How to Talk Dirty and Influence People

by Lenny Bruce

  We were driving happily along the streets of Pittsburgh, as silly as a couple of kids, sitting squeezed up tight to one another, deliciously in love, and laughing about my plans for the Brother Mathias Foundation.

  We approached an intersection and came to a stop. It was dusk. There was a large truck a block-and-a-half away, coming along at about 40 miles an hour. I saw that we had plenty of time and nosed out to make it across. But as I pulled out an old Packard touring car whipped around the truck, passing it at breakneck speed. It was a convertible—as it came on us I could see the sudden terror in the driver’s eyes. He involuntarily screamed, “Ma!”

  I felt a rough substance coarse against my lips. It was cement. I had been thrown out of the car, and my mouth bit into the pavement, the curb connecting with my head with the thud of a coconut cracking. I found out later that my skull had been fractured, but I stood up immediately with that superhuman strength that people always have when “My life was saved by Eveready flashlight batteries.”

  To my horror I saw the Packard ramming my car down the street. The seats were empty and both doors flapped like mechanical wings of death. I saw the back wheels go over Honey’s soft young body. I heard her hips crack like the sound of a Chinese fortune cookie. The next moment the truck, coming behind the Packard, also ran over her.

  I raced to her and threw myself upon her. I felt something warm and wet, and looked down. It was her intestines. Oh, my sweet wonderful baby, my wife, every combination of everything, my mistress, my high priestess, I love her so much, please God let this only be a nightmare.

  Her face was gray and there were puddles of blood around her. I yelled, “Oh God, why are you punishing her for my sins, why?”

  I kissed her cold face and shouted into her ears, “I love you, take me with you!” I prayed and cried and wished for death, and all at once I realized we were in the center of a huge circle of people. I looked up into the faces of the crowd that had gathered and I knew I had been punished.

  I sat on the curb and wept as the siren of the ambulance became louder.

  “Oh, dear God, how ashamed I am, not ashamed of sinning, but ashamed that I have fallen into the mold which I despise. I am the image of the men I hate, the debauched degenerate that all men are who only in last resort find religion. How shallow you must think me, God, for surely if I were your God, I would say ‘To hell with him. When he needs me, then he prays. But when he doesn’t need me I never hear from him.’ I cannot say I am sorry that I posed as a priest, but I can tell you this, if you let Honey live I’ll rip up the charter and never do it again.”

  Four months later, Honey took her first step. The doctor said that with proper care, exercise and rest, she would regain her normal posture and health within a year.

  I thanked God silently.

  Thus ended the career that might have dwarfed those of Billy Graham and Oral Roberts and all the other evangelists who save. Save every goddamn penny they can lay their hands on.

  The only hang-up now is, I wonder if God is a man or woman, or what color He is. Since the Bible could not be read if it weren’t for printing, and the Chinese people were smart enough to invent printing, God must be yellow. What would His son’s name be? Wong? Jesus? Or Christ Wing Fat? “Yea, I say to thee villilee.” I know that God is not Japanese because they killed nuns at Pearl Harbor.

  “Well,” the theologians say, “I don’t believe that God is a person. God is within me.” Then He’s a cancer, and all those scientists who want to cut Him out must hate God.

  Or perhaps God is a transvestite who practices voodoo—the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. And I’m confused about the direction of Heaven. It’s not up there, because the earth revolves, and sometimes you can go to Hell at 8:30, and Heaven at 12:06.

  The Roman gods had naught to do with religion, except for Tuesday Night Wrestling & Christian-Eating. And the Egyptians before them didn’t relate to Christianity; Rameses was the son of God, and he balled everybody in the kingdom including Moses’ mother.

  And Jehovah’s Witnesses came to Atlantic City during the busy season and couldn’t get any rooms. What is the answer? There is no God. Dominus non sequitur.

  Certainly on an intellectual level I cannot buy the mysticism attached to any man-made religious object, whether it be the mezuzah nailed to the door sill—at least if they’d make it functional and put a chain on it, you could use it for a lock and kiss it at the same time—or the white plastic statues that Father Gregory from Louisiana has manufactured, the proceeds of which go to building segregated Catholic schools—they can make those white plastic statues functional, too, by tying them in electronically with the bumper and the windshield washer, so that when you do someone in, at the same time you can give him the last rites and baptize him.

