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Tom Segura

I wish I was home right now. -Um… - No offense. Not personal. That is literally my first thought whenever I walk into any room. I’m like, “Well, I wish I was home right now.” -Uh… I think it’s your thought too. I think you’re like, “I hope this is good,” but also, “Wrap this shit up so I can go home.” I actually think that’s the meaning of life. Like, people are always philosophizing, “What is the meaning of life?” I’ll tell you the meaning of life. The meaning of life is, “Fuck this place. Let’s go home.” Now… Luckily for all of us, I think we are five years away from never leaving our homes again. - -And I’m pretty fuckin’ excited about it. There… There are a lot of indicators if you’re paying attention. Like, number one, do you ever really process that you don’t have to leave your home to buy anything? You’re like, “Yeah, I order some things online.” No, no, no. You can sit on your couch, pull up your phone, and if you want to, just be like, “I want bananas. And I want hammers. And… -I want an eagle’s beak.” -And then… - Amazon’s like, *blows raspberry* “It’s on your fuckin’ doorstep.” How about that? Isn’t that insane to you? You don’t have to leave your home to see people. You should. You don’t have to. Just hold up the same device and be like, “Hi.” “Bye.” And you saw everyone. But the number-one indicator that we are not gonna leave our homes one day very soon are the number of commercials I see for beds that sit up for you. -Now… - if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you haven’t been watching TV. There are endless commercials that air, where basically, a guy comes out and he’s like, “Doesn’t it suck to sit up?” Something like that. And I guess the people are like, “It does suck!” And he goes, “Well, get this fuckin’ bed. You don’t have to sit up no more.” They try to advertise that it’s for snoring. It’s because you’re a piece of shit. That’s why you got that bed. All you’ve done is lay down. You’ve been sleeping for hours, and your first thought when you wake up is, “I don’t even want to sit up. I want to go from here to…” -Mm… - Well, wakey-wakey, little turd. How are you gonna change the world? That means in two years, we’re gonna be sitting in beds that sit up for us, and we’ll just go, “Food.” And then a mechanical arm will come out. And then you’ll go, “Shit.” And the bed will open. And you’ll go, bah! And you’ll shit through the bed. And then you’ll be like, “I’m tired. I wanna rest. Oh, yeah.” -Mm… - And we’ll all be 800 pounds. -I can’t fuckin’ wait. Now… - Speaking of weight, I lost a decent amount of weight recently. I was on… That’s right. I was in a weight loss contest with the fattest man on Earth. - -And… Yes. You may have seen him. His name is Brent Crystals. And…. I beat him in this contest because I’m a better person, -but that’s not what I want to talk about. - I lost about 50 pounds, and you know… Yeah. Maybe… Maybe you’re out there right now and you’re thinking, like, “Hey, man. If you can do that, I can do that.” Probably not. I mean, look what I’m doing right now. Can you do this? I don’t fuckin’ think so. I’m just an awesome guy. But… You know what sucks? When you lose weight on a public platform like I did, you get… I get so many messages. People are like, “You inspired me.” And I’m like, “Oh, I didn’t mean to.” People ask me like, “Will you coach me into weight loss?” -And I’m like, “Absolutely not.” - One guy hit me up like 50 times. “Give me a message to get this kick-started.” “I’ll give you a message. When you look in the mirror, do you say, ‘I fuckin’ hate you’? Then you’re not ready. Cry more and eat less.” Send. -That’s my message. - Hey, you asked me. Now… I’ll tell you, on a grand scale, who’s helping nobody lose weight is Starbucks. And this is true. They have a national training campaign to try to trick you into ordering food. And this is why. They know you’re going to order a beverage. So, they try to lead you into food. Pull into any Starbucks drive-through. And now they greet you, they say, “Welcome to Starbucks. What can we get started for you to eat today?” -And you’re like, “Wait, what? - I just wanted coffee.” And they’re like, “No shit. What else do you want?” You’re like, “I don’t know, sausage? I mean, what do you have?” I don’t respect that. I like my shame straight-up and honest. And nobody does that better than the West Coast burger chain In-N-Out. And if you’ve never been… If you’ve never been in In-N-Out, get your fuckin’ life together and go. And I want you to go simply so you can experience the most shameful and honest question in all of fast food. ‘Cause you pull up and you go, “I’ll have a double-double, fries and a Coke.” And they go, “Will you be eating in the car?” “Yeah, I think so.” And they go, “I bet you will, you fat, fuckin’ pile of garbage.” Doesn’t that question sting? You’re like, “Am I living in my car? Why am I eating in my car?” ‘Cause if you say no, they give you a bag, and they’re like, “Leave with dignity.” But if you say yes, it’s an open tray, and they go, “Eat out of that, pig.” And then it falls in your lap and they go, “Pick it up!” And you’re like, *mumbling* “Hot dog, french fries.” “Are you gonna jerk off when you get home ’cause you’re lonely?” And you’re like, “Yes, yes.” “We’re gonna give you a free milkshake because you’re bummin’ everybody out. We’re fast food workers. You’re making us sad. Get the fuck out of here.” You can’t say “retarded” anymore. It was just here. Don’t you remember? -“Retarded.” That’s how I… - People get very upset. I don’t really support the arguments against it. When people are like, “You shouldn’t say it.” “Why?” “What if there’s one over there?” And you’re like… We never said it like that. We were never like, “Look at that guy!” You didn’t say it like that. You said it to describe an idea, or a situation, you know? If your friend was like, “I’ll pick you up at your house, and then we’ll come back to my place, and later we can go back to your house. And we can get your bags. And then, we’ll come back over here after that.” And your like, “That’s retarded. Why the fuck would we do that?” But now you can’t say that. Now you’ve gotta be like, “That’s not… smart. Your idea has an extra 21st chromosome, if you ask me.” It’s not the same. You can’t say, “That’s gay.” Damn. I used to abuse that expression, I’m not gonna lie. And never for anything remotely sexual. I just would say it all the time. If you were like, “I’ll have a water, no ice.” I’d be like, “That’s gay.” You know? “Why do you have so many balloons? That’s gay.” Shit like that. Can’t say it anymore. Now, to be clear, you can say “that’s gay.” But it has to be for something overtly gay. Like it has to be ten guys standing in a line, each of them has their dick in the ass of the guy in front of them. And they’re marching and going, “I want the come. Give me the come. I want the come.” -And then you can go, “That’s gay.” - And even then they’re like, “Take it easy.” And you’re like, “All right, jeez.” You can’t say “midget.” Goddamn it. I never thought we’d lose that one. You can’t say it. People get very upset. I never said it to be cruel. And let’s be honest. It was perfectly acceptable for years. The best part about the word midget, before it became offensive, is that it’s specific. You know what someone’s talking about. That’s what was great about it. You could be like, “I was at the zoo today and I saw a midget.” And you’d be like, “Did they feed him to the lions? What happened next?” But now, I can’t say that. Now, I gotta be like, “I saw a little person.” -And you’re like, “Was it a child, or…” - Like, “No. Under 4’11” with the hands.” “Oh, okay.” Now you know what I’m saying. So… You might be sitting in your seat now, going, “Tom, what can we still say? What can we say?” I’ll tell you what you can say. White racial slurs. All of ’em. Let her rip. Cracker, mick, kraut, polack, frog, guinea, wop, honky. Have fun. Say ’em all you want. And if you’re not white, and you’re going, “Wait, are you saying I can say those?” -That’s exactly what I’m saying. - Nobody cares. Call up your Italian friend tomorrow and be like, “Hey, you fuckin’ guinea.” And he’ll go, *laughs* “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit.” It’s not a historically disenfranchised group. The best slur of all, for me, I think, is honky. And I’ll tell you why. The word honky is hilarious… in and of itself. But for some reason, truly racist white people have latched onto that word. It’s like this great indicator to know if someone’s racist. If they act like that word is offensive, run, okay? You don’t believe me, watch the news. Next time there’s some racial fight in the news, they’ll find some hillbilly. “What happened?” He’ll be like, “Well, he called me a honky.” And they’re like, “Did you pass out from laughing hysterically, or what happened next?” He’s like, “No, I stabbed him.” And you’re like, “Oh, shit. That’s fuckin’ crazy.” I’ll pay you to call me a honky. I don’t care. It’s a great word. I saw a racial fight recently, which is terrible, but I watched it. How are you not gonna watch? You’re gonna watch every fight, you know? Fights have that weird quality. Fights are kinda like hand jobs, in that you don’t really want one, but you’re like, “We’ll see where it goes.” You know? “Will you give it a kiss? No? All right.” So, you know. Had to take a shot. So… I’m in Philadelphia, walking through the park in the middle of the day. Beautiful day in Philly, beautiful park. I’m walking through this park. And as I’m walking through it, I see a white guy. And he yells across the park to a black guy, he calls him a n… *mumbles* -And… - When you hear that and you’re in public, you’re like, “Oh, my God. I’m gonna die.” That’s your first thought. And then, another black guy, I don’t know if he lived in the bushes, but… He popped out of the bushes, like… if this is a bush right here, I just saw a black guy go, “Mm-mm. No. Not in my park. Uh-uh” But it’s like, no one else saw that guy. Only I was like, “Oh, my God! I see that guy!” Like that. It became my own personal movie. I watched him line up like the honey badger. He was like, “That one? All right.” He fuckin’ sprinted across the park. And he tackled the white guy. So instinctively, I just went, “Get him!” But it took me a second to realize, I’m the only other white guy in the park. Yeah, so like, ten black people turned and I went, “No! Him, him! Our him!” And they were like, “What?” And I was like, “I’m out, that’s what.” And then they killed that white guy. And for the record, I don’t give a fuck if they did. You know why? There is no such thing as white-guy loyalty. Okay? I mean, there is, but those guys are obvious as they hold torches. -But the rest of us… - The rest of us are not having that shit. Let me tell you something, man. I’m jealous of inner-racial loyalty. ‘Cause I see it. If you’re white, you see it with other races. Asians, black people for sure. What I’m talking about… There could be a dangerous situation. Let’s say it’s a fight, and there’s a black guy in that fight. And then another black guy, that doesn’t know him, will go, “I’m gonna involve myself. Just on account of us being of the same race. At our core, we are brothers.” I see that, I’m like, “Wow.” ‘Cause when you’re white and you’re in that situation, you’re like, -“Fuck that guy. I don’t know that guy. - Do whatever you want to him. I don’t give a shit.” Let you do something like that guy in the park, and then look at me like, “Are you gonna help out?” You should know something. You’re about to get murdered. Okay? I will fuckin’ take pictures as you’re beaten, and upload them, #honky #deadhonky. Fuck you, cracker. I’m out of here. Now… I’ll tell you, it is fantastic to be in the people’s republic of Denver. It is a great city and, uh… Absolutely love it here. I think you’ve probably already taken it for granted, your lax weed laws. And you forget. You forget the struggle that we all went through at one time. We’re all traumatized by it. I hope you acknowledge that. We our traumatized by our upbringing, okay? If you’re over four years old, you are traumatized by this nation’s laws. And this is what I mean. I bought weed last week. The same dude I buy it from all the time. It was a public place. The first thing I said to him when he gave it to me? I go, “I’m gonna go put it in my car.” And he goes, “Why?” And I just, instinctively, I go, “Cause weed.” And he goes, “Tape it to your fuckin’ forehead. Who gives a shit?” And I was like, “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

Tom Segura

But we, as a nation, we have been traumatized by these horrific laws and people being imprisoned for having weed. And it highlights the absurdity of not only it having been illegal, and so crazy for so many years, but also, highlights how the next generation will not believe our stories about it at all. There’s a zero percent chance they will understand what we’re talking about. It’d be like trying to tell a kid now, like, “Hey, you know pigeons used to deliver messages to people.” They’d be like, “What the fuck are you saying right now?” It would be the same thing. I’ll sit my son down one day and be like, “You know when I was your age, to get weed, I almost died.” And he’ll be like, “Why? Was 7-Eleven on fire or something?” “They didn’t sell it at 7-Eleven. Daddy used to get in cars with strangers.” “Where are we going?” “Chill out.” “All right.” The three-hour round trips to buy weed. “What kind of weight were you moving?” Twenty dollars’ worth of marijuana. That kind of major shit. I bought weed from a dude in a stand-alone trailer one time. Not a trailer park. A solo trailer. The most terrifying housing situation that exists. Where other trailer people are like, “Get the fuck out of here.” Kick ’em out. I just walked up to that shit, 15. This dude’s like, “You trying to get a sack?” -I was like, “Oh, shit. Yeah.” - “We could go do that.” I was like, “All right. Cool.” And he goes, “We just need to go get it.” I was like, “You don’t fuckin’ have it? Isn’t that your sole responsibility?” I tried to play cool, “Let’s go get it.” He goes, “I’ll go get it. You stay here and watch my place.” And I was like… “Okay.” Then he goes, “There’s a .357 and a shotgun on my bed. Anybody comes in here, blast ’em.” Inside? Paralysis. But what I said was, “That’s what’s up.” -Like, yeah, man. Pow. - *imitates explosion* Then he stopped at the door. “But don’t shoot my mom.” I go, “Can we get a description before we agree to terms? How about a height and weight on old mom?” Not everybody agrees on weed. That’s fine, I don’t care. Like my parents, we don’t agree… They are not cool with weed. I don’t care. They’re old. I still love them. My dad’s a Vietnam vet, you know. Some of them are cool… -*man* Yeah! -…with weed. Some of them are not. Some don’t want to talk about Vietnam. -My dad does. - Some are like, “I don’t want to talk about it.” And my dad’s like, “What do you want to know?” Here’s what I wanted to know as a kid. It’s terrible to ask a stranger this, but this was my own father. And I’d seen a lot of movies. So, I’m like, “You were in the war. Did you kill anybody?” The first time I asked him, he goes, “No, I didn’t.” I go, “All right. Okay.” A few years later, I asked him again. “Did you ever kill anybody?” He goes, “I was a lieutenant. I was in charge of people. It didn’t work like that.” I said, “Okay.” A few years later, I asked again, “You ever kill anybody?” And he goes, “I threw grenades into bunkers.” I go, “Were there people in there?” He goes, “There were, yeah. Just little pieces by the time I got in there.” Then last year, I go, “Did you ever kill anybody?” He goes, “There’s no better feeling than killing the enemy.” Whoa. I can remember the first time we ever talked about weed. Because it was Christmas Day. That’s why it stood out. I was 12 years old. I think my sister brought it up. She was like, “I want to smoke weed.” And my dad goes, “You want to know what I think of marijuana?” And I was genuinely curious. I go, “What, Dad?” He goes, “I was at a party one time. And somebody pulled out a marijuana cigarette. And I said, ‘I’m out of here.'” And I was like, “Cool story, nerd. You got any other ones?” And he goes, “Well, yeah. One time, I was in Vietnam, and some Viet Cong tried to sell my marines marijuana. So, I found him, and I picked him up by his throat, and I threw him on the ground, and I put my M16 in his face. And I said, ‘If you ever come here again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.'” And I go, “Do you have any stories in between those two stories?” Jesus. It’s Christmas, bro. Goddamn. Two years after that, there was a woodpecker fuckin’ up our house. This will all make sense. And… Woodpeckers can really damage your house. I remember my dad paid a guy $500 to patch up that part of the house. A month later, the woodpecker returned. This time, my dad did not call the guy. He woke me up, his teenage son, on a Saturday morning. Picture you’re dead asleep. And my dad, whispering in your ear, with his potent dad breath. He just whispers in my ear, dead asleep, “I need you to shoot a bird.” I just go, “I don’t do that.” And he goes, “Figure it out.” So, I said, “Okay, Lieutenant.” And I got an air rifle. I shot the woodpecker. I remember, I shot it mid-peck, so it was going… *imitates woodpecker* Landed in front of me. So much bigger up close. Really big. Red feathers, distinct features. I was blown away. I bagged it up, I threw it away. I went over to my girlfriend’s house, I started telling her family about it over lunch. I should mention, at the time, my girlfriend’s family ran a wildlife conservation center. So… I didn’t know my audience. But… I heard a few forks drop, and I look up. And her dad goes, “Oh, my God. You killed a long-billed woodpecker. That’s an endangered species.” And I go, “Oh.” I said, “My dad made me do it.” And he goes, “How does that make you feel, knowing that you did that?” And I said, “There’s no better feeling than killing the enemy. -It was fuckin’ awesome. - I loved it. Those birds are extinct now. I did that shit. I don’t give a fuck. I’m crazy.” So… Oh, man. Don’t you hate everyone? -Um… - I mean, obviously, I’m not talking about you guys. But, uh… No, I’ve been on this tour for a long time. Too long. And I meet people sometimes after shows, you know. I meet people, and it’s always a roll of the dice. I’ve been meeting lunatics. I mean, I meet people. I met a guy after a show recently. I’m shaking people’s hands, saying hi. Guy comes up to me, he goes, uh… *mumbles* And I go, “What?” And he goes… *mumbles* I said, “Where am I from originally?” And he goes… *mumbles* I said, “I was born in Cincinnati, but I moved around a lot. *man* Yeah! And he goes, “Huh.” *mumbling* And I go, “Are you a person that’s talking to me right now?” And he goes, “Yeah.” And then I decipher that what he’s saying is, *in Southern accent* “I’m from Lafayette, Louisiana, about 20 miles south of there. There’s a bunch of Seguras down there. I thought maybe you’re from there too.” And I go, “Oh. Fuckin’ no.” *mumbling* And then I realized, we have this whole population of Cajun people living amongst us, like they’re one of us. And they’re not. Why do they have rights? This guy had the audacity to ask me, he goes… *mumbling* I said, “Did you just ask me if there’s a Redbox around here?” *mumbles* I go, “I don’t fuckin’ work here.” Like, I thought he was moments away from being like, “I do declare. I am a cartoon character and I’ve come to life.” Here’s all I’m saying. I support building a wall if it’s around the state of Louisiana because those people are out of their fuckin’ minds. *mumbling* You fuckin’ swamp people, we don’t need you. What are we gonna miss out on? *in Southern accent* “Where you gonna get your shrimp?” -Oh. - What a contribution. *in Southern accent* “No more gator, no more shrimp.” Fuckin’ inbreds. So… Cracker-ass inbreds, *laughs* we don’t need you. Fuckin’ tell ’em. They’ll see this shit. Fuck you, cracker. So… Probably checked in to 400 hotels this year. And when I tell you that this has happened to me more than half a dozen times, I am not exaggerating. Every hotel check-in begins, usually, the same. It’s standard. Hotels, you know, the people at the desk, they go, “Last name?” And this just happened to me. “Last name?” And I go, “Segura.” And the guy goes, “Whoa. Are you Japanese?” And I go, “Hundred percent, yeah.” He goes, “We don’t get a lot of Japanese people here. That’s pretty cool.” So, I have to stop him, and go, “Hey, man. I’m not Japanese.” And he goes, *in gruff voice* “Segura. Segura! Sounds Japanese.” I go, “That’s ’cause you’re saying it Japanese. I could be Smith, and if you want to go *in gruff voice* ‘Smith…’ - -then it’s Japanese.” And he goes, “Well, what are you?” Which is fuckin’ rude. Can I just say, it’s never important to ask that question. “What are you?” It’s never important to ask that. It’s sometimes important, but… - -not a lot. When is it important? Sushi chef, accountant, 100-meter dash. -Outside of that… Sometimes it matters, so… I tell ’em. I go, “Segura is Spanish.” And he goes, “That’s weird. You look white.” And I go, “I am white.” And he goes, “But you’re Spanish?” And I go, “Correct.” He goes, “Do you speak Spanish?” I said, “Yes.” And he goes, “So, you’re Mexican.” And I go, “No.” And he goes, “I don’t know what’s going on.” I said, “What’s going on is you failed fuckin’ social studies. And you’re not too good at geography either.” And then I see his head drop like he feels bad. “Look, man. You understand there’s white people in Mexico, you know that.” -And he goes, “No, I don’t.” - I said, “There’s white people there, black people there, even Asian people there. And if you really want to shit your pants, those Asian people, -they speak Spanish too. - You don’t expect it, but they’re like, ‘Dim sum…’ *speaking in Spanish* -They are… - Asian, and they speak Spanish.” *imitates explosion* Now, as you can tell, I speak beautiful, perfect Spanish. And… It is to no credit of my own. My mother is Peruvian, and her English wasn’t good. So, she spoke to us in Spanish. And that’s how I picked up on Spanish. I get so many different reactions when people find out I speak Spanish. I either get completely incredulous people who are like, “Holy fuckin’ shit. I can’t believe what’s coming out of your mouth right now. I think I’m gonna piss my pants.” And I’m like, “I don’t speak Aramaic. I speak Spanish. Why is this…?” They’re like, “It’s not supposed to come outta you, bro.” So, I get that reaction, or I get people who are like, “You speak Spanish? Yeah, I speak Spanish too.” I’m like, “No, you don’t.” They’re like, “No, I took four years in high school.” And I’m like, “Yeah, I played football for four years in high school, and the Broncos aren’t giving me a look this week. -So, no, you don’t.” - Your Spanish sucks. With a capital “M” for mierda. Now… I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household, which means I listened to a lot of Spanish music. I only point that out… I think it’s important to point out, when you listen to Spanish music, it influences who you become, like all music would. For me, I used to listen to this singer named Juan Luis Guerra, a Dominican singer. And he would sing, just a lot of love songs. Songs with titles like “Si Tu Te Vas.” Which means, “If you were to leave me.” And the lyrics go: *speaking in Spanish* Which means, “If you leave me, my heart would die.” I’m ten years old and I’m like, “Oh, shit. I don’t want that to happen.” So, I would balance it out. I would listen to a lot of Todd Shaw. And you might know him by his stage name Too Short. And he would sing songs… like “Blow Job Betty.” And… I would go back and forth between these two great songwriters, you know? *singing in Spanish* ♪ I bust a left nut, right nut In her jaw ♪ ♪ Sperm on her cheeks Is all ya saw ♪ And that’s how I go through life today. Today, I’m basically like, “Hola…” *grunting* Sorry, Mom. Now… By the way, is there any more satisfying feeling than letting an elevator door close on somebody? I did it… I did it at the hotel earlier. *laughs* I got such a warm rush through my body. It felt like the inside of my body hugged the outside of my body, you know? I was trying to figure out, “Why does this feel so good?” I think it’s a taste of power. Like most of us, we have no power in our everyday lives. But if you’re alone in an elevator, -you are lord of the elevator shaft. - You get to decide, like a king with his drawbridge. There’s “Hold Open,” and “Close.” And you can watch people walk up and be like, “Mm-mm.” -And you hit that. - And then you see it close, and you’re like… *laughs* Sometimes, a second later it opens, and you’re like, “Fuck!” You get nervous energy, like you’re a kid. You’re like, “I’m in trouble.” It’s always some lady who’s like, “You didn’t see me?” “I don’t even know how this thing works. So many buttons. I tried all of them.”

Tom Segura

That’s crazy. And then he checks, rather aggressively, I would add. He goes, “You feel all right.” I go, “Okay.” Then he goes, “Hey, if you want a second opinion, -I could put another finger in there.” - So, I go… *laughs* “Get it out.” He goes, “Well, stop laughing. Every time you laugh, you’re clamping on me. I can’t get my finger out until you stop laughing.” And I go, “Get it the fuck out. Now.” Then I sit up. I go, “Did you just give me a prostate exam so you could run those two lame-ass jokes by me?” -And he goes, “Yes, I did.” - And I said, “It was really funny, actually.” Then he tested my vision. He washed his hands, he tested my vision. And he goes, “You’re right. You have latent farsightedness.” I go, “What does that mean?” This is his quote. “Your vision’s always sucked. You just didn’t know it.” I go, “Do you care to explain more?” He goes, “Think of it like this. Your eyes have been fighting to make you think you can see well. And now they’re tired. That’s why you’re here.” I go, “Dude, that’s like me saying, ‘I’m young, uh, and my skin got tired. Now I’m old.'” He goes, “That’s an interesting way of putting it.” I go, “No, it isn’t. I’m just old and blind.” “Don’t forget you’re balding.” And I go, “I know. I used to have hair, but they got tired, then they fell out.” And he goes, “Now, you’re getting it.” I’m like, “Dude. How do you get paid to do this?” And I get why you laugh at my physical flaws. Physical flaws are funny. They just are. Disabilities are not. But some are. Most aren’t. We know those ones, you know? Like, if there’s a 10K or a quilt. That’s pretty bad, but… The rest are up for debate. If you’re sitting here and you’re like, “Well, when is it ever fu-fu-funny?” Well, luckily for you, I have three examples. First… foreign accent syndrome. Some of you know about it, some of you don’t. It’s real. You can look it up on your way out of here. Some people experience head trauma. Not funny. But they wake up speaking their native language with a foreign accent. Very funny. I defy you to watch interviews with these people and not piss yourself laughing. Do you understand? Like, a farmer in Alabama who’s normally like… *mumbling* -That guy… - hits his head and is now like, “Eh, the tractor trailer, it, eh… It fell.” That’s not funny to you, you piece of shit? Really? The best case ever of foreign accent syndrome happened in the UK. Not only was it a British woman who lived her entire life in the UK, she’d never left the town she was born in for 33 years. She was in an accident, and she woke up speaking English, but with a Chinese foreign accent. Did you hear what I just fuckin’ said? Do you now believe in God and his awesome sense of humor? A British lady, who, her whole life, was like, *in British accent* “Hello. It’s a bit of a whiffle, isn’t it? – Like that. – Now says, *in Chinese accent* “I have not had my conversation, -and it’s over three year now.” – First, do you know how hard it is to do that impression without squinting? Secondly… if you’re getting uncomfortable, like, “Whoa. He’s mocking an Asian accent?” No. She’s white. This is fine. -A white… - British lady just happens to say, *in Chinese accent* “Would you like… a cup of tea? Taste good? You want milk? You want biscuit? Oh, good. You want me suck the dick now?” -I don’t know, whatever. - She’s a nice British lady. She can say whatever she wants. If you’re sitting in your seat right now and you’re like… *grunting* “I don’t think it’s funny.” Well, don’t get your tits in a tussle. I got two more for you. So… What about persistent genital arousal disorder? That is a fancy way of saying, “Never not coming.” These are people that have orgasms every 90 seconds. And they can’t have jobs. Why can’t they have jobs, Tom? ‘Cause they’re coming all the time. It’s not appropriate for you to be like, “Can I try on this shirt?” And the guy’s like… *grunts* “Fuck your shirt. I’m gonna wear my old shit. I’m not wearing your fuckin’ shirt.” Can you imagine? You’re like, “We’re out of orange juice.” Or… - -Oh. “Just bring water, that’s too much sugar. I don’t want any more of that.” Some people suffer from both of those afflictions. It’s rare, but it happens. Can you imagine that? You walk up to somebody like, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad passing away.” And he’s like… “That feels good.” I made that one up. That’s not true, but… That was cheap, but that was fun. Now… If you’re still not on board with this, how about an old reliable one? You know, how about Tourette’s syndrome. Yeah. Maybe you’ve heard of that. If you haven’t, let me tell you. When I was in fifth grade, my parents sent me to a new school on a Wednesday. I’ll never forget. It was a Catholic school, and on Wednesdays, they had Mass. So picture, you’re a new student at a new school, you don’t know anybody, and the first thing you’re doing, is you’re going to church. So, I walk in and the priest starts the service. He goes, “In the name of the Father, and the Son…” And the kid in the row in front of me goes, “Fuck your cunt.” And I’m like, “Oh. Uh-uh.” Nobody did anything. No one batted an eye. He goes, “Holy Spirit.” -Starts reading from the Bible. - -This kid goes, “Lick my balls! - Fuck you!” I am laughing so goddamn hard. But I know I’m not supposed to laugh. It sounds like I’m having a stroke. I’m ten. I’m like… *mumbling* I have tears running down my face. And finally I am able to get out, “How come nobody else… is laughing?” And the kid next to me goes, “He’s got Tourette’s. It gets old.” Three years I was at that school. That shit never got old. That was… the greatest gift God ever bestowed upon me. And I’ll tell you this. The greatest day of my life, up until the day my son was born, was the day we had a substitute teacher that year, and they didn’t warn her about him. Your imagination is serving you correctly. It was glorious. I watched a ten-year-old boy break a grown woman’s spirit. These poor substitutes don’t know what’s going on in your class. She walked in… Somehow, they didn’t tell her. And she’s like, “Read chapter three.” And his ticks would build. Meaning, they would start small. So he would be sitting in class, like… *mumbles* *mumbling* So she goes, “What’s going on?” And we’re like… *gasps* “She doesn’t know.” And he would do this every day. He would take markers and paint his own shirt. Every day he did it, but she doesn’t know about it. She sees it. “What are you doing?” “What do you think, bitch?” -*grunts* - Then he starts painting his face with the marker. And she goes, “Stop that.” And he goes, “Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you.” And she’s like, “What’s happening? What’s happening?” And we go, “That’s Kevin. Why are you crying so much right now?” She killed herself. She’s dead. So… She’s out of teaching, but she’s fine. So… I know. Some of you guys are like, “Jesus, he’s a real jerk.” I’m not that bad. I’m not. I’m a new dad. How about that? I, uh… Yeah. Yeah. It’s the best. It’s awesome. Guys always hit me up. I don’t know why they trust me. “Should I do it?” And I’m like, “Of course you should do it. It’s the best. It’s awesome. They’re amazing. And also, being a dad is easy, man. Super easy. It’s way easier than being a mom.” Here’s all you gotta do if you want to be a great dad, seriously. Don’t abandon your kid. That’s it. That’s all you gotta do. No, I do believe being a mother is inherently harder, especially at the beginning. And that’s why I don’t like when I hear men complain about it. I have friends that are like, “My kid cries a lot.” And I’m like, “Yeah, ’cause you’re his dad. That’s why he cries a lot. If I saw your face first thing in the morning, I’d bawl my fuckin’ eyes out too, so…” What do you mean, “He cries”? He can’t talk, you dumb-shit. “Ah” means something. Figure it the fuck out. That’s why they make them so cute. Did you know that? It’s so you don’t strangle them. My son is so fuckin’ cute. He’s not Asian-baby cute, but he’s right below that, you know? Asian babies are cuter than bunnies and puppies combined. I would throw away 20 white babies to have an Asian baby. But thankfully, the exchange rate is better than that, so… Five? I don’t know. Can we please stop, collectively, as a society, stop pushing the myth that having a baby is a selfless act? I hear people say that shit. “It’s the most selfless thing… -*mumbles* - that you’ll ever do.” No, it’s not. It’s not selfless. It’s selfish. Necessary, but selfish. Why? You fall in love with a miniature version of you. What’s more selfish than that? You’re like, “This is awesome. It looks just fuckin’ like me. I’ve never loved anything more in my entire life. My favorite parts of you are the parts that look like me. Some parts look like you. Those parts are all right, but… the parts that look like me are amazing. I would do anything for you, mostly because I feel like I’m doing it for myself. You’re the best, new fresh me.” *kissing* That’s what you’re doing. You’re populating the world with more of you. You’re saying, “I’m fantastic. *blows raspberry* -Here’s another one of me.” Do we really need that many more of you? Yeah? I mean, do we? I mean, Martin Luther King Jr. had four. I get it. He should’ve had ten. But you? All excited about, “Crab legs are on sale at Costco on Sunday, y’all.” I think we’re all good on you. I think maybe you should stop. Now, I’ll be real with you. If you’re wondering about it, about parenthood, you’re gonna have no more time. It’s okay, ’cause you’ll still have moments. Time and moments are different. What’s time? Time is like, let’s say tomorrow you sleep in till noon, and then you eat food in bed. And then you go, “Fuck today.” And you go back to sleep. You got a lot of time on your hands. Moments are like, you take a sip of something. “That’s good.” That moment is now over. See? You live in moments. Masturbating is important, you know? You appreciate it more when you’re a parent. I look forward to masturbating more than sex. You know why? ‘Cause I know I’m gonna treat me right. That’s why. Yeah. I love it, man. I clear the bed. The dogs can watch, but nobody else, you know. I’m at the point now where I taunt myself. Any of you do that? I’ll lay in bed and I’ll be like, “Who’s been a good boy? Oh. Who’s been good? Who’s been bad?” And then I grab my balls from behind, like, “Who the fuck was that? Did you…? You brought somebody?” “I didn’t bring anybody.” But… I keep it exciting. I’m telling you the truth! “Cool shoes, Tom. Where’d you get ’em.” All right, I’ll tell you. So… I was doing shows up in Portland, Oregon. And did a few shows. Big show like this. A group came up to me afterwards, and they go, “We noticed you have Nikes on. Do you like them?” And I go, “Yes.” “Do you want to come to Nike headquarters tomorrow?” And I said, “Not really. No. I like your shoes. I don’t want to see your office, man.” And he goes, “Well, you can shop at the employee store.” So, I go, “What’s that?” He said, “It’s a warehouse that has every product imaginable. And you would get 50 percent off.” And I go, “How about I rent a U-Haul and I empty your fuckin’ store tomorrow?” He goes, “Have at it.” I get excited. Next morning he calls me. He goes, “I wanted to tell you, you can come to Nike, but you’re not allowed to shop in our store.” And I go, “Why?” He goes, “We put your name in our system, and it was flagged.” I’m like, “Flagged. By Nike. For not doing sit-ups? What the fuck is that all about?” And he goes, “No. You’re a person of influence.” And I go, “Excuse me?” He goes, “You’re an entertainer. We call that a person of influence. You’re not allowed to shop in the store.” I go, “That’s fucked up.” “You can try to go through the entertainment division.” “What’s that?” And he goes, “That’s free stuff.” I go, “All right.” So… I get that number and I call. And this guy answers, “Nike Entertainment.” And I go, “Hey. Tom Segura.” And he goes, “Okay.” And I go, “I’m a person of influence.” And he goes, “Okay.” And I go, “I’m calling about my free shit.” And he goes, “All right.” And I go, “So, how do you want to do it?” And he goes, “We’ll regroup, and we’ll get back to you.” And I go, “Okay.” And they never called, so I bought these Adidas for $130. So… Fuck you, Nike! Let’s see if you even survive without my purchases now.

