When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?

by George Carlin

  APPEARANCE IS EVERYTHING

  Another major problem for women: They have to look good all the time—or at least they think they do. So they’ll be attractive to their male protectors. “Gotta look good tonight, Joey’s gonna beat the shit out of me. Maybe I can get a nice kick in the fuckin’ mouth. Gotta look my best.”

  And looking one’s female best requires a lot of things. Start with cosmetics. Just think of all the products and procedures a woman is forced to deal with in the world of cosmetics: cleansers, toners, foundation, blush, face powder, lipstick, lip gloss, lip liner, eyeliner, eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, mascara, nail polish, nail polish remover, manicures, pedicures, fake fingernails, fake eyelashes . . .

  GIMME SOME SKIN

  . . . face cream, neck cream, eye cream, thigh cream, foot cream, day cream, night cream, cold cream, wrinkle remover, makeup remover, hand lotions, body lotions, bath oils, bath beads, shower gels, bubble baths, scented baths, perfumes, colognes, toilet water, astringents, moisturizers, emulsions, exfoliants, peels, scrubs, depilatories, body wraps, facial masks . . .

  HAIR HAIR!

  . . . shampoos, conditioners, bleaches, dyes, rinses, tints, perms, straighteners, wigs, falls, rats, extensions, combs, barrettes, bobby pins, hairpins, hairnets, hair curlers, scrunchies, ribbons, bows, tiebacks, headbands...

  PROCEDURES

  . . . streaking, frosting, teasing, spraying, moussing, blow drying, cutting, layering, curling, eyelash curling, eyebrow plucking, armpit shaving, leg shaving, crotch shaving, crotch waxing, leg waxing, eyebrow waxing . . .

  And a purse! A big fuckin’ purse so she can carry all this shit around with her. Especially the makeup, which must be close at hand at all times. “Gotta have my makeup. In case I run into Joey and he wants to beat the shit outta me. I gotta look my best. Maybe he’ll punch me repeatedly in the kidneys and the stomach so it doesn’t mark up my face. He’s so thoughtful.”

  I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR

  And, my friend, I hope you’re aware that when we talk about women looking good, we’re also talking about clothing. Clothing is what generates all this shopping shit that occupies so much of a woman’s time. Because the truth is, women have to buy, own and wear an unbelievably bewildering number of garments:

  TAKE IT OFF!!!

  Slips, half-slips, camisoles, thongs, panties, pantyhose, stockings, half hose, knee-highs, anklets, socks, leg warmers, garter belts, girdles, corsets, training bras, padded bras, sports bras, nursing bras, push-up bras, strapless bras, Wonderbras, bustiers, teddies, petticoats, peignoirs, negligees, nightgowns, shorties, muumuus, body stockings . . .

  TOP TO BOTTOM

  . . . blouses, sweaters, jerseys, pullovers, halter tops, miniskirts, maxiskirts, slacks, suits, sunsuits, business suits, pants suits, culottes, capris, shorts, short shorts, hot pants, formal gowns, bridal gowns, evening gowns, street dresses, sundresses, cocktail dresses, housedresses, housecoats, winter coats, fall coats, spring coats, hats and scarves . . .

  BAUBLES & BANGLES

  . . . brooches, pins, necklaces, pendants, medallions, lockets, bracelets, ankle bracelets, earrings, wedding rings, engagement rings, friendship rings, thumb rings, toe rings and (optional, of course) nipple, nose and labia rings.

  And let’s not even begin to talk about shoes. Oh, God! Sorry girls! I take it back. But at least let’s keep it brief: tennis shoes, sandals, open-toes, slingbacks, mules, wedgies, flats, half-heels and . . . high heels. High heels that damage a woman’s feet, ankles and knees, but make her ass and legs look great, so how can you blame a guy for the occasional rape? “Hey, the bitch was askin’ for it, she was wearin’ high heels.”

