Ranting Again

by Dennis Miller

  The purest distillation of this snobbery is performance art. Refuge of the untalented, repository of more pretentiousness than the diary of a fifteen-year-old girl on her first trip to Paris.

  For those of you who are fortunate enough never to have come in contact with performance art, imagine every awful poet, annoying mime, gratingly unfunny comedian, unappetizing drag queen, and embarrassingly inept singer all merged into one narcissistic artiste with a bad haircut and absolutely no sense of shame, braying his or her incomprehensible message into the TriBeCa night. Art? Well, you didn't think of doing it, did you?

  And isn't that what art in this day and age is really about, just coming up with something that's so odd or so offensive or freakish that nobody's thought of it before? Isn't that the only thing that sets apart a government- subsidized crucifix in a beaker of urine from a picture of a kitten dangling from a branch under the words: "Hang on Baby, Friday's Coming"?

  And while some might snicker at the kitten posters as they stroll through the west wing of the Spencer's Gifts Louvre, that is what artistic snobbery drives the masses to. The classic overcorrection of kitsch.

  A few thoughts on kitsch. There is nothing cute or funny about dogs playing poker. All right? First of all, dogs cannot play poker because they don't have thumbs, and you need thumbs to shuffle and deal a deck of cards properly. And there is nothing remotely cute about animals with gambling problems. It's very sad. As a matter of fact, not one of those dogs is smiling in those pictures, because if you look closely at those paintings, then you can tell that most of them are playing with money that they can't afford to lose. And sadder still, remember it takes seven of their dollars to make one of ours.

  Also, I would remind you to please take your album covers down off the wall. Album covers are for one thing and one thing only: deseeding pot.

  And I have a message for the guy who took Edward Hopper's Night Hawks and then added Elvis behind the counter serving joe to Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bo- gart, and James Dean. Well, I just wanted you to know that I hear Tony Danza is looking for writers, okay.

  And to our newly landed citizens: Well. Kick your sandals and your black socks off and make yourselves at home. That being said: Yes, I understand you are overcome by your newfound freedom. But the Statue of Liberty belongs in the New York harbor, not on your front lawn. Okay. Some of us might need to sell our homes eventually and would like to get fair market value. Okay, Olaf? Fuck the Swedes. If I'm woken up in the middle of the night one more time by yodeling, I'm gonna shove one of those Ricola horns up somebody's ass.

  Listen, folks, we could go round and round and round on art, but I'm afraid I'd get sick and vomit, then somebody would put a frame around it and sell it for two grand. But I think we all agree that if we're to get back to square one on the art board, all pretense and affectation must be stripped away and we must focus on the only three immutable truths about art.

  One. Art is bad if it reminds you to paint your garage.

  Two. Art is really about one thing and one thing alone. Naked women. It is the one theme that transcends all time and technique. Being an artist has always been a good way for geeks to get chicks naked.

  And finally, the ultimate maxim still holds true about art, "Beauty is in the eye of the head up the ass of the beholder..."

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

  Child Rearing

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but raising a child today is a journey so fraught with bad directions, backseat drivers, and contradicting maps that it's a wonder we ever even make it out of the maternity hospital parking garage.

  I think most (if not all) of society's ills can be traced back to poor parenting, or no parenting whatsoever. There are children in our country whose first contact with an authority figure comes while being read their Miranda rights in the backseat of a squad car.

  Kids learn by example. Mommy and Daddy can say "please" and "thank you" all they want, but when their kid goes searching for role models, he's just as likely to glom on to Dennis Rodman, Bart Simpson, or some wise- ass on HBO who insists on unnecessarily ending a paragraph about being a good role model with the word "motherfucker."

  You know ... after remaining essentially unchanged for generations, the child-rearing process has undergone more bewildering mutations over the past few decades than Phyllis Diller during a long weekend on Dr. Moreau's island. The heretofore rigidly choreographed parental line-dance has morphed into a chaotic mosh pit where the Cleavers have been knocked to the floor and are being trampled to death by the Bundys. These days, the rules of parenting are more fluid than the contents of Peter O'Toole's lunch tray.

  Two-parent families aren't the only game in town anymore. Single parenting has now become a viable option, because people are realizing that one caring parent is better than none—or two parents who don't give a shit.

  Raising a child—alone or with a partner—may be a labor of love, but it is labor nonetheless. It is a job. Usually it's a fun job, but sometimes it's so frustrating, menial, and dull, it makes working the corn dog concession in the Ringworm Brothers Carnival seem like a stint in the double-0 sector of Her Majesty's Secret Service. And while there's no health or dental, no vacation pay, no sick leave, no 40IK, one thing you've got plenty of is job security. You need to know that you're a parent until the day you die.

  Hey, take it from me. Here are some other things you need to know about parenting:

  Children think farts are hysterically funny. And you know why? Because farts are hysterically funny.

  Children were designed to disassemble anything. Given enough time and Lick-Em-Ade Sticks, a seven- year-old could break into Bill Clinton's burger vault and convince the Secret Service that his imaginary friend Mr. Noodles made him do it. There are primal forces of nature at work in children.

