George Carlin: Complaints & Grievances (2001) Movie Script
Thank you.
I really appreciate it.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Hey,
hey,
hey.
You know.
You know,
you know, something people don't
talk about in public any more,
pussy farts.
Anyway, once again,
for me it is HBO time.
We're back at the Beacon Theater
by the way for the third time in a row.
And I'd do as some of you know
this is the 12th show.
I've been doing them since 1977.
It usually takes me about two.
Two and a half years,
and that means for the last couple of years
I've been out floating around,
bouncing around the cities and the towns
in this country,
and the theaters and concert halls.
Working on my stuff.
Probably been in your hometown
a couple of times since the last time I saw you.
Hey, you know me,
if they got a zip code,
I'll fucking be there.
Busy as a dyke in a hardware store.
Did you ever notice up on a barn
they got a weather vane up on a barn?
And by the way I don't do transitional material.
You probably picked that up right away.
I just kind of go right into the next thing,
and at this moment. We're on barns.
But you ever notice up there
they got that weather vane.
And usually it's a rooster or a cock.
It's the same animal. Really, you know.
It's just a different name.
You know why they got a
cock on the weather vane?
Because if they had a cunt,
the wind would blow right through it.
Well, a lot of people don't know that.
That's why I travel around so much.
I'm here to entertain and inform.
Reminds me of something
my grandfather used to say to me.
You know. He'd look at me and he'd say,
I'm going upstairs and fuck your grandma.
He's just a really honest man, you know.
He wasn't going to
bullshit a four-year-old.
Now. Folks.
Before we get too far along here tonight,
there's something we got to talk about.
Everybody knows what it is.
It's in the air.
It's in the city,
and naturally I'm talking about
the events of September 11
and everything that's happened since that time.
And the reason we have to
talk about it is otherwise.
It's like the elephant in the living room
that nobody mentions.
I mean, yeah, there it is.
Sitting on the fucking couch
and nobody says a word.
It's like, if you're at a formal garden party
and you go over to the punchbowl
and you notice floating
around there's a big turd
and nobody says a word about it, you know.
Nobody says, lovely party, Jeffrey,
but there's a turd in the punchbowl.
So we got to talk about it.
If nothing else
just to get it out of our way
so we can have a little fun here tonight,
because otherwise the terrorists win.
Don't you love that stuff?
Go out and buy some jewelry and a new car,
otherwise the terrorists win.
Those business assholes
really know how to take advantage, don't they?
So here's what I'm thinking folks,
by now, everybody's supposed to know
that when it comes to survival.
Staying alive, that you know,
you have to be, you can't
be too picky and choosy
about the company you're going to keep.
Sometimes you have to cooperate
with some kind of unsavory people,
people you don't like,
people you don't trust,
people you don't respect,
the kind of people
you might not even invite into your own home.
So for that reason. Tonight I'm announcing
my intention to cooperate
with the United States government.
I'm even thinking of lending my support
to Governor Bush.
Good old Governor Bush.
I'm hoping he does a good job.
If he does, may we might think of
electing him President in 2004, okay?
Now. The reason for my decision
is a fairly simple one,
I mentioned it already, survival, okay.
And in order to learn that, Mother Nature, yeah.
Always took my cue from nature.
I realized some time ago
that I'm not separate from nature
just because I have a primate brain,
an upper brain.
Because underneath the primate brain
there's a mammalian brain.
And beneath the mammalian brain
there's a reptilian brain.
And it's those two lower brains
that made the upper brain
possible in the first place.
Here's the way it works.
The primate brain says, give peace a chance.
The mammalian brain says, give peace a chance,
but first let's kill this motherfucker.
And the reptilian brains says,
let's just kill the motherfucker.
Go to the peace rally and get laid.
Because the first obligation,
the first obligation of any organism
is to survive.
The second is to reproduce.
Survival is more important than fucking.
Pacifism is a nice idea.
But it can get you killed.
We're not there yet folks,
evolution is slow.
Smallpox is fast.
Now, the government has asked all of us
to come up with suggestions
and ideas that we might have
to help them to fight terrorism.
That will give you an idea of how much shit
they have on the shelf.
And like any good citizen,
I'm ready with my suggestions.
Now. First of all.
Overseas in Afghanistan,
I think you have to use
the most powerful weapon you have,
in this case.
Chemical warfare of a type never used before.
And I'm talking about
the flatulent airborne reaction team.
F-
A- R-T. Fart.
Here's what you do,
you take thousands of overweight male
NFL football fans.
Thousands of them.
We're going to start with a nucleus
of Giants fans and Jets fans.
Got to start with that nucleus.
Now, it might be necessary
to include some Bills fans and Eagles fans, too.
This is war.
You can't be choosy.
And I'm also thinking about getting
some of those big fat cocksuckers
who root for the teams in the NFC Central.
Chicago Bears fans,
Green Bay Packer fans,
guys who eat a lot of bratwurst.
And all these guys have to be over 200 pounds.
What you do is for 30 days
you put them on a diet
of nothing but cheese, cabbage and beer.
That's all they get for 30 days.
For many of these men,
this will not be a new diet.
You fill them up with
cheese and cabbage and beer
and you drop them into Afghanistan
where they commence chemical warfare
of the highest order.
You send three-man fart squads
into every cave and tunnel in Afghanistan,
just send them in there.
And then ya,
smoke them out.
These good citizens
will release horrendous, deadly farts,
the kind of fart that could kill cancer.
The kind of fart that comes in handy if
you have something that needs welding.
The kind of fart that if you let one go at home,
30 minutes later your plants are all yellow.
The kind of fart that after two or three days
you begin to realize
there are no more birds in your neighborhood.
A fart that would eat the
stitching out of Levis.
Can I get away with one more fart joke here?
The kind of fart whereby
the Centers for Disease Control
declares your pants a level 5 biohazard.
That takes care of overseas.
That's overseas.
On the domestic side.
In this country,
and before I tell you my
plan for the domestic side.
I want to. Because it does come from
a kind of New York frame of mind
I want to mention my New York credentials.
And they are as follows.
I was born on this island. Manhattan island.
Therefore I was born in New York City,
New York County and New York State.
City, county and state, and besides that.
And on top of that I was
born at New York Hospital
on East 63rd Street.
But here's the capper, something you don't know.
You know where I was conceived?
Rockaway beach.
Rockaway, that's right,
in a hotel on Beach 116th
Street called Curley's Hotel.
1936, so if you hear
or see anything later on about New York.
You'll know my credentials are in good order.
Here's what you do domestically.
You take Don Imus' advice.
And you tell this Tommy Thompson and Tom Ridge,
good try, nice going, we'll see you later,
and in charge of the whole domestic thing,
you put Rudolph Guiliani,
an Italian from Brooklyn,
okay?
Okay.
Now. Let's have a little fun here tonight.
Let's do the show that I was planning on
right up till September 10.
And it starts by me explaining to you,
me explaining to you that
a lot of you know this already,
I don't talk about myself
very much in these shows,
you know, it's really not my style.
But I had an incident in traffic recently
that I think I ought to tell you about.
And there are a couple of things about me
you ought to know first.
I drive kind of recklessly,
I take a lot of chances.
I never repair my vehicles.
And I don't believe in traffic laws.
So I tend to have
quite a high number of traffic accidents.
And last week I either ran over a sheep
or I ran over a small man
wearing a sheepskin coat.
And I don't know. Because I didn't stop.
I do not stop when I have a traffic accident.
Do you?
No, you can't.
Hey, who has time?
Not me, I hit somebody,
I run somebody over,
I keep moving,
especially if I've injured someone.
I do not get involved in that.
I'm not a doctor.
I've had no medical training.
I'm just another guy, out driving around,
looking for a little fun,
and I can't be stopping for everything.
Well, let's just look at it logically,
let's be logical about it.
If you do stop at the scene of the accident.
All you do is add to the confusion.
These people you ran over
have enough troubles of their own
without you stopping and making things worse.
Leave these people alone.
They've just been in a major traffic accident.
The last thing they need
is for you to stop and get out of your car
and go over to the fire,
because by now it is a fire.
And start bothering them
with a lot of stupid questions.
Are you hurt?
Well. Of course. They're hurt,
look at all the blood.
You just ran over them
in a ton and a half of steel.
Of course, they're hurt,
leave these people alone.
Haven't you done enough?
For once in your life, do the decent thing,
don't get involved.
Well, in the first place,
it's none of your business,
none of your business.
The whole thing took place outside of your car.
Legally speaking, these people you ran over
were not on your property
at the time you ran them over.
They were standing in the street
that is city property,
you are not responsible.
If they don't like it, let them sue the city.
And besides. It happened back there.
It's over now.
Stop living in the past.
Do yourself a favor, count your blessings.
Be glad it wasn't you,
and I'll give you a
practical reason not to stop.
You need a practical reason?
If you do stop, sooner or later
the police are going to show up.
Is that what you want?
Huh?
Waste even more of your time, standing around,
filling out forms,
answering a lot of foolish questions,
lying to the authorities?
And by the way,
who are you to be taking up the valuable time
of the police department.
These men and women are professionals,
they're supposed to be out fighting crimes.
Stop interfering with police.
And besides.
Didn't anyone else see this accident?
Huh?
Are you the only one who
can provide information?
Surely the people you ran over
caught a glimpse of it at the last moment.
So let them tell the police what happened.
They were a lot closer to it than you were.
There's no sense having
two conflicting stories
floating around about the
same dumb ass traffic accident.
Things are bad enough,
people are dead,
families have been destroyed.
Time to get moving.
