Ranting Again

by Dennis Miller

  And if you're one of those people who can't be bothered with turn signals, listen: I've got enough to worry about in my life without having to do a fucking Vulcan mind-meld on some jagoff like you in a Geo Storm ahead of me.

  You know what? You know what we should do? We should use that "Baby on Board" thing as a point of departure and have asshole stickers. A small stick-on applique of a human rectum seated behind the wheel of a cute little bummobile. All right? We see somebody make an asshole move, we get to mark their car with an asshole sticker that's harder to get off than Miss Hathaway during banking hours. You get three asshole stickers in any given calendar year and you can't drive anymore. And don't whine to me ... Do not whine to me about "how am I going to get around if I can't drive a car?" Hey, do what everybody else does who's not allowed to drive anymore. Become a pilot for Valu-Jet.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Computers

  This computer thing is out of hand. Christ, now I got abacus salesmen using computers. It's beyond comprehension. Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but, as anyone who has ever tried to purchase a PC knows, computer technology moves faster than Luciano Pavarotti going after a cinnabun. No matter what computer you buy, no matter how much you spend, by the time you get it to your car, it's an eight-track tape player.

  True, computers have made it possible for us to do our jobs much more quickly and efficiently. And what do we do with our newly acquired scads of leisure time? We play Nintendo till our thumbs bleed, we sit on-line for hours in chat rooms, participating in imbecilic exchanges with people we wouldn't be caught dead talking to in person, and we spend the entire morning on hold with an automated teller because the ATM machine somehow believes that we're now more overdrawn than M. C. Escher's doodle pad.

  Just when did all this computer stuff happen anyway? You know, one day I was playing Pong, the next thing I know Wes, the gas meter guy with the eye patch, has an uplink to a satellite on his tool belt.

  They say the cars of the future will be equipped with dashboard computers complete with maps and a global positioning device. Hey, listen, I'm going to the store for milk, I'm not fucking Magellan tacking around the Cape of Good Hope, all right? Tell me, O global positioning device, where can Ponce De Dennis locate the 7-Eleven in my neighborhood? I must secure nectar of the cow lest my queen be disappointed, and so I have brought much silver and gold and colorful beads to appease the keeper of the Slim Jims behind the counter, who appears to be in a wretched mood when I beseech him to avert his gaze from the renderings of breasts in the stroke-scroll unfurled before him and come forth to tally my meager purchase.

  Okay, maybe I'm a little rebellious when it comes to the whole technological blitzkrieg. Nothing serious. I'm not going to stop shaving and live in a dirt-floored Fotomat in Quiet Lonerville, Montana, because I hallucinated that the Keno board at the Desert Inn was mocking me. You know, it's just that everywhere I look, there's such a dependence on synthetic forms of communication. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned face-to-face insincerity?

  As for my computer skills, you know there hasn't been anyone that ineffective at a keyboard since Susan Dey was in The Partridge Family.

  Computers now control every aspect of our lives, and in fact this stuff I'm telling you right now is on a computer. And yes, I too am a computer: the Dennistron 2000. The real Dennis is in a Rand Corporation building locked away for his own good with an electrode attached to his brain and a cord leading up to a pleasure button he bangs away at like a little toy monkey with a brass cymbal. And you know what? Dennis is happy.

  If you don't know how to use a computer, like me, one day, and that day is very soon, you are going to find yourself at the complete mercy of your children. Because while you've been blustering and bumbling through the computer age with all the technical proficiency of Tennessee Tuxedo's assistant Chumley, your Mr. Whoopeelike seven-year-old can reroute the space shuttle to land on the 405, crash the Belgian stock market, and convince complete strangers to donate their balls to a comet. When it comes to computers, your kids are MacGyver and you are a Hasidic Amish guy. And when your complete lack of computer knowledge becomes painfully obvious to your children, they will take the same condescending tone with you that Alex Trebek takes when he corrects somebody on Jeopardy! "Oh, I'm sorry, Dad. The correct answer was 'the on-off switch.' That's the on-off switch.' Mom, you were the last correct questioner, please select again."

  Now, as for the Internet, it is an amazing communications tool that's bringing the whole world together. I mean, you sit down to sign on to America Online in your hometown, and it's just staggering to think that at the same moment, halfway around the world in China, someone you've never met is sitting at their computer, hearing the exact same busy signal that you're hearing.

  Now, as for me, I think computers will remain a fogbound protuberance around which I'll navigate the rest of my life. I'll keep my eye on them and do my best to avoid them. Besides, if I ever feel the need to access artificial intelligence, I'll just watch celebrity week on Wheel of Fortune, okay? And, you know, it'll save me from having to learn all those new terms. Ram will still be McCartney's last good album... A hard drive will remain a trip to your in-laws ... And you know what? I'll always harken back to a time when clicking your mouse too much could make you go blind.

