God, No!

by Penn Jillette

  My mom got me through her death by making me keep working. Friends of mine who have lost a parent don’t know how to start their lives again. My mom forced me to start mine that same day. A lot of atheists have trouble figuring out how to mourn without god; my mom created the balloon tradition and focus for me. Ten years after her death, and she’s still helping me. My mom never met my children. She had the joy of grandchildren and even a great-grandchild through my sister’s kids, but my mom was forty-five when I was born, and I was fifty when Mox was born, so we skipped a generation or two there. Letting the balloons go on New Year’s Day is a way for my mom to touch my children.

  When my mom died, I was writing to Linda, my high school fuck buddy, about how hard it was. It was before I had children, and Linda wrote back that it would be easier if I could also look down. She explained that we look up at our parents and down at our children. When we’re in the middle with our children below us, it’s a little easier than when we’re at the bottom just looking up with loss and sorrow.

  Atheism was a real comfort to me when my parents and sister died. It feels like if I had a shred of religion it would have been impossible for me to take the pain. The idea that a powerful, vibrant, sharp woman like my mom was becoming paralyzed and dependent, that a woman who would never let anyone else even wash a dish in her house now had to be fed by people who were hired to tend to her, was horrible, unthinkable. Even when I called in showbiz favors to get neurosurgeons whom we’d done corporate shows for to look at my mom, there was no guess as to what was wrong with her. It was kinda sorta like muscular dystrophy, but it wasn’t that. It was like a lot of awful things, but it wasn’t exactly anything they knew about. She could breathe and talk and swallow, but she couldn’t move her arms and then she couldn’t move her legs. Understanding that suffering as random was hard for me, but I could never have understood suffering as part of an all-powerful god’s “plan.” If a god had planned that for my mom, I would have turned to Satan. There’s no plan I’ll get behind that includes that much suffering for anyone. Random suffering is at least comprehensible.

  I’m willing for my mom and dad to live on in my memory and in parts of my DNA and the DNA of my children. I fancy I see my dad in my son’s smile and part of my mom in his eyes. My daughter moves like I’ve always thought my mom moved as a little girl. I know that I could be projecting, and that’s fine with me. It’s just another way to love above and below me.

  Our family doesn’t have god and we don’t have Santa Claus. We shouldn’t lie to our children about yogurt, but we shouldn’t lie at all; still, I don’t want to lie to my children about ungulates being able to fly and the kindness of strangers who reward and punish with gifts. If I want them to dig a fat old man with white hair and a beard, I can just stop dying my hair and my lap will be there for them 365 days a year.

  Our family, with our goofy names and nutty rituals, watches the balloons fly into the sky and accepts that we’ll never see them again. Emily and I explain that they’ll never meet my mommy and daddy, and they’ll never see Auntie again, but we all love them all. We love them very much.

  Then we’ll have a nice dinner and open a lot of presents—you know, just like Christmas.

  My mom didn’t tell us what to serve. We’ll have to figure that out for ourselves.

  “Here Comes Santa Claus”

  —Bob Dylan

  The Bible’s Sixth Commandment

  Thou shalt not kill.

  When you tally up the deaths from the attack of September 11, 2001, don’t ever forget the people who have been killed in the reaction to that. Human life is human life. And the death penalty is wrong.

  ONE ATHEIST’S SIXTH SUGGESTION

  Respect and protect all human life.

  (Many believe that “Thou shalt not kill” only refers to

  people in the same tribe. I say it’s all human life.)

  Why I’m a Libertarian Nut Instead of Just a Nut

  I don’t speak for all libertarians any more than Sean Penn speaks for all Democrats. I’m not even sure my LP membership card is up to date. I’ve voted libertarian as long as I can remember, but I don’t really remember much before the Clintons and Bushes made a lot of us bugnutty. When I go on Glenn Beck he calls me a libertarian, and when Jon Stewart makes fun of me he calls me libertarian. I think those are my only real credentials.

