George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

New Math

Here’s another example of overprotection for these kids, and you’ve seen this one on the news. Did you ever notice that every time some guy with an AK-47 strolls into the school yard and kills three or four of these fuckin’ kids and a couple of teachers, the next day the school is overrun with psychologists and psychiatrists and grief counselors and trauma therapists, trying to help the children cope?

Shit! When I was a kid, and some guy came to our school and killed three or four of us, we went right on with our arithmetic: “Thirty-five classmates minus four equals thirty-one.” We were tough! I say if a kid can handle the violence at home, he oughta be able to handle the violence at school.

Out of Uniform

Another bunch of ignorant bullshit about your children: school uniforms. Bad theory! The idea that if kids wear uniforms to school, it helps keep order. Hey! Don’t these schools do enough damage makin’ all these children think alike? Now they’re gonna get ’em to look alike, too?

And it’s not even a new idea; I first saw it in old newsreels from the 1930s, but it was hard to understand, because the narration was in German! But the uniforms looked beautiful. And the children did everything they were told and never questioned authority. Gee, I wonder why someone would want to put our children in uniforms. Can’t imagine.

And one more item about children: this superstitious nonsense of blaming tobacco companies for kids who smoke. Listen! Kids don’t smoke because a camel in sunglasses tells them to. They smoke for the same reasons adults do, because it’s an enjoyable activity that relieves anxiety and depression.

And you’d be anxious and depressed too if you had to put up with pathetic, insecure, yuppie parents who enroll you in college before you’ve even figured out which side of the playpen smells the worst and then fill you full of Ritalin to get you in a mood they approve of, and drag you all over town in search of empty, meaningless structure: Little League, Cub Scouts, swimming, soccer, karate, piano, bagpipes, watercolors, witchcraft, glass blowing, and dildo practice. It’s absurd.

They even have “play dates,” for Christ’s sake! Playing is now done by appointment! Whatever happened to “You show me your wee-wee, and I’ll show you mine”? You never hear that anymore.

But it’s true. A lot of these striving, anal parents are burning their kids out on structure. I think what every child needs and ought to have every day is two hours of daydreaming. Plain old daydreaming. Turn off the Internet, the CD-ROMs, and the computer games and let them stare at a tree for a couple of hours. It’s good for them. And you know something? Every now and then they actually come up with one of their own ideas. You want to know how you can help your kids? Leave them the fuck alone!

Reverse Logic

Here’s an embarrassing driving situation, the kind of thing that can haunt you for several hundred miles. One of those incidents you can’t just shake off. Like the time you almost got killed by the big tractor-trailer, and had to pull off the road for about twenty minutes and listen to your heart slamming up against your rib cage? BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Well, this next thing is just like that, but this is one you do all by yourself.

Did you ever pull up to a red light, and go a little bit too far into the intersection? Just a few extra feet? So, you put the car in reverse and back up ju-u-u-u-st a little bit. And then you forget the car is in reverse? And so you sit there, innocently, waiting for the light to change. Looking around. Eager to get movin’ again. Don’t wanna keep the proctologist waiting. Da-dum, da-dum, dee-dee, da-dum.

At this point, folks, you are truly an accident waiting to happen. An insurance claim in progress. So, you sit some more, and you sit some more, and you wait, and you wait, and you wait. And you stare at the red light, and you look over at the woman on the right adjustin’ her tits, and you look at the guy on the left pickin’ his nose, and then finally—finally—the light changes and off you go! CRASH! CRUNCH! CRUMPLE! TINKLE! Directly backward into the grille of what was formerly a cute little red Yugo.

“Holy shit! How’d I get back here? This is where I was a coupla minutes ago!”

Apparently, you have to pay attention even at the red lights. I thought surely they were for resting. You know, drive a little, rest a little, drive a little, rest a little. Seemed that way to me. Guess not.

Oh, Brother!

Here’s a little red-light story somebody told me a long time ago. This guy’s drivin’ along, he’s got someone sittin’ right next to him in the passenger seat, and he goes straight through a red light. ZOOOOM!

Passenger says, “Whaddaya doin’?”

Driver says, “Never mind! My brother drives like this.”

They go a little farther, and come to another red light. ZOOM! Guy goes right through it!

“Whaddaya doin’?”

“Will you stop? I told ya, my brother drives like this.”

He keeps on goin’, and now he comes to a green light. He slams on the brakes.

“Whaddaya doin’?”

“Well, you never know. My brother might be comin’ the other way!”

Turn, Turn, Turn

Now, a couple of things to remember when you’re out in traffic. First of all, never get behind anybody weird. Y’ever get stuck behind a guy whose turn signal has been on for about eighty miles? And you’re thinkin’ to yourself, “Well, maybe he’s just a really cautious man. I’m not gonna pass him now, he may turn at any moment.”

And later you discover he was driving around the world—to the left!

Slow Dancin’ in the Fast Lane

Another pain in the ass you don’t want to get behind is anyone who drives real sss-l-l-l-o-o-o-ww. Boy, that’s good for your arteries, isn’t it? Someone really… really… sss-l-l-l-o-o-o-ww!

There are two classes of drivers in this category. The first is any four-foot woman in a Cadillac whose head you cannot see. This is certain death. At first you think, “Well, maybe it’s a remote-controlled, experimental robot car. No, I can see tiny knuckles on the wheel and a small patch of blue hair.” At this point I take no chances; I pull over immediately and take public transportation. I’m not about to fuck with a ghost car; let someone else flag down the Flying Dutchman, it’s not my job.

Another driver you don’t want to get behind is any man over seventy wearing a flannel cap with earflaps. In August. Keep your distance! Because, folks, you know how pissed you can get. Even though you think you’re a mighty cool customer, you do get mighty pissed out there.

Gettin’ Even

Don’t you occasionally wish that instead of having headlights you had a couple of 50-caliber machine guns on the front of your car? So you could send several hundred rounds of burning lead into that slow-movin’ gas guzzler up ahead? Just incinerate the motherfucker and get his ass off the road permanently?

Or don’t you wish you were driving a rented car, so you could bash the asshole in the rear end, pay the deductible, and be done with the whole goddamn thing? BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Don’t mind me, folks. I’m just tryin’ to ease him into second gear.” BAM! BAM! BAM!

God, it would do my heart good.

Or if the offender is directly behind you, wouldn’t it be nice to have an electronic message board that would rise up out of the trunk of your car and let you type in any message you like? ATTENTION, ASSHOLE! YOU DRIVE LIKE OLD PEOPLE FUCK. SLOW AND SLOPPY!