by Adam Carolla
Women also perpetuate this retarded myth where “I wear lingerie for me—it makes me feel beautiful.” Then why don’t you wear it around the house when you’re alone? It’s such bullshit: Everything you do is for someone else. If I heard women were attracted to a fecal-matter swastika on my forehead, I’d be sticking my index finger up my ass shortly after I found out that information.
So since you’re clearly doing it for us, let me give you a list of things we’re not into.
GIANT HOOP EARRINGS Who is this for? This is tribal ornamentation. We’re not Kalahari Bushmen. And it is going to work out terribly for you when you get in a fight and the bitch at the club uses them as a handle to smash your face into the bar.
If you’re going to do earrings, just go with the simple stud in the lobe. And that’s it. We’re not into the weird piercings, either. We don’t like the dumbbell going through the nipple, the spike in the tongue, or the clitoral-hood piercing. Or that little stud in the nose that looks like a giant blackhead or a clove pushed into a Christmas ham.
TATTOOS Tattoos are wasted effort. Every time I look in Playboy I want to shout at Hugh Hefner that we want the girl next door, not the whore. The college student looking for an extra hundred bucks for books, not the skank who gets teamed on the pinball machine. Every girl in that magazine now has fake tits, is thinner than the coke rails she’s doing in the bathroom at the club, and has a tramp stamp. Also, tattoos have totally ruined period porn. And by period porn, I mean that it’s set in a different time period, not some disgusting fetish. You’re supposed to be Cleopatra. I sincerely doubt she had a Tasmanian devil on her left ass cheek.
FINGERNAILS We almost never notice your fingernails. And that’s a good thing. It means you’ve either done nothing or gone with some simple, subtle polish. When we do notice your nails, it’s because you look like Edward Scissorhands got a job at Earl Scheib. No guy is attracted to the three-inch press-on nails with a unicorn emblazoned on them. I would love to build a giant digital counter billboard, like the one they use to keep track of the deficit, showing the amount of time women have spent on their nails. I’d build a billboard next to it that says GUYS GIVING A SHIT ABOUT CHICKS’ NAILS. The first one would have millions of hours registered, and the only thing on the second billboard would be pigeons.
BIG JEWELRY How do you define big jewelry? Like the Supreme Court defines pornography: I’ll know it when I hear it. If I can hear you getting out of the car from inside the restaurant, you’re wearing too much of it. This isn’t the Old West—we don’t need to hear your spurs jingle-jangle-jingle. Though it is nice that we can hear you coming down the hallway when we’re on the computer looking at YouPorn. The jewelry acts like a cowbell that gives us a fifteen-second heads-up to close the laptop. I’m not interested in fucking Mrs. T.
ARMS Chicks never stop talking about Madonna’s arms or Michelle Obama’s arms. I’ve never met a guy who’s given a shit about a chick’s arms. Don’t get me wrong, guys aren’t into fat arms, but fat arms are usually attached to fat women who have fat asses. Now back to Madonna. No guy wants to be with a chick who has arms like a junkie on a crew team.
HAIR Big hair has been out since Reagan used his DeLorean to beat the Russian hockey team in the Olympics (my recollection of the eighties is a little fuzzy). But for some reason a lot of chicks still do their hair like they’re gonna party like it’s 1989. We don’t want the crispy hair; we want to be able to run our fingers through it without breaking them.
There’s also the weird multicolored hair with the skunk stripes. Just like the fingernails, we don’t want anything that draws attention to itself. A little highlighting is one thing, but we don’t want your hair to look like a bag of Skittles.
And short haircuts. This is a thing chicks like on other chicks. Girls always tell other girls how cute they look with a short haircut. But they’re really thinking, That’s one bitch I ain’t gonna have to compete with. I’ve never heard one of my male friends say, “That girl would be hot if only her hair looked like Moe Howard’s.”
