by Adam Carolla
We’ve created a society of validation monsters. All you need to do is look at bumper stickers. They used to just be on the backs of Volkswagen vans. And they fell into one of three categories—funny: DON’T LAUGH, IT’S PAID FOR, or BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY; sexual: HONK IF YOU’RE HORNY, or IF THIS VAN’S A-ROCKIN’, DON’T COME A-KNOCKIN’; and pragmatic: DON’T TAILGATE, or GAS, GRASS OR ASS: NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. But they were never grandiose. Nobody bragged about their kids’ accomplishments in the classroom or on the playing field. And you never saw the license-plate frame that makes me want to hurl into my Audi’s ashtray—PROUD GRANDPA OF AIDAN AND DAKOTA. We knew something back then that we seem to have forgotten today, which is that no one gives a shit about your grandkids or whether your fat son made the honor roll at his magnet school. Somebody decided ten years ago that more kids would make the honor roll if we praised them on our Volvo bumpers. I think it’s quite the opposite. I think your kids would be much more motivated to make the honor roll if they knew your car was gonna get a big orange Styrofoam dunce cap on the roof if they weren’t pulling at least a 3.0. We’ll call it the Denver Dunce Cap.
* * *
Another example of how we’re ruining our kids are Girl Scout cookies.
Sounds innocent enough: How can Girl Scout cookies be responsible for the demise of our civilization? It’s not the cookies, it’s the distribution network. When I was a kid, Girl Scout cookies were actually sold by Girl Scouts. Not that the Carollas ever bought any: A) They didn’t take food stamps, and B) in the early seventies, my mom considered anyone in uniform the Man.
Quick aside: Let’s take a moment and establish the power rankings of Girl Scout cookies. Tagalongs (peanut butter and chocolate), Samoas (caramel, chocolate, and what seems like pubes), Thin Mints, and everything else is a distant fourth. The one that needs to be removed from the lineup altogether is the Trefoils. These are the shortbread cookies—textureless, tasteless poker chips that are basically the Girl Scout version of the sacrament. How fucking low does your self-esteem have to be to skip past the Samoas and the Tagalongs to order a couple of cartons of this white-trash kibble? Are these the only ones you can eat without having to lift your Klan hood?
My point is, Girl Scouts don’t sell Girl Scout cookies anymore. The moms and dads of the Girl Scouts do all the heavy lifting. When I was working at Jimmy Kimmel Live!, every year around February the beleaguered dads would corner you in the hall. “Hey, man, my daughter’s troop is trying to get to Yosemite this year. Can I put you down for a couple of cases?” Can you imagine when you were a kid asking your dad to take a crate of cookies to work and sell it for you? He’d be like, “How about I take your fucking bike to the corner and sell that?”
Today’s generation of Girl Scouts are not learning how to work, they’re learning how to delegate. Dads: How about you show some goddamn self-respect and stop muling Pecan Sandies for the Girl Scout cartel? And girls: How about you show some dignity, get in that brown skirt, fill up that Radio Flyer, go to the entrance of the supermarket, and wait to be abducted?
WHERE HAVE
ALL THE FELLAS
GONE?
Far too many guys in their forties can’t turn a wrench or swing a hammer nowadays. But they have tons of opinions about the new Silver Surfer movie. It’s a sure sign of the pussification of America. What happened?
Forget about actually being a man’s man—guys don’t even bother to lie about being manly anymore. It used to be a fella would at least have enough dignity that when he was driving with the missus and the car wouldn’t start, even though he didn’t know what the fuck to look for, he’d say, “Pop the hood.” He’d stand there and stare at the engine for a while, set his cigarette on top of the air cleaner, and yell, “Try it now.” Of course the engine wouldn’t start, but at least he looked like a man. Now the guy says, “Call Triple-A. I don’t want to get my cuticles dirty.”
It’s the same thing with fighting. Guys used to have stories where they said, “This son of a bitch spilled a drink on my old lady at the bar, so I got in his face and said, ‘If you’re looking for trouble, you found it. You’re in for a world of hurt.’ ” Now dudes tell stories that go, “I honked at a guy and he got out of his car so I called 911. But I got a busy signal, so I locked myself in and hit the OnStar button.” What happened to the bullshit factor where you at least pretended to be a guy?
Here’s a good fight story. And it’s all true.