  Okay. Remember on Sunday mornings you used to sleep in, drink a cup of coffee in bed, read the paper, turn on some Sinatra music, maybe make love. All right, that ... is over. God might have rested on the seventh day, but only because he sent his son to live with another family. From here on in, you wake up on Sunday morning to a sticky kid who crawled into bed with you, had a dream about Splash Mountain, and whizzed all over your sheets. Okay? That's Sunday morning.

  You know, if you have a son, he is going to hit you in the balls at least once or twice a year, if you're lucky. They claim it's an accident. I don't think so. There are pinatas that get hit less than my balls.

  Folks, I don't want to lay it all out for you, because then you'd miss the ride. Everybody's got their own opinion on how you can be a good parent. I don't want to bore you with the intricacies of mine. One thing I would tell you, though, is be there for them.

  That's the main requirement of parenting. Just be there. Think of yourself as Chance the Gardener with Baby Wipes. You don't always have to be brilliant, you don't always have to be charming, you don't always have to be the best. You just have to be theirs, unequivocably.

  I'm telling you to take parenting seriously. That means that when you give Mr. Sperm a laminated all-access backstage pass to Miss Egg or vice versa, you do so with the knowledge that if you bring a life into this world, that life is your responsibility. Even if it means missing the prom, or driving an econo-van instead of a Viper, or being thrown up on more frequently than Fifth Avenue on St. Patrick's Day.

  And finally ... if everything I've said up to this point hasn't made you realize how serious a commitment having a child is, maybe this will: Baby Nikes are 85 bucks a pair.

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

  White People

  White people will pay to see anything. It's amazing. I mean, really. I'm asking you. What's up with whitey?

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but what is there to say about a race whose only significant contributions to our culture in the past half century have been Jell-O shots, referring to Wednesday as "Humpday," and the cosmic nightmare that was
Vanilla Ice? And on behalf of all white people, I'd just like to say: We're sorry about Vanilla Ice. We didn't know he was going to do that. He didn't mention it at any of the meetings.

  You know, we've been in the driver's seat so long that we're starting to nod off at the wheel. Let's face it—we're a bunch of goofy motherfuckers. White people have occasionally come up with a beneficial tidbit for mankind, but more often than not we've trashed this place like John Bonham and Keith Moon fighting over the last bottle of Glenlivet in the minibar at the room in the Chateau Marmont.

  I am a white guy, I don't deny that. In fact, I'm pretty up front about it. When the tollbooth guy tells me to have a nice day, I say "okeydokey." On my home stereo the treble is turned up higher than the bass. And when the frozen yogurt costs four dollars and twenty-six cents, I give them a five and then I say "Wait, I think I have a penny."

  I mean, what cool stuff can white people really claim as their own? Rock and roll? Stolen from the bluesmen of the Mississippi delta. Smoking? The Indians. Railroads? Built by the Chinese. When you think about it, white people always just let others do all the work, then we step in and try and take the credit. We are the cultural Larry Tate.

  We elect Bob Dornan clones to do our immigration bidding under the guise of a free country. But mostly, I'll be honest, we are scared of not being on top anymore.

  White people aren't having as much fun because we're too busy just trying to hang on to what we've got. We are obsessed with the idea that we have to get ahead and succeed, we have to look like the white people in the ads, our muffins have to be as fluffy and moist as Martha Stewart's, we have to remember to tape Friends lest we be left in the dust at the watercooler on Friday morning, and our lawns have to have more of an edge than Gary Oldman after drinking a pot of espresso and realizing he's out of cigarettes. I mean, just ask Michael Jackson, he'll tell you things were less complicated and more fun back when he was a minority.

  And what do we do with those among us who are the whitest of the white? Why, we make them our kings. Look at our last couple of Presidents. Bush? Christ, Bush is beyond white ... Bush is fucking transparent, all right. Next to George Bush, I am Hammer.

  And Bill Clinton is the iiber-White Guy; we ought to just change the national anthem to "Whiter Shade of Pale." I mean, Clinton is an aw-shucks white boy who loves fast food and gals with big hair. He's the next-door neighbor who flirts with your wife while he sweet-talks you into lending him your brand-new band saw which he never intends to give back.

  So what can we start doing to get some respect back to our people from the other cultures? I'd like to offer the following suggestions to my pigmentally challenged brethren.

  Number one. Star Wars is a great movie. But when married couples show up dressed in full Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia regalia, the force won't stop other people from taking your laser sword and sticking it up your ass.

  Two. Cheez Whiz is not something you eat. It is something you consult a urologist for.

  Three. When you meet African Americans, don't laugh nervously at everything they say. Believe it or not, all black people are not Richard Pryor. Some of them have horrible senses of humor and are just making normal conversation with you.

  Number four. Dinner theater. Only Whitey could have thought, "I liked West Side Story. But you know what was missing? Pork chops."

  Five. When I see tractor pulls advertised on television, I want to douse my skin in baby oil and sit in front of a sun lamp for sixteen straight hours. Okay?