Now. On the other hand.
If I should be out driving around,
looking for a little fun
and I see an accident.
One that I'm not involved in.
I stop immediately.
Well. I want to get a good look
at what's going on.
I enjoy that sort of thing.
Someone else is injured,
I want to take a look.
I am Curious George.
But people don't like that.
Police don't like it.
They say you're rubber necking.
They say you're blocking traffic.
Never mind that shit.
I want to take a look.
I'm never too busy
that I can't stop to enjoy
someone else's suffering.
And I'll tell you something else,
I'm a big fan of traffic accidents.
You know my favorite accident?
Two buses and a chicken truck
get hit by a circus train
in front of a flea market.
Well. I want to see something interesting.
I'm looking of a neck
sticking out of a gas tank.
If I'm going to take the time to stop,
I expect a couple of fucking laughs.
And if my car should happen
to be in such a position
where I can't quite see what's going on,
can't get a good enough look,
I'm not the least bit shy
about asking the police
to bring the bodies over
a little closer to the car.
Pardon me. Officer. Would you fellows mind
dragging that twisted looking chap
over here a little closer to the car, please?
My wife has never seen anyone
shaped quite like that.
Look at that, sugar lips,
that's his rib cage
sticking out of the glove compartment.
Thank you, Officer, that will be all now.
You can throw him back on the pile.
We'll be moving along,
and off I go onto the highway,
looking for a little fun.
Perhaps a tanker truck
filled with human waste
will explode in front of the Pokemon factory.
I appreciate that, yeah.
Reminds me of something
my third grade teacher said to us.
She said, you show me a tropical fruit,
and I'll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.
No. That wasn't her.
That was a guy I met in the Army.
I always confuse those people.
Now. Folks. This next piece of material's
going to give us a chance to bond.
That's what America's been doing
the last 10. 15 years, bonding.
When they're not networking
or reaching out
or making space for one another.
You'll find them bonding,
and we're going to do that
because this piece of material is about us.
It's about you and me,
you and me,
little things, little things we all know,
common knowledge.
In this case.
Little things we all know about our bodies.
Because everybody's body is different,
but everybody's body's really quite the same.
So there are a lot of little things
about our bodies that we all know
but we never talk about.
That's what interests me.
These are practically universal experiences,
nobody mentions them.
Some of them are disgusting.
Some of them are appallingly revolting
and degrading,
even to the most degenerate mind.
So let's get started with a couple of them.
You ever get lip crud?
You ever get that crud on your lip,
it's kind of a sticky film,
kind of a gooey coating,
you know if it dries a little bit.
It's kind of a cruddy, gummy,
flaky crusty shit kind of thing.
Starts in the corner of your mouth,
works its way on down your lip and if it's
really bad the corners of your mouth
look like parenthesis.
Did you ever have that?
Lip crud.
When you want to get rid of it,
it's a real simple operation, isn't it?
It's low tech shit
thumbnail. That's all you need.
Simple tool, ain't it?
You just scrape that shit off. That's all.
You just scrape it on down, scrape it on down.
Hey, never mind those people at the bus stop,
if they knew anything,
they wouldn't be riding the bus.
Fuck them. Fuck them in the mouth.
Scrape it on down.
Yeah, you just kind of scrape that shit on down
and you take it and you roll
it up into a little ball.
And then you save that son of a bitch.
I save my lip crud.
I save everything that comes off of my body,
don't you?
At least for a little while.
Don't you look at things
when they first come off of you, Huh?
Aren't you curious?
Don't you spend five or ten or 15 minutes
studying something,
trying to figure out what the fuck it is
and what it's doing on you in the first place?
Sure you do.
You don't pull some disgusting looking
growth off of your neck
and throw it directly into the toilet.
You want to know what the fuck it is.
Besides, you never know
when you're going to need parts.
Isn't that true?
Did you ever see these guys on TV?
They're in the hospital.
One guy's waiting for a kidney,
another guy's waiting for a lung.
Fuck you, I've got shit at home.
I've got a freezer full of viable organs.
I have two of everything ready to go.
What do you need, a spleen, an esophagus?
How about a nice used ball bag, huh?
Come on, good condition. One owner.
He only scratched that on Sundays.
Come on and take a chance.
It's true.
You want to know what something is.
You don't spend 15 minutes
peeling a malignant tumor off of your forehead
just to toss it out the window sight unseen
into the neighbor's swimming pool.
No.
You take a good long fucking look at it,
don't you?
Holy shit, look at this thing.
God damn, holy jumping fucking Jesus,
look at this.
Honey, look at this.
Honey, come here, look at this.
Honey, yo.
Hey, yo, honey, yo.
Hey, fuck the
Rice-a-Roni, get in here.
Look at this thing.
Look, this was a part of my head a minute ago.
Not anymore, I pried the bastard off
with paint thinner
and a Phillips head screwdriver.
But look at it. Iook at the colors in it.
It's green, blue, yellow, orange, brown, tan,
Khaki, beige, bronze, olive. Neutral. Black.
Off black, champagne, gold, Navajo white,
turquoise and band-aid color.
Plus it's exactly the same shape as Bosnia,
if you leave out the little section
where the Croatians live.
I'm not throwing this bastard away
it might become a collectible.
Dial up those dickheads on Ebay,
we'll make some fucking money on this thing.
Well, I'll tell you,
it's just natural curiosity,
it's just everyone has it.
You're curious, you're curious about yourself,
you're curious about your body,
so you're curious about little parts
that come off of you.
Toenail clippings are a good example.
Toenail clippings,
and I'm even going to set the scene for you.
You're sitting on the bed at home one night,
and something really shitty comes on TV,
like a regularly scheduled
prime time network program.
You say, well, I'm not going to watch
Raymond Blows the Milkman,
I'm going to clip my fucking toenails.
So you start to clip your toenails,
and every time you clip one of them,
the clipping part flies far away.
Did you ever notice that?
Thoom. Thoom. Thooom.
These things fly all over the bed.
And when you're finished clipping,
you have to gather them all back
into a little pile, don't you?
Yeah, you can't leave them on the bed.
They make little holes in your legs.
You don't need that shit.
You have to gather them
all back into a little pile.
Did you ever notice this?
The bigger the pile gets,
the more pride you have in the pile.
Look at this shit, honey,
the biggest pile of toenail clippings
we've had in this house
since the day the Big Bopper died.
Call the Museum of Natural History,
tell them we have a good idea for a diorama.
And then you look for the
largest toenail clipping of all,
the biggest one you can find,
and you bend it for a while, don't you?
Yes, yes, yes, you do.
You bend it.
You squeeze it,
you play with it.
You have to, you have to.
Why?
Because you can.
Because it's still lively and viable,
there's moisture in it.
It just came off of your body.
It's almost alive.
Did you ever try to
save your toenail clippings overnight, huh?
Did you ever put them in the ashtray,
try to save them till the morning?
It's no good, they're too dry.
You can't bend them in the morning.
Fuck them. Throw them away.
Who needs unbendable toenails. Not me.
Bullshit, fuck you, up yours, get laid.
Eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this.
I don't need parts that badly,
I'm not that sick.
I'm not that sick. Folks.
Yes sir.
That's right.
You got it.
You got it.
Little things.
Little things that come off of you
and your curiosity about them.
Especially if it's something you can't see
while it's still on you.
Know what I mean?
You ever been picking your ass?
You know, just idly,
standing out in the driveway,
picking your ass,
and you come across an object.
Honey, come here.
Want a couple of hits off of this
while it's still fresh?
Let me ask you something.
Did we eat at Kenny Rogers' Restaurant again?
Well. I don't remember ordering anything
that smelled like this.
I believe this is a shit burger.
It smells like a burger,
tastes like shit.
Actually, it smells like Ethel Merman.
Call that Andrew Lloyd Weber fellow
tell him we have a good idea for one of those
fine shows he's always putting on Broadway.
Then give me the scrapbook,
this son of a bitch is going right next
to that toe jam we found at the Gator Bowl.
All because you couldn't see it
while it was still on you.
Here's something else you can't see
while it's still on you,
little scab on the top of your head.
Did you ever have that?
Sure, you have.
A little scab. Top of your head.
Not a big red blood scab
that you get when someone at work.
Hits you in the head
with a fucking Stilson wrench.
Just a little dry spot,
a little scaly spot.
You find it one day by accident
when you're scratching your head.
You come across it as if by good luck.
Oh. Hot shit. A fucking scab.
I love fucking scabs.
This is going to be a lot of fun.
I can't wait to pick off my scab and look at it.
Oh boy, oh boy.
Oh, boy, oh, boy.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.
I can't wait to pick off my scab and put it down
on a contrasting material
such as a black velvet tablecloth
in order to see it in greater relief.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, I can't
wait to pick off my scab.
This is going to be
wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.
It's not going to come off yet.
It's immature.
It's still not ripe,
it's not ready for plucking.
I'll save this for Thursday.
Thursday will be a good day.
I only have a half-day of work on Thursday.
I'll come home early.
I'll masturbate in the kitchen.
And then I'll watch the Montel Williams show.
And then I'll pick off my scab.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, I can't
wait to pick off my scab.
This is going to be a lot of fun.
So you wait, and you wait, and you wait,
and you wait, and you wait.
And you try not to knock it off by accident
with the little plastic comb
you bought in the vending machine
at the Easy Living Motel
with the two skanky looking chicks
who gave you the clap that night.
And now Thursday arrives and it's harvest time.
Harvest time on your head.
You come home early,
you masturbate,
but you do it in your sister's bedroom,
just to give it a little extra thrill.
