Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, Tits

What a sad, shitty day. It's raining outside, seems like it has been for weeks, and now a hero of mine is dead. George Carlin was 71, and if there is an afterlife, he's probably rolling his eyes and pantomiming beat-off gestures behind God's back right about now.

My friend Joel first turned me on to George through his book "Brain Droppings". Of course I had heard of him before, but reading this book was truly one of the seminal moments of my life. It's crass, and his literary style leaves much to be desired, but the ideas... holy shit. Just the sheer fact that one person could be such a confident, logical, unapologetic atheist blew my mind. I was a junior in high school, working at a movie theater, and my life basically revolved around watching movies for free and trying to scam older people to buy me beer. I was also about to be confirmed in the Catholic Church, and these questions and ideas were in my mind, somewhere, trolling below the surface, never showing their face. This book, and George, brought them out front and center, slapped me in the face with them, but most of all legitimized them to me. Maybe I'm not the crazy one for doubting that there's some magical man who lives in the sky and hears all of our thoughts all at the same time. This doesn't seem logical to me, but I'm the crazy one? Fuck that and fuck everyone else who tries to make me think so.

With George and his writing and monologues, it wasn't the actual dogma that he preached, but the way he preached it. He was one of the rare cats that was able to cut out all of the stupid bullshit surrounding him, look internally and think, truly think for himself. That why his shows were so entertaining: you knew you were seeing something special, the unfettered, unfiltered internal dialogue and thought process of a truly creative, intelligent person. George had an uncanny ability to hold up a mirror to us, as a society, and show us how truly fucking ridiculous we are. He was, and is, completely unique, as many acts have tried to rip him off, but they only come off as hacky and sad, and it lifts up the brilliance of his performances even more. If you don't know what the title of this post means, you need to Google that shit. It's his life's work summed up in seven words, and there are far, far worse legacies to leave.

The world is a worse place for him not being in it, and I'll miss him. My writing can't really do him justice, so listen to the words of the man himself- and enjoy.

George On Religion:


The Seven Dirty Words (I think he was pretty coked up here... in fact, I'm sure of it):

RIP, George.

John Locke Changes Lives

The following is a verbatim text-message conversation I had with my Attorney, Pope.

Pope: Dude. I just watched the season finale of Lost. What. The. Fuck!?

Ghost: Right? Sooo fucking sweet. No way Locke is dead, either. Also found out the dude who plays Locke is from the U.P. (Ed. Note- Thanks Ade!)

Pope: He better not be fucking dead! Hell Yeah! Think he'd come drink with us in Esky?

Ghost: Oh he would put down a double shot of Wild Turkey then lightening quick throw a knife across the room into an Indian's head.

Pope: And then wrestle a bear! How did the bear get into the bar and why is it wearing a Mexican wrestling mask? Don't know and don't care.

Ghost: In his defense, that bear had just fallen on hard times- just lost his job and caught Mrs. Bear fucking a black bear-

Pope: Well he WAS drunk on the job and kept nagging Mrs. bear about her hibernation weight.

Ghost: ... so he took a degrading carnival job as a heel wrestling vagrants and hobos for table scraps and was hitting the bottle pretty hard. Locke put him in a choke hold and changed his life.

Pope: Then we'd all have ice cream sundaes. And by "ice cream" I mean "whiskey" and by "sundae" I mean "sandwich". That's how Locke does.

Ghost: Whiskey Sandwiches?!? All that great, smooth whiskey flavor now in sandwich form? Fucking sweet!

Pope: Locke took two great things and made them into one!

Ghost: All hail John Locke!

Are You A Religious Man, Mr. Pierce?

This crying, despondent, crippled wretch of a poor soul you see here is Paul Pierce of the Boston Celtics. What led up to this pitiful display of a grown man crying in public was Pierce coming down awkwardly on his right knee, then immediately crumpling to the ground in agony. It was terrible to watch, like Barbaro breaking his leg and knowing that he was imminently going to be shot. Only, you know, they would tell the other Celtics they gave Paul away to a nice elderly couple who owned a farm, so he would have lots of room to run around and play on his knee, which totally wasn't shredded.

In fact, ABC ratcheted up the drama scare by following Pierce as he was rushed to the locker room in a wheelchair, Michelle Tafoya, Danny Ainge and Ric Bucher following breathlessly behind. It was sad to see an athlete work his entire professional life to get to this point, this pinnacle, right to the edge of being a champion, only to see it all so unfairly ripped away with what appears to be such a dramatic, season-ending, possibly even career-ending injury on such a public stage. Because based on his reaction, and the fact that he had to have his teammates literally carry him off of the court, it had to be that serious.

So now the Celtics will be without Paul Pie- wait... oh, my God. Incredible! Shades of Willis Reed! Pierce is coming back into the game! The crowd is going nuts! It's an Act of God! DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?!?!?!

No, actually, I don't. I don't believe in miracles, and for Pierce to have that kind of reaction, literally crying on the court, as a grown man when one of his legs is hurt to have his teammates take him by his legs and back and put him in a wheelchair, the grimace and the pain showing on his face, then to have him come back in the game and run without a noticeable limp? No fucking way. Here's the man himself:

Said Pierce: "I thought I tore something; that's the way I felt at the time. Usually when I go down, I'm getting right back up, but it was an instance where I turned my knee and it popped, and I was just in pain where I couldn't move."

No, Paul, you usually don't get right up. My new nickname for you is "The Farmer", because you milk every goddamn foul and incidental contact to comical extremes.

Paul Pierce is a whiny, faking bitch. I don't know exactly why he did it, but I have noticed all through these playoffs Pierce is probably the biggest over-reactor to contact or being fouled by far, and that includes Rasheed Wallace and Rip Hamilton. Maybe it was to have an excuse if he sucked, maybe it's just to elicit sympathy. Either way, if he gets beat on D, he falls down and lays there, giving the impression he was bowled over by some obviously non-called offensive foul. He'll lay there with his arms in the air and his eyes agog until his teammates pick him up. After he came back in the game last night, he was fouled by Kobe on a jump shot, Kobe's forearm brushed his face, and he ran around covering his face and grimacing as if he had a red-hot poker shoved into his orbital socket.

Pierce is like that guy you play pick-up hoops with, the one who acts all badass and has all the most expensive, up-to-date gear, but every time he's touched he thinks to make the point he was fouled has to limp around or flop like a fish out of water or pretend that hand you brushed by his abdomen knocked the wind out of him so bad he can't breathe, let alone get up. Then if you call him out on it, you're the jerk for being so callous! I hate that asshole. And Paul Pierce is that asshole.

Well no more. I'm on to your shenanigans, Paul Pierce, you shady bastard. You're like Manu Ginobili only with no bald spot. Don't know why nobody has caught onto this yet, but they will. Especially the next time Kobe blows by you on D and you fall to the ground, crying and grabbing your groin, telling everyone in earshot you pulled your vagina. Not buying it.