  With the money that Honey and I got from the accident, we bought a new Cadillac—a black four-door, really chic job that cost $4017. We drove to Arcadia, California, to see my father, who had remarried. We were going to go to Hollywood—“where my father is”—and then Honey would really get into the movies. My father wasn’t really involved with the motion-picture industry; in fact what he was really involved with was a chicken farm.

  We worked on the farm for two months. It was like being back with the Denglers. I really put the place into shape. Honey did the canning.

  Then my father and I had a beef, and we left. We couldn’t get jobs. California is a weird place—you’ve got to get booked from New York.

  Until Honey and I started “winging”—that is, getting into a higher-income bracket—we always bought secondhand stoves and refrigerators. You could get a stove for about $35 and a refrigerator for about $75. When we were living on the Coast, I knew she wanted a new refrigerator, but I couldn’t afford it.

  At that time, I was working a burlesque club, and there was a TV producer from the show, Your Mystery Mrs., who was a regular customer. Like most voyeurs, he needed a rationalization for watching the strippers. “The girls—are you kidding? Those old bags! I go to see the comedians!”

  This was in part true. Somehow these guys have the misconception that the m.c. can fix them up with the girls. But the request—“Will you fix me up with so-and-so?”—is preposterous, unless a girl is an out-and-out hooker, which strippers are not; otherwise they would be hookers, not strippers.

  Of course, there are some people who sell themselves for money. That “some” constitutes 90 percent of the people I’ve known in my life, including myself. We all sell out some part of us.

  Any 19-year-old girl who is married to a wealthy, elderly guy . . . well, never mind that—just anyone who is married for security is a hooker. Two dollars for a short time, as opposed to a marriage license and a lot of two dollars for a longer time.

  The point is that women, unlike men, cannot be “fixed up.” With the exception of a hooker, you can’t go up to any girl and say, “How about doing it with my friend?” For women to make it, there has to be a love motivation, or at least a chemistry that passes as love.

  On the other hand, men are animals. Again, guys will make it with mud, dogs, cats, goats—ask any guy who has been unfortunate enough to spend time in an institution, or a place where men are deprived of women. Many of these men will practice homosexuality, never to return to it upon release.

  Ironically, the way homosexuals are punished in this country is by throwing them into jail with other men.

  I remember one of the funniest newspaper shticks I’ve ever read was this case where a Miami judge gave two guys 30 days in the county jail—are you ready for the charge?—for kissing each other and dancing in one saloon or another on Alton Road. He told them in court, “I realize that this is a medical problem, but I have to set a precedent at the beginning of the season.”

  You’re allowed to kiss all the petzies you want in March, but don’t fress in February.

  Before I go any further, I had better explain what kind of show Your Mystery Mrs. was . . .

  ANNOUNCER: In 19
31, today’s Mystery Mrs. lost her family in a mine explosion. Bravely she went on alone and through years of self-teaching and discipline, she was able to support herself. Where other women, used to the support of a husband, would live off the charity of relatives, your Mystery Mrs. studied day and night, came to New York City, and now has a wonderful job. She is an usherette at the Roxy Theater.

  One night last month, in the line of duty, showing two people to their seats, she tripped and fell and has been incapacitated ever since. She has been too proud to accept any help. Our show heard about this plucky widow and decided to do something. There aren’t many plucky widows, folks. How many of you out there can say you know a plucky widow? How many widows can say in all honesty, “I’m plucky!”

  (All the widows in the audience stand up and say “I’m plucky!”)

  ANNOUNCER: Our Mystery Mrs. has always dreamed of having her own set of matched luggage. We’re going to make that dream come true. And our Mystery Mrs. is . . . (Organ fanfare . . . camera pans to Mystery Mrs., seated in audience.) . . . You, Mrs. Ralph Whoozis from Alberta, Kansas!