  Number six. Kathie Lee Gifford ... you mustn't ever sing again.

  Seven. Ken Burns—stop. I know your heart is in the right place, but life is too short to sit through Jason fucking Robards reading another four-hour letter General Custer wrote to his goddamned wife from the Battle of Little Big Snore. All right. Somebody tell Ken Burns that a documentary on the Civil War doesn't have to last a year longer than the actual war.

  Number eight. It's not spray-on hair. It's paint. When you use it, you are painting your head. So, if you're going to paint your head, then while you're at it, why don't you just wood-panel your cock, okay?

  Number nine. If you ever meet Nelson Mandela, don't call him "Bro."

  And finally, don't call the guys from your bowling team "your homeys." Don't try and get your fiddle band on Showtime at the Apollo. Don't try and break-dance at your own wedding. And all white people, everywhere: Stop rapping, okay? You aren't Snoop Doggy Dog. You're not even Deputy Dog. You're white. So act white. Peace. Out.

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

  UFOs

  Why are Americans so reluctant to welcome anybody from Mexico and so enamored—witness the grosses for Independence Day—of the idea of encountering creatures from another planet?

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but it seems like nowadays you can't throw a rock without hitting somebody who'll claim it was a UFO.

  As life on this planet swirls at an ever-increasing speed down the crapper, is it any wonder that we're becoming more and more fixated with this notion of life elsewhere?

  It all began in the fifties when we saw an astronomical increase in the number of UFO sightings. In fact, before 1947 there were next to no reports of UFOs. Is it just a coincidence that everyone began to see flying saucers about the same time everyone began seeing Communists? World War II was over and we needed something new to fear.

  In 1947 something crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. Some believe four aliens were discovered at the site and that their remains, as well as the flying saucer, are being held in an air force installation a hundred miles north of Las Vegas known as Area 51. UFO-olgists insist that the four aliens, and manager Brian Epstein, accidentally crashed their own flying saucer. Yeah, because they can travel 350 million light-years dodging black holes, asteroids, and comets, but those New Mexico telephone wires are a real bitch. Hey, I think two of the four aliens might have survived the wreck, escaped from Area 51, and made it to Vegas, where they've been doing nine shows a week under the names Siegfried and Roy!

  Now, true "believers" say that Area 51 is definitely hiding something, because if you go there, they won't let you in and they won't tell you what they have there. You know why that is? Because it's a fucking military installation! All right, what do you think if you go to Areas 1 through 50 you're going to get some chardonnay and a piece of Gouda? No, you're not. You're going to get turned away faster than Roger Clinton trying to get backstage at a Marilyn Manson concert.

  Now, some believe that there is an authentic film of an autopsy on one of the Roswell aliens. I saw the film on Fox, I believe it was sandwiched between a very special Martin and a very special Party of Five and I thought the autopsy was as authentic as a piece of total bullshit can be. By the way, you know what the autopsy found? Traces of O.J.'s blood.

  In addition to the Area 51 freaks, there are those who legitimize the existence of aliens vis-a-vis the appearance of crop patterns that resemble the symbol that Prince uses as his name etched into an okra field outside Mt. Pilot. All right, occasionally bizarre patterns can be seen if you and Mike the Crop Duster who dated Bea Benaderet's lesbian daughter Bobbi Jo fly over the fields out back of the Shady Rest. Some say it's a landing marker for aliens. I say it's Uncle Joe with an IV drip of grain alcohol and a weed whacker.

  Another core ingredient of UFO studies is the abduction by aliens. Under hypnosis, the abductees' recollections all share the same characteristics: long stretches of time unaccounted for, strange bruises on the body, a suspicion of sexual violation ... is it just me, or does alien abduction sound amazingly like spring break?

  Listen, it's a natural tendency to look skyward for the next shiny thing to answer our prayers. That's why people flock to UFO conventions in the hope that when the inevitable mass landing does happen, the star gods will first want to get in touch with the mentally unstable among us.

  The purest defining event of the UFO culture has got to be the Star Trek convention. Not sinc
e the pope and Cardinal O'Connor spoke to a symposium of nuns catered by the Amish has so little sexual experience been assembled in one room.

  Hey, look, I would be the first one to tell you I would welcome aliens, because I am running out of people to despise on this planet.

  Despite the barnacles of cynicism that resolutely encrust my hull, I do believe that there is life other than ours somewhere other than Earth. I just don't think they're coming here. I don't know who they are or what they drive, but I assume that they, like I, stick to the tenet that the less you have to do with your neighbors, the better off it is for everyone involved.

  To an extraterrestrial, planet Earth, at best, would be like the Vince Lombardi rest stop along the Jersey Turnpike. Chances are they stopped off here once to try and stretch their tiny gray limbs, pick up a nut log, and take a leak out of one of their forty-seven penises.

  But on the off chance that there are any super- advanced alien beings out there, first of all, thanks for buying the book. And now I want you to listen up, Kaldar of Romula Five. When you do come here and abduct one of us, invariably, might I add, one of us from a rural address, please stay out of our asses. Okay?