I realize that title may just confuse a few people. Those who knew my late father, will have heard him use this unique phrase many, many times, and would only laugh at hearing it again. I suppose I should have written something in this vein on Father's Day, but just didn't feel like doing anything. And since George Carlin was still alive then-it would have seemed a bit weird, maybe.
I saw the obits for Carlin last night, and suddenly felt like crying. George Carlin was one of my father's favorite comedians, along with Redd Foxx, Lenny Bruce, and Richard Pryor. I associate memories of childhood mischief with this man. I saw an HBO special he did, when I was 10-11 years old. Mom was out and my father had won the battle over who got to keep the kid for the day.
Hell, she was going out with my Evil Aunt G. and I wanted no part of that! Evil Aunt G was, and still is, I imagine, since I have refused to speak to her since my father's funeral when she accused my mother of killing him because she no longer wanted to care for him, and nearly gave the young priest (a family friend of a good friend) his own fatal heart attack-was the kind of woman who gave men cancer. Another well-loved phrase of Daddy's-and he ought to know; he was her little brother. I chose to stay with him, and Uncle F., her husband, who had, apparently not coincidentally, cancer.
Uncle F. knew he was dying, as did I, though all the adults in the family refused to face this fact. He had lung cancer-forty plus years of heavy smoking. His breath had that smell, that smell like he was rotting from the inside. I knew that anyone who smelled dead while they still lived, obviously had a serious health problem, and could not fathom why the family all behaved, even when F. was resting, and G. was not in the room, as though it was no worse than when I impaled my arm on a broken chain link fence on the Fourth of July. I brought the BBQ, and parental Anniversary celebration to an abrupt end-though once I was removed from the fence, and it from me, everyone concluded that I would live to injure myself yet another day leading a whole new group of mostly boys through the woods. (Boys always did whatever I told them-it was girls I had to fight. You incapacitate one boy the rest get real cooperative, real fast.) I still have the scar-it went down to the elbow-I'll show it if you ask nicely.
So, I stayed with the men. And when I grew tired of sewing fur coats for my Barbies, painting cells in my graphic novel about six-legged atomic dogs who take over the world with the WWII Naval Base in Bayonne, NJ as their base of operations, disorganizing the color coding system in my mother's shoe closet just to hear her scream, and trying to get my German Shepard to obey telepathic commands in German...I went to go see what the adults were finding so funny.
Laughter like this had been in short supply in recent months, especially from my father and Uncle F. I poked my head around the corner of my parent's bedroom, and suddenly they froze. So of course, I walked right in, and stood in front of the TV. They had a really large bottle of Chivas Regal open on the floor, and both seemed to be deciding if they should make me leave. I looked at my dad, and suddenly he got that expression that preceded his saying something he shouldn't, doing something he shouldn't, or carefully teaching me to do all the things he was punished for in his childhood.
"Come watch. Do not tell, Mommy."
So here's my tribute to them both, in the vein of People Who Need To Be Killed.
People Not Worth The Price of The Gunpowder to Blow Them to Hell.
People who still like George Bush. Dead-enders should be dead. Period.
Nascar fans. Driving in a circle like a gerbil on a treadmill. Not a sport.
Grown women who use baby talk. It sounds bad, looks bad, is bad. You are a woman-not a cartoon character. Hear that Evil Aunt G?
E.D. Hill. Terrorist fist bump? Secret handshake? Does this dumb bitch think they signal attacks with sign language? Should the deaf be sent to Guantanamo?
Britney Spears and anyone related to her.
Carville and Mary Matlin. Two people that obnoxious, irksome and ugly should not have sex! They have bred!!
James Dobson, Pat Robertson, John Hagee...The Handmaid's Tale was a novel not an instructional manual.
People who tan themselves brown, and beach their hair white. EWWW!
Artists who use personal family details in their so-called art. Boundaries? Respect? Know those words?
Competitive eaters? Why? Gluttony is not a sport either.
Parents who use their baby carriages like battering rams. Is this why you fuckers had a child? So you can barrel down the street, and run over pedestrians.
Cheap rich people. Learn manners. Learn consideration. Learn where your wallet is!
The entire congress. Stop them before the white horse becomes a senator.
The bastards who stole 57,000 lbs of chicken from the FoodBank in Delaware.
People with "Empathy Deficit Disorder"? Being a selfish ass is not a disorder.
The geniuses who thought re-making The Day the Earth Stood Still with Keanu, and changing the plot was a good idea. Recall the Anne Heche/Vince Vaughn version of Psycho?
(I'm sure I'll think of more...)