Napalm & Silly Putty

by George Carlin

  Then you have tennis. Tennis is very trendy and very fruity, but it’s not a sport. It’s just a way to meet other trendy fruits. Technically, tennis is an advanced form of Ping-Pong. In fact, tennis is Ping-Pong played while standing on the table. Great concept, not a sport.

  In fact, all racket games are nothing more than derivatives of Ping-Pong. Even volleyball is, technically, racketless, team Ping-Pong played with an inflated ball and a raised net while standing on the table.

  And finally we come to golf. For my full take on golf, I refer you elsewhere in the book, but let it just be said golf is a game that might possibly be fun, if it could be played alone. But it’s the vacuous, striving, superficial, male-bonding joiners one has to associate with that makes it such a repulsive pastime. And it is decidedly not a sport. Period.

  GOLF COURSES FOR THE HOMELESS

  War Is Heaven

  When the United States is not invading some sovereign nation—or setting it on fire from the air, which is more fun for our simple- minded pilots—we’re usually busy “declaring war” on something here at home.

  Anything we don’t like about ourselves, we declare war on it. We don’t do anything about it, we just declare war. “Declaring war” is our only public metaphor for problem solving. We have a war on crime, a war on poverty, a war on hate, a war on litter, a war on cancer, a war on violence, and Ronald Reagan’s ultimate joke, the war on drugs. More accurately, the war on the Constitution.

  Be It Ever So Humble …

  But there’s no war on homelessness. You notice that? It’s because there’s no money in it. If someone could end homelessness and in the process let the corporate swine steal a couple of billion dollars, you’d see the streets of America clear up pretty goddamn quickly. But if you think it’s going to be solved through human decency, relax. It’s not gonna happen.

  You know what I think they ought to do about homelessness? Change its name. It’s not homelessness, it’s houselessness. It’s houses these people need. Home is an abstract idea; it’s a setting, a state of mind. These people need houses. Physical, tangible structures. They need low-cost housing.

  Get It Outta Here!

  But there’s no place to put it. People don’t want low-cost housing built anywhere near them. We have a thing in this country called NIMBY: “Not in my backyard!” People don’t want social assistance of any kind located anywhere near them. Just try to open a halfway house, a rehab center, a shelter for the homeless, or a home for retarded people who want to work their way into the community. Forget it. People won’t allow it. “Not in my backyard!”

  People don’t want anything near them, especially if there’s a chance it might help somebody. It’s part of that great, generous American spirit we hear so much about. You can ask the Indians about that. If you manage to find one. We’ve made Indians just a little hard to find. Should you need more current data, select any black family at random. Ask them how generous America has been to them.

  Lock the Bastards Up…Somewhere Else

  People don’t want anything near them, Even if it’s something they think society needs, like prisons. Everybody says, “Build more prisons! But don’t build them here.”

  Well, why not? What’s wrong with having a prison in your neighborhood? It seems to me it would make for a fairly crime-free area. You think a lot of crackheads and thieves and hookers are gonna be hangin’ around in front of a fuckin’ prison? Bullshit! They ain’t goin’ anywhere near it.

  What could be safer than a prison? All of the criminals are locked inside. And if a couple of them do manage to escape, what do you think. they’re gonna do? Hang around? Check real estate prices? Bullshit! They’re fuckin’ gone! That’s the whole idea of breakin’ out of prison: to get as far away as you possibly can.

  . “Not in my backyard.” People don’t want anything near them. Except military bases. They like that, don’t they? Give ’em an army or a navy base; that makes ’em happy. Why? Jobs. Self-interest. Even if the base is loaded with nuclear weapons, they don’t give a shit. They’ll say, “Well, I don’t mind a few mutations in the family if I can get a decent job.” Working people have been fucked over so long, those are the kind of decisions they make now.

  Putts for Putzes

  But getting back to low-cost housing, I think I might have solved this problem. I know just the place to build housing for the homeless: golf courses. It’s perfect. Plenty of good land in nice neighborhoods; land that is currently being squandered on a mindless activity engaged in by white, well-to-do business criminals who use the game to get together so they can make deals to carve this country up a little finer among themselves.

  I’m sick of these golfing cocksuckers in their green and yellow pants, precious little hats, and pussified golf carts. It’s time for real people to reclaim the golf courses from the wealthy and turn them over to the homeless. Golf is an arrogant, elitist game that takes up entirely too much space in this country.