Tom Segura

I was trying to figure out, like, where is power the most equal, you know? I think it’s a parking lot. Just hear me out. It doesn’t matter what you drive. If you drive something, that parking space is yours. And when you are ready to leave, and other people are looking for a place to park… -Oh. - Don’t you love that moment? Like, you’re walking back to your car from the mall on a Saturday, and you’re done shopping, and see you people like, “Ah… Where will I park?” And then they see me. “Hey, are you…?” -I’ll be like, “I don’t know. - Maybe.” I like to give them false hope. Do you ever do that? They’re waiting for the brake light. First, they have their blinker on, like that’s an official… “My blinker’s… That shit is mine.” “Okay. Are the US Marshals gonna back you up on this shit right now?” But they want your brake lights to appear, ’cause that means you’re starting the car. So I’ll just hit my brake. And release it. And you feel the tension rising. You’re like, “This is exciting.” And then they snap, and they’re like, “What the fuck are you doing?!” And that’s when I go, “I’m eating In-N-Out. I’m… I’m gonna have this burger now. It’s probably gonna take an hour, I don’t know.” Then, as soon as they drive by, “No, I’ll eat it later. I’m gonna take off. Yeah. I’m very philosophical, you guys. I feel like life is about timing, you know? Timing. When to pull out, when to… - -stop wiping. When do you ask a professional athlete for his autograph after a home play-off loss? And I think the answer is never. Thankfully, one of my friends doesn’t think this way. It is my favorite thing that’s happened in my adult life, okay? One of my buddies, he lives in Cincinnati. He is a big Cincinnati Bengals fan, okay? Now… Yeah, I know. They’re tough. So… He goes to their game, they lose, which isn’t weird. -And then… - he decides he’s gonna wait in the tunnel, and ask players for autographs. Now, if you’re like me, you might be wondering, “Wait, are you friends with, like, an eight-year-old boy or something?” No, it’s a grown man. So… picture me in the tunnel of the stadium, -like, “Hi, guys. – Keep your head up.” “Can I have an autograph?” And he said they were all like, “No.” And some of them were like, “Fuck you.” Imagine your heroes being like, “Fuck you.” *laughs* Oh, my God. And then, Adam “Pacman” Jones walked out of the locker room. Now, if you don’t follow football and you’re like, “I don’t know who that is,” well, how can I best describe him? Um… One time he went to a strip club, and a bunch of people got shot. And then, that happened two more times. What’s up? I’ll give you a sense of his vibe as, bang-bang, ba-bang-bang-bang, ba-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. He is not approachable. So… my honky-ass friend… *laughs* *man* Whoo! the biggest honky in America… *laughs* goes, “Pacman! Will you sign this football?” And he said Pacman went, “What?” Which to me would’ve been like, “So you don’t? All right, cool.” My friend just decides to make it more clear. He’s like… “It’s a football. And you play it. And I just watched you. Uh… Will you sign this?” And he said Pac goes, “What the fuck did you say to me?” Which, now, I’m like, “Why are you still there?” And he’s like, “I think, ’cause I’m actually shitting myself as it happens.” But now he knows he’s got one shot. Pac walks right up to him, like, “What’d you say?” My friend, he just goes, “Look, man. It’s a football. It’s for my dad. And my dad loves you.” He said Pacman looked at him and he said, “Tell that motherfucker I appreciate him.” That’s the end of the story, but… *laughs* Don’t you love the juxtaposition of angrily being like, “You tell that motherfucker,” but then, “Don’t forget to say thank you.” I’ve been trying to incorporate that into my life. I was at an airport bar, I was getting up, and they called my flight. The bartender goes, “Somebody recognized you. They sent you a drink.” “Tell that motherfucker I appreciate it. And he goes, “What the hell did you just say to me right now?” I said, “Fuck his mother, I appreciate her. Tell him that.” Asshole. So… I still haven’t found a place for it, but I’m working on it. So… I met, um… Like I said, I meet a lot of people. I met a woman after a show recently. They’re allowed at my shows. And… See? They’re here. And, uh… She came up to me and she was like… *giggles* -It’s a very specific woman, all right? - I do feel like I just did a .02-second impression. Everybody’s like, “I know who you’re talking about right now.” ‘Cause every city has…. *giggles* You know my favorite part of that woman? If you go, “Why are you laughing?” She’ll go, “I’m not.” *giggles* Okay. So, she comes up to me and she goes, “Funny show.” *grunts* And I go, “Thanks. Thanks, motherfucker, I appreciate it.” So, I go… I go, “Thank you.” “Are you gonna go jerk off all over your hotel room now?” And I was like, “Ugh.” I said, “I’m probably just gonna pick a spot, you know? I’m not gonna…” She goes, “Yeah, I get it.” And I was like, “Good.” Then she goes, “I’m super horny.” And I go, “Okay.” She goes, “I’m horny the way guys are.” And I go, “No, you’re not.” Then she goes, “Yeah… I am.” And I said, “You’re really not.” And she goes, “Yeah, why do you say that?” And I said, “Let me tell you a little story. When I was a freshman in college, I looked like this. I looked 47 years old.” It was alarming to other students. They would see me walking through the door, and they’d be like, “Are you a fuckin’ administrator here or something?” I’d be like, “I’m a freshman. I’m 18.” And they’re like, “You’re a narc, that’s what you are.” This is my birth face, man. I’m 41 Jump Street. So… With this face, came great responsibility. I bought alcohol for our entire dorm. I don’t mean three or… Everybody. It wasn’t even a challenge. I looked so old, that when I walked into liquor stores, they’d be like, “Hello, sir. How’s the stock market today?” Shit like that. I bought booze. Everybody got booze. I did the same thing with pornography. Let me tell you, before you jump at me like, “Why would you do that? You could just watch it in your dorm room online.” Well, the story takes place in 1997, and… there was a lot of buffering back then. That is the truth. I don’t know if you remember the late ’90s or were even around, but porn in the late ’90s was like, “Ah. Hm.” “Ah. Hm.” Who am I kidding? I use my right hand, so, “Ah. Hm.” Now… keep in mind, I’m not buying porn for a couple buddies. It is for an entire building of 18-year-old freshmen dudes in college. You can’t wrap your head around how massive and specific these orders were. I would go door-to-door, and guys would hand me cash and their wish list. They’d be like, “I want black cocks, asses and feet. Don’t fuck it up.” -I was like, “All right.” - Do you know what kind of a psychopath I looked like walking through a porn store with a grocery list, like… “Mom said not to forget.” *fakes laughter* So, one day, I am buying outrageous amounts of porn. And the owner of the store comes up to me. “You should go to this other store.” And I’m like, “That is a weird thing to tell your best customer, man.” So I go, “Why?” And he just goes, “I just think you’ll like it.” And so I go, “Okay.” I go. He sends me to… I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a cement-block building with no sign or address. The kind of building that’s like, “I don’t know. You fuckin’ guess what’s in here.” Well, I walk in, and I see a man wearing overalls and no T-shirt. Which, I think we all know, is the international uniform for the last guy you’ll ever see. Now… this guy… is behind the counter. He looks up and sees me. And the first words out of his mouth are, “Piss fetish?” -And I go, “What? - No.” And he goes, “Oh, I got a full bladder. Don’t want to waste it.” And I go, “What the fuck?” I said, “Is that what you do around here?” And he goes, “Among other things.” I said, “Well, then, show me around. -Let me see what else you have.” You know? - I don’t want to be closed-minded. So we go through the store. He shows me movies and toys. He goes, “We got a booth. You can put in a quarter.” And I go, “Yeah, I got it.” And he goes, “But this here’s our VIP. And you’ll notice, there’s a hole in the wall. And if you’re standing in there, someone might stick their finger through that hole. And they’ll go just… like… this. And if you want to, you stick your prick in that hole, and *clicks tongue* someone will suck it on the other side. And my dumb ass goes, “Is it a guy or a girl?” He goes, “You see any other cars in that parking lot, Junior?” So then I felt a pool of diarrhea forming inside of me. And fear shooting down my spine. As I was certain I was gonna get kidnapped and raped by Mr. Fuck Dynasty. So I said… “I”ll just take my movies. Thanks.” So lady, when you say you’re horny “the way guys are,” I ask you, are you willing to go into an unmarked building and wait behind a wall for a stranger to stick his dick through a hole in that wall? And then you, bah, bah, bah, bah, bah, polish it off for the love of the game? Because that’s what savages men are. And she goes, “Yeah. I’m not that horny.” And I go, “I know.” See, I just feel a responsibility to remind women of what pigs men are. If you’re a woman here with a man right now, you should know he is two drinks away from walking to that booth. -And honestly… - I’m no better. If he had answered my question differently… “Is that a guy or a girl?” He went, “I don’t know.” I’d be like, “I don’t fuckin’ know either, so…” “She’s got a rough chin on her, for sure. Where’d you go, man? I don’t see you anywhere.” All right. I lost some of you on that one. That’s how that goes. -So… - I see. Some women are like, “Mm-mm. My man would never do that.” Okay. Sure. You want to know how big of a pig your man is? He’s however big of a pig you give him permission to be. Every man has unlimited “pig-tential.” Just needs a little nudge from you, coach. How about that? Doesn’t go both ways. Isn’t that fascinating? If you’re a guy, you can’t be like, “I want you to eat it from behind.” She’ll be like, “The fuck did you just say to me right now?” But a woman can go, “I want you to eat it from behind.” And we’re like… *mumbles* - “I’m gonna take some home in a doggie bag.” *barking* I’m getting older. I know. We all are. But I am. I feel like I’m getting old. And I know you guys are looking up, you’re like, “What? You’re perfect.” But that’s on the outside, you know? You know what the biggest kick in the balls is? Is when your vision starts to decline. Especially if you’ve had perfect vision. I’ve never even thought about it. I’ve had excellent vision. I’ve had vision that’s off the charts. Like, if I’m hanging out with friends, and there’s a sign ten blocks away, I can see it. “How do you see that?” “Jesus loves me. I see it. I can see it right now.” And now I have, like, the squint of death. Or I look at shit like that. People are like, “You all right?” “Yeah. I’m just looking at shit. Don’t you ever look at shit?” And it’s tough to accept. I’ve been in denial. You know where you can’t be in denial anymore? The DMV. I went to renew my license. And when you go, you sign and you pay. Very casually, the lady goes, “Can you read line three?” And I was still arrogant about it. I was like, “Pfft. Check this shit out. A, X, G, L, seven.” She goes, “Seven?” I go, “What the fuck is that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that symbol before in my entire life.” And she goes, “That’s a T.” So, I went… *chuckles* “Pretty close.” And she goes, “Yeah, you’re right. That’s pretty close.” It’s the Los Angeles DMV, so… I leave. I’m in a panic. I go straight to my doctor. I go to the same abusive asshole doctor I’ve been seeing for over a decade. I walk into his office. I go, “Dude, test my vision.” And he goes, “You should get a prostate exam.” I’m like, “For my eyes?” And he goes, “You should do it.” “I’m not even 40.” He goes, “Try it.” -I’m like, “Try it? - Like a sorbet? Just see if I’m into this flavor?” And he was like, “Yeah.” And I go, “All right, you’re my doctor. So, okay.” So, I’m naked. I’m in the fetal position. He lubes up. It is a ton of lube. I didn’t know that. I was like, “That’s why I’ve never had success with this before.” And he goes, “You’re gonna feel a little bit of pressure. And that is my cock… It’s my finger,” like that. It’s moderately funny. But if someone’s finger is going in your ass, as they say that, you’re laughing. I promise you, you’re laughing. Just out of appreciation, you know. You’re like, “You said cock.” *laughs*

Tom Segura

You want to know how crazy that company is? I told that story in New York City at a show. And the next day, a Nike executive got my cell phone number, and called me and goes, “I was at your show last night. And I think it’s very rude that you’re telling that story.” And I go, “Pfft. I think it’s rude that you didn’t give me free shit.” “I think you should stop telling that story.” And I go, “Fuck you. Get out of here, man.” And he goes, “Fuck you.” And I go, “Why don’t you change my diaper?” And he goes, “What?” I said, “You heard me, bitch.” And it was at that moment I realized, we have this amazing insult at our fingertips -that we’re just not utilizing enough. - Why isn’t “Change my diaper” part of the lexicon? It should be the ultimate insult. It should be “Fuck you.” “Why don’t you fuck your mother?” “Why don’t you change my diaper?” Game over. I’m serious. Rappers should wear them in videos, and be like, “Change my diaper, bitch.” The president of another country should tell ours… “Change my diaper, orange man.” And listen. If you’re a parent, you know exactly why that insult is so appealing. If you’re not, let me key you in on a little secret. There’s a reason your asshole is the only part of your body you can’t physically see. It’s a fuckin’ horror show, okay? When you have a little one, you have a front-row seat for years. And my son shits with his eyes closed. I don’t know how often you do that. I’m guessing it’s twice a year. Maybe the day you get back from Cancun, and when you tell the lady in the Thai restaurant, “Yeah, I can handle my spice.” My son, every single shit, he’s like… *grunts* And when he’s done, he makes eye contact, and you’re like, “Whoa.” And he pushes out the last bit as he stares through you. He’s like… And you’re like, “Ugh. You’re nasty as hell. Gross.” Just once, it would be nice if, as I’m cleaning my son’s shit-filled asshole, if he would look up at me. “Hey, motherfucker, I appreciate it.” And I’d be like, “Yeah. And I appreciate you.”

Tom Segura

Here’s another bit of information. I also don’t want to look at them. I don’t. I refuse to watch the Michael J. Fox show because I don’t want to see shaky face not stand still for one frame. The guy can’t eat soup. It’s depressing, okay? Try to pawn this thing off as a comedy? Get the fuck out of here. You’re bumming everybody out. How many Parkinson’s jokes am I supposed to applaud with this thing? I won’t watch the show. I’ve seen a commercial. I will not watch that show. You know why? A version of it plays in my head, and it is fucking awful. And I think it’s probably accurate. I really do. I bet you that show is nothing but setups for that shit. I bet it’s just like, here… in the next episode he goes, “dad, can you help me hammer in this nail?” And he goes, “you know they don’t trust me with those.” And then you get to go, at home, “I get it. He’s got fucking Parkinson’s.” You don’t think that’s been fucking pitched in the writers’ room? “It’s pasta night. Dad, can I get some parmesan?” “That’s one thing I can do forever.” “I’m good. I said I’m good.” You don’t think the episode idea has been talked about, where he goes to work, and his coworker gets to say, “you know, I got to get my wife a vibrator.” “That’s one thing my wife doesn’t need.” And then you get to go, “I get it. He’s got fucking Parkinson’s.” I don’t want to see that shit. I’m sitting at home. I’m trying to have fucking dinner. I’m sitting on my couch. We have a table, but I’m an adult, and I can sit wherever I want. So I’m sitting on the couch, about to have dinner, and this fucking… a girl… two girls… one girl… a girl… two… one… a girl… two girls… one girl who has two heads on one body comes on. Their heads face each other. Their heads are like, “Mmm.” They look like they’re gonna grunt. They look like they’re gonna go, “Mmm… Aah!” Like that, but they don’t. This comes on TV. There’s no warning on the screen, like, “hey, in a second, you might shit yourself.” Put down whatever you’re holding, seriously.” I’m sitting there, about to eat chicken paprikash, and it’s hot, and I go… *Blows* And then I look up, and I go… *screams* Ten seconds later, I’m wiping the back of my legs. Now… I’ll be honest, when she first appeared on-screen, I was like, “hey, lady, you’ve got something on your shoulder.” “No, you, you’ve got something on your shoulder.” But then, I realized, “Tommy, why are you so upset? “You love monsters.” Now… *sighs* Here’s what’s upsetting about this show. If you’re gonna air a fucking freak show, which is what that is, do you mind? Could you please include the freaky shit? That’s why we’re watching. You watch this show, the two girls with the fucking one body, two heads. *Mumbles* They’re like, “what?” “Yeah. Here’s what she likes to do. “She likes to get, fucking, her nails done. What’s the problem?” You’re like, “she has two fucking heads that face each other. Why are you cutting out scenes that I know exist?” There’s got to be days where one of them is like, “I feel like going out tonight.” “Well, I feel like staying home.” “Well, I control the legs. We’re fucking going.” Where’s that? What about people that one of ’em loves and one of ’em hates? That has to happen. They have separate minds. “We’re going to Tony’s house.” “I fucking hate Tony.” “Well, I’m gonna blow him, “so you better get ready for ball duty. Meh.” I can feel your judgment. I reject your judgment completely. First of all, everybody loves blow jobs. Secondly, I’m not making this shit up. If your Siamese twin sister is doling out bjs, you’re along for the ride. You don’t have to participate, but you’re at least there, I don’t know, giving notes, I guess. “Mm, mm, mm.” “You have horrible technique. Meh.” “I can see your teeth. Meh.” “Why is it so dry? Meh.” All right, we’ll move it along. I get it. Not everybody’s on board with double-headed bjs. Will you at least admit to me, and more importantly to yourself, that you would love to see the girl with two heads take a shit? Just to see if the faces match up, right? Just to see if one of them’s like… *Grunts* And the other one’s like, “hey, take it easy. It’s my ass too, you know.” Oh, come on. I really wish that each and every one of you could see my internet search history. Because I think you would all say the same thing. I think you would all be like, “this is one sick, twisted, deviant pervert, who also loves current events.” My history is literally a back-and-forth volley of, like, “big, sloppy tits” smacked back and forth by 13 cocks.” “What’s going on in Syria?” I feel badly about watching so much of it too. You know why? ‘Cause it’s lazy. I know watching that much porn is lazy. It gets in the way of other things I want to do, like learn another language. I’d love to learn another language, but there’s too much porn to watch. Why not combine the two, right? Have you seen these language videos? They are boring. “The man is sitting down.” You’re like, “all right.” Have you seen an anal gangbang? Super exciting. Here’s what I propose. You download the series, and then tutorial number one begins to play. All right? Here’s what happens. An elevator door opens. A woman is giving a guy a blow job, all right? Like, an aggressive blow job. Not one of these, like… *Hums* No. I mean, like… *Gagging* Where you’re like, “Jesus Christ! “Is the answer in there? Is that why she’s doing that?” And she has tears running down her face and slobber all over herself. And she goes… “*Gagging*”. “Which way is the subway? *Speaks Spanish* *Gags*”. You’re like, “now it’s sinking in.” Some of you didn’t like that one. I can tell by your faces. Maybe that’s because you’re more advanced and you’re ready for tutorial number two. In this one, a man is chained to a wall. His arms and his legs are chained, and he’s completely naked, and you’re like, “whoa. What’s going on here?” And then, a few seconds later, a woman enters frame, and she’s wearing, I don’t know, a 15-inch strap-on. She doesn’t say hello or tap him on the shoulder. No warning, just bow! You’re like, “holy shit!” And she just goes to hammer town. She’s like, “bow! Bow! Bow!” And you’re like, “what the fuck?” And then, after, like, the tenth stroke, she goes, “this salad is too spicy. *Speaking Spanish*”. And you’re like, “I’m learning Spanish. Can somebody pass me a Kleenex?” *Sighs* Mm. I’m married. You like that segue? I like being married. I do. You see a lot of comics, you go to shows, and they’ll be like, “I love getting out of the house, just so I can get away from that bitch.” And you’re like, “wow, sounds like you married a real fucking asshole, man. That’s awesome.” I like it. You know what the best part of being married is? You get to stop pretending. And that’s what fucking dating is. It’s an act. You’re on Broadway. For however long you’re dating, you’re doing an act, and it looks exhausting. That’s why if you’re dating and you’ve ever been out in public, and you see married people look at you like this, and you’re like, “what the fuck are they looking at?” They’re tired for you. It is… it’s an act, and it’s exhaust… you see it all… dating is a guy going, “uh, just so you know, I’m this guy.” And the girl’s like, “well, just so you know, I am this girl.” And then you get married, and you’re like, “uh, so can we knock this shit off?” And she goes, “I hope so”, “because I gotta fart pretty bad. I’ve actually had to fart for, like, four years.” “All right. Let that fart out.” Sexually liberating to get married. It is, really is. Especially for men, ’cause here’s what happens. When you start dating somebody, you know, your first thing is like, all right, you see the girl, and you’re like, “I want to get in there.” That would be… or however you phrase it in your head, right? Right, and then, you go out on a few dates, and as you get closer to the act… the magical act happening, a lot of times a woman will ask a guy. She’ll be like, “oh, so, like, what are you into?” What do you like?” And this is when a man’s brain goes, “don’t scare her. You could fuck this up for us.” So we lie to you, and we’re like, “oh, I like to hold hands.” “Uh, I like if you go… *Blows* On my neck. That’s cool.” Then you get married, and you’re like, “I want you to yank on my ball bag “like you’re stuck at sea and this is the only motor that’s gonna take you home.” A lot of girlfriends can’t handle that shit. Girlfriends will be like, “ugh, what?” But a wife? A wife will go, “that it?” And you’re like, “oh, yeah, I get you for, like, 50 years.” She’s like, “yeah, I’ll spit butter in your ass.” Whatever you want, man.” Or whatever. Margarine, I don’t know. Whatever you’re into, so… olive oil. You find, the longer you’re with somebody, you’re like, everybody has something. Everybody has something weird and kinky and different. Everyb… and you suppress it, and you go, like, “oh, my god.” “If anybody knew… oh, my god. I would fucking die if somebody knew.” Everybody has something. And you’re like, “no, not everybody. What about Jim? He wears a blazer.” Jim too. Jim likes to be hit in the nuts with a wrench, okay? Jim’s out of his fucking mind. I tour the country. I ask people all the ti… I hear shit. You cannot make this sh… I was at a show. I asked people in the aud… like, “what’s your fucking craziest thing?” And a lady in the front row, she goes, “I have one.” And I go, “what is it?” And she goes, “oh, never mind.” I go, “what is it?” And she goes, “all right. “I like to think of different scenarios in which to kill my husband.” And I was like, “damn.” And he was sitting right there, and he was like, “that’s what’s up. That’s what she likes.” I was like, “really?” And she was like, “oh, yeah.” I go, “you go, ‘I’m super horny. “‘I had the best dream “‘that you were floating in the pool, and then I threw a cement block at your head.'” and she goes, “that would be a great one.” Same show, I swear to you, a lady goes, “I have one.” And I go, “what is it?” And she goes, “I like to sit on my husband’s face.” And I go, “that’s not that unique. You can’t really claim that that’s your weird thing.” And she goes, “yeah, but I only like to feel his eyelashes” against my butt cheeks.” And I was like, “what?” And she goes, “mm-hmm.” And I was like, “I didn’t even know that was a thing.” And she was like, “oh, yeah.” Like, “where the fuck have you been?” And I’m like, “what if he, like, you know, sneaks a lick”, like, ah-ah, like that?” And she goes, “I go, ‘no!'” I just want to feel squink-squink-squink.” So stop feeling weird and sit on people’s faces, all right? That’s what I want you to leave here with. Guys, we’ve covered a lot of stuff tonight. We really have. Some of you might, you know, not think highly of me. I don’t know, some of you might be like, “this guy’s fucking stupid.” Some of you might think I’m offensive. Some of you might think I’m unenlightened. I don’t know. But I will tell you this. I believe in humanity. I do. I believe we’re all here together, and I believe there’s no such thing as coincidence. And I think I can tell you the story that will also make you believe this, all right? A few years ago, I was in Washington D.C., and I was sharing a cab with a woman I didn’t know. Never met her before in my life. We’re splitting the cab. Midway through the ride, as I’m looking out my window, I hear the woman go, “hey.” And I thought she was gonna be like, “hey, like, you want to fuck or something?” And I was gonna be like, “I can’t. I’m married. So make it quick, all right?” I look over, I’m like, “what is it?” And she goes, “is this yours?” And she’s holding a wallet. And I go, “no, it’s not mine.” And she goes, “oh, it must be the previous rider’s wallet.” I’ll just give it to the driver.” And I go, “don’t do that. Look at him.” “He looks like a cab driver. “He probably smokes crack every once in a while. You can’t trust these guys.” I go, “give it to me.” I’ll get it back to the rightful owner.” And she goes, “really?” I go, “yeah.” She gives me the wallet. Now, I feel obligated to find the owner. But here’s the honest-to-god truth, I really want to. I’ve always dreamed about finding a wallet. I don’t know why. I dreamed I would find a wallet, I would open it, it would have $1,000 in it, I would get it back to the rightful owner, it would turn out to be, like, Will Smith, and then he’d be like, “do you want a helicopter?” And I’d be like, “yeah.” And then I’d be like, “I got a family in Denver. Do you like furniture?” So I open this wallet. It has $2, a grocery store rewards card, and a community college I.D. So I have found not Will Smith’s wallet. But I still try to do the right thing. I call the grocery store, I explain the situation, and I go, “can you help me out?” And they go, “no, we’re a grocery store. “We don’t track people down. Eggs are on sale. Go fuck yourself.” And I was like, “cool.” Thank you. Thank you for your help.” Then, I call the community college, and I speak to literally every department in the community college for 41/2 hours, before I finally get a contact number. I call the number, and a man answers the phone who I can only imagine has never used a phone before, ’cause he actually answers the phone with a noise. So just to break this shit down, I don’t know if you’ve ever used a phone before, but usually, when you call someone, *mimics phone ringing* And they pick it up, they say, “hello.” That’s fucking it. That’s what people say when they answer the phone. Maybe if they’re in a bad mood, “what?” Those are the two options. This man answers the phone… *Mimics phone ringing* Picks it up, and he goes, “ah.” And I go, “hello?” And he goes, “wah.” And I go, “I’m gonna talk, and then you talk.” And he goes, “yeah.” Like, it was the first time someone explained to him how fucking phone calls work. Up until that point, he was just like, “that made a noise.” “I’m gonna make a noise too. Ah.” So I go, “hey, I found this wallet.” “I was given your number. I’m trying to return the wallet.” And he says, “it’s probably my son’s wallet. “He’s always losing shit because he’s a piece of shit.” That’s the first thing… I don’t even know how to respond. I’m like, “ah.” I go, “well, can I give him his shit back?” He goes, “he’s a real asshole.” And I go, “we’re talking about your son right now?” And he goes, “yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna amount to anything.” I go, “Jesus Christ.” I go, “maybe he will amount to something” if he gets his wallet back.” And he goes, “yeah, yeah.” I’ll let him know you called.” And then he hangs up the phone without taking my information. So his plan is to go to his son and be like, “some guy found your wallet. Yeah, I don’t fucking know,” and just, like, walk away.

Tom Segura

Oh, my God. I do think about death. I just want it to be justified, you know? Like, if I die violently, you know, maybe I have, like, Serena Williams sitting on my face, and… I don’t know, Venus is polishing me off, and they’re trying to fit a racket in my ass or something like that. Then my wife comes in, boom, and I’m, like, fucking done. It’s fun that way. I don’t want it to be a dumb death. I feel like there’s dumb deaths that they kind of subtly mock, like, on the news. They do. They’ll be like, in local news… they’ll be like, “and then, also coming up, “a guy was trying to get a soda out of a vending machine, and then it fell on him.” And they’re like… and you’re like… ’cause that could happen to you. It could be, like, you know, like, I would go to the fucking mall, and then I fall down the stairs, and then they send a news crew, and they’re like, “what happened?” And they interview the dumbest fucking guy, and he’s like, “I seen him fall. And then he don’t move no more.” And you’re like, “that’s my eulogy? Thanks a lot, man.” I felt like I was gonna die a few months ago. I called a car service to take me to the airport. You know, when you’re like, “I got 60 bucks. Let’s fucking do this, right?” This nice town car comes to the house. The guy gets out. He’s got all white hair. Much older man. From the beginning, he makes me uncomfortable when he calls me sir. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a guy way older than you call you sir. You’re like, “hey, man. You’re, like, 1,000 years old.” “You have a couple weeks to live, maybe. How about we drop the formality, okay?” I get in the car, he goes, “the temperature all right, sir?” I go, “it’s fine.” He goes, “would you like a bottle of water, sir?” And I go, “you don’t have to call me sir.” You can just call me Tom.” And at that moment, all of his professionalism went out the window. ‘Cause the very next thing he said was, “you smoke weed?” And I was like, “I mean, yeah, sometimes.” And he goes, “do you want to smoke some now?” And I was like, “I mean, yeah.” But I don’t think my driver should be offering me, you know? He doesn’t miss a beat. He opens the console. He takes out a joint. He lights it. He passes it back. I hit it out of respect, right? ‘Cause he’s old. And then I give it back to him, and the next thing he says is, “yeah, I can’t drive unless I’m fucked up.” I’m like, “did you hear what you just said?” And he goes, “yeah, I’m ripped right now.” I’m like, “well, hands on 10:00 and 2:00, motherfucker.” Like, “keep it together.” I go, “so is that all you do? Smoke weed?” I can handle a guy that smokes weed. He goes, “well, I love it all.” And I’m like, “what’s all?” That’s a broad statement.” He goes, “I love coke. I love heroin.” “But there’s nothing like smoking rocks, you know what I’m saying?” And I was like, “no, I don’t know what you’re saying.” Mind you, this is while he’s driving, so it’s actually like, “I love smoking rocks, man. You know what I’m…” I’m like, “dude, turn around.” So I go, “can I ask you something?” He goes, “yeah. What’s up?” I go, “what’s it like to smoke rocks?” I’ve never done that before.” And he goes, “ooh-ooh!” I was like, “is that the whole sentence? Is that it?” He goes, “that shit is the best! “What I like to do personally, “is I like to sit in my apartment and fire ’em up. “And then I look out the peephole. “And I watch people walk around. “And I just freak the fuck out about what’s gonna happen next.” And then, he gave me a head nod like, “doesn’t that sound awesome?” I was like, “dude, that sounds terrible. “That’s called a panic attack, “and that’s a horrible sales pitch for crack. Now, I’m definitely not gonna try it.” We pull up to the airport, and I go, “it’s none of my business, but I think you’re too old to be messing with all these drugs.” And he goes, “I don’t do it anymore, Tom.” Yeah, it was “sir” at the top of the ride. Now, it’s “Tom, you piece of shit.” “I don’t do it anymore. I did it when I was younger.” And I go, “all right.” And he goes, “I mean, I still do it every once in a while.” “But you know what they say, if you do something every once in a while, it’s not that bad for you.” And I was like, “dude, I think they mean that about”, “like, pizza and chocolate.” “Nobody ever means that for crack, just so you know.” I’ve never heard, “what are you doing?” “I’m smoking rocks.” “Well, not every day, okay? You crazy kid.” Weed‘s not a big deal, though. I don’t know why the fuck people make a big deal out of weed. You know? You… You see it change. I mean, states have it legalized. I don’t know why… the perception, I find, from other people about California, they think that we’re like the wild fucking west. Like, people, they’re like, “aw, you live in I.A. “You guys just smoke joints and tell the cops to suck your dick, right?” And I’m like, “yeah, that’s exactly right, yeah.” “You should do that too when you come out. “L.A.P.D. Is super into that. “But take your joint, flick it at ’em, “be like, ‘suck my dick, man.’ they’ll laugh and high-five you… it’s fine.” It’s so dif… I mean, first of all… all right, let’s be clear. If you get a medical card, one of the things that people don’t know, they have expiration dates on them, and you have to renew your card all the time. And it’s not what you think. It’s not exactly the easiest thing. You literal… you have to get in your car. You have to drive down to a place. That’s it… that’s all you gotta do, is go drive there. Takes, like, five minutes. But my card expired three years ago. I still haven’t renewed it. I tried to go to a dispensary a few weeks ago, and there’s two rooms. There’s the room they check you out in, they check your stuff, and then, there’s the main room with all the goodies, right? And the guy took my card, and he goes, “dude, I can’t let you in. Your card expired three years ago.” I was like, “come on, man.” And he was like, “all right.” I was like, “wow, I’m a really good negotiator, huh?” I didn’t real… well, once you put it like that, yeah. Getting that medical card is surreal. My experience was surreal. I went to a doctor’s office, and it’s not dr. Dickhead that I was telling you about. This is a different doctor. He’s a doctor because he got a business card, and he put “dr.” on it. His office was such a piece of shit, that you could hear the conversation going on between the doctor and the patient ahead of you, which is never supposed to happen. So as I’m waiting for my turn to go in, I’m waiting, and I hear the doctor go, “oh, what is your medical need for marijuana?” And the guy in there goes, “oh, I have a bone disease.” And I was like, “oh, shit. I don’t have a bone disease.” Like, I thought you could just be like, “weed’s awesome.” And he’d be like, “yeah, I fucking know,” like… So I start to panic internally… like, what am I gonna say? And in my mind, I just go to the worst shit. Like, in my mind, I’ll be like, “just say you have AIDS. Like, just tell him you have AIDS.” Then he’ll be like, “when did you find out?” I’ll be like, “I just found out, like, five minutes ago.” “You don’t seem that bummed out.” “Well, I’m just happy to be here, so let’s wrap this shit up, man.” For some reason, I pictured him asking me to prove it, which they would never be like, “prove it,” and you’re like, “oh, I left my aids card at home.” I don’t have it on me.” Then I go, “that’s way too dramatic. Just dial it back.” I’m like, “ah, I’ll just say I have cancer.” That’s much more believable.” Then I start thinking of all my family members that have died of cancer, and I’m like, “man, if I say I have cancer just to get weed, I am getting cancer next fucking week.” By the time I have that thought, I’m sitting in front of the doctor. He’s like… I go, “what?” He goes, “what is your medical need for marijuana?” And the best I can come up with on the spot is, “my eyes hurt.” And he goes, “do you have vision problems?” And I go, “oh, yeah.” And he goes, “you don’t wear glasses?” And I go, “can’t. Hurts.” “Everything hurts. Ow, ow. Ow, ow.” He writes me a prescription. I go to leave. As I leave, I see the guy who’s going in next, and I don’t know why I think it’s gonna be funny to listen. ‘Cause I think he’s not gonna get it, and I’ll tell you why. I completely judged the guy, ’cause the guy’s your typical L.A. Cholo Mexican gangbanger, okay? It’s a very specific look. You’ve seen movies. You know what the fuck I’m talking about. It’s khaki dickies with an oversized white t-shirt, Chuck Taylors, an L.A. Hat, and also an L.A. Tat in, like, this general area here. So it’s like, “aw, if I lose my hat, I still have my favorite team right fucking here.” So I listen at the door. I’m like… *Laughs* And I hear the doctor go, “what is your medical need for marijuana?” And the guy goes, “I just really like the way that weed makes me feel.” And then the doctor wrote him a prescription for that. Yeah, you don’t have to lie. You can just be like, “weed’s awesome.” And he’s like, “yeah, I fucking know. “I feel sorry for all the people with diseases “that keep coming in here, man. “The last dude’s eyes didn’t even work. “It was sad. You’re lucky you have your health, ese.” “Orale.” I’m always trying to set goals. My latest goal… I’m trying to be less polite, you know? ‘Cause the world is not as polite as you’re raised to believe it’s gonna be, you know? I don’t understand why we accept that when you say “thank you,” people don’t have to say “you’re welcome” anymore. People have stopped. Now, you say “thank you,” and people give you a nod, like… I want to stab you in the fucking ears if you do that shit to me. I do. I’ll go, “thank you,” and they go… I go, “did you not… did you not just hear” what I just said to you, man?” And you get, like, a follow-up nod. So now, I skip it all. I just take shit, and I go… I find rudeness everywhere. I think the rudest person in the world is a person that waits outside of a grocery store with a petition for you to sign. What a fucking asshole you are. They do that, and do you know why that’s a shitty thing to do? They’re systematically trying to ruin your happiness. ‘Cause you’re leaving the grocery store, and you’re feeling what? You’re feeling happy. You’re like, “oh, I got soy milk. It’s gonna be a good week. All right.” And then they stop me ab… “sir, could you look at this?” I’m like, “look at what?” And they’re like, “do you want children to starve and die on the streets?” And I’m like… “Now I do… now that you just ruined my day, I do, yeah. I want you to die first, but then I want all of them to die.” I say the opposite of whatever they’re trying to fucking get me to sign. Like, “this is to teach blind people how to do Shakespeare.” I’m like, “I hope they all go deaf first.” And they’re like, “Jesus.” I’m like, “yeah, that’s fucking right. You’re the asshole, not me.” “This is to end the war in Afghanistan.” I go, “I fucking love the war in Afghanistan.” “It’s my favorite war. I hope it goes on for 1,000 years.” And they’re like, “you’re crazy.” I’m like, “that’s right. I’m crazy.” Remember my face and never ask me to sign shit again.” I can’t get over rude people. I was in a hotel a few weeks ago. I go down to the hotel gym. I get on the treadmill. I run, I don’t know, 70 miles, right? 170 miles, thank you. 170 miles. But I’m alone. There’s nobody in there. I’m sweating. I’m hyperventilating. *Groans* Then, out of nowhere, I just hear, “getting it in?” And I go, “Jesus Christ! What?” This guy goes, “you getting it in?” I go, “getting what in?” He says, “you getting a workout in?” I go, “doesn’t it fucking look like it?” He goes, “yeah, you just gotta keep doing it.” And I go, “okay.” He goes, “nah, I used to be like you.” And I go, “what?” He goes, “I used to be like you. “You just gotta keep eating right and keep doing it, and you’ll get there.” And I was like, “dude, I’m disabled.” And he was like, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” Let me… let me point something out. It’s okay for me to make jokes about disabled people and people with horrible diseases because they make me uncomfortable, and I don’t want to be like them. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I’m an honest person, and I’m telling you, that shit is terrifying. I don’t want to be like them.

Tom Segura

I realized today that I need a hobby, because my workday just started, like, now. Right now. I mean, here’s the thing, it’s not even that big a part of my day. So even if it doesn’t go well, it’s like, ah, you know, still a pretty good fucking day. Like, it was… wasn’t a bad day. It just… you know, that part at work that, for an hour, just didn’t go to my liking, and then I had a great day otherwise. ‘Cause my whole life is basically, you know, it’s… it’s… it’s hotels. Being in a hotel, just waiting for the show. Sad, right? I’m just waiting for the show to start. And you’re like, what… what am I gonna… I mean, you can only jerk off so many times before you’re like, all right, I’m gonna do it again, but… Right now it hurts. I should find something else to do. I absolutely ruin hotel rooms. Like, if you stay in a hotel room after I stayed there, shit is gonna itch on you, okay? Just being honest. Come on, hotels are great. Everybody loves hotels. Especially when you check in with your significant other. Why? Because you know in a hotel you’re gonna have sex, and you’re gonna have an elevated form of sex. You’re gonna have hotel room sex, which is, let’s have sex, but let’s also disrespect this room. Yeah. I do that too, except I’m alone. Like, I always wipe my balls on the curtains, because I know they don’t change those. Think about that the next time you want some sunlight. Or don’t. Just know that it’s on your hand, you know what I mean? Here’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I got into online shopping recently. I guess that’s a thing. Here’s what I’ve been doing though. I shop for things that are, like, way out of my price range. And then after a while, I go, “oh, yeah.” I can’t afford that.” Like today, I was looking at yachts online. And then I was telling myself I didn’t want them, as if they were an option, you know? I was like, “155 feet? That’s not even” “big enough for all my friends and family. I’m not getting that shit.” What the fuck am I doing? You ever do that? You ever go down, like, a rabbit hole online, and then, like, six hours have gone by, and you’re like, “I’m shopping for the private jet” “that best suits my needs. “I think I found… this is it right here. The g550.” How much is this? Place order. $53 million? Well, maybe not now, but maybe later. I’ll just bookmark that shit for now. Boop. You know what that is? That’s a sense of entitlement. That’s me thinking I should be associated with this thing. And I haven’t earned it. I haven’t. Neither have you, but also me. I get that feeling the most when I get upgraded to first class. Yeah. I fly every week. I never buy a first class ticket. I buy coach tickets. I buy them so much, I get bumped up to first class. I am telling you, the moment I get bumped up to first class, I get washed over with this feeling. I’m like, “look at these fucking poor pieces of shit” on my flight. Ugh.” I’m so much better than them. Don’t stand next to me. Ugh, dude. I dare you to try to come up from coach and use the first class bathroom when I’m there. I’ll put my hand on your chest, okay? No. No. There’s a pig trough in the back. That’s for you guys. That’s for the big ballers up front. Some people buy first class tickets. I always feel like they know you got upgraded. They always give you the look like, “by the way, we fucking know.” You can sit up here, but you’re not like us. God, it’s so weird. People… people ask me cra… like, I get asked fucking travel advice from strangers. Can we just break down how crazy that is? Like, people come up to me, and they’re like, “hey, you travel a lot, right?” And I’m like, “yeah.” They’re like, “where should I go?” Uh, I don’t fucking know you, man. You ask travel advice to people who know you intimately. They know you well. They can guide you based on what they know about you. I mean, you don’t ask strangers dining advice, right? You’re like, “hey, man, where should I eat tonight?” I know I’ve never met you before in my life, but do you think you could give me a recommendation? Uh, yeah. You should try this dim sum place. But then, that person might go, “oh, I hate the Asian world.” And you’re like, “oh, shit.” I didn’t know that about you.” “Yeah, I killed, like, four of them.” “What are you, like, a serial killer, or something?” “Yeah.” Now, you’re in an awkward conversation with a serial killer. Here’s all I’m saying. I can’t tell you where to go. I can tell you where not to go. Wherever they film The First 48 on A&E. Oh, if you’re not familiar with the show, here’s what it is. Camera crews follow real homicide detectives for the first 48 hours after a murder. And the reason that that time distinction is so important, is that after 48 hours, uh, they give up on that murder. They’re like, “that’s some old shit. What do you want to do today?” You’re like, “how about you keep trying “to solve that murder, man? “That shit happened on Monday. It’s Wednesday. We’re not gonna solve that shit.” Really? There are so many amazing moments on that show… so many. A lot of the episodes take a similar path. I’m blown away, first of all, at how many times there’s a witness to a murder. It’s crazy. I always thought murders happened in dark alleys, nobody saw shit. No. Every other episode, they’re like, “you see that shit?” And the guy’s like, “I saw that shit. Yeah.” “Where?” “Right fucking here.” “Really?” “I was standing here, and then he killed that dude there.” “What did he look like?” “He was, like, 5’2″ to 6’8″, something like that.” “That’s the fucking description you’re gonna give us?” “Uh-huh.” “Anything else about him?” “Yeah, he had ears too.” “Thanks, man.” “No problem.” They still will sketch that shit out. And they show it to people. “Do you know this guy?” And everyone’s like, “nah.” But then one guy’ll be like, “yeah!” That’s Cricket right there.” They’re like, “oh, shit.” You know him?” “I been knowin’ Cricket 27 years.” “What’s his real name?” “Man, that’s just Cricket. I don’t even know.” Stop being white and weird. That’s a perfect fucking impression, and you know exactly who that was, okay? Yeah, it’s a black guy and he’s wearing a wife beater, and he’s got on a dirty hat and he’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he looks like he’s about 33, but you find out he’s 76 years old. And he speaks super aggressively to the cops. Like, “I been out here for a minute!” And they’re like, “all right, all right. “Jesus Christ. When was the last time you saw him?” “He came through with jellyfish last week. They were lookin’ for some smoke!” And they’re like, “all right. Jesus Christ.” They always cut to the whitest detective from that guy too. They cut from that guy to a guy who’s like, “I don’t think he’s gonna help us out. We’re gonna have to find Cricket on our own.” That show has the best moment in television. It’s the most dramatic thing you could ever see, ’cause it’s real life, and that is the interrogation. The interrogation is amazing. Because here’s the thing about drama… if you want to have a great, dramatic moment, raise the stakes. Guess what? There’s no higher stakes than somebody being questioned about taking somebody else’s life. It’s inherently compelling television. It is also super serious. But the detectives insist on using the suspect’s street name, so the whole thing turns into a fucking cartoon. Like, they’re literally like, “your life is on the line. “We need to talk to you. “Why don’t you have a seat, “uh, little stank? “Why don’t you sit down for a second? Did you or did you not know dookie shoes?” “I don’t know no dookie shoes.” “I got a picture of you hanging out with dookie shoes.” “I mean, I seen him. I don’t know him.” And then, they’ll throw one bit of evidence against the wall, hoping it’ll solve the case. They’ll be like, “well, we were talkin’ to nah’mean”, and he said that you were at the 7-eleven last week.” And he’ll be like, “yeah, I shot him in the face.” And you’re like, “goddamn, really?” That’s all it took to break you? Dude, lie. Lie for longer. You can kill somebody, you can’t lie for ten fucking minutes about it? Like, dudes will break on anything. They’ll be like, “we heard you had on a blue shirt last Friday.” “Yeah, I stabbed those four people.” Dude, a lot of people have blue shirts, man. You could still get out of this. Here’s what I’ve learned watching that show, okay? Lawyer up. You can’t handle that shit. Everybody’s like, “I’m gonna talk to the cops and straighten this whole thing out.” You’re gonna do 25 to life. Have fun with that, man. Nobody asks for a lawyer. I’ve seen 300 people get interrogated on this show. Two of them were like, “can I talk to a lawyer?” And both times, the detectives were like, “fuck!” And then, at the end of those episodes, it said on the screen, “all charges against Tayshaun were dropped.” Or Jim. Pick a fucking name. Let’s be honest. There’s no Jims on the show. I’ve seen every episode, and none start with, “hey, Bryce, can we talk to you for a second, man? Where were you last Friday?” “I was over at tanner’s house. “Then Skylar had a party, so we went over there. “And then, we picked up Connor, and we had pancakes. “Sorry, bro. Detective bro, bro.” I swear to God, there is no more liberating and fun thing to do in this world than scream in your best aggressive black guy voice. Holy shit. So much fun. I highly recommend you do it. Not if you’re black. If you’re black, you already do it. But if you’re white, do it. Do it in public. Do it where there are black people. And here’s a little secret, if you do it well, there is a possibility that a black guy will yell back in return. I do it all the time. I live in Los Angeles. Pick your spot. I go to Crenshaw. There’s never a shortage there. I do. I hang back and I go, “hey, yo!” And sometimes… sometimes, a black guy’ll go, “sup, d?” I did it to Big Daddy Kane one time. I swear to god. I swear… hand to god. If you don’t know who Big Daddy Kane is, you can go fuck yourself, okay? I was standing on Sunset Boulevard. – A limousine pulled up. – Whoo! Like for sunset? Really? All right. A limo pulled up, like, I don’t know, 30 feet from me. I was just, like, all right. See the door open. Who’s getting out of this limo? Expecting, like, a bachelor party or some shit. Fucking Big Daddy Kane. I’m like, get the fuck out of here. And something just took over, you know? The spirit grabbed me. And I was like, “‘sup, Kane?” And his head whipped around, and he was like, “you?” And I was like, “nuh-uh. That wasn’t me. “Somebody over there did that shit. That wasn’t me.” If you ever see Big Daddy Kane, please do the same shit to him. Every week, it’s another city for me. I get asked the same questions every week by people. “Are people the same everywhere?” No. Some places suck and they have shittier people. I just gave you a sociology degree. How about that? You like that? Here’s one universal truth about people, though. This one is true, and that is that everybody just wants to connect. It doesn’t matter where you go, or what language you speak, people just want to connect. And you know when you have chemistry with somebody. You know if you’re like, “I want to hang out with this person,” or “I want to date this person,” or “I want to harness this person to the bottom of my big rig and drive them around for a while “and bury them 18 miles west of lake worth. And when I drive by, I’ll get a boner.” We all have these thoughts, right? Sometimes there’s nothing there, and people try to force a connection. I think that shit’s rude. I’m checking into a hotel a few weeks ago. The guy comes from behind the counter and he goes, “where are you from?” I said, “Los Angeles.” And he goes, “yeah, I got family in Denver.” And I was like, “what a coincidence.” And he goes, “yeah, they got a furniture store.” And I was like, “ah.” I like to sit on furniture. We’re two for two. I have shoes on. Do you have shoes on? Do you like to walk around? Let’s fucking party. There’s nothing there. Sometimes, there’s nothing there. And that’s okay. You’re not supposed to connect with everybody on the planet. That would be absurd. You should embrace that. I’ve been doing this. You should do this too. Next time you’re at a bar or you’re just out walking around, and somebody goes, “hey, man.” Just go, “nope.” I’m all friended up.” And if they’re like, “I just want to know what time it is.” Be like, “I only tell my friends what time it is.” You’ll feel like a dick, but then you get over it real quick. I feel like no matter where I go, ten times a day, I find myself asking myself this question… I find myself going like, “hey, man”, “is anybody else seeing this shit right now? Have I stepped into a parallel fucking universe or something?” Like, I went to buy a coffee just a few weeks ago from a coffee place. Just so there’s no confusion. I didn’t go to a shoe store. I went to a coffee place, okay? I go to the lady behind the counter, and I go, “can I have a coffee?” And she goes, “well, we have a special promotion”, “and today, for $2, you can get this drink, “and it has vanilla, and… and there’s whipped cream and there’s sprinkles on it.” “And I was like,” that’s cool. “I don’t want that. May I have a coffee?” “And she goes, it’s the last day… Of this special promotion.” And I was like, “oh, I think I understand “the full scope of the promotion. May I have a coffee?” And she’s like, “you’re a fucking loser.” Here’s the thing, this woman was enormous, okay? She was hu… she looked like four people melted into one. So I was like, “you know what?” “You’re super fat. “You know when shit tastes good. Hook that shit up. I want to try it, all right?” And she goes, “it’s $2.” And I go, “all right.” And then I extended a $20, and she goes… And I go, “I’m sorry?” And she goes, “I don’t have the change for that.” And I was like, “oh, so what do you want to do now?” Are you saying I have too much money to shop here?” And she goes, “we just can’t handle it.” And I was like, “handle it?” It’s a 20.” Like, I didn’t put the hope diamond on the counter, and go, “figure it out, stupid.” Like, it’s reasonable, right? And she was just all shoulders. Like, mm. And I go, “nothing? You have no solution?” And she goes, “do you still want coffee?” I’m like, “yeah. That part’s never changed.” That’s why I’m here.” I go, “you can’t resolve this at all?” And she goes, “you could ask somebody else for change.” And I go, “another customer in line?” And she goes, “yeah.” And I go, “what about the box” with buttons in front of you?” And she goes… So I turn around to the line of people, and I go, “excuse me”, “do any of you guys have change?” And everybody was like, “you fucking asshole.” “Like, you’re at the place to get change. You’re right there.” Well, then this one Arab guy… and I’m not saying that means anything… but he was, so why leave it out of the story? He goes, “I have everything.” And I was like, “oh.” And then he opened his attache and he had every denomination of every currency. Like, where I could go, “I want one of those, and I want one of those, and I want one of tho…” he’s like, “yes, yes, yes.” Now, enjoy your pussy drink.” Okay. All right. And I want you to know something. I drank that pussy drink, and that’s the best shit I’ve ever had in my entire life. Pussy drinks forever. I’m not sure that’s what they’re called, so take your chances. But it would be cool if you went to a Starbucks tomorrow, and you’re like, uh, “can I get a pussy drink?” And they’re like, “I think I know what you want. Hold on a second.”