  DOWN THE AISLE

  Now, generally, all this obsession with appearance has one purpose. It’s supposed to lead to romance and—it is devoutly wished by some—a wedding. A wedding is another one of those good deals women get: The man “takes a wife,” the woman is “given away,” her family pays for the whole thing, and everyone stands around hoping she gets pregnant immediately.

  KNOCK KNOCK!

  Pregnant! Hey, another terrific treat for the gals! A chance to gain forty pounds, puke in the morning, walk like a duck, get sore tits and develop a nice case of hemorrhoids. What a deal! And such attractive clothing. Plus, she can’t get up off the couch without help. Well, it’s her own fault. This wouldn’t have happened if she had taken her birth control pill or used her diaphragm. Notice: her pill, her diaphragm.

  AND BABY MAKES WORK

  But think of how fulfilling it can be. After all, now she has a baby; a baby she gets to raise practically alone. And if she decides to be a stay-at-home mom, she gets to cook, clean, sew, scrub, scour, wax, wash, dry, iron, do the shopping, drive the van and entertain the guests. She’s a housewife! An unpaid, in-family domestic servant. Admittedly, that description is a bit more in line with the old model. The new model is so much better: She “gets a fuckin’ job so she can be bringin’ somethin’ in.” But, somehow, she still winds up being an unpaid, in-family domestic servant—after she gets home from the job.

  You know, the job? Where she gets paid less than men for the same work, does not rise beyond a certain level in the company and gets harassed all day long by some oversexed moron with a lump in his pants.

  Probably better just to stay home where she doesn’t have to be bothered with that pesky paycheck crap, and there’s none of that nonsense about Social Security, pension plans and unemployment money in case of divorce. Just alimony and child support . . . if the ex-husband can be located. The ex who probably thought she was looking a little used up and dumped her for someone whose milk glands hadn’t sagged yet.

  Can’t forget those milk glands, can we, girls? Tits! Two tits, sticking straight out of your chest; in some cases sticking straight out. Well, for a few years, anyway. Yes, girls, just by virtue of being female, you get to walk around all your life with two vulnerable milk glands hanging out in front of you like lanterns. And if, somehow, you should get the idea that men don’t approve of the size and shape of those milk glands, you’ll find plenty of social pressure to have them artificially “enhanced.” Such enhancement usually will be performed and supervised by men.

  Here’s another physical treat for females: periods! Cramping, bloating and bleeding five days a month. Fifteen percent of the time. And you can add the time spent with premenstrual syndrome. PMS. Men gave it that name. If women had named it, it would be called “My several days of shrieking and crying and depression, just before my several days of bleeding, cramping and bloating.” Men don’t quite see it from that angle. Men experience PMS as a problem for them. “What’s the matter, Joey? You don’t look so good.” “Ahhhh, my wife’s got the PMS.”

  Here are some more special female advantages in case you haven’t had enough: pap smears, mammograms, hysterectomies, mastectomies, miscarriages, abortions, labor pains, childbirth pain, episiotomies, stretch marks and breast-feeding. And postpartum depression. Can’t imagine why she wouldn’t feel good. And just to top it all off, menopause. Menopause! More strange behavior and exciting physical sensations.

  And in exchange for all this, in exchange for all this abuse from nature, what is the woman’s payoff? Why, she’s allowed to get into the lifeboat first. At least theoretically. How often do you think that really happens? Oh, and let’s not forget, many men are quite willing to hold the door open for her. In fact, some men are quite impressed with their willingness to do this; they brag about it: “Yeah, I beat the shit out of her a lot, but when she runs from one room to the other, I always hold the door open.”

  I’ll tell you what a bad deal women got: They’re in the majority on this planet, and they still wound up with the shitty end of the stick. That’s how big a hosing they got.

  Oh, and one other inequity I neglected to mention; very unequal. But this one works in women’s favor: They live longer than men. And remember this happens in spite of all the shit they have to put up with. So who do you think is tougher? Me
n or women? Why don’t you guess. And don’t forget, women have the huge added burden of having to put up with men.

