When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?

by George Carlin

  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 can’t 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 practice—and they kept playing the fanfares over and over—were 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 microphone? “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. H
ow’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: “We 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 my 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, RITER 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, TVHOST1, TVNUZE, TVVDEO, TVSOWND, TVBIZ, TVBIZZ, TVBIZZZ, TV SHOW. I suppose the idea is, “Why be involved in television at all if I can’t 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?

  BODY OF WORK: Part 3

  SCAB LABOR

  Here’s another item you can’t see while it’s still on you: a scab on the top of your head. Did y’ever have that? Sure you have. A little scab on the top of your head? Not a big, red, juicy blood scab, like you get when someone at work hits you in the head with a Stilson wrench. Just a little scaly, scabby, dry spot. You find it one day by accident, when you’re scratchin’ your head. You come across it as if by good luck.

  “Dum-dee-dee-da . . . Da-dum-da . . . Whoooaaa! What’s this? A scab! Hot shit, a scab! I love fuckin’ scabs. This is gonna be a lot of fun. I can’t wait to pick off my scab and look at it. Oh boy, oh boy! I can’t wait to pick off my scab and place it down on a contrasting material such as a black velvet tablecloth in order to see it in greater relief. Oh boy, oh boy, I can’t wait to pick off my scab, this is gonna be a lot of fun.

  “Wait! Wait! Wait! (Picking at scalp) Wait just a minute. It’s not ready to come off yet! It’s immature, it’s still not ripe. It’s not ready for plucking. I’ll save this for Thursday! Thursday will be a good day. I only have half a day of work on Thursday. I’ll come home early, masturbate in the kitchen, wash the floor and then I’ll watch The Montel Williams Show. And while I do, I’ll pick off my scab. Oh boy, oh boy! I can’t wait to pick off my scab, this is gonna be a lot of fun.”

  THE WAITING GAME

  So you wait. And you wait. And you wait, and you wait, and you wait. And you try not to knock it off by accident with the little plastic comb you bought in the vending machine at the Easy Livin’ Motel when you hooked up with the two skanky-lookin’ chicks who gave you the clap that night.

  And now, finally, Thursday arrives. It’s harvest time! Harvest time on the top of your head. So you come home early, and you masturbate, but you do it in your sister’s bedroom just to give it a little extra thrill. Know what I mean? Then you shampoo the rug, and you watch The Montel Williams Show. Pretty interesting topic: “Women Who Take It up the Ass for Fifty Cents.” Not the best show he’s ever done, but you know somethin’? Not bad, either!

  And now it’s time. Time to go get this little scab. But you want to proceed carefully. You want to pry this thing off slowly and evenly, around the perimeter of the scab, so that it lifts off all in one piece. You don’t want it to break into pieces. Who needs a fragmented scab? Not me. I don’t need parts that badly, I’m not that disturbed.

  What you really want; what you really need; what you really must have is a complete, whole scab you can set down, study, make notes on and perhaps write a series of penetrating articles on for Scab Aficionado Magazine. Who knows? You might rise to the top of the scab world in a big hurry. It’s a small community and they need people at the top.

  And so you proceed. With a single fingernail extended—always choosing your best peeling and scraping nail—you find your way through the thicket of hair and locate the target. You make a careful, initial probe, and surprisingly, the prey yields easily, coming off all in one piece. And you lift it off carefully, through the hair, and position it on the tip of your picking finger.

  And you look at the little thing, so pathetic there on your finger. Isolated, alone, out of its environment. And your heart begins to melt. So you take your new friend carefully between thumb and forefinger, and gently place it back on your head, setting it loose in the wild. And you feel the better man. You’re in harmony with your body.

  Think of it as catch and release.

  EUPHEMISMS: Broke, Nuts and On the Street

  I GOT NO MONEY

  While we in America have been busy creating politically correct euphemisms for old people—thereby making their lives infinitely easier—we’ve also been working on our poor-people language problem. And we now have language that takes all the pain out of being poor. Having no money these days is easier than ever.

  I can remember, when I was young, that poor people lived in slums. Not anymore. These days, the economically disadvantaged occupy substandard housing in the inner cities. It’s so much nicer for them. And yet they’re still considered socially marginal.

  But as it turns out, many of these socially marginal people receive public assistance—once known as welfare. Before that it was called being on relief, or being on the dole. And at that time, being on the dole was the worst thing you could say about a family: “They’re on the dole.” People were ashamed. It was tough to get a date if you were on the dole.

  But public assi
stance! That sounds good. Who of us hasn’t benefited from some form of public assistance? Even huge businesses and agricultural interests receive public assistance. Ditto all the wealthiest taxpayers. So apparently, there is no shame attached to being on the dole after all.

  I GOT NO HOME

  In this country, about the only thing worse than having no money is having no place to live. And over the years, those with no place to live have had many different names: vagrants, tramps, hoboes, drifters and transients come to mind. Which name applied to a person sometimes depended on his, his—God, this is difficult to say—lifestyle. There, it’s out.

  But can having no place to live actually be a lifestyle? Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to use a questionable word like lifestyle at all, you should be forced to use it across the board. After all, if there’s a gay lifestyle—which I doubt—and a suburban lifestyle—which seems more arguable—it stands to reason there must be a homeless lifestyle. And even, one would assume, a prison lifestyle.

  Indeed, is it possible that those doomed souls in places like Buchenwald were actually enjoying a concentration-camp lifestyle? If they were, don’t tell their families; you’ll be misunderstood. And, taking this unfortunate word to its ultimate, logical extreme, I will not be surprised to someday see one of those spiritual mediums doing a TV show called Lifestyles of the Dead. (Incidentally, shouldn’t a group of mediums be called media? Just asking.)