Brain Droppings

Brain droppings
by George Carlin
A leather-bound, signed first edition of this book has been published by The Easton Press.
Copyright ® 1997, Comedy Concepts, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
r reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the
Pubisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information address
Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.
Book Design by Spinning Egg Design Group, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carlin, George. Brain droppings / George Carlin.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7868-6313-7 1. American wit and humor. I. Title.
PN6162.C275 1997 818′.5402—dc21 96-52373 CIP
Paperback ISBN: 0-7868-8321-9
FIRST PAPERBACK EDITION J 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

This book is dedicate

AUOIOWLEDOIlEinS

I would like to acknowledge the invaluable assistance and direction I received from my (very first) editor in assembling this book. Laurie Abkemeier took the many disparate items I turned in and somehow fashioned a coherent book. Her calm, professional style also helped keep my inner maniac somewhat in check. Somewhat. Thank you, Laurie.

This would also be a good time to acknowledge and express gratitude for the wise and careful guidance my career has received over the past 15 years from Jerry Hamza. His judgment, generosity, and belief in my career’s long-term potential have helped me reach a level I never expected. It isn’t often a performer can say his manager is also his best friend. I can. By the way, it helps a little that Jerry’s inner maniac is even weirder than mine.

And finally, a sincere thank you to my first boss in radio, Joe Monroe, who, when I was 18, told me always to write down my ideas and save them. He also gave me my start. Thanks, buddy.

“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.. ..
“No artist is pleased. . . . [There is no] satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”
—Martha Graham to Agnes de Mille, Martha: The Life and Work of Martha Graham
“We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words.”
—Kahlil Gib ran, Sand and Foam

PREFACE

For a long time, my stand-up material has drawn from three sources. The first is the English language: words, phrases, sayings, and the ways we speak. The second source, as with most comedians, has been what I think of as the “little world,” those things we all experience every day: driving, food, pets, relationships, and idle thoughts. The third area is what I call the “big world”: war, politics, race, death, and social issues. Without having actually measured, I would say this book reflects that balance very closely.

The first two areas will speak for themselves, but concerning the “big world,” let me say a few things.

I’m happy to tell you there is very little in this world that I believe in. Listening to the comedians who comment on political, social, and cultural issues, I notice most of their material reflects an underlying belief that somehow things were better once and that with just a little effort we could set them right again. They’re looking for solutions, and rooting for particular results, and I think that necessarily limits the tone and substance of what they say. They’re talented and funny people, but they’re nothing more than cheerleaders attached to a specific, wished-for outcome.

I don’t feel so confined. I frankly don’t give a fuck how it all turns out in this country—or anywhere else, for that matter. I think the human game was up a long time ago (when the high priests and traders took over), and now we’re just playing out the string. And that is, of course, precisely what I find so amusing: the slow circling of the drain by a once promising species, and the sappy, ever-more-desperate belief in this country that there is actually some sort of “American Dream,” which has merely been misplaced.

; E 0 R C E CARLIN

The decay and disintegration of this culture is astonishingly amus-ng if you are emotionally detached from it. I have always viewed it rom a safe distance, knowing I don’t belong; it doesn’t include me, ind it never has. No matter how you care to define it, I do not iden-ify with the local group. Planet, species, race, nation, state, religion, )arty, union, club, association, neighborhood improvement committee; have no interest in any of it. I love and treasure individuals as I meet hem, I loathe and despise the groups they identify with and belong to.

So, if you read something in this book that sounds like advocacy )f a particular political point of view, please reject the notion. My nterest in “issues” is merely to point out how badly we’re doing, not :o suggest a way we might do better. Don’t confuse me with those who :ling to hope. I enjoy describing how things are, I have no interest in low they “ought to be.” And I certainly have no interest in fixing hem. I sincerely believe that if you think there’s a solution, you’re )art of the problem. My motto: Fuck Hope!

