And many other institutions we once held in high esteem have opened themselves up to disdain. I don't know about you, but ever since O.J. walked out of that courtroom and into the loving arms of his caddie, my esteem for the judicial system has plummeted like Roger Ebert on a bungee cord. And the only deliberation Terry Nichols's jury should've had is which arm to put the needle in. And didn't we all hear the blind lady holding the scales of justice say "What the fuck" when that scumbag British nanny skated away?
The twentieth century has kicked us in the teeth so repeatedly we could headline at the Grand Ol' Opry. First, Einstein proved that reality itself makes less sense than Rod Steiger's dream journal. Then, in short order, we got the atomic bomb, the Cold War, the McCarthy hearings, John met Yoko, and then we discovered that "The Flintstones" was not, in fact, filmed before a live studio audience. Is it any wonder we all started turning off our hearing aids?
So what's the electric snake going to be that will rooter out the apathy-clogged drain of the American spirit? Hope. You know what gives me hope? Knowing that we human beings all have the power to change. Take my old college roommate, Todd. He must have weighed four hundred pounds. Plus he was a Quaalude freak, an alcoholic. I saw him today after about fifteen years. And you know something ... still weighs four hundred pounds, and he was drunk on his ass, high as a kite, but, God bless him, he's a woman now.
And so, too, we all must change. Our wide-eyed sense of wonder should no longer be reserved exclusively for Ron Popeil's pasta maker... although she's a real honey, ain't she? Just as a common courtesy to each other, maybe we should all pledge to wait until February first before we give up on the New Year.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
The War on Drugs
Now I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but America's war on drugs has turned out to be as fruitless as Pavarotti's diet. We seem to be fighting this multifront campaign with all the cool-headed expertise of the Three Stooges fixing a leaky faucet.
And how can we say we're serious about eradicating drugs when there's actually a twenty-four-hour TV network in this country that broadcasts nothing but cartoons?
Christ, you could not keep a straight face about our drug policy if you were David Brinkley on a Vicodin drip.
I mean, when you think about it, who really is fighting this supposed war on drugs? Let's face it, folks, we have a couple of "McHale's Navy" boats, four dogs who got tired of sniffing other dogs' asses, and that commercial with the eggs. And that is it. Okay?
The war on drugs is nothing more than a syringe full of platitudes that politicians try to mainline into the public's happy vein to keep us compliant. If we had any actual commitment, you'd be able to look at a map and see a smoking hole where Colombia once was. Short of that, the war on drugs has failed. Oh wait. I take that back, my kid got thrown out of school this week because they caught him with some menthol-flavored Ricolas.
The war on drugs is a farce, and here's why: Getting high is hard-wired into our DNA. It's a basic human need right up there with food, clothing, and "Seinfeld." Ever since primitive man first looked around the crude lean-to he'd built and thought, "Man, I need an escape from this Arthur C. Clarke shithole," then loaded some mastodon dung into a bongasaurus and proceeded to get so swacked that he would order a slab of ribs that could literally tip his car over, people have used any and all means at their disposal to alter their perception of reality.
Look, we can't just point our fingers at the drug-producing nations and whine about their lawlessness and disregard for human life, because we're inextricably entwined with them in a lock-step tango of supply and demand. We comprise 5 percent of the planet's population and consume 50 percent of the planet's illicit drugs. I got that off the liner notes for Yessongs.
We may complain about the neighbors, but we're rummaging through their medicine cabinet like Gary Busey's babysitter every chance we get. We need to get the mirror off the coffee table and take a long, hard look at ourselves without giggling and realize that our attitude toward drugs is more conflicted than Woody Allen at a family reunion.
Now, I myself don't do drugs, because as I grew older, I began to discover that they're not nearly powerful enough to quell my exquisite inner pain.
But even I believe that at the very least, marijuana should be available to those who need it for medical reasons. And no, going to see the director's cut of Blade Runner is not a medical reason. Showgirls, maybe.