Tom Segura

Can we just all agree on one thi… can we just fucking get onboard with the fact that it is time to see an end to the man who walks around in public with a cowboy hat on, like he’s not wearing a cowboy hat in public? I see these guys everywhere. Banks, grocery stores, airports. And now, not only do I see guys wearing cowboy hats, but they have adopted the cowboy persona. Like where they think they’re actual fucking… like the… *snickers* Well, pardon me, ma’am. I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you what. You look fucking ridiculous right now. Like, you’re a cowboy, really? Cock-a-doodle-doo. A-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. Get the fuck out of here. Here’s all I want from cowboys. Just be cowboy all the way, all right? Work with livestock. Like, if somebody says, “let’s go get a beer.” I want to hear you say, “I got to shave some sheep.” End your disputes with a pistol. If somebody cuts you off in line, be like, “meet me at the saloon at noon. I’m a cowboy.” And you better ride a horse everywhere. If you wear a cowboy hat, you shouldn’t be allowed to sit in cars or look at planes. You should just be like, “I’ll tell you what. “I’ll tell you what. San Francisco sure is a pretty city.” Yeah, I’ll see you there in six months, when you get there on your fucking horse. If you’re a cowboy, then I am a knight. I’m a knight, and I’m gonna wear armor every day, in case somebody wants to joust. And you leave me alone, because I’m doing the queen’s work. Okay, mummy? You know who likes to be cowboys more than anybody? Do you know who? Three-year-olds. Because they’re not developed yet. And they go, “mommy.” *Imitates gun* And you go, “yes, you’re a cowboy.” “And your sister’s a princess. “And your father’s fucking Batman. “‘Cause you live in la-la land. You don’t know what’s going on right now.” Cowboy hats should come with class rings. ‘Cause I feel like the same guy that buys one buys the other anyway, you know? “Check it out. “’87. I scored 14 touchdowns that year.” “What are you doing now?” “I’m just thinkin’ about killing myself.” Oh, okay. Why don’t you get a corvette and make it a whole kit? Mm. *Sighs* I just realized my fucking… I do have a hobby. It’s probably the saddest, most pathetic hobby there is. And that is just watching television shows. What is lamer than, like, “what do you do for fun? What’s your hobby?” “Oh, fucking, I watch TV.” That’s so indicative of our country. And, like, some people are amazing with their, like… “oh, I b… I build furniture.” You’re like, “that’s your job?” “No, no. I’m a urologist.” But, like, on the side, like, I… oh, I like to… I like to watch my shows. I don’t like the way people knock tv though. It’s all the… all the same cliche shit they said when we were kids, they now say as adults, right? They’re like, oh, you know, you… you know, you watch too much tv, it’ll rot your mind, or, you can’t learn anything from television. But that’s not true. You can learn a lot from television. For instance, without television, I would have no idea that Steven Seagal is out of his fucking mind. Or alive. I also didn’t know that. He has a show. It’s not a scripted show. It follows around the real Steven Seagal. And every episode begins with him looking in the camera and saying, “I don’t know if you knew this or not”, but for the last 20 years, I’ve been a cop.” And you’re like, “what did you just say? “I thought you’ve been making shitty movies “for the last 20 years. What are you talking about?” And you watch this show, he has the most unlikeable quality in a human being, which is that he is an expert in everything. Literally, if a dog walks by, he’s like, “that’s a shih tzu, boxer, hound mix right there.” And they’re like, “how do you know that?” He’s like, “I’ve been working with dogs for, like 35 years.” Then, a helicopter flies by. He’s like, “that’s a hub-106.” And they’re like, “how do you know that?” And he’s like, “I’ve been flying helicopters for, like, 47 years.” Then he does the thing though, that everybody does who knows something about everything. Everybody has a friend, no matter what you’re doing, they know the history of it all, they know every topic, every fucking fact. If you’re eating dinner, they’re like, “you know, forks are from the roman times”, and they would sculpt them out of bark.” And you’re like, “will you shut the fuck up, and let me finish this please?” Seagal will do that too, but you know he’s making it up. He’ll be like, “you know, they also call that helicopter” a skippy.” And they’re like, “why?” And he goes, “listen to it.” Skip-skip-skip-skip-skip-skip… that’s bullshit. You made that shit up. “Nah, seriously.” It just blows my mind… it really does… that everybody in this room… everybody… has this real world possibility in their lives… all of us, we could go tonight, if we wanted to… tonight, you could go to Louisiana, you could start a fight in a bar, and there is a real world possibility that Steven Seagal will arrest you. Isn’t that insane to you? I’ve lost sleep over this shit. I mean, that’s crazy. That’s literally like if you leave here, and you roll through a stop sign, and then, Sylvester Stallone is like, “hey, roll it down.” “And you’re like, get the fuck out of here. You work here?” And he’s like, “it’s my passion.” “Will you say Adrian or something?” “Nah.” It’s nuts. You have to watch this show. He… he panders to every group according to race, knowing full well there’s a camera crew following him around. He doesn’t give a shit. If you’re white, he’s like, “how’s it going? “All right.” *Snickers* And then, to black people, he’s like, “what’s up, cuz?” And they’re like, “hey, what’s up?” “I’m holding you down, so holler if you need somethin’.” “Okay.” And then, to all Latinos… Spanish speaking people… he insists on speaking horrifically broken Spanish, even if they start the conversation in English. If they’re like, “hey, yeah, I called 911. Thank you for coming.” The thing is… he’s like, “ah, hold on.” Mucho queso.” They’re like, “I think my English is way better than your Spanish, man.” And he’s like, “no gracias.” And then, to all Asian people, he bows, regardless of where he meets them. If you’re Asian, and you cross Steven Seagal’s path, he’s like, “ha.” And they go, “hey, I was born here, you dick.” Like, you don’t have to do that.” And he’s like, “sorry.” I’ve been doing martial arts for, like, 85 years.” He trains other cops in hand-to-hand combat. I think that’s infuriating. For those cops. It’s not like we’re hanging out, we’re like, “hey, man, do you want to do, like”, “a couple shots, and then go down the street? Steven Seagal is teaching people how to throw punches.” And we’re like, “okay. Let’s fucking go.” No. It’s you’re a cop, and you show up at work, and they’re like, “we’re gonna go over “hand-to-hand combat today, so you can protect yourself if you’re in a really dangerous situation.” You’re like, “oh, cool.” “Who’d you bring in to teach us? Like, some navy seals, or green berets?” And they go, “no.” We brought in Steven Seagal.” And you’re like, “are we shooting a fucking movie” this week or something?” They’re like, “uh-uh.” “Okay, I’ll pass, ’cause that’s ridiculous. I don’t want to be a part of that.” That’s literally like if you were, like, at NASA, and they’re like, “all right, future astronauts.” “We’re gonna go over space exploration, “and to get us started, why don’t you welcome Captain Kirk? Come on out, man.” And you’re like, “is he qualified to do this?” And they’re like, “oh, you’ve seen him do all that shit.” “Yeah, he knows what he’s talking about, man. He’s been up there.” They show him teaching people how to fight. It’s horrible. He’s bloated now. He doesn’t have the same range of motion. He’s like, “everybody line up.” If somebo… if somebody throws a punch, you can… you can block it like that. *Exhales* And then… and then, you can kick ’em in the throat like that. Are you kicking a child in the throat right now? Some people’s throats are down there. I like Havarti cheese the most. What’s your favorite? Um, I’m sorry that I’m fat. I just realized how fat I was by how winded I got from just doing those little motions. *Groans* Jesus. It’s ridiculous. Sometimes I just look in the mirror, and I’m like, “fuck.” I lie to myself all the time. I cheat. Like, I’ll look in the mirror, and I’m like, “hmm.” Yeah, that’s what you look like.” It’s all these little things that you don’t think about and you just do it automa… here’s where I really had to call myself out. I was getting into a shower in a hotel, and it was one of these hotel bathrooms where there’s just mirrors everywhere. And as I was stepping in the shower, I looked, and I was like, “oh, my god.” Like, “look at you.” “I can’t believe somebody lets you fuck them. This is crazy.” I always like it when I eat myself out of breath. I feel like that’s a good boost to my day. You know, I’m eating, and then I go… *staggered deep breath* It’s better a few moments later, when you get to think about it, and you’re like, “why did I just stop?” To take a deep breath. Oh, yeah. My body also needs air, you fat fucking turd. I did the fattest thing you can do a week ago. Maybe not the fattest thing. I think the fattest thing you can do is probably eat another fat person, right? Like, if you’re fat and you see another fat guy, and you’re like, that guy looks delicious, you’re super fat. I didn’t do that. I did, however, go out to eat. I went out to breakfast. I had croissant. Everybody knows what a croissant is, right? It’s a flaky-looking thing. I ate one, and one is enough. And then I left this place, and I was walking down the street. And I saw a bakery, and I was like, “I wonder what their croissants taste like.” So I entered a second venue to shovel bread into my stupid, fat mouth. And the big payoff is that when I was done, I got to go, “oh, no.” “The first place has better croissants. Yeah.” I had catastrophic diarrhea this morning. And I just found out that not everybody does. Here’s how I found out. We moved… my wife and I moved to a new place. In the new place, the living room couch is closer to that bathroom than it was in the old place. So the second day we’re there, I go in there, I do my thing. When I walk out, my wife is no longer sitting on the couch. She’s now standing, holding car keys. And she goes, “do you need to go to the hospital?” And I go, “for what?” And she goes, “for what just happened in there.” And I go, “what just happened in there?” And she goes, “is that normal for you?” And I was like, “I don’t even remember what happened”, so I guess so.” She goes, “Jesus, how often do you shit like that?” And I was like, “every day.” She goes, “oh, my God. Is there blood in there?” There could be. I don’t know. I just go, bap! And I hit flush. And she goes, “you don’t look at it?” And I go, “where am I supposed to look?” “It’s everywhere. “You want me to look at each individual piece? No, I paint the bowl, and then I wash it away.” That’s how I found out, at 34 years old, that not everybody has diarrhea every day. I feel like, you know, wives have to get in one last jab too, ’cause first of all, this wasn’t even an argument. This was a conversation. And she won the conversation, okay? She did. I feel horrible about my digestive system. You win. It’s settled. I’m sitting on… I’m sulking, like… *Sighs* On the couch. She’s going to leave this day, right? And she stops at the door as she’s leaving the house, and she goes, “you know, you’re probably gonna die.” And I was like, “cool, babe. Have a good day.” I’ll see you when you get home.” Then I started thinking about it, and I’m like, “maybe I am gonna die.” I went to the doctor that day, and I’m… I’m gonna be completely honest with you. I went to the doctor, and I was like, “all right.” I’m just gonna get a checkup, see what’s going on.” The honest truth is I knew it wasn’t gonna be awesome, okay? I knew the doctor wasn’t gonna be like, “you might be surprised to hear this, but you’re perfect. Like, you’re a perfect physical specimen, man.” I knew that wasn’t gonna happen, but I didn’t expect him to be a dick. Usually, they’re not. I feel like in my experience, doctors are polite. Almost overly polite, where it’s phony and condescending. When they go, “ah, really interesting story you got there.” Doctors do that because you’re telling them a story, and doctors don’t want to hear a story. Doctors want to hear “this hurts,” not “I was over at my friend Charlie’s house”, “and we went to move the ottoman, and… “I mean, you can use it as a coffee table, “or you can use it as an ottoman. It’s up to you,” and your doctor’s like, “I want to blow my fucking brains out right now.” I go in there, I sit on the exam table, which is my least favorite table to sit on in the world ’cause it’s the only table that, in 30 years, I’ve sat on where my feet don’t touch the ground. So I feel like a fucking toddler, waiting like… *giggles* My doctor comes in. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say good morning. He just walks in. He points at me, which is super aggressive, you know, to start a conversation with somebody. Like, “hey, man.” You’re like, “hey. What’s up, man?” And he goes, “do you want something for your hair?” And I go, “what?” And he goes, “do you want something for your hair?” And I go, “I don’t get it.” And he goes, “has nobody told you that your hair’s falling out?” I was like, “damn. No.” And he goes, “ah. Sorry.” I’m like, “all right.” Then he pulls my chart out of the slot, super dramatic, so that it makes a fucking noise. He goes… *Exhales* I’m like… and he goes, “wow!” And I’m like, “really, ‘wow’? Is it full-blown AIDS?” Like, “why is ‘wow’?” And he goes, “you weigh 245.” And I go like, “yeah, like, I knew that shit.” And he goes, “you weighed 230 last time you were here.” Not exactly what I would call weight loss.” I’m like, “are we at a fucking roast or something?” Like, “what are you doing?” Then he says, “you know you’re the fattest patient I’ve seen all day.” And I go, “it’s 9:30 in the morning.” And he goes, “still.” He’s like, “you know, we ran your blood work.” It turns out your muscle enzymes are through the roof.” And I go, “yeah, man, like, I’m super strong.” Like, how is that a problem?” And he goes, “they’re off the charts.” I’m like, “even better.” I’m probably your strongest patient, man.” And he goes, “I don’t think you understand muscle enzymes.” And I go, “that’s true. I don’t know what they are.” And he goes, “well, the only way you could have them this high” “would be, like, ‘a, ‘ if you were an Olympic athlete, which, clearly you’re not.” I’m like, “dude, what is the deal, man?” And he goes, “the other way would be if you were a cocaine addict.” And I go, “I don’t do coke.” And he goes, “I’m your doctor. You don’t have to lie to me.” And I go, “I’m not lying.” And he goes, “I can’t treat you if you’re not gonna be honest.” And I go, “hey, man, aren’t cokeheads skinny?” Isn’t that, like, part of the deal?” And he goes, “usually, yeah.” The nurse comes in. She takes my chart out of his hands, and she goes, “oh, my God.” “His muscle enzymes are so high. Maybe he runs marathons.” And my doctor goes, “look at him.” So at this point, I go, “this was a lot of fun. “Thank you for having me today. I’m gonna leave now,” and he goes, “all right.” Then he goes, “ho… hold on a second. Do you have a ring on your finger?” And I go, “yeah.” And he goes, “you’re married?” And I go, “yeah,” and he goes, “to a guy?” And I go, “no.” And he goes, “oh. I thought you were gay.” And I go, “why?” And he goes, “I don’t know.” I’m like, “all right, dude.” And he goes, “hey, I’m just kidding.” And I go, “that’s fine.” He goes, “but check it out.” And he takes my chart, and he shows it to me, and he had written “gay?” On my medical chart. The thing that gets sent to other doctors has his inside… *Chuckles* “Maybe he sucks cock” joke written on it. I went home. I told my wife. She’s like, “oh, my god, what are you gonna do?” And I was like, “what do you mean?” And she goes, “I mean, are you ever gonna go back there?” I’m like, “are you out of your mind? “That’s the funniest fucking doctor in the world. Of course I’m going back there.” I have, like, Don Rickles as my primary care physician. That’s amazing. I’m faking injuries to go back to this guy. “You know you’re a piece of shit.” I’m like, “I know.” He’s fucking amazing.

Tom Segura

So I’m super frustrated. I tried to do the right thing, right? I forget about the wallet. A year goes by. A year, a calendar year. I go back to D.C. I go in town, I call a friend, we go to a restaurant, just a random restaurant. We sit down, and the waiter comes up to take our order, and I go, “Justin?” And he goes, “how do you know my name?” And I go, “dude, I have your wallet.” And he goes, “oh, do you have it on you?” I go, “no, I don’t fucking walk around with your wallet.” “I don’t go, ‘I got my wallet, and I got Justin’s wallet. Now, I’m ready to go out.’ No, you fucking psycho.” And he goes, “do you want to hear about today’s specials?” And I go, “do you want to acknowledge that this is an amazing moment in both of our lives?” And he goes, “what do you mean?” “What do I mean? “I found your wallet in a cab in D.C. a year ago. “I don’t know how many cabs are here, but I think it’s a lot. “I got told no 100 times by 100 people trying to find you. “My hotel room used to look like an episode of NCIS. “There was pins and charts connecting shit to each other. “I spoke to your father, who’s not a fan. “I don’t know if you knew that or not. “I come to a restaurant at random, “I get seated in your section, “and I recognize you from your I.D. “That’s burned into my memory. You don’t think that’s fucking amazing?” And he goes, “we have a prime rib special. We also have a penne pasta.” I can’t eat. I’m like, “what the fuck?” He comes by, I go, “look, I don’t want to make a big thing here, “but I do remember that I have your wallet in my bag… “my bag in my hotel room. If you want to come by, I will give you your wallet.” And he goes, “okay.” I go back to the hotel. I hear a knock at the door. And now, I’m expecting him to lose his shit. I think the situation merits freaking the fuck out. I think he was playing it cool, and now he’s gonna be like, “I didn’t want to say this earlier. We should open a surf shop in Maui together, you know?” Or, like, “this is my newborn son. I want you to have him,” like that shit. So I hear a knock at the door. I open the door, I’m like, “hey.” And he goes, “hey, you got my wallet?” And I go, “yeah,” and I give it to him, and he goes, “cool.” And he turns around, and he walks away. No. It is not cool. So I open the door, and I see him about to get on the elevator. I go, “hey, Justin!” And he goes, “yeah.” And I go, “your dad’s right… you’re a fucking asshole”, and you’re never gonna amount to anything,” and I shut the fucking door. You fucked up, Justin. You could’ve been here, man.

George Carlin

I love words. I thank you for hearing my words. I want to tell you something about words that I think is important. They’re my work, they’re my play, they’re my passion. Words are all we have, really. We have thoughts but thoughts are fluid, y’know like, woo woo woo woo, POP! Then we assign a word to a thought and we’re stuck with that word for that thought, so be careful with words. I like to think that yeah, the same words that hurt can heal, it’s a matter of how you pick them. There are some people that aren’t into all the words. There are some that would have you not use certain words. Yeah, there are 400,000 words in the English language and there are 7 of them that you can’t say on television. What a ratio that is! 399,993 to 7. They must really be bad. They’d have to be outrageous to be separated from a group that large. All of you over here, you 7, baaad words! That’s what they told us they were, remember? “That’s a bad word!” No bad words, bad thoughts, bad intentions, and words! You know the 7, don’t you, that you can’t say on television? “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.” Those are the heavy seven. Those are the ones that’ll infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war. “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits,” wow! And “tits” doesn’t even belong on the list, y’know? Man! That’s such a friendly sounding word. It sounds like a nickname, right? “Hey, Tits, come here, man. Hey! Hey Tits, meet Toots. Toots, Tits. Tits, Toots.” It sounds like a snack, doesn’t it? Yes, I know, it is a snack. But I don’t mean your sexist snack! I mean New Nabisco Tits!, and new Cheese Tits, Corn Tits, Pizza Tits, Sesame Tits, Onion Tits, Tater Tits. “Betcha Can’t Eat Just One!” That’s true. I usually switch off. But I mean, that word does not belong on the list. Actually none of the words belong on the list, but you can understand why some of them are there. I’m not completely insensitive to people’s feelings. I can understand why some of those words got on the list, like cocksucker and motherfucker. Those are heavyweight words. There’s a lot going on there. Besides the literal translation and the emotional feeling. I mean, they’re just busy words. There’s a lot of syllables to contend with. And those Ks, those are aggressive sounds. They just jump out at you like “coCKsuCKer, motherfuCKer. coCKsuCKer, motherfuCKer.” It’s like an assault on you. So I can dig that. We mentioned shit earlier, and 2 of the other 4-letter Anglo-Saxon words are piss and cunt, which go together of course. A little accidental humor there. The reason that piss and cunt are on the list is because a long time ago, there were certain ladies that said “Those are the two I am not going to say. I don’t mind fuck and shit but ‘P’ and ‘C’ are out.” Which led to such stupid sentences as “Okay you fuckers, I’m going to tinkle now.” And, of course, the word fuck. I don’t really, well that’s more accidental humor, I don’t wanna get into that now because I think it takes too long. But I do mean that. I think the word fuck is a very important word. It’s the beginning of life, yet it is a word we use to hurt one another quite often. People much wiser than I am have said, “I’d rather have my son watch a film with two people making love than two people trying to kill one another.” I, of course, can agree. It is a great sentence. I wish I knew who said it first. I agree with that but I like to take it a step further. I’d like to substitute the word Fuck for the word Kill in all of those movie cliches we grew up with. “Okay, Sheriff, we’re gonna fuck you now, but we’re gonna fuck you slow.” So maybe next year I’ll have a whole fuckin’ ramp on the N word. I hope so. Those are the 7 you can never say on television, under any circumstances. You just cannot say them ever ever ever. Not even clinically. You cannot weave them in on the panel with Doc, and Ed, and Johnny. I mean, it is just impossible. Forget those 7. They’re out. But there are some 2-way words, those double-meaning words. Remember the ones you giggled at in sixth grade? “…And the cock crowed three times.” “Hey, the cock crowed 3 times. Ha ha ha ha. Hey, it’s in the Bible. Ha ha ha ha.” There are some 2-way words, like it’s okay for Curt Gowdy to say “Roberto Clemente has 2 balls on him,” but he can’t say, “I think he hurt his balls on that play, Tony. Don’t you? He’s holding them. He must’ve hurt them, by God.” And the other 2-way word that goes with that one is prick. It’s okay if it happens to your finger. You can prick your finger but don’t finger your prick. No, no.

George Carlin

Now this next thing is about names, that’s all, names. Names are an interest of mine, not a hobby, hobbies cost money, interests are free. This is just about names. Did you ever notice how they name Singles Bars? Singles Bars all have the same cutsy little one-word names that end in ‘s’. Scamps, Tramps, Chaps, Rumours, Cahoots, Cheers, Chances, Mingles, Risks, Gambits, Notions, hey, if I had a Singles Bar, you know what I’d call it? Nipples and Dicks! A little truth in advertising! The Sperm Club! Snatch o’ Rama! The Crotch-e-teria! Frankie’s Fuckery! Café Vagina! Open All Night! Well I’m an old fashioned guy. I’m old fashioned because I believe the name on the outside of a place ought to let you know what’s going on on the inside. Here would be a good name for a gay restaurant, “The Mouthful”, huh? Come on, that’s clever shit, that’s a double pun goddammit, you didn’t think of it! Besides, you don’t have to eat there if you don’t want to. No, no, just go in, have a cocktail… or a high-ball. Here’s another name I don’t care for, TGI Fridays, you know these cutsy-ass little places? TGI Fridays! Hghhh. That whole “TGIF” thing was cute for about an hour… and that was 65 years ago when someone first said it on the radio, not cute anymore, time to start bombing these locations! TGI Fridays, if I had a place like that, you know what I’d call it? HSIOW… Holy Shit, It’s Only Wednesday. I think people would drink a lot more liquor if they thought it was Wednesday all the time. Well I’m just looking for a little honesty in these names. A little honesty, that’s not asking a lot. I’m thinking of opening up a motel and calling it “The Sleep n’ Fuck”. Wouldn’t that be a good honest name for a motel? Who needs this shady “Pines” bullshit? “The Sleep n’ Fuck” motel; get me one of them big neon signs, “Sleep… Fuck… Sleep n’ Fuck!” You put it right at the Jersey entrance to the Holland tunnel you know? Actually “Fuck n’ Sleep” would be a little more accurate wouldn’t it? Best name for a motel would be “The Fuck n’ Smoke n’ Sleep n’ Roll Over and Get Out of Bed and Wash Your Crotch and Grab a Bite, Two Cans of Mr. Pip and Go Home and Fuck a Whole Lot More” cause that’s all they have left in those soda machines on Sunday night, Mr. Pip and Diet Chaster Orange… and that yellow can of Canada Dry Tonic Water that nobody wants! And speaking of naming things, am I the only person in this country who’s laughing when these commercials come on television for “Snapper Lawn Mowers”? Isn’t there anyone else in this fading Republic who knows what a snapper is? A snapper is a pussy okay? That’s what it means, “snapper” means “pussy”. It’s derived from an older, more specific term, “Snappin’ Pussy”… which describes a particular type of pussy, one with good quick muscular control, kind of an elasticity in the vaginal wall that can grab a hold of you and give you a decent hump, you know what I’m talking about. A snappin’ pussy! But now, now “snapper” means any kind of pussy and they’ve named a lawn mower company after it! Now I have seen a few snappers in my day, never seen one that’ll cut grass! No, no, maybe do a little edging, a little edging along the driveway after a party, that’s all you can hope for. But you know, “weed whacker”, you can understand!

George Carlin

What we have now is a completely neurotic population obsessed with security and safety and crime and drugs and cleanliness and hygiene and germs… there’s another thing… germs. Where did this sudden fear of germs come from in this country? Have you noticed this? The media, constantly running stories about all the latest infections – salmonella, e-coli, hanta virus, bird flu – and Americans, they panic easily so now everybody’s running around, scrubbing this and spraying that and overcooking their food and repeatedly washing their hands, trying to avoid all contact with germs. It’s ridiculous and it goes to ridiculous lengths. In prisons, before they give you a lethal injection, they swab your arm with alcohol! It’s true! Yeah! Well, they don’t want you to get an infection! And you could see their point; wouldn’t want some guy to go to hell and be sick! It would take a lot of the sportsmanship out of the whole execution. Fear of germs… why these fucking pussies! You can’t even get a decent hamburger anymore! They cook the shit out of everything now cause everybody’s afraid of food poisoning! Hey, where’s your sense of adventure? Take a fucking chance will you? You know how many people die in this country from food poisoning every year? 9000… that’s all; it’s a minor risk! Take a fucking chance… bunch of goddamn pussies! Besides, what do you think you have an immune system for? It’s for killing germs! But it needs practice… it needs germs to practice on. So listen! If you kill all the germs around you, and live a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along, you’re not gonna be prepared. And never mind ordinary germs, what are you gonna do when some super virus comes along that turns your vital organs into liquid shit? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do… you’re gonna get sick, you’re gonna die, and you’re gonna deserve it cause you’re fucking weak and you got a fucking weak immune system! Let me tell you a true story about immunization okay? When I was a little boy in New York City in the 1940s, we swam in the Hudson River and it was filled with raw sewage okay? We swam in raw sewage! You know… to cool off! And at that time, the big fear was polio; thousands of kids died from polio every year but you know something? In my neighbourhood, no one ever got polio! No one! Ever! You know why? Cause we swam in raw sewage! It strengthened our immune systems! The polio never had a prayer; we were tempered in raw shit! So personally, I never take any special precautions against germs. I don’t shy away from people that sneeze and cough, I don’t wipe off the telephone, I don’t cover the toilet seat, and if I drop food on the floor, I pick it up and eat it! Yes I do. Even if I’m at a sidewalk café! In Calcutta! The poor section! On New Year’s morning during a soccer riot! And you know something? In spite of all that so-called risky behaviour, I never get infections, I don’t get them, I don’t get colds, I don’t get flu, I don’t get headaches, I don’t get upset stomach, you know why? Cause I got a good strong immune system and it gets a lot of practice. My immune system is equipped with the biological equivalent of fully automatic military assault rifles with night vision and laser scopes, and we have recently acquired phosphorous grenades, cluster bombs, and anti-personnel fragmentation mines. So when my white blood cells are on patrol recon ordering my blood stream seeking out strangers and other undesirables, if they see any, ANY suspicious looking germs of any kind, they don’t fuck around! They whip out their weapons; they wax the motherfucker and deposit the unlucky fellow directly into my colon! Into my colon! There’s no nonsense, there’s no Miranda warning, there’s none of that “three strikes and you’re out” shit, first defense, BAM… into the colon you go! And speaking of my colon, I want you to know I don’t automatically wash my hands every time I go to the bathroom okay? Can you deal with that? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. You know when I wash my hands? When I shit on them! That’s the only time. And you know how often that happens? Tops, TOPS, 2-3 times a week tops! Maybe a little more frequently over the holidays, you know what I mean? And I’ll tell you something else my well-scrubbed friends… you don’t need to always need to shower every day, did you know that? It’s overkill, unless you work out or work outdoors, or for some reason come in intimate contact with huge amounts of filth and garbage every day, you don’t always need to shower. All you really need to do is to wash the four key areas; armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth. Got that? Armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth. In fact, you can save yourself a whole lot of time if you simply use the same brush on all four areas!

George Carlin

When it comes to bullshit, big-time, major league bullshit, you have to stand in awe of the all-time champion of false promises and exaggerated claims, religion. No contest. No contest. Religion. Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, you talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit! But I want you to know something, this is sincere, I want you to know, when it comes to believing in God, I really tried. I really, really tried. I tried to believe that there is a God, who created each of us in His own image and likeness, loves us very much, and keeps a close eye on things. I really tried to believe that, but I gotta tell you, the longer you live, the more you look around, the more you realize, something is fucked up. Something is wrong here. War, disease, death, destruction, hunger, filth, poverty, torture, crime, corruption, and the Ice Capades. Something is definitely wrong. This is not good work. If this is the best God can do, I am not impressed. Results like these do not belong on the résumé of a Supreme Being. This is the kind of shit you’d expect from an office temp with a bad attitude. And just between you and me, in any decently-run universe, this guy would’ve been out on his all-powerful ass a long time ago. And by the way, I say “this guy”, because I firmly believe, looking at these results, that if there is a God, it has to be a man. No woman could or would ever fuck things up like this. So, if there is a God, I think most reasonable people might agree that he’s at least incompetent, and maybe, just maybe, doesn’t give a shit. Doesn’t give a shit, which I admire in a person, and which would explain a lot of these bad results. So rather than be just another mindless religious robot, mindlessly and aimlessly and blindly believing that all of this is in the hands of some spooky incompetent father figure who doesn’t give a shit, I decided to look around for something else to worship. Something I could really count on. And immediately, I thought of the sun. Happened like that. Overnight I became a sun-worshipper. Well, not overnight, you can’t see the sun at night. But first thing the next morning, I became a sun-worshipper. Several reasons. First of all, I can see the sun, okay? Unlike some other gods I could mention, I can actually see the sun. I’m big on that. If I can see something, I don’t know, it kind of helps the credibility along, you know? So everyday I can see the sun, as it gives me everything I need; heat, light, food, flowers in the park, reflections on the lake, an occasional skin cancer, but hey. At least there are no crucifixions, and we’re not setting people on fire simply because they don’t agree with us. Sun worship is fairly simple. There’s no mystery, no miracles, no pageantry, no one asks for money, there are no songs to learn, and we don’t have a special building where we all gather once a week to compare clothing. And the best thing about the sun, it never tells me I’m unworthy. Doesn’t tell me I’m a bad person who needs to be saved. Hasn’t said an unkind word. Treats me fine. So, I worship the sun. But, I don’t pray to the sun. Know why? I wouldn’t presume on our friendship. It’s not polite. I’ve often thought people treat God rather rudely, don’t you? Asking trillions and trillions of prayers every day. Asking and pleading and begging for favors. Do this, gimme that, I need a new car, I want a better job. And most of this praying takes place on Sunday His day off. It’s not nice. And it’s no way to treat a friend. But people do pray, and they pray for a lot of different things, you know, your sister needs an operation on her crotch, your brother was arrested for defecating in a mall. But most of all, you’d really like to fuck that hot little redhead down at the convenience store. You know, the one with the eyepatch and the clubfoot? Can you pray for that? I think you’d have to. And I say, fine. Pray for anything you want. Pray for anything, but what about the Divine Plan? Remember that? The Divine Plan. Long time ago, God made a Divine Plan. Gave it a lot of thought, decided it was a good plan, put it into practice. And for billions and billions of years, the Divine Plan has been doing just fine. Now, you come along, and pray for something. Well suppose the thing you want isn’t in God’s Divine Plan? What do you want Him to do? Change His plan? Just for you? Doesn’t it seem a little arrogant? It’s a Divine Plan. What’s the use of being God if every run-down shmuck with a two-dollar prayerbook can come along and fuck up Your Plan? And here’s something else, another problem you might have: Suppose your prayers aren’t answered. What do you say? “Well, it’s God’s will.” “Thy Will Be Done.” Fine, but if it’s God’s will, and He’s going to do what He wants to anyway, why the fuck bother praying in the first place? Seems like a big waste of time to me! Couldn’t you just skip the praying part and go right to His Will? It’s all very confusing. So to get around a lot of this, I decided to worship the sun. But, as I said, I don’t pray to the sun. You know who I pray to? Joe Pesci. Two reasons: First of all, I think he’s a good actor, okay? To me, that counts. Second, he looks like a guy who can get things done. Joe Pesci doesn’t fuck around. In fact, Joe Pesci came through on a couple of things that God was having trouble with. For years I asked God to do something about my noisy neighbor with the barking dog, Joe Pesci straightened that cocksucker out with one visit. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a simple baseball bat. So I’ve been praying to Joe for about a year now. And I noticed something. I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same 50% rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don’t. Same as God, 50-50. Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe, the wishing well and the rabbit’s foot, same as the Mojo Man, same as the Voodoo Lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat’s testicles, it’s all the same: 50-50. So just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself. And for those of you who look to The Bible for moral lessons and literary qualities, I might suggest a couple of other stories for you. You might want to look at the Three Little Pigs, that’s a good one. Has a nice happy ending, I’m sure you’ll like that. Then there’s Little Red Riding Hood, although it does have that X-rated part where the Big Bad Wolf actually eats the grandmother. Which I didn’t care for, by the way. And finally, I’ve always drawn a great deal of moral comfort from Humpty Dumpty. The part I like the best? “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.” That’s because there is no Humpty Dumpty, and there is no God. None, not one, no God, never was. In fact, I’m gonna put it this way. If there is a God, may he strike this audience dead! See? Nothing happened. Nothing happened? Everybody’s okay? All right, tell you what, I’ll raise the stakes a little bit. If there is a God, may he strike me dead. See? Nothing happened, oh, wait, I’ve got a little cramp in my leg. And my balls hurt. Plus, I’m blind. I’m blind, oh, now I’m okay again, must have been Joe Pesci, huh? God Bless Joe Pesci.