P.S. Lest you wonder, personally, I am a joyful individual with a ong, happy marriage and a close and loving family. My career has :urned out better than I ever dreamed, and it continues to expand. I im a personal optimist but a skeptic about all else. What may sound :o some like anger is really nothing more than sympathetic contempt. view my species with a combination of wonder and pity, and I root “or its destruction. And please don’t confuse my point of view with :ynicism; the real cynics are the ones who tell you everything’s gonna )e all right.

P.P.S. By the way, if, by some chance, you folks do manage to straighten things out and make everything better, I still don’t wish to )e included.

brain (typings

brain droppings
PEOrLC AHEAD OF HE On LIHE

Here’s something I can do without: People ahead of me on the supermarket line who are paying for an inexpensive item by credit card or personal check. People! Take my word for this: Tic Tacs is not a major purchase. And, I get just as discouraged when a guy who’s buying a simple jar of spaghetti sauce tries to pay with a letter of credit from the Bank of Liechtenstein. Folks, carry some fuckin’ money around, will ya? It comes in handy! No one should be borrowing money from a bank at 18 percent interest to buy a loaf of bread.

And what about these cretins at the airport gift shop who think somehow they’re in the Mall of America? It’s an airport! I’m standin’ there with one newspaper and a pack of gum; I gotta get to my plane. Why does the genetic defective ahead of me choose this moment to purchase a complete set of dishes and a new fall wardrobe? What is this, fuckin’ Macy’s? And of course, the clerk lady has to carefully wrap each dish separately, but she’s working real fast—because she’s eighty-nine!! Plus she’s from Sri Lanka. The rural part. And now dish-man wants to know if it’s okay to use Turkish traveler’s checks. You know what I do? I steal things. Fuck ‘em! I grab a handful of candy bars and six magazines and head for the gate. My attitude? It wasn’t their stuff to begin with.

GEORGE CARLIN
ME W rtUSEDO
X Guys who always harmonize the last few notes of “Happy
Birthday.” >
X People over 40 who can’t put on reading glasses without rnakin’g self-conscious remarks about their advancing age. - ‘?’.’
X Guys who wink when they’re kidding.
X Men who propose marriage on the giant TV screen at a sports stadium.

Guys in their fifties who flash me the peace sign and really mean it. People with a small patch of natural white hair who think it makes them look interesting.

Guys with creases in their jeans.

People who know a lot of prayers by heart.

People who move their lips—when I’m talking!

Guys who want to shake my hand even though we just saw each other an hour ago.

A celebrity couple who adopt a Third-World baby and call it Rain Forest.

Guys who wear suits all day and think an earring makes them cool at night.

Old people who tell me what the weather used to be where they used to live.

brain d r o p p ings

Men who have one long, uninterrupted eyebrow. !

Guys who wink and give me the peace sign simultaneously.

People who say, “Knock knock,” when entering a room and, “Beep beep,” when someone is in their path.

Fat guys who laugh at everything.

People who have memorized a lot of TV-show theme songs and are really proud of it.

Women who think it’s cute to have first names consisting solely of initials.

People who give their house or car a name. People who give their genitals a name. Guys who can juggle, but only a little bit. Actors who drive race cars.

Men who wear loafers without socks. Especially if they have creases in their jeans.

Athletes and coaches who give more than a hundred percent. Guys who still smell like their soap in the late afternoon. Blind people who don’t want any help. Guys who wear their watches on the inside of their wrists. Any man who wears a suit and tie to a ballgame.

Guys who flash me the thumbs-up sign. Especially if they’re winking and making the peace sign with the other hand.

