Mr. Write's Page

More comedy routines by the great George Carlin, may his memory long endure.

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I Love My Dog

I love my dog. I love all my dogs. I love every dog I ever had. I remember ’em all. And I love every one of ’em. Still love all my dogs, and I’ve had me a lot of (expletive deleted) dogs.

In my lifetime, I have had me a bunch of different dogs. Because you do keep getting a new dog, don’t you? You just keep getting one dog right after another.

That’s the whole secret of life. Life is a series of dogs. It’s true! You just keep getting a new dog, don’t you? That’s what’s good about them. They don’t live too long, and you can go get a new (expletive deleted) dog.

Sometimes, you can get a dog that looks exactly like the dog you used to have. Right? You shop around a little bit, and you find a dog identical to your former dog.

And that’s real handy, ’cause you don’t have to change the pictures on your mirror or anything. Right? You just bring the dead one into the pet shop, throw him up on the counter, and say, “Give me another one of them. That one was real good.” And they’ll give you a carbon copy of your ex-(expletive deleted) dog.

Now, my favorite dog that I ever had in my whole lifetime was Tippy. Tippy was a good dog. Some of you remember I’ve talked about Tippy. Tippy was a good dog. Tippy was a mixed terrier. You know, that word mixed that the veterinarian puts on the form when even HE don’t know what the (expletive deleted) you got.

You bring in a little mixed puppy to a veterinarian and say, “What is it?” He’ll say, “Well, it’s definitely not a monkey.” Tippy was actually part Dodge Dart.

Poor Tippy was full of guilt. So much so, in fact, she’s the only dog I ever had who committed suicide.

Yeah, well, we don’t say it like that around the house. We say she put herself to sleep. But she ran out in front of a milk truck. That’s (expletive deleted) suicide.

But that was her decision. That’s what Tippy wanted to do. And that’s the way it is in our family. If you want to commit suicide, we back you up.

So, we supported Tippy in her little suicide decision. Then we brought her into the pet shop, threw her up on the counter, and said, “Give us something bigger. We’re trading up.”

We was looking for a bigger (expletive deleted) dog, ’cause Tippy had been teeny, even before the truck came by. Truck had made her teenier. Ha. Wider, but teenier.

Euphemisms

I don’t like words that hide the truth. I don’t like words that conceal reality. I don’t like euphemisms or euphemistic language.

And American English is loaded with euphemisms. ‘Cause Americans have a lot of trouble dealing with reality. Americans have trouble facing the truth, so they invent kind of a soft language to protect themselves from it. And it gets worse with every generation. For some reason, it just keeps getting worse.

I’ll give you an example of that. There’s a condition in combat. Most people know about it. It’s when a fighting person’s nervous system has been stressed to it’s absolute peak and maximum. Can’t take any more input. The nervous system has either snapped or is about to snap.

In the First World War, that condition was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables, shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves.

That was 70 years ago. Then a whole generation went by, and the Second World War came along, and very same combat condition was called battle fatigue.

Four syllables now. Takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Fatigue is a nicer word than shock. Shell shock! Battle fatigue.

Then we had the war in Korea, 1950. Madison Avenue was riding high by that time, and the very same combat condition was called operational exhaustion.

Hey, we’re up to eight syllables now, and the humanity has been squeezed completely out of the phrase. It’s totally sterile now. Operational exhaustion. Sounds like something that might happen to your car.

Then, of course, came the war in Vietnam, which has only been over for about 16 or 17 years, and thanks to the lies and deceits surrounding that war, I guess it’s no surprise that the very same condition was called post-traumatic stress disorder.

Still eight syllables, but we’ve added a hyphen! And the pain is completely buried under jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

I’ll bet you if we were still calling it shell shock, some of those Vietnam veterans might have gotten the attention they needed at the time. I’ll betcha. I’ll betcha.

But, it didn’t happen, and one of the reasons is because we were using that soft language. That language that takes the life out of life. And it is a function of time. It does keep getting worse.

I’ll give you another example. Sometime during my life, toilet paper became bathroom tissue. I wasn’t notified of this. No one asked me if I agreed with it. It just happened. Toilet paper became bathroom tissue.

Sneakers became running shoes. False teeth became dental appliances. Medicine became medication. Information became directory assistance. The dump became the landfill.

Car crashes became automobile accidents. Partly cloudy became partly sunny. Motels became motor lodges. House trailers became mobile homes. Used cars became previously-owned vehicles.

Room service became guest-room dining. Riots became civil disorders. Strikes became job actions. Zoos became wildlife parks.

