You know what I like? A big fire in an apartment house.
Ecology note: In an economy measure, the number of bees in a squadron has been reduced from 35 to 20.
I often wonder if movie directors have credits at the end of their dreams?
SPORTS SHOULD BE FIXED:OVERTIME
Auto Racing
I’d like to improve auto racing. This is a sport that’s very big in the South; a perfect marriage of fast cars and slow minds. I think if they want to liven up these races, what they ought to do is have one guy driving in the wrong direction. Simple thing: one guy, moving against the traffic. Maybe with a deer strapped to the hood, and a muffler dragging, makin’ sparks. You could also stick three children with rickets in the backseat. Racing fans would appreciate seein’ something familiar. Make ’em feel right at home.
Here’s another thing that would increase the danger and excitement in these races: You offer an irresistibly huge sum of money—$50 million—to any driver who completes ten laps while driving in reverse. Doesn’t matter which direction he’s going, with or against the traffic; it’s his choice. Fifty million dollars! Some guy would try it. Count on it. In fact, for $50 million you might wind up with everybody in the race goin’ backward. Perfect metaphor for the South.
It would also be highly entertaining if the pit crews had to change tires right out on the track, during the race. I’d like to see them try those ten-second pit stops under some really stressful conditions. And maybe if you gave ’em longer hoses they could refuel the cars out there, too. Adds a fire hazard, heightens the danger, increases the fun. Just a thought.
And speakin’ of danger, isn’t it about time they eliminated that boring pace-car shit? They oughta start these races by havin’ a couple of Air Force F-18’s zippin’ around the track, real low. Keep them ten feet off the ground, so the locals can get a real good look. Just watchin’ them make those turns would be worth the whole trip to the track. Most of those racing fans are soldier-sniffers and patriotic halfwits anyway, so I’m sure they’d be honored to have the occasional military jet slam into the crowd and send a couple of hundred of them off to be with Jesus.
And, speaking of such possibilities, it goes without saying that the most satisfying part of auto racing is the high number of fatal accidents. So maybe we could do a few things that would increase the frequency of these accidents or, if not, at least make them a little more dangerous.
One idea I had, although it’s decidedly offbeat, would be to spray olive oil on the track about every twenty minutes. Not only would this add driving excitement, it would produce an interesting aroma as it mingled with the gasoline fumes, the stale beer, and the pervasive body odor.
Another good accident enhancer would be requiring the drivers to race single file, except for two short, 100-yard passing lanes at each end of the track. Let them jockey for position just as they’re heading into the turns. And guess what? This might be the perfect spot for the olive-oil release.
Here’s another thrill provider: line the interiors of the cars with plastic explosives rigged to go off when anything touches the exterior of the car. Anything: the wall, another car, debris from the track. Shit, you could probably make it sensitive enough so that one of those heavy clouds of corn-dog farts that come rolling out of the grandstand from time to time would set it off. And just think, the fart cloud itself would probably add several lovely colors to the pyrotechnic display of the explosion.
SEVEN DEATH WISHES
You’re in a leather bar with 200 heavily armed, wildly drunk, exconvict, sadomasochistic butch lesbians. You climb on the bar and say, “Which one of you sweet little cupcakes wants the privilege of being the first in line to suck me off? If you’re the lucky one, and you give me a real good blow job, I might do you a favor and throw you a quick fuck and let you cook me a nice meal. C’mon, line up, you repulsive cunts, and I’ll change your sexual orientations. I dare you to cut off my balls!”
Walking through the woods one day, you encounter a group of devil worshipers who are disemboweling a small boy. You tell them what they’re doing is cowardly, unnatural, and morally wrong, and you’re sure they would never try it on a grown-up. Especially one like yourself, who loves Jesus, and always wears his crucifix proudly. You also say that you just arrived from Australia, have no local friends or living relatives, and are planning to establish a Christian church called Fuck Lucifer. Then you order them to stay where they are, because you’re leaving to get the police.
You and your wife are the only nonbikers at a Hell’s Angels’ wedding, where all the others have been drinking, shooting methamphetamine, and smoking PCP for eleven straight days. At the height of the celebration, you whip out your dick, grab the bride’s crotch, and shout to the crowd, “I understand you filthy, greasy asshole motorcycle cowards are supposed to be real good at gang rape, but I’ll bet you can’t fuck like me! Watch this!” You begin ripping the wedding gown off the bride, pointing out that your own wife is a virgin, and that you, yourself, have never been fucked in the ass.
At a white supremacists’ convention in remote Idaho, you take the stage wearing an ATF helmet and a Malcolm X T-shirt, and holding a United Nations flag. You perform a rap song that says morally and intellectually inferior white people should submit themselves to black rule and turn over their wives and daughters to black men as a way of apologizing for slavery. You mention that following your recent conversion to Judaism, you have become ashamed of your white skin and would gladly have it removed if you could just find a way to do it.