GEORGE CARLIN

b r a

droppings

I’m gettin’ tired of guys who smoke pipes. When are they & gonna outlaw this shit? Guy with a fuckin’ pipe! It’s an arrogant thing to place a burning barrier between you and the rest of the world. It’s supposed to imply thoughtfulness or intelligence. It’s not intelligent to stand around with a controlled
0 fire sticking out of your mouth. I say, “Hey, professor! You want somethin’ hot to suck on? Call me! I’ll give ya somethin’
\ to put in your mouth!” I think these pipe-smokers oughta just move to the next level and go ahead and suck a dick. There’s nothing wrong with suckin’ dicks. Men do it, women do it; can’t be all bad if everybody’s doin’ it. I say, Drop the pipe, and go to the dick! That’s my advice. I’m here to help.
0 I’m also sick of car alarms. Not the screeching and beep-
ing; that doesn’t bother me. It’s just the idea of a car alarm that I find offensive. Especially the ones that talk to you: “Move away! Move away!” “Ohhhh? Really!” That’s when I reach for my sharpest key. And I put a deep gouge in that . paint job, all the way ’round the car. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I might even make two trips around, if I don’t have a luncheon appointment that day. And then I walk away slowly, unconcerned about the screeching and beeping, because I know that no one takes car alarms seriously. Car
fy alarms are a Yuppie-boomer conceit, and they’re responsible for most of the carjacking that’s going on. Car alarms and The Club have have made it harder for thieves to steal parked cars, and so instead they’re stealing cars with people in them,

and people are dying. And it’s all because these selfish,
k boomer degenerates can’t stand to part with their personal
property. Fuck boomers, and fuck their pussified car alarms!
6

I’m also sick of having to look at bearded guys who . don’t know how to trim the lower edges of their beards, where they extend back toward the neck. They trim too far up toward the chin, leaving a glaring, fleshy strip where u there ought to be hair. Guys, you need to let the beard extend far enough back under your chin, so it reaches the point where your neck begins. Then, from the fold or angle that forms between your jaw and neck, you shave downward. If you don’t have that fold; if you have a fat, fleshy pouch under your jaw with no definition, you shouldn’t be trimming your beard at all. You should let it grow long and bushy, so it covers that goofy-looking pouch.

And I’ve just about had it with all these geeky fucks who walk around listening to Walkmans. What are these jack-offs
» telling us? They’re too good to participate in daily life? They’re sealing themselves off? Big fuckin’ loss. And what is it they’re listening to that’s so compelling? I think a person has to be fairly uncomfortable with his thoughts to have the need to block them out while simply walking around. I’d
5 love to know how many of these obviously disturbed people become suicides.

I’ve also grown weary of reading about clouds in a book. Doesn’t this piss you off? You’re reading a nice story, and suddenly the writer has to stop and describe the clouds. Who

G E 0 R G E C A R L I N
cares? I’ll bet you anything I can write a decent novel, with b a good, entertaining story, and never once mention the clouds. Really! Every book you read, if there’s an outdoor scene, an open window, or even a door slightly ajar, the writer has to say, “As Bo and Velma walked along the shore,
^ the clouds hung ponderously on the horizon like steel-gray, loosely formed gorilla turds.” I’m not interested. Skip the
». clouds and get to the fucking. The only story I know of where clouds were important was Noah’s Ark.

And I don’t appreciate being put on hold and being forced to listen to someone else’s radio. I don’t even listen to my own radio, why should I have to pay money to call some . A company and listen to theirs? And it’s always that same shit, soft rock! That sucky, non-threatening, easy-listening pussy music. Soft rock is an oxymoron. Furthermore, it’s not rock, and it’s not even music. It’s just soft.

I’m tired of being unable to buy clothing that doesn’t have A writing and printing all over it. Insipid sayings, pseudo-wisdom, cute slogans, team logos, designer names, brand trademarks, small-business ego trips; the marketing pigs and advertising swine have turned us all into walking billboards. You see some asshole walkin’ by, and he’s got on a fruity Dodger 0 hat and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. Of course you can’t see the shirt if he’s wearing his hot-shit Chicago Bulls jacket. The one that only 50 million other loser jock-sniffers own. And since this cretinous sports fan/consumer zombie is completely for sale to anyone, he rounds out his ensemble with FedEx sneakers, ValuJet socks, Wall Street Journal sweatpants, a Starbucks jock