Jungles became rain forests. Swamps became wetlands. Glasses became prescription eyewear.

Drug addiction became substance abuse. Soap operas became daytime dramas.

Gambling joints became gaming resorts. Prostitutes became sex workers. Theaters became performing arts centers. Wife-beating became domestic violence. Constipation became occasional irregularity.

When I was a little kid, if I got sick, they wanted me to go to the hospital and see a doctor. Now they want me to go to a health maintenance organization, or a wellness center, to consult a healthcare delivery professional.

Poor people used to live in slums. Now the economically disadvantaged occupy substandard housing in the inner cities.

And they’re broke! They’re broke! They don’t have a negative cash-flow position. They’re (expletive deleted) broke!

‘Cause a lot of them were fired, you know. Fired. Management wanted to curtail redundancies in the human resources area, so many people are no longer viable members of the workforce.

Smug, greedy, well-fed white people have invented a language to conceal their sins. It’s as simple as that.

The CIA doesn’t kill anybody anymore, they neutralize people. Or they depopulate the area.

The government doesn’t lie, it engages in disinformation. The Pentagon actually measures nuclear radiation in something they call sunshine units.

Israeli murderers are called commandos. Arab commandos are called terrorists. Contra killers are called freedom fighters.

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part of it to us, do they? Never mention that part of it.

And some of this stuff is just silly, we all know that. Like on the airlines, they say, “Want to pre-board?” Well, what the hell is pre-board? What does that mean? To get on before you get on?

They say they’re going to pre-board those passengers in need of special assistance. Cripples! Simple honest direct language. There is no shame attached to the word cripple that I can find in any dictionary. No shame attached to it. In fact, it’s a word used in bible translations. Jesus healed the cripples. Doesn’t take seven words to describe that condition.

But we don’t have any cripples in this country anymore. We have the physically challenged. Is that a grotesque enough evasion for you? How about differently abled. I’ve heard them called that. Differently abled! You can’t even call these people handicapped anymore. They’ll say, “We’re not handicapped. We’re handicapable!”

These poor people have been (expletive deleted) by the system into believing that if you change the name of the condition, somehow you’ll change the condition. Well, hey, cousin — ppsssppttttt. Doesn’t happen. Doesn’t happen.

We have no more deaf people in this country. Hearing impaired.

No one’s blind anymore. Partially sighted or visually impaired.

We have no more stupid people. Everyone has a learning disorder. Or he’s minimally exceptional. How would you like to be told that about your child? He’s minimally exceptional. Oooh, thank God for that!

Psychologists actually have started calling ugly people those with severe appearance deficits.

And we have no more old people in this country. No more old people. We shipped them all away, and we brought in these senior citizens. Isn’t that a typically American 20th Century phrase? Bloodless, lifeless, no pulse in one of them. A senior citizen.

But I’ve accepted that one, I’ve come to terms with it. I know it’s here to stay. We’ll never get rid of it. That’s what they’re going to be called, so I’ll relax on that.

But the one I do resist, the one I keep resisting, is when they look at an old guy and they’ll say, “Look at him Dan! He’s 90 years young.”

Imagine the fear of aging that reveals. To not even be able to use the word old to describe somebody. To have to use an antonym.

And fear of aging is natural. It’s universal, isn’t it? We all have that. No one wants to get old. No one wants to die, but we do! So we (expletive deleted) ourselves.

I started (expletive deleted) myself when I got to my forties. As soon as I got into my forties, I’d look in the mirror and I’d say, “well, I guess I’m getting… older.”

Older sounds a little better than old, doesn’t it? Sounds like it might even last a little longer.

(Expletive deleted.) I’m getting old!

And it’s okay, because, thanks to our fear of death in this country, I won’t have to die. I’ll pass away. Or I’ll expire, like a magazine subscription.

If it happens in the hospital, they’ll call it a terminal episode. The insurance company will refer to it as negative patient-care outcome. And if it’s the result of malpractice, they’ll say it was a therapeutic misadventure.

I’m telling you, some of this language makes me want to vomit.

Well, maybe not vomit. Makes me want to engage in an involuntary personal protein spill.

Offensive Language

Now, I’d like to begin tonight with an opening announcement. Because of the FCC, I’m never sure what it is I’m allowed to say. So, I now have my own official policy — this is the language you will NOT be hearing tonight.

You will not hear me say: bottom line, game plan, role model, scenario, or hopefully. I will not kick back, mellow out, or be on a roll.

I will not go for it, and I will not check it out; I don’t even know what it is. And when I leave here I definitely will not boogie.