George Carlin

Humans do some really interesting things. Like besides killing ourselves, we also kill each other. Murder. And we’re the only ones who do that, by the way. We’re the only species on earth that deliberately kills members of our own species for personal gain or pleasure, sometimes it’s just fun. We’re also the only species that deliberately kills members of another species for personal gain or pleasure. That’s what hunters do. They kill for pleasure. That’s us. Human beings. Interesting folks. Murderers. Here’s an interesting form of murder we’ve come up with. Assassination. You know what’s interesting about assassination? Well, not only does it change those popularity polls in a big fucking hurry but it is also interesting to notice who it is we assassinate. Did you ever notice who it is? Stop to think who it is we kill? It’s always people who’ve told us to live together in harmony and try to love one another. Jesus, Gandhi, Lincoln, John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, John Lennon. They all said, try to live together peacefully. BAM! Right in the fucking head. Apparently, we’re not ready for that. Yeah, that’s difficult behavior for us. We’re too busy sitting around trying to think up ways to kill each other. Here’s one we came up with, it’s efficient, too. Genocide. You know, killing large numbers of people simply because they don’t look like you, they don’t talk like you and they don’t have the same kind of hats you do. You ever notice that at any time you see two groups of people who really hate each other, chances are good they’re wearing different kind of hats. Keep an eye on that. It might be important. But any time there’s genocide, there are always mass graves. Right? Every time we kill some dictator and go marching through his country, we always find mass graves. Thousands and thousands of dead bodies of people the dictator killed. And everybody over here gets horrified. “Oh, mass graves, mass graves oh.” Well shit, what’s the guy suppose to do with a couple thousand people he just killed? Dig separate holes? Fuck that shit. It’s labor intensive. Get real. The whole idea of killing a large number of people at one time and one place is convenience. Efficiency. Thrown ’em in the fucking hole. Look at it this way, at least the dictator had the decency to throw a little dirt on them. Give the guy some credit. The dictator’s a busy man. He’s got a lot on his mind. Like trying to figure out who’s planning to kill *him*. So he can pick them up, put them in prison and *torture* them. There’s another one of our interesting, heart-warming behaviors we come up with somewhere along the way- TORTURING each other. You want to hear a really cool torture that the Romans invented? They also used it as a form of capital punishment. It’s *really* creative. They would take the guy in question, stuff him in a burlap sack, seal the sack up real tight and throw it in the river. But, and here’s the creative part, inside the sack with the guy, they would put a dog, a monkey and a snake. Okay? A dog, a monkey and a snake. That’s fucking creative. Imagine being inside a burlap sack under water, in the dark, sitting next to a drowning monkey. Think he’d be moving around a little bit? The dog would be going ape shit. We know that. And the snake? Well, he’d probably be getting curious about what all the activity was inside the sack. He might do anything. Whatever he did, it would probably involve venom and his teeth. You know what you’d be doing? You’d be praying to God that the snake bit the monkey and the dog ate the snake. Praying. Yeah, then… Then it would be just you and the dog, man and his best friend drowning together. Maybe before you die, you can teach him a few tricks. Roll over and play dead wouldn’t be too difficult, would it? Just a thought, just a playful thought. By the way, I assume you’re noticing that all these activities I’m mentioning, murder, torture, genocide, these are all things human beings do. Not animals, those creatures we feel superior to. This is us. Here’s another one of our spiritually uplifting activities. We don’t do this one much anymore, but it use to be really big. Human sacrifice. I miss that. The Aztecs loved human sacrifice and they were good at it. Well, they got a lot of practice. For instance, right around the year 1500, the Aztecs sacrificed 80,000 people in one ceremony. Okay? 80,000 people in one ceremony. You know what the occasion was? They were opening a new temple. Nothing like religion for a little entertainment, huh? Especially that old time religion. You know how the Aztecs went about their sacrificing? Here’s how they did it. They would do it right out in public. Right in front of everybody. Big town. Beautiful city square. 20, 30,000 people looking on. They would take the guy, lay him on an alter, cut his chest open, pull his heart out, hold it up in the air while it was still beating. Got that? Cut his chest open, pull his heart out and hold it up in the air while it was still beating. You know what you call that? Theater. That is fucking theater. And although the procedure may have been a little too crude to be considered the first bypass surgery, it could easily be seen as an early form of organ donor program. The Aztecs, human beings just like us. Not too long ago, 500 years. Columbus had already landed. This is just south of here. Mexico. And by the way, those hearts didn’t go to waste. Did not go to waste. Because right after the ceremonies, the royal family, naturally, would enjoy another one of our amusing activities, cannibalism. Imagine that. Chowing down on another human being. You got to be all out of beef jerky, man. You got to be really fucking hungry. But it happens, doesn’t it? It still happens to this day. A bunch of people stranded in the wilderness, run out of Pop-Tarts, you got to eat something. Might as well be Steve. And how do you decide who to eat first? How do you decide who’s first on the barbecue rack? Do you pick on the little guy because he’s skinny and he can’t fight back? Or do you all gang up on the body builder because he’s got a lot of steaks and chops on him? These are things human beings have to consider. One more of these charming diversions of ours, necrophilia. Now there’s a hobby for you. Fucking a corpse. It takes a special kind of guy. Don’t you think? But it happens, it happens. More than you might think. It happens among humans. Animals don’t do that. Animals don’t fuck their dead. A rat will do a lot of gross things, but he will not fuck a dead rat. It wouldn’t even occur to him. Only a human being would think to fuck someone who just died. We got to be the most interesting critters on the planet. And then we wonder why a UFO doesn’t just land and say, hello. You know the best thing about necrophilia? You don’t have to bring flowers. Yeah, usually they’re already there. Isn’t that nice? It’s nice. It’s convenient. Human beings will do anything. Anything. I am convinced. That’s why when all those beheadings started in Iraq, it didn’t bother me. I took it right in stride. A lot of people here were horrified. “Oh, beheadings, beheadings.” What are you fucking surprised? It’s just one more form of extreme human behavior. Besides, who cares about some mercenary civilian contractor from Oklahoma who gets his head cut off? Fuck him. Fuck him. Hey, Jack, you don’t want to get your head cut off? Stay the fuck in Oklahoma. Stay the fuck in Oklahoma. They ain’t cutting off heads in Oklahoma. As far as I know. But I do know this, you strap on a gun and go strutting around some other man’s country, you better be ready for some action, Jack. You better be ready for some action. People are touchy about that sort of thing. And let me ask you this while I have you good, clean Americans here. This is a moral question, not rhetorical. I’m looking for the answer. What is the moral difference between cutting off one guy’s head or two or three or five or ten and dropping a big bomb on a hospital and killing a whole bunch of sick kids? Has anybody in authority given you an explanation of the difference? I have not gotten an email on this. No one will talk to me. I haven’t gotten a postcard, not a fucking instant message, nothin’. Now, in case you’re wondering why I have a certain interest and fascination, let’s call it, with torture and beheadings and all of these things I’ve mentioned is because each of these items reminds me in life, every time one of them occurs, it reminds me over and over again what beasts we human beings really are, you know? When you get right down to it, when you get right down to it, human beings are nothing more than ordinary jungle beasts. Savages. No different from the Cro-Magnon people who lived 25,000 years ago in the Plasticine Forest eating grubs off of rotten logs. No different. Our DNA hasn’t changed substantially in 100,000 years. We’re still operating out of the lower brain. The reptilian brain. Fight or flight. Kill or be killed. Now, we like to think we’ve evolved and advanced because we can build a computer, fly an airplane, travel underwater. We can write a sonnet, paint a painting, compose an opera. But you know something? We’re barely out of the jungle on this planet. Barely out of the fucking jungle. What we are is semi-civilized beasts with baseball caps and automatic weapons. And this civilization of ours that we’re so proud of, this civilization with its so-called civilized behavior, you ever stop and realize how fragile all this is? How fragile the whole structure, how easily it can all just break right down, just break right down. It wouldn’t take much. It’ll probably happen in less than two years. It wouldn’t take much to throw us right back into barbaric times. All you’d have to do would be eliminate electricity. That’s all. But completely. Eliminate electricity. So, no electricity, no lights. You’re back to candles and lanterns. Campfires and bonfires. Batteries couldn’t be recharged. Generators couldn’t be refueled because fuel is pumped electrically. So is water, by the way. So no lights, no fuel, no water, no computers. And computers run everything. And among the many things computers run that operate on electricity are all of the security systems in all of our jails and prisons and nut houses. So suddenly without electricity, all across America the gates and cell doors of penitentiaries and mental institutions would fly open and out would come all of our old friends. The ones who’ve been away, at camp. Serial killers, mass murderers, felony rapists, armed robbers, car jackers, home invaders, thieves, burglars, kidnappers, sadists, pedophiles, sexual predators, pimps, pushers, pornographers, speed freaks, crack heads, sick junkies. All the ethnic street gangs. Blacks, Spanish and Asian gangs, Japanese Yakuza, Russian Mafia, Neo-Nazis, white supremacists, Sicilian hit man, Italian mobsters, Jamaican and Colombian drug gangs. And those are just the ones we caught. Lets not forget their counter-parts still on the outside right now waiting to hook up with their prison buddies so they can start a new organization, The American Federation of Sociopaths. Just what the country needs. Another special interest group. Eight to ten million of them there would be. Counting all the parolees and all the probationers and the ones who’ve never been caught. Eight to ten million bitter, angry, violent, sexually hyperactive alpha males with nothing to do. No hobbies. No medication. No scruples. Just a bunch of bad guys looking for a good time. Maybe dropping by your house. “Hi. Hope we’re not intruding. Got any beer? Oh, good. Well, I got about 1400 really thirsty guys here. How about women? Got any women? Oh, just your wife, huh? Well, I think we can make that work. Now boys, there’s a lady here. So I want you to mind your manners and wait your turn.” Police wouldn’t help you. They’d be gone at the first sign of trouble. They’d be home protecting their own families. So would the Army and the National Guard. You’d be alone. You’d be on your own. You’d be S.O.L. And J.W.F. Shit out of luck and jolly well fucked. Shit out of luck and jolly well fucked. After a couple of years of living like that, beheadings would be the least of your problems. People would be lining up to be beheaded.

George Carlin

Now something else a lot of you are aware of. Those of you with illegal cable hook-ups will be aware of the fact that one of the things I like to do on my show is complain you know. It’s kind of a motif for me complaining. And of course. This weird culture we live in leaves you no shortage of things to complain about. So this next piece of material like some good ideas is fairly simple. It’s just a list of people who ought to be killed starting with these people who read self help books. Why do so many people need help? Life is not that complicated. You get up go to work you eat three meals you take one good shit and you go back to bed. What’s the fucking mystery? And the part I really don’t understand. If you’re looking for self-help why would you read a book written by somebody else? That’s not self-help that’s help. There’s no such thing as self help. If you did it yourself you didn’t need help. You did it yourself. Try to pay attention to the language we’ve all agreed on. And a similar. A similar mystery to me motivation books. Motivation seminars. Why would anyone need to be motivated by someone else? I say if you lack motivation. A seminar isn’t going to help you. What you really need is to be smashed in the head or times with a golf club. That’ll fucking motivate you. Or else it’ll at least get you up and moving around the room you know locate your socks shit like that. Get the day rolling. Motivation is bullshit. If you ask me this country could use a little less motivation. The people who are motivated are the ones who were causing all the trouble. Stock swindlers. Serial killers. Child molesters, Christian conservatives. These people are highly motivated, highly motivated. And anyway I think motivation is overrated. You show me some lazy prick who’s lying around all day watching game shows and stroking his penis and I’ll show you someone who’s not causing any fucking trouble. Here’s another pack of low-grade morons who ought to be locked into portable toilets and set on fire. These people with bumper stickers that say we are the proud parents of an honor student at Franklin School. Or the Midvale Academy or whatever other innocent sounding name has been assigned to the indoctrination center where their child has been sent to be stripped of his individuality and turned into an obedient soul, dead conformist member of the American consumer culture. Proud parents what kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the achievements of their children? How would you like to have to live with a couple of these misfits? How’s that science project coming along Justin? Fuck you dad. You simple-minded prick. Mind your own business and pass the Cheerios. Here’s a bumper sticker I’d like to see. We are the proud parents of a child whose self esteem is sufficient that he doesn’t need us promoting his minor scholastic achievements on the back of our car. Or we are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teacher’s attempts to break his spirit and bend him to the will of his corporate masters. Just be a nice little for a change. Here’s something realistic. We have a daughter in public school who hasn’t been knocked up yet. We have a son in public school who hasn’t shot any of his classmates yet. But he does sell drugs to your honor student. Plus, he knocked up your daughter. Then there are the people who aren’t too proud of their children. We are the embarrassed parents of a cross-eyed little nitwit who at the age of not only continues to wet the bed but also shits on the school bus. Something like that on the back of the car might give the child a little more incentive you know, get him to try a little harder next semester. Here are some more parents who ought to be beaten with heavy clubs and left bleeding in the moonlight. These are the ones who carry their babies around in these backpacks or front packs or slings or whatever these devices are called. That are apparently designed to leave the parents’ hands free to sort through high end merchandise and reach for their platinum credit cards. Because it’s always these upscale, yuppie looking Greenpeace environmentally conscious assholes who have them on. I say hey Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers. I say hey Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers. It’s not camping equipment it’s a baby. Touch the little prick now and then. He’ll thank you for it someday. These are the same people who sort their garbage jog with their dogs and listen to Steely Dan. You just like to take them out deep in the forest and disembowel them with a wooden cooking spoon. Here are some more people who ought to be smashed across the face repeatedly with a piece of heavy mining equipment These grown men, grown men who refer to their fathers as my daddy. You know yeah. You hear a lot of this stupid shit in the South these rebel assholes. My daddy my daddy my daddy. Well you know what my daddy used to say. My daddy used to say blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Oh. He did. Did he? Well. Wasn’t that fucking enlightening. My daddy used to say fuck your daddy. Fuck your daddy in his wrinkled. Rusted rural country asshole. Grow up Billy Joe Carl Bob Danny Frank, you’re not six any more. More like 9. Here’s another unfortunate pack of mutants who ought to be penciled in for a sudden visit from the angel of death these guys these guys who can’t tell you about a phone call they had without giving you this shit the fucking pinky and the thumb. Like they attended Mime college, studied under Marcel Marceau. So I call her up you know and I’m talking to her. And she fucking hangs up on me so I hang up on her. And she calls me back. I fucking hang up again. I say hey Bruno thanks for the visual aid. But we all understand the concept of the telephone. You hold it in your hand you talk into it. Excuse me. Bruno. Incoming call. Oh hey it’s for you. Here’s another bunch of puss-headed telephone cretins. These self-important techno dicks who walk around with these hands free telephone headsets and ear pieces. Mr. Self Important doesn’t want to be too far from the phone in case Henry Kissinger calls. He’s got the Dalai Lama on line 2. I say hey Spaceman as long as your hands are free. Reach over here and fondle my balls would you please? And answering machines starting with these people who think it’s cute to let their children record the outgoing message you know? And you can’t understand a word of it. Because the kid’s a fucking imbecile. Hi my name is Stacey I’m 5 years old, my mommy and daddy aren’t home but I’m galalgablallamabla. Beep. Here’s my message Stacey. I’m coming over to your house with a big knife. And I’m going to kill mommy and daddy. Then I’m going to peel off their skin and make a funny hat. After that I’m going to take out my huge ding dong and stick it right in your dooooooo. These are the same parents who at Christmas time send you pictures of their children. Pictures you didn’t ask for and you don’t want. But it is fun throwing the pictures away isn’t it? I don’t even look at the fucking Christmas card. Who’s this? Luanne is this year. Fuck Luanne. I give a shit how old she is. Does she have any tits yet? Send me a picture of Luanne’s tits. Then I know I’m going to have a happy New Year too. Then just to compound your holiday pleasure, they enclose a family newsletter. Just what you’re hoping for, news about people you can barely fucking remember. We’re so proud of Brad he’s been accepted into dental school. Yeah in the Philippines after four tries. Fuck Brad and everybody who looks like Brad. Judging from his picture I think he’s jerking off too much. Keep him away from Luanne. Here’s another bunch of genetic defectives who have been turned loose on answering machines. These guys who cannot resist the urge to put music on their outgoing message. You know some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack and suddenly he’s a fucking record producer. And because he’s busy in the basement jacking off his dog I have to listen to substandard music. And it’s always rotten music you know. It’s either new age that pointless meandering zombie noise played by pseudo spiritual lunatics who think wind chimes are a musical instrument. Or else it’s soft rock. Soft rock. That lame ass weak non threatening suburban white boy junk played by bands like Men Without Testicles. Oh. And folks. On these answering machines do me a favor. Would you please. When you record your outgoing message don’t bother telling me you can’t come to the phone. I understand that. Apparently that’s why we have these machines. And don’t tell me leave my name and number somehow. I figured that out. And if you work in an office. Never mind that stuff. I’m away from my desk. If you had to take a shit say so. Just say hi this is Mary Louise I had the Mexican Jalapeno bean chile dip and I washed it down with a gallon of gin. I’ll be in and out all day. There are some more people who ought to be strapped into chairs and beaten with hammers. People who wear visors. Let me ask you something. What the fuck is the point in wearing half a hat? Either get a hat or don’t. No one’s interested in the top of your head. Go back to the store and tell them to give you the rest of the hat. They cheated you. Better still. Get yourself one of them little Jewish hats and sew it to your visor. Then you got yourself a full-fledged fucking hat my friend. Here are some more musical vermin whose mothers we wish had medical plans that included abortion. These singers, these singers who think they’re so special they only need one name: Bono, Sting, Jewel, Tiffany, Prince. What a crock of shit. Get a fucking last name would you please. I got a nice two-word name for you: pretentious cocksucker. How do you like that? Bono, Sting. It’s not bad enough the music sucks. But with no last name. You can’t find out where they live to throw a fucking bomb through their window. It’s frustrating. Here are some more people who deserve an inoperable tumor at the base of their spines. These guys who fly around the world in a fucking balloon. You know. What is this 1850? Get a fucking airline ticket will you please? When is the media going to realize no one’s interested in some rich trouser stain who’s so bored he’s got to fly around in a balloon all day. I hope the next guy gets hit by lightning. And flies around in little fart circles. And lands in a sewage treatment pond and sinks with the rest of the turds. Mr. Lighter than Air. Here is another pack of jackoffs who ought to be strangled in front of their children. People who pay for inexpensive items with a credit card. You know. Folks. Take my word for this Raisinettes is not a major purchase. Get some fucking cash together. No one should be paying a bank percent interest on Tic Tacs. And you’re holding up the fucking line too some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack waiting to be approved for a bag of Cheese Doodles. I need this like I need an infected scrotum. Get some fucking money. Next guy ahead of me online pays for Newsweek with a credit card is getting stabbed in the eyes. And I’m getting really sick of guys named Todd. You know it’s just a goofy fucking name okay. Hi what’s your name? Todd. I’m Todd. And this is Blake. And Blair and Blane and Brent. Where are all these goofy fucking boys’ names coming from? Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn. These are not real names. Do you want to hear a real name? Eddie. Eddie is a real name. Whatever happened to Eddie? He was here a minute ago. Joey and Jackie and Johnnie and Phil. Bobbie and Tommy and Danny and Bill, what happened? Todd. And Cody and Dylan and Cameron and Tucker. Hi. Tucker. I’m Todd. Hi. Todd. I’m Tucker. Fuck Tucker. Tucker sucks. And fuck Tucker’s friend Kyle. There’s another soft name for a boy Kyle. Soft names make soft people. I’ll bet you anything that ten times out of ten Nicky, Vinnie and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker. Thank you very much. Here are some more people with missing chromosomes who ought to be thrown screaming from a helicopter. Gun enthusiasts, you know? I’m a gun enthusiast. Oh yeah well I’m a blowjob enthusiast. Want to see me shoot? Cock this. And I’ll discharge a load for you. And I’m not against guns. I’m not one of those mindless Hollywood cocksuckers. I’m not against guns, I’m not against bullets, I’m not even against people shooting each other. Shit shooting somebody is part of the American dream. I don’t care who it is. Parents, teachers, kids… fuck them. Let them get shot. Doesn’t bother me. But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers, before Charlton Heston became President of these dickless lunatics in the NRA, they had a different guy. He’s still one of their major spokesmen. His name is Wayne La Pierre. What kind of a name for a gun nut is Wayne La Pierre? Doesn’t it sound a little fruity to you? Hi, I’m Wayne, I’m a gun person. Bang-bang. You know what this prick’s name ought to be? Biff Webster. Spud Crowley, a man’s name. Chuck Steak. Here are some more men who ought to be strapped to a gurney and castrated with fishing knives. White guys who shave their heads completely bald. They’re so ashamed they lost 11 hairs they’re going to try to turn into some kind of masculine statement. I say hey you goofy looking baldy headed fuck, looks good on black guys, on you it’s ugly, repulsive and disgusting. You want to be bald. Do what I did. Wait a while. Meantime, there’s no excuse for running around looking like a freshly circumcised dick. And just to wind up this little group of complaints finally this is a group of social criminals. These people in the space program. Nassholes. I call them. In case you haven’t heard. The latest disaster for the rest of the universe is that the United States is going to go to Mars. Okay, aw yeah. We’re going to go to Mars. And then of course. We’re going to colonize deep space with our microwave hot dogs and plastic vomit fake dog shit and cinnamon dental floss and lemon scented toilet paper and sneakers with lights in the heels and all these other impressive things we’ve done down here. Let me ask you this, let me ask you this. What are we going to tell the intergalactic council of ministers the first time one of our teenage mothers throws her newborn baby into a dumpster huh? How we going to explain that to the space people? How we going to let them know that our Ambassador was only late for the meeting because his breakfast was cold and he had to spend half an hour punching his wife around in the kitchen. What are they going to think when they find out – it’s just a local custom – that over 80 million women in the third world have had their clitorises forcibly removed in order to reduce their sexual pleasure so they won’t cheat on their husbands. Can’t you just sense how eager the rest of the universe is for us to show up? Can’t you see them out there?

George Carlin

I’m a fan of Westerns. I don’t like just any Western though; I like the ones that involve Indians. I like the Indian movies because they’re predictable. You know what the big scene is going to be, right? It’s going to be the attack the Indians Finally make on the cowboys. You wait for it to happen for an hour and a half. You can see the clowns standing on the hill. Finally, “Yeeahhh!” It’s over. Now they show us, for 90 minutes, how the cowboys get ready for this attack. “Pull the wagons around the circle, gel them old ladies up there, load up the weapons, tab their petticoats, give ’em a bang, get ’em the salt bags and sand bags and (double-talk) out a here!” It’s a big hassle. But they never show us how the Indians prepare. And it’s their attack, right? Well, the Indians were good fighters. Just because they started in Massachusetts and wound up defending Santa Monica doesn’t mean they were bad. They were good fighters. And if they were, they must have been well organized. They must have had a way to divide their manpower. They couldn’t have been as chaotic as it looks in the movies with one old chief, “Many moon come chakta” and a lot of guys running around naked. There had to be intermediate authority. There must have been Indian sergeants. No army can make it without that tough, veteran, battle-hardened sergeant, and the Indians were no exception. *now speaking with a lower class New Jersey or New York workman’s accent, as if he were a modern U.S. Army non-commissioned officer* All right, all the tall guys over by the trees. Fat guys down behind the rocks. You with the beads, out of line, come on! Well, there’s one in every village. All right, knock off the horseplay! Come on, knock off the horseplay. You guys over there playin’ with the horse, will you knock it off? Now youse have all been given a piece of birch bark and a feather dipped in eagle’s blood. We want youse to write on the birch bark with the feather, in the upper right-hand comer. That’s the upper right-hand corner. Dat’s your arrow hand. You write your name, last name first, first name last. If your name is Running Bear, you write Bear, Running. You got a middle initial please include that, such as Wolf, Howling, W. A lot of you guys have been askin’ me about promotion. You’d like to make Brave, Second Class. Get another scar up on your arm. Well, I’m happy to say the results of your early tests have come tru. Youse are doin’ beautifully. Burning settlers’ homes, everybody passed. Imitating a coyote, everybody passed. Sneaking quietly through the woods. Everybody passed except Limping Ox. However, Limping Ox is being fitted with a pair of corrective moccasins, and he’ll be up and dancing in no time at all. Now there are two other areas on which you will be tested: running down the hill and yelling like a nut; and leaping off the cliff—which is considered to be the tougher of the two. A lot of fellas like to save leaping off the cliff for last. Couple other announcements for you here. The fertility rites have been called off due to the recent cold wave. (Horse-laugh) There’ll be a rain dance Friday night, weather permitting. Got a great band: Leapin’ Lizard and the All-Stars. They’ll be playing all your favorite tunes, “Pass That Peace Pipe,” “Indian Love Call,” “Sweet Sioux,” all them tunes you’ve come to know and love through these many moons. Okay, one other thing. There’s another item that goes on your clothing list. And that is your loirn cloth. Now that goes down on your list as one each, cloth, loirn-type. That there is your loirn cloth. You’ll want to get to know, and love, your loirn cloth. Someday it may save your life. There’ll be a massacre tonight at 9 o’clock. We’ll meet down by the bonfire, dance around a little bit, and move out. This will be the fourth straight night we’ve attacked the fort. However, tonight it will not be as easy. Tonight there will be soldiers in the fort. Happy to say I’ll be leading the massacre. I’ll be running down front. You’ll see me. I’m the one that’s on fire. And the uniform of the day, it’s a formal massacre. You want your class-A summer loirn cloth, two green stripes over the eye, no feather, arms are blue, legs are red, chest is optional. You might throw a little yellow on the bellies. What? No, you can’t put any purple on your eyelids. Is that the guy with the beads? Get outta line, would you please, now!

George Carlin

I assume, is still safe to drink in New York huh? Actually, I gotta be fair with you; I’m only setting you up a little bit. It’s just… it’s not a trick question but it’s just a set-up cause I don’t really care about the water, to tell you the truth, I just love to hear the answer to that question. I ask that question everywhere I go. Everywhere I go, I say: “How’s the water?”… Haven’t got a positive answer yet… not one. Last year, I was in 40 states, 100 cities. Not one audience was able to say to me: “Yes, enjoy some of our fine local water! It is pure and it is good!” Of course, I know a lot of people don’t talk that way anymore but nobody trusts the local water supply. Nobody! And that amuses me, I like that, I admit I’m a bit perverted but it amuses me that no one can really trust the water anymore and the thing I like about it the most is: it means the system is beginning to collapse and everything is slowly breaking down. I enjoy chaos and disorder – not just because they help me professionally – they’re also my hobby. You see, I’m an entropy fan. When I first heard of entropy in high school science, I was attracted to it immediately. When they told me that in nature, all systems are breaking down, I thought: “What a good thing! What a good thing! Perhaps I can make some small contribution in this area myself.” And of course, it’s not just in nature, in this country, the whole social structure… just beginning to collapse, you watch; just beginning now to come apart at the edges and the seams and the thing I like about that is that it means it makes the news on television more interesting, makes the television news more exciting, makes it more fun. I watch television news for one thing and one thing only: entertainment! That’s all I want from the news: entertainment! You know my favourite thing on television? Bad news! Bad news and disasters and accidents and catastrophes. I wanna see some explosions and fires! I wanna see shit blowing up and bodies flying around! I’m not interested in the budget; I don’t care about tax negotiations; I don’t wanna know what country the fucking Pope is in! But you show me a hospital that’s on fire and people on crutches are jumping off the roof and I’M A HAPPY GUY!!! I’M A HAPPY GUY!!! I’M A HAPPY GUY!!! I wanna see a paint factory blowing up! I wanna see an oil refinery explode! I wanna see a tornado hit a church on Sunday! I wanna see people— I wanna know there’s some guy running through the K-Mart with an automatic weapon firing at the clerks! I wanna see thousands of people in the street killing policemen! I wanna hear about a nuclear meltdown! I wanna know the stock market dropped 2000 points in one day! I wanna see people under pressure! Sirens, flames, smoke, bodies, graves being filled, parents weeping… exciting shit! My kind of TV! I just want some entertainment! It’s just the kind of guy I am! It’s the kind of guy I am! You know what I love the most? When big chunks of concrete and fiery wood are falling out the sky and people are running around trying to get out of the way! Exciting shit! That’s why I watch auto-racing. That’s the only reason I watch auto-racing: I’m waiting for some ACCIDENTS man!!! I wanna see some cars on fire! I don’t care about a bunch of redneck jackoffs driving 500 miles in a circle! 500 miles in a circle? Children can do that for Christ sakes! Doesn’t impress me! I wanna see some schmuck with his hair on fire running around punching his own head trying to put it out! I wanna see the pits explode! I wanna see a car doing a 200mph cartwheel! Hey, where else besides auto-racing am I gonna see a 23 car collision and not be in the son of a bitch?! And if a car flies out of control, lands in the stands and kills 50 spectators, FINE, FUCK ‘EM!!! Serves ‘em right; they paid to get in, let ‘em take their chances with everybody else! Just means more fun for me! More fun for me! Hey, at least I admit it. At least I admit it. Most people won’t admit to those feelings. Most people see something like that on television, they’ll say: “Oh isn’t that awful? Isn’t that too bad?” Pbbt! Lying asshole! Lying assholes! You love it and you KNOW it! EXPLOSIONS ARE FUN!!! And hey, the closer the explosion is to your house, the more fun it is! Did you ever notice that? Sometimes, you have the TV on and you’re working around the house, some guy comes on television and says: “6,000 people were killed in an explosion today…” You say: “Where?! Where?!” He says: “…in Pakistan.” You say: “Aww fuck Pakistan! Too far away to be any fun!” But if he says it happened in your hometown, you’ll say: “WHOA!!! HOT SHIT!!! COME ON DAVE; LET’S GO LOOK AT THE BODIES!!! LET’S GO LOOK AT THE BODIES!!!” I love bad news! I love bad news! Hey, the more bad news there is, the faster this system collapses. Fine by me! Fine by me! Don’t bother my ass! Don’t bother my ass none! I’m glad the water sucks. I’m glad it sucks. You know what I do about it? I drink it! Unless… unless it really smells, if it really smells a lot like sulphur, then I might buy a soda. But it’s gotta be a soda loaded with chemical additives! I like a lot of chemical additives in the things I eat and drink! See, I’m not one of these people who’s worried about everything. You got people like this around you? Countries full of them now: people walking around all day long, every minute of the day, worried… about everything! Worried about the air; worried about the water; worried about the soil; worried about insecticides, pesticides, food additives, carcinogens; worried about radon gas; worried about asbestos; worried about saving endangered species. Let me tell you about endangered species all right? Saving endangered species is just one more arrogant attempt by humans to control nature. It’s arrogant meddling; it’s what got us in trouble in the first place. Doesn’t anybody understand that? Interfering with nature. Over 90% – over, WAY over – 90% of all the species that have ever lived on this planet, ever lived, are gone! Pwwt! They’re extinct! We didn’t kill them all, they just disappeared. That’s what nature does. They disappear these days at the rate of 25 a day and I mean regardless of our behaviour. Irrespective of how we act on this planet, 25 species that were here today will be gone tomorrow. Let them go gracefully. Leave nature alone. Haven’t we done enough? We’re so self-important, so self-important. Everybody’s gonna save something now: “Save the trees! Save the bees! Save the whales! Save those snails!” and the greatest arrogance of all: “Save the planet!” What?! Are these fucking people kidding me?! Save the planet?! We don’t even know how to take care of ourselves yet! We haven’t learned how to care for one another and we’re gonna save the fucking planet?! I’m getting tired of that shit! I’m getting tired of that shit! I’m tired of fucking Earth Day! I’m tired of these self-righteous environmentalists; these white, bourgeois liberals who think the only thing wrong with this country is there aren’t enough bicycle paths! People trying to make the world safe for their Volvo’s! Besides, environmentalists don’t give a shit about the planet. They don’t care about the planet; not in the abstract they don’t. You know what they’re interested in? A clean place to live; their own habitat. They’re worried that someday in the future, they might be personally inconvenienced. Narrow, unenlightened self-interest doesn’t impress me. Besides, there is nothing wrong with the planet… nothing wrong with the planet. The planet is fine… the people are fucked! Difference! The planet is fine! Compared to the people, THE PLANET IS DOING GREAT: Been here four and a half billion years! Do you ever think about the arithmetic? The planet has been here four and a half billion years, we’ve been here what? 100,000? Maybe 200,000? And we’ve only been engaged in heavy industry for a little over 200 years. 200 years versus four and a half billion and we have the conceit to think that somehow, we’re a threat? That somehow, we’re going to put in jeopardy this beautiful little blue-green ball that’s just a-floatin’ around the sun? The planet has been through a lot worse than us. Been through all kinds of things worse than us: been through earthquakes, volcanoes, plate tectonics, continental drifts, solar flares, sunspots, magnetic storms, the magnetic reversal of the poles, hundreds of thousands of years of bombardment by comets and asteroids and meteors, worldwide floods, tidal waves, worldwide fires, erosion, cosmic rays, recurring ice ages, and we think some plastic bags and aluminum cans are going to make a difference? The planet isn’t going anywhere… we are! We’re going away! Pack your shit folks! We’re going away and we won’t leave much of a trace either, thank God for that… maybe a little styrofoam… maybe… little styrofoam. The planet will be here, we’ll be long gone; just another failed mutation; just another closed-end biological mistake; an evolutionary cul-de-sac. The planet will shake us off like a bad case of fleas, a surface nuisance. You wanna know how the planet’s doing? Ask those people in Pompeii who are frozen into position from volcanic ash how the planet’s doing. Wanna know if the planet’s all right? Ask those people in Mexico City or Armenia or a hundred other places buried under thousands of tons of earthquake rubble if they feel like a threat to the planet this week. How about those people in Kilauea, Hawaii who build their homes right next to an active volcano and then wonder why they have lava in the living room? The planet will be here for a long, long, LONG time after we’re gone and it will heal itself, it will cleanse itself cause that’s what it does. It’s a self-correcting system. The air and the water will recover, the earth will be renewed, and if it’s true that plastic is not degradable, well, the planet will simply incorporate plastic into a new paradigm: The Earth plus Plastic. The Earth doesn’t share our prejudice towards plastic. Plastic came out of the Earth! The Earth probably sees plastic as just another one of its children. Could be the only reason the Earth allowed us to be spawned from it in the first place: it wanted plastic for itself, didn’t know how to make it, needed us. Could be the answer to our age-old philosophical question: “Why are we here?” PLASTIC!!! ASSHOLES!!! So the plastic is here, our job is done, we can be phased out now, and I think that’s really started already, don’t you? I mean, to be fair, the planet probably sees us as a mild threat; something to be dealt with, and I’m sure the planet will defend itself in the manner of a large organism. Like a beehive or an ant colony can muster a defence, I’m sure the planet will think of something. What would you do if you were the planet trying to defend against this pesky, troublesome species? Let’s see… what might… hmm… viruses! Viruses might be good. They seem vulnerable to viruses. And uh… viruses are tricky; always mutating and forming new strains whenever a vaccine is developed. Perhaps this first virus could be one that-that compromises the immune system of these creatures. Perhaps a human immunodeficiency virus making them vulnerable to all sorts of other diseases and infections that might come along and maybe it could be spread sexually, making them a little reluctant to engage in the act of reproduction. Well that’s a poetic note and it’s a start and I can dream can I? See, I don’t worry about the little things… bees, trees, whales, snails. I think we’re part of a greater wisdom that we won’t ever understand, a higher order. Call it what you want. You know what I call it? The big electron… the big electron. *imitates electronic hum* It doesn’t punish, it doesn’t reward, it doesn’t judge at all. It just is and so are we… for a little while…

George Carlin

Why, why, why, why is it that most of the people who are against abortion are people you wouldn’t want to fuck in the first place, huh? Boy, these conservatives are really something, aren’t they? They’re all in favor of the unborn. They will do anything for the unborn. But once you’re born, you’re on your own. Pro-life conservatives are obsessed with the fetus from conception to nine months. After that, they don’t want to know about you. They don’t want to hear from you. No nothing. No neonatal care, no day care, no head start, no school lunch, no food stamps, no welfare, no nothing. If you’re preborn, you’re fine; if you’re preschool, you’re fucked. Conservatives don’t give a shit about you until you reach “military age”. Then they think you are just fine. Just what they’ve been looking for. Conservatives want live babies so they can raise them to be dead soldiers. Pro-life… pro-life… These people aren’t pro-life, they’re killing doctors! What kind of pro-life is that? What, they’ll do anything they can to save a fetus but if it grows up to be a doctor they just might have to kill it. They’re not pro-life. You know what they are? They’re anti-woman. Simple as it gets, anti-woman. They don’t like them. They don’t like women. They believe a woman’s primary role is to function as a brood mare for the state. Pro-life… You don’t see many of these white anti-abortion women volunteering to have any black fetuses transplanted into their uteruses, do you? No, you don’t see them adopting a whole lot of crack babies, do you? No, that might be something Christ would do. And, you won’t see a lot of these pro-life people dousing themselves in kerosene and lighting themselves on fire. You know, morally committed religious people in South Vietnam knew how to stage a goddamn demonstration, didn’t they?! They knew how to put on a fucking protest. Light yourself on FIRE!! C’mon, you moral crusaders, let’s see a little smoke. To match that fire in your belly. Here’s another question I have: how come when it’s us, it’s an abortion, and when it’s a chicken, it’s an omelette? Are we so much better than chickens all of a sudden? When did this happen, that we passed chickens in goodness? Name six ways we’re better than chickens… See, nobody can do it! You know why? ‘Cuz chickens are decent people. You don’t see chickens hanging around in drug gangs, do you? No, you don’t see a chicken strapping some guy to a chair and hooking up his nuts to a car battery, do you? When’s the last chicken you heard about came home from work and beat the shit out of his hen, huh? Doesn’t happen. ‘Cuz chickens are decent people. But let’s get back to this abortion shit. Now, is a fetus a human being? This seems to be the central question. Well, if a fetus is a human being, how come the census doesn’t count them? If a fetus is a human being, how come when there’s a miscarriage they don’t have a funeral? If a fetus is a human being, how come people say “we have two children and one on the way” instead of saying “we have three children?” People say life begins at conception, I say life began about a billion years ago and it’s a continuous process. Continuous, just keeps rolling along. Rolling, rolling, rolling along. And say you know something? Listen, you can go back further than that. What about the carbon atoms? Hah? Human life could not exist without carbon. So is it just possible that maybe we shouldn’t be burning all this coal? Just looking for a little consistency here in these anti-abortion arguments. See the really hardcore people will tell you life begins at fertilization. Fertilization, when the sperm fertilizes the egg. Which is usually a few moments after the man says “Gee, honey, I was going to pull out but the phone rang and it startled me.” Fertilization. But even after the egg is fertilized, it’s still six or seven days before it reaches the uterus and pregnancy begins, and not every egg makes it that far. Eighty percent of a woman’s fertilized eggs are rinsed and flushed out of her body once a month during those delightful few days she has. They wind up on sanitary napkins, and yet they are fertilized eggs. So basically what these anti-abortion people are telling us is that any woman who’s had more than more than one period is a serial killer! Consistency. Consistency. Hey, hey, if they really want to get serious, what about all the sperm that are wasted when the state executes a condemned man, one of these pro-life guys who’s watching cums in his pants, huh? Here’s a guy standing over there with his jockey shorts full of little Vinnies and Debbies, and nobody’s saying a word to the guy. Not every ejaculation deserves a name. Now, speaking of consistency, Catholics, which I was until I reached the age of reason, Catholics and other Christians are against abortions, and they’re against homosexuals. Well who has less abortions than homosexuals?! Leave these fucking people alone, for Christ sake! Here is an entire class of people guaranteed never to have an abortion! And the Catholics and Christians are just tossing them aside! You’d think they’d make natural allies. Go look for consistency in religion. And speaking of my friends the Catholics, when John Cardinal O’Connor of New York and some of these other Cardinals and Bishops have experienced their first pregnancies and their first labor pains and they’ve raised a couple of children on minimum wage, then I’ll be glad to hear what they have to say about abortion. I’m sure it’ll be interesting. Enlightening, too. But, in the meantime what they ought to be doing is telling these priests who took a vow of chastity to keep their hands off the altar boys! Keep your hands to yourself, Father! You know? When Jesus said “Suffer the little children come unto me”, that’s not what he was talking about! So you know what I tell these anti-abortion people? I say “Hey. Hey. If you think a fetus is more important that a woman, try getting a fetus to wash the shit stains out of your underwear. For no pay and no pension.” I tell them “Think of an abortion as term limits. That’s all it is. Biological term limits.

