COMIN’ DOWN
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just begun our gradual descent into the Indianapolis area, a descent similar in many ways to the gradual slide of the United States from a first-class world leader to an aggressive, third-rate debtor nation of overweight slobs, undereducated slob children and aimless elderly people who can’t afford to buy medicine. The current conditions in Indianapolis: Temperature sixty-one degrees, partly cloudy skies, winds from the southwest and intense Midwestern boredom.”
TIRED OF THE HANDI-CRAP
Now, listen, I gotta tell you somethin’ and I’m not gonna sugarcoat this because it is what it is. But boy, oh boy, am I gettin’ tired of this handicapped business. Aren’t you? Hah? Don’t you think this handicapped shit has gone far enough?
And I’m like you, folks; normally I would feel sympathy for these people. But the first thing they tell you is that they don’t want sympathy. You ever hear ’em say that? “I don’t want your sympathy.” And I say, fine, fuck you. No sympathy.
And by the way, if there are any handicapped people reading this, I’m not talking about you, all right? I’m talking about the other handicapped people, the ones who’ll never see this book. So don’t get all excited and start rolling around causing trouble in your electric go-cart or whatever the fuck it is. Calm down. I’m on your side.
I NEED MY SPACE
And just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’m gonna start out by mentioning a few of the positive things about the handicapped, okay? First of all, the big blue parking spaces. This was a great idea. I think most people would agree, those spaces come in mighty handy (which is where the word “handy-capped” came from in the first place—a lot of people don’t know that). They’re always right near the entrance to the store or the building, and I find that I can get in and out of the place in a hurry and complete my business with a minimum of delay.
STALLING AROUND
Another handicapped feature I enjoy are the extra-large toilet stalls in public restrooms; once again, an excellent idea. There’s so much room in there to spread out; it’s like a gymnasium. I can do some push-ups, work on my kickboxing, try out a few dance steps. Occasionally I bring a picnic lunch. Nothing fancy; just a small salad, a bit of cheese, perhaps a delicate Bordeaux.
I find that once you’re locked in there, you can pretty much do what you want. About the only limitations might be common decency and a sensible regard for personal safety. One time, I had a few friends over and we played cards all night. The good thing was when one of the players had to take a shit, he didn’t have to drop out of the game for several hands. He simply traded places with the person who was using the toilet as a chair and it worked out great.
I mention all this because I want you to know I recognize some of the positive things that have grown out of this unfortunate obsession America has with the handicapped.
THEY’RE EASILY BOARD
But on this subject I also have a few complaints to make, the main one being this business at the airport of letting the handicapped get on the plane early. I don’t like the idea of people boarding ahead of me just because they’ve had a run of bad luck. It doesn’t seem fair. I think if a person’s had some bad luck, it should apply across the board to all segments of his life. We shouldn’t be going around trying to selectively fix people’s bad luck.
And what bothers me most about the process is, I’m not sure all these people are truly handicapped; some of them don’t look that fucked up. I think there’s a fairly hefty amount of bullshitting going on at the check-in counter.
ROLLIN’, ROLLIN’, ROLLIN’
The whole fiasco begins just before the flight, with the parade of wheelchairs. And apparently, just about anyone can get their hands on one of those airport wheelchairs. You know the ones I mean? The ones the airlines provide? Not a wheelchair some guy brings from home; I don’t mind that. I figure if a guy’s laid out money for his own wheelchair, he’s probably legitimately fucked up. And I don’t mind a guy gettin’ ahead of me if he’s legitimately fucked up. You know? Like if a huge chunk of his head is missing, or he’s got a whole caved-in chest and two or three of his limbs don’t work. Generally, in a case like that, I’m gonna give the guy the benefit of the doubt. I say roll his ass down the jetway and let’s get the fuck outta town.
But, to me, some of these airline-wheelchair people don’t look that fucked up; they just look old—and my guess is they’re lazy.
A lot of old people are lazy, because somehow when they hit their 80s or 90s, they think it’s time to take it easy. Old people aren’t “spry” and “full of ginger” anymore. Now they’re all just lazy. And frankly, I think they’re just tryin’ to get a free ride to the gate.
RAISING CANES
But let’s get back to the actual process of boarding. As soon as the wheelchair derby is over the next thing you have to contend with is these people who show up with canes and crutches; what I call the quasi-handicapped. And even though I’m willing to cut the wheelchair people some slack, I’m not so easy on the cane folks. I’m convinced most of these jokers with canes don’t really need them.
And once again it’s the old people, tryin’ to gain sympathy and get to the front of the line. It’s obviously a scam; have you noticed, for instance, how suddenly these canes materialize? Out of nowhere? One minute everyone at the gate looks perfectly healthy, the next minute half of ’em have a limp. And before you know it there are twenty or thirty people leanin’ on canes. I’m convinced that somewhere in the airport (which has now become a large mall with airplanes as a side attraction) there must be a little place where you can rent canes. “Canes for Planes.”
