George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

If you want to know what happened in the Persian Gulf, just remember the first names of the two men who ran that war: Dick Cheney and Colin Powell. Dick and colon. Someone got fucked in the ass. And those brown people better make sure they keep their pants on, because Dick and Colin have come back for an encore.

Here’s something that pisses me off: retired people who don’t want to pay local property taxes, because they say it’s not their grandchildren who go to the schools. Mean-spirited retirees usually from out of state. Cheap, selfish, old Bush voters. The ones I read about were in Arizona. AARP members. They take a shit the size of a peanut and think it’s an accomplishment.

And it’s not like these retirement people can’t afford the tax money. Not all old people are as dependent on Social Security checks as they’d like you to think. Some of them get all kinds of checks: Social Security, the VA, private pensions, government pensions. They also have stock dividends, bank interest, and whatever else they’ve managed to squeeze out of the system.

And still they begrudge their local property taxes simply because their own fucked-up, cross-eyed grandchildren aren’t gonna use the schools. Fuck’em! I say pay your taxes and die like everybody else. I hope they choke on an early-bird dinner.

What exactly is wrong with inmates running the asylum? It seems to me they’re in an ideal position to know just what’s needed.

When it comes to my organs, I’ve decided to donate only my prostate and testicles, with the stipulation that they go to one of those lovely feminists.

Here’s something no one ever wrote before: “Big bats down to one five, five over cross, up the thingo. Nose, baseball, hieroglyphics, hopscotch, pouch. Inevitably, two four eight, four eight, four eight, four eighth. I. I with a two, two, two. Three. Four. Five. Down here, Mother, we’re all home now. So long, Jill. Beep beep. Hungry, hungry. Are you? I couldn’t stand it. Not in my house. Up yours, too, Don. He’s packin’ them in! We’ll all try it. Fifty-fifty? Okay, but not me.” No one ever wrote that before. Not even Shakespeare. I’m proud of that.

Civilization began its downhill path the day some guy first uttered the words, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Have you ever been in the middle of a nice, pleasant dream, when you suddenly wake up and realize someone is trying to kill you? You know what I do? I go back to sleep.

They say if you live to be 100 your lucky number goes up by one.

Near as I can tell, “jack shit” and “diddly-squat” are roughly the same amount.

What do you think about some guy who hears a voice in his head that tells him to kill his entire family, and he does it? Is that the only thing these voices ever tell paranoid guys to do? Kill people? Doesn’t a voice ever say, “Go take a shit on the salad bar at Wendy’s!” Doesn’t a voice tell a guy to take out his dick on the merry-go-round? Actually, some guys do take out their dicks on the merry-go-round. But usually it’s their own idea.

In the old days white people used to put black greasepaint on their faces and perform menstrual shows. That must have been really interesting.

When I first heard the song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” I realized it was exactly the kind of mindless philosophy that Americans would respond to. It would make a great national motto. Right along with Me First.

Little-Known Fact: When the stock exchange closes, the guy who comes out on the balcony with that big hammer slams it on the head of the person who lost the most money that day.

America has too many fake Irish pubs. Giving your bar an Irish name doesn’t make it a pub. The word pub is earned the hard way: tons and tons of puke and thousands of shattered cheekbones.

McDonald’s breakfast for under a dollar is actually more expensive than that. You have to factor in the cost of bypass surgery.

May I make it clear that I don’t care what country the pope is in? I’m really not interested. All the pope ever does is go around to places where people make six dollars a year and tell them to have more children. Isn’t that bright? And responsible! And compassionate. Such a bright, responsible, compassionate man. If the pope wants to travel around, flaunting his wealth and encouraging poor people to have children, let him do it privately. And for God’s sake, keep it off television. The pope is not news.

No one who has ever had “Taps” played for them has been able to hear it.

Although it’s true blondes have more fun, it’s important to remember that they also have more venereal disease.

If you watch a sitcom carefully, you can see that it’s really nothing more than a series of doors opening and closing with a series of jackoffs entering and exiting.

Here’s a great idea: A roach spray that doesn’t kill the roach, but, instead, fills him with self-doubt as to whether or not he’s in the right house.

I’m sure looters don’t call it looting. They probably think of it as extreme shopping.

America got what it deserved in Elvis Presley: a big fat, drug-addict squealer. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being a drug addict. But he wasn’t even addicted to a cool drug like heroin. It was medicine. Fuckin’ doctor drugs.

One good reason for maintaining only a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim.

If you live on the wrong side of the tracks but get up on the right side of the bed, do those things cancel each other out? Probably not.

Professional soldiers are people who die for a living.

Here’s Some Fun: Go into a photography shop and ask the man if you can buy the pictures of the other people in the window. Say, “How much for that heavy-set couple?” I guarantee they’ll stare at you a long time. In fact, they might even back up several feet.

Whenever they say someone got hit by a “stray bullet” I wonder about the choice of words. It seems to me the bullet isn’t stray at all. It’s doing exactly what physics predicts: travelling in a straight line. What’s so stray about that?

Beverly Hills has a new restaurant for bulimia victims. It’s called The Scarf and Barf. Originally, they were gonna call it The Fork and Bucket. Thank God, once again good taste prevailed in Beverly Hills.

They’re also planning a restaurant for anorexics, but again, having trouble with the name. It’s a toss-up between The Empty Plate and Lonesome Chef. I suggested Start Without Me, Guys.

Tell you the truth, I don’t feel sorry for an anorexic. Do you? Some rich cunt doesn’t wanna eat? Fuck her! Don’t eat. I give a shit. Like I’m supposed to be concerned.

“I don’t wanna eat!”

“Go fuck yourself! Why don’t you lie down in front of a railroad train after you don’t eat?”

What kind of a goddamn disease is anorexia, anyway? “I don’t wanna eat!” How do we come up with this shit? Where do we get our values?

Bulimia. There’s another all-American disease. This has gotta be the only country in the world where some people are digging in the dumpster for a peach pit while other people eat a nice meal and puke it up intentionally. Where do we get our values?

I remember when they tried to teach me to tell time as a little boy. What they didn’t know, of course, was that you don’t tell time; time tells you. Still they tried.