MAKEUP By all means put on a little foundation, but the closer to natural the better. Nobody wants to be seen entering the club with the sad hobo clown from a velvet painting. Again, just like the nails, the hair coloring, and the muscles, moderation is the key. We don’t want the caked-on mascara that makes you look like a crazy Armenian bank teller. We’re not into the fake painted-on eyebrows or the two-tone lipstick where you line the outside of your mouth with a Sharpie.
Just give me a woman in her natural form. I don’t need the rodeo-clown makeup, the giant hoop earrings, the tats, the piercings, or any of that other shit. It’s not the Mexican lottery show. I don’t need that much going on.
RELATIONSHIPS
Let me close out this chapter by making the best case I can for how men and women are, and always will be, inherently different. One need look no further than the bedroom. Men take their sexual mentality and apply it toward women. A guy thinks, “I love it hard and fast. I’d like to be yanked off by a paint-can shaker with tits. So she must love it that way too.” Wrong. When it comes to sex, men and women are as different as dogs and cats. Think about how you are with a dog. You’re rough and tumble with it. You grab it by the ears, chase it around, play tug-of-war, roll it over on its back and slap its belly. You go after the dog. A cat has to come to you. It has to be in the mood. It will rub itself against your shin when it fucking feels like it. And think about when you pet a cat. They will apply pressure where they want and will move their body so you’re rubbing whichever part they want. And it has to be slow and rhythmic. This is why cats will jump onto the fridge when a toddler bounds into the room. They don’t know how to be gentle.
Ladies, I know it sounds like I was a little hard on you in this chapter. But anytime you start feeling sorry for yourselves, remember this—you’re worse drivers than we are but you pay less for car insurance, and you’re worse people than we are but you live five years longer.
A MESSAGE TO
THE FAT CATS IN
WASHINGTON
I’m convinced I could win any election by just repeating the phrase “I’m going to send a message to those fat cats in Washington.”
People constantly label me a conservative. It’s part of that all-or-nothing mentality. The majority of my opinions are liberal. I’m an atheist. I’m in favor of legalizing pot, prostitution, and gay marriage. But because I hold a couple of conservative opinions about national security, the death penalty, and how the government wastes my tax money, I’m considered somewhere to the right of Reagan. I just get behind whatever I think is the smarter idea; I don’t arbitrarily pick a political team. Depending on where they grow up and what their parents’ beliefs are, people get assigned to either the blue team or the red team and have to hate everything the other guys stand for. But it’s not the Red Sox and the Yankees. I don’t need to be forced into picking a side. I root for whichever team has the plan that’s going to fix shit and against whichever one will continue to hold us back. So let me take a moment to bash both the left and the right, starting with the left.
OBAMA, HOPE, AND CHANGE
When Obama got elected, everybody was talking about hope and change. At the time I said, “You won’t even notice the fucking difference after Barack is voted in. Your life will not be different.” Don’t get me wrong. Barack’s a good, smart guy. I think he’s doing a decent job; I have no problem with him. But don’t give me that shit about hope and change and daylight at the end of the tunnel. You’re still at the same shitty job you had, your life sucks just as bad as it did, and your old lady is still as fat as she was when W was in office. I’ve been around long enough to know nothing ever changes. If you were locked in a closet from before the election until now and I let you out, walked you up and down Main Street, showed you your 401(k), told you what was going on in international news, and then asked you, “Who won, Obama, McCain, or did Bush get a third term?” you’d never know.
How much
change do we really need, anyway? I can think of several places that need change more than we do. China needs to change, Darfur needs to change. We’re cool. Liberals are obsessed with the notion that we could be better. Yes, we could be 10 percent better, but Africa could be 95 percent better. We could do less polluting and be a little bit better, but those guys could lighten up with the raping and the AIDS and be a shitload better. We’re like someone who got 2200 on the SATs. Yes, we could do better. But hello? Colombia, Yemen, Bosnia. Those guys are in the single digits. They got an eight. Combined. When they get into triple digits, then we can talk about how America needs to change.
