George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

“Now, George, the big hand is on…”

“I don’t have a big hand. Both my hands are little.”

“Never mind. Just look at the clock.”

And I did. It was wonderful. I love the face of a clock. To me, there is great emotion attached to the face of a clock. A conventional analog clock.

Digital clocks are all right in their place, I suppose, but they lack the friendly spatial relationships that exist between the hands and the numerals on an analog clock.

There’s a psychological component: to me, the first half of any hour, as the minute hand falls from 12 to 6, passes a lot more quickly than the second half, when it has to struggle upward, fighting gravity all the way.

I’ll say this much: If I had only half an hour to live, I’d want it to be the second half. I just know it would last a little longer.

I make fun of people who are religious, because I think they’re fundamentally weak. But I want you to know that on a personal level, when it comes to believing in God, I tried. I really, really tried. I tried to believe there is a God, who created us in his own image, loves us very much, and keeps a close eye on things.

I tried to believe it. But I have to tell you, the longer you live, the more you look around, the more you realize… something is fucked. Something is wrong. War, disease, death, destruction, hunger, filth, poverty, torture, crime, corruption, and the Ice Capades. Something is definitely wrong.

If this is the best God can do, I’m not impressed. Results like these do not belong on the résumé of a supreme being. This is the kind of stuff you’d expect from an office temp with a bad attitude. In any well-managed universe, this guy would’ve been out on his all-powerful ass a long time ago.

So, if there is a God—if there is—I think reasonable people might agree he’s at least incompetent and maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t give a shit. Which I admire in a person, and which would explain a lot of his results.

I Got the Sun in the Mornin’

So, rather than becoming just another mindless, religious robot, blindly believing that everything 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. It happened in an instant. Overnight, I became a sun worshipper.

Well, not overnight; you can’t see the sun in the dark. But first thing the next morning, I became a sun worshipper. For several reasons: First of all, I can see the sun. Unlike some other gods I could mention, I can actually see the sun. I’m big on that. If I can see something, it kind of helps the credibility.

Every day 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 sun worshippers don’t go around killing other people 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. It doesn’t tell me I’m a bad person who needs to be saved. Hasn’t said an unkind word. Treats me fine.

Praying on My Mind

So I worship the sun. But I don’t pray to the sun. You know why? Because I wouldn’t presume on our friendship. It’s not polite. I’ve often thought people treat God rather rudely. Trillions and trillions of prayers every day, asking and pleading and begging for favors. “Do this; give me that; I need this; I want that.” 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 still people do pray and they pray for many different things. And that’s all right with me. I say, pray for anything you want. Pray for anything. But…what about the Divine Plan? Remember that? The Divine Plan? A long time ago, God came up with a Divine Plan. He gave it a lot of thought, he decided it was a good plan, and he put it into practice. And for billions and billions of years the Divine Plan has been doing just fine.

But now you come along and pray for something. Well, suppose the thing you’re praying for isn’t in God’s Divine Plan? What do you want him to do? Change his plan? Just for you? Isn’t that sort of arrogant? It’s a Divine Plan! What good is being God if every rundown schmuck with a two-dollar prayer book can come along and fuck with your plan?

And here’s another problem you might encounter. Suppose your prayers aren’t answered? What do you do then? 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 anyway, why bother praying in the first place? Doesn’t it seem like a big waste of time? Couldn’t you just skip the praying part and go straight to “his will”? It’s all very confusing to me.

To Each His Own

So, to get around all 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 pretty good actor. To me, that counts. Second, he looks like a guy who can get things done. Joe doesn’t fuck around. In fact, he 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’s barking dog. Nothing happened. But Joe Pesci? He straightened that shit out with one visit. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a simple piece of athletic equipment.

So, I’ve been praying to Joe for a couple of years now, and I’ve noticed something. I’ve 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 percent rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don’t. Same as God. Fifty-fifty. Same as the four-leaf clover, the horseshoe, the wishing well, and the rabbit’s foot. Same as the mojo man, or the voodoo lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing a goat’s testicles. It’s all the same, fifty-fifty. So just pick a superstition you like, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself.

Tell Me a Story, Daddy

And for those of you who look to the Bible for its moral lessons and literary qualities, I have a couple of other stories I’d like to recommend. You might want to try “The Three Little Pigs.” That’s a good one, it has a nice happy ending. Then there’s “Little Red Riding Hood,” although it does have that one X-rated part where the Big Bad Wolf actually eats the grandmother. Which I didn’t care for.

And finally, I’ve always drawn a great deal of moral comfort from. Humpty Dumpty. The part I like 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, never was. No God. Sorry.

I don’t worry about guns in school. You know what I’m happy about? Guns in church! This is a terrific development, isn’t it? And finally it’s here! I’m so happy. I prayed for this. Oddly enough, I actually prayed for this. And I predicted it, too.

A couple of years ago I said that pretty soon there’d be some fuckin’ yo-yo Christian with a Bible and a rifle who’d go apeshit in a church and kill six people. And the media would refer to him as a “disgruntled worshiper.” I had no idea it would be a non-Christian. That’s a really nice touch.