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CHAPTER ONE

PEOPLE AHEAD OF ME ON LINE

Here's something I can do without: People ahead of me on the supermarket line who are paying for an inexpensive item by credit card or personal check. People! Take my word for this: Tic Tacs is not a major purchase. And, I get just as discouraged when a guy who's buying a simple jar of spaghetti sauce tries to pay with a letter of credit from the Bank of Liechtenstein. Folks, carry some fuckin' money around, will ya? It comes in handy! No one should be borrowing money from a bank at 18 percent interest to buy a loaf of bread.

And what about these cretins at the airport gift shop who think somehow they're in the Mall of America? It's an airport! I'm standin' there with one newspaper and a pack of gum; I gotta get to my plane. Why does the genetic defective ahead of me choose this moment to purchase a complete set of dishes and a new fall wardrobe? What is this, fuckin' Macy's? And of course, the clerk lady has to carefully wrap each dish separately, but she's working real fast--because she's eighty-nine!! Plus she's from Sri Lanka. The rural part. And now dishman wants to know if it's okay to use Turkish traveler's checks. You know what I do? I steal things. Fuck 'em! I grab a handful of candy bars and six magazines and head for the gate. My attitude? It wasn't their stuff to begin with.

PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE PHASED OUT

X Guys who always harmonize the last few notes of "Happy Birthday."

X People over 40 who can't put on reading glasses without making self-conscious remarks about their advancing age.

X Guys who wink when they're kidding.

X Men who propose marriage on the giant TV screen at a sports stadium.

X Guys in their fifties who flash me the peace sign and really mean it.

X People with a small patch of natural white hair who think it makes them look interesting.

X Guys with creases in their jeans.

X People who know a lot of prayers by heart.

X People who move their lips--when I'm talking!

X Guys who want to shake my hand even though we just saw each other an hour ago.

X A celebrity couple who adopt a Third-World baby and call it Rain Forest.

X Guys who wear suits all day and think an earring makes them cool at night.

X Old people who tell me what the weather used to be where they used to live.

X Men who have one long, uninterrupted eyebrow.

X Guys who wink and give me the peace sign simultaneously.

X People who say, "Knock knock," when entering a room and, "Beep beep," when someone is in their path.

X Fat guys who laugh at everything.

X People who have memorized a lot of TV-show theme songs and are really proud of it.

X Women who think it's cute to have first names consisting solely of initials.

X People who give their house or car a name.

X People who give their genitals a name.

X Guys who can juggle, but only a little bit.

X Actors who drive race cars.

X Men who wear loafers without socks. Especially if they have creases in their jeans.

X Athletes and coaches who give more than a hundred percent.

X Guys who still smell like their soap in the late afternoon.

X Blind people who don't want any help.

X Guys who wear their watches on the inside of their wrists.

X Any man who wears a suit and tie to a ballgame.

X Guys who flash me the thumbs-up sign. Especially if they're winking and making the peace sign with the other hand.

SEVEN THINGS I'M TIRED OF

I'm gettin' tired of guys who smoke pipes. When are they gonna outlaw this shit? Guy with a fuckin' pipe! It's an arrogant thing to place a burning barrier between you and the rest of the world. It's supposed to imply thoughtfulness or intelligence. It's not intelligent to stand around with a controlled fire sticking out of your mouth. I say, "Hey, professor! You want somethin' hot to suck on? Call me! I'll give ya somethin' to put in your mouth!" I think these pipe-smokers oughta just move to the next level and go ahead and suck a dick. There's nothing wrong with suckin' dicks. Men do it, women do it; can't be all bad if everybody's doin' it. I say, Drop the pipe, and go to the dick! That's my advice. I'm here to help.

I'm also sick of car alarms. Not the screeching and beeping; that doesn't bother me. It's just the idea of a car alarm that I find offensive. Especially the ones that talk to you: "Move away! Move away!" "Ohhhh? Really!" That's when I reach for my sharpest key. And I put a deep gouge in that paint job, all the way 'round the car. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I might even make two trips around, if I don't have a luncheon appointment that day. And then I walk away slowly, unconcerned about the screeching and beeping, because I know that no one takes car alarms seriously. Car alarms are a Yuppie-boomer conceit, and they're responsible for most of the carjacking that's going on. Car alarms and The Club have have made it harder for thieves to steal parked cars, and so instead they're stealing cars with people in them, and people are dying. And it's all because these selfish, boomer degenerates can't stand to part with their personal property. Fuck boomers, and fuck their pussified car alarms!

I'm also sick of having to look at bearded guys who don't know how to trim the lower edges of their beards, where they extend back toward the neck. They trim too far up toward the chin, leaving a glaring, fleshy strip where there ought to be hair. Guys, you need to let the beard extend far enough back under your chin, so it reaches the point where your neck begins. Then, from the fold or angle that forms between your jaw and neck, you shave downward. If you don't have that fold; if you have a fat, fleshy pouch under your jaw with no definition, you shouldn't be trimming your beard at all. You should let it grow long and bushy, so it covers that goofy-looking pouch.

