When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

People will argue, ‘Singing has more to do with expressing emotion than it does with expressing thought.” Well, fine. But from my point of view, when it comes to expressing emotion, singing is not nearly as effective a tool as screaming. Let’s face it, if you want to express emotion, screaming is where it’s at.

And to be fair, the more I think about it, the more I realize that singing itself is nothing more than a modified form of screaming. It’s actually just carefully organized, socially acceptable screaming. And, folks, I think we have enough screaming in the world as it is.

Now, dancing, on the other hand, I can understand. Dancing is a highly developed form of jumping around, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with jumping around. Jumping around is fine in my book. In fact, I feel it’s essential. So, please, feel free to jump around all you want. But if you fall and break a leg, don’t come screaming to me. Write a song.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Have you noticed that whenever someone at a large gathering tries to get the attention of the crowd on a public address system, they always yell into the mi-

crophone? ‘ATTENTION!! ATTENTION PLEASE!! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!!” Don’t these people understand that the whole purpose of a voice-amplifying system is to amplify the voice? I think the idea is that when you speak into it, it makes your voice sound louder. Maybe I’m way off on this, but it seems to me that if there is a device that makes your voice sound louder, there’s probably no reason to yell into it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just wrong on this. I’m willing to listen. But hold it down, will ya?

CARS AS PERSONAL BILLBOARDS NEVER MIND THE BIOGRAPHY

I’m tired of people using their cars as biographical information centers, informing the world of their sad-sack lives and boring interests. Keep that shit to yourself. I don’t want to know what college you went to, who you intend to vote for or what your plan is for world peace. I don’t care if you visited the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore or the birthplace of Wink Martindale. And I’m not interested in what radio station you listen to or what bands you like. In fact, I’m not interested in you in any way, except to see you in my rearview mirror.

Furthermore, I can do without your profession of faith in God, Allah, Jehova, Yahweh, Peter Cottontail or whoever the fuck it is you’ve turned your life over to; please keep your superstitions private. I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to someday drive up to a flaming auto wreck and see smoke curling up around one of those little fish symbols with Jesus written inside it.

And as far as I’m concerned, you can include the Darwin/fish-with-feet evolution symbol too. Far too cute for my taste.

So keep the personal and autobiographical messages to yourself. Here’s an idea: Maybe you could paste them up inside your car, where you can see them and I can’t.

PROUD PARENTS OF ANOTHER DRONE

Here’s another segment of the bumper-sticker population that ought to be locked into portable toilets and set on fire. The ones who want us to know how well their kids are doing in school. Doing well, that is, according to today’s lowered standards:

”We are the proud parents of an honors student at the Franklin School.’ Or the Midvale Academy. Or whatever other i

What kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the achievements of a child? How would you like to live with a couple of these blockheads? “Say, Justin. How’s that science project coming along?” “Fuck you, Dad, you simpleminded prick! Mind your own business and pass the Froot Loops. Fucking cunt dork.”

Here are a few parental bumper stickers I’d like to see:

“We are the proud parents of a child whose self-esteem is sufficient that he doesn’t need us promoting his minor scholastic achievements on the back of our car.’ That would be refreshing.

“We are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teacher’s attempts to break his spirit and bend him to the will of his corporate masters.’ A little Marxist, but what’s wrong with that?

Here’s something realistic: “We have a daughter in public school who hasn’t been knocked up yet.” And, for the boy: uWe have a son in public school who hasn’t shot any of his classmates yet. But he does sell drugs to your honors student. Plus, he knocked up your daughter.”

And what about those parents who aren’t too proud of their children? “We are the embarrassed parents of a cross-eyed, drooling little nitwit, who, at the age of ten, not only continues to wet the bed, but also shits on the school bus.” Something like that on the back of the car might give the child a little more incentive. Get him to try a little harder next semester.

PLATE TECTONICS

My car complaints include personalized license plates, which in California have reached really bothersome levels. Among rny least favorites are the ones where the guy tells me what kind of car it is, in case I’m fucking blind: BEAMER, BENZ, PORSH. How helpful. Then there are those very special guys who not only tell me what kind of car it is, but also who owns it: GARY’S Z, DON’S JAG, BOB’S BMW. What’s wrong with these cretins? Have they never owned a car before?

And what’s with these pinheads who feel compelled to a

And since these things are called “vanity plates” (they should be called “ego tags”), it comes as no surprise that the show-business professions abound with this nonsense. Among the worst offenders are writers. If you drive the streets and freeways of Los Angeles long enough, sooner or later you will see every variation of license plate these allegedly creative people have managed to come up with.

Here are the best of the lot: WRITTIR, WRYTRE, WRYTR, WRYYTRR, WRYTAR, R1TER RITEUR, WRYTER, RYTER, TV RTR. God help them. Isn’t a scriptwriting credit recognition enough? Or carrying a Writers Guild card? What are they looking for? Do they expect to be nominated for an Emmy at a red light? If these hacks spent half the time working on their scripts they spend thinking up license plates, entertainment in America would be vastly improved.

But writers aren’t alone. It seems that any job in television demands an acknowledgment: TVGUY, TVMAN, TVHOSTl, TVNUZE, TWDEO, TVSOWND, TVBIZ, TVBIZZ, TVBIZZZ, TV SHOW. I suppose the idea is, “Why be involved in television at all if I cant tell the world?’ After all, everyone knows what an outstanding field it is to be proud of.

One last item. To me, the biggest mystery of all is why a good-looking woman would get a license plate that says HOT BABE, PARTYGAL, HOTLIPS or BABE4U? Isn’t she just asking for some crazy fuck with a hard-on to follow her home so he can find out if she’s as hot she says she is? Maybe that’s the point; to pick up horny freaks at random. Sounds dumb. I wonder how many of these women have been raped and killed by guys whose license plates said BIGDICK, HOTROD, KILLGAL or RAPEDUDE?

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops

BODY OF WORK: Part 3 SCAB LABOR

Here’s another item you can’t see while it’s still on you: a scab on the top of your head. Did y’ever have that? Sure you have. A little scab on the top of your head? Not a big, red, juicy blood scab, like you get when someone at work hits

you in the head with a Stilson wrench. Just a little scaly, scabby, dry spot. You find it one day by accident, when you’re scratchin’ your head. You come across it as if by good luck.