You know what I mean?
And then you watch the Montel Williams show.
Pretty good topic,
women who take it up the ass for 50 cents.
Well. Not the best show he's ever done.
But you know something?
Not bad. Either.
Now it's time to go get this little bastard,
but you want to go carefully.
You want to pick this scab
off evenly and carefully
around the perimeter of the scab
so that it lifts off all in one piece.
You don't want it to break into pieces.
Who needs a fragmented scab, Not me.
Bullshit, fuck you, up yours, get laid,
eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this,
I don't need parts that
badly, I'm not that sick.
What you really want,
what you really must have,
what you really need is
a complete whole scab you can put down,
study, look at,
makes notes on it.
Perhaps write a series of penetrating articles
for Scab Aficionado Magazine.
Who knows, you might rise to the top
of the scab world in a big hurry,
it's a small community
and they need people at the top.
I sense I've gone too far.
So I quit while I'm ahead,
and I'll change the subject.
This is something I probably told you before,
I never fucked a 10.
Never fucked a 10.
But one night
I fucked five. Twos.
And I think that ought to count.
Here's something you never hear a man say,
Stop sucking my dick
or I'll call the police.
Now, something else a lot of you are aware of.
Those of you with illegal cable hook-ups
will be aware of the fact
that one of the things I like to do on my show
is complain, you know.
It's kind of a motif for me, complaining.
And of course. This weird culture we live in
leaves you no shortage of
things to complain about.
So this next piece of material,
like some good ideas, is fairly simple.
It's just a list of people
who ought to be killed,
starting with these people
who read self help books.
Why do so many people need help?
Life is not that complicated.
You get up, go to work,
you eat three meals,
you take one good shit
and you go back to bed.
What's the fucking mystery?
And the part I really don't understand.
If you're looking for self-help,
why would you read a book
written by somebody else?
That's not self-help,
that's help.
There's no such thing as self help.
If you did it yourself,
you didn't need help.
You did it yourself.
Try to pay attention to the language
we've all agreed on.
And a similar.
A similar mystery to me,
motivation books.
Motivation seminars.
Why would anyone
need to be motivated by someone else?
I say if you lack motivation.
A seminar isn't going to help you.
What you really need
is to be smashed in the head
30 or 40 times with a golf club.
That'll fucking motivate you.
Or else it'll at least
get you up and moving around the room,
you know, locate your socks,
shit like that.
Get the day rolling.
Motivation is bullshit.
If you ask me, this country could use
a little less motivation.
The people who are motivated
are the ones who were causing all the trouble.
Stock swindlers.
Serial killers.
Child molesters,
Christian conservatives.
These people are highly motivated,
highly motivated.
And anyway, I think motivation is overrated.
You show me some lazy prick
who's lying around all day watching game shows
and stroking his penis,
and I'll show you someone
who's not causing any fucking trouble.
Here's another pack of low-grade morons
who ought to be locked into portable toilets
and set on fire.
These people with bumper stickers that say,
we are the proud parents of an honor student
at Franklin School.
Or the Midvale Academy,
or whatever other innocent sounding name
has been assigned to the indoctrination center
where their child has been sent
to be stripped of his individuality
and turned into an obedient soul.
Dead conformist member
of the American consumer culture.
Proud parents, what kind of empty people need
to validate themselves
through the achievements of their children?
How would you like to have to live with
a couple of these misfits?
How's that science project coming along, Justin?
Fuck you, dad.
You simple-minded prick.
Mind your own business and pass the Cheerios.
Here's a bumper sticker 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.
Or 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.
Just be a nice little for a change.
Here's something realistic.
We have a daughter in public school
who hasn't been knocked up yet.
We have a son in public school
who hasn't shot any of his classmates yet.
But he does sell drugs to your honor student.
Plus. He knocked up your daughter.
Then there are the people
who aren't too proud of their children.
We are the embarrassed parents
of a cross-eyed little nitwit
who at the age of 10
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, you know.
Get him to try a little harder next semester.
Here are some more parents
who ought to be beaten with heavy clubs
and left bleeding in the moonlight.
These are the ones
who carry their babies around in these backpacks
or front packs or slings,
or whatever these devices are called.
That are apparently designed
to leave the parents' hands free
to sort through high end merchandise
and reach for their platinum credit cards.
Because it's always these upscale,
yuppie looking Greenpeace,
environmentally conscious
assholes who have them on.
I say, hey, Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers.
I say, hey, Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers.
It's not camping equipment, it's a baby.
Touch the little prick now and then.
He'll thank you for it someday.
These are the same people
who sort their garbage,
jog with their dogs
and listen to Steely Dan.
You just like to take them
out deep in the forest
and disembowel them with a wooden cooking spoon.
Here are some more people
who ought to be smashed across the face
repeatedly with a piece
of heavy mining equipment,
These grown men who refer
to their fathers as my daddy.
You know, yeah.
You hear a lot of this stupid shit in the South,
these rebel assholes.
My daddy, my daddy, my daddy.
Well, you know what my daddy used to say.
My daddy used to say,
blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Oh. He did. Did he?
Well. Wasn't that fucking enlightening.
My daddy used to say fuck your daddy.
Fuck your daddy,
in his wrinkled. Rusted rural country asshole.
Grow up, Billy Joe Carl Bob Danny Frank,
you're not six any more.
More like 9.
Here's another unfortunate pack of mutants
who ought to be penciled in
for a sudden visit from the angel of death,
these guys,
these guys who can't tell you
about a phone call they had
without giving you this shit,
the fucking pinky and the thumb.
Like they attended Mime college,
studied under Marcel Marceau.
So I call her up, you know,
and I'm talking to her.
And she fucking hangs up on me,
so I hang up on her.
And she calls me back.
I fucking hang up again.
I say, hey Bruno, thanks for the visual aid.
But we all understand the
concept of the telephone.
You hold it in your hand,
you talk into it.
Excuse me. Bruno. Incoming call.
Oh, hey, it's for you.
Here's another bunch of puss-headed
telephone cretins.
These self-important techno dicks
who walk around with these
hands free telephone headsets and ear pieces.
Mr. Self Important
doesn't want to be too far from the phone
in case Henry Kissinger calls.
He's got the Dalai Lama on line 2.
I say, hey, Spaceman,
as long as your hands are free.
Reach over here and fondle my balls,
would you, please?
And answering machines,
starting with these people who think it's cute
to let their children
record the outgoing message,
you know?
And you can't understand a word of it.
Because the kid's a fucking imbecile.
Hi, my name is Stacey, I'm 5 years old,
my mommy and daddy aren't home,
but I'm galalgablallamabla.
Beep.
Here's my message, Stacey.
I'm coming over to your house with a big knife.
And I'm going to kill mommy and daddy.
Then I'm going to peel off their skin
and make a funny hat.
After that I'm going to
take out my huge ding dong
and stick it right in your dooooooo.
These are the same parents
who at Christmas time
send you pictures of their children.
Pictures you didn't ask for
and you don't want.
But it is fun throwing the pictures away,
isn't it?
I don't even look at the fucking Christmas card.
Who's this?
Luanne is 12 this year.
Fuck Luanne.
I give a shit how old she is.
Does she have any tits yet?
Send me a picture of Luanne's tits.
Then I know I'm going to
have a happy New Year, too.
Then just to compound your holiday pleasure,
they enclose a family newsletter.
Just what you're hoping for,
news about people you can
barely fucking remember.
We're so proud of Brad,
he's been accepted into dental school.
Yeah, in the Philippines
after four tries.
Fuck Brad and everybody who looks like Brad.
Judging from his picture,
I think he's jerking off too much.
Keep him away from Luanne.
Here's another bunch of genetic defectives
who have been turned loose
on answering machines.
These guys who cannot resist the urge
to put music on their outgoing message.
You know, some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack
and suddenly he's a fucking record producer.
And because he's busy in the basement
jacking off his dog,
I have to listen to substandard music.
And it's always rotten music, you know.
It's either new age,
that pointless meandering zombie noise
played by pseudo spiritual lunatics
who think wind chimes are a musical instrument.
Or else it's soft rock.
Soft rock. That lame ass weak non threatening
suburban white boy junk played by bands
like Men Without Testicles.
Oh. And folks. On these answering machines,
do me a favor. Would you please.
When you record your outgoing message,
don't bother telling me
you can't come to the phone.
I understand that.
Apparently that's why we have these machines.
And don't tell me leave my name and number,
somehow. I figured that out.
And if you work in an office.
Never mind that stuff.
I'm away from my desk.
If you had to take a shit, say so.
Just say, hi, this is Mary Louise,
I had the Mexican Jalapeno bean chile dip,
and I washed it down with a gallon of gin.
I'll be in and out all day.
There are some more people
who ought to be strapped into chairs
and beaten with hammers.
People who wear visors.
Let me ask you something.
What the fuck is the point
in wearing half a hat?
Either get a hat or don't.
No one's interested in the top of your head.
Go back to the store
and tell them to give you the rest of the hat.
They cheated you.
Better still. Get yourself one of them
little Jewish hats
and sew it to your visor.
Then you got yourself
a full-fledged fucking hat, my friend.
Here are some more musical vermin
whose mothers we wish had medical plans
that included abortion.
These singers,
these singers who think they're so special
they only need one name,
Bono, Sting, Jewel, Tiffany, Prince.
What a crock of shit.
Get a fucking last name, would you please.
I got a nice two-word name for you,
pretentious cocksucker.
How do you like that?
Bono, Sting.
It's not bad enough the music sucks.
But with no last name.