Look, the role of government is to protect us from other nations and other people; the government has no business protecting me from me.
But we refuse to accept that you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. I have come to the realization that America doesn't have a drug problem, some Americans do. And it is their personal responsibility to fix it, not mine. Their drug problem only becomes my problem when they operate a moving vehicle, try to sell drugs to a minor, or corner me at a party and try to explain to me who really killed Bruce Lee.
If a fully grown adult in reasonable control of his faculties wants to plunge a syringe full of lighter fluid into his urethra and piss fire, as long as he does it in the privacy of his own asbestos bathroom, I will flick the Bic.
We need to face the facts. What we're doing isn't working because we don't really believe in it, and achieving any kind of tangible victory in this wishy-washy Vietnam-like quagmire is like trying to fuck a woman while she's still wearing her pantyhose.
Our leaders need to ease up on the Go Ask Alice kneejerk hysteria and come up with some real solutions. Like reconfigure the molecular structure of cocaine so it makes people fat. Or more seriously, I say we legalize drugs. Strip them of their outlaw glamour so kids aren't as attracted to them, regulate their price so they're no longer a viable commodity for the disenfranchised, tax the shit out of them and give us all a kickback that we can then spend on cigarettes, booze, and coffee.
Hey... Let's face it, folks, drugs aren't going anywhere, America. Any substance that helps ugly guys get laid is here to stay.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Survival of the Fittest
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but in an era in which able-bodied college football players scam handicapped parking spaces, survival of the fittest has become a win-at-all-costs steel cage Battle Royale in which only the last man standing wins. Unfortunately, many people act as if the rules of decorum are made to be broken ... if possible, into jagged shards which you can then use to maim your competition.
Hey, anybody who thinks the basic, visceral, territorial instinct to survive through physical aggression died with our knuckle-dragging ancestors hasn't foraged for a Furby in a Toys "R" Us the day before Christmas.
Truth be told, our country wasn't founded by the strongest or the smartest from other countries, but by those who dared to take a risk. They were competitors who wouldn't accept the role their own repressive society assigned them. That's why they came here, because America is the land of unlimited opportunity for all. Offer not available equally in all fifty states. Some blacks, Jews, women, gays, and Mexicans may not qualify. See your leaders for details.
The socioeconomic food chain in America is as brutal and impersonal as a cavity search in a Turkish airport. The fight for the corner office, the good table, and the orchestra pit seats is as savage as two beauty contestants fighting over the last of the nipple tape. Nipple tape—another wondrous innovation from your friends at 3M.
You know, personally, I consider myself lucky by Hollywood standards because in my climb up the comedy ladder, I've only had to destroy five, maybe six thousand people. Let's face it, show business is just one big daisy chain of nonstop mean. It is the worst fucking business I never plan to leave.
In purely biological terms, those who survive get to pass on their superior genes to the next generation: Michael lives, Fredo dies. Bill Clinton exposes himself to low-level civil servants, gropes volunteers in the Oval Offic
e, gives skin flute lessons to chunky interns, and skates away like Brian Boitano with a Dexatrim shunt strapped to the inside of his unitard.
A1 Gore goes to Vietnam, champions the environment, comes home to the same woman for the last twenty-five or so years, he's in deeper shit than a midget cleaning a PortaPotty at a bran muffin factory in Mexico.
And even though we're not dwelling in caves anymore and relying on brute strength and hunting skills to keep us fed, survival of the fittest is still alive and well, it's merely adapted itself in order to ... uhh ... to survive. Where once the hulking no-necks of the tribe were the ones who flourished, they've been replaced by the uberdweebs—guys like Bill Gates. Let's face it, if Gates had been around in the Stone Age, I guarantee you, he would've spent all his time plucking loincloth wedgies out of his scrawny white buttcrack.
And remember, when we talk about the survival of the fittest, it's all about context. Sure, the lion is the undisputed king of the jungle, but airdrop him into Antarctica, and he's just a penguin's bitch.
