• Liberals call it global warming, conservatives call it climate change.
• If you want the individual to sound shady and suspicious, you call him an Eye-racky. If you want to upgrade him a bit, he becomes an Iraqi-American. If you’re trying to clean him up completely, you call him an American citizen of Iraqi descent.
• When people came to this country, primarily from Europe, they were called immigrants and refugees. As they began arriving from Latin America and the Caribbean, we started calling them aliens. Some of them are here illegally. Those in this country who sympathize with that group don’t call them illegal aliens, they refer to them as undocumented workers. Or guest workers. Sometimes they’re identified by the purely descriptive term the newly arrived.
• Most-favored-nation trade status was considered too positive a term for China, so it was decided instead to call it normal trade relations. Aside from the language, there is no difference between the two policies.
• The Nazis referred to the extermination of the Jews as special action. In their version, the Jews were not killed, they were resettled, evacuated or transferred. The dead were referred to as the no longer relevant.
• In Palestine, Arabs refer to the areas Jews have taken over as occupied territories. Jews call them disputed areas. The Israelis call their assassinations of Palestinian leaders focused thwartings, pinpoint elimination and preventive measures.
• At one time in Iraq, Hussein called the hostages he was holding his guests.
• Countries we used to call rogue nations are now referred to as nations of concern, so we can talk with them without insulting them outright. But as a result of bad behavior, North Korea has been downgraded from a state of concern to a rogue state. Likewise, failed nations are now called messy states. Underdeveloped countries have also been upgraded. They’re now developing nations.
And finally . . .
• During the election that defeated Manuel Noriega in Panama, there were groups of thugs that wandered around beating and killing people and looting stores. They called themselves dignity battalions.
HOW GOES IT?
If you enjoyed my earlier description of my new system for wishing people a nice day, perhaps you’ll be interested in the following, equally innovative method I employ in similar situations. The difference is that this attempt to relieve the tedium of short exchanges involves the replies I give, as opposed to the good wishes I offer.
As an example, when someone asks me how I am, I try to make my answer as specific as possible. I’m not the type to toss off a casual, “I’m fine.” I take care to express my exact condition. And thanks to my creative flair, I can choose from a number of options:
If I’m in a self-protective mood, a simple “guardedly well” often does the job. I find also “tentatively keen” doesn’t give too much away. Of course, if there is the least bit of doubt, I simply rely on my old standby, the ever-cautious, “I’m fairly well, comparatively speaking.” That works nicely, especially if I feel I genuinely have something to hide.
If I wish to be a little more open, “I’m semi-dandy, thank you for inquiring” is effective, and has the added advantage of acknowledging the other person’s contribution to the exchange.
By the way, should it be one of today’s trendy kids, I’m quick to drop a hip and with-it “moderately neato,” in order to show that I’m really a cool guy and not just some old fuddy-duddy. Once again, with “moderately neato” I reveal only a limited bit of information.
TAKE THAT!
But sometimes I’m having one of my really great days, and I’m in a jaunty and expansive mood. In these situations I tend to throw caution to the wind and express my full feelings. Innocently enough, the person will inquire, “How are you?” And he has no idea what’s coming. So I give him both barrels.
I lean forward, look him squarely in the eye, and hit him with a quick and cheery “I’m good, well, fine, keen, dandy, swell and excellent! And, might I add, fabuloso!” Believe me, I’ve bowled over more than one unsuspecting inquirer with this sudden volley of positive energy.
WEEKEND WISHES
Just so you know, I’m prepared for other situations as well. If someone says, “Have a nice weekend,” I never say, “You too.” Because I never know if, perhaps, by the time the weekend rolls around, I will have other plans for that person. Come Friday, I may wish to have them slain.
YULETIDE
Also, I never say, “A merry Christmas to you and yours.” I don’t like the possibilities suggested by that use of the possessive pronoun yours. One never knows when the other person may be a slave owner. I certainly wouldn’t want to encourage that sort of behavior.
CLOSING THOUGHTS
One last thing: My stingingly clever remarks sometimes extend to retail encounters. When the supermarket checkout person asks, “Paper or plastic?” I often say, “Woven silk,” just to keep him on his toes. “Rolled steel” is not a bad answer either.
I’m happy to pass along to you these methods of mine for making the world a better place. I hope you use them wisely, and, may I be so bold as to say, “Have an excellent immediate future.”
TOO MANY THANK-YOUS
HOSTS & GUESTS
I find it bothersome that on radio and TV interview shows, once the host says, “Thank you for being here,” the guest always thinks he has to say, “Thank you for having me.” It’s not necessary. All that’s needed is a simple “You’re welcome” or “Nice to be here.” “Having people on” is what they do on interview shows; they’re looking for guests all the time. There’s no need to thank them.
The same is true of radio call-in shows. The people who call in say, “Thank you for taking my call.” Why do they bother? Think about it. Taking calls is what these shows do. They’re call-in shows; they take calls. That’s their function. Why thank them for doing what they can’t avoid? It bothers me that people even think they need to say these things. It’s all very insincere.
