How to Talk Dirty and Influence People

by Lenny Bruce

  Of course I had to agree that she, Mrs. McKenery, had wasted her life so that her Dolly could have a mother and father and not suffer the indignity of “a broken home.” I inquired where Dolly was, and I was not overly surprised to find that she was at the analyst.

  After Mrs. McKenery cataloged all the sacrifices she had made since her marriage, she described how she had been raped “by a nigger farm hand Daddy had fired.” She was only seven years old when it happened, but she related the Sabine scene to me in intricate detail; detail that is acquired only by constant retelling. It was in the Poe Classicist manner. “We lived on a two-hundred-acre estate—do you know where that big new store downtown is? Daddy used to play croquet with me there—it was our front yard.”

  She went on and on and on, into the ghastly description of the lynching of her attacker who, incidentally, had never actually “touched” her, but had been drunk and was merely boasting to others of his intentions.

  “What if he had gotten to me? I still shudder when I think about it.”

  After the confession of her early traumatic sexual experiences, she discussed frankly her husband’s lack of manliness. “He was never an affectionate man.” She sighed deeply, but before I could take advantage of this opportunity to make my pitch, the maid interrupted: “Excuse me, madam, but Mr. Madison is here.”

  I was introduced to Geoffrey Madison, “a brilliant young poet” who was acquainting Mrs. McKenery with the Greek classics and teaching her to appreciate tragedy. He was taking her to the opening of the first espresso house in Miami Beach.

  She explained to this sensitive fellow the purpose of my visit—the wonderful work I was doing for the poor lepers in—“Where was that place?”

  Madison smiled askance at me. One hustler to another.

  He reminded Mrs. McKenery that they had only 15 minutes to get to the art exhibit, and she hurriedly wrote me a check, putting in the amount and signing it, telling me to fill in the name of my organization. She kissed my hand and left me alone with the maid, who had been raped, too. When she was 14.

  I don’t know if I have an extrasensory gift for divining violated virgins, but of all the women I interviewed, nearly 80 percent had been raped. The other 20 percent had either been hurt on a bicycle or horseback riding, or fallen accidentally on a fence. Their big problem was that their husbands never believed them.

  The maid gave me an envelope, and I couldn’t wait till I got out of the house to the car so that I could open it and peek at the amount on Mrs. McKenery’s check; I was too discreet to conduct such an investigation on the premises. The envelope contained a poem Mrs. McKenery had written about Saint Agnes, also a clipping from the Seventh-day Adventist paper about the tea cozy she had made for the Korean Orphan Drive, and the check. When I looked at the amount on it, I thought there must have been a mistake. I saw the number 750 in the upper-right-hand corner and figured she had forgotten the decimal point; but there it was spelled out: “Seven hundred and fifty and no/100 dollars.”

  I knew then that I was on my way to being the highest-paid analyst on Miami Beach.

  In two days I made only nine calls. The sessions got longer and longer. I got only one rejection and collected $5300 in cash and checks. All from the purest, most self-sacrificing women who were unfortunately married to insensitive, unaffectionate husbands, and who would all be virgins to this day if it weren’t for what seemed to be the same lustful rape artist or a fence whose height had been just a little underestimated.

  I was mildly annoyed because I never got the chance to discuss religion, which was my official sphere of interest. I had done a lot of reading in preparation, and it was all being wasted.

  The only trouble I had was from Honey. When I came home that first night, she wouldn’t believe that I had gotten “all that money just for nothing.” She insisted, “No woman’s going to give you $750 just for talking.”

  She would go through all my clothes for lipstick traces; she would sniff me all over for the scent of powder or perfume.

  I never did anything but shake hands with any of these women, but there were times during our marriage when I kissed other girls, and I had found it much safer to leave the lipstick on and explain it away with, “I couldn’t help it, this tipsy old lady just grabbed me and kissed me, she said I looked like her son who was killed in the War, she must’ve been about seventy . . .”

  If you’ve ever tried to rub lipstick off, you know that even if you remove it all, your mouth is twice as red as it was when you left it alone.

  When Honey and I had first started going together, she had told me: “I know how men are, like butterflies going from flower to flower. I understand that from time to time you may kiss another girl, and I don’t mind, as long as you tell me. I just never want to hear it from anyone else.”

  And I believed her.

  And I did tell her.

  Just once.

  “I’m glad you told me,” she said, and began a slow burn. Within half-an-hour, she had broken every record I had—including my Gramercy Five 78s—and ripped up all the pictures I had of anybody I knew before we were married, and demanded that I tell her the girl’s name and that we go together to her right then at four A.M. and “have it out.” She ended with: “OK, if you can have a good time, I can have a good time, too!”

  For weeks after, every time I came home from, say, the drugstore, she would say, “How’s your girlfriend?” Whenever I talked to anyone on the phone, or on the street, or in a store—even a salesgirl—Honey would charge over or, following me in the car, pull up to the curb and challenge: “Is that her?”

