Co-ed dorms are God's little joke on postadolescent males. At no time in your life will you ever again be so horny, and living so close to so many women who will have absolutely nothing to do with you.
Nowadays, certain universities make you get written permission from somebody before you can have any physical contact with them. Oh that's just great, you're pastyfaced, lonely, horny, insecure ... and now, in addition to breaking the news to your date that you're going to have to go dutch with her at the Souplantation 'cause you blew all your money on a keggerator, she's also gotta write a threepage essay on why she'd like to accompany you back to the pathetic little Yasmine Bleeth-poster-decorated corner of hell that you call a dorm room and that you share with a guy named "Spoogie" whose rigorous masturbation schedule means that he only leaves the room for meals and to man his shift in the line for Phantom Menace tickets—but Spoogie's out tonight at the clinic, getting that thing looked at, and you're just praying your date won't laugh at you when you read her the liner notes from Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness in a pathetic attempt to get her in the mood to submit to your clumsy, feeble gropings, and your waytoo-sloppy ear kisses, oh, you suave bastard, you.
Well, you're not there to fornicate anyway, you're there to get a sheepskin, not a lambskin. And I'm beginning to think it doesn't really matter where you get it from. There's no difference between Ivy League schools and other colleges. Some of my best friends are from Ivy League schools and their hobbies are watchin' "CatDog" and lighting each other's farts.
And what is this obsession with degrees, anyway? Liberal arts? That's not a degree, that's a wall hanging. Philosophy majors? The last guy to get a job out of his philosophy degree was your philosophy professor.
Bottom line, kids: College is a way station, the last convenience store before the desert of responsibility. It's a place to separate the people who want to study and move on to a fulfilling lifelong career from the geniuses who want to drop maraschino cherries out of their ass into a shot glass for the glory of drinking a free tequila shot out of the same glass.
And not that there's anything wrong with kids who decide that college isn't for them. Look at Bill Gates. He dropped out of Harvard and then went on to become the richest man in the universe. But can you imagine how much richer he would be right now if he just had his degree?
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Doctors
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but the medical profession is in big trouble—and not only because George Clooney has left.
Gone are the days when you could visit your GP and receive treatment for a wide variety of maladies. Medicine today is highly highly specialized. Even for something as simple and straightforward as penile lengthening, you've got to see separate doctors for the head and the shaft now. So I've heard.
Now, I like doctors. But to me, there's one man who embodies all the best qualities a physician should have. Expertise, a caring nature, and an undying passion to put the patient's needs above all else. Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy. For five years, Bones cared for the starship Enterprise and its entire crew. Remember when Kirk got that alien clap? Huh? Bones took care of it. And when Sulu and Chekhov exchanged genitalia in a transporter malfunction? Bones took care of it. Or that time Spock couldn't get back to Vulcan for his once-every-seven-year fuck and he did that Tribble? Bones took care of the Tribble quietly and discretely. Bones, if you're somewhere out there tonight, you are a doctor, damn it. And a damn fine one at that.
Now, when selecting a doctor, there are simple things you can do to help ensure finding a conscientious, quality professional. For example, the magazines in a doctor's office can tell you how prompt he is in keeping appointments.
If the teeth of every celebrity pictured in them have been blacked out with a ballpoint pen, patients are waiting longer than they should. I know people were waiting for me to say "Godot" at the DMV But Godot wasn't waiting and if I had said "Vladimir" and "Estragon," I'd have been waiting even longer for a laugh.
One thing even doctors will tell you is that they can make mistakes. Just don't tell it to me as you are anesthetizing me for surgery. I had to go in for a minor procedure once and just as I was going under, I could've sworn I heard calypso music and saw my doctor dancing around wearing a pair of coconut tits. But later, they said it was just the gas. And then daylight came, and I went home.
But the real problems for doctors nowadays are the HMOs. And if doctors have a hard time with the HMOs, it's even tougher on patients, who have to navigate through a sprawling, impersonal ganglion of voice-directed, automated phone instructions and reams of paperwork, all for the privilege of sitting for hours in a waiting room with magazines that are so dated, there's one called Modern Leeching Monthly, then being herded into an examining room that has all the warmth and charm of an Orwellian interrogation chamber, where you have to wait another hour or two but this time while wearing a gown made out of a Handi Wipe and a Wonder Bread twist tie that does about as much to cover you up as a paper ruffle on a lamb chop. Then the doctor, a twitchy drone with a nebulous accent who graduated from the Bar Code Academy of Medicine in the Canary Islands, starts doing things to you that would be considered rude inside Devil's Island. And to add insult to injury, when it's all over, they won't even validate your fucking parking.
And if you don't have insurance, don't even think about trying to get a doctor to look at you. When you're not insured, doctors act like you've got some kind of a disease or something.
Many of us are intimidated by doctors. Well, let me see if I can demystify them for you. A doctor is an ordinary human being just like you or me, except they're smarter, better, and possess godlike powers over life and death.
