George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

Now, one more thought concerning this comatose stuff. This might come in handy someday. If you know a homosexual who is comatose, remember, you can always comfort his family by saying, “Look at it this way, folks. He was a fruit, now he’s a vegetable. At least he’s still in the produce section.”

It is said that just before you die your life flashes before your eyes; especially if it’s a sudden death. It’s like a little personal movie of your own. But it doesn’t make sense to me. Mathematically, how would it work?

Let’s say you’re swimming at the beach, you get caught in a riptide, and it pulls you out to sea. You panic and begin swallowing water. Since you’re about to die, the flashback movie begins to roll.

It seems to me that if it’s really a flashback of your entire life, you’d have to watch the whole thing, and that would include the ending. Which means seeing yourself arrive at the beach, walk into the surf, start to drown, and have the movie start all over again. Therefore you’d have to watch it a second time, which would include arriving at the beach, walking into the surf, and… you get what I mean? Thanks to the flashback, you can never die. The movie runs forever.

So Little Time

Whenever I hear that someone has committed suicide I wonder one thing. Not Why did he do it? or What was he thinking? I wonder, How did he find the time? Who has time to be running around committing suicide these days? Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have things to do? I do. Suicide would be way down on my list. It would come much later, for example, than setting my neighbor’s house on fire. Believe me, I would have to work suicide into an already very crowded schedule. I’d probably try a little self-mutilation at first, just to get started. See if I like the general concept.

When you think about it, the planning alone would create all sorts of tasks. First, you’d have to choose a method. That’s big. And that might take a while; there are so many good ways to go.

“Let’s see. How about firing a gun in my mouth? Naaah! Jesus, that would hurt. And suppose I lived? My head would have a big hole in the top. Fuck that. Maybe I should just hang myself. No, too weird. I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Just sad. Really, really sad. I guess I could put my head in the oven and turn on the gas. Shit, it’s an electric oven. What am I gonna do? I’m afraid of heights, I have trouble swallowing pills, and I can’t stand the sight of blood. God, this is depressing. I know! I’ll throw myself in front of a subway train. No, I live in Cheyenne. Damn! Maybe I’ll just eat some infected dog shit.”

Dear Survivor

You also have to decide whether or not to leave a note. You might just think, Fuck ’em. Let ’em figure it out for themselves. And I really think not leaving a note is a nice touch, especially if you’re a perky, optimistic, happily married person and recently got a big promotion. Let ’em figure it out for themselves.

But, remember, if you do leave a note you’ll have to come up with a version you’re satisfied with. You have to get it right.

“Let’s see, ‘To whom it may concern.’ No, too impersonal. ‘Dear Myra.’ No, that leaves out the kids. I’ve got it! ‘Hi, everybody. Guess what?’”

Or you may want to go for maximum survivor-guilt: “To all of you who drove me to this, you know who you are. I hope you’re satisfied, now that I’ve destroyed myself.”

How about simply saying, “Hi. Hope this note finds you healthy and happy. Not me. Healthy, not happy. In fact, wait’s you read the rest of this note.”

Suppose you’re a writer? Seems to me, a writer would get so involved revising and polishing the note that he’d never get around to the suicide. He would cheer up just by writing a really good note. Then he’d turn it into a book proposal.

Another problem for suicide people is the timing. “Okay, Tuesday’s out, gotta take Timmie to the circus; Wednesday’s my colon cleansing; the play-offs start on Friday; my folks’ll be here for the weekend. Hmmm! The weekend…”

I feel sorry for these suicide people. There are so many things to think about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still glad they do it; I find it highly entertaining. It certainly qualifies as drama: an irreversible act that puts a permanent end to your consciousness. Talk about a big decision; you’d better be thinking clearly. You gotta be at your best for suicide.

Must-Die TV

I just love the whole idea. I could really appreciate an all-suicide channel. Boy, you talk about reality programming: One person after another, destroying themselves permanently in front of the entire nation. And never mind that V-chip shit, let the kids watch. Teach ’em they have options in life. I would show every method imaginable. And when there’s a lull in the action, I’d run films of World War II kamikaze raids and Arab suicide bombers.

I think you could get big ratings with suicide. Especially if you had unusual methods. I’ll bet anything you could get 200 people in this country to hold hands and jump into the Grand Canyon. Sick people, old people, the chronically depressed. And to get young folks involved, instead of calling it suicide, you bill it as “extreme living.” Put it on TV and give some of the profits to the surviving relatives.

CEO Is D.O.A.

But I digress. You know what I really like about suicide? The reasons some people give. Like those Japanese businessmen who bankrupt their companies through bad management and decide to end it all. Imagine a guy in a three-piece gray suit and red tie, opening his briefcase, taking out a fourteen-inch fish knife, and slashing his stomach open eighteen inches from side to side. Wow! If that tie wasn’t red before it sure is now. By the way, this would be a really good idea for those Firestone and Ford executives.

No Coin Return

I love suicide. You know what they ought to have in amusement arcades? Coin-operated suicide machines. Simple idea. You sit down at a steel table and deposit 50 cents. There’s a thirty-second delay as you lean forward, place your head on the table, and put your arms behind. your back. Before long, you hear, “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then a large cast-iron hammer comes slamming down with 2,000 pounds of force and smashes your head to bits. And it keeps on smashing for about twenty minutes, to give you your money’s worth. Lets you rest in pieces.

I don’t like euphemistic language, words that shade the truth. American English is packed with euphemism, because Americans have trouble dealing with reality, and in order to shield themselves from it they use soft language. And somehow it gets worse with every generation.

Here’s an example. There’s a condition in combat that occurs when a soldier is completely stressed out and is on the verge of nervous collapse. In World War I it was called “shell shock.” Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. It almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was more than eighty years ago.

Then a generation passed, and in World War II the same combat condition was called “battle fatigue.” Four syllables now; takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. “Fatigue” is a nicer word than “shock.” Shell shock! Battle fatigue.

By the early 1950s, the Korean War had come along, and the very same condition was being called “operational exhaustion.” The phrase was up to eight syllables now, and any last traces of humanity had been completely squeezed out of it. It was absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. Like something that might happen to your car.