“Here’s another thing we say to the surviving spouse, ‘I’m keeping him in my thoughts.’ Where? Where exactly in your thoughts does he fit? In between ‘my ass hurts from this chair’ and ‘let’s fuck the waitress’?”—George Carlin (via percy-)
Boss introduces new employee and gives her a new name that only has the first letter in common with her actual Middle Eastern name because she can’t say her real name. Made me feel embarrassed, ashamed, frustrated.
Is my new favorite word. “Brogressive,” of course, covers most of the same territory, and is also funny. But it is not quite as funny as “manarchist.” And it’s more useful, particularly when you’re hearing from Assange fans. Because, as they will remind you, they’re not liberals, maaaan. They’re, like, radicals. And you’re a total statist whore. SMASH THE STATE! AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S FACE, IF SHE WON’T MAKE YOU DINNER.
“Our findings demonstrate that sexist humor is not simply benign amusement. For men who have sexist attitudes it can create a perceived social norm of tolerance of discrimination against women, and as a result, increase personal tolerance of discrimination against women and even increase willingness to engage in sexist behavior without fears of disapproval.”—
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”—Eliot Rosewater’s baptism of Mary Moody’s twins, from God Bless You Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (via portraitoftheartistasatumblr)
I no longer identify with my species. I haven’t for a long time. I identify more with carbon atoms. I don’t feel comfortable or safe on this planet. From the standpoint of my work and piece of mind, the safest thing, the thing that gives me most comfort, is to identify with the atoms and the stars and simply contemplate the folly of my fellow species members. I can divorce myself from the pain of it all. Once, if I identified with individuals I felt pain; if I identified with groups I saw people who repelled me. So now I identify with no one. I have no passion anymore for any of them, victims or perpetrators, Right or Left, women or men. I’m still human. I haven’t abandoned my humanity, but I have put it in a place that allows my art to function free of entanglements.
My job is to watch the ludicrous dance down here from the humor and entertainment it provides and drop in every now and then to show my former species how fucked up they are.
Years ago I began to recede past Jupiter and its moons, out to the Oort cloud of trillions of comets, beyond the planet formerly known as Pluto, back home with my fellow atoms. All of which originally came from some start or other, and not necessarily the one we’re circling.
I believe I am bigger than the universe, smaller than the universe and equal to it. I’m bigger than the universe because I can picture it, define it in my mind and everything that’s in it and contain all that in my mind in a single thought. A thought that’s not even the only one in there: it’s right between “Shit, my ass itches!” and “Why don’t we fuck the waitress?”
That thought, with all the others, is inside the twenty-three-inch circumference of my cranium. So I’m bigger than the universe. I’m smaller than it because that’s obvious: I’m five foot nine and 150 pounds and the universe is somewhat taller and heavier. I’m equal to it because every atom in me is the same as every atom the universe is made of. I’m part of that protogalaxy five billion light years away and of that cigarette butt in Cleveland. There are no differences, we’re equal. Unlike our fake democracy, the democracy of atoms is real.
Depending on my given mood on a given day, I can reflect on one of these three relationships for a moment or two and find comfort in it. And know that I’m really at one with the universe and will return to it on a more fundamental level someday — my reunion with it — and all the rest is a journey, a game, a comedy, a parade…
After I die I’d love to be fired into space. That’s probably not practical given the crowded nature of the upper atmosphere. So one of the codicils of my will is: “I, George Carlin, being of sound mind, do not wish, upon my demise, to be buried or cremated. I wish to be BLOWN UP!”
“I think that life would suddenly seem wonderful to us if we were threatened to die.
Just think of how many projects, travels, love affairs, studies: IT: our life, hides from us, made invisible by our laziness which, certain of a future, delays them incessantly. But let all this threaten to become impossible forever, how beautiful it would become again!
Ah, if only the cataclysm doesn’t happen at this time, we won’t miss visiting the new galleries of the Louvre, throwing ourselves at the feet of Miss X, making a trip to India.
The cataclysm doesn’t happen, we don’t do any of it, because we find ourselves back in the heart of normal life, where negligence deadens desire. And yet we shouldn’t have needed the cataclysm to love life today, it would’ve been enough to think that ‘we are humans’, and that death may come this evening.”
“The idea of the noble savage is that primitive things are better. So African drums are better than Beethoven. Which may have something to it, until you hear too much rap music, and then you think primitive things should be banned.”—My professor trying to make a joke in an undergrad political science class, in the middle of a lesson about how evolutionary psychology might prove that there actually are cognitive differences between the races and sexes. Made me feel powerless to speak up. (via microaggressions)