And I really do like doctors. I happen to believe they deserve to make a lot of money, and it always surprises me how many people get bent out of shape about their fees. For example, every couple years, I have to see a proctologist for a colonoscopy. Now, a colonoscopy, for the uninitiated, is that long dolly shot Scorsese did in GoodFellas with your pooper being the Copacabana. Now, my proctologist is a man who saw me a few times and, shall we say, rectified a relatively minor problem. So what if after I paid him he actually went out and bought a top-of-the-line forty-foot racing sloop and named it Dennis Miller's Ass? The point is, I'm better.
But no matter what your opinion may be of doctors, you'd better get used to dealing with them because as the warranty on your body starts to run out, you'll be spending more time in the shop than an E-Type Jag.
Hey, whether they're called shamans, medicine men, or high priests, all cultures celebrate their healers. And I respect doctors for the awesome responsibility they take on by swearing a sacred oath to protect my health. And you know something? I don't care about bedside manner or whether there's proper feng shui in the reception area. Just do your job and do it well and you will earn my hopefully undying gratitude. That being said, don't ever, ever try any of that Patch Adams shit on me. Okay? I don't care how sick I am, you come after me with a clown nose and a squirting stethoscope, and I will kick you in the nuts so hard, you won't be needin' helium to make your voice go that high.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Popularity & Charisma
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but why do some people have so much popularity and charisma they can coast through life on a pretty smile and good hair, while the rest of us stumble around the track like Boris Yeltsin running the Kentucky Derby in a horse suit?
When you're young, all you care about is having lots of friends. Then, as you mature, you realize there are more important things, like having lots of friends who are less successful than you are.
Popularity is that rare nexus that's created when beauty, charm, and that certain je ne sais quoi converge with public approval and large heaving breasts.
What makes certain people popular? That depends. In third grade, it's the simple ability to stuff up your nose wi
th two dimes. In the grown-up world, it boils down to one of three things: money, good looks, or power. And if you're blessed enough to have all three, well, all I can say is, fuck you.
Being popular means being liked, and there's a certain responsibility that goes along with being liked, because you are now in a position to let people down. See, if people think you're an asshole, you can't disappoint them. And that's how much I love people. To prevent them from being disappointed in me, I act like an asshole. Now, I know what you're thinking. Are people disappointed if I'm not as big an asshole as they expect? All I can say is, so far, it has not been a problem.
Now, I'm not saying I don't have any friends. Far from it. But the friends I do have don't have any friends. Big difference.
Look, I admit, nowadays, I have a certain amount of TV-induced popularity, but I'm conflicted about it. I like to be the outsider, the rabble-rouser, the iconoclast, but I also like a nice seat at the Laker game. On the one hand, I don't care what other people think of me; but on the other hand, I want to be remembered as the guy who didn't care what other people thought of him.
Now, here's where popularity and charisma diverge: You can buy popularity, but if you aren't born with charisma, you'll never have it. Charisma is what makes one man a skinny grandfather with bad teeth repeating the same story over and over since 1964 and another man Mick Jagger singing "Satisfaction" to a stadium full of screaming fans at three hundred bucks a head.
Charisma is also what allows people to tell you something that isn't true and make you believe it's fact. It's the people who run the pyramid schemes, the people who tell you one thing and then do another. It's the people who lie right to your face and make you love them for it. In a nutsack, it's William Jefferson Clinton. Clinton's got that rare sort of charisma that makes women want to bang him even as he's apologizing for being a two-timer.
Completely understanding someone's charisma has always been difficult for me. Brad Pitt, for example. Yeah, there's the shine in the eyes, the effervescent smile, the silken blond hair and nicely understated acting style. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get all that. But where's the charisma?
I've actually heard people say Bill Gates has charisma. For the life of me, why do people go nuts over this guy? Glasses that would be too big for the Teddy Roosevelt face on Mount Rushmore. Hair that looks like it's been styled by a drunken one-armed gnome trying to balance himself on a stepladder, and suits from the Don Knotts "Three's Company" line. What is it that makes Gates so goddamned charismatic? Oh yeah. Eighty tetratrillion dollars. Sorry.
Hey, maybe it's good that true charisma occurs so rarely, because when it does, it's so often misused. Stalin, Jim Jones, Susan Powter ... As for me, if I did have that indefinable quality that makes all mankind want to do your bidding, I wouldn't try to stir the masses to violence or hatred.
In fact, as I faced a stadium full of enraptured followers chanting my name in an ecstasy of worship, my message would be simple and direct: "You two in the front row, go mow my lawn. The rest of you, get the fuck out of here. You're really creeping me out."
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Pets
According to a new study, more and more veterinarians are now prescribing Prozac for dogs. You know, unless Prozac can grow back a new set of balls, I'm pretty sure Scruffles isn't gonna be snapping out of his funk. Okay?
Prozac for dogs, huh? Well, why not? With all the lines in our wishy-washy culture being blurred on a daily basis, why not convert man's best friend into man's best codependent partner?