  Mrs. Whoozis does her “surprise” take—sometimes referred to in the business as the “Does he mean me?” take. There are several accepted methods of creating expressions for the surprise. One is to clench the fist of the left hand, simultaneously drop the lower jaw, and in a split second bring up the left side of the other clenched fist so that the index finger lands between the teeth. Individuals who have seen a few neorealistic Italian films, where the “wronged” bites the index finger in anger, usually do well with this take.

  The announcer waves both wrists limply but speedily to encourage applause. Mrs. Whoozis takes her luggage after shedding a few tears on the unbreakable, unscuffable, unfashionable crap they give her—and housewives at home sigh and identify.

  Now, when the producer of this show was drooling at his favorite stripper, I never dreamed that a time would come when I would be involved with a Mystery Mrs. “You know, Lenny, you’re a pretty creative guy,” he said one night, having corralled me backstage, “because every time I come in here you’ve got some new material. You know, I’m pretty creative, too. I don’t like to blow my own horn, but I’m a brilliant writer. The shame of it is, nobody knows.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, looking at him as one looks at a desperate man standing on a ledge.

  “Lenny, did you see Your Mystery Mrs. yesterday?”

  “Hardly. It goes on at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  “I had on a widow that not only lost three sons in the War, but two husbands. And she’s a blood donor. We got more telephone calls on this show than on any one we’ve had in two weeks. People from all over. Some furrier from the Bronx is going to send her a full-length sheared-beaver coat to keep her warm. The pitch was, she has given so much blood that now, by some strange quirk, she has low blood pressure.”

  “Amazing,” I said. I always say that when I don’t know what the hell else to say. When I don’t say “amazing,” I switch off with “Boy, some people,” or sometimes an “I don’t believe you.” Another good phrase is “Can you believe that?” If the talker is bitching about being exploited, the best one for that is, “It seems some people, the better you treat them, the worse they are to you.” Or, “It just doesn’t pay to be nice to people.”

  After I gave out with two “Hmms” and a “That’s one for the book,” the producer laid it on me: “They eat it up, Lenny, you wouldn’t believe it, but they eat it up. The cornier it is, the more they eat it up. And now are you ready Lenny? Are you ready for the bit? It’s all bullshit, ya hear me? Bullshit with a capital K. I write it. Me—poor little, stupid me—is the one that makes ’em laugh and makes ’em cry. I make it all up!

  “You know who that plucky little widow is? She’s a waitress I met when I was in the Air Force. I bumped into her in a dancehall last week—now, mind you, I haven’t seen her in over, let’s see, the War was over in 1945, I came back to L.A., why, it’s an easy 14 years—and I says to myself, ‘Now I know that broad from somewhere.’ Then it hits me. She’s ‘Go Down Gussie.’ This broad was the greatest French job on the West Coast. Loved it. Couldn’t get enough of it. I said, ‘Hey, remember that place where you used to wait on me?’ She looked at me for a minute and couldn’t place me. I didn’t have the toupee then and I guess I look different without it.”

  His toupee was the kind which had lace in the front that looks like a screen door cut out, and he always had it on a little crooked. I don’t know who it could have fooled—maybe passed-out drunks or little babies. When he sweated, it used to curl up in the front.

  Anyway, he continued: “We shot the shit for a while and then I told her what I was doing and asked her if she would like to be a plucky widow next week. ‘What’s in it for me?’ she says. ‘Nine inches,’ I says. ‘Always braggin’, ain’t ya?’ she says. I says, ‘Let’s go up to your apartment and fix some grub, I’m starved.’ She says, ‘I don’t got anything in the icebox.’”

  Of all this degenerate flack he was throwing at my ears, the one thing that hit me was her icebox. How sad—the icebox again. I wondered where she got her icebox. Maybe it was one of those built-in iceboxes that Pullman kitchens have. Hookers’ iceboxes always look the same: a jar of mustard, a Coke, maybe a lemon, and half an onion wrapped in wax paper.

  The producer went on and on, describing in lewd detail how she had Frenched him. The poor French. There’s an example of how one minority group has given a whole nation an erotic reputation. It could easily have been another country. He could just as well have said “She Polacked me.”