You can't find out where they live
to throw a fucking bomb through their window.
It's frustrating.
Here are some more people
who deserve an inoperable tumor
at the base of their spines.
These guys who fly around the world
in a fucking balloon.
You know.
What is this. 1850?
Get a fucking airline ticket, will you, please?
When is the media going to realize,
no one's interested
in some rich trouser stain who's so bored
he's got to fly around in a balloon all day.
I hope the next guy gets hit by lightning.
And flies around in little fart circles.
And lands in a sewage treatment pond
and sinks with the rest of the turds.
Mr. Lighter than Air.
Here is another pack of jackoffs
who ought to be strangled
in front of their children.
People who pay for inexpensive items
with a credit card.
You know. Folks. Take my word for this,
Raisinettes is not a major purchase.
Get some fucking cash together.
No one should be paying a bank
18 percent interest on Tic Tacs.
And you're holding up the fucking line, too,
some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack
waiting to be approved for
a bag of Cheese Doodles.
I need this like I need an infected scrotum.
Get some fucking money.
Next guy ahead of me online
pays for Newsweek with a credit card
is getting stabbed in the eyes.
And I'm getting really sick of guys named Todd.
You know, it's just a goofy fucking name, okay.
Hi, what's your name?
Todd.
I'm Todd.
And this is Blake. And Blair
and Blane and Brent.
Where are all these goofy fucking
boys' names coming from?
Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn.
These are not real names.
Do you want to hear a real name?
Eddie.
Eddie is a real name.
Whatever happened to Eddie?
He was here a minute ago.
Joey and Jackie and Johnnie and Phil.
Bobbie and Tommy and Danny and Bill,
what happened?
Todd.
And Cody
and Dylan
and Cameron
and Tucker.
Hi. Tucker. I'm Todd.
Hi. Todd. I'm Tucker.
Fuck Tucker. Tucker sucks.
And fuck Tucker's friend, Kyle.
There's another soft name for a boy, Kyle.
Soft names make soft people.
I'll bet you anything
that ten times out of ten
Nicky, Vinnie and Tony
will beat the shit out of
Todd, Kyle and Tucker.
Thank you very much.
Here are some more people
with missing chromosomes
who ought to be thrown
screaming from a helicopter.
Gun enthusiasts.
I'm a gun enthusiast.
Oh, yeah, well, I'm a blowjob enthusiast.
Want to see me shoot?
Cock this. And I'll discharge a load for you.
And I'm not against guns.
I'm not one of those mindless
Hollywood cocksuckers.
I'm not against guns, I'm not against bullets,
I'm not even against people shooting each other.
Shit, shooting somebody is
part of the American dream.
I don't care who it is. Parents, teachers, kids,
fuck them. Let them get shot.
Doesn't bother me.
But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers,
before Charlton Heston became President
of these dickless lunatics in the NRA.
They had a different guy.
He's still one of their major spokesmen.
His name is Wayne La Pierre.
What kind of a name for a gun nut
is Wayne La Pierre?
Doesn't it sound a little fruity to you?
Hi, I'm Wayne, I'm a gun person.
Bang-bang.
You know what this prick's name ought to be?
Biff Webster.
Spud Crowley, a man's name.
Chuck Steak.
Here are some more men
who ought to be strapped to a gurney
and castrated with fishing knives.
White guys who shave their heads
completely bald.
They're so ashamed they lost 11 hairs,
they're going to try to turn into
some kind of masculine statement.
I say hey,
you goofy looking baldy headed fuck,
looks good on black guys,
on you, it's ugly, repulsive and disgusting.
You want to be bald. Do what I did.
Wait a while.
Meantime. There's no excuse for running around
looking like a freshly circumcised dick.
And just to wind up
this little group of complaints,
finally this is a group
of social criminals.
These people in the space program.
Nassholes. I call them.
In case you haven't heard.
The latest disaster for the rest of the universe
is that the United States
is going to go to Mars.
Okay, aw, yeah.
We're going to go to Mars. And then of course.
We're going to colonize deep space
with our microwave hot dogs and plastic vomit,
fake dog shit and cinnamon dental floss
and lemon scented toilet paper
and sneakers with lights in the heels,
and all these other impressive things
we've done down here.
Let me ask you this,
What are we going to tell
the intergalactic council of ministers
the first time one of our teenage mothers
throws her newborn baby into a dumpster, huh?
How we going to explain
that to the space people?
How we going to let them know
that our Ambassador was
only late for the meeting,
because his breakfast was cold
and he had to spend half an hour,
punching his wife around in the kitchen.
What are they going to think when they find out
it's just a local custom,
that over 80 million women in the third world
have had their clitorises forcibly removed
in order to reduce their sexual pleasure
so they won't cheat on their husbands.
Can't you just sense how eager
the rest of the universe is for us to show up?
Can't you see them out there?
Folks, here's something else
I got a problem with,
the Ten Commandments.
Here's my problem.
Why are there ten?
You don't need ten.
I think the list of commandments
was deliberately and artificially inflated
to get it up to ten.
It's a padded list.
Here's what they did.
About 5,000 years ago,
a bunch of religious and political hustlers
got together to try to figure out
how to control people,
how to keep them in line.
They knew people were basically stupid
and would believe anything they were told,
so they announced that
God had given them some commandments.
Up on a mountain,
when no one was around.
God had given them the Ten Commandments.
But let me ask you this.
When they were sitting
around making this shit up,
why did they pick ten?
Why ten?
Why not nine, or 11?
I'll tell you why,
because 10 sounds official.
10 sounds important.
They knew if it was 11,
people wouldn't take it seriously.
Say, what, are you kidding me,
the 11 commandments?
Get the fuck out of here.
But 10.
10 sounds important.
10 is the basis for the decimal system.
It's a decade.
It's a psychologically satisfying number,
the top 10, the 10 most wanted.
The 10 best dressed.
So having 10 Commandments
was really a marketing decision.
And to me it's clearly a bullshit list.
It's a political document
artificially inflated to sell better.
I'm going to show you
how you could reduce the number of commandments
and come up with a list
that's a little more workable and logical.
I'm going to start with the first three.
And I'll use the Roman Catholic version
because those are the ones
I was taught as a little boy.
I am the Lord thy God,
thou shalt not have strange gods before me.
Thou shalt not take the name
of the Lord thy God in vain.
Thou shalt keep Holy the Sabbath.
Right off the bat, the first three.
Pure bullshit.
Sabbath day,
Lord's name.
Strange gods.
Spooky language.
Spooky language,
designed to scare and control primitive people.
In no way does superstitious nonsense
like this apply to the lives of intelligent
civilized humans in the 21st Century.
You throw out the first three commandments.
You're down to 7.
Next, honor thy father and mother.
Obedience. Respect for authority.
Just another name for controlling people.
The truth is. Obedience and respect
should not be automatic.
They should be earned.
They should be based on
the parents' performance,
parent's performance.
Some parents deserve respect,
most of them don't, period.
You're down to six.
Now. In the interest of logic,
something religion is very uncomfortable with,
we're going to jump
around the list a little bit.
Thou shalt not steal.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Stealing and lying.
Well, actually these two
both prohibit the same kind of behavior.
Dishonesty, stealing and lying.
So you don't need two of them.
Instead, you combine them and you call it,
thou shalt not be dishonest.
And suddenly, you're down to five.
And as long as we're combining,
I have two others that belong together,
thou shalt not commit adultery,
thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.
Once again, these two prohibit
the same kind of behavior.
In this case. Marital infidelity.
The difference is.
Coveting takes place in the mind,
and I don't think you should outlaw
fantasizing about someone else's wife.
Otherwise what's a guy going to think about
when he's waxing his carrot?
But marital fidelity is a good idea,
so we're going to keep the idea
and call this one.
Thou shalt not be unfaithful.
And suddenly, we're down to four.
But when you think about it.
Honesty and fidelity
are really part of the same overall value.
So in truth.
You could combine the two honesty commandments
with the two fidelity commandments
and give them simpler language,
positive language instead of negative
and call the whole thing,
thou shalt always be honest and faithful.
And we're down to three.
They're going away fast.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods.
This one is just plain fucking stupid.
Coveting your neighbor's goods
is what keeps the economy going.
Your neighbor gets a vibrator that plays,
Oh Come All Ye Faithful.
You want to get one, too.
Coveting creates jobs,
leave it alone.
You throw out coveting, you're down to two now,
the big honesty and fidelity commandment
and the one we haven't talked about yet,
thou shalt not kill.
Murder.
The fifth commandment.
But when you think about it.
When you think about it,
religion has never really
had a big problem with murder.
Not really.
More people have been killed in the name of God
than for any other reason.
All you have to do is look at Northern Ireland.
The Middle East. Kashmir, the Inquisition,
the Crusades. And the World Trade Center
to see how seriously the religious folks
take thou shalt not kill.
The more devout they are,
the more they see murder as being negotiable.
It's negotiable.
It depends.
It depends.
It depends on who's doing the killing
and who's getting killed.
So with all of this in mind.
I leave you with my revised list
of the two commandments.
Thou shalt always be honest and faithful
to the provider of thy nookie,
and thou shalt try real hard not to kill anyone,
unless of course they pray
to a different invisible man
from the one you pray to.
Two is all you need,
Moses could have carried them down the hill
in his fucking pocket.
And if they had a list like that.
I wouldn't mind those folks in Alabama
putting it up on the courthouse wall.
As long as they included
one additional commandment.
Thou shalt keep thy religion to thyself.
Thank you, thank you.
Thank you everybody.