TELEPHONE OPERATORS
And on the subject of insincerity, let’s not forget the nonsense that telephone operators are ordered to say by their corporate-drone bosses. Keeping in mind, of course, that telephone operators are not operators anymore, they’re attendants. Telephone attendants. Or telephone representatives. I’ve also heard them called communications facilitators, and customer care professionals.
Anyway, these operators used to say, “Who did you want to speak with?” Now it’s, “How may I direct your call?” I don’t like that. It sounds artificial. And it has a ring of self-importance. “How may I direct your call?” Jesus, everyone wants to direct; it’s not just actors anymore. And when you tell them who you’re trying to reach, they say, “Thank you, it’s a pleasure to forward your call.” Sounds polite, doesn’t it? It’s not. It’s insincere.
TOO MANY TELEPHONE THANK-YOUS
And on the subject of telephone operators, another complaint I have about these people takes me back to my original point—the unnecessary overuse of thank you. These days, I think there are far too many thank-yous being thrown around on the telephone. “Thank you for this,” “Thank you for that,” “Thank you for something else.” I find myself being thanked for everything I do, and then some.
I recently called a friend who was staying at the Marriott. He was staying at the Marriott. I called him there—at the Marriott. I intentionally dialed the number of the Marriott, because that’s where I expected him to be. The connection went through. Guess what the operator said? Right. “Thank you for calling the Marriott.” Well, what did she think I was going to do? Call the Hyatt? He was staying at the Marriott. It wouldn’t do me much good to call the Hyatt. We all know what they would have said: “Thank you for calling the Hyatt.”
They even thank you for doing things you can’t avoid. Did you ever have an operator say, “Thank you for calling the operator”? I’ve had that happen. Well, who did she think I was gonna call, the night watchman? The chairman of the board? Jesus! Thank you, thank you,
thank you. It’s annoying.
One time, at a hotel, I wanted to get my car. Naturally, I needed to call valet parking. I noticed the little plastic card next to my telephone. It said “Press nine for valet parking.” I was about to press nine, but then I noticed I didn’t have to press nine, because right there on the phone one of the speed-dial buttons had a little picture of a car next to it, and it said “Valet parking.” So I pushed that button. The one that said “Valet parking.” The one with the picture of the car. Someone answered. You know what he said? Right. “Thank you for calling valet parking.”
Well, fuck! Didn’t he know that if a guest wants to retrieve his car, he more or less has to call valet parking? That’s where the cars are! And doesn’t he know the designers of hotel telephones have gone to a great deal of trouble to make it easy for people to get their cars? I had simply taken advantage of their skills; I had called valet parking by pressing a single button. A button marked with a little picture of a car.
And I can assure you, folks, if I had thought for even a split second that valet parking didn’t have my car—for instance, if I’d thought the bartender had it—I would have called the cocktail lounge. I would have pressed the little button with the picture of the martini next to it. Which would, of course, have given the bartender a chance to say, “Thank you for calling the cocktail lounge.”
One further complaint: These days, if I call a hotel from the outside, the telephone operators waste an awful lot of my time: “Hello. Thank you for calling the Lincoln Plaza Hotel-Resort and Conference Center, my name is Taneesha, have a nice day, and how may I direct your call?” And I say, “I’ll have to get back to you. I forgot why I called.” Sometimes, just to scare the operator, I’ll sob, “It’s too late. He just died.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you. It’s too much. Occasionally, a recording will thank me. “Thank you for using AT&T.” How can this be? Isn’t gratitude a personal feeling? Recording devices don’t have personal feelings, do they? No. But I do. And I feel this showy, hyper-politeness must be stopped. Thank you for reading this far.
FURTHER THOUGHTS ON EXPLODING HEADS
Wouldn’t it be interesting if the only way you could die was that suddenly your head blew up? If there were no other causes of death? Everyone died the same way? Sooner or later, without warning, your head simply exploded? You know what I think? I think people would get used to it. I believe people can learn to take anything in stride if they think it’s unavoidable.
Picture a bunch of guys singin’ “Happy Birthday”:
“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday, dear Charlie...” BOOM!! And Charlie’s head blows up. But all the candles go out, so it’s actually a form of good luck. And everyone applauds.
Of course, there’d be an occasional downside. “God, another head? That’s two this week. I just had this suit cleaned.” But we’d learn to deal with it.
Let’s say you were sitting in a restaurant with your girlfriend, and the waiter was reciting the specials:
“Tonight we have the marinated bat nipples on a bed of lightly sautéed panda assholes...” BOOM!! The waiter’s head explodes. I’ll bet you wouldn’t miss a beat.
“Honey, did he say bat nipples or cat nipples? We’d better get another waiter. And some fresh salsa. I’m not eating this stuff; he was holding it when he blew. So anyway, I’m allergic to bat nipples. I think I might go with the free-range penguin dick or the deep-dish moose balls. How about you? Wait, hold still. There’s a little piece of eyebrow on your cheek. There, I got it. By the way, honey, what wine goes with brain?”
