When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?

by George Carlin

  Now, there are other government people, outside the beltway, who, nonetheless, remain in the know and in the loop. They function in foreign countries and we say they’re on the ground. If they’re CIA, they’re under the radar and paid off the books. Much of what they learn is picked up on the street. But they don’t always need to be on the street, because a lot of information comes in over the transom.

  HOUSE PARTIES

  Putting aside government for the moment, I wonder if you’re aware that a completely different group of people has recently emerged in America. They’re not on the ground and they’re not on the street. You know where they are? They’re in the house! Apparently, they never went out! And there must be a lot of them, because you hear it all the time: “He’s in the house!”

  And, if I may broach a delicate subject here, some of these people who are in the house are also in the closet. Fortunately for them, if they somehow manage to get out of the closet, they’ll still be in the house. That is, they will be until they’ve . . . left the building! How often these days we hear that someone has left the building.

  LEAVE ME TENDER

  And I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s mostly show business people who leave buildings—the accepted belief being that Elvis was the first to master this maneuver, although you can also find Beatles fans who will argue that the Fab Four were known to have left several buildings, as well, thereby accomplishing what would have been the first multi-star building-departures. Unfortunately, at the time, no one realized the significance of what the Beatles were doing.

  Now, there are no doubt those among you who are seething because has left the building is not a prepositional phrase. I grant that, but you’d have to agree that nonetheless, it fits here very nicely. Because, after all, only people who are in the house can leave the building. But, alas, it’s impossible to leave the building if you’re still in the closet. In fact, you can’t even get to the front door.

  COMING OUT

  However, let’s say everything breaks your way, and somehow you manage to leave the building; guess where you’ll be? Right! Back on the street. With the CIA. So you’d better be on your toes. Because the CIA will get on your case, and they’ll be in your face. Who knows? They might even go upside your head.

  I’m sorry, folks, this is really getting off the wall, so let’s return to where this whole thing began: under the table—where those shady deals are made. And isn’t it interesting that under the table is similar to under the counter, where illegal products are sold? Under the counter, as opposed, of course, to over the counter, which describes a drug that does not require a prescription.

  COUNTERPOINT

  But when you think about it, even drugs that require a prescription are sold over the counter. I mean, the pharmacist doesn’t somehow give them to you underneath the counter; you don’t get them by going around behind the counter. What happens is, you stand at the counter, pay the man, and he hands them to you across the counter. Or he sets them down on the counter, and you pick them up off the counter. Or, if you want, you can completely eliminate the counter by having the drugs delivered to your home. Provided, of course, that, at the time, you’re in the house.

  Well, folks, it turns out that one of the phrases I used at the beginning of this piece was more appropriate than I suspected at the time. It’s clear to me now that in the dumper is exactly where this piece has wound up.

  So that’s it. I’m out the door.

  PASS ME A DAMP TOWEL

  Here are some interesting sex facts from Thailand, accurate as of fifteen years ago. And I apologize for the dated quality of this information, but I find it fascinating, and since it’s accurate, I wish to include it here. In 1990 alone, 5 million “sex tourists”—mostly affluent men from Japan—spent $4.5 billion on sex in Thailand. The country at that time had 800,000 child prostitutes under the age of sixteen, prostitution being the major occupation for children between ten and sixteen. The girls earn twenty to eighty cents a week, and their recruitment begins at six years of age.

  Additionally, at that time there were 200,000 Thai prostitutes working in Europe. In 1993, there were 600,000 Thais infected with AIDS, with 1,200 new cases occuring every day. I have only one question: Doesn’t anyone in Asia jerk off anymore?

  P.S. I can’t get newer statistics because, apparently, everyone in Thailand is too busy getting undressed.

  PUTTING THE CAT OUT

  It was nearly eleven-thirty, and I had just put the cat out. But it hadn’t been easy. He had burned more fiercely than I anticipated.

  The poor thing had caught fire earlier in the evening when, in an effort to test his reflexes, I had thrown his favorite toy mouse into the fireplace, and instinctively he raced in after it.

  “WHOOOOOOOOM!!!” you might say.

  At first, I let him burn awhile just to teach him a lesson, and to peel off a couple of layers of the mud, mange and matted hair which seemed lately, sadly, to have robbed him of a step or two. But I must admit I was also quite fascinated by the many spectacular colors he began to glow with. Colors, no doubt, owed in part to the countless hours he spent killing time in the toxic dump next door. It was quite a show. In fact, I saw several pyrotechnic effects I dare say have not been witnessed since the Grucci home exploded during the Bicentennial.

  Then, as the feline conflagration began to burn itself out and I could see the clear, stark outline of his hairless body, he began to emit a dense cloud of smoke, along with some other gaseous substance which I can only describe as “cat steam.” Acting quickly, I covered him with several cheap sweaters that no longer fit and pounded him gently, although not without anger, for just over an hour, or until the smoke died down and he stopped his by then bothersome screeching.

  At that point, energized, apparently, by a sudden burst of pain and fear, he leapt several feet into the air, went stiff and spread-eagled and began to spin violently, giving off an ominous low-frequency hum and circling the ceiling fan in an elliptical orbit. He circled for the better part of an hour. Finally, exhausted, or, I thought, maybe dead, he went suddenly limp, his orbit decayed and he smashed into an eighteenth-century breakfront, landing heavily on the floor. For three days he lay motionless. When finally he awoke, I opened a can of Bits O’ Kidney and fed him by hand.

  I can tell you this: Although he looked quite unusual, and he smelled god-awful, I was glad I could be there for him when he needed me.

  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 we’re 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 somethin’ 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 fuckin’ 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’s 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? It’s no use. They’re no good in the morning; they’re too dry. You can’t 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 body—and your curiosity about them. Especially if it’s 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 goin’ 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.

  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.

  LESTER: It’s a surprise party, and you’re pickin’ up the cake?

  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 I? 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?

  LESTER: Save ’em?

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

  LESTER: Why not?

  CHESTER: Well, if you light ’em up, they look crappy the next time you wanna use ’em—believe me, we don’t waste nothin’ 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?

  LESTER: Right.

  CHESTER: Well, we only had sixty candles on hand, ’cause that’s all we ever need for my mother—she’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?

  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 somethin’ she sticks one on a cupcake. So with her, a box lasts a long time.

  LESTER: Keep goin’.

  CHESTER: Anyway, like I say, it’s my grandfather’s ninety-sixth birthday 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.

  LESTER: You got an interesting family.

  CHESTER: Anyways, we put the ninety-six candles on my grandfather’s 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.

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

  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?

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

  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 somethin’ 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?

  LESTER: In your family it might work out.

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

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

  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 tryi
ng 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 mistake—common in childhood—of 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.