  There are historical reasons and pragmatic reasons to be a libertarian, but there are historic and pragmatic reasons to be a Democrat, a Republican, or a Socialist. I don’t know if everyone would be better off under a libertarian government. I don’t know what would be best for anyone. I don’t even know what’s best for me. What makes me libertarian is I don’t think anyone else really knows what’s best for anyone. Take my uncertainty about what’s best for me and multiply that by every combination of the over three hundred million people in the USA, and I have no idea what the government should do.

  My argument for libertarianism is personal morality. I start with the Declaration of Independence: “Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” So, our government does what they do with my consent. I know barely enough about Max Weber to type his name into Google, but it seems he’s credited with the idea that the state has a monopoly on the legitimate use of physical force. I put those two ideas together and figure we all give our government the right to use force. So it’s not okay for our government to use force in a situation where I personally wouldn’t use force. If I’m not willing to kill a cute cow, I shouldn’t eat steak. I don’t have to kill Bessy right now with my bare hands, but I have to be willing to snuff her if I want to chow down on a T-bone. If it’s not okay for me, it’s not okay for a slaughterhouse. Asking someone else to do something immoral is immoral. If it’s not okay for me to break David Blaine’s hands to make less competition for my magic show, it’s not okay for me to ask someone else to do so. Someone else doing your dirty work is still your dirty work.

  If I had a gun, and I knew a murder was happening (we’re talking hypothetical perfect knowledge here; I’m not asking you to believe that I personally could accurately tell a murder from aggressive CPR), I would use that gun to stop that murder. I might be too much of a coward to use a gun myself to stop murder or rape or robbery, but I think that use of a gun is justified. I’m even okay with using force to enforce voluntary contracts. I would use a gun to protect the other people who chose to live under this free system. If I were a hero, I would use a gun to stop another country from attacking us and taking away our freedoms. I would use a gun for defense, police, and courts. Well, well, I’ll be hornswoggled, that’s pretty much what the Founding Fathers came up with.

  I love libraries. I spent a lot of time in the Greenfield Public Library when I was a child. I would give money to build a library. I would ask you to give money to build a library, but if for some reason you were crazy enough to think you had a better idea for your money than building my library, I wouldn’t pull a gun on you. I wouldn’t use a gun to build an art museum, to look at the wonders of the universe through a big telescope, or even to find a cure for cancer.

  The fact that the majority wants something good does not give them the right to use force on the minority that doesn’t want to pay for it. If you have to use a gun, it’s not really a good idea. Democracy without respect for individual rights sucks. It’s just ganging up on the weird kid, and I’m always the weird kid.

  People try to argue that government isn’t really force. You believe that? Try not paying your taxes. (This is only a thought experiment—suggesting someone not pay their taxes is probably a federal offense, and I’m a nut, but I’m not crazy.) When they come to get you for not paying your taxes, try not going to court. Guns will be drawn. Government is force—literally, not figuratively.

  It’s amazing to me how many people think that voting to have the government take money by force through taxes to give poor people money is compassion. Helping poor and suffe
ring people is compassion. Voting for our government to use guns to give money to help poor and suffering people is immoral, self-righteous, bullying laziness. People need to be fed, medicated, educated, clothed, and sheltered, and if we’re compassionate we’ll help them, but you get no moral credit for forcing other people to do what you think is right. There is great joy in helping people, but no joy in doing it at gunpoint.

  I’m a libertarian nut because I don’t want my government to do anything in my name that I wouldn’t do myself.

  “Something in the Air”

  —Thunderclap Newman

  The Three Dogmas That Hurt Americans Most

  Because I’m a libertarian nut, Reason magazine, the libertarian nut magazine, asked me to write this article for them about the three dogmas that I think hurt America most.

  “God”—There is no god. Imagine how boss the right wing would be without the religion stuff making them bugnutty. Without god, even Glenn Beck isn’t all that crazy.

  “Most people are evil”—This one bugs me even more than the god one. It’s the idea that “well, of course you and I would do the right thing, but we have to protect society from the bad people.” Most people are good. One has to look long and hard for a truly bad person. Laws are needed to stop the rare bad people from doing bad things to other people, not for social engineering. The left often thinks they have a monopoly on compassion; they seem to think that everyone else, everyone with a slightly different political POV, would fuck over everyone else. Cynicism is bullshit. Imagine how groovy the left wing would be if they just trusted most people to take care of themselves and each other. Without cynicism, even Michael Moore isn’t all that . . . oh, never mind.