  Size Matters

  The arrogant nature of golf is evident in the design and scale of the game. Think of how big a golf course is. It’s huge; you can’t see one end of it from the other. But the ball is only an inch and a half in diameter. So will someone please explain to me what these pinheaded pricks need with all that land?

  America has over 17,000 golf courses. They average over 150 acres apiece. That’s three million-plus acres. Four thousand, eight hundred and twenty square miles. We could build two Rhode Islands and a Delaware’s worth of housing for the homeless on the land currently wasted on this meaningless, mindless, arrogant, racist game.

  That’s another thing: race. The only blacks you’ll find in country clubs are carrying trays. And don’t give me that Tiger Woods bullshit. Fuck Tiger Woods. He ain’t black. He acts, talks, and lives like a white boy. Skin alone doesn’t make you black.

  Wake Me Up on the 19th Hole

  And let’s not forget how boring golf is. Have you ever watched it on television? It’s like watching flies fuck. A completely mindless game. I should think it takes a fairly low intellect to draw pleasure from the following activity: hitting a ball with a crooked stick …and then walking after it! And then …hitting it again! I say, “Pick it up, asshole, you’re lucky you found the fuckin’ thing in the first place. Put it in your pocket and go the fuck home!” But, no. Dorko, in the plaid knickers, is gonna hit the ball again. And then he’s gonna walk some more.

  I say let these rich cocksuckers play miniature golf. Let ’em fuck with a windmill for an hour and a half. I wanna see if there’s any real skill among these people. And yeah, yeah, I know there are plenty of golfers who don’t consider themselves rich; people who play on badly maintained public courses. Fuck ’em! Fuck them and shame on them! Shame! For engaging in an arrogant, elitist, racist activity.

  THE GOOD BREAD

  When you make a sandwich at home, do you reach down past the first few slices to get the really good bread? It’s a survival thing: “Let my family eat the rotten bread. I’ll take care of Numero Uno.”

  And sometimes the issue isn’t freshness but the size of the slice you’re after. Everyone knows the wider ones are somewhere near the middle. So down you go past about six inferior slices to reach the ones you want. And, as you pull them up, you have to be careful they don’t tear. Then, just before you get them out, the top six slices shift position and fall perpendicular to the rest of the loaf.

  “Shit!”

  I leave them that way. Let the family think a burglar made a sandwich.

  SHORT TAKES

  Did you notice that several years ago everything got different?

  I never read memoirs; the last thing I need is someone else’s memories. I have all I can do to deal with my own.

  It takes two scales to find out how much a scale weighs.

  In this era of “maxi,” “mega” and “meta,” you know what we don’t have anymore? “Super-duper.” I miss that.

  Fuck whole-grain cereal. When I want fiber, I eat some
wicker furniture.

  Suggestions I ignore: “George, you go out and draw their fire, I’ll sneak up on them from behind.”

  You men, next time a prostitute solicits your business, ask for the clergymen’s rate.

  I think doctors, who must always remain emotionally detached, should be accompanied on their hospital rounds by peasant women from the Middle East. The ones who cry and wail and throw themselves on coffins at those terrorist funerals you see on television. Just for balance.

  The only thing high-definition television will do is provide sharper pictures of the garbage.

  Have you noticed that some companies now call their menial employees “associates ”? They’re trying to make them feel better in spite of subsistence salaries. “Associates” is a very slippery job title. Don’t be fooled by it.

  God bless the homicidal maniacs. They make life worthwhile.

  There are patriotic vegetarians in the American Legion who will only eat animals that were killed in combat.

  Peg Leg Bates Jr.’s sole ambition was to follow in his father’s footstep.

  When I was a kid I can remember saying, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” I’d like to confess now that I never really meant the second part.

  Very few Germans know that in honor of her husband, Mrs. Hitler combed her pussy hair to one side.

  You don’t hear a lot from imps anymore.

  FECES TAKE PLACE

  I think TV remotes should have a button that allows you to kill the person on the screen.

  The phrase “digging up dirt ”seems wrong. If you use a shovel correctly, the very first time you stick it in the ground the thing you come up with is dirt. The dirt is right there on top. It doesn’t have to be “dug up.”

  When you’re at someone else’s house, and they leave you alone in a room, do you look in the drawers? I do. I’m not trying to steal anything; I just like to know where everything is.