I really appreciate it.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Hey,
hey,
hey.
You know.
You know,
you know, something people don't
talk about in public any more,
pussy farts.
Anyway, once again,
for me it is HBO time.
We're back at the Beacon Theater
by the way for the third time in a row.
And I'd do as some of you know
this is the 12th show.
I've been doing them since 1977.
It usually takes me about two.
Two and a half years,
and that means for the last couple of years
I've been out floating around,
bouncing around the cities and the towns
in this country,
and the theaters and concert halls.
Working on my stuff.
Probably been in your hometown
a couple of times since the last time I saw you.
Hey, you know me,
if they got a zip code,
I'll fucking be there.
Busy as a dyke in a hardware store.
Did you ever notice up on a barn
they got a weather vane up on a barn?
And by the way I don't do transitional material.
You probably picked that up right away.
I just kind of go right into the next thing,
and at this moment. We're on barns.
But you ever notice up there
they got that weather vane.
And usually it's a rooster or a cock.
It's the same animal. Really, you know.
It's just a different name.
You know why they got a
cock on the weather vane?
Because if they had a cunt,
the wind would blow right through it.
Well, a lot of people don't know that.
That's why I travel around so much.
I'm here to entertain and inform.
Reminds me of something
my grandfather used to say to me.
You know. He'd look at me and he'd say,
I'm going upstairs and fuck your grandma.
He's just a really honest man, you know.
He wasn't going to
bullshit a four-year-old.
Now. Folks.
Before we get too far along here tonight,
there's something we got to talk about.
Everybody knows what it is.
It's in the air.
It's in the city,
and naturally I'm talking about
the events of September 11
and everything that's happened since that time.
And the reason we have to
talk about it is otherwise.
It's like the elephant in the living room
that nobody mentions.
I mean, yeah, there it is.
Sitting on the fucking couch
and nobody says a word.
It's like, if you're at a formal garden party
and you go over to the punchbowl
and you notice floating
around there's a big turd
and nobody says a word about it, you know.
Nobody says, lovely party, Jeffrey,
but there's a turd in the punchbowl.
So we got to talk about it.
If nothing else
just to get it out of our way
so we can have a little fun here tonight,
because otherwise the terrorists win.
Don't you love that stuff?
Go out and buy some jewelry and a new car,
otherwise the terrorists win.
Those business assholes
really know how to take advantage, don't they?
So here's what I'm thinking folks,
by now, everybody's supposed to know
that when it comes to survival.
Staying alive, that you know,
you have to be, you can't
be too picky and choosy
about the company you're going to keep.
Sometimes you have to cooperate
with some kind of unsavory people,
people you don't like,
people you don't trust,
people you don't respect,
the kind of people
you might not even invite into your own home.
So for that reason. Tonight I'm announcing
my intention to cooperate
with the United States government.
I'm even thinking of lending my support
to Governor Bush.
Good old Governor Bush.
I'm hoping he does a good job.
If he does, may we might think of
electing him President in 2004, okay?
Now. The reason for my decision
is a fairly simple one,
I mentioned it already, survival, okay.
And in order to learn that, Mother Nature, yeah.
Always took my cue from nature.
I realized some time ago
that I'm not separate from nature
just because I have a primate brain,
an upper brain.
Because underneath the primate brain
there's a mammalian brain.
And beneath the mammalian brain
there's a reptilian brain.
And it's those two lower brains
that made the upper brain
possible in the first place.
Here's the way it works.
The primate brain says, give peace a chance.
The mammalian brain says, give peace a chance,
but first let's kill this motherfucker.
And the reptilian brains says,
let's just kill the motherfucker.
Go to the peace rally and get laid.
Because the first obligation,
the first obligation of any organism
is to survive.
The second is to reproduce.
Survival is more important than fucking.
Pacifism is a nice idea.
But it can get you killed.
We're not there yet folks,
evolution is slow.
Smallpox is fast.
Now, the government has asked all of us
to come up with suggestions
and ideas that we might have
to help them to fight terrorism.
That will give you an idea of how much shit
they have on the shelf.
And like any good citizen,
I'm ready with my suggestions.
Now. First of all.
Overseas in Afghanistan,
I think you have to use
the most powerful weapon you have,
in this case.
Chemical warfare of a type never used before.
And I'm talking about
the flatulent airborne reaction team.
F-
A- R-T. Fart.
Here's what you do,
you take thousands of overweight male
NFL football fans.
Thousands of them.
We're going to start with a nucleus
of Giants fans and Jets fans.
Got to start with that nucleus.
Now, it might be necessary
to include some Bills fans and Eagles fans, too.
This is war.
You can't be choosy.
And I'm also thinking about getting
some of those big fat cocksuckers
who root for the teams in the NFC Central.
Chicago Bears fans,
Green Bay Packer fans,
guys who eat a lot of bratwurst.
And all these guys have to be over 200 pounds.
What you do is for 30 days
you put them on a diet
of nothing but cheese, cabbage and beer.
That's all they get for 30 days.
For many of these men,
this will not be a new diet.
You fill them up with
cheese and cabbage and beer
and you drop them into Afghanistan
where they commence chemical warfare
of the highest order.
You send three-man fart squads
into every cave and tunnel in Afghanistan,
just send them in there.
And then ya,
smoke them out.
These good citizens
will release horrendous, deadly farts,
the kind of fart that could kill cancer.
The kind of fart that comes in handy if
you have something that needs welding.
The kind of fart that if you let one go at home,
30 minutes later your plants are all yellow.
The kind of fart that after two or three days
you begin to realize
there are no more birds in your neighborhood.
A fart that would eat the
stitching out of Levis.
Can I get away with one more fart joke here?
The kind of fart whereby
the Centers for Disease Control
declares your pants a level 5 biohazard.
That takes care of overseas.
That's overseas.
On the domestic side.
In this country,
and before I tell you my
plan for the domestic side.
I want to. Because it does come from
a kind of New York frame of mind
I want to mention my New York credentials.
And they are as follows.
I was born on this island. Manhattan island.
Therefore I was born in New York City,
New York County and New York State.
City, county and state, and besides that.
And on top of that I was
born at New York Hospital
on East 63rd Street.
But here's the capper, something you don't know.
You know where I was conceived?
Rockaway beach.
Rockaway, that's right,
in a hotel on Beach 116th
Street called Curley's Hotel.
1936, so if you hear
or see anything later on about New York.
You'll know my credentials are in good order.
Here's what you do domestically.
You take Don Imus' advice.
And you tell this Tommy Thompson and Tom Ridge,
good try, nice going, we'll see you later,
and in charge of the whole domestic thing,
you put Rudolph Guiliani,
an Italian from Brooklyn,
okay?
Okay.
Now. Let's have a little fun here tonight.
Let's do the show that I was planning on
right up till September 10.
And it starts by me explaining to you,
me explaining to you that
a lot of you know this already,
I don't talk about myself
very much in these shows,
you know, it's really not my style.
But I had an incident in traffic recently
that I think I ought to tell you about.
And there are a couple of things about me
you ought to know first.
I drive kind of recklessly,
I take a lot of chances.
I never repair my vehicles.
And I don't believe in traffic laws.
So I tend to have
quite a high number of traffic accidents.
And last week I either ran over a sheep
or I ran over a small man
wearing a sheepskin coat.
And I don't know. Because I didn't stop.
I do not stop when I have a traffic accident.
Do you?
No, you can't.
Hey, who has time?
Not me, I hit somebody,
I run somebody over,
I keep moving,
especially if I've injured someone.
I do not get involved in that.
I'm not a doctor.
I've had no medical training.
I'm just another guy, out driving around,
looking for a little fun,
and I can't be stopping for everything.
Well, let's just look at it logically,
let's be logical about it.
If you do stop at the scene of the accident.
All you do is add to the confusion.
These people you ran over
have enough troubles of their own
without you stopping and making things worse.
Leave these people alone.
They've just been in a major traffic accident.
The last thing they need
is for you to stop and get out of your car
and go over to the fire,
because by now it is a fire.
And start bothering them
with a lot of stupid questions.
Are you hurt?
Well. Of course. They're hurt,
look at all the blood.
You just ran over them
in a ton and a half of steel.
Of course, they're hurt,
leave these people alone.
Haven't you done enough?
For once in your life, do the decent thing,
don't get involved.
Well, in the first place,
it's none of your business,
none of your business.
The whole thing took place outside of your car.
Legally speaking, these people you ran over
were not on your property
at the time you ran them over.
They were standing in the street
that is city property,
you are not responsible.
If they don't like it, let them sue the city.
And besides. It happened back there.
It's over now.
Stop living in the past.
Do yourself a favor, count your blessings.
Be glad it wasn't you,
and I'll give you a
practical reason not to stop.
You need a practical reason?
If you do stop, sooner or later
the police are going to show up.
Is that what you want?
Huh?
Waste even more of your time, standing around,
filling out forms,
answering a lot of foolish questions,
lying to the authorities?
And by the way,
who are you to be taking up the valuable time
of the police department.
These men and women are professionals,
they're supposed to be out fighting crimes.
Stop interfering with police.
And besides.
Didn't anyone else see this accident?
Huh?
Are you the only one who
can provide information?
Surely the people you ran over
caught a glimpse of it at the last moment.
So let them tell the police what happened.
They were a lot closer to it than you were.
There's no sense having
two conflicting stories
floating around about the
same dumb ass traffic accident.
Things are bad enough,
people are dead,
families have been destroyed.
Time to get moving.
Now. On the other hand.
If I should be out driving around,
looking for a little fun
and I see an accident.
