by Ron White
And sure enough, two weeks later, clunk, dead. And she is inconsolable. In bed, sobbing.
Now, I’ve seen people lose it over the death of a pet, right? But this dog lived fifteen years. If you want much more than that out of a pet, you need to get a tortoise or a tree.
Preferably one with a vibrant core.
Well, she’s in bed, sobbing, and I don’t know what to do. And I call Foxworthy, and I tell him, “Buddy, I’m lost here.” And he goes, “Git her another dawg,” or however he talks.
I tell her, “Honey, I’ll get you another dog.” And she just loses it. “I don’t want another dog. I never want another dog. I want my Tatee back.”
And I was like, wow. And I listened to it for like a week, and then I’m like, “You know what? I’m gonna get her another dog.”
I find a place that breeds Scottish terriers not too far from where we live. And I get her in the car, and I tell her where we’re going. And at first she’s against it, right? “I don’t want another dog. I never want another dog.”
But we get down there, she sees them all hopping in the window, “Pick me, pick me.” And I buy her this little black Scottish terrier puppy. And I give it to her, and folks, it heals her heart. This little puppy heals her broken heart.
Well, two weeks ago, her father passed away, and I’m like, I think I see a way out of this. So I get her in the car, and she doesn’t know we’re going to the old folks’ home, right? And when I tell her, at first she’s against it. “I don’t want a new daddy, I don’t want a new daddy.”
But we get down there, she sees them all hopping in the window, “Pick me, pick me.”
She wanted a black one. I’m like, “Keep it simple. Nothing wrong with it. Think it through, though.”
He acts weird when I walk in the room, but I think it’s because he smells my daddy on me.
For our honeymoon, Barbara and I went on a cruise to Santorini, Greece. And the cruise was fine. We fought the whole time.
And I knew we were going to, because she booked the cruise, and then she shows it to me on the calendar, and the cruise is at the end of the month. Guess what else happens at the end of the month over at our house?
I’m looking at the calendar, going, “Oh, great. I’m gonna spend a week in a little, tiny cruise ship room, trying to get Jeannie back in the fucking bottle.”
And my wife’s the nicest person I ever met. But you get her PMS-ing and a couple glasses of red wine, and she turns into “Let me tell you something about you that you don’t know.”
And I’m not making light of women’s periods. That’s some serious shit.
If that happened to me one time, I’d be in the hospital. It wouldn’t be any of this nonchalant, “Oh, look, I’m spotting.”
Fuck that. I’d be running down the road like my hair was on fire, screaming, “My balls are bleeding, my balls are bleeding!”
But it’s our honeymoon, man. And when my wife’s on her period, she won’t have sex with me at all. No way.
Which is bullshit. Because if the roller coaster is broken, they don’t shut down the whole amusement park. Because if they did, you’d be standing outside that fence going, “The log ride’s working fine. And I’ve got some coupins.”
Anyway, right before we leave to go on this trip, Foxworthy gives me a Viagra. And I tell him, “Buddy, I don’t need that.”
He says, “Seriously, dude, you take this on your honeymoon night, you will thank me when you get home.”
So I’m like, “OK, I’ll try it.” So I take it one night, and I walk into our little stateroom. She goes, “I’m just not in the mood.” And I’m like, “Yeah, me either.”
My dick was hard enough to hunt with. I could have chased down an elk and beat it to death with this dick.
“Oh, shit, I broke an antler. I was gonna have this thing mounted. Now I’m gonna mount this thing. Gimme something else to fuck. Hand me that parrot.”
And that wasn’t even our biggest point of contention. Our biggest point of contention was that she wanted me to lay out by the swimming pool all day long every day.
Now, normally I would have done it, you know? I’d have just laid there in a lounge chair and read a book, just to shut her up. At this point, I’m out of diamonds.
But I didn’t want to lay out by the swimming pool all day long every day, because there was a fan of mine out there. And he wanted to talk to me all day long. Every day.
This guy told me his entire life story, against my will. This guy raped my ear. This guy forcibly shoved unwanted information into my ear hole.
No means no.
And I felt sorry for the guy. I mean, the story was that his wife had left him and started sleeping with all his buddies.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. “Well, I wish I knew you better. I just fucked an elk and a parrot. My self-esteem’s in the shitter.”
And that wasn’t even the guy’s worst quality. This guy was about sixty years old, and he was in great shape—he was a marathon runner.
He was a little bitty guy. He was maybe 5’5”, 130 pounds. But he’s got this great big nose and these great big, huge hands. And this little tiny bathing suit with what looks like a squirrel living in it. I shit you not.
He’s not just standing there. He’s leaning this thing into me, and bobbing it around a little bit. I guess to make sure I noticed it. But there’s people on the other side of the swimming pool going, “Look at the dick on that guy. I wonder what he feeds it.”
We make it to Santorini. And Santorini, Greece, is this little tiny island. It’s the partial rim of an ancient volcano. And for two thousand years, folks, the only way to get to the top of the rim on the port side of the island was take a donkey up these switchbacks eight hundred feet. Takes forever.