George Carlin

Now a lot of these company names and product names are influenced by marketing and advertising people and this next thing is about advertising. By the way, if you should have any cognitive dissonance about the fact that I do commercials for 10-10-220 and still attack advertising up here, well, you’re just gonna have to figure that shit out on your own okay? Now this is called “Advertising Lullaby”, keeping in mind of course that the whole purpose of advertising is to lull you to sleep. Quality, value, styles, service, selection, convenience, economy savings, performance, experience, hospitality, low rates, friendly service, name brands, easy terms, affordable prices, money-back guarantee, free installation. Free admission, free appraisal, free alterations, free delivery, free estimates, free home trial, and free parking. No cash? No problem. No kidding, no fuss, no muss, no risk, no obligation, no red tape, no down payment, no entry fee, no hidden charges, no purchase necessary, no one will call on you, no payments of interest till September. Limited time only though so act now, order today, send no money, offer good while supplies last, two to a customer, each item sold separately, batteries not included, mileage may vary, all sales are final, allow 6 weeks for delivery, some items not available, some assembly required, some restrictions may apply Come on in for a free demonstration and a free consultation with our friendly professional staff. Our experienced and knowledgeable sales representatives will help you make a selection that’s just right for you and just right for your budget and say, don’t forget to pick up your free gift, a classic, deluxe, custom, designer, luxury, prestige, high quality, premium select, gourmet pocket pencil sharpener… yours for the asking, no purchase necessary, it’s our way of saying “thank you”. And if you act now, we’ll include an extra added, free, complementary, bonus gift, a classic, deluxe, custom, designer, luxury, prestige, high quality, premium select, gourmet combination key ring, magnifying glass, and garden hose, in a genuine, imitation, leather-style, carrying case with authentic vinyl trim… yours for the asking, no purchase necessary, it’s our way of saying “thank you”. Actually, it’s our way of saying “bend over just a little bit farther so we can stick this big advertising dick up your ass a little bit deeper! Pbbt! You miserable, no-good, fucking consumer asshole!”

George Carlin

Now. Folks. This next piece of material’s going to give us a chance to bond. That’s what America’s been doing the last . years bonding. When they’re not networking or reaching out or making space for one another. You’ll find them bonding and we’re going to do that because this piece of material is about us. It’s about you and me you and me little things little things we all know common knowledge. In this case. Little things we all know about our bodies. Because everybody’s body is different but everybody’s body’s really quite the same. So there are a lot of little things about our bodies that we all know but we never talk about. That’s what interests me. These are practically universal experiences nobody mentions them. Some of them are disgusting. Some of them are appallingly revolting and degrading even to the most degenerate mind. So let’s get started with a couple of them. You ever get lip crud? You ever get that crud on your lip it’s kind of a sticky film kind of a gooey coating you know if it dries a little bit. It’s kind of a cruddy gummy flaky crusty shit kind of thing. Starts in the corner of your mouth, works its way on down your lip and if it’s really bad the corners of your mouth look like parenthesis. Did you ever have that? Lip crud. When you want to get rid of it it’s a real simple operation isn’t it? It’s low tech shit thumbnail. That’s all you need. Simple tool ain’t it? You just scrape that shit off. That’s all. You just scrape it on down scrape it on down. Hey never mind those people at the bus stop if they knew anything they wouldn’t be riding the bus. Fuck them. Fuck them in the mouth. Scrape it on down. Yeah you just kind of scrape that shit on down and you take it and you roll it up into a little ball. And then you save that son of a bitch. I save my lip crud. I save everything that comes off of my body don’t you? At least for a little while. Don’t you look at things when they first come off of you Huh? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you spend five or ten or minutes studying something trying to figure out what the fuck it is and what it’s doing on you in the first place? Sure you do. You don’t pull some disgusting looking growth off of your neck and throw it directly into the toilet. You want to know what the fuck it is. Besides you never know when you’re going to need parts. Isn’t that true? Did you ever see these guys on TV? They’re in the hospital. One guy’s waiting for a kidney another guy’s waiting for a lung. Fuck you I’ve got shit at home. I’ve got a freezer full of viable organs. I have two of everything ready to go. What do you need a spleen an esophagus? How about a nice used ball bag huh? Come on good condition. One owner. He only scratched that on Sundays. Come on and take a chance. It’s true. You want to know what something is. You don’t spend minutes peeling a malignant tumor off of your forehead just to toss it out the window sight unseen into the neighbor’s swimming pool. No. You take a good long fucking look at it don’t you? Holy shit look at this thing. God damn holy jumping fucking Jesus look at this. Honey look at this. Honey come here look at this. Honey yo. Hey yo honey yo. Hey fuck the Rice-a-Roni get in here. Look at this thing. Look this was a part of my head a minute ago. Not anymore I pried the bastard off with paint thinner and a Phillips head screwdriver. But look at it. Look at the colors in it. It’s green blue yellow orange brown tan Khaki beige bronze olive. Neutral. Black. Off black champagne gold Navajo white turquoise and band-aid color. Plus it’s exactly the same shape as Bosnia if you leave out the little section where the Croatians live. I’m not throwing this bastard away it might become a collectible. Dial up those dickheads on Ebay we’ll make some fucking money on this thing. Well I’ll tell you it’s just natural curiosity it’s just everyone has it. You’re curious. You’re curious about yourself. You’re curious about your body so you’re curious about little parts that come off of you. Toenail clippings are a good example. Toenail clippings and I’m even going to set the scene for you. You’re sitting on the bed at home one night and something really shitty comes on TV like a regularly scheduled prime time network program. You say well I’m not going to watch Raymond Blows the Milkman I’m going to clip my fucking toenails. So you start to clip your toenails and every time you clip one of them the clipping part flies far away. Did you ever notice that? Thoom. Thoom. Thooom. These things fly all over the bed. And when you’re finished clipping you have to gather them all back into a little pile don’t you? Yeah you can’t leave them on the bed. They make little holes in your legs. You don’t need that shit. You have to gather them all back into a little pile. Did you ever notice this? The bigger the pile gets the more pride you have in the pile. Look at this shit honey the biggest pile of toenail clippings we’ve had in this house since the day the Big Bopper died. Call the Museum of Natural History tell them we have a good idea for a diorama. And then you look for the largest toenail clipping of all the biggest one you can find and you bend it for a while don’t you? Yes yes yes you do. You bend it. You squeeze it you play with it. You have to you have to. Why? Because you can. Because it’s still lively and viable there’s moisture in it. It just came off of your body. It’s almost alive. Did you ever try to save your toenail clippings overnight huh? Did you ever put them in the ashtray try to save them till the morning? It’s no good they’re too dry. You can’t bend them in the morning. Fuck them. Throw them away. Who needs unbendable toenails. Not me. Bullshit fuck you up yours get laid. Eat shit drop dead jack me off suck this. I don’t need parts that badly I’m not that sick. I’m not that sick. Folks. Yes sir. That’s right. You got it. You got it. Little things. Little things that come off of you and your curiosity about them. Especially if it’s something you can’t see while it’s still on you. Know what I mean? You ever been picking your ass? You know just idly standing out in the driveway picking your ass and you come across an object. Honey come here. Want a couple of hits off of this while it’s still fresh? Let me ask you something. Did we eat at Kenny Rogers’ Restaurant again? Well. I don’t remember ordering anything that smelled like this. I believe this is a shit burger. It smells like a burger tastes like shit. Actually it smells like Ethel Merman. Call that Andrew Lloyd Webber fellow tell him we have a good idea for one of those fine shows he’s always putting on Broadway. Then give me the scrapbook this son of a bitch is going right next to that toe jam we found at the Gator Bowl. All because you couldn’t see it while it was still on you. Here’s something else you can’t see while it’s still on you little scab on the top of your head. Did you ever have that? Sure you have. A little scab. Top of your head. Not a big red blood scab that you get when someone at work. Hits you in the head with a fucking Stilson wrench. Just a little dry spot a little scaly spot. You find it one day by accident when you’re scratching your head. You come across it as if by good luck. Oh. Hot shit. A fucking scab. I love fucking scabs. This is going to be a lot of fun. I can’t wait to pick off my scab and look at it. Oh boy oh boy. Oh boy oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. I can’t wait to pick off my scab and put it down on a contrasting material such as a black velvet tablecloth in order to see it in greater relief. Oh boy oh boy I can’t wait to pick off my scab. This is going to be wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. It’s not going to come off yet. It’s immature. It’s still not ripe it’s not ready for plucking. I’ll save this for Thursday. Thursday will be a good day. I only have a half-day of work on Thursday. I’ll come home early. I’ll masturbate in the kitchen. And then I’ll watch the Montel Williams show. And then I’ll pick off my scab. Oh boy oh boy I can’t wait to pick off my scab. This is going to be a lot of fun. So you wait and you wait and you wait and you wait and you wait. And you try not to knock it off by accident with the little plastic comb you bought in the vending machine at the Easy Living Motel with the two skanky looking chicks who gave you the clap that night. And now Thursday arrives and it’s harvest time. Harvest time on your head. You come home early you masturbate but you do it in your sister’s bedroom just to give it a little extra thrill. You know what I mean? And then you watch the Montel Williams show. Pretty good topic women who take it up the ass for cents. Well. Not the best show he’s ever done. But you know something? Not bad. Either. Now it’s time to go get this little bastard but you want to go carefully. You want to pick this scab off evenly and carefully around the perimeter of the scab so that it lifts off all in one piece. You don’t want it to break into pieces. Who needs a fragmented scab Not me. Bullshit fuck you up yours get laid eat shit drop dead jack me off suck this I don’t need parts that badly I’m not that sick. What you really want what you really must have what you really need is a complete whole scab you can put down study look at makes notes on it. Perhaps write a series of penetrating articles for Scab Aficionado Magazine. Who knows you might rise to the top of the scab world in a big hurry it’s a small community and they need people at the top. I sense I’ve gone too far. So I quit while I’m ahead and I’ll change the subject. This is something I probably told you before I never fucked a . Never fucked a . But one night I fucked five. Twos. And I think that ought to count. Here’s something you never hear a man say Stop sucking my dick or I’ll call the police.

George Carlin

Something else I don’t care for, these organ donor programs. That shit bother you a little bit? Sounds like Josef Mengele’s been sitting on some of those meetings or something? Organ donor programs. The thing that bothers me the most about it is they’re run by the Motor Vehicle Bureau. I figure, hey, shit, you got to wait on a line that long for a kidney, fuck it, do without. It’s the Motor Vehicle Bureau in most states who send you the little card you’re supposed to carry right next to your wallet, right next to your driver’s license, in your wallet, little card. You’re supposed to fill it out and on it you’re supposed to list the organs you’re willing to give in case you die. Are these people out of their fucking minds or something? Do you honestly believe that if a paramedic finds that card on you in an automobile accident, he’s going to try to save your life? Bullshit, he’s looking for parts, man. Absolutely. Look, Dan, here’s that lower intestine we’ve been looking for. Never mind the oxygen, this man’s a donor. Bullshit, they want something of mine, they can have my rectum and my anus, that’s all I’m giving, take them and get out of here. Put them in your bag and get the fuck out of my life, that’s all I’m giving. I don’t want some guy poking around in me, hoping I die. I want to live. I don’t want to die. That’s the whole secret of life, not dying. I figured that shit out alone in third grade. And don’t be pulling any plugs on me, either. Here’s another bunch of macho asshole bullshit floating around this country, people talking about ah, pull the plug on me. If I’m ever like that, if I’m comatose, if I’m like a vegetable, pull the plug on me. Fuck you, leave my plug alone. Get an extension cord for my plug. I want everything you got, tubes, cords, plugs, probes, electrodes, IV’s, you got something, stick it in me, man. You find out I got a hole I didn’t know I had, put a fucking plug in it. Vegetable, shit, I don’t care if I look like an artichoke. Save my ass. There’s three things I want if I’m ever in that condition, three things I got to have, ice cream, morphine and television. You give me that ice cream every two hours, give me that morphine about… every ten minutes, and turn on the fucking TV. I want to see Geraldo. And don’t be coming to visit me, I got no time for life people, I’m brain dead here. You people got no respect for the brain dead? Hey, you got to be brain dead to watch Geraldo in the first place. You might as well watch him when you’re clinically brain dead. There’s one other thing I thought about concerning this comatose thing, and this might help you someday. This little piece of information might come in handy sometime in the future if you’re in this circumstance. If you knew a family, if you knew a family and one of them was a homosexual and he was in an automobile accident and he was comatose, you could always comfort that family by saying, well, look at it this way, he was a fruit, now he’s a vegetable. Listen, at least he’s still in the produce section. Now I probably got some other group pissed off at me because I said fruit. There’s a different group to get pissed off at you in this country for everything you’re not supposed to say. Can’t say fruit, can’t say faggot, can’t say queer, can’t say Nancy boy, can’t say pansy. Can’t say nigger, boogie, jig, jiggaboo, skinhead, jungle bunny, moolie, moolie yan or schwarz. Can’t say yid, heeb, zeeb, kike, mackie, dego, ginny, wop, ginzo, greaser, greaseball, spick, beaner, oya, tiger, PR, Mick, donkey, turkey, limey, frog, squarehead, kraut, jerry, Hun, chink, jap, nip, slope, slopehead, zip, zipper head, gook. There is absolutely nothing wrong… There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of those words in and of themselves. They’re only words. It’s the context that counts. It’s the user. It’s the intention behind the words that makes them good or bad. The words are completely neutral the words are innocent. I get tired of people talking about bad words and bad language. Bullshit. It’s the context that makes them good or bad, the context that makes them good or bad. For instance, you take the word nigger. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the word nigger in and of itself. It’s the racist asshole that’s using it that you ought to be concerned about. We don’t care when Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy says it. Why? Because we know they’re not racists. They’re niggers. Context. Context. We don’t mind their context because we know they’re black. Hey, I know I’m Whitey, the blue-eyed devil patio, fake gray boy, honkie, motherfucker myself. Don’t bother my ass. They’re only words. You can’t be afraid of words that speak the truth, even if it’s an unpleasant truth like the fact that there’s a bigot and a racist in every living room on every street corner in this country. I don’t like words that hide the truth. I don’t like words that conceal reality. I don’t like euphemisms or euphemistic language. And American English is loaded with euphemisms, because Americans have a lot of trouble dealing with reality. Americans have trouble facing the truth, so they invent the kind of a soft language to protect themselves from it. And it gets worse with every generation. For some reason it just keeps getting worse. I’ll give you an example of that. There’s a condition in combat, most people know about it. It’s when a fighting person’s nervous system has been stressed to its absolute peak and maximum, can’t take any more input. The nervous system has either snapped or is about to snap. In the First World War that condition was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language, two syllables. Shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was 70 years ago. Then a whole generation went by, and the Second World War came along and the very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now, it takes a little longer to say, doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Fatigue is a nicer word than shock. Shell shock, battle fatigue. Then we had the war in Korea in 1950, Madison Avenue was riding high by that time, and the very same combat condition was called Operational Exhaustion. Hey, we’re up to eight syllables now, and the humanity has been squeezed completely out of the phrase, it’s totally sterile now. Operational Exhaustion. Sounds like something that might happen to your car. Then of course came the war in Viet Nam, which has only been over for about 16 or 17 years. And thanks to the lies and deceits surrounding that war, I guess it’s no surprise that the very same condition was called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Still eight syllables, but we’ve added a hyphen, and the pain is completely buried under jargon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I bet you if we’d have still been calling it shell shock, some of them Viet Nam veterans might have gotten the attention they needed at the time. But it didn’t happen, and one of the reasons is because we were using that soft language, that language that takes the life out of life. And it is a function of time, it does keep getting worse, give you another example. Sometime during my life, sometime during my life toilet paper became bathroom tissue. I wasn’t notified of this, no one asked me if I agreed with it. It just happened. Toilet paper became bathroom tissue. Sneakers became running shoes. False teeth became dental appliances. Medicine became medication. Information became directory assistance. The dump became the landfill. Car crashes became automobile accidents. Partly cloudy became partly sunny. Motels became motor lodges. House trailers became mobile homes. Used cars became previously owned transportation. Room service became guest room dining. And constipation became occasional irregularity. When I was a little kid, if I got sick they wanted me to go to the hospital and see the doctor. Now they want me to go to a health maintenance organization, or a wellness center to consult a healthcare delivery professional. Poor people used to live in slums. Now the economically disadvantaged occupies substandard housing in the inner cities. And they’re broke. They’re broke. They don’t have a negative cash flow position, they’re fucking broke. Because a lot of them were fired. You know, fired, management wanted to curtail redundancies in the human resources area, so many people are no longer viable members of the workforce. Smug, greedy, well-fed white people have invented a language to conceal their sins, it’s as simple as that. The CIA doesn’t kill anybody any more. They neutralize people, or they depopulate the area. The government doesn’t lie, it engages in disinformation. The Pentagon actually measures nuclear radiation and something they call Sunshine Units. Israeli murderers are called Commandos. Arab Commandos are called terrorists. Contra killers are called Freedom fighters. Well, if crime fighters fight crime and firefighters fight fire, what do Freedom Fighters fight? They never mention that part of it to us, do they? Never mention that part of it. Some of this stuff is just silly, we all know that. Like on the airlines, they say they want to pre board. Well, what the hell is pre board, what does that mean? To get on before you get on? They say they’re going to pre board those passengers in need of special assistance. Cripples. Simple, honest, direct language. There’s no shame attached to the word cripple that I can find in any dictionary, no shame attached to it. In fact it’s a word used in Bible translations, Jesus healed the cripples. Doesn’t take seven words to describe that condition. But we don’t have any cripples in this country any more. We have the physically challenged. Is that a grotesque enough evasion for you? How about differently abled? I’ve heard them called that, differently abled. You can’t even call these people handicapped anymore. They’ll say, we’re not handicapped, we’re handy capable. These poor people have been bullshitted by the system into believing that if you change the name of the condition, somehow you’ll change the condition. Well, hey cousin doesn’t happen. Doesn’t happen. We have no more deaf people in this country, hearing impaired. No one’s blind any more, partially sighted or visually impaired. We have no more stupid people. Everybody has a learning disorder, or he’s minimally exceptional. How would you like to be told that about your child, he’s minimally exceptional. Oh, thank God for that. Psychologists actually have started calling ugly people those with severe appearance deficits. It’s getting so bad that any day now I expect to hear a rape victim referred to as an unwilling sperm recipient. And we have no more old people in this country, no more old people. We shipped them all away, and we brought in these senior citizens. Isn’t that a typically American 20th Century phrase? Bloodless, lifeless. No pulse in one of them. A senior citizen. And I’ve accepted that one, I’ve come to terms with it, I know it’s here to stay. We’ll never get rid of it, that’s what they’re going to be called, so I’ll relax on that. But the one I do resist, the one I keep resisting, is when they look at an old guy, and they say, look at him, Dan, he’s 90 years young. Imagine the fear of aging that reveals, to not even be able to use the word old to describe someone, to have to use an antonym. And fear of aging is natural, it’s universal isn’t it. We all have that. No one wants to get old, no one wants to die, but we do. So we bullshit ourselves. I started bullshitting myself when I got to my 40’s. Soon as I was in my 40’s I’d look in the mirror and I’d say, well, I guess I’m getting older. Older sounds a little better than old, doesn’t it. Sounds like it might even last a little longer. Bullshit, I’m getting old, and it’s okay, because thanks to our fear of death in this country I won’t have to die. I’ll pass away. Or I’ll expire like a magazine subscription. If it happens in the hospital, they’ll call it a terminal episode. The insurance company will refer to it as negative patient care outcome, and if it’s the result of malpractice, they’ll say it was a therapeutic misadventure. I’m telling you, some of this language makes me want to vomit. Well, maybe not vomit, makes me want to engage in an involuntary personal protein spill.

George Carlin

Now I probably got the feminists all pissed off at me because I’m joking about rape. Feminists want to control your language. Feminists want to tell you how to talk. And they’re not alone, they’re not alone, I’m not picking on the feminists, they got a lot of company in this country. There’s a lot of groups, lot of institutions in this country want to control your language, tell you what you can say and what you can’t say. Government wants to tell you some things you can’t say because they’re against the law. Or you can’t say this because it’s against a regulation. Or here’s something you can’t say because it’s a secret. You can’t tell him that because he’s not cleared to know that. Government wants to control information and control language because that’s the way you control thought. And basically that’s the game they’re in. Same with religion. Religion is nothing but mind control. Religion is just trying to control your mind, control your thoughts, so they’re going to tell you some things you shouldn’t say because they’re sins. And besides telling you things you shouldn’t say, religion’s going to suggest to you some things you ought to be saying. Here’s something you ought to say first thing when you wake up in the morning. Here’s something you ought to say just before you go to sleep at night. Here’s something we always say on the third Wednesday in April after the first full moon in Spring at 4:00 when the bells ring. Religion is always suggesting things you ought to be saying, same with political groups of all kinds, political activists, anti-biased groups, special interest groups are going to suggest the correct political vocabulary, the way you ought to be saying things, and that’s where the feminists come in. Now, as I said, I got nothing against the feminists. In fact, I happen to agree with most of the feminist philosophy I have read. I agree for instance that for the most part, men are vain, ignorant, greedy, brutal assholes who’ve just about ruined this planet… Who’ve just about ruined this planet because they’re afraid someone might have a bigger dick out there somewhere. Men are basically insecure about the size of their dicks, and so they go to war over it. You don’t have to be a political scientist or a history major to see the bigger dick foreign policy theory at work. It goes something like this, what, they have bigger dicks? Bomb them. And of course, the bombs and the bullets and the rockets are all shaped like dicks. I don’t understand that part of it, but it is part of the equation. So I agree with that abstract, that man, men, males, have pushed the technology that just about has this planet in a stranglehold. Mother Earth, raped again, guess who? Eh, she was asking for it. I also happen to like it when feminists attack these fat ass housewives who think there’s nothing more to life than sitting home on the telephone drinking coffee, watching TV and pumping out a baby every nine months. Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. Will seven be enough, Bob? Ba boom, ba boom. But what’s the alternative? What’s the alternative to pumping out a unit every nine months? Pointless careerism? Putting on a man tailored suit with shoulder pads and imitating all the worst behavior of men? This is the noblest thing that women can think of, to take a job in a criminal corporation that’s poisoning the environment and robbing customers out of their money? This is the worthiest thing they can think of? Isn’t there something nobler they can do to be helping this planet heal? You don’t hear much about that from these middle class women. I’ve noticed that most of these feminists are white, middle class women, they don’t give a shit about black women’s problems, they don’t care about Latino women. All they’re interested in is their own reproductive freedom and their pocketbooks. But when it comes to changing the language, I think they make some good points, because we do think in language. And so the quality of our thoughts and ideas could only be as good as the quality of our language. So maybe some of this patriarchal shit ought to go away. I think spokesmen ought to be spokesperson. I think chairman ought to be chairperson. I think mankind ought to be humankind. But they take it too far. They take themselves too seriously. The exaggerate. They want me to call that thing in the street a person hole cover. I think that’s taking it a little bit too far. What would you call a lady’s man, a person’s person? That would make a he-man an it person. Little kids would be afraid of the boogie person. They’d look up in the sky and see the person in the moon. Guys would say come back here and fight like a person, and we’d all sing, For It’s a Jolly Good Person. That’s the kind of thing you would hear on Late Night with David Letterperson. You know what I mean? So I think it’s an exaggeration, and I like to piss off any group that takes itself a little bit too seriously, and it does not take a lot of imagination to piss off a feminist. All you got to do is run into N.O.W. Headquarters or Ms. Magazine and say, Hey, which one of you cute little cupcakes wants to come home and cook me a nice meal and give me a blow job? Blow job. Oh, that pisses them off. You want to piss off a feminist, call her a cum catcher, that’ll get her attention. Ah, don’t act disgusted, don’t act disgusted, half of you are going to go home and go down on each other tonight, remember? If you’re willing to swallow cum, let’s not make believe something I said was disgusting, okay? All right. Let’s not have a double standard here, one standard will do just fine. Now, speaking of blowjobs. Do you know why they call it a blowjob? So it’ll sound like it has kind of a work ethic attached to it. Make you feel like you did something useful for the economy. Long as I’m being a complete pig up here, let me ask you guys a question. Let me ask one question of the men. Are you ever able to watch a woman eating a banana and not think about a blowjob, huh? I can’t do it. I can’t do it, and I know why, I’m a sick evil fuck, I know that. I accept that. But I can’t do it. Eating a banana, eating a pickle, licking on an ice cream cone. I’m saying to myself, look at the tongue on her, wow. So you women be careful when you’re standing out in front of that Hagen Daas, because God damn it, we’re watching. And God damn it, we’re thinking. Another woman’s issue, prostitution. I do not understand why prostitution is illegal. Why should prostitution be illegal? Selling is legal, fucking is legal. Why isn’t selling fucking legal? You know, why should it be illegal to sell something that’s perfectly legal to give away? I can’t follow the logic on that at all. Of all the things you can do too a person, giving someone an orgasm is hardly the worst thing in the world. In the Army, they give you a medal for spraying Napalm on people. Civilian life, you go to jail for giving someone an orgasm. Maybe I’m not supposed to understand it.

George Carlin

I got strange ideas anyway. You know what I think they ought to do with that Miss American contest? I think they ought to make the losers keep coming back until they win. I’ll tell you. That would get a little spooky after about 35 years or so, huh? I just want to work on world peace. Fine, sit down before you fall down, will you? And pick up all these Goddamn batons. I got a lot of ideas. You know what I think? I think Kleenex ought to have little targets on them. Wouldn’t that be a good idea, little bulls eyes right in the middle of the Kleenex, make it kind of sporting when you’re with your friends. (Blowing nose sound) Look Dave, an 85. That’s a good idea. I got a lot of good ideas. Trouble is, most of them suck. I got a lot of good ideas for new products like that. That’s what I think about on my off duty hours, things we need, products we ought to have that we don’t have. You know what we ought to have, we ought to have a diet salad dressing called 500 Islands. See, good God damn ideas, like that, huh? A Christian deodorant, Thou Shalt Not Smell. How about a feminine hygiene spray called Sprunt. Huh? Well, you’d never forget the name, would you? It would always be on the tip of your tongue, see? Marketing, marketing, that’s where I belong, among other places. Marketing. Here’s an idea I got. This is a yo-yo with a 2,000-foot string. You use it when you visit the Grand Canyon. See, I’m a visionary, I’m ahead of my time. Trouble is, I’m only about an hour and a half ahead. Here’s a good idea, a light bulb that only shines on things worth looking at. Yeah, kind of too idealistic, never make any money on a thing like that. Here’s something that’s going to make you a fortune, get in on this. This is a roach spray, it doesn’t kill the roaches, but it fills them with self-doubt as to whether or not they’re in the right house. Yeah. Here’s something I’m trying to interest the Japanese electronics firms in this. This would be a great product for Sony. This is a combination cassette player and colostomy bag. It’s called Shitman. Huh? Sure. Well, you never see that. You never see that. You never see a guy jogging down the street, listening to a Shitman. No, that’s one of those things you never see. There’s a lot of things you never see. And you don’t know you don’t see them because you don’t see them. You got to see something first to know you never saw it, then you see it and say, hey I never saw that. Too late, you just saw it. I know things you never see. You never see a Rolls Royce with a bumper sticker that says, shit happens. You never see a really big tall, fat Chinese guy with red hair. You never see a wheelchair with the roll bar. You never see someone taking a shit while running at full speed. And you never see a picture of Margaret Thatcher strapping on a dildo. You’ll never see it. That’s one of those things you never see. Then there are some things you never hear, that makes sense. Some things you never hear. You never hear this, Dad, you really ought to drink more. Here’s something you don’t hear too often Do what you want to the girl, but leave me alone. Here is something no one has ever heard, ever, ever. As soon as I put this hot poker in my ass, I’m going to chop my dick off. You know why you never heard that? Right, no one ever said that. Which to me is the more amazing thing, no one ever thought to say that before tonight. I’m the first person in the world to put those words together in that particular order. First guy, number one. Here’s something you don’t hear too often, Honey, let’s sell the children, move to Zanzibar and begin taking opium rectally. Mom? Mom, I got a big date tonight, can I borrow a French tickler from you? Then there are some things you don’t want to hear. Some things you just flat don’t want to hear. You don’t want to come home from work and hear, honey, remember how we told the children never to play on the railroad tracks? You don’t want to be sitting in your doctor’s office and hear this. Well, Jim, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t live another 20 to 30 years. However, you will be bleeding constantly from both eyes. Here’s something I don’t want to hear, I’m pregnant, you’re the father, and I’m going to kill all three of us. Calm down, have some dip. Honey, it’s the police. They have a search warrant, and the 300 kilos of cocaine are still sitting out in the living room. Here’s something nobody wants to hear, nobody wants to hear this. Try to think back to when this was appropriate to your life. You and your fiancé have been invited to your mom and dad’s house for dinner for the first time. Halfway through dinner, your fiancé stands up and says, I’ll be right back. I got to take a dump. There seems to be no really gentile way of announcing publicly a dump. And frankly, I’m not impressed with people who tell me what they’re going to do when they go to the bathroom in the first place. Doesn’t it bother you, people that announce it, I’ll be right back, I’m going to take a shit. Never mind. Do what you have to do and leave me out of it, and don’t describe it when you come back. Boy, you should have seen… Never mind. It set off the smoke alarm. Never mind. I have never understood that, nor have a cared for it.

George Carlin

Hey, I got 341 days sober and next year’s my 50th anniversary in show business. Let’s do a fucking show, huh? You know something people don’t talk about in public anymore? Pussy farts. So anyway. Now I said that on my last HBO show and apparently some people don’t know what a pussy fart is, because I got some inquiries. Here’s the deal. A pussy fart is like when you’re making love to a woman who’s got a little extra air in her vagina and every time you thrust forward, it’s kind of a… [makes a whole bunch of nasty fart noises] And the two of you are just lying there. Each of you is just wondering if the other one farted. And the man is usually thinking, “Maybe she farts when she comes. Maybe she took a shit. Man, I gotta stay out of that fucking bar”. Another word you don’t hear too often is dingleberries. You know you never hear it on “Meet The Press”. The dingleberry solution, dingleberry gate. Nothin’. I think it’s because dingleberries is one of them words you don’t say too much past your 10th birthday. It’s not a grownup’s word. It’s a kid’s word. Dingleberries. It always sounded kind of Christmasy to me. Don’t you think it has a holiday ring to it? Dingleberries. “John, you might want to hang some dingleberries over the front door. Then when Maryann comes over, she can kiss you under the dingleberries.” “It is to be devoutly wished that she would kiss me under the dingleberries.” Cornhole is another word you don’t hear enough. You don’t hear that nearly enough, you know? It’s a good word. It’s a solid word. It’s a tough word. It’s a man’s kind of word. It’s got a masculine sound. It’s like shotgun and ash can and tow truck. Cornhole. Everything’s been sanitized now and cleaned up. First with these fucking Christians. You just start with them. You know. I’m so, you know. That’s just one, wait a minute now. Yeah, you know. Let’s not leave out these PC campus liberal assholes. I mean they’re just as fucking bad from a different direction. But everything’s different. Everything’s been polished up now. It’s anal intercourse. Anal rape. Bullshit. CORNHOLE! Now I’m a big fan of the prime time crime shows. I like all of them pretty much. You know, I like “Law & Order” and all the spin-offs of that. I like “CSl” and all of those spin-offs. Yeah, because they’re forensic shows. You know. And I’m just waiting for one night to be sitting there watching one of them shows and then the chief medical examiner turns to the lead detective and says, “Steve, looks to me like after they killed this guy, the perpetrators rolled him over and cornholed him about 30 or 40 fucking times. Look at that. That there is a posthumous, multiple cornhole entry wound”. In prison it’s a social activity. Yeah, it’s right up there on the bulletin board. Checkers, handball, cornholing.

George Carlin

So you want to talk about it? Oh yeah. It all started in 1977. I mean, that’s when I started doing it regularly. How many times have you done it? Six times. I’ve done it six times. Why do you do it? I don’t know. It’s like I can’t help myself. What does your family think? Thank God my family doesn’t know. But how’d you get caught? They were taping me. Taping you? Yeah. Every time I did it, they had a tape running. Jumbo shrimp, those words don’t even go together, man. That’s like military intelligence, they have that, too. How did they do that? That’s what they tell you, get on the plane, get on the plane. Fuck you, I’m getting in the plane. I wonder a lot of things, but that’s my job. My job is thinking up goofy shit. Al Sleet here, your hippie dippie weather man with all the hippie dippie weather, man. Got into an argument with my Rice Krispies. I distinctly heard Snap, Crackle, fuck him. Have a nice day. And the original list was shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, mother fucker and tits. This was all I could think of in one sitting. That’s all your house is, is a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff. But here’s a little cheer, a lot of people like it, it goes like this, rat shit, bat shit, dirty old twat. 69 assholes tied in a knot. Hurrah, lizard shit. Fuck. I never fucked a 10, but one night I fucked five 2s. Does it strike you as mildly ironic that most of the people who are against abortion are people you wouldn’t want to fuck in the first place? And now they’re thinking about banning toy guns, and they’re going to keep the fucking real ones. Thank you, thank you very much. Welcome to our show. Don’t you think it’s just a little bit strange that Ronald Reagan had an operation on his asshole and George Bush had an operation on his middle finger, huh? Huh? What are these two men trying to tell us? Now I’d like to begin tonight with an opening announcement. Because of the FCC, I’m never sure what it is I’m allowed to say, So. So I now have my own official policy. This is the language you will not be hearing tonight. You will not hear me say, bottom line, game plan, role model, scenario, or hopefully. I will not kick back, mellow out, or be on a roll. I will not go for it, and I will not check it out. I don’t even know what it is. And when I leave here, I definitely will not boogie. I promise not to refer to anyone as a class act, a beautiful person, or a happy camper. I will also not be saying, what a guy. And you will not hear me refer to anyone’s lifestyle. If you want to know what a moronic word “lifestyle” is, all you have to do is realize that in a technical sense, Attila the Hun had an active, outdoor lifestyle. I will also not be saying any cute things, like moi, and I will not use the French adverb très to modify any English adjectives, such as très awesome, très narly, très fabut, très intense, or très out of sight. I will not say concept when I mean idea. I will not say impacted when I mean effected. There will be no hands on state of the art networking. We will not maximize, prioritize or finalize, and we definitely will not interface. There will also… There will also be no new age lingo spoken here tonight, no support group jargon from the human potential movement. For instance, I will not share anything with you. I will not relate to you, and you will not identify with me. I will give you no input, and I will expect no feedback. This will not be a learning experience, nor will it be a growth period. There’ll be no sharing, no caring, no birthing, no bonding, no parenting, no nurturing. We will not establish a relationship, we will not have any meaningful dialogue, and we definitely will not spend any quality time. We will not be supportive of one another so that we can get in touch with our feelings in order to feel good about ourselves. And if you’re one of those people who needs a little space, please, go the fuck outside! We will, we will, however, be talking about those little moments that seem to last forever. Have you ever been in a serious social situation when you suddenly realize you have to pull the underwear out of the crack in your ass? Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? Huh? Who, her? Oh, hell yeah. Well, it’s one of life’s little moments, isn’t it? It’s one of those little moments you have to deal with at the time. You can’t postpone that. You can’t put that off and be walking around like this. You’ve got to get in there and clear that thing out. You’ve got to rescue your underwear. There’s a letter in your mailbox. That’s right. And you have to rectify that situation so that you can move along to your next embarrassing moment, which is probably scheduled immediately. That’s the way life is, full of those little moments. Everybody knows them, everybody recognizes them. You ever been at a really loud party, I mean, a good loud party where the music is playing too loud and everybody is talking too loudly, and in order to be heard even by the person standing right next to you, you’ve got to be screaming at the top of your lungs. But every now and then at a party, it seems as though everyone shuts up at the same time. And only your voice, can be heard. Right, I know. I know. Well, what I’m going to do, I’m going to have my testicles laminated. Life’s little moments. You ever been talking to someone and you laugh through your nose and blow a snot on your shirt. And you have to just kind of keep talking, you know, and make believe it’s part of the design. Works all right if you’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt, but otherwise they’re going to notice. Ed, you got a big snot on your shirt. Some guys are really cruel, you know. And some of these things are not even your fault. These little things that happen, you didn’t cause the situation, a lot of time you’re the victim. You walk into some situation, and suddenly you’re the one who’s taking all the heat. Not your fault. Give you an example of the kind of thing I mean. Did you ever meet somebody and you go to shake the guy’s hand and you suddenly realize he doesn’t have a complete hand? And you got to make believe it feels great, Right, you can’t go ahhhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhh! You can’t do that. It’s not even an option. You got to hang in there and say hi, hey, swell hand. Give me three. Hi 3, yo! Not your fault. You didn’t cause that. You weren’t even there when it happened to the guy.

