Napalm & Silly Putty

by George Carlin

  Have you ever noticed how sometimes all day Wednesday you keep thinking it’s Thursday? Then the next day when you’re back to normal, you wonder, why don’t you think it’s Friday?

  Have you ever been sitting on a railroad train in the station, and another train is parked right next to you? And one of them begins moving, but you can’t tell which one? And then it becomes obvious, and all the magic is gone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend our whole lives not knowing which train was moving? Actually, we do.

  Do you ever fall asleep in the late afternoon and wake up after dark, and for a moment you can’t figure out what day it is? You actually find yourself thinking, Could this be yesterday?

  Did you ever tell someone they have a little bit of dirt on their face? They never rub the right spot, do they? They always assume the mirror image and rub the wrong side. Don’t you just want to slap the bastard?

  Have you noticed that when your head is on the pillow, if you close one eye the pillow is in one position? But when you switch eyes the pillow seems to move? Sometimes I lie awake for hours doing that.

  Do you ever reach the top of a staircase and think there’s one more step? So you take one of those big, awkward steps that doesn’t accomplish anything? And then you have to do it a few more times, so people will think it’s something you do all the time. “I do this all the time, folks. It’s the third stage of syphilis.”

  The 10 Most Embarrassing Songs of All Time

  I Gotta Be Me

  My Way

  I Write the Songs

  That’s Life

  Let Me Entertain You

  Hey, Look Me Over

  You’re Gonna Hear From Me

  Impossible Dream

  I Will Survive

  If They Could See Me Now

  SHORT TAKES

  People often say, “That’s a fine how-do-you-do,” when deep in their hearts they know it’s really only a fairly good how-do-you-do.

  I’ve noticed there’s such a thing as disposable douche. And I wonder Why would someone want to keep that stuff in the first place?

  When I was young I used to read about the decline of Western civilization, and I decided it was something I would like to make a contribution to.

  Have you noticed when you look in the top drawer of someone’s desk there are always a few pennies in the pencil tray? I take them.

  In a package of bacon, underneath all the neat horizontal strips there’s always one oddly-folded piece that seems to have been thrown in at the last moment.

  You rarely see one oat all by itself.

  The best thing about living at the seashore is that you only have assholes on three sides of you. And if they come at you from the water, you can usually hear them splash.

  Although it’s untrue that rubbing a toad causes warts, it does give the toad a hard-on.

  We will never be an advanced civilization as long as rain showers can delay the launching of a space rocket.

  THE POPE WEARS LOAFERS

  I never worry that all hell will break loose. My concern is that only part of hell will break loose and be much harder to detect.

  What is all this dinner-and-a-movie shit? Why can’t people just go somewhere and fuck for three or four hours?

  In restaurants where they serve frog’s legs, what do they do with the rest of the frog? Do they just throw it away? You never see “frog torsos” on the menu. Is there actually a garbage can full of frog bodies in the alley? I wouldn’t want to be a homeless guy looking for an unfinished cheeseburger and open the lid on that.

  I hope no one asks me to show them the ropes; I have no idea where they are. Maybe I could pull some strings and find out.

  If you practice throwing the discus alone, you have to go get it yourself.

  It’s fun to go into the hospital room of a terminal patient and whisper to him, “Hang on. We’re working on a miracle drug. It’ll be ready in about five years.”

  I really don’t care if we have a nuclear war as long as I can get some French fries.

  I’m one of those people who hope Elvis Presley is really dead. Buddy Holly too. “The day the music died,” shit. As far as I’m concerned, it was the day the music got better. All those guys did was steal and water down black music to make it safe and easy to digest for fearful white kids. Here’s a toast to all the great black artists who got ripped off by no-talent white thieves.

  One thing nice about being dead is that you immediately become eligible to appear on stamps and money.

  Cat’s thought: “I sure could do with a nice rat.”

  Oxen can be trained to genuflect and whistle softly in the moonlight.

  Have you ever noticed the escalator handrail and the thing you’re standing on don’t move at the same speed?

  You know what you rarely see? A ninety-three-year-old guy workin’ on his résumé.

  I don’t mind government regulation, but requiring people to wear helmets during intercourse is a bit much.

  Whom does a male ladybug dance with?

  Did you ever notice that apparently the Lone Ranger and Tonto never got their laundry done?

  I pray each night that someday on a single afternoon, several major news stories will break within a few hours of each other. I would love to see two 747s colliding above Times Square, the president and vice president getting assassinated, Iran and Israel having a nuclear exchange, the Dow Jones dropping 8,500 points, and California having an earthquake measuring 13.7. It would be fun watching the news channels try to cope with it all. And you know what would really be fun? Reading the newspapers for the following few weeks.

