Brain Droppings

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GEORGE CARLIN l

I did better in sports, and was successful even before I entered school: As an infant, a particularly brutal uncle taught me full-contact pat-a-cake. I found it painful, but quite exhilarating. Later, in grammar school, I played intramural Simon Says and took several bronze medals in high-speed competition skipping.

I played basketball for three years, and when I left school, they retired my jersey. Primarily for reasons of hygiene. I wasn’t a real standout at basketball, but I’m convinced that if I had been a lot taller, a lot faster, and had really good aim, I would have been a better player.

I wasn’t much of a fighter, either. If a tough kid challenged me to a fight, I would make an excuse: “I’m not allowed to fight in this suit.” Most of the time they would simply steal the suit. Which was fine with me, as I found I could run much faster in my underwear. I didn’t have much of a “rep.” They would say of me, “He can’t dish it out, and he can’t take it either.”

The one time I did box, at camp, I fought as a walterweight: It turned out I was the exact same weight as my friend Walter. I lost my only bout. But I realize now it’s probably just as well God didn’t make me a good fighter, or else there’d have been a long trail of dead men across America.

Don’t forget, I came from a pretty tough neighborhood. Not the toughest, maybe, but still fairly tough. You’ve heard of Hell’s Kitchen? This was Hell’s Dining Room. And we didn’t live far from something really unusual, a tough rich neighborhood: Hell’s Servants’ Quarters.

We had some pretty tough characters. In fact, if Charles Bronson had lived in my neighborhood, he would’ve been a Playboy bu

brain droppings and beat up heterosexuals. And although I broke a lot of laws as a teenager, I straightened out immediately upon turning eighteen, when I realized the state had a legal right to execute me.

It may surprise you that I wasn’t very good with girls. Too smart. When I would play doctor, and “examine” a girl, I would often find an aneurysm. One time, in the midst of a particularly erotic physical exam, I discovered advanced hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I continued to feel the girl up, of course, and only later, after reaching a private climax in my pants, did I inform her of my diagnosis. First things first. I can’t tell you how many women over the years have written to thank me for finding a lump in their breasts.

My first girlfriend, however, was afraid of sex. Apparently, one night before falling asleep, she had been fondled by the sandman. As a result, she suffered recurring wet nightmares. I could sympathize with her, of course, as for years I had been the victim of wet daydreams. I realize now it was probably just as well God didn’t make me a great lover, or else there’d have been a long trail of pregnant women all across America.

It was my uncle who taught me about the birds and the bees. He sat me down one day and said, “Remember this, George, the birds fuck the bees.” Then he told me he once banged a girl so hard her freckles came off. DR. BEII DOVER

Sooner or later, the young medical student has to tell his blue-collar father that he wants to be a proctologist:

“Wait a minute, Vi

Brain Droppings

GEORGE CARLIN

brain droppings

run BUSTER

Microwave radiation leaking from radar guns has caused at least eighty cases of testicular cancer in policemen. I’m glad. That’s what they get for being sneaky. Cancer and radar both victimize silently] they sneak up on you. You think everything’s OK, but unknown tc you, something bad is happening. Then suddenly you’re a victimj Also, it’s quite appropriate that it’s testicular cancer. These cops al| think they have big balls. Now they do. Good.

LIOHTEH UP A1ITTLE

Riot police sometimes use rubber bullets. Imagine! Someone, somewhere, had a lucid thought. And I think they might have provided a small opening here. This idea could be extended to larger weapons. Rubber bullets, naugahyde hand grenades, crushed velvet land mines, silk torpedoes, Nerf tanks, whiffle missiles. How about a neutron bomb made of fake fur?

They also have water ca

And it’s always struck me that our two most-used gasses produce only tears and laughter. How about a gas that creates crippling self-doubt? Or a gas that conjures up terrifying childhood memories? Okay, last one: How about a gas that fills you with an unquenchable desire for vanilla pudding?

BAO A BOOHER

I only hope that when the Generation Xers are finally ru

If you young people want to know who to kill, I’ll tell you. There are two schools of thought on this: Some say the baby boomers were born between 1946 and 1964. Others will tell you 1942 through 1960. Just to be on the safe side, I’d say kill everyone between the ages of thirty and fifty-five. The boomers used to say, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Well, the stakes are a little higher now. So ask to see a driver’s license and then strangle a boomer. That’s my advice. I always like to have something uplifting to offer along with all the gloomy shit. YOU GET no CREDIT HERE

People should not get credit for having qualities they’re supposed to have. Like honesty. What’s the big deal anyway? You’re supposed to be honest. It’s not a skill.

Besides, people shouldn’t get credit for skills in the first place. Do you think you should be praised for something you had no control

GEORGE CARLIN over? I mean, if you were born with certain abilities and characteris tics—things that are an essential part of your makeup—I don’t see that you should be taking bows, do you? You couldn’t help it; it was genetically encoded. No one deserves credit for being tall.

People say, “Well, talent can only get you so far. It still takes a lot of hard work.” Yeah? Well, hard work is genetically encoded, too Some people can’t help working hard; it’s enjoyable to them. They can no more remain idle than change the color of their eyes. People who work hard and display great talent do not deserve special praise. Quite often the credit should go to their grandparents. Or perhaps their grandparents’ milkman.

Also, I don’t understand why people who recover from illness or injury are considered courageous. Getting well should not be cause for praise. Just because someone is no longer sick doesn’t mean they did something special. Getting well is a combination of seeking help, following advice, having a good attitude, and being the possessor of an effective immune system. All of these qualities stem from inborn genetic traits and characteristics. No one makes a conscious choice to be courageous. It’s genetically encoded.

Believe me, when the only alternative is lying in a puddle of your own shit, it doesn’t take much courage to get up and go to physical therapy. Courage comes into play when people have options, not when they’re backed against a wall. It didn’t take courage for Magic Johnson to a