And by the way, an airplane flight shouldn’t be completely safe. You need a little danger in your life. Take a fuckin’ chance, will ya? What are you gonna do, play with your prick for another thirty years? What, are you gonna read People magazine and eat at Wendy’s till the end of time? Take a fuckin’ chance!
Besides, even if they made all of the airplanes completely safe, the terrorists would simply start bombing other places that are crowded: pornshops, crack houses, titty bars, and gang bangs. You know, entertainment venues. The odds of you being killed by a terrorist are practically zero. So I say, relax and enjoy the show.
You have to be realistic about terrorism. Certain groups of people—Muslim fundamentalists, Christian fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists, and just plain guys from Montana—are going to continue to make life in this country very interesting for a long, long time. That’s the reality. Angry men in combat fatigues talkin’ to God on a two-way radio and muttering incoherent slogans about freedom are eventually gonna provide us with a great deal of entertainment.
Especially after your stupid fuckin’ economy collapses all around you, and the terrorists come out of the woodwork. And you’ll have anthrax in the water supply and sarin gas in the air conditioners; there’ll be chemical and biological suitcase-bombs in every city, and I say, “Relax. Enjoy the show! Take a fuckin’ chance. Put a little fun in your life.”
To me, terrorism is exciting. I think the very idea that you can set off a bomb in Macy’s and kill several hundred people is exciting and stimulating, and I see it as a form of entertainment.
But I also know most Americans are soft, frightened, unimaginative people, who have no idea there’s such a thing as dangerous fun. And they certainly don’t recognize good entertainment when they see it. I have always been willing to put myself at great personal risk for the sake of entertainment. And I’ve always been willing to put you at great personal risk for the same reason.
As far as I’m concerned, all of this airport security—the cameras, the questions, the screenings, the searches—is just one more way of reducing your liberty and reminding you that they can fuck with you anytime they want—as long as you’re willing to put up with it. Which means, of course, anytime they want. Because that’s the way Americans are now. They’re always willing to trade away a little of their freedom in exchange for the feeling—the illusion—of security.
What we now have is a completely neurotic population obsessed with security, safety, crime, drugs, cleanliness, hygiene, and germs! There’s another thing. Fear of germs.
FEAR OF GERMS
Where did this sudden fear of germs come from in this country? Have you noticed this? The media constantly doing stories about the latest infections? Salmonella, E. coli, hantavirus, West Nile fever? And Americans panic easily, so now everybody’s running around, scrubbing this, spraying that, overcooking their food, and repeatedly washing their hands; trying to avoid all contact with germs.
It’s ridiculous, and it goes to ridiculous lengths. In prisons—and this is true—in prisons, before they give you a lethal injection, they swab your arm with alcohol. It’s true! Well, they don’t want you to get an infection. And you can see their point: wouldn’t want some guy to go to hell and be sick! It would take a lot of the sport out of the whole execution.
Fear of germs. Buncha fuckin’ pussies. You can’t even get a decent hamburger anymore; they cook the shit out of everything, because everyone’s afraid of food poisoning. Hey, where’s your sense of adventure? Take a fuckin’ chance! You know how many people die from food poisoning in this country every year? Nine thousand! That’s all! It’s a minor risk. Take a fuckin’ chance. Buncha goddamn pussies!
Besides, what do you think you have an immune system for? It’s for killing germs. But it needs practice. It needs germs to practice on. So if you kill all the germs around you and live a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along, you’re not going to be prepared.
And never mind ordinary germs, what are you gonna do when some super-virus comes along that turns your vital organs into liquid shit? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get sick, you’re gonna die, and you’re gonna deserve it, because you’re fuckin’ weak, and you’ve got a fuckin’ weak immune system.
Let me tell you a true story about immunization. When I was a little boy in New York City in the 1940s, we swam in the Hudson River. And it was filled with raw sewage. Okay? We swam in raw sewage! You know, to cool off.