  The World Wide Web we weave is a tangled one, my friends. For the time being, I believe I'll let my kids play their computer games, but I also think, for the time being, the only Web they'll be accessing is Charlotte's. And how do you keep the kids away from the Internet? Two words. Mandatory television.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Mothers

  A sixty-three-year-old woman has had a baby last year. You know what the first clue was she was pregnant? She missed her Jurassic Period.

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but with the second Sunday in May looming over our conscience like a guilt-radiating mushroom cloud, I would like to take a few moments off from my weekly turn as Mr. Curmudgeonly McCranky to thank those tireless nurturers who, for better or worse, have formed us into who we are today. I'm talking about the woman who changed your diapers, kissed your boo-boos, sat up all night with you when you were sick, disapproved of your friends, and caught you masturbating so many times that eventually you couldn't get off until she busted through the door. I'm talking about your mom.

  The mother-child relationship has always been a complex one, fraught with more ambivalence and emotional misfires than Martin Lawrence and Amanda Plummer touring in The Gin Game.

  Unshakable bastions of well-meaning dysfunction, mothers somehow teach us about the world while protecting us from its dangers, encourage us to be independent while carefully rationing our freedom, and manage to instill in us the belief that we're the best while simultaneously making us feel like we're never good enough. Only a mother possesses the unique ability to envelop you in a soft, warm blanket of unconditional love at the exact same moment that she's driving you fucking crazy.

  When you're a kid, basically your mother's job is to make you look like a dork. The mittens pinned to your jacket, the Elmer Fudd earflap hat, the rubber boots with the Wonder bread bags over your feet, and of course the piece de resistance, the snow pants. There's an outfit that just screams "Beat the shit out of me and take my lunch money."

  And why did Mom insist on cutting my hair herself until I was fourteen? She had a home haircut kit that looked like Mengele's briefcase and the barber skills of Dr. Leatherface brandishing a flowbee. All right. She'd finish and say "Well, how does that look?" I'd say, "Yeah. Looks good, Mom" because in case my school does a stage production of Sling Blade, this haircut makes me look like Karl's stupider friend who couldn't get laid with Brad Pitt's dick. All right." Now, where's my snow pants, I have to ride that girl's bike you bought me past the tough kids to my piano lesson.

  Then, at night, she'd make it all better when she'd tuck me
in, kiss me on the forehead, and say, "Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but once upon a time, there were three little pigs."

  But as you get older, you realize that mothers also have the ability to get under your skin faster than a splinter on a waterslide. When you're a teenager, having your mother take your messages is like hiring a heroin addict to do your taxes. Your messages are always going to be garbled, like "Jenooga called and said the mall can't be bitten." Okay. Thanks, Mom. I'll get the code breakers on that.

  You know you can put up a front in the real world, but your mom sees through that faster than Superman sees through Lois Lane's pants suit. Mothers can work a thirty- years-gone umbilical cord like Zorro lighting matches with a whip. And since she's got the psychological and emotional drop on you, your mom pushes buttons like a pey- ote dealer working straight commission.

  And you know what, a mother's claim on your psyche is wholly substantiated because you love her so much. And the reason you love her so much is that she was your arrival terminal. She created you, so you always owe her and can never really repay the debt. Being born is like asking Don Corleone for a favor.

  There's a very good explanation for why cult leaders force members to cut off all contact with their families. Because they know that their spell will be broken and all the mind control will disappear the instant you hear your mother saying: "And I suppose that just because your new friends are having themselves castrated so they can go on the spaceship, you have to do it too, right?''

  The relationship between mothers and children never changes, and that's because no matter how rich or powerful you are, your mother still remembers when you were three and put SpaghettiOs up your nose.

  Even if you're the guy who signs Alan Greenspan's paychecks, your mom has either cleaned or stuck a thermometer in every single orifice of your body. So if you're a bazillionaire captain of industry or a Nobel Prize winner, your mom may be proud, but she's not impressed. She would be a lot more impressed if you'd stand up straight, chew your food, clean up your room, marry that nice Jenkins girl, and for God's sakes, quit masturbating and pull up your snow pants. Now.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Immigration

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but is America still the melting pot? Or has it become a crock?

  The thing that made our country unique and remarkable was its open-armed willingness to accept all people who needed refuge from their dysfunctional mother- and fatherlands. That's what America has always been, a teen shelter for runaways from abusive families.

  But the simple era of immigration is long over. Right now in this country, immigration is looked on about as fondly as Billy Ray Cyrus opening for Trent Reznor. Once the world's biggest, friendliest open house, America now has all the grace and sensitivity of a New York City co-op board interviewing Martin Lawrence.

  Now, one reason for this is that by the year 2050 there may be 400 million Americans, and 320 million of them will be in my way on the fucking 405 freeway.

  Now, I'm by no means a xenophobe, but our borders are being violated more often than Courtney Love in a mosh-pit at the Citadel.

