George Carlin: Napalm and Silly Putty

To begin, I would like to acknowledge those of you who read Brain Droppings . It did better than I expected, and I want to say thanks. By the way, if you haven’t read it yet, fear not. You can read this first and then rush out to the store to get Brain Droppings . The two are not sequential.

For those who did read the first book, you’ll find this is the same sort of drivel. Good, funny, occasionally smart, but essentially drivel.

Thanks also to my boyhood friends from 123 rdStreet and Amsterdam Avenue who listened to my street-corner and hallway monologues when I was thirteen and gladdened my young heart by saying, “Georgie, you’re fuckin’ crazy!”

Most of all, thanks to my editor, Jennifer Lang, for her patience and support, and for putting these thoughts of mine in order.

Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies lest they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth.

Hi, reader. I hope you’re feeling well, and I hope your family is prospering in the new global economy. At least to the extent they deserve. For the next few hundred pages I will be your content provider.

Regarding the title of this book, Napalm & Silly Putty: Sometime ago I was struck by the fact that, among many other wondrous things, Man has had the imagination to invent two such distinctly different products. One, a flaming, jellied gasoline used to create fire, death, and destruction; the other, a clay like mass good for throwing, bouncing, smashing, or pressing against a comic strip so you can look at a backwards picture of Popeye. I think the title serves as a fairly good metaphor for Man’s dual nature, while also providing an apt description of the kinds of thoughts that occupy me, both in this book and in my daily life: on the one hand, I kind of like it when a lot of people die, and on the other I always wonder how many unused frequent-flier miles they had.

The only difference between lilies and turds is whatever difference humans have agreed upon; and I don’t always agree.

Ridin’ or Drivin’?

You wanna go for a ride? Okay, let’s go for a ride. Well, actually, you’ll go for a ride, I’ll go for a drive. The one who drives the car goes for a drive. The other person goes for a ride. Most folks aren’t aware of that. Tell ’em when they’re gettin’ into your car. Say, “You assholes are goin’ for a ride, I’m goin’ for a drive.’ Cause I’m the one who’s makin’ the payments on this shit-box.”

Gettin’ in the Car

Now, for purposes of description, you’ll have to picture my car: an old, poorly maintained, dangerous collection of faulty parts from that wonderful time before safety became such a big goddamn deal in this country. And my car is like any other small car—real hard to get into. That’s important, because, after all, you gotta get into the car first. Otherwise, the way I look at it, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.

And let’s not forget, with any kind of car, just opening the driver’s door and getting in involves a certain amount of risk. Have you noticed that? The terrific way they designed cars so the driver’s door opens right out into the middle of goddamn traffic? Jesus! About the only intelligent thing the British ever did was putting that driver’s seat right over there near the curb where it belongs. Of course then they went and moved the curb to the wrong side of the street.

Park like a Man

Anyway, like I said, no small car is easy to get into, but especially if you park the way I do: illegally, two feet out from the curb, on a busy, high-speed thoroughfare right in the middle of rush hour. And that sort of car entry is even riskier if you’ve got a two-door, and you’re tryin’ to stuff a coupla shopping bags full of groceries into the backseat while everyone else is zippin’ past you, close enough to smell your breath.

Holy shit! Look out!! Here comes a drunken bus driver! Quick! Abandon groceries! Stand up straight! Squeeze against the car and pull that door as close to your body as you can, taking care of course not to cut off circulation to your feet. Holy shit, that was close! Good thing you went into emergency mode. And be honest, you didn’t really need them groceries, did ya? Goddamn! Look at how flat that bus made everything; imagine a flank steak with tread marks. And might that just possibly be potato juice on the ground?

Handle with Care

Now, one more thing about car entry: my car has got one of them tricky kinda door handles that’re recessed a little bit into the door itself. You know the ones I mean? Where your fingers actually go in a little bit, past the surface of the car, till you grab ahold of the handle? Don’t ya like them? I do. That’s why they don’t make ’em anymore. They found out I like ’em. That’s the way it is with everything. They find out I like it, they stop makin’ it.

Open and Shut Case

Anyway, back to my car. I also got me one of them doors that when you open it, it swings a-a-a-all the way open. You know the kind I mean? A-A-A-All the way open; perpendicular to the car. I ain’t got one of them fancy doors that hangs out there halfway and stays where you want it to. With my door, we got two things, open and shut. Pick one.

And if I should be tryin’ to do somethin’ really tricky, like get into the car? Well, in a case like that I gotta prop the door open with a broom handle. ’Cause otherwise, sure as hell, soon as I’m halfway in, that door’s gonna swing back hard as it can and sever my leg just below the knee.

“Eeeeeyyyyaaaaaaaiiiiiaaaahhhhoooooooo!”

God! That shit hurts for about a year and a half, don’t it? And them huge, purple blotches? Seems like they never go away.

An Up Front Guy

Now, I wanna mention one additional problem I have when I’m gettin’ into my car. Like I told ya, it’s kinda old, and upkeep has been minimal, so there’s another thing I gotta deal with. A long time ago, my driver’s seat got pushed way up forward on the runners about as far as it goes, and apparently it ain’t never comin’ back.

You see, what happened was, years ago, about thirty or forty of them little pop-top beer-can rings got wedged into the seat tracks, and now they’re all fused into one solid piece of metal, and that fuckin’ seat ain’t never gonna move again. Unless, of course, there’s an atomic attack, in which case it probably ain’t gonna budge more than an inch or two.

So, because of all this unintentional seat redesign, when I get into full drivin’ mode, I’m pretty much hangin’ out right behind the radiator. In fact, if I wanna check my speedo, I gotta look straight down into my crotch. But, hey! At least I’m in the car.