by Adam Carolla
Ten minutes later, as the flight from Dallas was still boarding, the anxiety dog was standing in the aisle when another service dog came on board, heading to coach. This one was a seizure-alert dog. By the way, I asked Dr. Drew how a seizure-alert dog works, and he had no idea. When I wouldn’t let it go, he thought for a while and said, “The dog, it can’t predict a seizure, but maybe it would alert someone if the owner were having a seizure?” I’m not sure how that would go. The little shit would run up to first class start tugging at my pant leg, and I’d say, “What’s that boy? The woman in 26B is having a seizure?” No, I’d kick the thing back into coach. But sure enough the seizure-alert dog and the anxiety dog started going at it. They were scrapping in the aisle of first class. I was about to ask the stewardess to break a hundred so I could throw down some money like Michael Vick.
Here’s why this makes me want to rush the cockpit and bring the plane down. Fifteen minutes after we took off, I looked over at the lady with the anxiety disorder and she was fast asleep with her canine companion sitting atop her ample gut. Meanwhile, I was getting yelled at by the stewardess for having my backpack on my lap. My backpack. This was a threat so great it had to be stowed under the seat, but two feet away her furry fart machine—which was the exact same size as my backpack—was happily breaking wind and spreading Lyme disease.
And now I’m seeing “Service Animal Relief Area” signs in airports all over the country. No smoking and no shampoo over 3.5 ounces, but there’s a place for your pooch to take a shit after a long flight. Our founding fathers would never stop vomiting if they saw this. Like all problems in our society, I have come up with a solution: I’m going to have Dr. Drew write me a note that says I have a disorder and I can only fly when accompanied by my service pelican, Gilligan. Then, he’ll just roam up and down the plane gulping down these little service dogs.
Other animals must be pissed when they see how we treat dogs. Possums must be like “All we do is get chased around with brooms. We’re furry, we don’t bother anyone. WTF?” My dog has a better life than 99 percent of the people on this planet. That’s why coyotes eat little dogs: envy. They’re scavenging out of Dumpsters, while Paris Hilton’s dog gets carried around in a purse and onto a first-class flight.
There is a celebrity factor to this. I think it started with Richard Belzer a few years back. He was the celebrity-flying-with-dog pioneer. Then Kristin Chenoweth was in the news last year making a stink because American Airlines would not let her fly with her service dog. And dear, dear friend Illeana Douglas told me on the podcast about how she flies with her “emotional support animal.” I also saw an episode of TMZ with Jane Fonda leaving LAX with her lap dog. This silliness always starts with celebrities and then spreads to the common folk. That’s why I have another reality show to pitch. This one is probably good for a network like Spike. When they test the structural integrity of jet engines, they use air cannons to shoot whole chickens into the impellers. My new show takes the lap dogs from celebrities on flights, puts them into air cannons, and fires them into the engines. I call it Your Dog Is Fired.
It isn’t even just lap dogs anymore. I’ve seen people traveling with full-size German shepherds. People are now buying extra seats for Marmaduke-size mongrels.
This is the one time I think lawyers are going to be helpful. We’re eventually going to get to the point where someone gets bitten, or there’s an emergency and someone trips over a schnauzer, and then there will certainly be a lawsuit. That’s the only way this is going to cease. And to that end, what about all the people who are freaked out by dogs, all the people who have been bitten? What if your anxiety prevention dog is provoking theirs? Can they sue you?
And that’s the real point. I love my dog. You love yours. But I don’t love yours and you don’t love mine. The narcissism that allows you to think that your convenience and comfort is paramount and trumps everyone else’s . . . We get it, you want to bring your dog everywhere. Just because you can do it doesn’t mean you should. How about a little golden rule for your golden retriever? If you wouldn’t want everyone doing it, don’t fucking do it yourself.
What really concerns me is that this service dog idiocy is going to spread, just like the bare-feet epidemic. I already see it creeping in everywhere. Before there were just blind people who had the dog with the handle, and that was it. There were no emotional-support dogs, no fear-of-flying dogs. Now everywhere you look someone has a dog with them. Dogs at restaurants and in the mall. At some point soon I’m positive I will step in dog shit at a movie theater.