  FREE BREAST EXAMINATIONS

  As a public service, the Hell’s Angels will be conducting free breast examinations this weekend at their clubhouse behind the Chrome Sprocket Bar. If you prefer privacy, the Bikers’ Mobile Breast Patrol will be happy to perform their services in the privacy of your bedroom. Pelvic examinations and pap tests are also available but usually take a little longer.

  IT’S A FEMALE PROBLEM

  Beside a dusty road, in the open air, a physically repulsive man dressed in filthy doctor clothes stands at a rusted-out examination table wearing a coal miner’s hat and heavy work gloves. A woman lies in front of him on the examination table, her legs extending out from under a torn sheet, the ankles resting in stirrups. Nearby, an unattractive “nurse” sits at a desk picking her nose and wiping it on a lamp. Women squat nearby on tree stumps, reading magazines, waiting their turns. Just above this tableau is a large sign reading DISCOUNT ROADSIDE GYNECOLOGY.

  SMOOTH FLIGHT

  I really enjoyed my recent airplane trip to Africa; everything went just perfectly. I had no trouble at all making reservations a month in advance, and I had my tickets in hand, including seat selection, a week before the flight. I even ordered a special vegetarian meal. I left home early the day of the flight and arrived at the airport with several minutes to spare. My friend dropped me off at the curb and left immediately.

  My one bag, which was a light one, was easy to carry and did not have to be checked. I was able to take it on board and save time at each end. I walked into the terminal. There was no line at the security area, my carry-on bag passed inspection, and I didn’t ring any bells walking through the metal detector. Looking for my gate number on the departures board and spotting it without breaking stride, I headed for Gate 1, the nearest gate. With just a few minutes left until takeoff, I walked the few steps to the gate and boarded the plane.

  The seat I had reserved was right next to the window, and the seat next to me was unoccupied; plenty of room to spread out. I was in first class with only three other passengers. The two female flight attendants were pleasant . . . and very attractive. They said my special meal was on board. I had plenty of legroom, and all my seat controls worked perfectly; seat-back tilt, contour button, leg rest, light switch, even the stereo controls.

  Everything continued flawlessly. The plane’s door was closed exactly on time, and we taxied immediately to the end of the runway. Pausing barely an instant, we began our takeoff roll, which sounded and felt extremely smooth. There was very little vibration; just a steady increase in power and speed as we became airborne and gently glided up. I felt no bumps or strain, and we quickly leveled off to a quiet cruise speed at our assigned altitude. Then the plane went into a steep dive and crashed into the ground, killing all but two of us.

  Fortunately, my cosurvivor was a fantastic-looking woman; a registered nurse who had taken survival courses. After a quick check, we realized neither of us was hurt, and then I remembered I still had two joints tucked into my sock. We got high and made love several times. The sex was great for both of us and we promised to see each other often if we somehow managed to get out of there. The only condition on her part was that there be no commitment of any kind between us; she wanted to be independent. I agreed.

  After a short time, we found some sandwiches and beer. We ate and drank and laughed for about an hour and then we noticed that a signal-flare gun had landed nearby. We fired off one flare, and, almost immediately, saw a small private plane flying overhead. They spotted us and began to circle. They made a low pass at us, waggling their wings, and then headed off, presumably to get help. Thank God, everything was still going smoothly.

  That’s when the gorilla showed up.

  IF LOOKS COULD KILL

  I don’t think it’s right that ugly women should be allowed to get plastic surgery and get fixed up to look real nice. I think if you’re born ugly you ought to stay that way. That should be it. It’s not right to let people get fixed up. It’s creepy to think that you could possibly find yourself fucking some woman you picked up because you thought she was great-looking, but underneath she’s really ugly. She got her nose fixed, her lips, her eyes; she got nipped and tucked and liposuctioned, and the surgeon did a good job—he didn’t overdo it—and now she looks really great. But underneath it all, she’s horrible-looking and you’re actually fucking a pig; someone you wouldn’t even ask for change of a dollar if you could see her real face. It’s not right. Ugliness should be a permanent condition.