  Three days after my confession she saw me talking to the secretary of an agent who was trying to get me a booking. This, incidentally, was a woman so ugly I would never have kissed her. Somehow Honey got her name, traced her number and called up her husband. She introduced herself and told him. “It’s not my husband’s fault, he’s very weak-minded.” Therefore, his wife was to blame, and he probably knew she was a tramp, but if he wanted her “in one piece” for himself when his turn came, she’d better keep her hands off me!

  The funny thing was that the secretary had been giving her husband all kinds of hell for cheating until then. It really created a lot of confusion. He was very sympathetic to Honey and invited her over to hear the whole story. When she went over there, he was half-looped and made some pretty strong advances, figuring that they would console each other, and she was struggling with him when his wife walked in.

  Honey came home with her blouse ripped and her lipstick smeared, and I really gave her hell.

  The next day I “made” the stores on Lincoln Road. Honey happened to be in one of the shoe stores and heard me give the manager my pitch. After that, she believed me. He gave me a check for $100, which was considerably less than the average, but, after all, he had never been raped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  One afternoon as I left a big house on Palm Island with $250 in cash warming my pocket, I beheld a sight that made my heart stop just as it did that day so many years ago when my father walked in on me while I was stroking it. A cop on a motorcycle pulled up to the curb, kicked the prop stick in place, and said: “Can I talk to you for a moment, Father?”

  “Yes, my son, what is it?”

  He was a nice young man with a polite but straightforward approach. “We’ve had complaints from residents in this area concerning soliciting. It’s just a matter of form, but I have to ask to see your permit.”

  “Permit?”

  “Yes, your permit.”

  “Oh, yes, my permit . . . oh, yes . . . hmmmm.”

  He just stared and repeated: “Yes, your permit.”

  “Gracious, let’s see, did Brother Leon take care of that matter? I know I spoke to the Cardinal about it after Mass . . .”

  I kept mumbling until my voice was choked off by the sight of a squad car cruising down the block. It stopped about 20 yards from us, and the police inside the car motioned to the motorcycle cop in
a grandiose manner. He walked over and exchanged a few words with them, while I stood there not knowing what to do.

  “Hey, you! C’mere! You! Hey! Get the hell over here!”

  I looked all around me as if I could not believe that anyone could possibly address me in that tone of voice.

  The officer in the car got out. I don’t think I have ever seen such a huge man, before or since. He was about 60 years old, must have weighed about 250 pounds, and was easily six feet, eight inches tall. White hair, crewcut. Not one ounce of fat.

  Just then another car came wheeling around the corner and slammed up right in front of us. It was a stripped-down 1951 Ford. Obviously two plainclothesmen.

  Paul Bunyan walked over to them and conferred with them as four more motorcycles blasted up, their sirens screaming.

  By this time, all the people were pouring out of their homes. Within ten minutes there were four police cars, six motorcycles, and three kids yelling “Bang! Bang!” while rolling in the dirt.

  No one had said a word to me since “Hey, you!”

  They just stood off a few paces and eyed me with a sort of take-him-dead-or-alive look.

  The giant spoke his line again: “Hey you!”

  I attempted to preserve my dignity in front of my parishioners, who were watching anxiously.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me, jackoff. Take the shit out of your ears!”

  Those past few days, sipping tea from bone china with ladies and nibbling Ry-Krisp and watercress, had made me feel quite pious. I actually shocked myself when I heard my voice come out with: “I see no reason to use vulgarity, my son.”

  Two elderly ladies came to my aid, shaking their fists at the giant’s hip pockets. He actually apologized to them for his outburst, but when I looked at him with benevolent forgiveness, he got hot all over again.

  I edged over behind the old ladies.

  “Get in the car,” he commanded. One old lady got so frantic she had her prayer beads skipping around as if she were doing a hula.

  “We’re not going to let them take you, Father,” said one benefactress, “They belong to Satan’s army.”

  An officer tried to grab my arm but one of the plucky old dolls came up with her purse which must have had nothing less than a brick in it, because it knocked him squarely on his butt. As a reflex, the sergeant came up and kicked the old woman in the ass, not hard, but hard enough to bring a Doberman pinscher bounding seemingly out of nowhere. In retaliation, he took a good piece out of the sergeant’s hip.

  It wasn’t long before I heard more sirens, and soon enough we were drawn up in battle lines. On one side were about 50 policemen, paddy wagons, teargas guns, riot-quelling equipment, and the fire department, whose men were beginning to screw the fire hose onto the hydrant.

  On the other side of No Man’s Land I held my ground with my army of elderly ladies and our K-9 Corps, Brutus the Doberman.

  Although we were no more than 25 feet apart, the captain in charge picked up one of those electric speakers you see in prison pictures, where the warden always says, “Give up, Dutch, we have you surrounded!”

  My ladies had formed a Red Cross unit and were passing out hot coffee to the ranks.

  The mechanical voice boomed over the megaphone. “This is Captain Goldman! Give up now and no one will be hurt! You will be given fair treatment, whether you are a priest or not! We just want to take you down for questioning! If you have any Christian feelings, you will surrender yourself and spare this mob the tear gas and fire hose which we will use if they do not disperse!”

  I looked at my forces and my heart swelled. There were nearly 50 women, the youngest about 80 years old. They stood at attention, awaiting the decision of their leader.

