“I got just the place for low-cost housing - I have solved the problem. I know where we can build houses for the homeless. Golf courses.”
I have absolutely no sympathy for human beings whatsoever. None. No matter what kind of problem humans are facing, whether it’s natural or man-made, I always hope it gets worse.
I can do an eon standing on my head.
Wasn’t that Paulie Walnuts?
No, it’s from the Purgatory part of Carlin’s Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and Limbo routine. It’s on either Class Clown or Occupation: Foole, I can’t remember which.
How come when it’s us its and abortion and when it a chicken it’s an omelette?
Weather forecast for tonight: dark. Continued dark overnight, with widely scattered light by morning.
“Get “on” the plane”? Fuck that, I’m going to get in the plane.
A 71 is just a 69 with two fingers up your ass.
There’s a condition in combat. Most people know about it. It’s when a fighting person’s nervous system has been stressed to its absolute peak and maximum. Can’t take anymore input. The nervous system has either (click) snapped or is about to snap.
In the first world war, that condition was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables, shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was seventy years ago. Then a whole generation went by and the second world war came along and very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now. Takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Fatigue is a nicer word than shock. Shell shock! Battle fatigue.
Then we had the war in Korea, 1950. Madison Avenue was riding high by that time, and the very same combat condition was called operational exhaustion. Hey, we’re up to eight syllables now! And the humanity has been squeezed completely out of the phrase. It’s totally sterile now. Operational exhaustion. Sounds like something that might happen to your car.
Then of course, came the war in Viet Nam, which has only been over for about sixteen or seventeen years, and thanks to the lies and deceits surrounding that war, I guess it’s no surprise that the very same condition was called post-traumatic stress disorder. Still eight syllables, but we’ve added a hyphen! And the pain is completely buried under jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ll bet you if we’d of still been calling it shell shock, some of those Viet Nam veterans might have gotten the attention they needed at the time. I’ll betcha. I’ll betcha.
His name’s Ball Sniffer. He’s a crotchhound.
SEAT! It’s a goddamn seat! Check. Around. Your seat.
Have you ever noticed the women who are against abortion are the ones you wouldn’t want to fuck in the first place?
Sadly, George is right about this.
Sounds like something Limbaugh would say.
I never fucked a ten. But one night I fucked FIVE TWOS!!!
Maybe he is. But how would he know? Or you?
Don’t know per se, but I agree with Carlin’s overall point: language has become too flowery/euphemistic.
OK Sheriff, we’re gonna fuck you now. But we’re gonna fuck you slow.