JUST A STONE’S THROW
When I watch news tapes of the Intifada from Palestine, and see the Arab kids throwing stones at Israeli tanks, I always have fun watching for the kids who are lefthanded, because lefthanders have kind of a natural curveball. It’s really interesting. I can’t wait till major league baseball comes to the Middle East. Incidentally, I also noticed that Arab kids usually throw in a high arc, whereas the Catholic kids in Northern Ireland throw more of a line drive. Either way is all right with me as long as they’re accurate. Kids are great.
Bud’s Medical Center: C’mon In!
“Hi. I’m Bud, president and head doctor of Bud’s Medical Center. Come on in to Bud’s. This weekend we’re havin’ a special on head injuries: any sort of head injury you got, from a black eye to a completely caved-in skull, just a dollar fifty this weekend at Bud’s. We’ll also give a free estimate to anyone who’s bleedin’. So if you’re sick, injured, diseased, hurt, maimed, disfigured or just plain don’t feel good, come on in to Bud’s Medical Center. Bud’s: Where all the sick people go.”
BURIED ALIVE AT 65
Wouldn’t it be weird if they just buried you alive when you got to be sixty-five? If that was the deal for everyone? Right after your sixty-fifth birthday party they came and got you and dumped you in a big pit with a bunch of other people your age, threw in all your birthday presents and buried you all alive? Wouldn’t that be weird? Jesus, I’m glad they don’t do that. That would be weird.
But sooner or later we’ll have to do something like that; we’ll have to. We can’t take care of old people as it is, and there are going to be millions more of them. Good, early medical care is a mixed blessing; it leads to too many old people. What are you going to do with them? No one wants to take care of them. Their children put them in homes. Even the people whose job it is to take care of them in the homes don’t give a shit; they abuse them. No one cares. It’s my belief that, sooner or later, we’re going to have to start killing old people before they become a burden. One good thing, though: We’ll save a lot of money on Social Security and maybe the country won’t go broke.
There’s always a bright side.
MOMENT OF SILENCE
The custom of observing a moment of silence before an athletic event to honor dead people strikes me as meaningless. And arbitrary. Because, if you’ll notice, only certain people get this special treatment. It’s highly selective. Therefore I’ve decided that someday, when the time comes that every single person in the world who dies receives a moment of silence, I will begin paying attention. Until then, count me out. It’s ridiculous. Here’s what I mean.
Let’s say you live in Cleveland, and you decide to go to the Browns game. There you are in the football stadium, with a hot dog and a beer, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding public-address announcer interrupts the festivities, intoning darkly:
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you remove your hats and join us in observing a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who lost their lives this morning in a roller coaster accident at an amusement park near La Paz. Apparently, they all stood up on a sharp turn and went flying off, willy-nilly, into the cool, crisp, morning La Paz air. And, being heavier than air, crashed through the roof of the fun house, landing on several clowns, killing them all and crushing their red noses beyond recognition.”
Snickering is heard in the crowd. The American announcer continues:
“And, ladies and gentlemen, lest you think this amusing, lest you think this a time for laughter, I ask you please—please—to put yourself in the place of a bereaved Bolivian who may be seated near you this afternoon. Try reversing places. Imagine yourself visiting Bolivia and taking in a soccer game. Imagine yourself seated in the stadium with a burrito and a cerveza, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding, Spanish public-address announcer interrupts the festivities, intoning darkly:
“‘Señors y señoritas, we ask that you remove your sombreros and join us in observing un momento de silencio for the forty-three mentally retarded, overweight, unattractive American meat inspectors who lost their lives this morning in a Ferris wheel accident at a carnival near Ashtabula, Ohio.’
“The Spanish announcer continues:
“‘Apparently, the huge wheel flew out of control, spinning madly, flinging the poor meat
inspectors off, willy-nilly, into the hot, humid, Midwestern air. And, being heavier than air, they crashed through the roof of the carnival freak show, crushing the dog-faced boy, and destroying many of his chew-toys.’
“And let’s say, as you sit there in La Paz listening to this, you find yourself seated next to some Bolivian smart-ass who’s giggling and poking his friend in the ribs. May I suggest you’d be highly pissed at this lack of respect for Americans? And, might I add, rightly so.”
The American announcer continues his plea:
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, considering the many grieving Bolivians who may be seated among you today, and trying to keep in check that normal human impulse to laugh heartily when another person dies, let us try again—really hard this time—to observe a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who went flying, willy-nilly, off the roller coaster in La Paz. Not to mention the poor, unsuspecting clowns who at the time were innocently filling their water pistols.”
You can see the problem either announcer would face; the fans would simply not be able to get into it. But I understand that; I can empathize with the fans. Because, frankly, I don’t know what to do during a moment of silence, either. Do you? What are you supposed to do? What do they expect? Do they want us to pray? They don’t say that. If they want me to pray, they should ask. I’ll pray, but at least have the courtesy to make a formal request.