But you know something? I’m not that upset. Not really. Because the best part about these “handicapped” people gettin’ on the plane first is that they have to get off last. Fuck ’em, they always get off last. While they’re still lookin’ for their carry-on bags and rectal thermometers, I’m halfway into town. You see? Life has a way of evening things out.
EUPHEMISMS: The March of Time
At we resume our look at the advance of euphemisms, we have to keep a close eye on the image-makers: advertisers, marketers, public-relations people. And to repeat an earlier point, it’s important to remember that, over time, this trend toward softer language has only gotten worse.
IT ALL GOT DIFFERENT
I don’t know when the whole thing started, but I do know that at some point in my life, toilet paper became bathroom tissue. I wasn’t consulted on this. I didn’t get a postcard, I didn’t get an e-mail, no one bothered to call. It just happened. One day, I simply found myself using bathroom tissue.
And then, just as my loafers were becoming slip-ons, my sneakers turned into running shoes, and in no time, my running shoes became athletic footwear. It was about then that a trip to the department store revealed that my lazy-slob uniform of sweatpants and sweatshirt were now located in a section called Activewear.
The world was changing. I saw second-hand clothing referred to as vintage apparel; I saw toupees advertised as hair appliances, in keeping, I would imagine, with the dental appliances that had long since replaced false teeth.
YA GOTTA HAVE A SYSTEM
Of course, if you didn’t want to wear a hairpiece or a rug (nice old-fashioned term), you could always look around for a good, reliable hair-replacement system. Keep an eye out for systems, folks, they’re everywhere. The clerk who sold me my answering machine said I was purchasing a voice-processing system; a mattress and box-spring set is now called a sleep system; and the people who sell mops have not been resting. According to a commercial I saw recently, the Clorox ReadyMop is now America’s favorite mopping system.
And if you think you can escape these systems by going for a drive, forget it; your car has been systematically (get it?) infiltrated, too. The heater and air conditioner became the climate-control system, your brakes have been replaced by a braking system, and your seat belts and air bags are now known as the i
mpact-mangement system. You can’t beat the system.
Marketers will always strive to make things sound more impressive than they really are; that’s why dashboards became instrument panels. But how’s this for laying it on thick? A magazine ad recently informed me that the cars depicted were equipped with leather seating-surfaces. When you get right down to it, you have to admit, marketing people have a ton of balls.
THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT
The upgrading continued: At home, I found myself watching animation instead of cartoons. And it turns out, all those TV shows I’d seen before were not really reruns, they were encore presentations. At about that time I noticed soap operas had begun billing themselves as daytime dramas.
Theaters felt overdue for an upgrade, too, so they became performing arts centers, or sometimes performance spaces—in keeping with the spirit of certain nightclubs who now speak of themselves as party spaces. (The really hip just call them spaces.) While all this was happening in smaller locations, the big arenas decided they wanted to be known as events centers.
Center is another word that’s become important. Hospitals have long thought of themselves as medical centers, but now libraries have joined the chorus, calling themselves learning resources centers. And just to wrap this section up—and returning to show business for a moment—no matter what size the place where entertainment was being presented, at some point it was decided they would all just be called venues.
Systems, facilities, spaces, centers and venues: They’re all words to keep an eye on in today’s atmosphere of increasing self-importance.
YOU WANT MORE CHANGES?
Profits became earnings, personnel became human resources, the complaint department became customer relations. People started offering feedback instead of criticism; car sickness turned into motion discomfort; messengers became couriers; junk mail morphed into direct marketing; special delivery was suddenly priority mail; and after all these years, I picked up the phone and discovered information was identifying itself as directory assistance. I don’t even want to mention my dismay at the fact that every old-fashioned, shady used-car dealer in a plaid jacket was suddenly selling certified pre-owned vehicles.
By this time, the dump had become the landfill. I guess it was inevitable; the garbagemen who fill it had long since become sanitation engineers, and in some cities, garbage collection was going by the fancy (and misleading) name environmental services.
The changes even got me where I lived. According to the Census Bureau, my apartment had become a dwelling unit, and when I asked my janitor to put a peephole in the door, I discovered later that actually the custodial engineer had installed an observation port.
Change of pace: One day, a bucktoothed girl told me she had overbite. That was the day I traded in my glasses for prescription eyewear.
Of course, some of these language upgrades are more widespread than others; admittedly, they’re not all universal. For instance, we still have motels, but some of them wanted to charge a little more, so they became motor lodges. We also still have house trailers, but if they’re for sale and profits are involved, they become motor homes, mobile homes, modular homes or manufactured housing.
So apparently, what we thought all this time was a trailer park is actually a manufactured-home community. I guess the lesson is we never quite know what we’re dealing with. Could it be that all these years on the Jerry Springer show we’ve actually been watching manufactured-home-community trash?