Yet ironically, and get ready for another antigovernment rant here, the one place you can’t bring your dog is the beach. This is the one public place I want you to be able to bring your dog. I was at the beach on the Fourth of July and saw the sign that tells you what you can’t bring on the beach. It gets two feet longer every year. I found it ironic on the day celebrating our independence and liberty that we were being told by the government all the things we were not allowed to do. In the not-too-distant future our society is just going to get into a state where our kids have to pass through a detector like they have at airport security that will determine if they’re wearing enough sunblock. Eventually we’ll just have a sign that says FUN with a big red X through it. Of course among the list of no-no’s like NO GLASS BOTTLES, NO SMOKING, NO FIREWORKS, NO KITE FLYING, was NO DOGS. Do you realize we now have a world where dogs are encouraged on aircraft, but if you bring one on the beach to toss around a tennis ball, you’ll get ticketed? Do you like this direction for our society? I don’t. I understand that every now and again you’re going to step on a glass bottle and that’s okay. Maybe put out some more receptacles instead of prohibiting the public—the people who own the beach and maintain it with their tax money—from enjoying it. I was at Hampton Beach Casino in New Hampshire doing a gig with Dr. Drew, and a fan came up to me afterward and pointed out the irony that we were in the state whose motto is “Live Free or Die,” yet mere feet away on the beach there was a sign prohibiting dogs. Sixty-plus years ago many good men died on beaches at Normandy and Iwo Jima so that we could all enjoy the beaches of Malibu and Santa Monica. By not allowing citizens to bring their mutts there to toss around a Frisbee, you’re trampling on those heroes’ corpses.
5
THE DEPARTMENT OF
HOMELAND SECURITY
Since 2011, that idiotic color-coded terror alert chart has been gone. That was the beginning, middle, and end of my argument for how dumb our government is. The idea that we come out with a safety system to let the public know what the threat level was, but then picked random colors to convey the threat level, is just moronic. There is no inherent order to colors. If I just laid out blue, orange, yellow, red, and purple on a table, you couldn’t put them in an order unless you were trying to make the Romanian flag. For ten years we’d say, “It’s a yellow alert,” and everyone would ask, “What’s that, guarded?” If you always need the explanation, what’s the point in the fucking color? This is the worst color-based decision since UPS went with “What Can Brown Do for You?”
But now we have a hole to fill. As president, I would like to present a plan that is clearer and a lot more fun. I present to you my Baldwin-brother terror alert chart.
A lot of my lefty friends got their panties in a twist over the Department of Homeland Security and the NSA listening in on phone calls when that whole Edward Snowden thing happened. I didn’t give a shit and I still don’t. I’ve got nothing to hide. If The Man wants to listen to me bitch on my cell phone about the myriad things that annoy me every day, they’re not going to hear anything they couldn’t hear just by downloading the podcast. And if they want to check my Internet browsing, they’re just going to find a lot of searches for vintage race-car auctions and “big natural tits.”
I think the government should be monitoring what’s going on here at home. In fact, as president, I’m going to take it one step further. I’m going to commission a squadron of those predator
drones we’re using overseas and start raining death from above on some of the assholes here in the States.
Here is my list of people who deserve a drone strike. They may not be building any pressure-cooker bombs, but I consider all of them domestic terrorists. If you’re listed below I’d suggest heading to Canada as quickly as possible because I’m going to be sending some smart bombs to eliminate some dumb people.
CAMOUFLAGE WORKOUT GUY: I was at the YMCA to watch my son play some hoops and saw this jag-off. He was chugging away on the elliptical in full camo and combat boots. Like he was going to war on calories. When you’re “in-country” you should wear camo, not when you’re “in-lobby.” You just look like a nutty white supremacist. Camouflage by definition has to look like what you’re trying to blend in with. If you were attempting gym camouflage, you should be wearing a sweat-stained burnt-orange carpet. And the gym is a pickup joint. All you’re saying to the coed on the treadmill next to you is that if she goes home with you, the sex is definitely going to involve a serrated knife.