And I've just about had it with all these geeky fucks who walk around listening to Walkmans. What are these jack-offs telling us? They're too good to participate in daily life? They're sealing themselves off? Big fuckin' loss. And what is it they're listening to that's so compelling? I think a person has to be fairly uncomfortable with his thoughts to have the need to block them out while simply walking around. I'd love to know how many of these obviously disturbed people become suicides.

I've also grown weary of reading about clouds in a book. Doesn't this piss you off? You're reading a nice story, and suddenly the writer has to stop and describe the clouds. Who cares? I'll bet you anything I can write a decent novel, with a good, entertaining story, and never once mention the clouds. Really! Every book you read, if there's an outdoor scene, an open window, or even a door slightly ajar, the writer has to say, "As Bo and Velma walked along the shore, the clouds hung ponderously on the horizon like steel-gray, loosely formed gorilla turds." I'm not interested. Skip the clouds and get to the fucking. The only story I know of where clouds were important was Noah's Ark.

And I don't appreciate being put on hold and being forced to listen to someone else's radio. I don't even listen to my own radio, why should I have to pay money to call some company and listen to theirs? And it's always that same shit, soft rock! That sucky, non-threatening, easy-listening pussy music. Soft rock is an oxymoron. Furthermore, it's not rock, and it's not even music. It's just soft.

I'm tired of being unable to buy clothing that doesn't have writing and printing all over it. Insipid sayings, pseudo-wisdom, cute slogans, team logos, designer names, brand trademarks, small-business ego trips; the marketing pigs and advertising swine have turned us all into walking billboards. You see some asshole walkin' by, and he's got on a fruity Dodger hat and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. Of course you can't see the shirt if he's wearing his hot-shit Chicago Bulls jacket. The one that only 50 million other loser jock-sniffers own. And since this cretinous sports fan/consumer zombie is completely for sale to anyone, he rounds out his ensemble with FedEx sneakers, ValuJet socks, Wall Street Journal sweatpants, a Starbucks jock strap, and a Microsoft condom with Bill Gates's head on the end of it. No one in this country owns his personal appearance anymore. America has become a nation of obedient consumers, actively participating in their own degradation.

A FEW THINGS I LIKE

X A guy who doesn't know what he's doing and won't admit it.

X A permanently disfigured gun collector.

X A whole lotta people tap dancing at once.

X When a big hole opens up in the ground.

X The third week in February.

X Guys who say "cock-a-roach."

X A woman with no feet, because she's not always nagging you to take her dancing.

KEEP IT CLEAN

I never wash my hands after using a public restroom. Unless something gets on me. Otherwise, I figure I'm as clean as when I walked in. Besides, the sink is usually filthier than I am. I'm convinced that many of the men I see frantically washing up do not do the same thing at home. Americans are obsessed with appearances and have an unhealthy fixation on cleanliness. Relax, boys. It's only your dick. If it's so dirty that after handling it you need to wash your hands, you may as well just go ahead and scrub your dick while you're at it. Tell the truth. Wouldn't you like to see some guy trying to dry his genitals with one of those forced-air blowing machines that are mounted four feet off the ground?

G.C.'S GUIDE TO DINING OUT

RESTAURANTS

There are certain clues that tell you how much a restaurant will cost. If the word cuisine appears in the advertising, it will be expensive. If they use the word food, it will be moderately priced. However, if the sign says eats, even though you'll save some money on food, your medical bills may be quite high.

I don't like trendy food. When I hear, "sauteed boneless panda groin," I know I'm in the wrong place. There's such a thing as pretentious food. Puree of woodchuck, marinated bat nipples, weasel chops, porcupine cacciatore. Or fried eagle. A guy said to me recently, "C'mon, we'll go to Baxter's, they have really great fried eagle." I'm thinkin' to myself, "Do I really wanna know this guy?"

However, if you are going to dine with pretentious people, here are some items you can order that are sure to impress: deep-dish moose balls, diced yak, badger gumbo, gorilla fondue, filet of hyena, jackal tartare, rack of prairie dog, free-range mole en brochette, wolf noodle soup, loin of chipmunk, curried woodpecker, stir-fried weasel, penguin scallopini, sweet-and-sour loon heads, whale chowder, toasted snail penises, koala flambe, wombat souvlaki, grenadine of mule, and candied goat anus.

Then, at the other end of the spectrum, there is the decidedly nontrendy restaurant, where the special sometimes is simply "meat." Big sign in the window: "Today's special: Meat."

"I'll have the meat."

"Would you like sauce with that?"

"What kind of sauce would that be?"

"That would be meat sauce."

It's similar to a fish sandwich. Have you ever seen these places that feature "fish sandwiches"? I always think, "Well, that's kind of general." I mean, I wouldn't order something called a "meat sandwich," would you?" At least not without a couple of follow-up questions: "Does anyone know where this meat came from?" "Are any of the waitresses missing?"

DEALING WITH THE WAITER

I think when you eat out you should have a little fun; it's good for digestion. Simple things. After the waiter recites a long list of specials, ask him if they serve cow feet.