George Carlin

Folks here’s something else I got a problem with, the Ten Commandments. Here’s my problem. Why are there ten? You don’t need ten. I think the list of commandments was deliberately and artificially inflated to get it up to ten. It’s a padded list. Here’s what they did. About 5000 years ago a bunch of religious and political hustlers got together to try to figure out how to control people, how to keep them in line. They knew people were basically stupid and would believe anything they were told so they announced that God had given them some commandments. Up on a mountain, when no one was around. God had given them the Ten Commandments. But let me ask you this. When they were sitting around making this shit up, why did they pick ten? Why ten? Why not 9 or 11? I’ll tell you why because sounds official. 10 sounds important. They knew if it was people wouldn’t take it seriously. Say, what, are you kidding me, the 11 commandments? Get the fuck out of here. But 10. 10 sounds important. 10 is the basis for the decimal system. It’s a decade. It’s a psychologically satisfying number, the top 10, the 10 most wanted, the best 10 dressed. So having Commandments was really a marketing decision. And to me it’s clearly a bullshit list. It’s a political document artificially inflated to sell better. I’m going to show you how you could reduce the number of commandments and come up with a list that’s a little more workable and logical. I’m going to start with the first three. And I’ll use the Roman Catholic version because those are the ones I was taught as a little boy. I am the Lord thy God thou shalt not have strange gods before me. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. Thou shalt keep Holy the Sabbath. Right off the bat, the first three. Pure bullshit. Sabbath day Lord’s name. Strange gods. Spooky language. Spooky language, designed to scare and control primitive people. In no way does superstitious nonsense like this apply to the lives of intelligent civilized humans in the 21st Century. You throw out the first three commandments. You’re down to 7. Next, honor thy father and mother. Obedience. Respect for authority. Just another name for controlling people. The truth is, obedience and respect should not be automatic. They should be earned. They should be based on the parents’ performance parent’s performance. Some parents deserve respect, most of them don’t period. You’re down to six. Now, in the interest of logic – something religion is very uncomfortable with – we’re going to jump around the list a little bit. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Stealing and lying. Well actually these two both prohibit the same kind of behavior. Dishonesty stealing and lying. So you don’t need two of them. Instead you combine them and you call it thou shalt not be dishonest. And suddenly you’re down to five. And as long as we’re combining I have two others that belong together thou shalt not commit adultery thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. Once again these two prohibit the same kind of behavior. In this case, marital infidelity. The difference is. Coveting takes place in the mind and I don’t think you should outlaw fantasizing about someone else’s wife. Otherwise what’s a guy going to think about when he’s waxing his carrot? But marital fidelity is a good idea so we’re going to keep the idea and call this one: thou shalt not be unfaithful. And suddenly we’re down to four. But when you think about it. Honesty and fidelity are really part of the same overall value. So in truth. You could combine the two honesty commandments with the two fidelity commandments and give them simpler language, positive language instead of negative and call the whole thing thou shalt always be honest and faithful. And we’re down to three. They’re going away fast. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. This one is just plain fucking stupid. Coveting your neighbor’s goods is what keeps the economy going. Your neighbor gets a vibrator that plays Oh Come All Ye Faithful. You want to get one too. Coveting creates jobs leave it alone. You throw out coveting you’re down to two now the big honesty and fidelity commandment and the one we haven’t talked about yet thou shalt not kill. Murder. The fifth commandment. But when you think about it. When you think about it, religion has never really had a big problem with murder. Not really. More people have been killed in the name of God than for any other reason. All you have to do is look at Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Kashmir, the Inquisition, the Crusades and the World Trade Center to see how seriously the religious folks take thou shalt not kill. The more devout they are the more they see murder as being negotiable. It’s negotiable. It depends. It depends. It depends on who’s doing the killing and who’s getting killed. So with all of this in mind. I leave you with my revised list of the two commandments. Thou shalt always be honest and faithful to the provider of thy nookie and thou shalt try real hard not to kill anyone, unless of course they pray to a different invisible man from the one you pray to. Two is all you need Moses could have carried them down the hill in his fucking pocket. And if they had a list like that, I wouldn’t mind those folks in Alabama putting it up on the courthouse wall. As long as they included one additional commandment. Thou shalt keep thy religion to thyself.

George Carlin

People are fucking nuts. This country is full of nitwits and assholes. Do you ever notice that? Oh, my goodness, yes. Oh, my goodness. Yeah. Nitwits, assholes, fuck ups, scumbags, jerk offs and dipshits. And they all vote. They all vote, yeah. In fact, sometimes you get the impression They’re the only ones who vote. You can usually tell who’s been doing the voting by looking at the fucking election returns. Man, it sure ain’t me out there wasting my time with a meaningless activity like that. You know those people on the “Jerry Springer Show”, those are the average Americans. Oh, yeah, believe me. Below average can’t get on the show. Can’t get on. Below average is sitting home watching that shit on TV, getting ready to out and vote, filling out their sample ballot. People are fucking dumb. You can say what you want about this country, and I love this place. I love the freedoms we used to have. I love it. I love that. I love it when it didn’t take a fucking catastrophe to get us to care for one another. I love the fact that we’re on camera all the time from all angles. But, you know, you can say what you want about America. And I say I love this place. I wouldn’t have it any other way, wouldn’t live in any other time in history in any other place. But say what you want about America. Land of the free, home of the brave. We’ve got some dumb-ass motherfuckers floating around this country. Dumb-ass motherfuckers, you know. Now, obviously that doesn’t include this audience. I understand that. You seem intelligent and perceptive but the rest of them, holy jumping fucking shit balls. Dumber than a second coat of paint. Now, this ain’t just ranting and raving. This ain’t just blowing off steam. I got a little evidence to support my claim. It just seems to me seems to me, that only a really low IQ population could have taken this beautiful continent, this magnificent American landscape that we inherited… Well, actually, we stole it from the Mexicans and the Indians but. Hey, it was nice when we stole it. It looked pretty good. It was pristine. Paradise. Have you seen it lately? Have you taken a good look at it lately? It’s fucking embarrassing. Only a nation of unenlightened half-wits could have taken this beautiful place and turned it into what it is today, a shopping mall. A big, fucking shopping mall. You know that. That’s all you got. That’s all you got here, folks. Mile after mile of mall after mall. Many, many malls. Major malls and mini malls. They put the mini malls in between the major malls. And in between the mini malls they put the mini marts. And in between the mini marts. You’ve got the car lots, gas stations, muffler shops, Laundromats, cheap hotels, fast food joints, strip clubs and dirty bookstores. America the beautiful. One big transcontinental commercial cesspool. And how do the people feel about all this? How do the people feel about living in a coast-to-coast shopping mall? Well, they think it’s JUST FUCKING DANDY! They think it is as cool as can be. Because Americans love the mall. They love the mall. That’s where they get to satisfy their two most prominent addictions at the same time. Shopping and eating. Millions of semiconscious Americans day after day shuffling through the malls shopping and eating. Especially eating. Americans love to eat. They are fatally attracted to the slow death of fast food. Hot dogs, corn dogs, triple bacon cheeseburgers, deep-fried butter dipped in pork fat and cheesewhiz, mayonnaise-soaked barbecue, mozzarella patty melts. America will eat anything. Anything. Anything. Shit,if you were selling sautéed raccoons assholes on a stick, Americans would buy them and eat them. Especially if you dipped them in butter and put a little salsa on them. This country is big-time pig time. Forget the bald eagle. You know what the national emblem of this country ought to be? A big bowl of macaroni and cheese. A BIG BOWL. Because everything in this country is king size. King size, extra large and SUPER JUMBO. Especially the fucking people! Have you seen some of the people in this country? Have you taken a good look at some of these big, fat motherfuckers walking around? Big, fat motherfuckers. Oh, my God. Huge piles of redundant protoplasm lumbering through the malls like a fleet of interstate buses. The people in this country are immense. Massive bellies. Monstrous thighs and big, fat fucking asses. And if you stand there for a minute and you look at one of them, you’ll look at one of them and you begin to wonder, How does this woman take a shit? How does she shit? And even more frightening, How does she wipe her ass? Can she even locate her asshole? She must require assistance. Are paramedics trained in this field? And standing right next to her. Of course. With a plate full of nachos and a mouthful of pie is her clueless fucking husband Joe Six Pack. With his monstrous swollen beer belly hanging dangerously out over his belt buckle. This guy ain’t seen his dick since the Nixon administration. And if you stand there and you look at the two of them. You begin to wonder to yourself, Do these people fuck? Is this man actually capable of fucking this woman? It doesn’t seem structurally possible that these two people could achieve penetration. Maybe they’re in that “Cirque du Soleil” or something. I’m telling you the people in this country – every one of them – is 50 pounds overweight. They are GARGANTUAN. And in the summertime – God help us – in the summertime they will all want to wear short pants. Jesus Lord, Protector of All That is Good and Holy, deliver us from fat people in short pants. They all got short pants, big bellies, fat thighs and dumb kids. Short pants, big bellies, fat thighs and dumb kids. Every one of them has got two dumbass kids with them. And the whole family is wearing T-shirts, and every one of them has got the same T-shirt… “I’m with stupid.” Apparently in this country, the Stupids are an extended family. And besides wearing them T-shirts. Everyone in the family has got on a backpack. They got a backpack strapped to their back so they can carry around lots of stupid shit. And the reason they got to carry their stupid shit strapped to their backs is because their hands must remain free at all times to hold food. And to get that food up to the mouth where it gets shoveled in with all the rest of the disgusting shit they ate that day. And… Another reason for the backpacks is these people are going to buy even more stupid shit. They ain’t got enough stupid shit at home. They just had a stupid shit sale, they’re gonna buy more. They’re going to go out in the parking lot and stuff this stuff into the big, fat, ugly, oversized SUV that’s got plenty of room in it. Plenty of room in it for stupid shit and lots of room left over for these big, fat, ugly motherfuckers to get them home. Stopping on the way, of course, for jelly roll and fried dough. These people, these people are efficient, professional, compulsive consumers. It’s their civic duty. Consumption. It’s the new national pastime. Fuck baseball. It’s consumption. The only true lasting American value that’s left. Buying things. Buying things. People spending money they don’t have on things they don’t need. MONEY THEY DON’T HAVE ON THINGS THEY DON’T NEED. So they can max out their credit cards and spend the rest of their lives paying 18 percent interest on something that cost 12.50. And they didn’t like it when they got it home anyway! Not too bright, folks. Not too fucking bright. But if you talk to one of them about this. If you isolate one of them, you sit them down rationally, and you talk to them about the low IQ’s and the dumb behavior and the bad decisions. Right away they start talking about education. That’s the big answer to everything. Education. They say “We need more money for education. We need more books. More teachers. More classrooms. More schools. We need more testing for the kids”. You say to them, “Well, you know, we’ve tried all of that and the kids still can’t pass the tests”. They say, “Don’t you worry about that. We’re going to lower the passing grades”. And that’s what they do in a lot of these schools now. They lower the passing grades so more kids can pass. More kids pass, the school looks good, everybody’s happy, the IQ of the country slips another two or three points and pretty soon all you’ll need to get into college is a fucking pencil. Got a pencil? Get the fuck in there, it’s physics. Then everyone wonders why 17 other countries graduate more scientists than we do. “EDUCAATION”. Politicians know that word. They USE it on you. Politicians have traditionally hidden behind three things, the flag, the Bible and children. “No child left behind. No child left behind.” Oh, really? Well, it wasn’t long ago you were talking about giving kids a head start. Head start. Left behind. Someone is losing fucking ground here. But there’s a reason. There’s a reason. There’s a reason for this. There’s a reason that education sucks. And it’s the same reason that it will never ever. Ever be fixed. It’s never going to get any better. Don’t look for it. Be happy with what you got. BECAUSE THE OWNERS OF THIS COUNTRY DON’T WANT THAT. I’m talking about the real owners now. The real owners. The big, wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions. Forget the politicians… they’re irrelevant. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. YOU DON’T. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. YOU HAVE OWNERS. THEY OWN YOU. THEY OWN *EVERYTHING*! They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They’ve long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, and city halls. They got the judges in their back pocket. And they own all the big media companies so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear! THEY’VE GOT YOU BY THE BALLS! They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying, lobbying to get what they want. Well, we know what they want. They want more for themselves and less for everybody else. But I’ll tell you what they don’t want. They don’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’t want well-informed. Well educated people capable of critical thinking. They’re not interested in that. That doesn’t help them. That’s against their interest. That’s right. They don’t want people who are smart enough to sit around the kitchen table and figure out how badly they’re getting fucked by a system that threw them overboard 30 fucking years ago. They don’t want that. You know what they want? They want OBEDIENT WORKERS. OBEDIENT WORKERS. People who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork and just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly shittier jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits. The end of overtime and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it. And now, they’re coming for your SOCIAL SECURITY MONEY. They want your fucking retirement money. They want it back! So they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street! And you know something, they’ll get it… they’ll get it ALL from you sooner or later… because they own this fucking place! It’s a BIG CLUB…AND YOU AIN’T IN IT! You and I are not in the big club! By the way, it’s the same big club they use to beat you over the head with all day long when they tell you what to believe. All day long beating you over the head. And their media telling you what to believe, what to think and what to buy… The table is tilted. Folks. The game is rigged and nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care. Good. Honest. Hard- working people. White collar. Blue collar. It doesn’t matter what color shirt you have on. Good, honest, hard-working people continue… these are people of modest means. Continue to elect these rich cocksuckers who don’t give a fuck about them. THEY DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU! THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU. AT ALL. AT ALL. AT ALL! Yeah. You know. And nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care. That’s what the owners count on. The fact that Americans will probably remain willfully ignorant of the big red, white and blue dick that’s being jammed up their assholes every day. Because the owners of this country know the truth… It’s called the American dream. Because you have to be asleep to believe it.

George Carlin

You were probably out walking your dog, which is what I’m usually doing, walking my dog. Because I love my dog. I love all my dogs. I love every dog I ever had. I remember them all, and I love every one of them, still love all my dogs. And I’ve had me a lot of God damn dogs. In my lifetime I have had me a bunch of different dogs. Because you do keep getting a new dog, don’t you? You just keep getting one dog after another. That’s the whole secret of life. Life is a series of dogs. It’s true, you just keep getting a new dog, don’t you? That’s what’s good about them, they don’t live too long. And you can go get a new God damn dog. Sometimes you can get a dog looks exactly like the dog you used to have, right? You shop around a little bit, you can find a dog identical to your former dog. And that’s real handy because you don’t have to change the pictures on your mirror or anything, right? You just bring the dead one into the pet shop, throw him up on the counter, say give me another one of them. That was real good. And they’ll give you a carbon copy of your ex-God damn dog. Now, my favorite dog that I ever had in my whole lifetime was Tippie. Tippie was a good dog. Some of you remember, I’ve talked about Tippie. Tippie was a good dog. Tippie was a mixed terrier. You know that word mixed that the veterinarian puts on the form when even he don’t know what the fuck you got. You bring in a little mixed puppy to a veterinarian and say, what is it? He’ll say, well, it’s definitely not a monkey. Tippie was actually part Dodge Dart. Poor Tippie was full of guilt, so much so in fact she’s the only dog I ever had who committed suicide. Yeah, well, we don’t say it like that around the house. We say she put herself to sleep. But she ran out in front of a milk truck. That’s fucking suicide. But that was her decision. That’s what Tippie wanted to do. And that’s the way it is in our family, if you want to commit suicide, we back you up. So we supported Tippie in her little suicide decision, then we brought her into the pet shop, threw her up on the counter, and said, give us something bigger. We’re trading up. We was looking for a bigger God damn dog. Because Tippie had been teenie, even before the truck came by. The truck had made her teenier, wider, but teenier. And we was looking for a bigger God damn dog. Not too big, you know, I don’t like a dog who’s bigger than I am. It’s bad enough looking for shit in one direction without having to duck flying turds as well. A good rule of thumb is keep the dog’s asshole below eye level. So we compromised, and we got us a mid-sized dog, knee high, just about like this size here, best size you can own, by the way. Most people know, this is the ideal size dog to have. You know why, anybody comes to visit you, the first thing that dog does is take his nose and put it right in their crotch. Oohh, oohh, he smells my dog. No, Marge, I don’t believe that’s the animal he has in mind. And people get embarrassed by that, especially the owner of the dog. The owner’s the one who’s saying stop that, stop that, will you stop that now, stop it. I’m awfully sorry about this. Not me, I say, get in there and get some of that. Get in there and sniff that thing out, go on. Listen, would you mind spreading your legs a little bit so he can get right in there? Yeah, stand like this for a little while, would you? Okay, looking good now. So how’s your mom and dad doing, anyway? Well, God bless them, it’s a wonderful couple. Go around the back, check it out in the back. Sniff that other thing in the back there. What’s that? Well, there’s two different smells he likes, what can I tell you. Don’t pay him no attention, he’ll be finished in just about half an hour. So listen, Reverend, it’s real nice of you to come and call on us like this. Every one of us is always glad to see you around here, especially that God damn dog. Those dogs are great, they’ll break the ice when a new neighbor comes to call. Hi, we’re the Johnsons. What’s his name? Ball Sniffer. He’s a crotch hound. Let me know if you want to get circumcised, he’s on duty till 5:00 o’clock. Dogs are a constant source of entertainment. Did you ever have a dog that ate cat turds? Some of them do, some of you must know that? Did you ever have a dog eat cat turds? Yeah. Of course you got to have a cat, you know. You can’t be buying cat turds at the supermarket. But it’s true, some dogs will eat cat turds, yeah. Don’t let them lick you that day. Get a bottle of Listerine for him. Try to make him gargle. Pour it down his throat and tell him to howl. Come on, howl, howl, God damn it. Stomp on his tail. Howl, I said, God damn it, howl. Oh, dogs are a lot of fun. Did you ever have a dog that ate a bunch of colored balloons and then he takes a shit and it’s real decorative like? Or sometimes at Christmas they’ll eat some tinsel and take a shiny shit. Wow, look, mom, can we hang it on the tree? Well, it is considered good luck in some cultures. Here’s a little household hint for you. This will help you clean up after your dogs. Feed your dog a lot of rubber bands. Put a lot of rubber bands in with his regular food, then when he takes a shit, there’s usually a little loop in the end of it. You just pick it up by the loop, do you know what I mean? Throw it in the neighbor’s yard. Yeah. That’s why I travel around, give these little household hints. Bet you never read that one in Heloise, huh?

George Carlin

Yeah, about time for me to get a little drink of water. Figure this stuff is safe to drink. Huh? Actually, I don’t care if it’s safe or not, I drink it anyway. You know why? Because I’m an American, and I expect a little cancer in my food and water. That’s right. I’m a loyal American, and I’m not happy unless I’ve let government and industry poison me a little bit every day. Let me have a few hundred thousand carcinogens here. Ah. A little cancer never hurt anybody. Everybody needs a little cancer, I think. It’s good for you, keeps you on your toes. Besides, I ain’t afraid of cancer, I had broccoli for lunch. Broccoli kills cancer. A lot of people don’t know that, it’s not out yet. It’s true, you find out you got some cancer, get yourself a fucking bowl of broccoli, that’ll wipe it right out in a day or two. Cauliflower, too. Cauliflower kills the really big cancers, the ones you can see through clothing from across the street. Broccoli kills the little ones, the ones that are slowly eating you away from inside, while your God damn goofy half-educated doctor keeps telling you, you’re doing fine, Jim. In fact, bring your doctor a bowel of broccoli, he’s probably got cancer, too, probably picked it up from you. They don’t know what they’re doing, it’s all guesswork in a white coat. Here, let me have a few more sips of industrial waste. Ah, maybe, maybe I can turn them cancers against one another. That’s what you got to hope for, you know, that you get more than one cancer so they eat each other up instead of you. In fact, the way I look at it, the most cancer you got, the healthier you are. Well, I know, some people don’t like you to talk about those things, I know that. Some people don’t like you to mention certain things. Some people don’t want you to say this, some people don’t want you to say that. Some people think if you mention some things they might happen. Some people are really fucking stupid. Did you ever notice that, how many really stupid people you run into during the day? God damn, there’s a lot of stupid bastards walking around. Carry a little pad and pencil with you, you wind up with 30 or 40 names by the end of the day. Look at it this way. Think of how stupid the average person is, and then realize half of them are stupider than that. And it doesn’t take you very long to spot one of them, does it. Take you about eight seconds. You’ll be listening to some guy, and say, this guy is fucking stupid. Then, then there are some people, they’re not stupid. They’re full of shit. Huh, that doesn’t take very long to spot, either, does it. Take you about the same amount of time. You’ll be listening to some guy, saying, well, he’s fairly intelligent. Ah, he’s full of shit. Then there are some people, they’re not stupid, they’re not full of shit, they’re fucking nuts. Dan Quayle is all three, all three, stupid, full of shit, and fucking nuts. And where did he get that wife of his? Have you taken a good look at that Marilyn Quayle? Where did he get her, at a Halloween party or something? She looks like Prince Charles, for Christ’s sake. Let me ask you something, does he actually have to fuck that woman? Huh? God help him, I wouldn’t fuck her with a stolen dick. That’s my political humor. People like it when you’re topical. Oh, some people don’t like you to talk like that. Oh, some people would like to shut you up for saying those things. You know that, lots of people, lots of groups in this country want to tell you how to talk, tell you what you can’t talk about. Sometimes they’ll say, well, you can talk about something, but you can’t joke about it. Say you can’t joke about it because it’s not funny. Comedians run into that shit all the time, like rape. They’ll say, you can’t joke about rape. Rape’s not funny. I say, fuck you, I think it’s hilarious, how do you like that? I can prove to you that rape is funny. Picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd. See? Hey, why do you think they call him Porky, huh? I know what you’re going to say, Elmer was asking for it. Elmer was coming on to Porky. Porky couldn’t help himself, he got a hard-on, he got horny, he lost control, he went out of his mind. Lot of men talk like that, lot of men think that way. They think it’s the woman’s fault. They like to blame the rape on the woman, say, hey, she had it coming, she was wearing a short skirt. These guys think women ought to go to prison for being cock teasers. Don’t seem fair to me, don’t seem right, but you can joke about it. I believe you can joke about anything. It all depends on how you construct the joke, what the exaggeration is, what the exaggeration is. Because every joke needs one exaggeration, every joke needs one thing to be way out of proportion. Give you an example. Did you ever see a news story like this is the paper? Every now and then you run into a story that says, some guy broke into a house, stole a lot of things, and while he was in there, he raped an 81-year old woman. And I’m thinking to myself, why? What the fuck kind of a social life does this guy have? I want to say, why did you do that? Well, she was coming on to me. We were dancing, and I got horny. Hey, she was asking for it. She had on a tight bathrobe. I say, Jesus Christ, be a little fucking selective next time, will you? Now, speaking of rape. You know what I wonder? I wonder is there more rape at the equator or the North Pole? These are the kind of things I think about when I’m sitting home alone and the power goes out. I wonder is there more rape at the equator or the North Pole. I mean, per capita. I know the populations are different. Most people think it’s the equator. I think it’s the North Pole. People think it’s the equator because it’s hot down there, they don’t wear a lot of clothing, guys can see women’s tits, they get horny, and there’s a lot of fucking going on. That’s exactly why there’s less rape at the equator, because there’s a lot of fucking going on. You can tell there’s a lot of fucking at the equator, take a look at the population figures. Billions of people life near the equator. How many Eskimos we got, 30, 35? No one’s getting laid at the North Pole, it’s too fucking cold. Guys say to their wives, hey, tonight honey, huh, tonight, huh? Are you crazy, the wind chill factor is 300 below. These guys are deprived, they’re horny, they’re pent up. Every now and then, they bust out, they got to rape somebody. Now, the biggest problem an Eskimo rapist has, trying to get wet leather leggings off a woman who’s kicking. Did you ever try to get leather pants off of someone who doesn’t want to take them off? You would lose your hard on in the process. Up at the North Pole, your dick would shrivel up like a stack of dimes. That’s another thing I wonder. I wonder, does a rapist have a hard on when he leaves the house in the morning, or does he develop it during the day when he’s walking around looking for somebody? These are the kind of thoughts that kept me out of the really good schools.

George Carlin

Now, something a little more positive for you, don’t want you to think the whole show is just negativity. This is about a festival. This is my idea for one of those big outdoor summer festivals. This is called “slug-fest.” This is for men only. Here’s what you do… you get about 100,000 of these fucking men; you know the ones I mean, these macho motherfuckers, yeah, these strutting, preening, posturing, hairy, sweaty, alpha-male jackoffs… the muscle assholes. You take about 100,000 of these disgusting pricks and you throw them in a big dirt arena, big 25-acre dirt arena and you just let them beat the shit out of each other for 24 hours nonstop, no food, no water, just whiskey and PCP! And you just let them punch and pound and kick the shit out of each other until only one guy is left standing, then you take that guy and you put him on a pedestal and you shoot him in the fucking head! Yeah. Then you put the whole thing on TV. Budweiser would jump at that shit in half a minute… and guys would volunteer, guys would line up, all you gotta do is promise them a small appliance of some kind. Men will do anything, just give them something that plugs in the wall and makes a whirring noise. Here’s another male cliché… these guys that cut the sleeves off of their t-shirts so the rest of us can have an even more compelling experience of smelling their armpits. I say “Hey Bruno, shut it down would you please? You smell like an anchovy’s cunt okay? Ughh… not good… ugh… ugh… whoa… not good Bruno, and definitely not for sharing.” This is the same kind of guy that has that barbed wire tattoo that goes all the way around the bicep. You’ve seen that haven’t you? That’s just what I need; some guy who hasn’t been laid since the bicentennial wants me to think he’s a “baaad motherfucka” because he’s got a picture… aha ha… a painting of some barbed wire on his- I say “hey junior, come around when you have the real thing on there, I’ll squeeze that shit on good and tight for ya okay?” No kidding, no kidding, this is the same kind of guy, that if you smashed him in the face 8 or 9 times with a big chunk of concrete, and then beat him over the head with a steel rod for an hour and a half, you know what? He dropped like a fucking rock. Like a rock. Here’s another guy thing that sucks… these t-shirts that say “Lead, follow, or get out of the way!” You ever see that? This is more of that stupid Marine Corps bullshit; obsolete, male impulses from 100,000 years ago. “Lead, follow, or get out of the way!” You know what I do when I see that shirt? I obstruct! I stand right in the guy’s path, force him to walk around me, gets a little past me, I spin him around, kick him in the nuts, rip off the shirt, wipe it on my ass, and shove it down his fucking throat! That’s what I do when I see that shirt. Yeah. Hey listen, that’s all these marines are looking for… a good time. And speaking of tough guys, I’m getting a little tired of hearing that after 6 policemen get arrested for shoving a floor lamp up some black guy’s ass and ripping his intestines out, the police department announces they’re gonna have sensitivity training. I say “hey, if you need special training to be told not to jam a large cumbersome object up someone else’s asshole, maybe you’re too fucked up to be on the police force in the first place huh?” Maybe, maybe not, I don’t know, listen… you know what they ought to do? They ought to have two new requirements for being on the police; intelligence and decency! You never can tell, it might just work; it certainly hasn’t been tried yet. No one should ever have any object placed inside their asshole that is larger than a fist and less loving than a dildo okay? Now, this next thing is about our president. This is about our president. Bill Jeff, Bill Jeff, Bill Jeff, Clinton… I don’t call him “Clinton”, I call him “Clit-tin”… “Clit-tin… C-L-I-T… T-I-N apostrophe!” His big deal was JFK, isn’t that right? Loved JFK, wanted to emulate JFK in every way. Well, JFK’s administration was called “Camelot”… well, it really should’ve been called “Come-a-lot” cause that’s what he did, he came a lot! So Clinton’s looking for a legacy, that’s what he should call- well maybe, “Come-a-little” would be better for him cause he came a little, you know… little on the dress, little on the desk, not a whole lot, really. Hey, he was no match, no match for Kennedy in the pussy department. Kennedy aimed high; Marilyn Monroe. Clinton showed his dick to a government clerk. There’s a drop-off here. There’s a drop-off.

George Carlin

So let’s get back to suicide, which now seems like a reasonable alternative. Suicide is an interesting topic to me because it is an inherently interesting decision. To decide voluntarily not to exist anymore. It’s profound. You know what it is? It’s the ultimate makeover. That’s why I think it belongs on television. In this depraved culture we live in, with all of these reality shows. Suicide and television will be a natural. I’ll bet you I can have an All-Suicide Channel on cable TV. I’ll bet you. Shit, they got all golf. What the fuck, huh? Goddamn. Jesus. You ever watch golf? You ever watch golf? It’s like watching flies fuck. If you’d get a bunch of brainless assholes insisting on waste a Sunday afternoon on that kind of shit, you know you can get some people to watch some suicides. All day long, 24 hours a day nothing but suicides. Must die TV. You’d get a lot of people watching that shit. You’d get a lot of people volunteering to be on there, too. Just so their friends can see them on TV. People are fucking goofy. You’d get a lot of volunteers. You’d get all them leftover assholes from “Let’s Make a Deal”. They’d be lined up around the block pushing each other out of the way, putting on funny capes and caps and hats and makeup and calling themselves Captain Suicide. Guys would be competing for most unusual method. People would be jumping off of silos, lighting themselves on fire, putting rat poison on a taco, drinking Mop & Glo, sticking moth balls up their ass. You’d probably have some weird fuck show up who’d figured out how to kill himself with dental floss and a stinger missile. People are fucking goofy. I’d bet you could find you a married couple, in this country, shit. I’ll bet you, you could find a married couple in one of them trailer parks or something who’d be perfectly willing to sit in a loveseat and blow each other’s heads off with shotguns while a love song is playing.

George Carlin

I’m a modern man. A man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified, multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist. Politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up-linked and downloaded. I’ve been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing. I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low life. A cutting edge, state of the art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond. I’m new wave, but I’m old school. And my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer. Voice-activated and biodegradable. I interface from a database, my database is in cyberspace. So I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time, I’m radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, riding the wave, dodging the bullet, pushing the envelope. I’m on point, on task, on message and off drugs. I got no need for coke and speed. I got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in the moment, on the edge, over the top but under the radar. A high concept, low profile, medium range ballistic missionary. A streetwise smart bomb. A top gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties. I tell power lies. I take power naps. I run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big foot, slam-dunk rainmaker with a proactive outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial. I got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down. Because I’m tireless and I’m wireless. I’m a alpha male on beta blockers. I’m a non-believer and an overachiever. Laid back but fashion forward. Up front, down home, low rent, high maintenance. Super size, long lasting, high definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last. I’m a hands-on, footloose, knee jerk head case. Prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate mail. But I’m feeling. I’m caring. I’m healing. I’m sharing. A supportive, bonding, nurturing primary caregiver. My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond. And my revenue stream has its own cash flow. I read junk mail. I eat junk food. I buy junk bonds. I watch trash sports. I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user friendly and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex. I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the F word in my email. And the software in my hard drive is hardcore, no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini mall. I bought a minivan at a megastore. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I’m toll free, bite size, ready to wear and I come in all sizes. A fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated medical miracle. I’ve been prewashed, precooked, preheated, prescreened, preapproved, prepackaged, post-dated, freeze dried, double wrapped, vacuum packed and I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready to rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow. I go with the flow. I ride with the tide. I got glide in my stride. Driving and moving. Sailing and spinning. Jiving and grooving. Wailing and winning. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty. And lunch time is crunch time. I’m hanging in. There ain’t no doubt. And I’m hanging tough.

George Carlin

Something else I’m getting tired of… there’s all this stupid bullshit that we have to listen to all the time about children. It’s all you hear in this country… children, “help the children!” “what about the children?” “save the children!” You know what I say? Fuck the children! Fuck ‘em! They’re getting entirely too much attention! And I know what you’re thinking, you say “Jesus, he’s not gonna attack children is he?” Yes he is! He’s going to attack children! And remember, this is Mr. Conductor talking; I know what I’m talking about! I also know all you single dads and soccer moms who think you’re such fucking heroes aren’t gonna like this, but somebody’s gotta tell you for your own good, your children are overrated and overvalued. You’ve turned them into little cult objects, you have a child fetish, and it’s not healthy! Don’t give me that weak shit “well, I love my children!” Fuck you! Everybody loves their children, doesn’t make you special. John Wayne Gacy loved his children… kept them all right out on the yard near the garage. That’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m talking about is this constant mindless yammering in the media, this neurotic fixation that somehow, everything, EVERYTHING has to be revolved around children. It’s completely out of balance. Listen, there are a couple of things about kids that you have to remember. First of all, they’re not all cute! Okay? In fact, if you look at them close, some of them are rather unpleasant-looking. And a lot of them don’t smell too good either; the little ones in particular seem to have a kind of urine and sour milk combination or something. Stay with me on this, the sooner you face it, the better off you’re gonna be. Second premise, not all children are smart and clever. Got that? Kids are like any other group of people; a few winners, a whole lot of losers! There are a lot of loser kids out there who simply aren’t going anywhere and you can’t save them all, you can’t save them all, you gotta let them go, you gotta cut them loose, you gotta stop overprotecting them cause you’re making them too soft. Today’s kids are way too soft. For one thing, there’s too much emphasis on safety; child-proof medicine bottles and fireproof pyjamas, child restraints in car seats, and HELMETS! Bicycle, skateboard, baseball helmets! Kids have to wear helmets now for everything but jerking off! Grown-ups have taken all the fun out of being a kid just to save a few thousand lives. It’s pathetic! It’s pathetic! What’s happening is- what’s happening, you know what it is? These baby-boomers, these soft, fruity baby-boomers are raising an entire generation of soft, fruity kids who aren’t even allowed to have hazardous toys for Christ’s sakes! Hazardous toys, shit, whatever happened to natural selection? Survival of the fittest? The kid who swallows too many marbles doesn’t grow up to have kids of his own! Simple as that! Simple! Nature! Nature knows best. We’re saving entirely too many lives in this country of all ages. Nature should be allowed to do its job of killing off the weak and sickly and ignorant people without interference from airbags and batting helmets! Just think of it as passive eugenics okay? Now here’s another example of overprotection. Did you ever notice on the TV news every time some guy with an AK-47 strolls onto a school yard and kills 3 or 4 kids and a couple of teachers, the next day, the next day, the school is overrun with counsellors and psychiatrists and grief counsellors and trauma therapists trying to help the children cope? Shit! When I was in school, someone came to our school and killed 3 or 4 of us; we went right on with our arithmetic! “35 classmates minus 4 equals 31.” We were tough… we were tough. I say if kids can handle the violence at home, they ought to be able to handle the violence in school. I’m not worried about guns in school. You know what I’m waiting for? Guns in church. That’s gonna be a lot of fun and it’ll happen, you watch, some nut will go fucking ape-shit in a church and they’ll refer to him as a “disgruntled worshipper.” Here’s another bunch of ignorant shit… school uniforms. Bad theory; the idea that if kids wear uniforms to school, it helps keep order. Don’t these schools do enough damage making all these kids think alike? Now they’re gonna get them to look alike too? And it’s not a new idea; I first saw it in old newsreels from the 1930s, but it was hard to understand cause the narration was in German! One more item about children and that is the superstitious nonsense that blames tobacco companies for kids who smoke. Listen, kids don’t smoke because a camel in sunglasses tells them to, they smoke for the same reasons adults do because it relieves anxiety and depression. And you’d be anxious and depressed too if you had to put up with these pathetic, insecure, striving, anal, yuppy parents who enrol you in college before you’re old enough to know which side of the playpen smells the worst! And then they fill you full of riddle and then drag you all over town in search of meaningless structure; little league, club scouts, swimming, soccer, karate, piano, bagpipes, water colors, witchcraft, glass blowing, and dildo practice. They even have play dates for Christ’s sakes; playing is now done by appointment! Whatever happened to “you show me your wee-wee and I’ll show you mine?” Hey, no wonder kids smoke; it helps… not as much as weed but hey, you can’t have everything. You know it’s true; parents are burning these kids out on structure. I think every day; all children should have three hours of daydreaming. Just daydreaming – you could use a little of it yourself by the way – just sit at the window, stare at the clouds, it’s good for you. If you wanna know how you can help your children, leave them the fuck alone!