  “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”—The first half is perfect. Your country doesn’t owe you jack shit; it’s not supposed to take care of you or stop you from being unhappy or offended. Government should do nothing beyond protecting individual rights (and “rights” doesn’t mean “anything that would be nice to have”). The second half of that quote is 180 degrees off—it’s missing a “not.” It should read “Ask not what you can do for your country.” You don’t need to do anything for your country—you do everything for yourself, your family, and other people. What made this a great country is individuals. It does not take a village. Love people, not government.

  “Gimme Some Truth”

  —John Lennon

  Jamie Gillis: April 20, 1943–February 19, 2010

  I don’t remember where I first met Jamie Gillis. It was somewhere on the streets of New York City, but I don’t remember exactly where. I saw that smile, that hair, those amazing eyes, and I was thrilled. I had walked by John Lennon on the streets of NYC, but I didn’t talk to him; why ruin the illusion? But Jamie was worth the gamble. Jamie had been a hero of mine ever since I’d seen New Wave Hookers. I saw that movie correctly, in a theater in Times Square that smelled of Clorox. It didn’t smell of Clorox because they cleaned it thoroughly, it smelled of Clorox because ejaculate is alkaline, and we associate that base smell with Clorox. Before the Internet, porno smelled of Clorox.

  Everyone says the sex in New Wave Hookers is wonderful, but I don’t remember any of the sex. I remember nothing but Jamie smiling and talking. I’ve seen some good actors and talkers, but Jamie was better than all of them; Jamie made me forget all the sex in a porn movie and remember only him. I really remembered only one speech. I really remembered only one line, but what a line. For the whole movie Jamie does an aggressively phony Japanese accent. Toward the end of the movie, he gives a speech about how he used to be a square and now he’s changed and his life is free, sexy, brave, and good. He finishes this speech, which seems to be sincerely from Jamie’s heart, and ends it with “And now I’m Japanese, so fuck off!”

  I couldn’t stop laughing. I was cheering while my fellow patrons were jacking off. I loved Jamie’s perfect delivery. It was surreal and inspiring, like Bob Dylan. My head couldn’t really figure what it meant, but my heart kept singing it. For weeks I was saying to everyone, “And now I’m Japanese, so fuck off!” It still inspires me. I still think it all the time and say it once in a while.

  It wasn’t too long after seeing New Wave Hookers that I saw Jamie on the street. Penn & Teller had just opened Off-Broadway, and when I saw Jamie, I realized if our show was really successful our theater could smell of Clorox. I went over and said, “You’re Jamie Gillis, I’m such a big fan.” I stuck my hand out. I didn’t have the balls to say his line to him. I did not say “And now I’m Japanese, so fuck off!” Who is enough of an asshole to walk over to De Niro and say “Are you talking to me?” Who could have yelled “Stella” at Brando? I just shook Jamie’s hand and said I was a huge fan. I said I loved him.

  Jamie smiled. It seemed like he recognized me, and then he called me by name; he called me Penn. He had seen our show. He said, “You know, for every one hundred guys who recognize me, one really hot woman will come up to me. I don’t care at all about the guys, but it’s great to be recognized by a hot woman . . .” Then he paused, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I put you in the hot woman category.” Wow. I think it might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.

  Jamie and I became friends. I was always thrilled to be around him. I will miss him. The world was better with Jamie in it.

  And now I’m Japanese, so fuck off!

  “Turning Japanese”

  —The Vapors

  Penn’s Bacon and a Kiss Airlines

  Does any American like the TSA? Somebody must think that someone else thinks it keeps somebody safer, and that that imagined safety is worth the loss of freedom and dignity—but so far, I haven’t met that person.

