less vivid. And I’ve noticed Americans have a problem with reality; they prefer to avoid the truth and not look it in the eye. I think it’s one of the consequences of being fat and prosperous and too comfortable. So, naturally, as time has passed, and we’ve grown fatter and more prosperous, the problem has gotten worse. Here’s a good example:

There’s a condition in combatmost people know it by now. It occurs when a soldier’s nervous system has reached the breaking point. In World

War I, it was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. Shell shock!!

That was 1917. A generation passed. Then, during the Second World War, the very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now. It takes a little longer to say, stretches it out. The words don’t seem to hurt as much. And fatigue is a softer word than shock. Shell shock. Battle fatigue. The condition was being euphemized.

More time passed and we got to Korea, 1950. By that time, Madison Avenue had learned well how to manipulate the language, and the same condition became operational exhaustion. It had been stretched out to eight syllables. It took longer to say, so the impact was reduced, and the humanity was completely squeezed out of the term. It was now absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. It sounded like something that might happen to your car.

And then, finally, we got to Vietnam. Given the dishonesty surrounding that war, I guess it’s not surprising that, at the time, the very same condition was renamed post-traumatic stress disorder. It was still eight syllables, but a hyphen had been added, and, at last, the pain had been completely buried under psycho-jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

I’d be willing to bet anything that if we’d still been calling it shell shock, some of those Vietnam veterans might have received the attention they needed, at the time they needed it. But it didn’t happen, and I’m convinced one of the reasons was that softer language we now prefer: The New Language. The language that takes the life out of life. More to come.

ELEGY FOR “MILLENNIUM”

You don’t hear the word millennium much anymore, do you? It’s kind of sad. Here’s a word that lies around for long periods of time looking for work, but never really doing very much. Then, every thousand years, things suddenly pick up and there’s a flurry of activity. The word is on everyone’s lips, and is heard in almost every conversation. It stays red-hot for several years, enjoying its popularityseeing its name in newspapers and magazines, making appearances on radio and TV. But then a peak is reached, and, after a while, things begin to slow down. The activity tapers off, and before long, it’s once again relegated to history books, academic journals and reference works. Goodbye, poor millennium. I’m going to miss you. When you return, I may not be here to welcome you back.