Napalm & Silly Putty

  Then, barely fifteen years later, we got into Vietnam, and, thanks to the deceptions surrounding that war, it’s no surprise that the very. same condition was referred to as “post-traumatic stress disorder.” Still eight syllables, but we’ve added a hyphen, and the pain is completely buried under jargon: post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ll bet if they had still been calling it “shell shock,” some of those Vietnam veterans might have received the attention they needed.

  But it didn’t happen, and one of the reasons is that soft language; the language that takes the life out of life. And somehow it keeps getting worse.

  Here are some more examples. At some point in my life, the following changes occurred:

  toilet paper = bathroom tissue

  sneakers = running shoes

  false teeth = dental appliances

  medicine = medication

  information = directory assistance

  the dump = the landfill

  motels = motor lodges

  house trailers = mobile homes

  used cars = previously owned vehicles

  room service = guest room dining

  riot = civil disorder

  strike = job action

  zoo = wildlife park

  jungle = rain forest.

  swamp = wetlands

  glasses = prescription eyewear

  garage = parking structure

  drug addiction = substance abuse

  soap opera = daytime drama

  gambling joint = gaming resort

  prostitute = sex worker

  theater = performing arts center

  wife beating = domestic violence

  constipation = occasional irregularity

  Health

  When I was a little boy, if I got sick I went to a doctor, who sent me to a hospital to be treated by other doctors. Now I go to a “family practitioner,” who belongs to a “health maintenance organization,” which sends me to a “wellness center ”to be treated by “health-care delivery professionals.”

  Poverty

  Poor people used to live in slums. Now “the economically disadvantaged ”occupy “substandard housing ”in the “inner cities.” And a lot of them are broke. They don’t have “negative cash flow.” They’re broke! Because many of them were fired. In other words, management wanted to “curtail redundancies in the human resources area, ”and so, many workers are no longer “viable members of the workforce.” Smug, greedy, well-fed white people have invented a language to conceal their sins. It’s as simple as that.

  Government

  The CIA doesn’t kill anybody, they “neutralize ”people. Or they “depopulate ”an area. The government doesn’t lie, it engages in “disinformation.” The Pentagon actually measures nuclear radiation in something called “sunshine units.” Israeli murderers are called “commandos, ”Arab commandos are called “terrorists.” The contra killers were known as “freedom fighters.” Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight?

  Physical Disorders

  And some of this softened language is just silly and embarrassing. On the airlines they say they’re going to preboard “passengers in need of special assistance.” Cripples. Simple, honest, direct language. There’s no shame attached to the word “cripple.” No shame. It’s a word used in Bible translations: “Jesus healed the cripples.” It doesn’t take six words to describe that condition.

  But we don’t have cripples anymore; instead we have the “physically challenged.” Is that a grotesque enough evasion for you? How about “differently abled?” I’ve actually heard cripples referred to as differently abled. You can’t even call them handicapped anymore. They say, “We’re not handicapped, we’re handi-capable.” These poor suckers have been bullshitted by the system into believing that if you change the name of the condition, somehow you’ll change the condition. Well, it doesn’t happen that way.

  I’m sure you’ve noticed we have no deaf people in this country. “Hearing impaired.” And no one’s blind. “Partially sighted ”or “visually impaired.” And thank God we no longer have stupid children. Today’s kids all have “learning disabilities.” Or they’re “minimally exceptional.” How would you like to be told that about your child? Actually, it sounds faintly positive.

  “He’s minimally exceptional.”

  “Oh, thank God for that, I guess.”

  Best of all, psychologists now call ugly people “those with severe appearance deficits.” Things are so bad that any day I expect to hear a rape victim referred to as an unwilling sperm recipient.

  Gettin’ Old

  Of course, it’s been obvious for some time that there are no old people in this country. They all died, and what we have are “senior citizens.” How’s that for a lifeless, typically American, twentieth-century phrase? There’s no pulse in a “senior citizen.”

  But that’s a term I’ve come to accept. That’s what old people are going be called. But the phrase I will continue to resist is when they describe an old person as being “ninety years young.” Imagine how sad the fear of aging that is revealed in that phrase. To be unable even to use the word “old ”;to have to use its antonym.

  And I understand the fear of aging is natural; it’s universal, isn’t it? No one wants to get old, no one wants to die. But we do. We die. And we don’t like that, so we bullshit ourselves.