  He explained that the “widows” or “grandmas” or “have-a-year-to-livers” were all people who could be trusted—friends of his or the other writer for the show, or people those friends sent. They could have their choice of two deals: One, take a straight $50 and he would keep the prizes; or, two, if it was the “Basket Case” (the act which had the most dramatic impact), you would get $50 and split the prizes. The big prizes were a color-TV set, a washing machine, a set of silver, and an air-conditioning unit—all of which they got free from the distributors in exchange for plugs.

  “You need anything, Lenny? Any appliances?”

  “Well, I could use a new refrigerator . . .”

  “You got it.”

  “I don’t think I’d make a very convincing plucky widow.”

  “Look, Lenny, if you can get me an old lady about 60 years old that you can trust for next Wednesday, the machine is yours. And, let’s see . . . er—if you can get me—yeah, that’s it, get me a 60-year-old lady and her wedding picture, get the wedding picture as soon as you can so I can get it to the lab and have it blown up, and I’ll give you a script Monday.

  “She doesn’t have to remember much. I never give them more than a few lines: ‘I only wish the Mister was alive to see this!’ Or, ‘My boy is coming home from the Veterans Hospital, and this TV set will make all the difference in the world to him!’ I gotta go, Len, I’ll see you Wednesday at the office. Here’s my card. Bring the wedding pic. I’d like to stay and see Princess Talja, but I gotta go. You know what they say, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”

  I’ve never known who the hell “they” are, but I’ll bet they belong to the American Legion, have very white skin with real white legs, and wear Jockey shorts, and black shiny dress shoes with black stockings on the beach.

  A 60-year-old lady?

  Mema had a relative that she was pretty friendly with, and she called her on the phone and explained in Yiddish what she was to do. She said “Nix,” but she had a friend who was a real vilda chi (wild one). She said this woman was perfect, she spoke very good English, etc.

  I went over and met Mrs. Stillman. The woman was about 70 but looked about 55, had bleached-blonde hair, full make-up, and platform shoes—the highest I’d ever seen, about ten inches. With the platforms, she was about four feet tall. Some Jewish ladies look like little birdies to me.

  I flipped wh
en she showed me some sheet music she brought out. She was going to be on TV, so she was going to sing. She had all of the Sholom Secunda hits (He was the Yip Harburg of Second Avenue).

  She said she also knew a few stories, but maybe they were a little shmutsik for TV. When I told her that the program wasn’t exactly that type of format, she was visibly shaken. I was afraid I was going to lose her, so I started to pad—“But then, after you tell them about your tsooris maybe you’ll sing your song.” That made her happy. I figured after she told the story I would shuffle her off into a room and give her a quick con about overtime. The song she was planning to sing was Bells Mine Schtatetala Bells.

  She gave me her wedding picture, and I got it over to the office. It was perfect. A real old tintype. The story was going to be a real basket case:

  “Miss Whoozis was a spinster who searched her whole life for the perfect man. She has always been lonely and unhappy. Two months ago, on a boat from Greece, came a man who was her ideal type. They met at Horn & Hardart’s Cafeteria, by the silverware section. He was confused by some of the food, the chow mein in particular. They met every day and fell in love, but sadness struck our happy couple.

  “George Polous was unemployed and the Immigration Department was going to send him back. But he has a lot of money coming to him, if only he can find his Uncle Nicholas who has $7000 of his inheritance. This is a wedding picture of Uncle Nicholas and his wife. Your Mystery Mrs. did a great deal of research and was saddened to discover that George’s Uncle Nicholas had passed away. But his wife was alive, and his wife had the money put away for George.”

  And guess who the aunt was going to be, boys and girls—that little Jewish bird lady, my aunt’s friend. Her wedding picture would be shown on a TV screen. There was Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Polous in their wedding picture—as played by Mr. and Mrs. Stillman.

  It was two days away from the show when Mrs. Stillman called me and asked me to come over immediately. It was about the show. On the way over, I figured the worst. Maybe she wanted a trio in back of her when she was singing.