I was about twenty-one and was with five buddies looking to get laid at a party. It was a nice house in the hills and someone’s parents were out of town. The problem was I was the only one not getting laid, because I had hooked up with a nutty chick. So I wanted to leave. As I was walking down the stairs exiting the party, the chick told a group of tough guys who were just arriving that I had hit her. I had done no such thing but now I really wish I had. So they followed me down the stairs and were threatening me.
It was like some multicultural gang from a bad TV show—a big husky Mexican guy, a brother, and three white guys. I said I couldn’t fight because I had arthroscopic knee surgery three days earlier; I still had stitches and just took the brace off. But the big Mexican guy responded, “I’m gonna break your other knee.” I was drunk, so I said, “Okay, it’s just me and you, right? You’re the one with a beef. If your friends promise not to jump in, I’ll fight you.” He agreed, so we headed out to the street and I started beating him up. I was a good boxer. I was just hitting him and he wasn’t hitting me back. Eventually I whacked him hard; he fell into his group of friends and didn’t come back at me. Then I made the mistake of taunting him. “Hey buddy, you wanted it. You were Mr. Tough Guy on the stairs. You begged me to fight and now I’m out here kicking your ass, so come on, you pussy. I ain’t done. Bring it on.”
Mid-taunt, I felt a sting on my left shoulder and heard the sound of breaking glass. One of his buddies had thrown a beer bottle and it broke when it hit me. Six inches higher and I’m sure it would have ruptured my eardrum. But this thing just shattered and fell to the ground without so much as a scratch. But then out of nowhere his buddy, a guy I later found out was named Terry, took an aluminum baseball bat, came up behind me, and took a full swing at my knee. Maybe he was trying to keep his friend’s promise to break my other knee. What the fuck is wrong with people? Who thinks, “I have no issue with this guy, I’ve never met him before, he just had knee surgery, but I’m going to come up behind him when he’s not looking and take a full crack at him with an aluminum bat like they used to kill Joe Pesci in Casino”? He took a home-run swing, but thankfully it wasn’t at the knee with the stitches in it. Instead he shot high and hit the fleshy part of my thigh. All it did was sting and make me curtsy. Then all five of them jumped on me and one of them hit me with a good uppercut that busted my lip open and spilled blood all over my nice white button-up shirt. I found the guy who hit me—it was the black guy, and interestingly enough he was the kung-fu guy of the group. We started going at it. It was one in the morning on a street in Studio City and we were reenacting a scene from Enter the Dragon. While we were trading kicks and punches, the cops arrived and it broke up.
In the end those guys thought I was a maniac because I had a beer bottle broken over me, been hit with a baseball bat, and after all five of them jumped on me and busted my lip open, I was screaming for more. The guy who wanted to fight in the first place was much worse off than I was. But I still, and rightfully so, wanted some revenge on the animal who had hit me with the bat. I knew he was a local guy, and I spent six months trying to find him.
Cut to New Year’s Eve. I was at a party at my friend Umgad Abuzamzam’s place making out with some chick in a bathroom. There was a violent pounding at the door. It was my buddy Ray. He was hammered and screaming at the top of his lungs, “It’s Ray, get out here.” I said, “Leave me alone.” I was with a chick whose panties were around her ankles. I didn’t have time for Ray. But he insisted, “Get out here, you’ve gotta see this.” So me and the girl g
ot our shit together and opened the door. Ray had Terry, the bat man himself, in a headlock. I can’t imagine what was going through his head. Here it is six months later, Ray’s got him by the neck, and he’s staring at the guy who took on him and four friends, a beer bottle, and a bat, and was asking for more. Ray was offering Terry up to me like a cat when it catches a bird and drags it into the house. As a result of Terry begging for mercy, my lack of killer instinct, and my boner, I told Ray to let him go. So Ray flicked him away like a cigarette butt.
Then, five years later, I was standing on the street in front of my apartment building waiting for someone who was gonna check out the truck I was selling. I noticed a large moving van being unloaded by a new tenant. I remember thinking, This is a big fucking Mexican guy about to move into my building. I didn’t recognize him. But he recognized me. He said, “I know you, man.” So I asked, “Oh, did you play some Pop Warner football with me or something?” He said, “No, I know you.” I replied, “Well, you don’t look familiar to me. Did you grow up in North Hollywood?” He said, “No, we fought, man.” Then it hit me who he was, the guy I had beat up. For a moment I was scared because I was standing in the street with a buff Mexican guy, and the last time we were in the street together, we were throwing punches. But I quickly realized I was the one who beat him up, and I knew all those guys thought I was a maniac anyway. So sure enough, he just walked into his apartment.