I HAVE A DRUG (STORE) PROBLEM
I guess you’ve noticed a trip to the drugstore has changed a lot too; the products have all been transformed. To start with, the medicine I used to take is now called medication. (I have a hunch medication costs more than medicine.) Mouthwashes are dental rinses, deodorants have been joined on the shelf by anti-perspirants (probably because sweat has become nervous wetness), a plain old bar of soap these days is being described variously as a bath bar, a cleansing bar and a clarifying bar. Can you imagine a mother saying, “Young man, if I hear that word out of you one more time, I’m going to wash your mouth out with a clarifying bar”? Doesn’t sound right, does it?
The hair people have taken liberties, too: hair spray—too ordinary. Try holding mist. Of course, if you don’t want holding mist, you can always turn to shaping mousse or sculpting gel. Anything to get you to pay a little more. Cough drops have grown up and turned into throat lozenges, some even calling themselves pastilles or troches. Guess what? Right! Two dollars more for lozenges, pastilles and troches.
I can remember, in television’s early years, when constipation was called occasional irregularity. These days, in a kind of minor, reverse-euphemism trend, we’re back to constipation, which parallels the recent TV comeback made by diarrhea. No more lower gastric distress. Diarrhea! “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, gotta go!” The new TV candor. (Even though you still can’t say shit.) By the way, doctors used to claim that constipation could be relieved by eating more roughage; now they’re pushing fiber. I still prefer roughage. If I want fiber, I eat a basket.
And hey, lady! Advancing age causing vaginal friction? Tell the pharmacist you have a personal dryness problem. I’m sure he has some sort of intimate feminine-lubricating solution to recommend. That’s the way they describe crotch products now. Even a good old-fashioned douche has turned into a feminine wash. And remember feminine hygiene sprays? Personally, they didn’t sound very tasty to me. If they had come in flavors they might have been more successful. Vagin-illa, crotch-ocolate, labia-lime. Just a thought. Anyway, the latest female product I’ve heard of is protective underwear, which, frankly, folks, I don’t even want to think about. More later.
TIPS FOR SERIAL KILLERS
Because I enjoy following the exploits of serial killers, I’m always hoping they never get caught. So I’ve compiled a list of suggestions to help them stay on the loose longer; that way they can provide me with maximum entertainment.
TO THE KILLERS: If you’re looking for some form of perverted attention and publicity I can’t help you. But if you just want to kill a lot of people, one by one, I’m your guy: Here’s how you can maximize the time it will take the police to apprehend you.
• Make sure your victims are not all the same types. Kill a variety of people: tall, short, rich, poor, male, female, young, old. But don’t kill them in any particular order. Do two old men in a row, then do a young woman, then a teenage boy. Mix blondes and brunettes and long hair and short. And don’t bother with prostitutes.
• Vary the types of locations where you grab your victims and vary the times of day.
• Try to do the work in heavily populated areas where there are more murders to begin with.
• If at all possible, travel around the country and kill each victim in a different state. Never kill two people in the same city within a year. And don’t travel in a straight line. Randomness is your greatest ally.
• Kill each of your victims in a completely different manner: Do some really weird ones, and then do some ordinary ones. Sexual, non-sexual; ritual, non-ritual. Don’t specialize. Patterns are your enemy.
• Dispose of the bodies as far from the murder sites as possible, always at least a hundred miles. Bury some, burn some and dissolve others in lime and acid. If you encounter any chance witnesses to any part of the killings or the disposals, they should be killed and disposed of with a minimum of fuss. And be sure to dispose of them separately.
• When driving to the murder or especially the disposal sites, be careful not to break the law or have an accident. Use cash for everything. Don’t stay in motels. Drive a late-model van-type vehicle you can sleep in, and don’t park it where police might be expected to patrol. Have a large food supply and eat in the vehicle. If possible, change vehicles after every murder.
• Don’t write notes to the police or taunt them in any way. It’s dumb.
• Don’t save newspaper clippings. In fact, don’t even read the newspaper accounts.
• Don’t keep s
ouvenirs from any of the victims.
• Start watching the CSI shows on CBS and the Law & Order shows on NBC. Every now and then you will pick up some piece of information that will help you avoid mistakes.
Be smart and stay alive. Some of us are counting on you.
Wall Street Journal: Subscribe Now
The Wall Street Journal reminds you that your job as a businessman is to fuck the other guy before he fucks you. Sometimes you have to do such a complete job of fucking the other guy that he stays fucked for a long time, even to the point of going out of business and losing everything he owns. Quite often, the difference between getting fucked and being the one who does the fucking can be one small piece of business information, such as they’re not making steam locomotives anymore, or the zeppelin travel market has begun to decline. Those two important business facts appeared recently in the Wall Street Journal. If you’re a reptilian lowlife on your way up, stop getting fucked and start doing the fucking. Read the Wall Street Journal.
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? Page 6