Three sadistic sex maniacs have entered your house, and they find you naked in the shower. The most coherent among them asks if he can play with your genitals. You lose your temper and say, “Listen, you perverted, lunatic fuck, leave my sex organs alone. And tell your drooling, fruitcake buddies I would rather place my cock in that paper shredder located by the window, or stuff my testicles into the Cuisinart, which is in the kitchen on the right-hand shelf, than let you disgusting degenerates touch my private parts.”
While attending the First Communion of a Mafia boss’s grandson, you suddenly begin to pistol-whip the boy’s mother, screaming, “I’m gonna hit you some more, you ugly dago bitch, and if one of these greasy, dickless criminal morons who call themselves men makes a move on me, I’ll break his guinea neck. I’m hungry! Make me some fuckin’ spaghetti and go easy on the oil, ya hairy greaseball cunt!”
You’re standing in a crowded Harlem bar dressed in the robes of a Ku Klux Klan Grand Dragon, holding a Confederate flag, and singing “Dixie ”in a real loud voice with a Mississippi accent. You jump on the bar, shit in the drink of a huge man with numerous. razor scars on his face, wipe your ass with a picture of Martin Luther King, and yell at the man, “Hey, boy! Get your momma down here, I want some dark meat. And get that fuckin’ jungle-bunny music off the juke box, or I’m gonna start killin’ me some boogies!”
Have a nice afterlife.
MONOPOLY
I never did well at Monopoly. I guess I don’t have a business mind. Oh, I’d usually manage to own a couple of railroads. And Water Works, of course. I’m not a complete asshole; I know a monopoly when I see one. Everybody needs water. But it always frustrated me that the other guys wouldn’t let me build houses on Water Works. They said it was zoning or some shit like that. I think they were jealous that I had vision. The worst fight I ever got into was when I tried to put hotels on the Electric Company. Vision.
As far as other properties were concerned, naturally I’d snap up Baltic Avenue as soon as that became available.
“How much is that son of a bitch? Sixty bucks? Gimme that mother. I gotta have a place to live.”
About the best thing I’d ever own would be one or two properties in the light blue series. Maybe Oriental Avenue. No houses, of course. Just an excavation or two. That’s about all I ever had on my property—plans. Surveyor’s marks. I just couldn’t get financing. All my friends would have shopping centers, malls, condominiums, industr
ial parks. And they liked to rub it in.
“Oh boy, Carlin, you’re comin’ down my side of the board now! Get ready to pay up!”
“Ohh, no! Please God, gimme a big one.”
Then I’d roll.
“Hot shit!! A twelve! Thank you, God! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!
Fuck you, Tony. I ain’t even stoppin’ on your side. Fuck you and Boardwalk, too!”
“That’s all right, Carlin, you’ll be around again.”
Of course, you can’t move your token until you remember which one is yours.
“Which one is mine? Am I the hat? I could swear I was the hat. No, that was yesterday. Wait! I know. The racing car. I’m the racing car. Hey, who’s the ship? Richie, are you the ship?”
“No, he’s not the ship, I’m the ship. I get the ship every game. Don’t even touch the ship.” Tony was the biggest guy.
None of them wanted to be the iron. Too feminine.
The worst token to have was the cannon. The big gun. It was the only topheavy token. It kept falling over. Throw the dice anywhere near it, and it fell on its side. And then some anal retentive would say, “Who has the gun? Are you the gun? Would ya pick it up, please? And you, Paulie, are you in jail or just visiting? Well, if you’re just visiting, put the car on the of the jail, not on the actual jail part.”
Some guys really cared. That’s why they won.
I never won, but I was always in there at the end. Because I had all the one-dollar bills. Twenty-five hundred dollars in singles, and they needed me to make change.
I would try to borrow money.
“Please, Tony, Just five bucks. I wanna buy some gum.”
“Fuck you, Carlin. I’ll give you five bucks for Water Works.”
“Ten.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Tony, they don’t have a fifty-cent bill.”
“Tough shit. Tear a dollar in half.”
No, I wasn’t very good at the game, but I spent a lot of time landing on Chance. And I always tried to buy it. I got in more fights trying to buy Chance.
I’d move my token.“…three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine …Chance!” Turn over the card, a little man with a hat: “Two hundred dollars for being an asshole.”
“Hey, Richie, shuffle those cards, will ya? That’s the second time I got that one.”
eBook Info
Title:Napalm and Silly Putty
Creator:George Carlin
Publisher:Comedy Concepts, Inc.
Date:2001-09-11
Rights:Copyright © 2001 by George Carlin
Identifier:0-7868-7155-5
Language:English
Napalm & Silly Putty Page 25