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but lately it's become unfashionable to call your animal a "pet," because it implies ownership and unequal status. The politically correct term is "animal companion." Oh, shut up! I'm sick of this stupid word-parsing crap. It's a pet, all right? It's not an equal relationship, and we both like it better that way. Fido will be my animal companion the day he follows ME around with a Baggie picking up my shit. All right?
Dogs know their place and they have for eons. And don't forget, one of our eons is worth seven of theirs. Scientists believe that dogs were the first animals to share living quarters with humans, about forty thousand years ago. Cats and in-laws came along much much later. Different dogs are bred for different tasks. Hunting, herding, protection, fastfood pitchmen. Oh, that little Chihuahua is in for a big big comedown when they don't pick up his option. I mean, what else is he going to do? Unless of course, Calista Flockhart decides to race in the Iditarod.
Domestic animals are continuing to evolve to meet man's needs and this process is being helped along dramatically by advances made in biogenetic engineering. Experts in this field say that in the future, the average family pet will provide the comradeship, the companionship, and the protection of a dog while retaining the less dependent, less needy personality of a cat.
Shortly thereafter, this unique animal of the future will possess udders that deliver high-quality prepasteurized 2 percent milk and hindquarters that yield a weekly supply of a lean, beeflike meat which can be easily sliced off with minimum discomfort to your trusty friend. Now, once again, these goals are years away from being achieved, but you don't want to rush biogenetic engineering, something weird could happen.
But amid all this pet manipulation, there are many wellintentioned but mistaken notions about pets. One common error people make with pets is overgrooming. Your poodle shouldn't look like a topiary plant, okay? And your dog doesn't need a wardrobe that would make Joan Collins jealous. Trust me: No dog wants to wear a cowboy hat and chaps unless it's looking to bang Rin Tin Tin.
And don't overfeed your animal. My friend had a dog named Chickie that he used to feed ice cream to every day until it looked like a furry watermelon. He would yell, "Want some 'scream, Chickie?" and the dog would waddle over for his daily ration. And Chickie finally keeled over after eating a big hunk of kielbasa and never had 'scream again. How do you go on? I don't know. I believe Edmund Hillary said you put one foot in front of the other.
Now, I myself am a pet person. Always have been, always will be. When I was a kid, my mother bought me a turtle. I named him Petey. Now, Petey was shy and for the first couple of days, I noticed that Petey just stayed in his shell. Then I noticed Petey didn't like any of the lettuce I fed him and he really couldn't swim. And finally it dawned on me ... Petey was a rock. But I didn't care. Because he was my Petey.
You know, nowadays, my dog Kilborn is constantly scooting his ass across the carpet. And you know something? I'm kicking myself now, because I should have never let him watch me do that in the first place.
But for the most part, I rule my pets with an iron chew toy. I'll be damned if I'm going to be pussy-whipped by some cat. Cats have a will of their own. That's why you never hear of a seeing-eye cat. Totally useless unless the blind guy does a lot of sleeping followed by a frisky scamper along a bookshelf.
I find myself a little more sympathetic toward dogs than cats. I once even took my dog to a pet psychotherapist to find out why it would not stop humping my leg. I'm glad I did, because it turned out that the problem wasn't with him, it was with me. Evidently, I was, you know, putting out signals I was not aware of.
Listen, I love pets, you love pets, we all love pets. Just don't let things get out of hand to the point where your pets overrun your life or your household. You ever visit the home of a multiple cat owner? Well, first of all, there's the smell, which I can't begin to describe except to say, imagine if Glade made an air freshener in a fragrance called Ass.
You know, I don't care how clean or diligent you are, once you've got more cats than the Jerusalem phone book living under your roof, your house is permanently enveloped in the kind of toxic stench that makes the reek of a Bombay slaughterhouse smell like freshly baked Toll House cookies.
Bottom line, if you've got over twenty cats in your house, remember each one of them has nine lives and you have none, so if they're really your friends, then maybe they'll let you borrow one.
Buying a House
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but buying a home is a process much like bringing a baby into this world. It's a huge undertaking that frays your nerves, saps your energy, tries your patience, and oh yeah, the woman does most of the work.
Whether you're giving a down payment of dried elk meat to a fast-talking igloo salesman from Century 21 Below or building a Xanadu for your no-talent mistress, buying a home is a primal part of the human experience, transcending culture and class while uniting all of humankind in the timehonored ritual of getting screwed out of lots and lots of money.
When I bought my first home, I was surprised by how many people were involved: There was my agent, the seller's agent, the mortgage broker, the inspector, and strangely enough, three members of the rock band Journey. I never figured out what they were doing there, but Steve Perry saved me three grand by spotting a leak in the water heater. I tried to pay him, but he said, no, that's what the band does nowadays: They travel the country, help out folks in need, and then move on. He said that's where their "journey" had taken them.
For me personally, one of the most rewarding parts of having my own show has been helping people who work for me own their own homes.
All of my employees live behind my estate in a small enclave called MillerTown, which is comprised of row after row of squalid dirt-floored shacks the payments for which are deducted from their checks, and whatever is left over is given to them in the form of Dennis-dollars which they can then spend at the MillerTown Market.
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