Although man is the supreme species, he is still the only animal seemingly at odds with his instinct to survive. Too often it seems we rule over the world reluctantly, as though we did something wrong by being there on top. Hey, the only time a shark second-guesses himself is when he swings on back around because in all that commotion, he forgot to check and see if the surfer had any friends he could munch on, all right?
You know, we shouldn't be uncomfortable with our own power. Even the most accepting of us has, at one time or another, dreamed of establishing a far-reaching eugenics program that would require mandatory sterilization for anyone who wears a beer hat, screams "You da man" at golf tournaments, or drives a car with a NO FAT CHICKS bumper sticker, all right?
Bottom line. Competition is good for the country, good for the economy, and good for the world. But that doesn't mean that we have to ignore our more humane instincts. Because if you're going to live your life solely by the tenet of survival of the fittest, well then, you might as well just start running under the fridge every time the kitchen light comes on, okay?
But just as necessary as compassion for the weak is measured respect for the strong. Instead of resenting the adept, the more talented, the great-looking, the rich, the painfully charismatic, isn't it really better to step back and be grateful that they're here among us? Too often, losers don't know they are losers. So listen to me. Think of Harrison Ford ... You ... You ... Harrison Ford ... You get it? Don't you feel better now that you know your place in the cosmic order, because you can bet your ass Harrison Ford does, my friends.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Aging Gracefully
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but getting old is a relative concept. A mayfly is old after twelve hours. A cat is old in ten years. And Ricky Martin Fever is old as of... uh ... right about now.
The difficulty of aging gracefully is that there are so few examples of it in popular culture. Any book, movie, or TV program geared toward older folks stands out like Marty Feldman in a Beijing police lineup. Aside from the occasional Diagnosis Murder, advertisers are after the fourteen to thirty demographic. Why? Because older people don't tolerate stupid shit as much as young people do. You never see an eighty-year-old geek camping out in front of the local movie theater dressed as his favorite character from a Merchant/Ivory film. All right?
What frightens me most about getting old? I guess it's the thought of my first gray pubic hair, because if there's one thing I'm proud of, it's my thick, luxuriant, chestnut brown bush.
I never think of myself as being old because my work in television keeps me young. Do you realize Mike Wallace of "60 Minutes" is over eighty years old? Think Mike likes the sound of that ticking stopwatch in the background every week?
You know, I love it when old people reach the point in their lives when they just don't give a shit and will say anything to anybody, anytime. It's like senior Tourette's or something. I got an uncle who's about ninety years old and he answers the phone: "Bite me, you beady-eyed baboon fucker."
Even sex doesn't have to end now that you are older. With Viagra you can get harder than your arteries and have a great sex life. But I fear we might find out the problems with Viagra somewhere down the line. How did the entire medical establishment forget that a man cannot pee with an erection? You give an eighty-year-old guy an eight-hour chubby, he's going to make the Hindenburg explosion look like one of Jiminy Cricket's farts.
Since hopefully all of us will take the final victory lap in life's marathon, here are some tips on how to make things easier for all of us as you grow older:
You know that story about how you could've bought the entire San Fernando Valley for $250 back in 1938? Well, we've heard it. Okay? Maybe six or seven thousand times. Now get on the ice floe. Bye-bye now.
Also, old people, stick to eating the early bird special before 5 P.M., SO those of us born in this millennium can eat dinner without having our waitress go on sabbatical for forty-five minutes at a time so she can assure Gramps Muldoon that yes, the navy bean soup indeed has to come with beans in it.
And lastly, just buy the fruit. All right? Some of these old guys go over the produce like they're Orson Welles picking out blouses for Ruth Warrick in Citizen Kane. It's fruit. Okay? For Christ's sake, I'm trying to get through the line, and I got an Easter Island statue in front of me running a carbon 14 test on a fucking cling peach. Can I go home now, pappy?