And philosophically, it’s wrong. The only person who can change anything in your life is you. You want change? Stop crapping out kids, get some vocational training, then get a job and fight to keep it. It’s so naïve and pathetic every four years when an election comes up and I have to watch all the formerly intelligent people around me start going bananas for one candidate. As if that candidate gives a flying fuck about their lives, as if any policy that candidate enacts is going to affect their lives in any discernible way. A good economy and not being depressed are the only things anyone should ever care about.
THE PATRIOT ACT
When the Patriot Act came back in the news in 2005, every single one of my faggoty, lefty Hollywood friends squealed like a stuck pig. “I don’t want the government eavesdropping on my e-mail exchanges or listening in on my cell-phone conversations.” Everyone had their cargo shorts in a bunch over it. I was the only one I knew who was like, “Hey, Agent Double-O Douchebag, if the government intercepts any of your e-mails, all they’re going to find out is that you’re not funny. And how about spending a little less time worrying about the government and a little more time focusing on your narcissistic disorder, the one that leads you to believe the government actually gives a shit about you.”
That’s what it is. It’s narcissism. The government wants to listen to my calls. They want to invade my privacy. This is the religion of the secular. You never hear this Patriot Act shit from the religious right. Religious people don’t fear Big Brother; they already have a personal relationship with the biggest brother of all. Here’s the deal. The human brain can’t handle the idea that there is nothing. There’s no God and there are no rules. We can’t deal with our own responsibility for our actions and choices. So we invent an eye in the sky that is watching us. For some people it’s Jehovah, Allah, or Santa Claus. To the San Francisco atheists, it’s a government satellite.
Not that the conservatives don’t have their own form of narcissism. The counterpart to the privacy pussies on the left are the paranoid gun nuts on the right who think that Obama is going to take away their AK-47s. He’s coming into my house for my gun. Listen up, dipshits of all political stripes … No one from the ATF is coming for your gun, and no one from the NSA is reading the e-mail you wrote your life partner about Top Model.
And this is the challenge I always make to the contrarians: It’s the same one I offer to the secondhand-smoke idiots. Cite me one instance, one time when you or a family member or even a coworker got their computer confiscated, and I’ll apologize. You can’t. So shut the fuck up and focus on your Master Cleanse.
Unlike you, I don’t believe the government is evil. I know there’s this fear that once the government is allowed to monitor your cell-phone conversations the next thing you know it becomes Soylent Green or Logan’s Run. When I was born, I was assigned a number. When my two twins were born, they each got a nine-digit number assigned to them. And guess what, when you were born, the government gave you a number, too. It’s a Social Security number. They assigned it to you so they could keep track of you and take money from you your whole fucking working life. So we should all be over this. Don’t pay taxes for a couple years and see if you don’t receive anything in the mail from the government. Believe me, they know who you are and where to find you. And if you don’t pay them the money you owe them each year, they’ll take it out of your check without your permission.
To all my Hollywood liberal friends who are worried about their civil liberties being invaded, I’ve got news for you: You’re already living in a police state, you just don’t know it. Don’t believe me? Try converting your garage into an office without asking the city for permission first. And if you go through an intersection a millisecond too late, a camera will take a picture of you and send it to your home address. You can’t even smoke a cigarette on the beach. If you grow a pot plant in your backyard, you’ll be arrested. Your stoner flunky kid can’t apply for a job at the post office without a background check and a urine sample. Yet you fucks are worried about the Man reading a couple of your e-mails? It’s one of the few activities the government participates in that doesn’t involve extracting money from us and may possibly prevent a commercial airliner from hitting a football stadium. And you narcissistic douchebags want them to stop? If you really want to focus on the government and your civil liberties, how about the fact that every cent I make from January 1 until the middle of May each year goes to the government? How about you self-righteous fucks start working on that?
