Now George Carlin (who died Sunday) will find out if God really loves him — or, for that matter, if He even exists. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for both.
So the Denzel Washington movie “The Great Debaters” flopped at the box office. Don’t you think it would have done better if it was called “The Master Debaters”?
Attention, fat people: you’re not fooling anyone by wearing black…. We know you’re fat. “Hey, is that a fat guy?” “I can’t tell; his black clothing is blending into the ether.” If you don’t want to look fat, it’s simeple — lose weight.
Never follow a fat man carrying the Sunday Times into the bathroom.
PORN
Occasionally masturbate with your left hand. There are three bonuses: 1) It’ll feel like you’re getting a handjob from a stranger. 2) With time, you could become ambidextrous. 3) It’ll free your dominant hand for the mouse.
If you don’t have cable porn, try the Spanish channels. They have gotten me through some really rough patches.
POLITENESS
Never ask someone how he’s doing if you think he might tell you how he’s doing.
Never look a gift-horse in the mouth. Be a man and look him in the eye!
HOUSE CLEANING TIME-SAVERS
Get carpets the color of dust.
Eat everything on napkins over your kitchen sink.
If you’re patient, the Environmental Protection Agency will clean it up.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Face it, you’re fucking damned.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth after it’s eaten an Oreo cookie.
Spare the rod, spoil a potentially interesting evening.
Don’t bite off more than you can chew unless someone else is paying the bill.
Don’t cry over spilt milk. Get even!
If you can’t beat ‘em, make up vicious lies about ‘em.
It’s better to give a shit than to take a shit.
History repeats itself, so don’t worry if you missed it the first time.
Judge not, lest ye be judged. Unless you’re a judge.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice, I’m coming to your fucking house with a baseball bat. Enough with the damn fooling already!
Every night, as I work on my computer — yes, work — out of the corner of my eye, I watch this tiny football-shaped bug crawl up the wall. He comes out at the same time, about 2 a.m., and at the same location, right behind my pen and pencil holder (for the sake of this story, let’s assume it’s the same bug). I’ve been known to go to extremes — busting lamps, hurling shoes, spraying Lysol, jumping up and down like a man on fire — to kill an insect. If he was one of those creepy-crawlies with a thousand hair-like legs, he would have been bug paste long ago. But he’s small enough and harmless enough that I leave him alone. In his persistence and consistency, he’s rather endearing. All of this makes tonight’s event so much more tragic. About an hour ago, I watched him again trudging up my wall, toward the “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” movie poster. All seemed right — then, without warning, he plunged to his death*. It truly looked like he leaped, as he kind of suddenly popped off the wall by about an inch, hurtling to the doom below. Bugs, in my experience, usually have sure footing, so I must call this what it is: an insecticide. Let it be known to the bug population that this is one insect death in my apartment that I had nothing to do with — whatever mental anguish afflicted upon him by the things he witnessed in my room notwithstanding, of course.
(* I say this really for dramatic effect. Bugs, in my experience, are pretty resilient, and tomorrow night I might see my tiny roommate again. God willing.)
Have you ever heard this, the worst advice in history: Live every day like it’s your last? Imagine that. I know that if I lived every day like it was my last, it wouldn’t last more than one day.
Here’s my itinerary for the last day of my life:
Wake up.
Quit my job.
Confess to crimes I didn’t commit. “Oh, that unsolved double murder in the park last summer? That was me.”
Eat four dozen Boston creme donuts.
Vomit.
Eat another four dozen Boston creme donuts.
Empty out my bank account. Buy as much porn as I can afford. Watch all the porn.
Burn all my credit card bills.
Head over to the White House. Urinate on President Bush.
Kill some people I don’t like.
Write my will. Nah, screw that. Let relatives fight battle-royale style for my possessions.
Finally try one of those hot dogs at 7-Eleven. What would I have to lose at this point?
Wait for the authorities to pick me up. Or wait to die. Whatever comes first.
The moral: If you have only one day left to live, take advantage of it.