  I know a transsexual guy whose only ambition is to eat, drink, and be Mary.

  Not Much to Do Dept.: Someone has actually gone to the trouble of determining that Columbus, Ohio, has the best-dressed police force.

  Here’s how you get rid of counterfeit money: Put it in the collection plate at church.

  I don’t understand the problem some people have with paroling Charles Manson. I say set him free and let him get on with his work. I have a long list of celebrities I’d be glad to share with him.

  When people say “clean as a whistle,” they forget that a whistle is full of spit.

  ORGAN DONOR PROGRAMS

  I’m not too enthusiastic about this organ donor idea. What bothers me most is that it’s run by the Motor Vehicles Bureau. I figure if I have to wait in line that long for a kidney, fuck it. I’ll do without.

  They send you a little card you’re supposed to carry in your wallet next to your driver’s license. You’re supposed to list the organs you’re willing to donate in case you die. Are these people crazy? Do you honestly believe that if a paramedic finds that card on you after an accident he’s gonna be trying to save your life? No way! He’s lookin’ for parts.

  “Look, Sid! Here’s that lower intestine we’ve been hoping for. Never mind the CPR, this man’s a donor!”

  Fuck that. If these people want something of mine, they can have my appendix. That’s it. That’s all I’m giving. Put it in the cooler and get the fuck outta here.

  Plugging Along

  And don’t go pulling any plugs on me, either. That’s another bunch of macho bullshit floating around. People talkin’ about, “Aw, just pull the plug on me. If I’m comatose? Lyin’ there like a vegetable? Just go ahead and pull the plug.”

  And I say, FUCK YOU! LEAVE MY PLUG ALONE!! Get an extension cord for my plug! I want everything you got: tubes, cords, plugs, probes, electrodes, IVs. You find I got an orifice that’s not bein’ used, stick a fuckin’ tube in it. Vegetable, shit! I don’t care if I look like an artichoke. Save my ass!

  If you ever find out I’m comatose just remember there are three things I gotta have: ice cream, morphine, and TV. Give me that ice cream about every two hours; give me that morphine about, oh, every ten minutes; and turn on the fuckin’ TV!! I wanna watch Survivor!

  And don’t be comin’ to visit me, either. I got no time for live people. I’m brain-d
ead, here. Ain’t you people got no respect for the brain-dead? Hey, you gotta be brain-dead to watch Survivor! in the first place; you might as well watch it when you’re clinically brain-dead.

  Now, one more thought concerning this comatose stuff. This might come in handy someday. If you know a homosexual who is comatose, remember, you can always comfort his family by saying, “Look at it this way, folks. He was a fruit, now he’s a vegetable. At least he’s still in the produce section.”

  ON THE BEACH: THE MOVIE

  It is said that just before you die your life flashes before your eyes; especially if it’s a sudden death. It’s like a little personal movie of your own. But it doesn’t make sense to me. Mathematically, how would it work?

  Let’s say you’re swimming at the beach, you get caught in a riptide, and it pulls you out to sea. You panic and begin swallowing water. Since you’re about to die, the flashback movie begins to roll.

  It seems to me that if it’s really a flashback of your entire life, you’d have to watch the whole thing, and that would include the ending. Which means seeing yourself arrive at the beach, walk into the surf, start to drown, and have the movie start all over again. Therefore you’d have to watch it a second time, which would include arriving at the beach, walking into the surf, and…you get what I mean? Thanks to the flashback, you can never die. The movie runs forever.

  “I COULDN’T COMMIT SUICIDE IF MY LIFE DEPENDED ON IT ”

  So Little Time

  Whenever I hear that someone has committed suicide I wonder one thing. Not Why did he do it? or What was he thinking? I wonder, How did he find the time? Who has time to be running around committing suicide these days? Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have things to do? I do. Suicide would be way down on my list. It would come much later, for example, than setting my neighbor’s house on fire. Believe me, I would have to work suicide into an already very crowded schedule. I’d probably try a little self-mutilation at first, just to get started. See if I like the general concept.

  When you think about it, the planning alone would create all sorts of tasks. First, you’d have to choose a method. That’s big. And that might take a while; there are so many good ways to go.