  THE CONTINUING STORY OF MARY & JOSEPH: “IT’S A BOY”

  MARY: Joe, we’re gonna have a baby.

  JOE: What? That’s impossible. All I ever do is put it between your thighs.

  MARY: Well, I don’t know. Something must’ve gone wrong.

  JOE: Who says you’re pregnant?

  MARY: An angel appeared to me in the backyard and said so.

  JOE: An angel?

  MARY: An angel of God. His name was Gabriel. He had a trumpet and he appeared to me in the backyard.

  JOE: He what?

  MARY: He appeared to me.

  JOE: Was he naked?

  MARY: No. I think he had on a raincoat. I don’t really know. He was glowing so brightly.

  JOE: Mary, you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take a few days off from the shop. The accounts can wait.

  MARY: I’m telling you, Joe. This Angel Gabriel said that God wanted me to have his baby.

  JOE: Did you ask for some sort of sign?

  MARY: Of course I did. He said tomorrow morning I’d start getting sick.

  JOE: But why should God want a kid?

  MARY: Well, Gabriel said that according to Luke it’s kind of an ego thing. Plus, he promised the Jews a long time ago, it’s just that he never got around to it. But now that he feels ready for children he doesn’t want to just make them out of clay or dust. He wants to get humans involved.

  JOE: Well, is he going to help toward raising the kid? God knows we can’t do it alone. I could use a bigger shop, and maybe he could throw a couple of those nice crucifix contracts my way. The Romans are nailin’ up everything that walks.

  MARY: Honey, Gabriel said not to worry. The kid would be a real winner. A public speaker and good with miracles.

  JOE: Well, that’s a relief. Anyway, I guess now that you’re officially pregnant I can start puttin’ it inside you.

  MARY: I’m sorry, honey. God wants it to be strictly a virgin birth.

  JOE: I don’t get it.

  MARY: That’s right, Joe.

  JOE: Don’t I get to do anything?

  MARY: He wants you to come up with a name for the kid.

  JOE: Jesus Christ!

  GUYS & DOLLS, PART 2

  Man, Oh Man!

  To my way of thinking, men have only one real problem: other men. That’s where all the trouble starts. A long time ago, men gave away their power. To other men: princes, kings, wizards, generals and high priests. They gave it away, because they believed what these other men told them. They bought the okeydoke. The bullshit. Men always buy the okeydoke when it comes from other men.

  Some stranger probably stood up at a campfire and said, “All right, boys, from now on, I’m the king. The sun is my father, the moon is my mother and they’re the ones who tell me when to throw the virgins into the volcano. I’ll be expecting all of you to bow deeply when you see me, and give me half your crops. Plus I’m allowed to fuck your wife. And don’t forget, if I want to I can concentrate real hard and make your head explode.”

  And the other men around the campfire nodded their heads and said to one another, “This guy makes a lot of sense.” A man will always buy the bullshit, because a man is not too bright.

  But I’m not suggesting a man doesn’t have a great deal to put up with. He does. First of all, a man has to make believe he knows what he’s doing at all times. And while he’s do
ing whatever it is he’s doing, he has to make believe he doesn’t need any help.

  He has to make believe he can fix anything. And if he can’t fix it now, he’ll fix it later. And if he can’t fix it later, he has a friend who can fix it, and if not, it was no good to start with, it’s not worth fixing, and besides, he knows where he can get something better, much cheaper, but they’re all outta them right now, and besides, they’re closed. This is the male disease. It’s called being full of shit.

  The male disease includes the need to be in charge at all times. In charge, in control, in command. A “real man” sees himself as king of the hill, leader of the pack, captain of the ship. But all the while, in order to fit in and belong, he has to act like all the other men and do what they do, so he’ll be accepted. And get a good job and a promotion and a raise and a Porsche, and a wife. A wife who will immediately trade in the Porsche on a nice, sensible Dodge van with folding seats so they can be like all the other boring families. The poor fuck. The poor stupid fuck.