George Carlin

Playboy: What about Watergate? That’s at least one instance in which the investigative reporters broke the establishment. Carlin: Yes, Watergate. “The system worked.” I believe that phrase now represents the official historical verdict on that glorious chapter of our history. Well, bullshit! The system worked because McCord left some tape on the lock. And what’s the logical implication of that statement? Without the tape, the system wouldn’t have worked. So fuck the system. Playboy: Do you vote? Carlin: No. We’re led to believe we’re free through the exercise of ineffective freedoms. Playboy: But some activists have helped the lives of some people—even without overhauling the system. Carlin: I know, I know. It’s not that I’m unaware of the accomplishments of, say, Ralph Nader. He has made the lives of a small number of people a little better. But personally, emotionally, I’d rather divorce myself from the world than face the heartbreak of partial success. Because partial success implies overwhelming failure. Playboy: For a nonvoter, you hold some strong opinions about politics. Have you ever considered adding Will Rogers-style political humor to your act? Carlin: Will Rogers said, “I never met a man I didn’t like.” I say, “I never liked a man I didn’t meet.” And, although I never met him, I don’t like Will Rogers much, either. He got away with an awful lot because people were more innocent then. His whole bit was that politicians stink, which is a poor substitute for humor. Playboy: Which comedians do you like? Carlin: So many brilliant comics have entertained and inspired me throughout my life that no list could ever be complete. The first, of course, was Danny Kaye. Then the Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, the Ritz Brothers. I don’t know why the Ritz Brothers weren’t more popular. It’s my belief that Milton Berle and many other successful Jewish comics got their shtick from Harry Ritz. That man invented the moves for a whole generation. As a kid. I loved the radio comedians, especially Fred Allen. And I liked Jerry Lewis’ early work. His abandon. That’s what I’ve always admired. The ability to let go. Playboy: Were you a Steve Allen fan? Carlin: I loved his work on The Tonight Show in the Fifties. There was a certain power and impact to the phrases Allen used—”I certainly hope so and right in your mouth”—a crashing, cascading brilliance and an instinct for the jugular. Playboy: Who was the first comedian to influence you whose influence is still evident in your work? Carlin: Jonathan Winters. The voices, the characters—at least I see his influence on me. But he had something I lack: a window to insanity that he could climb through and really inhabit his characters. My characters just don’t have the heights and depths that his do, but he’s paid for his genius with several vacations in the Hoo-Hoo Hotel. Playboy: Does your love of abandon include an admiration for Don Rickles? Carlin: The first few times I saw Rickles, he amazed me with his brashness and willingness to cross lines. But I don’t like the way he closes his act—by apologizing for what he does. It’s insincere. A performer who kisses the audience’s ass is full of shit. Playboy: One of your current projects is a motion picture you’re writing. The two modern comics who’ve gone that route with the most success are Woody Allen and Mel Brooks. What do you think of their work? Carlin: In both Brooks and Allen, there’s such an overriding theme of their own personal Jewishness that it’s not always easy for a non-Jew to appreciate it all. But Brooks makes me laugh a lot—especially when he’s being interviewed and giving instant answers to things. The 2,000-Year-Old Man killed me, just put me away. There are elements of overindulgence in his films that don’t quite get to me, but the man himself has a brilliant comic mind. Woody Allen is irresistible: his beautiful observations and the wonderful way he toys with our psychological processes. And to have written so many fine scripts in such a brief period is really, to me, his most magnificent accomplishment. Twenty years ago, as a stand-up comic, Woody Allen wrote the following joke: “I was thrown out of NYU for cheating on a metaphysics exam. I looked into the soul of the boy next to me.” If he’d done nothing else for the rest of his life, I’d still love Woody Allen for that one joke. He doesn’t always make me roll down the aisle, but he always makes my mind laugh its ass off. Playboy: You and Richard Pryor started out together in the folk rooms of Greenwich Village, and except for his work as a movie actor, your careers have taken remarkably similar courses—right down to the cocaine and the heart attack. Do you see yourself as the white Richard Pryor? Or him as the black George Carlin? Carlin: In the early Sixties, Richie and I would frequently be on the same bill at the Café Au Go Go, and sometimes, while introducing each other, we’d do a few improvs between sets. There was always a rapport, and perhaps we share certain comic viewpoints, but I think Pryor is without peer. The thing he does better than anyone else is represent who he is, where he’s been and who has been around him. He doesn’t do whole characters in the sense that Lily and Jonathan do, but Richard does fantastic characterizations—an entire personality implied by just a line here, a gesture there. And his white guysreally kill me. Richard is just a genius. He makes me laugh from the soles of my feet—that’s S-O-L-E-S. Playboy: Does Steve Martin make you laugh? Carlin: I don’t laugh as much as I do at some of the other people, but I like Steve Martin’s mind. I like the attitude he brings to that arrow through his head. And I love the way he mocks the performer’s situation and self-image—the way he does that phony asshole onstage. Playboy: Who else do you like? Carlin: Martin Mull. I can’t even put my finger on exactly what about Martin I like, I just know that his jokes make me laugh very hard. They’re unusual. The twist of his mind is refreshing. And his songs are great. Playboy: Have you noticed how many comedians keep going into their 70s and 80s? Do you think there’s something about comedy that’s good for the health? Carlin: I seriously have thought that there must be a therapeutic value to humor, a life force that’s enhanced by laughter. Because it certainly is an observable phenomenon that comics just go on forever, though Freddie Prinze did fuck up the curve a little. Playboy: Do you consider it a professional obligation to rush out and see every hot new comic and every film comedy that’s released? Carlin: On the contrary; I try not to see new comics—their acts or their films. Part of that is professional. I don’t want to be influenced. But another part is fear and jealousy. I’m afraid to see how good they might be. I don’t like that emotion, but it’s part of me. Playboy: You never buy material, do you? Carlin: No, and again, this isn’t a very flattering thing to say about myself, but I don’t want anyone to think I need help. Now that I’m going to try to make movies, I have to open myself up to collaboration, because film is a collaborative art. And that’s difficult for me. I have an extreme jealousy of authorship;… Folks, we’ve got a really twisted guy here. Playboy: You’re said to be one of the most stolen-from comics in the business. What was the most blatant theft you can recall? Carlin: A comic I admire very much. Joan Rivers, did one of my pieces on TheTonight Show just recently. I couldn’t believe it, because it was a bit I’d used regularly for years. I said, “When my mother was pregnant with me, she carried me very low. In fact, for the last few weeks, my feet were sticking out.” And my follow-up, which Joan also used, was, “However, she did tell me it came in handy on stairs.” Theft is one of the risks you run when you buy material, and I’ll bet Joan bought that joke.… Now that I’ve said this in public, I guess I’ll find out. Playboy: Any other examples? Carlin: Remember I said that Garry Trudeau was also honored at that A.C.L.U. dinner—along with Lily and me? One of the things I said that night was, “I’m into a new lifestyle that doesn’t require my presence.” Garry later used that line in an interview. Maybe he thought he heard himself say it. Playboy: In October 1975, you were the guest host on the first Saturday Night Live show. What sort of experience was that? Carlin: I was totally coked out that week, so my memories are imperfect. And there was so much tension around that nobody was giving off real-life signals. But I do remember being made to feel extremely welcome. Playboy: Was that tension more than the normal case of opening-night jitters? Carlin: There was the pressure of a live performance and the pressure of a new show—both of which are normal. But there was also a certain amount of tension between the technicians and these young, privileged, snotty, satirical kids who were getting this big break. Playboy: What was your first impression of the Not Ready for Prime Time Players? Carlin: I could see immediately that they were good comic performers and great sketch players. I had trouble personally on that show, because I don’t consider myself an actor, and that includes sketch playing. I was so self-conscious and unsure that I eventually made them cancel a whole piece. I was supposed to play Alexander the Great at his high school reunion. I just felt so silly in that outfit and nothing in me could make me believe I was him. I guess I let a lot of people down, but acting has always been a problem for me. Playboy: Even without you in the sketches, that opening Saturday Night Liveshow had an incredible impact. Were you aware at the time of how strongly people would respond, both pro and con? Carlin: Oh, yeah. We even got Cardinal Cooke to call in before the show was over. I was particularly proud of that. Playboy: As we recall, you did a monolog about God that night. Carlin: Yes, and Cooke was so incensed he got right on the phone. All I said was that I’d been taught that I was made in God’s image, but it looked more like we had made Him in our image. And if He was anything like me, He was far from perfect. Then I said I thought the whole idea of God’s being perfect was out of the question. I mean, just look at His work. He can’t make two leaves alike. Every mountain range is crooked. He can’t even get two fingerprints the same.… And about that time, the phones lit up. Playboy: What did you think, overall, of Saturday Night Live? Carlin: The show made me laugh, but it didn’t really take on a lot of issues. Itseemed daring, and there were things that were sort of irreverent, but mostly they didn’t present any alternate ideas, they just tore down. Which is a form of comedy I can live with but I don’t love. Playboy: You mentioned your own inability to act. Are you now admiring an ability simply because it eludes you? Carlin: Maybe, but so far, I haven’t even been able to try to act. You see, I believe that ultimately, actors are escaping from themselves. I’ve spent the first 45 years of my life trying to figure out who I am and how best to expose myself to the world. Playboy: Is acting something you might like to get into someday? Carlin: If I can do what I’d like to do in comedy over the next ten years—a couple of books, a couple of screenplays, some fun on cable, a few more albums—then I think it would be really magnificent, about the age of 55, to begin serious training as an actor. Between 55 and 70, I’d like to play small roles in out-of-the-way theaters, then get into films as an older character actor; show up for eight minutes in the bar scene, do my little shtick and disappear. Oh, I would revel in that kind of life, and I’m going to try for it. Playboy: Have you ever fantasized about living in another age? Carlin: If I had lived in Babylonian times, I probably would have chiseled my jokes in stone tablets and dragged them from house to house. In the Middle Ages, I’d have been that odd fellow standing in the middle of the square, telling stories. The townspeople would pass and say, “Every Friday he comes in and talks for an hour. We don’t know why.” I would have loved that. Playboy: In your performance fantasies, it almost doesn’t matter whether or not people are listening to you, as long as you get to do your rap. Carlin: People become performers for many reasons. Some do it to get a lot of pussy—and that’s a good reason. Some want a bigger car. Other guys want to travel. My reason has always been that I was screaming to let all this shit out of me. Playboy: Late at night, when the lights are out and the TV is off and Brenda is sleeping but you’re not quite asleep yet—what do you think about? What goes through your mind? Carlin: I fly. I close my eyes and picture myself making the motions of treading water, and then I start floating over trees and houses and farms and fields that are crosshatched. It all rolls by just like in the penny arcade when you drive the car for a quarter. Occasionally, I’ll throw in a lake or a river. Sometimes I let an animal run by. Maybe a dragon. One dragon, that’s all. You don’t want too many dragons in your fantasy. Playboy: Do you have any hobbies? Carlin: No. Playboy: No? Carlin: I have interests and I read a lot, mostly nonfiction, because I’m probably still trying to finish my education. But my primary avocations are to make my family and my household happy, to live inside my brain, to have funny thoughts and to write them down—for myself, mostly. Playboy: Do you think that desire to live within your own head derives from your lonely childhood? Carlin: Probably. My mother would always say of me, “He certainly knows how to entertain himself.” So I don’t seek a release or an escape in activities. Playboy: Do you deliberately avoid new activities because they might interfere with the life of your mind? Carlin: Yeah; I’ve never permitted myself to experience the joys of racquetball and I don’t feel the loss.

George Carlin

I drive kind of recklessly I take a lot of chances. I never repair my vehicles. And I don’t believe in traffic laws. So I tend to have quite a high number of traffic accidents. And last week I either ran over a sheep or I ran over a small man wearing a sheepskin coat. And I don’t know. Because I didn’t stop. I do not stop when I have a traffic accident. Do you? No you can’t. Hey who has time? Not me I hit somebody I run somebody over I keep moving especially if I’ve injured someone. I do not get involved in that. I’m not a doctor. I’ve had no medical training. I’m just another guy out driving around looking for a little fun and I can’t be stopping for everything. Well let’s just look at it logically let’s be logical about it. If you do stop at the scene of the accident. All you do is add to the confusion. These people you ran over have enough troubles of their own without you stopping and making things worse. Leave these people alone. They’ve just been in a major traffic accident. The last thing they need is for you to stop and get out of your car and go over to the fire because by now it is a fire. And start bothering them with a lot of stupid questions. Are you hurt? Well. Of course. They’re hurt look at all the blood. You just ran over them in a ton and a half of steel. Of course they’re hurt leave these people alone. Haven’t you done enough? For once in your life do the decent thing don’t get involved. Well in the first place it’s none of your business, none of your business. The whole thing took place outside of your car. Legally speaking these people you ran over were not on your property at the time you ran them over. They were standing in the street that is city property you are not responsible. If they don’t like it let them sue the city. And besides. It happened back there. It’s over now. Stop living in the past. Do yourself a favor count your blessings. Be glad it wasn’t you and I’ll give you a practical reason not to stop. You need a practical reason? If you do stop sooner or later the police are going to show up. Is that what you want? Huh? Waste even more of your time standing around filling out forms answering a lot of foolish questions lying to the authorities? And by the way who are you to be taking up the valuable time of the police department. These men and women are professionals they’re supposed to be out fighting crimes. Stop interfering with police. And besides. Didn’t anyone else see this accident? Huh? Are you the only one who can provide information? Surely the people you ran over caught a glimpse of it at the last moment. So let them tell the police what happened. They were a lot closer to it than you were. There’s no sense having two conflicting stories floating around about the same dumb ass traffic accident. Things are bad enough people are dead families have been destroyed. Time to get moving. Now. On the other hand. If I should be out driving around looking for a little fun and I see an accident. One that I’m not involved in. I stop immediately. Well. I want to get a good look at what’s going on. I enjoy that sort of thing. Someone else is injured I want to take a look. I am Curious George. But people don’t like that. Police don’t like it. They say you’re rubber necking. They say you’re blocking traffic. Never mind that shit. I want to take a look. I’m never too busy that I can’t stop to enjoy someone else’s suffering. And I’ll tell you something else I’m a big fan of traffic accidents. You know my favorite accident? Two buses and a chicken truck get hit by a circus train in front of a flea market. Well. I want to see something interesting. I’m looking of a neck sticking out of a gas tank. If I’m going to take the time to stop I expect a couple of fucking laughs. And if my car should happen to be in such a position where I can’t quite see what’s going on can’t get a good enough look I’m not the least bit shy about asking the police to bring the bodies over a little closer to the car. Pardon me. Officer. Would you fellows mind dragging that twisted looking chap over here a little closer to the car please? My wife has never seen anyone shaped quite like that. Look at that sugar lips that’s his rib cage sticking out of the glove compartment. Thank you Officer that will be all now. You can throw him back on the pile. We’ll be moving along and off I go onto the highway looking for a little fun. Perhaps a tanker truck filled with human waste will explode in front of the Pokemon factory. I appreciate that yeah. Reminds me of something my third grade teacher said to us. She said you show me a tropical fruit and I’ll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala. No. That wasn’t her. That was a guy I met in the Army. I always confuse those people.

George Carlin

Playboy: But do you feel lonely? Carlin: I feel an aloneness, and I relish that. As much as I love my family, I enjoy it when the house is empty, because then I know I’m truly alone, as we all are on the planet, after all. You know, every atom in us is originally from a star. And during my moments of aloneness, I’m most mindful of that; that I’m just another group of matter randomly but wonderfully arranged. That’s when I feel my immortality. Playboy: Your immortality, as in afterlife? Carlin: Not in the Christian sense, but I do believe in the survivability of the human spirit. We were all part of a giant explosion once, and we’ve come a long way. The incredible distances of past and future time, the history of this whole fucking, vibrating, resonating mother mass—that’s what I read and think about more than anything else. Playboy: Do you see much of a future for us? Carlin: I don’t see much of a future for this planet. I think it’s a cursed planet. The boundaries we’ve drawn between nations and the profit motive—those two factors—have, in my opinion, brought us to the point where almost nothing can stop the utter destruction of the environment and all our earthly life-support systems. Perhaps after a holocaust, the survivors can rebuild on a more spiritual level. Perhaps civilizations rose and failed many times on this planet before man arrived. Playboy: Your opinion of mankind is not exactly reverential. Carlin: Man in his finest state is a curious and investigative creature capable of the magic of creativity. In a book called The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind, Julian Jaynes argues that man didn’t even reach what we call consciousness—that is, the ability to self-inspect—until about 1000 years before Christ; that The Iliad and The Odyssey were written by unconscious humans who had auditory hallucinations from the right side of their brains. Now, if we can come from a state of unconsciousness to consciousness in only 3000 years, imagine what other states we might reach given the time and the freedom to evolve. Playboy: Maybe we will get that freedom. American cultural influence pervades half the globe, and this is the home of the free. Carlin: The folks who settled the United States and migrated to it afterward have mostly been narrow-minded religious people, exploiters and frontier-justice types who shot first and asked questions later. We’re not a freedom-loving people in the beautiful, spiritual sense. We have an inspiring Constitution, but we’re a hardhearted people. Playboy: We’ve had a checkered past, at best, including slavery and the exploitation of immigrants and women. But we’ve made improvements on those fronts. Doesn’t that give you hope? Carlin: No. When I see blacks and women wanting to gain their freedom so they can become corporation executives, I realize that the situation is hopeless. What’s the good of having freedom if you then willingly go off and become a slave to an amoral institution? It’s especially depressing to see blacks wanting to dive into the mainstream of American commercial life. They come from a magnificent African culture based on aesthetics, and now they all want to become fort builders like the vicious people who originally enslaved them. Playboy: You may despise the American corporate structure, which is unabashedly based on greed, but you’re now despising it from a beautiful home in a beautiful neighborhood. Earlier today, you were despising it from inside a $35,000 BMW. Carlin: My money buys me the freedom not to be a member of the corporate structure. And I certainly don’t feel guilty or hypocritical about that. The way our economy is set up, if you don’t want to be a corporate moron and you don’t want to be enfeebled in the streets, you must earn enough to know that you’ll never have to go to them for money. And I’ve been able to do that without selling anything that injures the earth. I sell thoughts, laughs and ideas. Playboy: You never do commercials. Are you willing to condemn other performers who do? Carlin: It seems to me like a perversion of talent for an artist of any kind to further the corporate structure of America or the personal interests of the morons and thieves who run it. Playboy: Given your tough views about America, how do you feel about Soviet society? Carlin: I despise bullies in any guise. Russia offers very little freedom. Its economy is unsuccessful. It can’t even get a harvest together. It appears to do its war machine well enough to get its geopolitical ends met, but I don’t know how it’d fare if it actually had to fight a war. It would probably fuck that up, too. Russia just looks like a total failure to me. Playboy: Earlier, you referred to the U. S. Constitution as “inspiring.” Do you endorse all of it—even the right to bear arms? Carlin: I have mixed feelings about that. I plan to get a gun if crime gets any worse. I believe my first duty is to survive. And I’m not just talking about criminals coming into my home. I once seriously considered getting a gun to protect myself from the police. If I need a weapon to continue living, I’ll get one. And I’ll use it. Playboy: But if violence in our society— Carlin: Look, I’m going to interrupt you: There are two ways to think about this existence we have. One of them is that it’s Wednesday and it’s three fifteen and we’re talking here in my home, and at four o’clock I have to leave for another meeting. Now, that’s a reality. But there’s another reality. We’re in the solar system of a second-rate star, three quarters of the way out on a spiral arm of an average galaxy in a thing called the Local Group. And ours is only one of billions of galaxies, each of which has billions of stars. Some star systems are binary, and there could be a planet that revolves around a center of gravity between two binary stars. So you’d have two sunrises and two sunsets every day. One could be a red giant, the other a white dwarf; two different-sized, -shaped and -colored suns in the sky. And there might be other planets and comets. In other words, fuck Wednesday, fuck three fifteen, fuck four o’clock, fuck the United States, fuck the earth. It’s all temporal bullshit. I like thinking about being out there and not thinking about the corporate structure, not worrying about freedom and not worrying about guns. I chose a life of ideas. That entertains me. That nourishes me. And that’s why I run from this conversation. Playboy: Returning for a moment to the planet Earth, what have you done with all the money you’ve earned in your career? Carlin: A lot of it went up my nose. As for the rest, well, I won’t invest in the stock market, so I’ve had various business managers—all of them now fired—who’ve gotten me into limited partnerships in real estate. I don’t know how fair or unfair our rent policies are, because, again, I’m a limited partner. Really limited; limited not only by the definition of the agreement but also in terms of my own appreciation of business. I’m a limited partner. That’s why they wanted me. They said, “This guy’s limited. Let’s get him into our fucking partnership.” Playboy: Because those business managers are gone, may we presume that in the future you’ll be doing other things with your money? Carlin: Land still seems relatively harmless, though it would be really nice if there were no ownership. One philosopher has rightly said that property is theft. But I’d like to use my future ownership of property to give something back. You’ve got to give back some of what you take out—especially when you take wealth out at an unnatural level, as entertainers do. So I think it would be fair and right to use some of my land and wealth for a drug-rehab center or an Indian school. Playboy: Is there anything you’ve said anywhere in this interview that you wish you could change? Carlin: No, but something I said will, I think, change me. Playboy: What’s that? Carlin: I was thinking of that conversation we had about my outside interests and it occurred to me that I don’t define myself by much more than my career. When I’m not actually doing my work, I’m planning it or thinking about it or reading things that on some level are transformed into performance fantasies. I have no active interests. I never go anywhere or do anything that transports me outside the boundaries of my mind. But because of this interview and the questions this interview has spawned among myselves—now, there’s a frightening slip, “among myselves”—well, now I’ve begun thinking about getting into some extracareer activities. Playboy: Do you know what they’ll be? Carlin: I think I’ll join a softball team. Drinking beer on the bench with the guys. Shagging flies. Sliding headfirst into third base.… Wow, man, sounds great. I can’t wait to sign up! Playboy: When will you do it? Carlin: In a year or two. I need to develop my reality picture first. Psycho-cybernetics. Dream something strong enough and it’ll happen.… Ahhh, softball. I can taste the dust from the base line already…someday.…

George Carlin

Playboy: Yes, but it’s also pretty funny. Carlin: Not to me. It was my car. Playboy: Then what happened? Carlin: Brenda went into therapy and I soon joined her. First we put the drugs behind us, then we began serious work on our relationship. And, in time, we got well together. Playboy: Did you have affairs? Carlin: No. Playboy: Encounters? Carlin: Only during our worst period of drug abuse. The coke made me incredibly horny. Playboy: During your college-concert years, did you have many groupies? Carlin: Anyone who’s onstage is going to attract a certain number of misguided people. But I was never very interested in groupies. Instead of thinking about the sex, I’d always think about the clap and the crabs those people have. Playboy: How are comedian groupies different from rock-star groupies? Are they smarter? Funnier? Carlin: The women who line up at a comic’s dressing-room door are not what you’d call your class groupies. I mean, there are some decent star fuckers, but they all want to fuck musicians and movie actors. To be a comedian fucker is like being a juggler fucker. Can you imagine a girl who wants to fuck only the opening act? It’s like watching an animal trainer and then wanting to fuck the chimp. Playboy: You had an auto accident yourself recently. A bad one, though, fortunately, no one was hurt. Carlin: Only the car and my nose were totaled. Playboy: This is a delicate question, but— Carlin: No, I was clean and sober. A tire blew at the wrong time and I lost it. That’s all. Playboy: Are you sure that’s all? Carlin: Actually, I suspect there really was more to my accident than bad luck. I think it was God’s way of punishing my nose. Playboy: Just when you finally got clear of coke, you had a heart attack. What sort of heart attack was it? Carlin: My left descending septal branch artery decided to close without consultation with any of my other organs. It happened on Saint Patrick’s Day, 1978. I woke up that morning and my jaw muscles were tight and achy. I thought it was from the way I slept, so I took three Tylenols. But the pills didn’t go down right, or didn’t seem to. It felt like they’d lodged in my esophagus. I was driving my daughter Kelly to school and the jaw ache and this feeling of a lump in my chest continued. And that’s when it hit me, Jesus, I’m having a heart attack. So I got Kelly to school and went straight to my doctor. It didn’t show up on the EKG right away, but because of my symptoms, he put me in the hospital for tests. They don’t take any chances with comedians. The blood sample confirmed the heart attack and the angiogram supplied the details. I loved the angiogram. They stick a thing in your thigh and it goes all the way up to your heart. Isn’t that a thrill? Well, at least the nurse scored thigh. Playboy: Had you suffered any previous heart problems? Carlin: I’ve always had irregular heartbeats. They’re called P.V.C.s—premature ventricular contractions. A lot of people have them, that feeling your heart almost stops for a moment, then starts again. I had a lot of P.V.C.s in intensive care and they became life-threatening. Playboy: Both you and Richard Pryor suffered heart attacks after years of cocaine abuse. Did any of your doctors suggest that the coke had actually brought on the attack? Carlin: I suspect it might have. Sometimes, after I’d gone at the coke like one of those snow plows moving up First Avenue, I’d think my heart was over on the dresser, pounding, and I was watching it. I asked some of the doctors who drifted through the intensive-care unit what kind of effect total cocaine abuse has on the heart and they said things like, “Well, there’s not enough valid information.…” That kind of answer. But I consider the coke a major cause. Of course, you could also make the argument that because cocaine speeds up the heart, it’s good for you. Playboy: A drug-induced aerobic exercise? That’s a unique theory. Carlin: But not a very good one. I’ll tell you this: When I was really coked up, those P.V.C.s were much more dramatic and more frequent than they are now. Each episode was so apparent. It would go, “DOONG, DOONG, DOONG–DUCK-DUCK…DUCK-DUCK…DUCK-DUCK-DUCK…DUCK-DOONG, DOONG.” And I’d go, “Whoa, Jim. Let’s go lie down.” Playboy: What were your worst episodes during those years of cocaine abuse and heart irregularities? Carlin: It’s worst when you combine coke and fucking with an irregular heartbeat. That’s when you really feel like you’re on the edge. Playboy: You’ve been on the edge—of a stage, anyway—since you were a child. As a fatherless Irish street kid from the Upper West Side, it’s at least a twist on the typical show-business background. Was there any particular incident or influence in your childhood that sparked your ambition to become a performer? Carlin: By the age of six or seven, I was already doing voices and faces, making my friends and my mother laugh. Then I saw Danny Kaye in a movie, and he was doing voices and faces on that big, big screen and making whole audiences laugh. It was just an instant hookup. Playboy: So you were always funny. Carlin: First I was a mimic. Practically from the moment I began talking, I did impersonations of the people in my neighborhood—the storekeepers, the policemen, my teachers. I always knew I could hold people’s attention and make them laugh every 30 or 40 seconds, and I got approval and attention for that, so the behavior was reinforced. Later, that became an important skill on the street corner. Playboy: Did you know your father? Carlin: My father and mother separated when I was two months old. Although he lived until I was eight, I literally didn’t know him. My mother had been a secretary, and after she and my father split, she went back to work for an advertising executive. So my older brother and I were “latch-door kids.” We went home for lunch and after school by ourselves. Playboy: Were you a lonely child? Carlin: My mother didn’t get home until about seven most nights and, yes, there was a sense of being very alone after school. She gave me all the proper guidance and influences, but physically, she just couldn’t be there. So I became a radio nut. I loved the afternoon serials, and I got into jazz through the radio. I had a subscription to Down Beat when I was 12. And I’d spend a lot of time in front of the minor, miming records. In my fifth-grade yearbook—it’s right up there on the top shell—the last page says, “What about your future?” and under my name, it says, “When I grow up, I would like to be either an actor, a radio announcer, an impersonator or a comedian.” By the way, another item on that shelf up there, next to the fifth-grade yearbook, is a Dodgers program autographed by all my heroes. Being a Dodgers fan led to my first Air Force court-martial, but that’s another story. Playboy: Which we’ll get to later.… But for now, we’re doing today’s interview session in the little office next to your house, and it’s a fascinating work space: two desks, a typewriter, a lot of recording and video equipment, books, records, tapes, files, all kinds of signs on the walls. Yet despite the clutter, there’s an almost archival feeling of order. Carlin: My books and records are arranged according to subject, and within each subject, they’re alphabetical by author or artist. The music tapes are alphabetical and the performance tapes are in chronological order. Playboy: Is that something you did on one of your coke runs after all the nuts and bolts were sorted? Carlin: There are two types of people: One strives to control his environment, the other strives not to let his environment control him. I like to control my environment, because I feel if I have my physical space in order, then I’m free to dream. So there is some compulsion involved. But the dividend I get is the freedom to be totally disorderly in my dreamworld. Playboy: What about all these hundreds of signs you have on the walls? Although they’re all very interesting and funny, they’re also obviously stolen. Carlin: I guess that makes me part vandal, part museum curator. Playboy: Do you enjoy stealing? Carlin: I think it keeps the child alive in me. There’s a thrill when you steal something in plain view of other people. When you drop a newspaper over a sign and walk away with it, or take something off a wall and the sound of the glue ripping makes people turn around. Your heart is racing, it’s a rush. Playboy: The one in the bathroom is marvelous: “The Maclaine Hotel Commemorative Nixon Visit, 1968.” And Nixon signed it at the bottom. Carlin: Yeah; as soon as I saw it in the hotel lobby, I said, “That’s going.” I guess they’ll be after me now. Playboy: In your routines, you return constantly, almost obsessively, to your parochial education. Did you ever attend public high school in New York? Carlin: I went to George Washington High School for six months before my 16th birthday, when I could legally quit. That was an even worse experience than the Catholic schools. I mean, they were still teaching fractions. But mostly, I played hooky. I had one 63-day streak. Playboy: That’s quite a streak. Carlin: Yeah, and I didn’t count weekends or holidays. Playboy: Would you describe yourself as a problem student? Carlin: I was a discipline problem, and I never did homework. Playboy: What sort of trouble did you get into? Carlin: When I was in seventh grade, I was caught stealing money from the visiting team’s locker room during a basketball game. So I was sent to The Brothers. That’s what they called this parochial school up in Goshen, New York. I was supposed to get closer supervision there and more “masculine influence,” whatever that means. But I was thrown out for telling a couple of really lame kids on the playground that I had heroin. Playboy: Did you? Carlin: It was just a joke, but back I went to my old school, where all the kids I’d been with for eight years were about to graduate. But the sisters wanted me to repeat the whole term; so I went to the principal and pleaded with her to allow me to graduate with my class. She finally agreed on the condition that I write the graduation play. It was called How Do You Spend Your Leisure Time?Catchy title, huh? But, once again, I was rewarded for my cleverness, my show-business skills. Playboy: Even before adolescence, the essential themes of your adult life and work were pretty clearly laid out: humor, rebellion and drug use. Carlin: And the patterns became even more vivid at Cardinal Hayes High School. That’s when I began failing subjects and running away from home for days at a time. Playboy: What, exactly, were you running away from? Carlin: My mother and her plans for my future. She had it all worked out. I would attend a nice college, then get a job in advertising. “You’ll be one of those smart-looking fellows in their Madison Avenue suits.” She was in advertising and had become friendly with all those assholes from G.M., Procter & Gamble, General Foods. She’d rattle off their names like a litany of deities. And they really were almost like gods to her, gods she tried to foist off on me, along with the gods of the Catholic Church. And I rebelled against her and her values and her plans for my future at every opportunity. Playboy: That must have made for a tranquil home. Carlin: The older I got, the more apparent it became that my mother was losing control over me. She fought back fiercely with black moods, silent treatments and martyrdom. “You’re letting me down.” “How can you do this to me?” “You hang out with those bums on the corner till all hours. They’ll never amount to anything. Water seeks its own level.” And, of course, all she did was run my ass out of the house even quicker. The pressure was unbearable. Playboy: Later, during your college-concert years and on your early albums, that rebellion against your mother’s values resurfaced. You were over 30 then. Were you still feeling that anger? Or were you just drawing on the memory of it to please your audience? Carlin: Oh, I was still feeling those angers…no, let’s call them hatreds, because that’s what they were. The rebellious mood of the country during those years allowed me to plug right back into my old hatreds. I could scream and holler, as I did on the albums, against religion, government, big business—all those assholes and their values. That hatred was very real. Playboy: Do you still feel hatred toward the establishment? Carlin: The visceral aspect of it is gone now. But I still hold all the values I held when I was screaming more. They just don’t take a physical and psychological toll on me anymore. I’m not possessed by an us-versus-them mentality. Well, I still have my days when I’m answering the television with a little more hatred than necessary, when the “Fuck you, Dan Rather” comes out with a harder edge than it should. But that’s much less frequent than it used to be. I think I’m getting well on that level. Playboy: When you came to L.A. in the early Sixties, it was a justifiable career move. But was it also another way of running away from your mother? Carlin: Yes. Playboy: Is your mother still alive? Carlin: Yeah, she’s 85 now. Playboy: Will she read this interview? Carlin: Probably; but it really doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve told her these things and I have what I used to call “the problem with my mother” out of: my system now. Occasionally, she’ll still push a few of the old buttons, but my anger lasts only a few seconds now, because I recognize them as old buttons. I tell her, “That doesn’t work anymore,” and we have a much better relationship. She even lives out here now. I no longer have to get away from her physically in order to escape the feelings that made me so unhappy in my teenage years. Playboy: Of all the values you rebelled against as a child, what was the one you most despised?

George Carlin

Now, just to change the subject a little bit, do you realize, do you realize that right this second, right now, somewhere around the world some guy is getting ready to kill himself. Isn’t that great? Isn’t that great? Did you ever stop and think about that kind of shit? I do. It’s fun, and it’s interesting and it’s true. Right this second some guy is getting ready to bite the big bazooka. Because statistics show that every year a million people commit suicide. A million. That’s 2800 a day. That’s one every 30 seconds [checks his watch] There goes another guy. And I say guy, I say guy because men are four times more likely than women to commit suicide. Even though women attempt it more. So men are better at it. That’s something else you gals will want to be working on. Well, if you want to be truly equal, you’re going to have to start taking your own lives in greater numbers. But… But I just think it’s interesting to know.Interesting, that’s a big word in this show for me. Interesting to know that at any moment the odds are good that some guy is dragging a chair across the garage floor, trying to get it right underneath that ceiling beam, wouldn’t want to be too far off center. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Somewhere else another guy’s going over and getting a gun out of a dresser drawer. Somebody else is opening up a brand-new package of razor blades. Maybe struggling with the cellophane a little bit, you know. “Oh, shit. It’s always something. Goddamn it, fuckin shit.” I just think that’s an interesting as hell. That’s probably the most interesting thing you can do with your life, end it. I don’t think I could do that, though. Could you? God. I couldn’t commit suicide if my life depended on it. But I understand it, you know. I think I do. I don’t wonder about it. I don’t wonder, Well, why did he do that and, What was going through his mind. You know what I wonder, Where did he find the fucking time? Who’s got time to be committing suicide? Aren’t you busy? I got shit to do. Suicide would be way down on my list. Probably down past lighting my own house on fire. I might want to try a little self-mutilation first. You know, take a couple of hunks out of my arm. See if I like the general idea. Because you’ve got to have priorities, man. You know. And you’ve got to have a plan, too, for something like that. You’ve got to plan that shit. People just don’t run out the house and jump off a bridge. There are things you have to decide. Timing is important. When you’re going to do it. “Well, let me see now. Wednesday’s out. Got to take Timmy to the circus. “Survivor” is on, on Thursday. Friday I got my colon cleansing. The folks are coming over on Sunday. Sunday. By God, that’d be just the thing. Maybe mom will find my body. Serve her right for fucking me up the way she did.” Then you have to pick a method. How you’re going to do it. “Well, let me see now. Afraid of heights, that’s no good. Can’t swallow pills. Don’t like the sight of blood. Fucking oven’s electric. I’d lie down in front of a train, except the Amtrak ain’t coming through here in 30 goddamn years. Maybe I’ll just take a gun and shoot myself in the mouth. Suppose I miss? People will be laughing at me. Suppose I live? I’ll have a big fucking hole in my head. I’ll have to wear some kind of dumb-ass hat. Well, I guess I’ll just hang myself. That’d be good. Gotta get a rope. Oh, shit, it’s always something. I got a rope in the garage. It’s got a lot of grease and paint on it. Don’t want to get that stuff on my neck. Wal-Mart’s having a special on rope this weekend. No sense spending a lot of money to kill myself. Then again, I can always put it on my credit card I’ll never have to pay the fucking thing. That’s it then. I’m hanging myself and Wal-Mart’s paying for it. What’s next? The note. Oh, Jesus. I got to express myself. Hell, if I could express myself, I wouldn’t be thinking of doing something like this. Where’s a pen? I can never find a pen. Told the kids not to move the pen away from that telephone. Goddamn kids. I ought to just kill them, too. Make it one of them family package deals. Here’s a pen. I’ll just jam it into my fucking neck and get it over with. Let’s see now. Where do you put the date? Upper left? I can never remember that. To whom it may concern. Sounds kind of impersonal. Dear Marzel. Leaves out the kids. I know. Hey, guys. Guess what? Keep on reading. How are you? I hope you are fine. I am not fine. As you can no doubt tell from me hanging here from this ceiling fixture. You are the ones who drove me to this. I was doing just fine until you fuckers came along. I hope you’re happy now that I’m goddamn dead. Signed, the corpse in this room. P.S., fuck you people.” Yeah, good enough. That would be a good note. I don’t think a writer could ever commit suicide. Do you? A writer would be too busy working on the note all goddamn year. Trying to get it just right. First draft, second draft, third revision, whole new ending. Finally, he’d turn it into a book proposal and have a reason to live. That wouldn’t work. I think about stuff like that. It’s interesting to me. Like I said, certain things are interesting. Suicide’s interesting. Life is filled with interesting things. That’s why I could never commit suicide. I’m having too much fun keeping an eye on you folks. Watching what you do. Human behavior. That’s what I like.

George Carlin

Playboy: Back in the early Sixties, when you were still a disc jockey and just beginning to do comedy in small clubs, Lenny Bruce supposedly selected you as his heir. Carlin: Apparently, Lenny told that to a lot of people. But he never said it to me and I didn’t hear it until years later. Which is probably fortunate. It’s difficult enough for a young person to put his soul on the line in front of a lot of drunken people without having that hanging over his head, too. Playboy: Because of what Bruce said about you, are you now overly sensitive about being compared to him? Carlin: Yes, and those comparisons are unfair to both of us. Look, I was a fan of Lenny’s. He made me laugh, sure, but more often he made me say, “Fuckin’ A; why didn’t I think of that?” He opened up channels in my head. His genius was the unique ability to investigate hypocrisy and expose social inequities in a street rap that was really a form of poetry. I believe myself to be a worthwhile and inventive performer in my own right. But I’m not in a league with Lenny, certainly not in terms of social commentary. So when people give me this bullshit, “Well, I guess you’re sort of…uh…imitating Lenny Bruce,” I just say, “Oh, fuck. I don’t want to hear it.” I want to be known for what I do best. Playboy: Nevertheless, throughout the early to mid-Seventies, with a five-year run of albums and packed auditoriums for an act that viciously ridiculed every nook and cranny of “the establishment,” you really did seem to be fulfilling Lenny’s prophecy. Then it stopped abruptly about five years ago. No more albums; no more college tours. Why? Carlin: I’ve just now completed a five-year period that can perhaps best be called a breathing spell. A time of getting my health back and gathering my strength. That time also included incredible cocaine abuse, a heart attack and my wife’s recovery from both alcoholism and cocaine abuse. Playboy: It’s comforting to hear you talk about that breathing spell in the past tense. Carlin: My wife, Brenda, and I are both clean and sober now. I’ve been doing a lot of writing. By the time this interview appears, my first album in seven years will be out. I’m also working on a series of Home Box Office specials, a book and a motion picture. It’s the American view that everything has to keep climbing: productivity, profits, even comedy. No time for reflection. No time to contract before another expansion. No time to grow up. No time to fuck up. No time to learn from your mistakes. But that notion goes against nature, which is cyclical. And I hope I’m now beginning a new cycle of energy and creativity. If so, it’ll really be my third career. The first was as a straight comic in the Sixties. The second was as a counterculture performer in the Seventies. The third will be…well, that’s for others to judge. Playboy: When and how did you get into drugs? Carlin: In my neighborhood—West 121st Street in New York, “white Harlem”—there were only two drugs: smack and marijuana. By the time I was 13, some friends and I were using marijuana fairly regularly. The Reefer Madness myth was still very strong then, but I’d been into jazz and those lyrics included so many casual references to pot that it was completely demystified for me. Heroin, forget it. In my neighborhood, I could see what heroin did firsthand and I was definitely afraid of that number. Playboy: How do you define fairly regular marijuana use? Carlin: Oh, I was a stonehead for 30 years. I’d wake up in the morning and if I couldn’t decide whether I wanted a joint or not, I’d smoke a joint to figure it out. And I stayed high all day long. When people asked me, “Do you get high to go onstage?” I could never understand the question. I mean, I’d been high since eight that morning. Going onstage had nothing to do with it. Playboy: Are you still a stonehead? Carlin: To my surprise, my marijuana use has been tapering off steadily. As we speak, I haven’t had a joint in two months. Playboy: You imply that this has been an unplanned withdrawal. Carlin: Completely. The enjoyment has been diminishing. Now, there’s no question that it’s sort of fun to get high. Let’s say I had a little baggie lying around the office. I’d get up, come over here, fuck around, shuffle a few papers, and all the while I’d be thinking about that pot. I’d say to myself, “Well, whatever I’m going to do today, it’s obviously going to be more fun if I have a hit or two.” But I got to the point where taking those hits made me feel dumber than I’d felt before. I’d say to myself, “Man, you’ve been high for fucking 30 years and you don’t want to be high anymore.” [laughs] I always have these little internal monologs. You’ll get used to them.… I simply decided that dope wasn’t worth the ritual. Playboy: So you were one of those ritualistic dopers. Carlin: The ritual was very important to me: cleaning the pot, rolling the pot—I was never a pipe or bong man. That’s California stuff. I was an Eastern roller. My daughter had to teach me to use a water pipe, and I’d still fuck it up every time. To me, smoking pot meant sitting with a newspaper on my legs, rolling the seeds down, pulling the twigs out and finally producing a perfectly cylindrical, absolutely wonderful joint that you either locked at both ends or pinched off, or pinched at one end and left open at the other. Playboy: What was your technique? Carlin: We always locked in the East. I got to be a pincher later on. Playboy: Do you now find yourself lecturing others on the joys of sobriety? Carlin: No, never. I don’t want anyone who reads this to think it’s a message to him. It’s not. This is merely an accounting of what I have done. Playboy: Would it be fair to say that you’re not sorry about your 30 years as a pothead but you’re glad they’re over? Carlin: Exactly. Grass probably helped me as much as it hurt me. Especially as a performer. When you’re high, it’s easy to kid yourself about how clever certain mediocre pieces of material are. But, on the other hand, pot opens windows and doors that you may not be able to get through any other way. Being a very bound-up, Irish Catholic tight-assholed person, I’ve often thought that whatever negative effects pot had on me, it probably saved me from being an alcoholic and a complete fucking brainless idiot by the time I was 25. So I’d say pot has been a break-even proposition for me. Playboy: Did you ever get into hallucinogens? Carlin: I did LSD and peyote in the late Sixties, before I got into cocaine. That was concurrent with my change from a straight comic to the album and counterculture period, and those drugs served their purpose. They helped open me up. You know, if a drug has anything going for it at all, it should be self-limiting. It should tell you when you’ve had enough. Acid and peyote were that way for me. Cocaine was different. It kept saying, “You haven’t had enough.” I became an abuser almost instantly. Playboy: Specifically, what was your pattern of cocaine abuse? Carlin: I’d go on runs, four and five days without sleep. Then I’d crash and sleep about 18 hours a day for seven to ten days. Then it would take a few more weeks to get over a vague sort of depression. Then I’d be off on another run. Playboy: How did those runs start? Carlin: They began the moment I scored. I’d take a few hits at the guy’s house. Then I’d take a few more hits. Then I’d put it away. But before I left his house, I’d take some more hits. And when I’d get in my car, before backing out of the driveway, I’d open it up again and take a few more hits. Then, while driving home, I’d somehow contrive to stop and go to the bathroom and take a few more hits. Later on, when it got really ridiculous, I used to snort in traffic. Playboy: While the car was moving? Carlin: Yeah. And the moment I copped, I immediately wrote off that night’s sleep, because it was a foregone conclusion that I was not going to put half a gram away at midnight. And I never took reds or Quaaludes to balance out the coke. So when it got to be four in the morning and the gram was three quarters gone, I’d start wishing it was nine o’clock and hoping the guy got up early. But, of course, he didn’t sleep either, so there was no sweat. During all those years, I was always looking forward to the next snort or the next guy I could score from. Playboy: You mentioned the fact that Brenda was also a cocaine abuser. How did that mutual interest affect your relationship? Carlin: The effect of the coke on our relationship was very sick. Now that it’s over, those were actually funny times. Looking for each other’s coke, hiding it, finding it, doing some, not telling the other. Then fighting over it. Playboy: You actually stole coke from each other? Carlin: It was the typical paranoid experience. As soon as I knew my hiding place, I thought the whole world knew it. I’d write clues to my hiding places in code, then forget the code and spend the rest of the day looking for my coke. Playboy: Along with the paranoia, many cocaine users experience a heightened compulsiveness. Carlin: Oh, yeah. Sometimes, when I was really loaded, I’d sit on the floor and sort out every nut and bolt in the house. It was just sheer insanity. And often there’d be speed in the cut, so I was a speed freak, too. There are an awful lot of things in the cut of street drugs that eventually make you sick. I reached a point where the skin around the edges of my fingernails used to hurt all the time. And it would peel away easily. Now, that must have been from some poison in the cut. Playboy: Yet you continued to go on those incredible runs. Why? Carlin: It was just a compulsion. In fact, I soon realized that the only thing I really enjoyed was the actual snorting. Playboy: You mean the initial rush? Carlin: No, the act of it. Putting out the line. Inhaling it. That seemed to be what I was looking for. Playboy: That ritual again. Carlin: Exactly. After every hit, I’d look at myself in the mirror and say, “You stupid motherfucker. You asshole.” And then I’d reach for it again, because it was more fun to snort it than to be high. It was an adventure to find a bar I could go into and use the bathroom. To take it out of my sock and chop it up without anybody’s hearing. The secretiveness. The stealth. Those were obviously the aspects of cocaine use I was addicted to. Playboy: Were you able to function socially during those periods? Carlin: I couldn’t even get through a conversation without saying to myself, “How can I get away from this motherfucker and go do me some coke?” I was always saying things like, “Excuse me, but I still have those loose bowels. I’ll be right back.” Fortunately, along with the speed, there’s usually a lot of laxative in the cut, so I was able to say that with some conviction. Playboy: Did the coke affect your performances? Carlin: Two things happened. The creative side of my career was harmed. When I’d sit down and write under the influence of coke, the ratio of pages kept to pages thrown out declined drastically. But onstage, when rapping about a feeling I already owned, I would sometimes get a burst of eloquence. For an entertainer, part of the thing you do is just style. And the coke did help me get into great runs of pure form. But when I listen to those tapes now, the real cocaine shows; there’s just nothing special about their content. Playboy: Were any of your albums recorded during a heavy cocaine run? Carlin: The Class Clown album was done totally sober. I’d realized what a hell I’d made for myself and I cleaned up completely for three months. You can hear the clarity of my thinking and of my speech on that album. But by the next one,Occupation: Foole, I was right back into the trip again. I’m more frantic, more breathless. You can hear how sick I am. If you want to see a cokehead, just look at the pictures on the Occupation: Foole album. The angles of my body show you an awful lot. I started doing coke to feel open, but by that time, the hole had opened so wide that I’d fallen through. The body language in those photos tells you everything. Playboy: You’re talking about astonishing quantities of a very expensive drug. Especially with both you and Brenda abusing it so heavily. How much money did you spend on coke during those years? Carlin: I never knew or cared. Of course, it was a lot. A fortune. But when I hear people tell me exactly how much they spend on coke, I think, Shit, man. They care more about the money than the drug. I was making a lot of money then. One hundred, maybe 110 dates a year at $10,000 a date, plus the albums. The money was sailing in and sailing out and somehow it all just about worked. But in terms of coke, the only money I ever thought about was that dollar bill I had stuck up my nose. Playboy: How did it end? Carlin: It ended suddenly for Brenda, more slowly for me. My runs began getting shorter and less pleasurable. I’d feel bad after only one day, or only a few hours, instead of four or five days. And I began to want to stop. One of the proudest moments of my life was at a rock-’n’-roll theater in New Jersey. A guy actually put some coke under my nose and I was able to say, “No, thanks,” and turn my head away. I still had periods after that when I slipped back a little, but when that happened, I knew something inside me had taken hold. I was going to get well. Playboy: And for Brenda? Carlin: Because she had a drinking problem along with the coke, she had to hit bottom first. Most alcoholics do. And for her, bottom was an automobile accident that almost landed her in jail. Playboy: Was anyone hurt? Carlin: No. She just drove through a hotel lobby. Now, that’s bottoming out.

