by George Carlin
George is dead now.
He would prefer the bluntness of that statement to "George has passed on," or, "George is in a better place," or "George expired." He'd rant about the latter, how he's not a friggin egg, or curdled milk. He'd like dirt nap. He'd like the sportiness of kicked the bucket and would kill himself exploring where the fuck that one came from.
George Carlin is one of my heroes and went kaput, croaked, cashed it in, liquidated. Went bye-byes.
Gone to the big shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker-motherfucker-tits in the sky.
I can't believe tits makes the list.
But before he became at room temperature he wrote his autobiography. Tony Hendra had to fix it up a bit before publication but it's all George. What I especially like about it is the no-joke frankness about his life. As many memoirs do, it begins with his Irish-Catholic childhood of meager means. He then tells the story of a guy who nearly lost his soul making an ass of himself in television for over a decade before finding a more genuine voice. His genuine voice is something I like about America.
As a kid I would borrow my friend Brian's Carlin albums and secretly study (obsess over) the filth and wisdom. I couldn't believe my ears. I could not believe that someone was saying those things about language, society, Congress, the President, the church, himself... me. His voice, replayed over and over again in secret, saved me from living a clean, wholesome life that would not be my own. And now, to read in his memoirs that some nut job had saved him from the same fate makes me feel a part of something really fucking important.
Thanks George for all the "flashy word shit."