  Everything was orderly and disciplined except the kids. There were dozens of them yelling “Bang! Bang!” “I’m Hopalong Cassidy!” “I’m Bishop Sheen!” as they rolled over in the dirt, creating the impression of a genuine skirmish.

  But my ladies stood fast. I like women in that age bracket, because they’re the only ones who still wear rouge. I looked sadly at my troops and said, “I had better go.”

  A cracked cracker voice behind me spoke up determinedly. “If you don’t want to, we’re behind you, Father!” And I heard the click of what sounded like . . . and to my amazement, it was indeed . . . she had cocked the breech of a monstrous-looking elephant gun.

  “We’re behind you,” another cried. And she started to hum, then all joined in singing, “I’m brave when He walks with me . . .”

  The police stood across the way and gaped, dumfounded.

  For one crazy moment, I thought, “How nice, Honey and I will move into this neighborhood and I will be their pastor.”

  “You have ten seconds!” The voice boomed over the loudspeaker. The ladies pressed together around me in a solid phalanx. Brutus pricked up his ears. “One . . . two . . .” I saw the firemen ready the hose.

  “Beat your swords into plowshares,” I said gently, raising my hand in peace, and walked away from my blue-haired battalion toward the enemy.

  The captain whispered in my ear: “Don’t make any dramatic gestures to those biddies or I’ll crease your head with this club.”

  “Incitement to violence is not the path of righteousness, my son,” I assured him.

  They took me in the squad car. Instead of going directly to the police station, we pulled up at a Catholic church. The captain intended to assure himself that I was a fraud before they booked me. The Monsignor came out. We spoke for half-an-hour.

  The arrest report describes the result of that meeting: I was booked on a charge of vagrancy.

  They searched my hotel room, found the charter of the Brother Mathias Foundation, and realized that everything was in order. They wired New York to find out if I was wanted there. When I came up clean, they released me.

  In court the next morning I was found not guilty.

  The law had taken a close look at me and recognized my occupation as legitimate. It was Easy Street from now on. I went home and counted my receipts. I had collected about $8000 in three days.

  I made out a check for $2500 to the lepers and kept the rest for operating expenses; it would take a lot of gas to get us to Pittsburgh.

  My vision mathematically calculated the numbers on the highway signs. U.S. 101 . . . PENN. 42. (101 plus 42 is 143.) Peripherally I read the impersonal directions: TRUCK ROUTE; DETOUR; GO SLOW; SCHOOL ZONE. Did the guys who had painted those signs wonder where they would be placed?

  How tragically ironic that most of these signs are made and painted in prisons, perhaps by life-termers who would never have the opportunity to see their handiwork in “action.”

  How sweet and truly Christian it would be if every priest, minister and rabbi would be responsible for a lifer and take him out for just one day so he could see his artwork on a sign or perhaps on a license plate and be able to say to himself: “I made that.” Just one day out of his cage.

  Goddamn the priests and the rabbis. Goddamn the Popes and all their hypocrisy. Goddamn Israel and its bond drives. What influence did they exert to save the lives of the Rosenbergs—guilty or not? Again, the Ten Commandments doesn’t say “Thou Shalt Not Kill Sometimes . . .”

  So the Pope has his secretary issue a statement about not executing Chessman. What is that? With the tremendous power of the Church I don’t believe they could not have exerted pressure enough to get him off if they had really wanted to. But they didn’t. He was an agnostic. He did not ask for forgiveness. He might have had a chance if he hadn’t been so stupid as to continue claiming he was innocent.

  Why don’t religious institutions use their influence to relieve human suffering instead of sponsoring such things as the Legion of Decency, which dares to say it’s indecent that men should watch some heavy-titted Italian starlet because to them breasts are dirty?

  Beautiful, sweet, tender, womanly breasts that I love to kiss; pink nipples that I love to feel against my clean-sh
aven face. They’re clean!

  I say to you, Legion of Decency—you, with your dings scrubbed with holy water and Rokeach soap—you’re dirty!

  Why doesn’t the Legion of Decency say: “It’s indecent that men should stand by and watch cyanide gas administered to human lungs in a death chamber!” The answer is because in their philosophy life is not as important as death. If death and the imminence of death serves the purpose of bringing a person to his knees before the Church, then it is worth using as a positive instrument of propagating the faith. The Church therefore condones capital punishment.

  They went a long way toward refining its methods themselves during the Crusades and the Inquisition.

  Of course I disagree with them and of course they have a right to believe whatever they do; all I want is for them to come out and admit it and stop issuing sanctimonious bulls saying one thing while they pursue the opposite.

  And since they condone capital punishment, I want them to stop bitching about Jesus getting nailed up.

  The Burma-Shave signs whizzed past and suddenly Pittsburgh sprang up and yelled “Boo!” as the dark broke. It looked so dramatic, the city in the dawn, that I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know exactly what it is, but any city at that time of day gives me the feeling I used to get when I swallowed the contents of a Benzedrine inhaler and chased it with Coke. It really was “The Pause that Refreshes.”

  I guess I feel funny about the city because it’s so big and alone. I was always alone when I was a kid.