Until five years ago, somebody built a tram that does the same thing in about eighteen seconds. And I was really shocked to see the donkey guy still in business, because he had the worst sales pitch I ever heard in my life.
“You can take the donkey to the top of the rim, or you can take the tram. It is the same price.”
That would be my biggest secret if I were you, buddy. I’d start lying to people as soon as they got off the ship.
“The donkey is three-fifty. The tram is around twenty-eight hundred euro.”
“Shit, saddle me one up. Come on, honey, it’ll be fun. And you’re in such a good mood. Maybe a donkey ride would be just the thing to cheer you up.”
Well, as it turns out, I’m a tram guy. So we take the tram up, and then we’ve got to walk up from that, up these ancient cobblestone streets, up, up, up. Because there’s one more church in the Mediterranean, we haven’t seen it.
And I’m sweating scotch from every pore on my body. There was a huge party the night before, and I was more fucked up than Courtney Love at the Pamela Anderson Roast.
I woke up the next morning, my head felt like I went on a date with Robert Blake.
We’re trudging up this mountain. And I know I’ve got about ten minutes of this left in me, and I’m gonna want to go back to the ship and sleep it off, and that’s gonna piss her off even more.
And we walk by this little place that rents scooters. And I tell my wife, “Why don’t we rent one of these scooters? We can buzz around the whole little island on a little scooter.”
She goes, “We are not getting on one of those scooters.”
I said, “Let me rephrase that. I’m gonna rent a scooter. And if you’d like to, at some point, hop on the back of it, that’d be fine. Or you can watch my little tail-light fade away into the distance!”
She goes, “You don’t even know how to ride a motorcycle!”
I said, “I’ve been riding motorcycles my whole life!”
As it turns out, though, I don’t know how to ride a scooter. This thing was a piece of shit, man. It had a front wheel the size of a doughnut, and my knees are in my ears, my hands are two inches apart on the handlebars, buses are roaring by.
&nbs
p; She’s screaming, “STOP THIS THING, GODDAMN IT!”
I’m screaming, “LEAN THE WAY I LEAN, GODDAMN IT!”
Like a monkey in a sidecar.
After a while we start to get the hang of it. And we make our way down the gentle, sloping other side of Santorini. And you get down there, and it’s just these knockout beaches and bars and restaurants.
It’s the promised land. My promise. We make up from our little tiff, and we start walking down the beach, hand in hand.
It turns out that part of the beach is a nude beach. Guess who’s there?
Squirrel Man.
And he has got what looks like an anaconda laying in his lap. As soon as I saw it I told my wife, “That thing musta ate the squirrel.”
And he’s not even laying flat on his back. He’s leaning toward the people that are walking toward him.
And I didn’t begrudge him a bit, because if it would have been mine, I would have been holding a picture frame around it.
“You can take the donkey to the top of the rim, or you can ride this. It is the same price.”
The first time my wife and I made love, it was a little awkward, because well, you’ve heard of these screamers, right?
Well, apparently, she had never been with one. ’Cause I’m going at it, “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!” She’s like, “What’s up with that?”
“I’m a screamer, baby. Daddy makes a little racket in the sack.”
I make fun of my wife. But she is just a brilliant woman—two degrees.
She came up with a solution for the overpopulation of our planet. It was a brilliant idea—and simple, like most brilliant ideas are. Stop spending money, she said, on research for the development of products like Viagra and Cialis.
And instead . . . instead . . . invest that money in research to develop a product that’ll make semen taste like . . . chocolate.
She’d be chasing me down the sidewalk: “Come here, Willy Wonka! Get that little chocolate factory back over here, mister. There’s gotta be one more in there.”
Normally my wife’s a very sensuous woman. One time we were driving down the road, and she decided to give me the highway delight. Or, as I like to affectionately refer to it, a mouth hug.
And I was pleasantly surprised, but the other people in the carpool got all pissed off.
“We gotta get these kids to school.”
“She loves chocolate.”
I think it’s kind of odd that in twenty years of constant traveling doing stand-up comedy, I’ve never become a member of the mile-high club. That’s where you have sex in a plane over a mile off the ground, or however the hell you got up there.
I did jack off in Denver two weeks ago. And I met John Elway.
Not at the same time.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Elway. Do you like chocolate?
I am a member though, oddly enough, of a little club I started, called the mile-ahead club. That’s where you fuck someone behind a Cracker Barrel billboard. We’re having a membership drive too. So, uh, grab your partner and skip to my Lou.
My wife got her nipples pierced. She didn’t ask me nothing about it, you know. She just went ahead and did it.
I’m just not into it. And I think you should ask your mate if they’re into that, before you do it. This whole piercing thing just left me sitting on a fucking island, waving bye at all the people sailing off to get pierced.
I just don’t get it. I was talking to a girl the other day, and she had a pierced tongue. And I asked her why she did it. And she said, “It helps my boyfriend enjoy oral sex.”
And I’m like, “No, it doesn’t. You know what helps your boyfriend enjoy oral sex? Oral fuckin’ sex. There’s no need to decorate it, sweetheart.”
I’m telling you, folks, out of all the erections I’ve ever had in my life, it never occurred to me to rub steel on one of them.