YOGA MAT GUY: Speaking of working out: I saw this asshole on a flight.
This is the same type of guy who puts the Yakima rack on his Subaru or keeps the ski-lift pass on his jacket year round just so you know what he’s into. He’s got to strut around with the yoga mat rolled up over his shoulder like a quiver for the world’s gayest archer. Here’s how you know this is for show. He was flying to L.A. That’s the fucking yoga mat capital of the world. He didn’t need to bring it with him, they hand one to you when you get off the plane. It’s not like anyone in Los Angeles is saying, “I’m looking for a yoga mat,” to someone who responds, “Well, I know a guy who knows a guy who can hook you up. You’ll have to meet him at midnight and bring cash.”
“WHICH SEASON IS IT?” GUY: This is probably yoga mat guy’s roommate. I see plenty of these shitheads in L.A., especially in the fall and winter. He dresses like it’s cold and it’s hot at the same time. The other day I saw a dude in UGG boots, cutoff shorts, a tight T-shirt with a scarf, and the beanie the guy from Spin Doctors used to wear. Is it winter or summer? Are we in Nova Scotia or Ecuador? Make up your mind, asshole.
Then I have to check my own outfit. What am I missing out on? I don’t get it. Are certain parts of your body different temperatures? Are your balls smoldering hot and your neck icy cold? Which is it? You’re wearing Daisy Duke’s shorts and Mike Nesmith’s hat. Pick one and go with it.
CHICK WHO FEEDS A HORSE BY HOLDING AN APPLE IN HER MOUTH: I know you’re very impressed with yourself and want me to be jealous of the connection you’re having with your horse. I have news for you. You could cut off a homeless guy’s arm and staple the apple to it and the horse would just as happily eat it. You’re not the horse whisperer, you’re just an asshole.
PERSON WHO PLAYS THE NAME GAME: This happens all the time when I’m signing autographs after my shows. I get the person’s name, she says it’s Catherine. I ask, “Is that Catherine with a C or a K?” and she replies, “Do I look like a Catherine with a C?” No, you look like a cunt with a C. How the fuck would I know?
I shouldn’t have to ask at all.
In my America there will only be one way to spell any name. Catherine will always be with a C, Brian will always be with an I, Steven will always be with a V. And there will definitely be no Tarras with two Rs like the one I met after a show in Reno, or Sera with an E like I met at the El Portal Theatre in L.A. I know what this is all about. It’s parents trying to make their kid feel unique and special but what they’re really doing is dooming them to a life of people fucking up their name and getting annoyed with them. Cut the shit. Your kid’s not going to get into Harvard because you gave them a “special” name which consequently a hundred other white people in your town also thought was unique. Just fucking name your kid Dave and let him go out and carve a life for himself.
A close cousin to this public enemy is the guy who changes his name later in life. This jack-off decides at age forty to go from Chris to Christopher, or worse, Topher. Sorry, it’s too late. You have two options, Chris or Douchebag.
BRACELET CHICK: I think there’s a ratio—for each bracelet you add, you get 10 percent angrier. Let’s ask ourselves this question: Which Janeane Garofalo did we like more—the zero-bracelet, funny, vivacious Janeane or the angry, skinny political one with a snow tire’s worth of vulcanized rubber on her arm?
Or there’s the bitchy postmenopausal friend of your mom with the huge wooden bracelets. It looks like she’s wearing the plank from a tall ship around her wrist.
And what about showering? Do you spend an hour taking them off beforehand or do you have to cover your arms with a garbage bag so they don’t get moldy and give you a staph infection? At least with the Livestrong bracelet you just keep it on for a few days at the office until everyone knows you’re better than them. But really, who are you trying to appeal to? Do you expect Ted with the corner office to think, “I was never attracted to her before because of her huge ass and sunken chest, but now that I see the eighteen bracelets dangling on her wrist I’ve got to make her my wife”?