One that I'm not involved in.
I stop immediately.
Well. I want to get a good look
at what's going on.
I enjoy that sort of thing.
Someone else is injured,
I want to take a look.
I am Curious George.
But people don't like that.
Police don't like it.
They say you're rubber necking.
They say you're blocking traffic.
Never mind that shit.
I want to take a look.
I'm never too busy
that I can't stop to enjoy
someone else's suffering.
And I'll tell you something else,
I'm a big fan of traffic accidents.
You know my favorite accident?
Two buses and a chicken truck
get hit by a circus train
in front of a flea market.
Well. I want to see something interesting.
I'm looking of a neck
sticking out of a gas tank.
If I'm going to take the time to stop,
I expect a couple of fucking laughs.
And if my car should happen
to be in such a position
where I can't quite see what's going on,
can't get a good enough look,
I'm not the least bit shy
about asking the police
to bring the bodies over
a little closer to the car.
Pardon me. Officer. Would you fellows mind
dragging that twisted looking chap
over here a little closer to the car, please?
My wife has never seen anyone
shaped quite like that.
Look at that, sugar lips,
that's his rib cage
sticking out of the glove compartment.
Thank you, Officer, that will be all now.
You can throw him back on the pile.
We'll be moving along,
and off I go onto the highway,
looking for a little fun.
Perhaps a tanker truck
filled with human waste
will explode in front of the Pokemon factory.
I appreciate that, yeah.
Reminds me of something
my third grade teacher said to us.
She said, you show me a tropical fruit,
and I'll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.
No. That wasn't her.
That was a guy I met in the Army.
I always confuse those people.
Now. Folks. This next piece of material's
going to give us a chance to bond.
That's what America's been doing
the last 10. 15 years, bonding.
When they're not networking
or reaching out
or making space for one another.
You'll find them bonding,
and we're going to do that
because this piece of material is about us.
It's about you and me,
you and me,
little things, little things we all know,
common knowledge.
In this case.
Little things we all know about our bodies.
Because everybody's body is different,
but everybody's body's really quite the same.
So there are a lot of little things
about our bodies that we all know
but we never talk about.
That's what interests me.
These are practically universal experiences,
nobody mentions them.
Some of them are disgusting.
Some of them are appallingly revolting
and degrading,
even to the most degenerate mind.
So let's get started with a couple of them.
You ever get lip crud?
You ever get that crud on your lip,
it's kind of a sticky film,
kind of a gooey coating,
you know if it dries a little bit.
It's kind of a cruddy, gummy,
flaky crusty shit kind of thing.
Starts in the corner of your mouth,
works its way on down your lip and if it's
really bad the corners of your mouth
look like parenthesis.
Did you ever have that?
Lip crud.
When you want to get rid of it,
it's a real simple operation, isn't it?
It's low tech shit
thumbnail. That's all you need.
Simple tool, ain't it?
You just scrape that shit off. That's all.
You just scrape it on down, scrape it on down.
Hey, never mind those people at the bus stop,
if they knew anything,
they wouldn't be riding the bus.
Fuck them. Fuck them in the mouth.
Scrape it on down.
Yeah, you just kind of scrape that shit on down
and you take it and you roll
it up into a little ball.
And then you save that son of a bitch.
I save my lip crud.
I save everything that comes off of my body,
don't you?
At least for a little while.
Don't you look at things
when they first come off of you, Huh?
Aren't you curious?
Don't you spend five or ten or 15 minutes
studying something,
trying to figure out what the fuck it is
and what it's doing on you in the first place?
Sure you do.
You don't pull some disgusting looking
growth off of your neck
and throw it directly into the toilet.
You want to know what the fuck it is.
Besides, you never know
when you're going to need parts.
Isn't that true?
Did you ever see these guys on TV?
They're in the hospital.
One guy's waiting for a kidney,
another guy's waiting for a lung.
Fuck you, I've got shit at home.
I've got a freezer full of viable organs.
I have two of everything ready to go.
What do you need, a spleen, an esophagus?
How about a nice used ball bag, huh?
Come on, good condition. One owner.
He only scratched that on Sundays.
Come on and take a chance.
It's true.
You want to know what something is.
You don't spend 15 minutes
peeling a malignant tumor off of your forehead
just to toss it out the window sight unseen
into the neighbor's swimming pool.
No.
You take a good long fucking look at it,
don't you?
Holy shit, look at this thing.
God damn, holy jumping fucking Jesus,
look at this.
Honey, look at this.
Honey, come here, look at this.
Honey, yo.
Hey, yo, honey, yo.
Hey, fuck the
Rice-a-Roni, get in here.
Look at this thing.
Look, this was a part of my head a minute ago.
Not anymore, I pried the bastard off
with paint thinner
and a Phillips head screwdriver.
But look at it. Iook at the colors in it.
It's green, blue, yellow, orange, brown, tan,
Khaki, beige, bronze, olive. Neutral. Black.
Off black, champagne, gold, Navajo white,
turquoise and band-aid color.
Plus it's exactly the same shape as Bosnia,
if you leave out the little section
where the Croatians live.
I'm not throwing this bastard away
it might become a collectible.
Dial up those dickheads on Ebay,
we'll make some fucking money on this thing.
Well, I'll tell you,
it's just natural curiosity,
it's just everyone has it.
You're curious, you're curious about yourself,
you're curious about your body,
so you're curious about little parts
that come off of you.
Toenail clippings are a good example.
Toenail clippings,
and I'm even going to set the scene for you.
You're sitting on the bed at home one night,
and something really shitty comes on TV,
like a regularly scheduled
prime time network program.
You say, well, I'm not going to watch
Raymond Blows the Milkman,
I'm going to clip my fucking toenails.
So you start to clip your toenails,
and every time you clip one of them,
the clipping part flies far away.
Did you ever notice that?
Thoom. Thoom. Thooom.
These things fly all over the bed.
And when you're finished clipping,
you have to gather them all back
into a little pile, don't you?
Yeah, you can't leave them on the bed.
They make little holes in your legs.
You don't need that shit.
You have to gather them
all back into a little pile.
Did you ever notice this?
The bigger the pile gets,
the more pride you have in the pile.
Look at this shit, honey,
the biggest pile of toenail clippings
we've had in this house
since the day the Big Bopper died.
Call the Museum of Natural History,
tell them we have a good idea for a diorama.
And then you look for the
largest toenail clipping of all,
the biggest one you can find,
and you bend it for a while, don't you?
Yes, yes, yes, you do.
You bend it.
You squeeze it,
you play with it.
You have to, you have to.
Why?
Because you can.
Because it's still lively and viable,
there's moisture in it.
It just came off of your body.
It's almost alive.
Did you ever try to
save your toenail clippings overnight, huh?
Did you ever put them in the ashtray,
try to save them till the morning?
It's no good, they're too dry.
You can't bend them in the morning.
Fuck them. Throw them away.
Who needs unbendable toenails. Not me.
Bullshit, fuck you, up yours, get laid.
Eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this.
I don't need parts that badly,
I'm not that sick.
I'm not that sick. Folks.
Yes sir.
That's right.
You got it.
You got it.
Little things.
Little things that come off of you
and your curiosity about them.
Especially if it's something you can't see
while it's still on you.
Know what I mean?
You ever been picking your ass?
You know, just idly,
standing out in the driveway,
picking your ass,
and you come across an object.
Honey, come here.
Want a couple of hits off of this
while it's still fresh?
Let me ask you something.
Did we eat at Kenny Rogers' Restaurant again?
Well. I don't remember ordering anything
that smelled like this.
I believe this is a shit burger.
It smells like a burger,
tastes like shit.
Actually, it smells like Ethel Merman.
Call that Andrew Lloyd Weber fellow
tell him we have a good idea for one of those
fine shows he's always putting on Broadway.
Then give me the scrapbook,
this son of a bitch is going right next
to that toe jam we found at the Gator Bowl.
All because you couldn't see it
while it was still on you.
Here's something else you can't see
while it's still on you,
little scab on the top of your head.
Did you ever have that?
Sure, you have.
A little scab. Top of your head.
Not a big red blood scab
that you get when someone at work.
Hits you in the head
with a fucking Stilson wrench.
Just a little dry spot,
a little scaly spot.
You find it one day by accident
when you're scratching your head.
You come across it as if by good luck.
Oh. Hot shit. A fucking scab.
I love fucking scabs.
This is going to be a lot of fun.
I can't wait to pick off my scab and look at it.
Oh boy, oh boy.
Oh, boy, oh, boy.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.
I can't wait to pick off my scab and put it down
on a contrasting material
such as a black velvet tablecloth
in order to see it in greater relief.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, I can't
wait to pick off my scab.
This is going to be
wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.
It's not going to come off yet.
It's immature.
It's still not ripe,
it's not ready for plucking.
I'll save this for Thursday.
Thursday will be a good day.
I only have a half-day of work on Thursday.
I'll come home early.
I'll masturbate in the kitchen.
And then I'll watch the Montel Williams show.
And then I'll pick off my scab.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, I can't
wait to pick off my scab.
This is going to be a lot of fun.
So you wait, and you wait, and you wait,
and you wait, and you wait.
And you try not to knock it off by accident
with the little plastic comb
you bought in the vending machine
at the Easy Living Motel
with the two skanky looking chicks
who gave you the clap that night.
And now Thursday arrives and it's harvest time.
Harvest time on your head.
You come home early,
you masturbate,
but you do it in your sister's bedroom,
just to give it a little extra thrill.
You know what I mean?
And then you watch the Montel Williams show.