  I started bullshitting myself when I reached my forties. I’d look in the mirror, and say, “Well, I guess I’m getting …’older!’ “ Older sounds better than old, doesn’t it? Sounds like it might even last a little longer. Bullshit. I’m getting old. And it’s okay. But the Baby Boomers can’t handle that, and remember, the boomers invented most of this soft language. So now they’ve come up with a new life phase: “preelderly.” How sad. How relentlessly sad.

  Gettin’ Dead

  But it’s all right, folks, because thanks to our fear of death, no one has to die; they can all just pass away. Or expire, like a magazine subscription. If it happens in the hospital, it will be called a terminal episode. The insurance company will refer to it as negative patient-care outcome. And if it’s the result of malpractice, they’ll say it was a therapeutic misadventure.

  To be honest, some of this language makes me want to vomit. Well, perhaps “vomit ”is too strong a word. It makes me want to engage in an involuntary, personal protein spill.

  BEER AND POT

  When I was young, most kids in my neighborhood drank beer before they discovered pot. Everybody drank first. Saturday night we drank beer and puked on our shoes. It was an Irish neighborhood. Drink and puke, that was it. A great American tradition. It still goes on today.

  Then in 1950, when I was thirteen, we heard about pot. We discovered that on pot you didn’t stagger, you didn’t puke on your shoes, and your breath didn’t smell. Which was important. Because, as a kid, when you came home from drinking there were two breath smells that could give you away: alcohol and puke.

  So, we found that when you smoked pot, you could withstand your mother’s closest scrutiny. Because, let’s face it, you had come home drunk so often wearing someone else’s clothing that your mother was now openly asking to smell your breath.

  “Come here, mister! Let me smell the breath. Ahhh! No booze or puke. That’s a good boy. What’s that under your arm?”.

  “Two boxes of Oreos.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  “Good night, Ma.”

  Cool.

  HIGH ON THE PLANE

  Airlines disappoint me. Why don’t they have a fight attendant whose job it is to hand out drugs? They’re certainly aggressive enough when it comes to alcohol. Even before the meal begins they’re in the aisles: “Champagne, red wine, white wine?” Can’t they spare one person to wander around muttering, “Coke? Smoke? Chance to get high. Crank? Acid? Smack? You’re high in the plane, now get high on the plane!”

  For me, on a long fight it used to be that gettin’ high was half the
fun. Hell, even a short fight. Lockin’ myself in the bathroom, firin’ up a joint. That’s what flyin’ was all about. Now you can’t smoke anything at all, not even a good old-fashioned ready-roll. They have smoke detectors. Jesus! The people in this country have really become a pack of fearful, ignorant sheep. Everybody’s a God-fearing, law-abiding ass-hole now. Fair warning, my friend: if you’re gonna smoke a joint on the airplane these days, you better be an old pro.

  In the old days I always did my pot-smoking in the forward lavatory, because I fantasized that the mirror was two-way, and the crew could see me. I can’t help it, I just like an audience. But I knew my manners; I always offered the crew a hit or two. I’d make little gestures with the joint toward the mirror. “C’mon, boys, lighten up. Life isn’t all azimuth indicators.” Never any takers; real straight folks up there.

  Now, I’m sure all of you high-minded, non-chance-takers out there are thinkin’, “What about the smell? Doesn’t the bathroom fill up with pot smoke?” Well, folks, this is where a background in physics comes in handy. Follow me closely on this.

  Before the airlines introduced those fancy new toilets, the ones that tear your genitals off when they flush, the old toilets, in order to control odors, had a slow, steady stream of air that flowed from the lavatory itself down into the bowl. And you could increase the speed of that air flow by simply sitting on the toilet, thereby reducing the size of the air passage down to that little wedge-shaped space between your thighs. Narrower channel, stronger flow. And your cheeks acted as a gasket, sealing off the rest of the opening.

  Then, if you carefully pointed a lit cigarette down into the toilet between your thighs, all the smoke got sucked away into that mysterious, blue-chemical void. No smoke, no smell, no problem. By the way, I cannot overemphasize the importance of the word carefully in the above sentence.

  Of course, not all planes had equally strong airflow, so a system test was always in order. A good physicist never proceeds without checking conditions. In this case, we use a common match. A lit match, quickly extinguished, produces a small, visible wisp of smoke. If the match is held deep in the bowl, one can observe whether that smoke is sucked straight downward or rises gently back into the lav. In the former case all systems are “go, ”in the latter case the No Smoking sign is wisely observed. Unless, of course, we decide to go to Plan B. One must always have a backup.