BRACELET DUDE: Worse is the guy with bracelets. We are in full-tilt bracelet mode these days. I was sitting around on Sunday watching Catfish, as I’m apt to do. Both dudes on that show wear bracelets. Eighty-six percent of males under forty have bracelets now. Married men, single men, doesn’t matter. If you’re married, what are you even doing? Who is this bracelet for? Are you trying to attract your wife? She’s obligated by law to blow you. It’s on the books, look it up.
What about the assholes who wear bracelets? This isn’t getting you any closer to vagina. This is a turnoff, trust me. I’ve talked to women. I don’t know why I need to be saying this. Chicks need to man up and get the word out.
This has even invaded my own home. My son came home the other day and he was wearing a bracelet. We were doing our usual wrestling around and the bracelet fell off. So I started teasing him, “Oh, Natalia must have lost her bracelet because a little boy wouldn’t wear one.” And then I saw that he was wearing a necklace too. So I said, “I’m going to come over there and snatch that necklace your girlfriend bought you.” And he paused, looked at me very seriously, and said, “My boyfriend got me this necklace.”
GUY WHO LOOKS AT DING ON THE SIDE OF MY CAR AND ASKS, “WHAT HAPPENED HERE?”: A fucking meteor. What do you think? Someone opened their door into me or I did something stupid. Either way, fuck off. This is the same guy who wants to know how you got a zit, like you’re going to say, “Well, I do this thing where I tape a canned ham to my face before I go to bed.” To all of you assholes who do this, there are only two stories—the “I’m an idiot” version or the “the guy in the Costco parking lot is an idiot” version. But the real idiot is you for asking in the first place.
FERRET-ON-SHOULDER GUY: This is another asshole who needs you to see him. So he wears a ferret around like a scarf. You see a lot of these guys on Venice Beach, shirtless, with the ferret or a snake. Every now and again they’ll double down on the creepitude and put on the Rollerblades. Because what you need is a large rodent or an anaconda coming at you at 35 mph atop a leathery shirtless dude.
GAY GUY WHO SUNBATHES NAKED ON APARTMENT LAWN: He’s claimed the eight-by-eight-foot patch of sod in the front of his apartment building as his personal tanning booth. He’s the forty-four-year-old set decorator who’s waiting for his parents to kick off so he can own his first home. If he were really interested in a tan, he’d go to the roof, but then how would everyone driving by get to see his balls? God forbid this asshole get into his Prius and drive to the fucking beach. Hey dickhead, next time you are at the Rite Aid picking up your lube, why don’t you grab a bottle of Mystic Tan and call it a day.
HOLIDAY JOGGER: This is the cockhole who decides he can’t live one day like a normal person drinking and eating with friends and family. Doesn’t matter if it’s a holiday, he’s got to get his jog on. The worst offender is the Thanksgiving jogger. Doesn’t matt
er that rest of us real Americans are about to vomit up turkey with all the fixin’s so we can make room for meringue, this guy has to get joggy with it.
I saw one on the Fourth of July. It was balls-hot out and I had a belly full of ribs and Sam Adams and this douchebag came sprinting by, shaming me.
I spotted the Halloween jogger too. She was bobbing and weaving through packs of kids dressed as Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers while she was dressed as a bitch with body dysmorphic disorder. It’s fucking Halloween. Put down the sneakers and pick up a Snickers like a normal person.
A quick tangential Halloween-related mandate . . .
In my neighborhood, the minivan will pull up and all the kids from the crappy neighborhood will cascade out. They cut in front of my kids, bogart all the Reese’s, pile back into the minivan, and head back to their hood. It may sound cruel but I now mandate that you are forced to trick-or-treat in your own piece-of-shit neighborhood so you can see just how bad it is. There’d be a neighborhood council meeting at 8 A.M. the day after every Halloween to talk about fixing your combat zone. I bet your neighborhood would get a lot better real quick after a night of watching your kid step over a dog’s corpse to be greeted by a toothless pedophile handing out candy corn from 1969.