Pretty good topic,
women who take it up the ass for 50 cents.
Well. Not the best show he's ever done.
But you know something?
Not bad. Either.
Now it's time to go get this little bastard,
but you want to go carefully.
You want to pick this scab
off evenly and carefully
around the perimeter of the scab
so that it lifts off all in one piece.
You don't want it to break into pieces.
Who needs a fragmented scab, Not me.
Bullshit, fuck you, up yours, get laid,
eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this,
I don't need parts that
badly, I'm not that sick.
What you really want,
what you really must have,
what you really need is
a complete whole scab you can put down,
study, look at,
makes notes on it.
Perhaps write a series of penetrating articles
for Scab Aficionado Magazine.
Who knows, you might rise to the top
of the scab world in a big hurry,
it's a small community
and they need people at the top.
I sense I've gone too far.
So I quit while I'm ahead,
and I'll change the subject.
This is something I probably told you before,
I never fucked a 10.
Never fucked a 10.
But one night
I fucked five. Twos.
And I think that ought to count.
Here's something you never hear a man say,
Stop sucking my dick
or I'll call the police.
Now, something else a lot of you are aware of.
Those of you with illegal cable hook-ups
will be aware of the fact
that one of the things I like to do on my show
is complain, you know.
It's kind of a motif for me, complaining.
And of course. This weird culture we live in
leaves you no shortage of
things to complain about.
So this next piece of material,
like some good ideas, is fairly simple.
It's just a list of people
who ought to be killed,
starting with these people
who read self help books.
Why do so many people need help?
Life is not that complicated.
You get up, go to work,
you eat three meals,
you take one good shit
and you go back to bed.
What's the fucking mystery?
And the part I really don't understand.
If you're looking for self-help,
why would you read a book
written by somebody else?
That's not self-help,
that's help.
There's no such thing as self help.
If you did it yourself,
you didn't need help.
You did it yourself.
Try to pay attention to the language
we've all agreed on.
And a similar.
A similar mystery to me,
motivation books.
Motivation seminars.
Why would anyone
need to be motivated by someone else?
I say if you lack motivation.
A seminar isn't going to help you.
What you really need
is to be smashed in the head
30 or 40 times with a golf club.
That'll fucking motivate you.
Or else it'll at least
get you up and moving around the room,
you know, locate your socks,
shit like that.
Get the day rolling.
Motivation is bullshit.
If you ask me, this country could use
a little less motivation.
The people who are motivated
are the ones who were causing all the trouble.
Stock swindlers.
Serial killers.
Child molesters,
Christian conservatives.
These people are highly motivated,
highly motivated.
And anyway, I think motivation is overrated.
You show me some lazy prick
who's lying around all day watching game shows
and stroking his penis,
and I'll show you someone
who's not causing any fucking trouble.
Here's another pack of low-grade morons
who ought to be locked into portable toilets
and set on fire.
These people with bumper stickers that say,
we are the proud parents of an honor student
at Franklin School.
Or the Midvale Academy,
or whatever other innocent sounding name
has been assigned to the indoctrination center
where their child has been sent
to be stripped of his individuality
and turned into an obedient soul.
Dead conformist member
of the American consumer culture.
Proud parents, what kind of empty people need
to validate themselves
through the achievements of their children?
How would you like to have to live with
a couple of these misfits?
How's that science project coming along, Justin?
Fuck you, dad.
You simple-minded prick.
Mind your own business and pass the Cheerios.
Here's a bumper sticker 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.
Or 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.
Just be a nice little for a change.
Here's something realistic.
We have a daughter in public school
who hasn't been knocked up yet.
We have a son in public school
who hasn't shot any of his classmates yet.
But he does sell drugs to your honor student.
Plus. He knocked up your daughter.
Then there are the people
who aren't too proud of their children.
We are the embarrassed parents
of a cross-eyed little nitwit
who at the age of 10
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, you know.
Get him to try a little harder next semester.
Here are some more parents
who ought to be beaten with heavy clubs
and left bleeding in the moonlight.
These are the ones
who carry their babies around in these backpacks
or front packs or slings,
or whatever these devices are called.
That are apparently designed
to leave the parents' hands free
to sort through high end merchandise
and reach for their platinum credit cards.
Because it's always these upscale,
yuppie looking Greenpeace,
environmentally conscious
assholes who have them on.
I say, hey, Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers.
I say, hey, Mr. And Mrs. Natural Fibers.
It's not camping equipment, it's a baby.
Touch the little prick now and then.
He'll thank you for it someday.
These are the same people
who sort their garbage,
jog with their dogs
and listen to Steely Dan.
You just like to take them
out deep in the forest
and disembowel them with a wooden cooking spoon.
Here are some more people
who ought to be smashed across the face
repeatedly with a piece
of heavy mining equipment,
These grown men who refer
to their fathers as my daddy.
You know, yeah.
You hear a lot of this stupid shit in the South,
these rebel assholes.
My daddy, my daddy, my daddy.
Well, you know what my daddy used to say.
My daddy used to say,
blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Oh. He did. Did he?
Well. Wasn't that fucking enlightening.
My daddy used to say fuck your daddy.
Fuck your daddy,
in his wrinkled. Rusted rural country asshole.
Grow up, Billy Joe Carl Bob Danny Frank,
you're not six any more.
More like 9.
Here's another unfortunate pack of mutants
who ought to be penciled in
for a sudden visit from the angel of death,
these guys,
these guys who can't tell you
about a phone call they had
without giving you this shit,
the fucking pinky and the thumb.
Like they attended Mime college,
studied under Marcel Marceau.
So I call her up, you know,
and I'm talking to her.
And she fucking hangs up on me,
so I hang up on her.
And she calls me back.
I fucking hang up again.
I say, hey Bruno, thanks for the visual aid.
But we all understand the
concept of the telephone.
You hold it in your hand,
you talk into it.
Excuse me. Bruno. Incoming call.
Oh, hey, it's for you.
Here's another bunch of puss-headed
telephone cretins.
These self-important techno dicks
who walk around with these
hands free telephone headsets and ear pieces.
Mr. Self Important
doesn't want to be too far from the phone
in case Henry Kissinger calls.
He's got the Dalai Lama on line 2.
I say, hey, Spaceman,
as long as your hands are free.
Reach over here and fondle my balls,
would you, please?
And answering machines,
starting with these people who think it's cute
to let their children
record the outgoing message,
you know?
And you can't understand a word of it.
Because the kid's a fucking imbecile.
Hi, my name is Stacey, I'm 5 years old,
my mommy and daddy aren't home,
but I'm galalgablallamabla.
Beep.
Here's my message, Stacey.
I'm coming over to your house with a big knife.
And I'm going to kill mommy and daddy.
Then I'm going to peel off their skin
and make a funny hat.
After that I'm going to
take out my huge ding dong
and stick it right in your dooooooo.
These are the same parents
who at Christmas time
send you pictures of their children.
Pictures you didn't ask for
and you don't want.
But it is fun throwing the pictures away,
isn't it?
I don't even look at the fucking Christmas card.
Who's this?
Luanne is 12 this year.
Fuck Luanne.
I give a shit how old she is.
Does she have any tits yet?
Send me a picture of Luanne's tits.
Then I know I'm going to
have a happy New Year, too.
Then just to compound your holiday pleasure,
they enclose a family newsletter.
Just what you're hoping for,
news about people you can
barely fucking remember.
We're so proud of Brad,
he's been accepted into dental school.
Yeah, in the Philippines
after four tries.
Fuck Brad and everybody who looks like Brad.
Judging from his picture,
I think he's jerking off too much.
Keep him away from Luanne.
Here's another bunch of genetic defectives
who have been turned loose
on answering machines.
These guys who cannot resist the urge
to put music on their outgoing message.
You know, some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack
and suddenly he's a fucking record producer.
And because he's busy in the basement
jacking off his dog,
I have to listen to substandard music.
And it's always rotten music, you know.
It's either new age,
that pointless meandering zombie noise
played by pseudo spiritual lunatics
who think wind chimes are a musical instrument.
Or else it's soft rock.
Soft rock. That lame ass weak non threatening
suburban white boy junk played by bands
like Men Without Testicles.
Oh. And folks. On these answering machines,
do me a favor. Would you please.
When you record your outgoing message,
don't bother telling me
you can't come to the phone.
I understand that.
Apparently that's why we have these machines.
And don't tell me leave my name and number,
somehow. I figured that out.
And if you work in an office.
Never mind that stuff.
I'm away from my desk.
If you had to take a shit, say so.
Just say, hi, this is Mary Louise,
I had the Mexican Jalapeno bean chile dip,
and I washed it down with a gallon of gin.
I'll be in and out all day.
There are some more people
who ought to be strapped into chairs
and beaten with hammers.
People who wear visors.
Let me ask you something.
What the fuck is the point
in wearing half a hat?
Either get a hat or don't.
No one's interested in the top of your head.
Go back to the store
and tell them to give you the rest of the hat.
They cheated you.
Better still. Get yourself one of them
little Jewish hats
and sew it to your visor.
Then you got yourself
a full-fledged fucking hat, my friend.
Here are some more musical vermin
whose mothers we wish had medical plans
that included abortion.
These singers,
these singers who think they're so special
they only need one name,
Bono, Sting, Jewel, Tiffany, Prince.
What a crock of shit.
Get a fucking last name, would you please.
I got a nice two-word name for you,
pretentious cocksucker.
How do you like that?
Bono, Sting.
It's not bad enough the music sucks.
But with no last name.
You can't find out where they live
to throw a fucking bomb through their window.