  Sure, people complain about illegal aliens, but they don't complain about getting the cheap immigrant labor tbey provide. At least I'm up front about it. Every morning on my way into work I drive by the Writers Guild and there's usually twenty or twenty-five Mexican comedy writers hanging around the sidewalk, waiting for work. You know—I'll pick a few of them up. Viva referenda obscura!

  Now, not only do people complain about illegal aliens, they complain about all foreigners. But you know what you have to admit about foreigners? They're funny. They do things in an odd way; they have strange customs, and they talk weird. And often when you laugh at them they don't understand what's going on and they laugh right along with you.

  Immigrants supply us with many things, not the least of which is a defenseless target and scapegoat, an invaluable commodity in the eternally bullish markets of politics and blame.

  Look, we're all just people who happen to live in this place called America. At one time we thought that this land went on forever and ever with nothing but space and fruit-laden trees ahead. But just the way when you were a child and your bedroom looked so enormous and then years later you were confounded by how you ever fitted into that tiny bed, our perspective as a nation has to change and grow up too. It's pathetic that the Viper Room has better security at the door than we do at our borders.

  We have to do something, we have to do something to stop illegal immigration. It threatens not only us but the legal immigrants too. Our border police are basically mall cops with night goggles on, okay? They just keep hiring more and more agents for the U.S. Border Patrol, and although the situation on the Mexican border is still not under control, I'm happy to report that we have things on the Canadian border pretty much well in hand. Oh, sure, the occasional crafty Canadian will slip through dressed as a giant beaver, but that's the exception. For the most part, we've beaten down the Canucks to the point where they're resigned to just stay home and think of new animals to put on their currency.

  Listen, immigrants who come to this country looking for a free ride should be asked to leave. But I also believe that third-and fourth-generation Americans, those whose papers are perfectly in order but whose lives aren't, should also be told to leave. In fact, let's ship the whole country to Greenland and start bringing everyone back in here on a case-by-case basis. In the meantime, here are some guidelines for newcomers to our hallowed, syringe- laden shores.

  1. I don't care how they wait on line in your country. Stop fucking pushing me, okay?

  2. Pets of immigrants have to be able to do tricks. One thing this country does not need is any more unskilled dogs.

  3. You leave those little nut-hugger swimsuits over on the coisette, okay. Yeah, you leave those over at Cannes, okay, Baron Von Hard-on?

  4. If you're a local news anchor from a Latino background, congratulations. I applaud your success in a competitive field. Now, do you think you can read the news without turning into Che Guevara hitting on Evita Peron at a Cinco de Mayo dance when it comes time to pronounce the words "Costa Rica"?

  And finally, at least learn to swear in English. I don't want to be flipped off again by some guy telling me to go fack myself.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Bad Habits

  Now t I don't want to get off on a rant here, but we as a nation have more bad habits than a moth-infested nunnery.

  We are a nation of elastic-waistbanded, television- glued, crack-smoking, pork-rind-stuffing, natural- resource-hogging fat-asses, aren't we, folks? Why is that? How come the French wallow in cigarettes and goose fat, drink a supertanker of wine per person at lunch, yet have so much less alcoholism, heart disease, and obesity than we do? Well, unless there's an undiscovered link between bathing and hardening of the arteries, I'd have to venture a guess that a lot of it has to do with mental attitude.

  America was founded by Puritans, and like it or not, the antipleasure dogma of those buckle-shoed killjoys still pervades our collective unconscious like an IMAX shot of Dennis Franz's naked, hairy cop ass. Hence, anything enjoyable is automatically forbidden and bad, and in our panic to avoid it at all costs, we become obsessed with it. Like dressing up in a pink teddy and a pair of Ugg boots and repeatedly screaming the word "verboten" into a conch shell balanced on the back of a miniature pony. Oh, I see. That would just be me, right?

  One characteristic that appears to be uniquely American is our complete lack of understanding of the word moderation. Is it any wonder that the same culture that came up with the all-you-can-eat dessert bar also spawned more 12-step programs than a line-dancing jury?

  We share an all-or-nothing mentality that creates an insatiable market for supersized fast-food meals, double- crust double-stuffed deep-dish pizzas and dirigible-sized cinnabuns, plus gas-guzzling Winnebagos to drive the two
fucking blocks to get all of these items. Then we look at ourselves in a full-length mirror and think: "Wow, how odd. That sea-sow is not only walking on dry land, but is wearing exactly the same outfit that I am." We then go on Slim-Fast and Jenny Craig and subject ourselves to the kind of deprivation that a penitent Buddhist monk would find gratuitous. Deprivation, of course, ultimately produces craving, and we're right back at square one on the crash-and-burn game board.

  Of course, human beings do not have a patent on self- destructive behavior; it shows up in nature all the time. The lemming that's drawn to the cliff, the salmon that kills itself trying to swim upstream, and, of course, the chimpanzee that rides the miniature bicycle without wearing a helmet.