In 2006 we tracked down Terry and called him on my morning radio show. He’s now a professional pilot. I hope you’re reading this on a plane that he’s flying and just shit your pants.
Now that’s a fight story.
You ever see one of those movies from the fifties where every guy is wearing a hat and the same gray suit, and every woman has her hair styled the same way? That was back when we had something called a society. Now we have individuals. The notion seems evolved, but the execution is starting to piss me off. That being said, here’s a list of guys I can’t hang out with.
WEIRD FACIAL HAIR GUY I don’t mind a guy with a beard. And I love a guy with a mustache. I’m talking about the a-hole who has the Sharpie-thin stripe going ear to ear and over the top of his upper lip. Never have more calories been spent achieving a worse look. Why would somebody cultivate a look that required an extra hour in the mirror each morning? Exactly. It’s because this narcissistic fuck gets to stare at his Jersey Shore ass for an extra hour in the mirror. Is it a coincidence that the more elaborate the facial hair, the bigger the narcissistic dick that’s rocking it? I don’t think so. I shave twice a week, and that’s way too much mirror time for me. These guys start every day with a meticulous sculpting of their mug, which I’m sure is followed by a homoerotic pose-down.
MY-WIFE’S-MY-BEST-FRIEND GUY I know I sound like a jaded dick, but your wife’s not supposed to be your best friend. She’s not even supposed to be in your Fave Five. When’s the last time you begged your best friend for a blow job? I don’t believe these guys. I think they’re just saying it to score points with their wives and to make the rest of us look like assholes. Your best friend is the guy you go to to bitch about your wife getting fat. Plus you can’t brag to your wife about the handy you got in the champagne room.
I DON’T OWN A TV GUY If you can’t afford a TV or you pawned your TV because of a gambling debt, you get a pass. But this is the guy who doesn’t own a TV for the sole purpose of announcing he doesn’t own a TV. This is his way of declaring he’s better than you. He acts like everyone who has a TV just sits around staring at Night Court reruns and Ashton Kutcher commercials. He would never admit there’s provocative, informative, entertaining programming such as my favorite new reality show I’m a Pretentious Asshole Who Tells Everyone I Don’t Own a TV.
GUYS WHO ANNOUNCE THEY “RESCUE” DOGS You didn’t go into a burning warehouse or the roof of a flooded barn to get the dog. You went to the pound, because you were too cheap to go to the mall. You don’t love dogs nearly as much as you love the idea of people thinking you’re a hero. You ever notice people who buy their dogs rarely discuss how they got them, versus these assholes who work the phrase “She’s a rescue” into every fucking conversation? What do you want? Spielberg to make a movie about you? I’d love to follow one of these douchebags around for a year with a clicker counter bouncers use at the door of the club, and find out how many times they utter the phrase “She’s a rescue.” Over-under would be fifteen thousand. When I was a kid, all the sofas in my house were freebies we got from other people who were throwing them out. My mom never once referred to them as “rescues.”
THE GUY WHO WANTS TO KNOW WHERE YOU GOT YOUR COLD He’s McGruff with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of Robitussin. As soon as you tell him that you have a cold, he tells you the date of his last cold and where he got it. Then he’s gonna need to know where you got yours. “I don’t know” is not an acceptable answer. He’s a regular Sherlock Holmes who’s gonna follow the trail of mucus until he breaks the case wide open. He asks, “Do you have kids? They probably picked up something at preschool and brought it home.” “Have you traveled recently? The air in those planes just recirculates. They’re like flying petri dishes.” Thanks, Cold and Flu Case. What does he want me to do with this information? “As soon as this fever breaks, I’m giving those kids away! And the next time business takes me to Chicago, I’m going by mule!”
I’VE NEVER DRANK GUY Close asshole cousin to I Don’t Own a TV Guy. Now don’t get me wrong, if you don’t drink now because the last time you got drunk you drove your Pontiac Aztek through a Gymboree or beat the shit out of Tina Turner, or screamed at a trooper, “What do you have that Taser set on—pussy?” then you have an excuse not to drink. I’m talking about the a-hole who’s never been drunk a day in his life. He says he doesn’t like to feel out of control. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want to hang out with a guy who won’t pass out long enough for me to draw a cock on his forehead.
GUY WHO SWIMS BEFORE WORK This guy is always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You didn’t think your hangover could get any worse? Try standing next to the guy who’s never felt more alive. No matter how early the job starts, he finds time to squeeze in six or seven hundred laps over at the Y. This asshole never misses an opportunity to let you know he’s a superior person.