But act really interested in the specials. When he says, "Today we have goat-cheese terrine with arugula juice, sauteed cod with capers and baby vegetables, coastal shrimp cooked in spiced carrot juice, roast free-range chicken with ginger and chickpea fries, and duck breast in truffle juice," act like you're completely involved. Say, "The cod. What is the cod sauteed in?" "A blend of canola and tomato oils." (No hurry here.) "Ahhh, yes! [pointing thoughtfully at the waiter] I'll have the grilled cheese sandwich."

Even some low-end places are pretentious. The menu can't merely say "cheeseburger." They have to get wordy. So, go along with them. When you order your food use their language. But you must look right at the waiter; no fair reading from the menu. Look him in the eye and say, "I'll have the succulent, fresh-ground, government-inspected, choice, all-beef, six-ounce patty on your own award-winning sesame-seed bun, topped with a generous slice of Wisconsin's finest Grade-A cheddar cheese made from only premium milk and poured from large, galvanized steel cans, having originally been extracted from a big, fat, smelly, champion blue-ribbon cow with a brain disease."

Continue that style with other items: Instead of asking for a glass of water, say you'd like a "cylindrical, machine-blown, clear drinking vessel filled with nature's own colorless, odorless, extra-wet, liquid water."

Have fun. Be difficult. Order unusual things: a chopped corn sandwich. Rye potato chips. Filet of bone with diced peas. Peanut butter and jellyfish. Ask for a glass of skim water. Insist on fried milk. Chocolate orange juice. Order a grilled gorgonzola cheese sandwich on whole-wheat ladyfingers. Then top the whole thing off with a bowl of food coloring and a large glass of saturated fat.

Issue special instructions. Ask for the French toast, medium rare. Get a pizza with no toppings, hold the crust. Tell 'em you want eggs: "Fry the whites and poach the yolks." Order a basket of poppy seed rolls and tell them to scrape off the seeds and put them in a separate bowl and heat them to 200 degrees. Keep them busy.

Tell your waiter you want to make a substitution: "Instead of my napkin, I'll have the lobster tails." See what he says. Ask him if the garnish is free. If it is, tell him all you're having is a large plate of garnish.

If they have a salad bar, ask how many times you can go back. If they say as many times as you like, ask for a lawn bag. Come back the next day with a small truck. Tell them you weren't quite finished eating the night before. You're actually within your legal rights, because, technically, no one is ever finished eating.

Ask him if the chef would mind preparing a dish that's not on the menu. Then describe something simple but unusual. Like half a coconut filled with egg whites. When the waiter comes back and says, "Yes, the chef said he will be delighted to make that for you," tell him, "Well, never mind, I don't like that anymore."

Giving the waiter your drink order can be fun. If you're alone, show the guy you're a real man. "Gimme a glass of napalm and paint thinner straight up." Be an individualist; order a gin and hot chocolate. If you're with a date, be sophisticated. Say, "I'll have a rum and goat juice with a twist of cucumber on dry ice." Always order your date's drink; that's very romantic. Especially if you're trying to get laid. "The lady will have a martini, a glass of wine, two zombies, and a beer. And do you have any quaaludes?"

By the way, if your date is complaining of constipation, order her a prune margarita with a twist of Feenamint.

When the food arrives, change your mind. Say, "I've changed my mind, waiter. Instead of the roast suckling pig, I believe I'll have a half order of Kellogg's Product 19."

And always, when the food arrives, send something back. It's considered very sophisticated. But make sure you use colorful language. Tell him, "Waiter, this veal tastes like the inside front panel of Ferdinand Magellan's shorts. And I'm referring to the first voyage."

Show him you're a man of new ideas. When he comes with the pepper mill, refuse the pepper, but tell him to sprinkle some dandruff on your food.

Actually, the pepper mill can be a source of great fun. Keep the waiter going on the pepper mill for a long time. Disturbingly long. Like, for about fifteen minutes. Until everyone in the restaurant is really uncomfortable. Then, when your food and silverware are completely covered with a thin layer of ground pepper, say, "Okay, stop! That's perfect!" Then, a few minutes later, call the waiter over and tell him, "This food has way too much pepper on it!"

Now that you have your food, the waiter can begin to ask you if everything is all right. "Is everything all right?" "Yes. Thank you. Good-bye!" Some waiters are very persistent. I had one call me at home the following day. "Did the food stay down?"

Usually, when they ask me if everything is all right, I'll tell them the truth. I say, "Well, I had a problem with the peas. I received 143 peas. Of them, 36 were overcooked, 27 were undercooked, and 18 were not quite the same color as the others."

Or I'll tell them more than they really want to know. "No, everything is not all right. I'm going through a period of upheaval. I have a rogue polyp in my bowel, my wife ran off with a periodontist, and my son has been arrested for defecating in a mall."

And always fill out the "How did we do?" card. It's very helpful to the owner. "Everything was wonderful, except the waiter had some vomit on his shoes and a tiny snot on the end of his nose. It was small, but it was definitely a snot."

I hope these pointers and suggestions will enhance your next experience dining out. Tell 'em George sent you.