At that time the big fear was polio; thousands of kids died from polio every year. But you know somethin’? In my neighborhood no one ever got polio. No one. Ever! You know why? Because we swam in raw sewage! It strengthened our immune systems. The polio never had a prayer; we were tempered in raw shit!
So, personally, I never take any special precautions against germs. I don’t shy away from people who sneeze and cough, I don’t wipe off the telephone, I don’t cover the toilet seat, and if I drop food on the floor, I pick it up and eat it. Even if I’m at a sidewalk café. In Calcutta. The poor section. On New Year’s morning during a soccer riot.
And you know something? In spite of all of that so-called risky behavior, I never get infections. I just don’t get ’em, folks. I don’t get colds, I don’t get flu, and I don’t get food poisoning. And you know why? Because I have a good, strong immune system, and it gets a lot of practice.
My immune system is equipped with the biological equivalent of fully automatic, military assault rifles with night vision and laser scopes. And we have recently acquired phosphorous grenades, cluster bombs, and anti-personnel fragmentation mines.
So, when my white blood cells are on patrol, reconnoitering my blood stream, seeking out strangers and other undesirables, if they see any—any—suspicious-looking germs of any kind, they don’t fuck around. They whip out the weapons, wax the motherfucker, and deposit the unlucky fellow directly into my colon! Directly into my colon! There’s no nonsense. There’s no Miranda warning, there’s none of that three-strikes-and-you’re-out shit. First offense, BAM! Into the colon you go.
And speaking of my colon, I want you to know I don’t automatically wash my hands every time I go to the bathroom. Can you deal with that? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. You know when I wash my hands? When I shit on them! That’s the only time. And you know how often that happens? Tops—tops—two, three times a week. Tops! Maybe a little more frequently over the holidays. You know what I mean?
And I’ll tell you something else, my well-scrubbed friends. You don’t always need a shower every day. Did you know that? It’s overkill! Unless you work out, or work outdoors, or for some reason come in intimate contact with huge amounts of filth and garbage every day, you don’t always need a shower.
All you really need is to wash the four key areas: armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth! Got that? The hooker’s bath. Armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth. In fact, you can save yourself a whole lot of time if you simply use the same brush on all four areas!
BUT FIRST, THIS FUCKIN’MESSAGE
Commercials use sex to sell things; why can’t they use violence and bad language too? Not all families are as “functional” as the ones they show you on TV.
MOM: Eat your fuckin’ corn flakes, ya cocksucker!
SON: Fuck you, Ma.
MOM: Why you little creep!
SLAM! SMACK! POW!
DAD: Here, Son, try this. It’s new from Kellogg’s.
SON: Holy shit, raisins!
MOM: Hey, asshole! What’re ya tryin’ to do, spoil the kid?
DAD: Listen, cunt, I’m tired of your meddlin’!
BLAM! POW! CRACK!
SON: Hey, Dad, when you get finished punchin’ Mom, gimme some more of that shit with the raisins in it, will ya?
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SHORT TAKES
Here’s some fun: Stand on line at the bank for a really long time. Then, when you finally get up to the window, just ask for change of a nickel. It’s fun. They actually call other tellers over to look at you.
Regarding Pokçmon, Beanie Babies, and such: something is really wrong when a major news story concerns how hard it is to buy a toy.
I don’t know how you feel, but I’m pretty sick of church people. You know what they ought to do with churches? Tax them. If holy people are so interested in politics, government, and public policy, let them pay the price of admission like everybody else. The Catholic Church alone could wipe out the national debt if all you did was tax their real estate.
Whenever I see a large crowd of people, I wonder how many of them will eventually require autopsies.
Laptop. How can this be? A lap has no top; it has only two dimensions, length and width. It’s not like a desk. A desk has a bottom, a top, and sides; you place your “desktop ”on the top of your desk. A lap has only one plane; when you stand up your lap disappears. And your computer becomes a floortop.
Everything beeps now.