“No, wait a minute, stop, stop, that doesn’t feel good. Uh, what I want you to do is get the dull edge of a butter knife, and just rake it up and down the shaft.
“Now set a mousetrap off on my nut sack. Now we’re both having fun.”
Now, belly-button piercing, that can be OK. But it’s gotta be the right girl, right? That tan girl at the park, with the low-slung faded jeans, little pink half shirt, little silver hoop. That’s sexy.
But have you seen these women that pierce their fat roll? Now, I’m not being an ass. I’ve got a huge gut too. But you’re never gonna see me at the mall in a tube top with, like, a horseshoe poking through there.
My wife got her nipples pierced, though. I just came home one day, you know, she opens up her robe and there it is. And I was, like, “Whuh?”
She goes, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’.”
“Don’t you think it looks sexy?”
I said, “It looks like the plug in my grandmother’s bathtub.”
Don’t ever fuckin’ say that, guys. I haven’t seen them titties in six weeks.
I was playing the Paramount Theatre in Austin, Texas, and Mother lives in a little town outside of Austin, where you guys bought her a new house. She says thanks.
And I was at Mother’s house having dinner, and there’s eight of us sitting around this big table eating Mother’s fried chicken. Great chicken. And Mother is telling a story.
And Mother has had a couple cocktails. Couple. Mama drinks.
And the story was, she had her car worked on. They gave her a loaner car. She brings the loaner car back, there’s a big dent in the fender. She has no idea how it got there. I’m sure she’s telling the truth.
And I guess what she meant to say was the guy comes out and sees she wrecked the car, and he chews her out because there’s a big dent in the fender. But what she says is this:
“And you know what he did? He just ate me out right there in the parking lot in front of everyone. I didn’t even do it. He’s eating me out right in front of all these people.”
I got chicken flying out of my nose. And my slack-jaw dullard family doesn’t even get it.
They’re like, “That ain’t right, he just ate you out like that. You oughta take somebody in private, you gonna eat them out. I’ve always said that.”
I was like, “So he wasn’t mad, Ma?”
“Yeah, he’s mad. He’s eating me out right there in the parking lot in front of everybody. There’s five people standing there watching this man just eat me out right there in the parking lot.”
I went, “Mama, the expression is chewed me out.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Technically, no, Mom. The next time you tell the story, I would say ‘chewed me out.’ Especially if you tell it at church.”
I think the most often asked question I have on my Web site is why I wasn’t a bigger part of Blue Collar Television, which is Jeff and Larry and Bill’s show.
And the answer is, my work ethic. It’s questionable.
My grandpa used to say, “That boy’s got a lot of quit in him.”
And as a young man, the things I didn’t quit, I got kicked out of. I got kicked off the high school debate team for saying, “YEAH, WELL, FUCK YOU!”
I thought I had won. The other kid was speechless. That’s what I thought we were trying to do.
And Larry the Cable Guy, speaking of you can’t fix stupid, let me tell you what he did. He spends the night at my house.
And don’t ever let him spend the night at your house, by the way. Even if it’s raining.
He spends the night at my house, and we get into the whisky deep, for no reason. It’s a Tuesday night, we’re just glug-glug-glugging away. We wake up the next morning, he gets on his tour bus and goes to who the hell knows where. I wake up with a living, breathing hangover that has its own soul.
I named it Chuck.
And I’m going through this house we just moved into, and I can’t find one aspirin in the whole house. My head is exploding. So I gotta get in my car and face the morning sun, which I geared my entire career around no
t having to do. And I go to the store, and I go in, I buy some Excedrin.
I come back out to the car, and I pop a couple of them in my mouth. And I can’t swallow them because my mouth is dry, right? I’m kind of choking on them, you know?
But luckily, in the seat where Larry was the day before, there’s a Diet Coke bottle with about two fingers’ worth in the bottom of it. And I unscrew the lid, and throw it back.
And slowly my brain starts to process information. Does Diet Coke make a wintergreen pudding product? Sort of a stringy wintergreen pudding?
And then it dawns on me, I’m drinking his fuckin’ spit. I’m outside my car licking the grass to get the taste out.
The same thing happened to me later. Not the same thing, really, but the same kind of thing. I was on my way to the airport, and I stopped on the way for some iced tea with a wedge of lemon in it.
And I parked my car at the airport on the top floor of the parking garage, in the sun, and I’m gone for two weeks. I come back, and I get stuck in traffic on the way home. And I’m not even thinking, I just reach over and pick up this two-week-old remains of iced tea with lemon, and I chugalug it down.
And slowly my brain starts to process information. Is that lemon moss? Is that some sort of a citrus algae river product?
And I take the lid off the Styrofoam cup, and it’s this nasty science experiment. And I open my truck door and throw up in the stalled traffic.
But oddly enough, two weeks later a rash on my nuts clears up. There’s your silver lining right there.
I get chastised publicly in the media for my position on the death penalty. To tell you the truth, they don’t even know the half of it.
Because in the Scott Peterson case, I’d want to be the guy that sets the execution date. And I’d set it for one a.m. the day they set clocks forward. Just so I could walk in and go, “Well, looks like you got about another hour, Scott. . . .