  I want someone other than me to run the experiment of trying to get on an American airplane with the New Hampshire state slogan “Live Free or Die” written on a T-shirt. That specific statism might get you a full pat-down. That slogan in context is even heavier. It was a toast mailed by an ailing General John Stark to an anniversary reunion of the Battle of Bennington: “Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils.” Fuck yeah! Also try Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death” for your comfy travel wear. See how a real patriot would be treated nowadays. Patrick or John’s slogan on a T-shirt will at least get your ball sack fondled by rubber gloves in a bad way. I used to believe it was theoretically impossible to get my ball sack fondled in a bad way, but a TSA worker in Hotlanta, Georgia, changed my mind on that.

  The Penn & Teller Show started touring in 1975 with just Penn & Teller in a white Datsun 210 station wagon with a sign on the side that read ATLANTA CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL AND PREVENTION— SAMPLE TRANSPORT UNIT in an official typeface. Our car was never broken into. I would drive, Teller would navigate. And we would talk. During those endless conversations we thought up all the crazy shit that would become our career. Our whole show was in that car. We’d share Motel 6 rooms at night, and drive again the next day to the next show, and talk some more about crazy shit we might could get away with onstage. By 2001, The Penn & Teller Show had grown to require an eighteen-wheeler and driver. David Copperfield has four eighteen-wheelers for his show. Three of his trucks have a huge picture of Mr. Kotkin’s magical eyes and magic voluptuous eyebrows and THE MAGIC OF DAVID COPPERFIELD written in a very magical typeface on both magical sides. Our dirty eighteen-wheeler says ROAD SHOWS on the side in a generic typeface. It looks like “Road Shows” is a brand of soup. We could have gotten it repainted with some disease-control logo, but we’re too cheap. We bought it used from some bus and truck touring company, and it was already painted. It says the word “show,” and we do at least claim that.

  Typing “eighteen-wheeler” makes me feel really butch. It’s so purely American. In England they call trucks “fully articulated lorries,” which is another reason we kicked their asses in the Revolutionary War. When Teller and I did a show for Prince Charles, we got in a line to meet the big-eared cheese after the show. Som
e royal handler gave us instructions about how we were to greet the prince. I explained to His Majesty’s official officious butt boy that I myself was an American, and I would greet Chuck exactly like I greet anyone else. I would be polite, but that was all he was getting out of this freedom fighter—real Americans don’t kiss royal ass. I was much more excited about meeting Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie anyway; those are asses I’ll gladly kiss. Chuck was really nice, though. He said, “Oh, you’re the fellow who runs over the other chap with the fully articulated lorry.” He had seen me running over Teller with a trick truck in the truck trick on our first NBC TV special, and part of being English royalty is using “chap” and “fully articulated lorry” in one sentence to polite but classless Americans.

  David Copperfield travels with four motor coaches and thirty-one people. In 2002, in addition to one fully articulated lorry, we had no buses and eight people, including the two of us, all flying from show to show. Our crew is made up of freedom fighters, and when airport security ramped up, there were altercations at every airport on every travel day. It seemed to be a different member of our crew every time, although Stewart, our tattooed, hippie, redneck, biker light man, did go off a bit quicker and more often than the rest of us. I was the last to crack, but I’d watched Stewart flip enough that I knew how to go crazy about the loss of our freedoms. You learn shit like that when you hire patriots.

  I cracked at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, flying back from a corporate date with K. C. and the Sunshine Band. The woman TSA-hole asked me to turn down the top of my jeans so she could check the seam, and that’s not the way, a-huh, a-huh, I like it—uh-uh, uh-uh. I said, “Fuck it,” and undid my pants and dropped them. I learned at Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey the Greatest Show on Earth Clown College that when in doubt, try a pants-drop. I was wearing underwear because we had another show that night and I like to have my suit slide smoothly over my . . . wait a minute, I don’t have to explain to you why I was wearing fucking underwear—who the fuck are you? See, I get in a pissy mood thinking about the TSA. Anyway, I was wearing underwear, clean underwear, and not a tight shrink-wrapped banana hammock, but dignified boxers. Yes, I was showing her disrespect by dropping my pants, but I was wearing shorts—“little Houdini” was not escaping. Still, she got on the talkie and called the real po po while a couple of her fellow workers took me to a holding area. She said that I had flashed her and I would be arrested for indecent exposure.