You know, it'll be interesting to see how Bill Clinton ages. He's definitely not going to acquire any dignity or depth with his advancing years. Face it, he'll never be the grand old man of the Democratic Party.
I see Clinton as one of those old guys on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, with skin the color of beef jerky and all this white cotton candy chest hair, clad in a red Speedo, black knee-high socks and sandals, and wearing enough Paco Rabanne to gag a Brazilian pimp, standing there making kissy-kissy sounds whenever a woman who's not attached to an oxygen canister walks by
Hey, you know, folks, aging is a constant process that only stops when we do. We should welcome the wisdom that comes with experience, but instead we waste our dwindling energies combating the exterior signs of aging, spending countless dollars and hours in a futile and desperate attempt to look like something we're not. I say, turn in the direction of the skid, people. Guys, be proud when you hike the waistband of those Kelly green Sansabelt slacks that you mail-ordered from Parade magazine up around the nipple level, all right? Ladies, don't let anybody tell you that Slurpee blue isn't a great color for human hair. And everybody, clack those dentures like you're Lord of the Dance having a fucking seizure. It is all good. Okay?
Except for one thing and one thing only. You've got to change your driving habits. First of all, it would help everyone's confidence level if you wore an expression on your face that said something other than "I have zero peripheral vision, and we're all going to crash and die!"
And most importantly, if you're doing twelve miles an hour in the fast lane of the 405, well then, you gotta pick it up, man, 'cause, if time is of the essence for anyone, it's you, Mr. Meet Joe Black. So let's go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Our Overdependence on Technology/Y2K Bug
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but information is flying at us faster than bullshit at a White House press briefing, and keeping abreast of it all is harder than getting Siamese twins into a kayak. Sorry, I'm officially out of similes.
We've become dependent on the computer for so many things lately—shopping, entertainment, information, masturbation—that I simply can't imagine my life without it. How would I get through the day knowing that I could no longer troll the Internet for hours at a time, stopping only to sip from the flagon of knowledge that is Harvey Korman's autobiography?
Or reading what some Yahoo!-surfing yahoo thinks about the hidden messages contained in the open
ing credits of "The X-Files"? Christ, I hope Duchovny's making enough money to build a really, really big fence.
Well, here's the latest skinny. Come January 1, the shit will supposedly interface with the fan because most computers won't be able to recognize the year 2000 if it walks up and megabytes them on the ass. Uh-huh. So what's the big deal? You're saying the genius at 7-Eleven won't be able to open the cash drawer? Yeah. Like he can do that now.
But I guess for some people, maybe this will be a disaster. Because let's face it, the average American is so enamored of high-tech toys that he makes Inspector Gadget look like an Amish elder in a power outage. And while I can see some of the techno-attraction, there are certain places where I draw the line in the silicon sand.
One thing which I do not entrust to technology at all is my show. Since it bears my name, I feel an obligation to present you, the viewer, with entertainment that's painstakingly hand-crafted. All our jokes are lovingly slowbrewed in small batches according to a secret formula that's been handed down through generations of smugmasters. And every rant is written on parchment in ink made from berries grown and hand-gathered by monks who live, work and pray in the "Dennis Miller Live" Franciscan seminary located in the basement of my studio.
You know, I think I would buy into this Y2K disaster thing a lot more if the survivalist subculture hadn't cried
Apocalypse at every other out-of-the-ordinary occurrence in our lifetime from the comet Kahoutek to the discovery of a yam shaped like Morley Safer.
And you know something? If the nutsos are right and the only people who will survive are those nuts who stockpile guns, Bibles, and a year's supply of Mrs. T's pierogies and Bosco, well, I think I'd rather punch out with the cool kids, 'cause if my only option is sharin' some jerky with Bob Barr and drinking my own recycled whiz, well, I'll take my chances in Thunderdome, okay?
I Rant Therefore I Am Page 5