  “Let’s see. How about firing a gun in my mouth? Naaah! Jesus, that would hurt. And suppose I lived? My head would have a big hole in the top. Fuck that. Maybe I should just hang myself. No, too weird. I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Just sad. Really, really sad. I guess I could put my head in the oven and turn on the gas. Shit, it’s an electric oven. What am I gonna do? I’m afraid of heights, I have trouble swallowing pills, and I can’t stand the sight of blood. God, this is depressing. I know! I’ll throw myself in front of a subway train. No, I live in Cheyenne. Damn! Maybe I’ll just eat some infected dog shit.”

  Dear Survivor

  You also have to decide whether or not to leave a note. You might just think, Fuck ’em. Let ’em figure it out for themselves. And I really think not leaving a note is a nice touch, especially if you’re a perky, optimistic, happily married person and recently got a big promotion. Let ’em figure it out for themselves.

  But, remember, if you do leave a note you’ll have to come up with a version you’re satisfied with. You have to get it right.

  “Let’s see, ’To whom it may concern.’ No, too impersonal. ’Dear Myra.’ No, that leaves out the kids. I’ve got it! ’Hi, everybody. Guess what?’”

  Or you may want to go for maximum survivor-guilt: “To all of you who drove me to this, you know who you are. I hope you’re satisfied, now that I’ve destroyed myself.”

  How about simply saying, “Hi. Hope this note finds you healthy and happy. Not me. Healthy, not happy. In fact, wait’s you read the rest of this note.”

  Suppose you’re a writer? Seems to me, a writer would get so involved revising and polishing the note that he’d never get around to the suicide. He would cheer up just by writing a really good note. Then he’d turn it into a book proposal.

  Another problem for suicide people is the timing. “Okay, Tuesday’s out, gotta take Timmie to the circus; Wednesday’s my colon cleansing; the play-offs start on Friday; my folks’ll be here for the weekend. Hmmm! The weekend…”

  I feel sorry for these suicide people. There are so many things to think about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still glad they do it; I find it highly entertaining. It certainly qualifies as drama: an irreversible act that puts a permanent end to your consciousness. Talk about a big decision; you’d better be thinking clearly. You gotta be at your best for suicide.

  Must-Die TV

  I just love the whole idea. I could really appreciate an all-suicide channel. Boy, you talk about reality programming: One person after another, destroying themselves permanently in front of the entire nation. And never mind that V-chip shit, let the kids watch. Teach ’em

  they have options in life. I would show every method imaginable. And when there’s a lull in the action, I’d run films of World War II kamikaze raids and Arab suicide bombers.

  I think you could get big ratings with suicide. Especially if you had unusual methods. I’ll bet anything you could get 200 people in this country to hold hands and jump into the Grand Canyon. Sick people, old people, the chronically depressed. And to get young folks involved, instead of calling it suicide, you bill it as “extreme living.” Put it on TV and give some of the profits to the surviving relatives.

  CEO Is D.O.A.

  But I digress. You know what I really like about suicide? The reasons some people give. Like those Japanese businessmen who bankrupt their companies through bad management and decide to end it all. Imagine a guy in a three-piece gray suit and red tie, opening his briefcase, taking out a fourteen-inch fish knife, and slashing his stomach open eighteen inches from side to side. Wow! If that tie wasn’t red before it sure is now. By the way, this would be a really good idea for those Firestone and Ford executives.

  No Coin Return

  I love suicide. You know what they ought to have in amusement arcades? Coin-operated suicide machines. Simple idea. You sit down at a steel table and deposit 50 cents. There’s a thirty-second delay as you lean forward, place your head on the table, and put your arms behind. your back. Before long, you hear, “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then a large cast-iron hammer comes slamming down with 2,000 pounds of force and smashes your head to bits. And it keeps on smashing for about twenty minutes, to give you your money’s worth. Lets you rest in pieces.

  EUPHEMISTIC BULLSHIT

  I don’t like euphemistic language, words that shade the truth. American English is packed with euphemism, because Americans have trouble dealing with reality, and in order to shield themselves from it they use soft language. And somehow it gets worse with every generation.

  Here’s an example. There’s a condition in combat that occurs when a soldier is completely stressed out and is on the verge of nervous collapse. In World War I it was called “shell shock.” Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. It almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was more than eighty years ago.

  Then a generation passed, and in World War II the same combat condition was called “battle fatigue.” Four syllables now; takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. “Fatigue ”is a nicer word than “shock.” Shell shock! Battle fatigue.

  By the early 1950s, the Korean War had come along, and the very same condition was being called “operational exhaustion.” The phrase was up to eight syllables now, and any last traces of humanity had been completely squeezed out of it. It was absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. Like something that might happen to your car.