  I don’t understand this notion of ethnic pride. “Proud to be Irish, ” “Puerto Rican pride, ” “Black pride.” It seems to me that pride should be reserved for accomplishments; things you attain or achieve, not things that happen to you by chance. Being Irish isn’t a skill; it’s genetic. You wouldn’t say, “I’m proud to have brown hair, ”or “I’m proud to be short and stocky.” So why the fuck should you say you’re proud to be Irish? I’m Irish, but I’m not particularly proud of it. Just glad! Goddamn glad to be Irish!

  Don’t you think it’s funny that all these tough-guy boxers are fighting over a purse?

  I wonder: On rainy nights, does the sandman send the mudman?

  I think they ought to have an annual ceremony at the White House called the Bad Example Award. They should give it to the one person in America who has made the most complete disaster of his own personal life. Someone who through drugs or alcohol or simply a bad attitude has been fired, arrested, killed a marriage, completely alienated friends and family, and perhaps even attempted suicide several times. But it must have happened because of personal behavior and conscious choices, not bad luck. It seems to me people like that never receive any recognition.

  Christian deodorant: “Thou Shalt Not Smell ”

  Lou Gehrig was a pretty tough guy, but I wonder how he handled it when they told him he had Lou Gehrig’s disease.

  Most people don’t know what they’re doing, and a lot of them are really good at it.

  Sea World should have a special aquarium that features fish sticks. In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing Mrs. Paul herself swimming around in there: “Hi, kids!”

  Do you think Sammy Davis ate Junior Mints?

  Have you noticed when you wear a hat for a long time it feels like it’s not there anymore? And then when you take it off it feels like it’s still there? What is that?

  I can never decide if “what’s-his-name ”should be capitalized.

  Do you know why they call it a blow job? So it’ll sound like there’s a work ethic involved. Makes a person feel like they did something useful for the economy.

  As soon as someone is identified as an unsung hero, he no longer is.

  It isn’t generally known, but you can save money on phone calls by simply not letting the other person talk. Studies have shown that on many phone calls as much as 50 percent of the talking is done by the other person. If you can manage to dominate the conversation, you can save money.

  DYING TO STAY ALIVE

  You’re all going to die. I hate to remind you, but it is on your schedule. It probably won’t happen when you’d like; generally, it’s an inconvenience. For instance, you might have your stamp collection spread out on the dining room table.

  [Ominous music]

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “May I at least put away my commemoratives?”

  “No.”

  Inconvenient.

  Nobody wants to die. Nobody. Well, maybe Evel Knievel, but most other people don’t like the idea. It doesn’t seem like an enjoyable thing. People figure if being sick is no fun, dying must really be a bother. After all, part of the pleasure of being alive is the knowledge that you’re not dead yet.

  And when you get right down to it, people don’t mind being dead, it’s getting dead that bothers them. No one wants to get dead. But we’re all gonna do it. Death is one of the few things that are truly democratic—everybody gets it once. But only once. That’s what makes us nervous. No rehearsals.

  TICKET TO NOWHERE

  And actually, I think people should look forward to death. After all, it’s our next big adventure. At last we’re going to find out where we go. Isn’t that what we’ve all been wondering? Where we go?

  “Where do we go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We must go somewhere.”

  “True.”

  “Phil says he knows.”

  “I know he does. But take my word, Phil doesn’t know.”

  Where do we go? Maybe it’s nowhere; that would be interesting. On the one hand, you’d be nowhere, but on the other hand, you wouldn’t know it. So at least you’d have something to think about. Or not.

  Personally, I think we go wherever we think we’re going to go. What you think is what you get. Have you ever heard one of those guys who says, “Don’t even bother prayin’ for me, I’m goin’ straight to hell; I’m goin’ to hell to be with all my friends ”? Well, he is. He’s going to hell, and he’ll probably be with all his friends. What you think is what you get. If you keep saying you’re going to heaven, chances are you’ll get there. But don’t look for any of your friends.

  In my own case, I expect I’ll be going to a public toilet in Honduras. And by the way, should you be interested, I can tell you on good authority that when Monty Hall dies he will be spending a lot of time behind door number three.

  DEATH: THE SHOW

  Die Big

  My feeling is that as long as you’re going to die, you should go out with a bang. Make a statement. Don’t just “pass away.” Die!

  “Arnie passed away.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Quietly, in a chair.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, that’s the idea; no one knows.”