I promise not to refer to anyone as a class act, a beautiful person or a happy camper. I will also not be saying what a guy.

And you will not hear me refer to anyone’s lifestyle. If you want to know what a moronic word lifestyle is, all you have to do is realize that, in a technical sense, Attila the Hun had an active outdoor lifestyle.

I will also not be saying any cute things like moi. And I will not use the French adverb tre to modify any English adjectives. Such as tre awesome, tre gnarly, tre fabou, tre intense, or tre out-of-sight.

I will not say concept when I mean idea. I will not say impacted when I mean affected. There will be no hands-on, state-of-the-art networking. We will not maximize, prioritize, or finalize. And we definitely will not interface.

There will also be no new-age lingo spoken here tonight. No support-group jargon from the human potential movement. For instance, I will not share anything with you. I will not relate to you and you will not identify with me.

I will give you no input, and I will expect no feedback. This will not be a learning experience, nor will it be a growth period. There will be no sharing, no caring, no birthing, no bonding, no parenting, no nurturing. We will not establish a relationship, we will not have any meaningful dialogue and we definitely will not spend any quality time.

We will not be supportive of one another, so that we can get in touch with our feelings in order to feel good about ourselves. And if you’re one of those people who needs a little space, please, go the (expletive deleted) outside.

I Ain’t Afraid of Cancer

Yeah, about time for me to get a little drink of water. Figure this stuff is safe to drink, huh? Actually, I don’t care if it’s safe or not, I drink it anyway.

You know why? ‘Cause I’m an American, and I expect a little cancer in my food and water. That’s right, I’m a loyal American, and I’m not happy unless I’ve let government and industry poison me a little bit every day. Let me have a few hundred thousand carcinogens here.

Ahh, a little cancer never hurt anybody. Everybody needs a little cancer I think. It’s good for you. Keeps you on your toes.

Besides, I ain’t afraid of cancer. I had broccoli for lunch. Broccoli kills cancer. A lot of people don’t know that. It’s not out yet.

It’s true. You find out you got some cancer, get yourself a (expletive deleted) bowl of broccoli. That’ll wipe it right out in a day or two.

Cauliflower too. Cauliflower kills the really big cancers. The ones you can see through clothing from across the street. Broccoli kills the little ones. The ones that are slowly eating your way from inside, while your goddamn, goofy, half-educated doctor keeps telling you, “you’re doing fine, Jim.”

In fact, bring your doctor a bowl of broccoli. He’s probably got cancer too. Probably picked it up from you. They don’t know what they’re doing. It’s all guesswork in a white coat.

Here, let me have a few more sips of industrial waste. Ahh.

Maybe I can turn them cancers against one another. That’s what you gotta hope for, you know — that you get more than one cancer, so they eat each other up instead of you. In fact, the way I look at it, the more cancer you got, the healthier you are.

Well, I know, some people don’t like you to talk about those things. I know that. Some people don’t like you to mention certain things. Some people don’t want you to say this, some people don’t want you to say that. Some people think if you mention some things, they might happen. Some people are really (expletive deleted) stupid!

Did you ever notice that? How many really stupid people you run into during the day? (Expletive deleted), there’s a lot of stupid (expletive deleted) people walking around. Carry a little pad and pencil with you, you’ll wind up with 30 or 40 names by the end of the day.

Look at it this way: think of how stupid the average person is, and then realize that half of them are stupider than that.

Organ Donor Programs

Organ donor programs. Does that (expletive deleted) bother you a little bit? Sound like Josef Mengele has been sitting in on some of those meetings or something.

The thing that bothers me the most about it is, they’re run by the motor vehicles bureau. It’s the motor vehicles bureau in most states who sends you the little card you’re supposed to carry right next to your driver’s license in your wallet.

A little card. You’re supposed to fill it out, and on it, you’re supposed to list the organs you’re willing to give in case you die.

Are these people out of their (expletive deleted) minds or something? Do you honestly believe that if a paramedic finds that card on you in an automobile accident, he’s going to try to save your life? (Expletive deleted), he’s looking for parts, man!

Absolutely. “Look Dan, here’s that lower intestine we’ve been looking for. Never mind the oxygen, this man’s a donor.”

(Expletive deleted.) They can have my rectum and my anus. That’s all I’m giving, take ’em and get out of here. Put ’em in your bag and get the (expletive deleted) out of my life. That’s all I’m giving.

I don’t want some guy poking around in me, hoping I die. I want to live, I don’t want to die.

That’s the whole secret of life: not dying! I figured that (expletive deleted) out by myself in the third grade.