George Carlin: Complaints & Grievances (2001) - full transcript

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?

Yeah, that's our
latest mindless cliché,

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,
look 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.