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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.