BIG PHARMA
Another thing my liberal friends like to complain about is “Big Pharmaceutical.” I like big—big grapes, big linemen, big houses. I don’t understand why when you put big in front of anything except tits it becomes bad. I want the drug companies to be loaded. For some reason, as a society we understand there are certain things that you pay for—cars, homes, vacations, and things like that. And then there are other things that we just think are God-given rights, like health care. So if you make luxury yachts, you’re not a bad guy, you’re just trying to make a buck. If you’re Donald Trump and you want to open a championship golf course in Scotland, you’re an entrepreneur. But if you’re a drug company and you’re trying to get rich, you’re the devil. I want them trying to get rich. I want them motivated by greed. Everyone thinks the drug companies should just pour a bunch of money into research and development without a payday. I love the fact that almost all the innovative drugs come out of this country because in other countries the government has gotten involved to such a point where there’s no entrepreneurship. AIDS isn’t a death sentence anymore because drug-company guys are greedy. I know there’s a balance that needs to be struck so they don’t rape the rain forest or whatever, but overall, when the dust settles, I want the greediest guys in the world trying to cure cancer. I want the greediest guys in the world trying to make a car that goes two hundred miles on a gallon. I want the greediest guys in the world trying to get me to New York in one hour instead of five. I want the greediest guys in the world trying to do all this shit so it will actually get done.
Let’s talk about AIDS pharmaceuticals. I find it ironic that the people who were most vocal in bashing the pharmaceutical companies are the ones whose lives were saved by those same companies. All the tears Liz Taylor shed, all the wisdom of the Orient, and all the quilts strewn across the National Mall in front of the Capitol didn’t cure one AIDS patient. It was big, greedy pharmaceutical companies. Once again, the evil white devil intervened and saved lives. All your coffee enemas and holistic healers couldn’t replace a couple hits of AZT. I only wish the big pharmaceutical companies would take the same approach to handing out the AIDS triple cocktail as I suggested with the profilers. “Hey, Mr. HIV positive. Sure, we’d love to rid you of your death sentence using our wonder drugs. Let me just check my clipboard. Oh, I’m sorry. You called us greedy capitalist pigs. Have fun butt-fucking your herbalist, and I’ll see you at your funeral.”
WELFARE
Welfare doesn’t work. It’s monetary methadone. Let me explain. You either need to kick heroin or OD. But methadone is just a perpetual circling of the airport in a plane with shitty seats and a Kate Hudson movie. I believe most people who need welfare are depressed. The welfare lowers their self-esteem and compounds their depression, making it even more difficult to find a job. I’ve seen enough promos for The Bigges
t Loser to know that even the laziest and most pathetic individual is capable of soaring to great heights given some structure and motivation. Welfare is the equivalent of the government sending them a jumbo bag of Bugles in the mail twice a month.
The Carollas have a rich history of not being rich. My mom was depressed and on welfare. One time when I was a kid I asked her about getting a job and her response was, “And lose my welfare?” People need to get out of the house and find some work and the sense of purpose and dignity that comes with it. Ironically, this wasn’t a problem during the Great Depression. People went down to the docks or the factory every morning and tried to find some work to provide for their family. Again, purpose and dignity. If you took that same person and told them, “We’re gonna drop off a check, just enough to get by on,” they’d stop moving. They’d completely lose their sense of pride and spiral deeper into hopeless apathy.
I don’t care if you’re sweeping out parking lots or scraping bird shit off of awnings, you’re doing something. It doesn’t matter if you come home at the end of the day with ten dollars in your pocket, you’re doing something. When you remove that part of life, you end up with people lying around who then turn on themselves and eventually, and ironically, the government. Constantly bailing people out does nothing but create resentment for the people giving them the money. Has anyone on the dole ever seemed thankful? Never. It’s more like, “How am I supposed to get by on seven hundred and forty dollars a month? I have six kids.” You’re not supposed to get by, you’re supposed to fucking work. But you’re trapped in the quicksand of the welfare system.