First there was rock ’n’ roll, now there’s just rock. What happened to “roll”? And what did Sears do with Roebuck? And exactly when did Montgomery leave Montgomery Ward? I have a theory. I believe that somewhere on a stage tonight a show will be performed by the Montgomery-Roebuck Roll Band.
I think there ought to be a feminine hygiene spray called “Sprunt.”
Think of how strange we’d look if all the cuts, burns, scrapes, bruises, scratches, bumps, gashes, and scabs we’ve ever had suddenly reappeared on our bodies at the same time.
Regarding jam sessions: jazz musicians are the only workers I can think of who are willing to put in a full shift for pay and then go somewhere else and continue working for free.
When someone asks you what time it is, glance at your watch and say, “It’s either six-fifteen, or Mickey has a hard-on.” Guaranteed they’ll ask somebody else.
What’s with these super-cautious drivers who pull way over to the far end of a speed bump so their cars won’t have to go over the highest point? Are they really worried that speed bumps hurt their cars?
Griddle cakes, pancakes, hotcakes, flapjacks: why are there four names for grilled batter and only one word for love?
I would like to open a restaurant, call it the Marilyn Monroe Café, and put hundreds of pictures of Jeff Goldblum on the wall.
I notice that unlike on other holidays, the police don’t seem to make a big deal about drunk driving on Good Friday.
You know what I never liked? The high-five. I consider it lame white-boy shit. When a guy raises his arm to give me a high-five, you know what I do? Stab him in the arm. I’m tired of that shit. Sometimes I watch an old sports film on ESPN Classic, and I see a whole game without a single high-five. It’s great.
When you think about it, 12:15 P.M. is actually 11:75 A.M.
At one time there existed a race of people whose knowledge consisted entirely of gossip.
A crazy person doesn’t really lose his mind. It just becomes something more entertaining.
Instead of having truck scales on the highway, I think they ought to get one of those guys from the carnival and let him guess the weights.
An art thief is a man who takes pictures.
You know a phrase I never understood? King size. It’s used to denote something larger, but most of the kings you see are short. You ever notice that? Usually a king is a short little fat guy. You never see a tall king. When’s the last gangly king you can remember?
I hope the world ends during the daytime. I want to watch “film eleven.”
Everywhere you look there are families with too many vehicles. You see them on the highways in their RVs. But apparently the RVs aren’t enough, because behind them they’re towing motorboats, go-carts, dune buggies, dirt bikes, jet-skis, snowmobiles, parasails, hang gliders, hot-air balloons, and small, two-man, deep-sea diving bells. The only thing these people lack is lunar excursion modules. Doesn’t anybody take a fuckin’ walk anymore?
The older a person gets, the less they care what they wear. Old people come up with some of the strangest clothing combinations you’ll ever see. I think of it as “cancer of the clothing.”
We’re not supposed to mention fucking in mixed company, but that’s exactly where it takes place.
The other day I was thinking of how many peanuts elephants owe us. Personally, I’m down about twenty-three or twenty-four bags.
Did you ever start hittin’ a guy with a big club for no reason? Just walk up to him and start beatin’ him over the head with a big, heavy club? It’s great, isn’t it?
If it’s true that our species is alone in the universe, then I’d have to say the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.
INTERVIEW WITH JESUS
Interviewer: Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re privileged to have with us a man known around the world as the Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ.
Jesus: That’s me.
I:How are you, Jesus?
J: Fine, thanks, and let me say it’s great to be back.
I: Why, after all this time, have you come back?
J: Mostly nostalgia.
I:Can you tell us a little bit about the first time you were here?
J: Well, there’s not much to tell. I think everybody knows the story by now. I was born on Christmas. And actually, that always bothered me, because I only got one present. You know, if I was born a couple of months earlier I would’ve got two presents. But look, I’m not complaining. After all, it’s only material goods.
I: There’s a story that there were three wise men.
Napalm & Silly Putty Page 6