  And so, we turn our attention to the sink. The sink is a magnificent device: it fills with water, holds it awhile, and then, when the drain is released, it empties. And on an airplane, when it empties it is helped along by what? Why, it’s helped along by our old friend, Mr. Air Pressure! And, whaddaya know, just by pressing down on the drain-release plunger we can produce an even stronger flow of air than we can with the toilet, because the sink drain is so much smaller. A quick test with a lit match confirms this.

  But remember, the drain-release lever is spring-loaded, and therefore if the air flow is to remain constant, the plunger must remain depressed and open during the entire period the joint is lit. And that means we have to prop the drain cap open by wedging some object underneath it. A matchbook cover, or perhaps one of those little bars of soap the airlines used to leave near the sink. Isn’t science fun?

  All right, gang, we’re almost ready to light up and get wasted, but there is still one further consideration. If you’re going to smoke a joint while seated on the toilet (as opposed to standing up, leaning down into the sink), at some point, you have to decide whether or not you should pretend to be taking a shit. In other words, whether or not to pull your pants down.

  If you really have to take a shit at the time, that’s great; you’re all set. But if you don’t, you have a decision to make. Because, although ethically there is nothing wrong with taking a fake shit, in a practical sense if the crew thinks you’ve been in there too long, and they decide to break down the door, you want to be sure that when they arrive you appear to be taking a genuine shit. Don’t forget, they’re going to check. And nobody wants to be arrested for shitting with his pants on, am I right? Although personally I can tell you I don’t care what the charge is as long as I get rid of the joint. Besides, shitting with your pants on is only a misdemeanor. And in my case it would be a first offense.

  Which brings us back to my own personal airline-bathroom experience. One problem I always had was that after I got high I would wind up staying in the bathroom way too long. Pot brought out the super organizer in me, so once I’d had a few good, deep hits and was securely locked in, I tended to go to work.

  First thing I did was open up all those little compartments under the sink and rearrange the supplies stored in there. I’d restack all the sanitary napkins according to strength: regular, super, jumbo, teeny-bopper. I’d remove the outer wrappers from the spare toilet paper, making it readily available in the event some nasty bacterium found its way into the first-class entrees. Then I’d re refill the paper towel dispenser, being careful to pack it so tightly that the towels would not come out without shredding. And—again, the old days—I’d make sure there were plenty of those little bars of soap lying out for people to steal. In the occasional instance when cologne, after-shave, and other amenities were made available, I would be sure to take them home for further quality-control testing. Ford is not the only place where quality is job one.

  Then, my chores done, I would relax somewhat and reflect on the environment around me. I’d become fascinated by the little slot they had for used razor blades, and I wondered whether or not the blades actually dropped out of the airplane and fell on people’s houses, or if they just rusted and rotted somewhere behind the wall. I’d read the various signs posted in three languages and try to translate precisely the corresponding words in each language. Then, finally, a long, lingering look in the mirror, usually resulting in the discovery of some hideous facial flaw, previously undetected.

  And then, suddenly, the little lighted sign would flash on telling me to Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin!

  I’d think, Oh shit, trouble in the cabin. They need me. I should never have left them alone. I’d better see what’s up. And then on my way out, I’d spot one last sign: Please Leave Lavatory Clean for the Next Passenger. Well, that’s all I needed to see. And because I’m really into detail now—and even though I didn’t make a mess—I’m experiencing “felon’s guilt.” And I decide to clean up for the next person.

  I rinse and dry and thoroughly polish the entire sink area, scouring all the burst-pimple residue off the mirror, and I even wash off the dried, gray dirt bubbles left on the soap by the previous person. Now I’m gettin’ into it! Pretty soon I find myself washing the walls and ceiling, throwing open the door, and yelling, “You people got some Spic and Span and a hard-bristle brush out there? I think I can get these blue stains off the toilet!”

  And suddenly I realize my fantasy world has collapsed; the real world is watching. Adjusting quickly, and relying on my identity as a comedian, I chuckle weakly and say, “You gotta clean up for the next person.”

  Then, as the fat woman waiting to take a shit passes me on her way into the john, I hiss, “Don’t fuck it up, lady. I worked my ass off in there.” And back to my seat I go, secure in the knowledge that, once again, thanks to my highly developed work ethic, along with some great Humboldt weed, I’ve managed to make the skies a little friendlier.

  SHORT TAKES

  You know one of the biggest rip-offs in the world? Flowers. They grow free all over the world, and yet we pay for them. And then they die. That seems strange. Flowers are one of the few things we buy, bring home, watch die, and we don’t ask for our money back. Normally, we’d be screaming at a merchant over something like that: “Hey, what kind of shit is this? Gimme my money back! The fuckin’ things keeled over right on the piano!”