YOU: Wait a minute, didn’t you go to the U2 concert last night?
HIM: That’s right, I didn’t go to bed till one thirty, but I still got up at four forty-five and hit the Y.
YOU: If I stay up till ten fifteen beating off to Blame It on Rio I’m calling in sick the next day, you prick.
GAY GUY WHO ACTS SO GAY HE’S THOUGHT OF AS A CHICK AND THUS GETS OUT OF ALL THE HEAVY LIFTING I’ve been kicking around this theory for a while. There are two kinds of gay: I love to chug cock gay, and I’m not going to help you move gay. This guy’s the latter. Speaking of ladders, don’t ask to borrow one. He doesn’t own a fucking tool. And he isn’t going to help you or anyone else do shit. He’s essentially presented himself to society as a frail woman. You wouldn’t tell Céline Dion, “Grab that forty-pound sack of kibble out of the trunk and bring it up to my apartment.” This breed of gay is well aware of this and relies heavily on it. Kind of like those assholes with the handicap plate going to the water park.
ROCKABILLY SKULL GUY He’s the guy who needs to let you know exactly what decade he’s trapped in. No matter what the calendar says, it’s always 1955 to him. Whether he’s at a club or the supermarket, he’s dressed like the fourth member of the Stray Cats. And he’s in love with skulls. From the tattoo on his arm to the shift knob on his Mercury to the chrome one on his key chain. This asshole loves skulls more than Hamlet. Hey, Fonzie, you’re a forty-four-year-old house painter, not one of the Outsiders.
The person I really feel sorry for is this guy’s girlfriend. This poor bitch has to dress like Betty from the Archie comics or they can’t go out. I bet every Saturday night they have the same argument: “Can’t I just wear my Juicy sweatpants and leave my hair down?” �
�Fuck that, put on that poodle skirt and those saddle shoes, we’re going to the mall to get you a skull tattoo.”
GUY WHO TELLS YOU WHAT CAFFEINE DOES TO HIM A close cousin of the Guy Who Tells You What Red Meat Does to Him. He’s scared he’s never going to sleep again. If you handed him a wedge of jicama he’d ask if there was caffeine in it. He’d tell you a horror story about the time he went to the diner for breakfast, ordered a decaf coffee, and couldn’t sleep for three days. That waitress must have given him regular! You could give him a cup of stream water and he’d ask you three times if there was caffeine in it. We get it, you’re a lightweight. But I must admit I’m secretly jealous. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a thimbleful of Maxwell House away from being able to drive an 18-wheeler from Los Angeles to Vermont nonstop?
PANTIES IN A BUNCH GUY This is the guy who is looking for an excuse to be offended. Every action, no matter how harmless, is a personal attack. He’s the guy who’s walking his dog down a narrow street with no sidewalk when I come around the corner at nineteen miles an hour and gives me a look like I drove through his living room while he was reading Where the Wild Things Are to his special-needs grandchild. By the way, his wife is the bitch who uses the phrase “Excuse you,” and his brother is the guy with the huge put-upon exhale when you ask him to switch seats on the Southwest flight. Hey dick, not everyone is out to get you. We wouldn’t even know you existed if it wasn’t for your overdramatized approach to life. But I suspect you already know that.
LAZY FLIP-CAP GUY At some point a few years ago, somebody invented the ketchup bottle with the flip cap so you could avoid the ketchup going skunky when one of your coworkers was too lazy to twist the metal cap back on the Heinz. But the lazy flip-cap guy’s lethargy has overcome this new technology. Every job I’ve ever had with a communal kitchen has had a ketchup, and now a mayo squeeze bottle, where the cap was left open at a 90-degree angle. I find it satisfying to hear the snap of that plastic cap after I’ve doused my fries in ketchup. But this guy is so lazy or passive-aggressive that he refuses to complete the simplest task on the planet. What’s this asshole’s strategy? Obviously he’s using the ketchup—why does he want it to get all dry and crusty at the top? Is he high? Or is it a fuck-you to everyone he works with? Imagine how devastated the inventor of the flip cap would be if he could travel through America’s kitchens and see the millions of unsnapped caps. I’m sure when he invented this thing, he thought, “Eureka! That’s it, there’ll never be another open, crusty ketchup bottle. I’ve created a utopia for generations to come!” But there’s one thing he didn’t count on … just how lazy, self-absorbed, and narcissistic we actually are.