George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

Bike Frauds

Here’s another horrifying example of a declining American culture. The continued pussification of the male population, this time in the form of Harley Davidson theme restaurants. What is going on here?

Harley Davidson used to mean something; it stood for biker attitude; grimy outlaws and their sweaty mamas full of beer and crank, rollin’ around on Harleys, lookin’ for a good time. Destroying property, raping teenagers, and killing policemen. All very necessary activities.

But now… theme restaurants! And this soft shit obviously didn’t come from hard-core bikers, it came from weekend motorcyclists. These fraudulent, two-day-a-week lames who have their bikes trucked into Sturgis, South Dakota, for the big rally and then ride around town like they just came off the road. Lawyers and dentists and pussy-boy software designers gettin’ up on Harleys because they think it makes ’em cool. Well hey, Squeezix, you ain’t cool, you’re fuckin’ chilly. And chilly ain’t never been cool.

The House of Blues

I have a proposition: I think if white people are going to burn down black churches, then black people ought to burn down the House of Blues. What a disgrace that place is. The House of Blues. You know what they ought to call it? The House of Lame White Motherfuckers!

Inauthentic, low-frequency, lame white motherfuckers. Especially these male movie stars who think they’re blues artists. You ever see these guys? Don’t you just want to puke in your soup when one of these fat, overweight, out-of-shape, middle-aged, pasty- faced, badly-headed movie stars with sunglasses jumps onstage and starts blowin’ into a harmonica? It’s a fuckin’ sacrilege.

In the first place, white people got no business playing the blues ever. At all! Under any circumstances! What the fuck do white people have to be blue about? Banana Republic ran out of khakis? The espresso machine is jammed? Hootie and the Blowfish are breaking up?

Shit, white people ought to understand…their job is to give people the blues, not to get them. And certainly not to sing or play them! I’ll tell you a little secret about the blues: it’s not enough to know which notes to play, you have to know why they need to be played.

And another thing, I don’t think white people should be trying to dance like blacks. Stop that! Stick to your faggoty polkas and waltzes, and that repulsive country line-dancing shit that you do, and be yourself. Be proud! Be white! Be lame! And get the fuck off the dance floor!

Wake up

Fuck the queen

Take a shit

Kill the queen

Eat six chickens

Get married

Kill the new queen

Eat a cow

Take a shit

Start dating

Belch for an hour

Eat a sheep

Kill my date

Defy the pope

Eat a goat

Take a shit

Fuck a bishop

Get engaged

Kill my fiancée

Eat a pig

Marry a pig

Kill the pig

Eat the pope

Vomit

Go to sleep

Are you sick of this “royal family” shit? Who gives a fuck about these people? Who cares about the English in general? The uncivilized, murderous, backward English. Inbred savages hiding behind Shakespeare, pretending to be cultured. Don’t be misled by the manners; if you want to know what lurks beneath the surface, take a look at the soccer crowds. That’s the true British character. I’m Irish and I’m American, and we’ve had to kick these degenerate English motherfuckers out of both of our countries.

But most Americans are stupid; they like anything they’re told they like. So when the duke and duchess of Wales or Windsor, or whatever, visit America, and people are asked if they like them, the simpletons say, “Yes, I like them a lot. They’re sort of fun.” If they asked me I would say, “Well, I’m Irish, and they’ve killed a lot of my people, so I wish they’d die in a fire. Maybe someone will blow up their limousine.”

The English have systematically exploited and degraded this planet and its people for a thousand years. You know what I say? Let’s honor the royal ladies: Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mum, Margaret, Fergie, and all the rest. Let’s give them the hot-lead douche. Get out the funnel, turn them upside-down, and give them the hot-lead douche. Right in their royal boxes. That’s my message from the IRA to the English.

And I’m really glad the black, tan, and brown people of the world, fucked over by the English for so long, are coming home to Mother England to claim their property. England is now being invaded by the very people she plundered. They’re flying, sailing, swimming, and rowing home to the seat of Empire, looking to the Crown: “Hey, mon! What about de food stamps?”

When Britain returned Hong Kong to China there was a long, formal ceremony. The whole thing looked well-rehearsed, and I wondered how everyone knew exactly where to stand and what to do. After all, the event had never taken place before; how could there be a set of procedures? Do the British have a manual on returning colonies? If so, they won’t be needing it much longer.

I notice the same thing is true when a pope or king dies.

The elaborate funerals involve at least thirty or forty groups of participants, each with different roles and different garb, and each of whom seems to know exactly where to walk, when to stop, and where to stand. And everyone knows all the songs and prayers by heart.

Can someone tell me when these people practice all this pageantry?

• Do you ever look at your watch and immediately forget the time, so you look again? And still it doesn’t register, so you have to look a third time. And then someone asks you what time it is, and you actually have to look at your watch for the fourth time in three minutes? Don’t you feel stupid?

• Do you ever find yourself standing in a room, and you can’t remember why you went in there? And you think to yourself, “Maybe if I go back where I was I’ll see something that reminds me. Or maybe it would be quicker if I just stand here and hope it comes back to me.” Usually as you’re weighing those options, two words float across your mind: “Alzheimer’s disease.”

• Do you ever have to sneeze while you’re taking a piss? It’s frightening. Deep down you’re afraid you’ll release all sorts of bodily fluids into your pants. What people don’t realize is that it’s physically impossible to sneeze while pissing; your brain won’t allow it. Because your brain knows you might blow your asshole out. And wind up having to repaint the entire apartment.

• Have you ever noticed how sometimes all day Wednesday you keep thinking it’s Thursday? Then the next day when you’re back to normal, you wonder, why don’t you think it’s Friday?

• Have you ever been sitting on a railroad train in the station, and another train is parked right next to you? And one of them begins moving, but you can’t tell which one? And then it becomes obvious, and all the magic is gone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend our whole lives not knowing which train was moving? Actually, we do.

• Do you ever fall asleep in the late afternoon and wake up after dark, and for a moment you can’t figure out what day it is? You actually find yourself thinking, Could this be yesterday?

• Did you ever tell someone they have a little bit of dirt on their face? They never rub the right spot, do they? They always assume the mirror image and rub the wrong side. Don’t you just want to slap the bastard?