George Carlin

Carlin: Religion. When the Catholics start laying their trip on you, you notice very early in life what a load of shit it is. The hypocrisy is just breath-takingly apparent, even to a child. But what I hated most was seeing those priests and brothers getting so much pleasure out of inflicting pain. I wondered what was wrong with them. Playboy: Do any other religions interest you? Carlin: None of the Christian religions do. They’re all outer-directed. “Who can I convert?” “Let’s go to this country and make them Christians.” “Wear this.” “Do that.” “No, don’t worship that way. Worship this way or I’ll kill you—for the good of your soul, of course.” Meanwhile, followers of Eastern religions are sitting in the middle of their minds, experiencing a bliss and a level of consciousness that Western man can’t begin to approach. Christianity is all external, all material. Gold. War. Murder. The big churches operate, morally and economically, just like the big corporations. Yet they don’t pay taxes. Let them pay their fair share, those fucking religions. Playboy: Can you see any good at all in Western religion? Carlin: The only good thing about Western religion is the music. Playboy: Do you pray? Carlin: I say things that can be defined as prayers. But I don’t pray to a power or ask an entity to intercede in the earthly scheme, because I don’t believe that happens. But if I see a really unfortunate person in the street, I do pray, yes, though I suppose it’s really more like a mantra to ease my own sorrow. Playboy: You spent your adolescence running away from home, parochial school and the future your mother had mapped out for you. But until you hit 16, you really couldn’t go anywhere. Did you take any positive action during those years to try to make your life a little freer and more satisfying? Carlin: I decided what I really wanted to do was go to the New York High School of Performing Arts, the school that was in the movie Fame. So I went down to 46th Street and laid my rap on this lady in the admissions office. “Hi, I’m George Carlin. I’m real funny. I do impressions. I’m gonna be an actor and a comedian and I’d love to come to your school.” And she said, “Fine, but you’ll have to repeat the last year and a half.” I said, “Why?” And she said, “Well, you don’t have any background in fencing and speech…” and she named about five things that I didn’t know had anything to do with becoming a show-business legend. So I said, “Hey, OK, I’m gonna have to get back to you, lady,” and I was gone. Playboy: And that’s how you wound up at a public high school for your last six months, studying fractions and running up your streak? Carlin: Yeah. I couldn’t go back to Cardinal Hayes. I mean, I had to get away from those priests and brothers, those maniacs. Playboy: Then, at 16, you quit school, bounced around for a year and joined the Air Force on your 17th birthday. Carlin: In those days, we avoided the draft by enlisting. Now, that’s an interesting concept.… But I had a plan. See, I was engaged at that time, so I figured I’d join up, marry my girl, live off base, then use my GI Bill to go to disc-jockey school. Playboy: But you never did get married. Carlin: You get away from home for the first time and you’re true to your girl for a while, and then you start realizing, Jeez, I’m horny. So we both started dating other people, and eventually we drifted apart. Playboy: You mentioned having a subscription to Down Beat when you were 12, and your record collection is incredible. Yet you don’t talk about music very much in your act. Just how important is music in your life? Carlin: It used to be more important than it is now. I overdosed on music during my period of cocaine abuse. I’d be playing rock all the time to feed my speed head, until I finally burned out on it. Also, the music took a turn for the worse. Also, I began to get well. I needed peace of mind. I didn’t need the fucking amplified levels of rock, and I’ve never needed heavy-metal music. Playboy: When you were following rock, how did your tastes run? Carlin: I always enjoyed people like John Prine, soloists who wrote their own songs and had a point of view. The bands I liked tended to be soft rock. I’ve always preferred the gentle approach as opposed to the strident approach. Playboy: The Beatles as opposed to the Stones? Carlin: There are things the Stones did that I couldn’t ignore, but I’ve always listened to the Beatles four to one over the Stones. Playboy: What do you listen to now? Carlin: Classical music, mostly. Playboy: And when you were a child? Carlin: I loved the R&B bands, Budd Johnson and Earl Bostic. The hallway groups—you know, do-wop music. I loved black music that other whites weren’t into, and I was jealous of that prerogative. One of the things that bugged me as a kid was when the white music industry moved in on that black music. Playboy: May we assume that you weren’t a Bill Haley fan? Carlin: To me, Bill Haley was a horrible phenomenon. When I hear all this nostalgic shit about the Fifties, the image that comes to my mind is of a bunch of really lame white kids with fucked-up clothing dancing to Bill Haley and His Comets. That might have been America’s Fifties, but it sure wasn’t mine. My Fifties were hanging around Harlem, wearing conservative clothes—a vest, a four-button suit with no peg in the pants, wing tips, eyelet shirts, thin ties—walking like a black dude and smoking grass and going to parties and dancing so slow you’d hardly notice it. Playboy: Folk music must have gotten to you in the early Sixties. Carlin: There was a short period when folk music was of great interest to me. It seemed authentic—just like black music was. Most rock ‘n’ roll struck me as inauthentic. It sounded like it was being created by an industry, not by a people. Playboy: Did you ever get into country music? Carlin: Oh, I loved real country music. Again, not the kind they manufacture in Nashville. I loved bluegrass and the real country people, you know, like Bill Monroe and Hank Williams. Playboy: What about today’s country music? Carlin: There’s still some with that real white man’s working-class soul in it. I love those strains of stark reality: hopelessness, sorrow, broken love, death. Like authentic R&B, authentic country music speaks for a people, and the similarities and differences between the two forms have always fascinated me. Playboy: For example? Carlin: The very appearance of a black man singing R&B music is full of expression, full of a physical revelation of his feelings—sexual and otherwise. The body is never held back. The freedom that a black expresses by merely walking down the street is even more evident when he sings onstage. By contrast, the white Protestant Southern country man singing onstage barely moves his body. If he’s playing the guitar, his fingers will move and his lips will move and one foot will tap—and that’s all. He is a tight asshole and that’s his hang-up. But the lyrics those two men will write are precisely the opposite. The black man sings in symbolic terms about jelly rolls and sugar pies, while the white man tells you exactly what’s on his mind. “Ohhh, a truck ran over my baaa-by in the ro-o-o-ad.” It’s a marvelous paradox that tells us so much about those two cultures. Playboy: Getting back to your stint in the Air Force, somehow, it just doesn’t seem as though signing up for military service was the best way for you to escape the regimentation of a parochial education. Carlin: That’s true, and by the time my second court-martial rolled around, it had become fairly obvious to both me and the Pentagon that, as they say in a marriage, it just wasn’t working out. Playboy: Your second court-martial? Carlin: Discipline has never been my strong suit. But, in the end, the Air Force was a great experience for me. I met a local d.j. at an off-base party, began hanging around the station and eventually, when somebody got sick, I filled in. By the time I was discharged, I had my own show on KJOE, the number-one station in Shreveport, Louisiana. Playboy: When you weren’t getting your show-business career off the ground, what were your military duties? Carlin: I was a radar, optics and computer mechanic on B-47s at a SAC base. Playboy: Interesting job for a future counterculture hero. Carlin: Yes, wasn’t it? There I was, impeding the war machine just by showing up for work. Playboy: You said earlier that you smoked grass virtually every day of your life for 30 years. Even in the Air Force? Carlin: Sure. A friend used to mail it to me from New York—all cleaned and everything. I smoked right on the base all the time. People weren’t familiar with the smell then. They thought it was some kind of cigar. Playboy: Tell us about your courts-martial. Carlin: The first one came the day after the Dodgers won the world series in 1955. Our SAC unit was in England on a TDY, a sort of mobility drill that’s supposed to be fairly serious business. But when Johnny Podres beat the Yankees in that seventh game, I went sailing into this little town off base, got drunk on cooking wine, then went back to the barracks with the intention of celebrating for the rest of the evening. When my tech sergeant expressed his displeasure at my actions—not to mention my noise level—I replied in a manner that lie didn’t consider in strict accordance with military protocol. I told him to go fuck himself. And to be honest, I don’t think my salute was entirely up to standards, either. I didn’t do any time for that one, but I did lose a stripe. Playboy: And your second court-martial? Carlin: That was more serious. We were having a simulated combat drill. The whole base was on alert and everybody pulled guard duty. So I was out there one night, and it was cold, you know. And I was tired. So I left my gun on the ground and went up into the crawlway of a B-47, smoked a joint and went to sleep. Fortunately, it was Christmas and I had a really benevolent judge, who said, “I should send you to jail for this, but I don’t think any 18-year-old should spend the holidays in prison.” So he let me off. Playboy: Then what happened to you? Carlin: Well, I had this d.j. job in town, and the commander of my squadron figured I might be more valuable as a PR tool working full time at the radio station than short-circuiting nuclear bombers and telling everybody to go fuck himself. So he gave me an off-base work permit and took me off the flight line. Eventually, they pulled the permit and another stripe and mustered me out. Playboy: Which freed you to become a professional disc jockey. Carlin: Yeah. I worked in Boston, Shreveport again and Fort Worth—that’s where I began to develop my voices. Playboy: Where did you meet Jack Burns, your first comedy partner? Carlin: In Boston. Jack was the morning d.j. and we roomed together. We ad-libbed off each other and talked vaguely about doing a comedy act. But we split when I got the job in Fort Worth. Then, one night, Jack showed up in Texas in a car with four bald tires and said, “I’m on my way to Hollywood.” This time, we did get an act together and began playing a coffeehouse in Fort Worth called The Cellar. It wasn’t a very good act, but people laughed. So we went to Hollywood. Playboy: Just like that? Carlin: It was crazy, but when we got to L.A., the first radio station we walked into was looking for a morning comedy team. Suddenly, there we were, in the second biggest market in the country, making $350 a week each—which at the time was a fortune—but after three months, we walked away from that to go into night clubs full time. That was the fun of it. We really felt strongly about ourselves and were willing to take outrageous risks. Playboy: What was your first night-club job? Carlin: A coffeehouse in Hollywood called Cosmo Alley. That’s where Lenny Bruce and Mort Saul saw us. We did skits and two-man situations about race and religion. Nothing memorable, but most comedy teams of that era did moron stuff. At least we were trying to say something. Playboy: What, exactly, did Bruce and Sahl do for you? Carlin: Lenny got us a contract with a major agency, which was incredible. I mean, we’d been comedians for a month and a half when we got booked into the Playboy Club circuit purely on the basis of Lenny’s going to bat for us. And Mort got us into the Hungry i in San Francisco. And because of those bookings, Burns and Carlin got work at a place called the Racquet Club in Dayton, Ohio, where the hostess was a young girl named Brenda Hosbrook. We dated every day I was there, wrote and called each other constantly afterward, and within a year, we were married. Playboy: You’re not exactly a guy to agonize over important decisions. Carlin: Actually, it has always been a dreadful flaw in my character to stick with relationships and career plans far too long; but in those days, I was moving very quickly. And Brenda and I clicked on all levels right away. Playboy: What sort of love life did you have before meeting Brenda? Carlin: I did a lot of dating.… Well, dating may not be exactly the right word for it. Trying to get laid is a little more accurate. And please notice the wordtrying. I always wanted and enjoyed sex, but I never put much importance on scoring or having an athletic sex life. I guess I define myself more by my career and my commitment to a relationship than by my ability to have a lot of chicks or achieve ten orgasms in an evening. Playboy: Would you describe yourself as a very sexual person who doesn’t consider sex very important? Carlin: No, sex is important to me. I just never lead with my dick. Playboy: You and Brenda got married and lived the life of a road comic. Where was your home base? Carlin: Nowhere. For the first year and a half, we lived in a Dodge Dart.

George Carlin

First thing on my list tonight… airport security. Tired of this shit. There’s too much of it; there’s too much security at the airport. I’m tired of some guy with a double digit IQ and a triple digit income rooting around inside of my bag for no reason and never finding anything! Haven’t found anything yet! Haven’t found one bomb in one bag! And don’t tell me “well, the terrorists know their bags are gonna be searched so now they’re leaving their bombs at home.” There are no bombs. The whole thing is fucking pointless! And it’s completely without logic! There’s no logic at all! They’ll take away a gun, but let you keep a knife! Well what the fuck is that? In fact, there’s a whole list of lethal objects they will allow you to take on board. Theoretically, you could take… a knife, an ice pick, a hatchet, a straight razor, a pair of scissors, a chainsaw, 6 knitting needles, and a broken whiskey bottle, and the only thing they’re gonna say to you is “that bag has to fit all the way under the seat in front of you.” And if you didn’t take the weapon on board, relax; after you’ve been flying for about an hour, they’re gonna bring you a knife and fork. They actually give you a fucking knife! It’s only a table knife but you could kill a pilot with a table knife. It might take you a couple of minutes you know… especially if he’s hefty huh? Yeah but you could get the job done, if you really wanted to kill the prick. Shit, there’s a lot of things you could use to kill a guy with; you could probably beat a guy to death with the Sunday New York Times couldn’t you? Or suppose you just have really big hands. Couldn’t you strangle a flight attendant? Shit, you could probably strangle two of them; one with each hand… you know, if you are lucky enough to catch them in that little kitchen area… before they give out the fucking peanuts you know? But you could get the job done… if you really cared enough. So why is it they allow a man with big powerful hands get onboard an airplane? I’ll tell you why. They know he’s not a security risk because he’s already answered the three big questions. Question number 1: “Did you pack your bags yourself?” … … No. Carrot Top packed my bags. He and Martha Stewart and Florence Henderson came over to the house last night, fixed me a lovely Lobster Newburg, gave me a full body massage with sacred oils from India, performed a four-way around the world, and then they packed my bags. Next question! “Have your bags been in your possession the whole time?” No. Usually, the night before I travel, just as the moon is rising, I place my suitcases out on the street corner and leave them there unattended for several hours… just for good luck. Next question! “Has any unknown person asked you to take anything on board?” Hmm… well what exactly is an “unknown person”? Surely, everyone is known to someone. In fact, just this morning, Karim and Yusef Ali Bangaba seemed to know each other quite well. They kept joking about which one of my suitcases was the heaviest. And that’s another thing they don’t like at the airport… jokes. You know? Yeah, you can’t joke about a bomb. But why is it just jokes? What about a riddle? How about a limerick? How about a bomb anecdote? You know… no punch line, just a really cute story. Or suppose you intended to remark, not as a joke, but as an ironic musing, are they prepared to make that distinction? Why I think not. And besides, who’s to say what’s funny? Airport security is a stupid idea, it’s a waste of money, and it’s only there for one reason, to make white people feel safe. That’s all. The illusion, the feeling and illusion of safety cause the authorities know they can’t make an airplane completely safe; too many people have access. You notice the drug smugglers don’t seem to have a lot of trouble getting their little packages on board, do they? No and God bless them too! Oh and by the way, an airplane flight shouldn’t be completely safe. You need a little danger in your life. Take a fucking chance once in a while will you? What are you gonna do? Play with your prick for another 30 years? What, are you gonna read People’s Magazine and eat at Wendy’s till the end of time? Take a fucking chance! Besides, even if they made all of the airplanes completely safe, the terrorists would simply start bombing other places that are crowded; porn shops, crack houses, titty bars, and gangbangs. You know? Entertainment venues. The odds of you being killed by a terrorist are practically zero! So I say relax and enjoy the show. You have to be a realist; you have to be realistic about terrorism. Certain groups of people… certain groups – Muslim fundamentalists, Christian fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists, and just plain guys from Montana – are gonna continue to make life in this country very interesting for a long, long time. That’s the reality; angry men in combat fatigues talking to God on a two-way radio and muttering incoherent slogans about freedom are eventually going to provide us with a great deal of entertainment, especially after your stupid fucking economy collapses all around you and the terrorists come out of the woodwork and you’ll have anthrax in your water supply, and saran gas in your air conditioner, there’ll be chemical and biological suitcase bombs in every city and I say “enjoy it, relax, enjoy the show, take a fucking chance, put a little fun in your life.” To me, terrorism is exciting, it’s exciting. I think the very idea that you could set off a bomb in a marketplace and kill several hundred people is exciting and stimulating and I see it as a form of entertainment! Entertainment… that’s all it is. Yeah… but I also know that most Americans are soft and frightened and unimaginative and they don’t realize there’s such a thing as dangerous fun. And they certainly don’t recognize a good show when they see one! I have always been willing to put myself at great personal risk for the sake of entertainment and I’ve always been willing to put you at great personal risk for the same reason. As far as I’m concerned, all of this airport security, all the searches, the screenings, the cameras, the questions, it’s just one more way of reducing your liberty, and reminding you that they can fuck with you anytime they want… as long as you put up with it… as long as you put up with it; which means of course anytime they want, cause that’s what Americans do now, they’re always willing to trade away a little of their freedom in exchange for the feeling, the illusion of security.

George Carlin

Playboy: Despite your success, Burns and Carlin broke up in 1962. Why? Carlin: We didn’t work very hard and the act wasn’t growing. I think that was mostly my fault, because after we split up Jack became a tireless writer with Avery Schreiber and with Second City. I just never wanted to sit down and make up new routines, and I became a bit of a drawback to him. I guess I was subconsciously saving myself for my own act. Playboy: You saw your future as a single. Carlin: Definitely, and Jack always knew that. Playboy: Did you part on good terms? Carlin: Yes, and we’ve remained close friends for the past 20 years. Playboy: From 1962 until about 1970, you were a straight comic with a constantly ascending career. You continued working the Playboy Clubs, became a successful opening act in Las Vegas, then broke into TV. By your early 30s, you found yourself becoming rich and famous as a mainstream performer. But, as they say, were you happy? Carlin: I was happy about my success, but I was also frustrated, because I was sublimating the long-standing angers that I still hadn’t begun to deal with. I mean, the night clubs were full of businessmen, and I hated them madly. But I had to repress my hatred, and that took its toll. I had a number of angry confrontations, including one at a Las Vegas hotel and another at a Playboy Club, and found myself back at the coffeehouses, where I’d started. And the colleges. Before Vegas, I’d been a folk comic on Bleecker Street in New York and Wells Street in Chicago. So when I made my break in 1970, I said, “I gotta go back to those people. They’ll understand me. They’ll let me sing my song.” And those audiences did make me feel comfortable. I fed on them. I got out all the anger I’d repressed in my teens and 20s. Looking back on it, I suspect that whole period from 1970 to 1976—the albums, the college tours, the cocaine—was all just a way of completing my adolescence. When I was really an adolescent, I was engaged and in the Air Force and making adult decisions. I never really got to finish the angry, screaming, rebellious part of my youth. Then, when I was in my 30s, the country seemed to go through its ownadolescence. Anger and rebellion and drug experimentation and outrageous music and clothing—all the typical manifestations of adolescent behavior were suddenly present in American society, and I just fell right into it. The country’s mood allowed me to finish that chapter of my own life. Playboy: Despite all the changes you’ve gone through, one aspect of your career has remained fairly constant: your Tonight Show appearances both as a guest and as a guest host. Carlin: The Tonight Show is one of the few things I do that make me feel I’m really in show business. I used to feel that way on the old Ed Sullivan show. When the band played that theme, my stomach would drop and I’d say to myself, “Well, Ed didn’t die, so you’re definitely gonna have to go out there and do your monolog.” I still feel that way when Ed McMahon announces me as guest host. It’s exciting. Suddenly, I’m reminded that I really am part of that thing that was so glamorous when I was a kid—show business. Playboy: Most Tonight Show guests are mainstream-entertainment types—not the sort of folks we’d expect you to choose for five minutes of casual conversation. As a host, did you ever try to get the type of guests you’d reallyenjoy talking to? Carlin: The first time I hosted, I asked for Ralph Nader and Jane Fonda and was quickly told no. I asked why and they said, “Well, you know, we have advertisers who wouldn’t be too thrilled with them.” So I wound up with Dave Meggyesy. That was their sop to me—a radical football player. Playboy: But do you enjoy The Tonight Show? Carlin: Yes, and that’s something I’ve found out about myself over the past four years—my getting-well period. As harmless and uncontroversial as those conversations are, there’s a side of me that I used to deny that enjoys them. Now I let that side live, and entertain it when it needs to be nourished, and I still have my personal values. Playboy: But don’t those personal values sometimes conflict with the overt commercialism of The Tonight Show? Carlin: I’d never read a commercial for them. I even have trouble doing the lead-ins. When I have to say, “Hey, Hi-Ho Paste Wax,” I feel a little dopey. Playboy: Wasn’t there a period in the early Seventies, when you were telling your club audiences to go fuck themselves, that Carson blackballed you fromThe Tonight Show? Carlin: Well, there was a period of about a year and a half when Carson wouldn’t use me, but that was sort of my fault. Playboy: What happened? Carlin: The day before one of my scheduled appearances as a guest, I went in for my pre-interview with the talent coordinator. Now, this was just when I was beginning to go through my changes. My hair was long and I was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and sandals and rapping about Muhammad Ali, and at first she didn’t even recognize me. I must have looked like I’d dropped all kinds of acid and they probably felt I wouldn’t be reliable. So they bumped me off the next night’s show and just stopped calling. Playboy: Did you try to reach Carson personally to explain the changes you were going through? Carlin: Sure. I went over there and visited him in the dressing room, but I was loaded up on snort and after listening to about ten minutes of nonstop chatter, he very politely excused himself. He could see I was in trouble. Playboy: What got you back in Carson’s good graces? Carlin: As I continued doing my new material on the albums and at colleges and coffeehouses, it became apparent that I was still a reliable, professional performer. So, eventually The Tonight Show invited me back. And from then on, they paid my air fare, which they hadn’t done before. I’ve always taken that as an apology. Playboy: Now that it’s over, have you talked with Carson about that episode? Carlin: No, because I’ve always understood his position. See, it wasn’t my politics that bothered him. It was me. He thought I’d become a maniac. Playboy: Do you like Carson? Carlin: I like the person who’s interviewing me when I’m on the show, which is really the only way I know him. During the breaks, he usually leans over to share something private with me. Never anything that relates to the upcoming conversation. I love that. He seems always to be opening himself up, showing me he cares about me sitting there. Playboy: Your most famous piece of material from those album and coffeehouse years is The Seven Words. Of course, that piece had a lot to say about censorship, but its impact came from its shock value, a comedic tool you frequently use. Carlin: I don’t like the phrase shock value. Surprise is essential in comedy, and if people are shocked by what I consider merely surprising, then that’s theirshock. But there is no joke without surprise. For example, if I say, “Isn’t it amazing that most of the women who are against abortion are women you wouldn’t want to fuck anyway?” it’s much more effective than “Isn’t it amazing that most of the women who are against abortion are women you wouldn’t want to get pregnant anyway?” Although “get pregnant” is the logical phrase in that sentence, because I’m talking about abortion, not sex, the word fuck, because it’s a surprise, gives the joke its light and power. If that word shocks you, it’s your problem. Playboy: Was it that love of verbal surprise that caused you to write The Seven Words? Carlin: Definitely. And my love of language. That piece began when I sat down one day and made a list of all the curses I could think of. Then I honed the list by eliminating all the compound words except cocksucker and motherfucker. Finally, I had seven. Seven words I felt absolutely certain could never be used, even in the most learned conversation, on network television: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits. And over the years, I’ve written several routines around that list. Playboy: You became a part of American legal history when, because of an FCC action resulting from the airing of one of those routines, you were summoned for a command performance by the Supreme Court. How did that particular booking come about? Carlin: In 1973, WBAI-FM, a Pacifica Foundation radio station in New York, played an 11-minute version of The Seven Words as part of a program on language taboos. A gentleman from a group called Morals in Media—a forerunner of the Moral Majority—was driving around Long Island that day with his 13-year-old son and they listened to the whole thing. Playboy: Did anyone ever ask why he didn’t turn the dial if he found the program objectionable? Carlin: Of course not. And when this guy complained to the FCC, that august body voted to censure WBAI, which is a serious mark against a station on its license-renewal application. So WBAI fought the censure and won in Federal district court. But that was the Nixon FCC, and they appealed the case to the Supreme Court. Playboy: How did you feel about that? Carlin: I felt like I was being called to the big principal’s office in Washington. I mean, getting kicked out of school and kicked out of the choir and having a couple of courts-martial—those transgressions suddenly seemed like small potatoes. That these nine men had summoned me into their presence to question my conduct absolutely thrilled the perverse and rebellious side of my nature. I thought, Even if I just become a little footnote in the lawbooks, I’ll be a happy footnote forever. Playboy: How did the case turn out? Carlin: We lost. The Supreme Court found that the FCC did have the right to restrict a radio station from playing indecent material at a time when a child might be listening. The word obscene was kept out of the case, because obscenity is defined according to community standards. The word indecent has never been defined legally. And the Court never established how old a “child” is or exactly which hours a child might reasonably be expected to be listening. So the FCC still doesn’t have the right of prior restraint. Playboy: In other words, there’s still no official list of words you can’t say—which is what your Seven Words piece was all about. Carlin: That was exactly my premise. All I want is a list. When I was a kid, nobody would tell me which words not to say. I had to go home and say them and get hit. As a result of the WBAI case, the Supreme Court has put the FCC in the same position as the parent. It can punish you after the fact, but it can’t tell you beforehand exactly what the restricted areas are. Playboy: So American broadcasters continue to work in constant jeopardy—leading, of course, to self-censorship. Carlin: That’s right. And they have to be extra careful with those two-way words. I mean, they can prick their finger, but they can’t finger their prick. Playboy: That Seven Words case brought you together with Hollywood’s left-wing establishment—another group of folks with whom you don’t normally associate. Carlin: Norman Lear called me up and said they wanted to make me one of the A.C.L.U.’s Persons of the Year or something, because of the Seven Words case—which I really didn’t have that much to do with. WBAI was fighting all the battles and doing all the work and nobody was throwing testimonials for it. The A.C.L.U. was also honoring Lily Tomlin and Garry Trudeau that night. I mean, what the hell have two comics and a cartoonist really contributed to the cause of freedom in America? But that’s Hollywood liberalism for you. And because my ego was obviously involved, I said, “OK, that’s cool, I’ll go.” Playboy: Who else was there? Carlin: The usual sad, stale Hollywood liberal crowd, these tired idealists. I don’t have to name them. They’re famous performers and you see them at every fucking rally. Only the button in their lapel changes. Playboy: Did you wear a tuxedo? Carlin: I wore a dark suit. That’s as far as I go, even for the First Amendment. Playboy: In addition to being honored, did you perform at that function? Carlin: While all the other assholes were speaking. Lily Tomlin and I had fun just doing looks at each other across the table. She’s great. But then I got up and actually performed The Seven Words. And as liberal as those people were supposed to be, and as interested as they were in the Supreme Court case, they just couldn’t handle it. Playboy: You mean after all that, they didn’t laugh? Carlin: Oh, they laughed, and at the end they applauded. But I’ve been a performer for a long time and I know when people are laughing from their guts, from the inside, and when their tuxedos are laughing. Playboy: Shouldn’t a lifelong radical like you be more sympathetic toward liberal activists? Carlin: I have no patience for anyone who sits and mouths clichés. Everybody’s got a fucking easy answer for all our problems. But there are no easy answers, because you can’t change just one thing, you have to change everything. We’ve come that far in our destruction of this poor green planet. And I just feel removed from that. Playboy: Which leaves you open to the criticism that you’re copping out. Carlin: I love that phrase: copping out. It actually means to admit guilt, not to get off the hook. And, yes, I do cop out. I cop out to not having glib and easy answers like all those wonderful professional crusaders. Playboy: Would you include Ralph Nader and Barry Commoner in that sweeping condemnation of American social activism? Carlin: I see them as giving heart to yet another generation of misguided idealists. Playboy: And is that so bad? Carlin: I think, strategically, it is bad. Because the function the crusaders and the investigative reporters really serve in this society is to show the true enemies of humanity—the people on top with the power—where their weak spots are. And then the establishment moves in quickly and silently with a little cement and covers up those holes. And the story goes away, and a few people are never heard from again, and the juggernaut rolls on—stronger than ever.

George Carlin

I know I’m a little late with this, but I’d like to get a few licks on this totally bogus topic before it completely disappears from everyone’s consciences. First I want to be really clear about one thing: as far as other people’s feeling are concerned—especially these “victim groups”—when I deal with them as individuals, I will call them whatever they want. When it’s one on one, if some guy wants me to call him a morbidly obese, African-ancestored male with a same gendered sexual orientation I’ll be glad to do that. One the other hand if he wants me to call him a fat nigger c0cksucker, than that’s what it will be. I’m here to please. If I meet a woman who wishes to be to be referred to as a motion-impaired, same gender-oriented Italian-American who is difficult to deal with, fine. On the other hand, I am perfectly willing to call her a crippled, Guinea dyk3 cunt if she prefers. I’m not trying to change anyone’s self image. But! But! When I am speaking generally, and impersonally about a large group of people, I will call them what I think is honest and fair. And I will not try and bullshit myself. Okay, so, who exactly are these victims? Well, first of all, I don’t think everyone who says he is a victim automatically qualifies. I don’t think a homely, disfigured, bald minority person with a room temperature IQ who limps and stutters is necessarily always a victim. Although I will say that she probably shouldn’t be out trying to get work as a receptionist. But maybe that’s just the way it oughtta be. I’m more interested in the real victims. People who have been fucked over by the system. Because the United States is a Christian racist nation with a rigged economic system run for three hundred years by the least morally qualified of the two sexes, there were bound to be some real victims. People who have been elaborately fucked over. The way I see it, this country has only four real victim groups: Indians, blacks, women and gays. I purposely left out the Spanish and Asians, because when you look at what happened to the Indians and the blacks, the Spanish and Asian people had a walk in the park. It’s not even close. Not to downplay the shit they’ve had to eat, but in about one hundred years the Spanish and Asians are going to be running this country, so they’ll have plenty of chances to get even with the gray people. Let’s get to some of these other non-victims. You probably noticed elsewhere I used the word fat. I used that word because that’s what fat people are. They’re fat. They’re not large; they’re not stout, chunky, hefty, or plump. And they’re not big-boned. Dinosaurs are big-boned. These people are not necessarily obese either. Obese is a medical term. And they’re not overweight. Overweight implies there is some correct weight. There is no correct weight. Heavy is also a misleading term. An aircraft carrier is heavy, it is not fat. Only people are fat. That’s what fat people are. They’re fat. I offer no apology for this. It is not intended as criticism or insult. It is simply descriptive language. I don’t like euphemisms. Euphemisms are a form of lying. Fat people are not gravitationally disadvantaged. They’re fat. I prefer seeing things the way they are. Not the way some people wish they were. I don’t believe groups deserve extra-special names. For instance, midgets and dwarfs are midgets and dwarfs. They are not little people. Infants are little people; leprechauns are little people . Midgets and dwarfs are midgets and dwarfs. They don’t get any taller by calling them little people. I wish their lives were different. I wish they didn’t have to go around starring at other peoples crotches, but I can’t fix that. And I’m not going to lie about what they are. The politically sensitive commandos would probably like me to call them “vertically challenged”. They are not vertically challenged. A skydiver is vertically challenged. The person who designed the empire state building was vertically challenged. Midgets and dwarfs are midgets and dwarfs. Also, crippled people are crippled. They are not differently-abled. If you insist on using such tortured language as differently-abled, then you must use it on all of us. We’re all differently-abled. You can do things I can’t do. I can do things you can’t do. I can pick my nose with my thumb. I can switch hands while masturbating and gain a stroke. We are all differently-abled. Crippled people are crippled. It’s a perfectly honorable word. There is no shame in it. It’s in the Bible: “Jesus healed the cripples”. He didn’t “engage in rehabilitative strategies for the physically disadvantaged”. So, leaving women and gays aside for a moment, I’ve narrowed it down to blacks and Indians. Let’s talk about what we ought to call them. And remember, this has nothing to do with the people themselves, it has to do with the words. And, by the way, when it comes to liberal language vandals, I must agree with there underlying premise: White Europeans and their descendants are morally unattractive people who are responsible for most of the world’s suffering. That part is easy. You would have to be, uh, visually impaired, not to see it. The impulse behind political correctness is a good one. But like every good impulse in America, it has to be grotesquely distorted beyond usefulness. Clearly, these are victims, but I don’t agree that these failed campus revolutionaries know what to do about them. When they’re not busy curtailing freedom of speech, they’re running around inventing absurd hyphenated names designed to make people feel better. Remember, these are the white elitists in there customary paternalistic role: protecting helpless, inept minority victims . Big Daddy White Boss always knows best. So, let me tell you how I handle some of these speech issues. First of all, I say “black”. I say “black” because most black people prefer “black”. I don’t say “people of color”. People of color sounds like something you see when you are on mushrooms. Besides, the use of people of color is dishonest. It means precisely the same thing as colored people. If you’re not willing to say “colored people” you shouldn’t be saying “people of color”. Besides, the whole idea of color is bullshit anyway. What should we call white people? “People of no color”? Isn’t pink a color? In fact, white people aren’t really white at all, they’re different shades of pink, olive and beige. In other words, they’re colored. And black people are rarely black. I see mostly different shades of brown and tan. In fact, some light-skinned black people are lighter than the darkest white people. Look how dark the people in India are. They’re dark brown but they’re still considered white people. What’s going on here? May I see the color chart? “People of color” is an awkward, bullshit , liberal-guilt phrase that obscures meaning rather than enhancing it. Shall we call fat people, “people of size”? By the way, I think the whole reason we are encouraged in this country to think of ourselves as black and white (instead of pink and brown, which is what we are) is that black and white are complete opposites that cannot be reconciled. Black and white can never come together. Pink and brown, on the other hand, might just stand a chance of being blended, might just come together. Can’t have that! Doesn’t fit the plan. I also don’t say “African-American”. I find it completely confusing. Which part of Africa are we talking about? What about Egypt? Egypt is in Africa. Egyptians aren’t black. They’re like the people in India, they’re the dark brown white people. But they’re Africans. So why wouldn’t an Egyptian who becomes a US citizen be an African-American? The same thing goes for the Republic of South Africa. Suppose a white racist from South Africa becomes an American citizen? Well, first of all, he’d find plenty of company, but couldn’t he also be called an African American? It seems to me that a racist white South-African guy could come here and call himself African-American just to piss off black people. And, by the way, what about a black person born in South Africa who moves here and becomes a citizen? What is he? Is he a African-South-African-American? Or a South-African-African-American? All right. Back to the hemisphere. How about a black women who is a citizen of Jamaica? According to P.C. doctrine, she’s African-Jamaican, right? But if she becomes a US citizen, she’s a Jamaican-American. And yet if one of these language crusaders saw her on the street, he’d think she was African-American. Unless he knew her personally in which case he’d have to decide between African-Jamaican-American and Jamaican-African-American. Ya know? It’s just so much liberal bullshit. Labels divide people. We need Fewer labels, not more!