It's frustrating.
Here are some more people
who deserve an inoperable tumor
at the base of their spines.
These guys who fly around the world
in a fucking balloon.
You know.
What is this. 1850?
Get a fucking airline ticket, will you, please?
When is the media going to realize,
no one's interested
in some rich trouser stain who's so bored
he's got to fly around in a balloon all day.
I hope the next guy gets hit by lightning.
And flies around in little fart circles.
And lands in a sewage treatment pond
and sinks with the rest of the turds.
Mr. Lighter than Air.
Here is another pack of jackoffs
who ought to be strangled
in front of their children.
People who pay for inexpensive items
with a credit card.
You know. Folks. Take my word for this,
Raisinettes is not a major purchase.
Get some fucking cash together.
No one should be paying a bank
18 percent interest on Tic Tacs.
And you're holding up the fucking line, too,
some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack
waiting to be approved for
a bag of Cheese Doodles.
I need this like I need an infected scrotum.
Get some fucking money.
Next guy ahead of me online
pays for Newsweek with a credit card
is getting stabbed in the eyes.
And I'm getting really sick of guys named Todd.
You know, it's just a goofy fucking name, okay.
Hi, what's your name?
Todd.
I'm Todd.
And this is Blake. And Blair
and Blane and Brent.
Where are all these goofy fucking
boys' names coming from?
Taylor, Tyler, Jordan, Flynn.
These are not real names.
Do you want to hear a real name?
Eddie.
Eddie is a real name.
Whatever happened to Eddie?
He was here a minute ago.
Joey and Jackie and Johnnie and Phil.
Bobbie and Tommy and Danny and Bill,
what happened?
Todd.
And Cody
and Dylan
and Cameron
and Tucker.
Hi. Tucker. I'm Todd.
Hi. Todd. I'm Tucker.
Fuck Tucker. Tucker sucks.
And fuck Tucker's friend, Kyle.
There's another soft name for a boy, Kyle.
Soft names make soft people.
I'll bet you anything
that ten times out of ten
Nicky, Vinnie and Tony
will beat the shit out of
Todd, Kyle and Tucker.
Thank you very much.
Here are some more people
with missing chromosomes
who ought to be thrown
screaming from a helicopter.
Gun enthusiasts.
I'm a gun enthusiast.
Oh, yeah, well, I'm a blowjob enthusiast.
Want to see me shoot?
Cock this. And I'll discharge a load for you.
And I'm not against guns.
I'm not one of those mindless
Hollywood cocksuckers.
I'm not against guns, I'm not against bullets,
I'm not even against people shooting each other.
Shit, shooting somebody is
part of the American dream.
I don't care who it is. Parents, teachers, kids,
fuck them. Let them get shot.
Doesn't bother me.
But speaking of mindless Hollywood cocksuckers,
before Charlton Heston became President
of these dickless lunatics in the NRA.
They had a different guy.
He's still one of their major spokesmen.
His name is Wayne La Pierre.
What kind of a name for a gun nut
is Wayne La Pierre?
Doesn't it sound a little fruity to you?
Hi, I'm Wayne, I'm a gun person.
Bang-bang.
You know what this prick's name ought to be?
Biff Webster.
Spud Crowley, a man's name.
Chuck Steak.
Here are some more men
who ought to be strapped to a gurney
and castrated with fishing knives.
White guys who shave their heads
completely bald.
They're so ashamed they lost 11 hairs,
they're going to try to turn into
some kind of masculine statement.
I say hey,
you goofy looking baldy headed fuck,
looks good on black guys,
on you, it's ugly, repulsive and disgusting.
You want to be bald. Do what I did.
Wait a while.
Meantime. There's no excuse for running around
looking like a freshly circumcised dick.
And just to wind up
this little group of complaints,
finally this is a group
of social criminals.
These people in the space program.
Nassholes. I call them.
In case you haven't heard.
The latest disaster for the rest of the universe
is that the United States
is going to go to Mars.
Okay, aw, yeah.
We're going to go to Mars. And then of course.
We're going to colonize deep space
with our microwave hot dogs and plastic vomit,
fake dog shit and cinnamon dental floss
and lemon scented toilet paper
and sneakers with lights in the heels,
and all these other impressive things
we've done down here.
Let me ask you this,
What are we going to tell
the intergalactic council of ministers
the first time one of our teenage mothers
throws her newborn baby into a dumpster, huh?
How we going to explain
that to the space people?
How we going to let them know
that our Ambassador was
only late for the meeting,
because his breakfast was cold
and he had to spend half an hour,
punching his wife around in the kitchen.
What are they going to think when they find out
it's just a local custom,
that over 80 million women in the third world
have had their clitorises forcibly removed
in order to reduce their sexual pleasure
so they won't cheat on their husbands.
Can't you just sense how eager
the rest of the universe is for us to show up?
Can't you see them out there?
Folks, here's something else
I got a problem with,
the Ten Commandments.
Here's my problem.
Why are there ten?
You don't need ten.
I think the list of commandments
was deliberately and artificially inflated
to get it up to ten.
It's a padded list.
Here's what they did.
About 5,000 years ago,
a bunch of religious and political hustlers
got together to try to figure out
how to control people,
how to keep them in line.
They knew people were basically stupid
and would believe anything they were told,
so they announced that
God had given them some commandments.
Up on a mountain,
when no one was around.
God had given them the Ten Commandments.
But let me ask you this.
When they were sitting
around making this shit up,
why did they pick ten?
Why ten?
Why not nine, or 11?
I'll tell you why,
because 10 sounds official.
10 sounds important.
They knew if it was 11,
people wouldn't take it seriously.
Say, what, are you kidding me,
the 11 commandments?
Get the fuck out of here.
But 10.
10 sounds important.
10 is the basis for the decimal system.
It's a decade.
It's a psychologically satisfying number,
the top 10, the 10 most wanted.
The 10 best dressed.
So having 10 Commandments
was really a marketing decision.
And to me it's clearly a bullshit list.
It's a political document
artificially inflated to sell better.
I'm going to show you
how you could reduce the number of commandments
and come up with a list
that's a little more workable and logical.
I'm going to start with the first three.
And I'll use the Roman Catholic version
because those are the ones
I was taught as a little boy.
I am the Lord thy God,
thou shalt not have strange gods before me.
Thou shalt not take the name
of the Lord thy God in vain.
Thou shalt keep Holy the Sabbath.
Right off the bat, the first three.
Pure bullshit.
Sabbath day,
Lord's name.
Strange gods.
Spooky language.
Spooky language,
designed to scare and control primitive people.
In no way does superstitious nonsense
like this apply to the lives of intelligent
civilized humans in the 21st Century.
You throw out the first three commandments.
You're down to 7.
Next, honor thy father and mother.
Obedience. Respect for authority.
Just another name for controlling people.
The truth is. Obedience and respect
should not be automatic.
They should be earned.
They should be based on
the parents' performance,
parent's performance.
Some parents deserve respect,
most of them don't, period.
You're down to six.
Now. In the interest of logic,
something religion is very uncomfortable with,
we're going to jump
around the list a little bit.
Thou shalt not steal.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Stealing and lying.
Well, actually these two
both prohibit the same kind of behavior.
Dishonesty, stealing and lying.
So you don't need two of them.
Instead, you combine them and you call it,
thou shalt not be dishonest.
And suddenly, you're down to five.
And as long as we're combining,
I have two others that belong together,
thou shalt not commit adultery,
thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.
Once again, these two prohibit
the same kind of behavior.
In this case. Marital infidelity.
The difference is.
Coveting takes place in the mind,
and I don't think you should outlaw
fantasizing about someone else's wife.
Otherwise what's a guy going to think about
when he's waxing his carrot?
But marital fidelity is a good idea,
so we're going to keep the idea
and call this one.
Thou shalt not be unfaithful.
And suddenly, we're down to four.
But when you think about it.
Honesty and fidelity
are really part of the same overall value.
So in truth.
You could combine the two honesty commandments
with the two fidelity commandments
and give them simpler language,
positive language instead of negative
and call the whole thing,
thou shalt always be honest and faithful.
And we're down to three.
They're going away fast.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods.
This one is just plain fucking stupid.
Coveting your neighbor's goods
is what keeps the economy going.
Your neighbor gets a vibrator that plays,
Oh Come All Ye Faithful.
You want to get one, too.
Coveting creates jobs,
leave it alone.
You throw out coveting, you're down to two now,
the big honesty and fidelity commandment
and the one we haven't talked about yet,
thou shalt not kill.
Murder.
The fifth commandment.
But when you think about it.
When you think about it,
religion has never really
had a big problem with murder.
Not really.
More people have been killed in the name of God
than for any other reason.
All you have to do is look at Northern Ireland.
The Middle East. Kashmir, the Inquisition,
the Crusades. And the World Trade Center
to see how seriously the religious folks
take thou shalt not kill.
The more devout they are,
the more they see murder as being negotiable.
It's negotiable.
It depends.
It depends.
It depends on who's doing the killing
and who's getting killed.
So with all of this in mind.
I leave you with my revised list
of the two commandments.
Thou shalt always be honest and faithful
to the provider of thy nookie,
and thou shalt try real hard not to kill anyone,
unless of course they pray
to a different invisible man
from the one you pray to.
Two is all you need,
Moses could have carried them down the hill
in his fucking pocket.
And if they had a list like that.
I wouldn't mind those folks in Alabama
putting it up on the courthouse wall.
As long as they included
one additional commandment.
Thou shalt keep thy religion to thyself.
Thank you, thank you.
Thank you everybody.