Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

These idiots also say, “We’re the only mammal that drinks milk into adulthood.” Here’s what I have to say to all those mammalian motherfuckers. I don’t see any manatees inventing Facebook. Maybe they would if they started drinking some other mammals’ milk into adulthood. I’m going to gather all of these dickwads in San Francisco (and many of them wouldn’t have a long commute to get there), park the Space Shuttle on the Golden Gate Bridge and say, “Hey, bitches, any other mammals come up with this shit? No? Then shut the fuck up and drink some milk.”

Unfinished Beer Guy: I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a party on a Saturday night, and then walk around for an hour on Sunday morning, tearfully emptying 2,600 unfinished beers. I feel like the guys who removed the bodies from a Civil War battlefield. Where’s the honor? You’re not supposed to leave a wounded man behind. Who is the asshole that grabs a cold beer the host of the party paid for, cracks it, takes one-and-a-half sips, then sets it down without a coaster to sweat and leave a ring on their Steinway? How is this okay? Are you that much of a puss, or did you start the beer right before the Feds busted in, and you had to jump out the window? This is far worse than the guy who has too many and pukes into the potted plant. I’d much rather you be the asshole who finishes his beer and passes out with a lampshade on his head than the one who can’t finish that last three ounces of Michelob Ultra. Make your old man proud, Sonny boy.

Breastfeeding Activist: The female version of the anticircumcision crusader is the breastfeeding activist. Yes, breastfeeding is natural and important. It’s not the act that bothers me. It’s the enormous deal made about the act. When it comes time to breastfeed find a nice corner and a blanket, and take care of business. Don’t be the chick who wants to sit on top of the player piano in the mall and breastfeed in full view, and then lawyers up and sues when someone asks you to go to a less public space. For you breastfeeding blowhards, this isn’t about breastfeeding at all. It’s about you calling attention to yourself. You could feed your baby anywhere, but you choose high noon at the Vatican so when someone says put a blanket over it you can alert the media. Urinating is also completely natural and important, but if I took a leak into the fountain at the Bellagio, I’d be zip-tied and thrown in a Vegas jail cell (again).

It’s like the guy with the aggressive piercings and facial tattoos that gives you the “What the fuck are you looking at?” when you stare. Mission accomplished. You’re angry, so you do something to get yourself judged, and then you get angry about being judged. There’s a way for you to breastfeed without drawing attention to yourself, lactivists. You choose to do it publicly and make a crusade out of it to make it about you. Do I need to see tits every time I go to Foot Locker? I just don’t know why these breastfeeding activists need to shove their titties down my throat. (Actually… I’m turning the corner on this one.)

Half-Marathon Chick: I’m not a big fan of the marathon, and the people who need to prove something to themselves and get that picture with the tin-foil poncho being put over them at the finish line, but whatever. What I really don’t like is the way the marathon shuts down the city. It’s even worse when it’s a half-marathon. Everyone reading this could complete a half-marathon. If your car broke down 13.1 miles from civilization, do you think you’d just impale yourself on the hood ornament? No, you’d just walk that half-marathon. A lot of people doing the half-marathon are walking it anyway. To them, I ask, would you brag to someone that you climbed half of Mount Everest, or that you were playing hoops and you went to the one-and-a-half point stripe and drained one, or that you grabbed half a boobie? If you have something to prove, lock yourself in your apartment and don’t take a shit for two days. That’s way more impressive.

So, Natalia, if you become one of those ladies with the “13.1” bumper sticker on your Subaru please drive it 13.1 miles away from me and never look back.

Drunk Woman Who Calls Herself a MILF or Cougar: The rise of the terms MILF and cougar has given drunken older broads carte blanche to continue being loud and annoying way past the point at which we guys would tolerate it. The twenty-two-year-old chick dancing on a table at the bar can be an annoying twat as long as she wants, because we’re all hoping that, in the midst of that annoyance, she’ll lift her top. But when it’s the forty-two-year-old, we’re not interested, just irritated. But because her appletini-drinking desperate housewife friends have enabled her by calling her a cougar, we all have to deal with her nonsense. Now that she’s a MILF or a cougar, she feels okay acting trashy. If we all just called her what she really is, “Mom,” she’d slow down pretty fucking quick.

Slow Crosswalker: I was in San Francisco, running a little bit late for a live show. And I had the slacker chick in the crosswalk in front of our car with her face buried in her phone, texting. She was walking so slowly that she was literally leaning backward. She looked like a weatherman reporting from a category 6 hurricane. Have you ever seen those people who are walking so slow that their feet are a yard in front of them? I thought, “Bitch, are you trying to get run over? Because this is what you’d do if that was your goal.”

Then I thought about it on a bigger scale. People in general don’t cross the street well anymore. It used to be a sprint, followed by a shoulder roll, then pop up to finish the sprint and stick the landing on the sidewalk. Because when we were kids, people had horrible old drum brakes, and were drunk, so the chances of you getting clipped by a Buick were pretty good, if you weren’t hustling. Nowadays, people aren’t frightened. They’re not scared.

Here’s my solution. I think that everyone between the ages of seven and ten should get clipped by a car just once. I’m not saying run over by a dump truck and put in a coma, just enough to give them the proper amount of fear for the rest of their life. Like the person who gets bitten by a dog at age three, and then is scared of them into adulthood. Parents: Just put your kid in the driveway sometime around second grade, back into them and, when they’re writhing in pain with their femur coming out of their ass, you say, “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Sure would hate for that to happen again.” They need a healthy respect for the automobile. It’s going to save their lives and it’s going to save me time.

This may not be too much of an issue for you, Natalia, being a honky and all. This slow-crosswalking is the domain of the brothers. I think it’s a subtle revenge for slavery and racism. As if to say, “I’m taking my time, Whitey.” I’ve always found it ironic as I watch the big brother amble across the street, that the world’s fastest men are the world’s slowest pedestrians.

Past Life Regression Chick: Natalia, let me just tell you, this is your one go around. You’ve never had a past life. If you decide, at a certain point, that you must have been someone in a past life, rest assured that in this life you’ll be a chick without a dad.

I’m always amazed at the gullibility of the ladies (though some guys do it, too) who are into this past life regression nonsense. These charlatans are just telling you what you want to hear to make you feel better about your loser life. Sure, you’re a fat chick strung out on painkillers now, but a few hundred years ago you were Joan of Arc. Feel better? That will be seventy-five dollars. Ever notice that past life regression only seems to go back five hundred years? What about the fifty thousand we spent as cavemen? It’s always, “You were a knight during the Crusades” or “You were a poet in ancient Rome.” It’s never, “You were just some hairy asshole eating bark until you froze to death.”