His manliness also requires that he refuse to go to a doctor or a hospital unless it can be demonstrated to him that he has, in fact, been clinically dead for six months. “No sense goin’ to the hospital, honey, I don’t seem to be in a coma.” Therefore, he must learn to ignore pain. “It doesn’t really hurt. Bleeding from six holes in the head doesn’t really hurt. Just gimme the remote and get me a beer. And get the fuck outta here.”
Most men learn this stupid shit from their fathers. Fathers teach their sons not to cry. “Don’t let me hear you cryin’ or I’ll come up there and give you something to cry about!” Great stuff, hah? All the problems in the world—repeat, all the problems in the world—can be traced to what fathers do to their sons.
So, little boys learn to hide their feelings, and society likes that because, that way, when they get to be eighteen, they’ll able to go overseas and kill strangers without feeling anything. And of course, that bargain includes a certain reluctant willingness to have their balls shot off: “Honey, I have to go overseas and have my balls shot off, or else the rest of the guys will think I’m too afraid to go overseas and have my balls shot off.” The poor fucks. The poor stupid fucks.
And so, as a result of all this repression of feelings, the extent of the average man’s emotional expression is the high five. Or sometimes, when really deep feelings emerge, both hands. The high ten. This is raw emotion. And that’s about all they’re capable of. And they have Dad to thank. Thanks, Dad.
But wait! Don’t think dads can’t be fun at times, too. After all, dads introduce their sons to the Wonderful World of Men—the male subcultures. The really tough-guy, masculine, he-man stuff. No wimps, no pussies, no softies.
There are five deadly male subcultures and they all overlap: the car and machinery culture, the police and military culture, the outdoors and gun culture, the sports and competition culture and the drug and alcohol culture. And, as a bonus, I’m gonna throw in one more: the “Let’s go get some pussy and beat the shit outta queers” culture. As I say, they all overlap. Many men belong to all six.
This male universe is, of course, detectable by analyzing its combustible chemical formula: gasoline, gunpowder, alcohol and adrenaline. A chemistry rendered even more lethal by that ever-present, ever-delightful accelerant: testosterone. Talk about substance abuse! If it’s chemical dependency you’re interested in, you might want to look into testosterone. TESS-TAHSS-TER-OWN!!—the most lethal substance on earth. And it does not come from a laboratory, it comes from the scrotum; a scrotum located, interestingly enough, not far from the asshole. How fitting.
And, as it happens, all these male subcultures share a particular set of features: homophobia, coupled with an oddly ironic, complete, childlike trust in male authority. Men are attracted to powerful men. They also share a strong fear and dislike of women. This in spite of a pathological obsession with pussy. TESS-TAHSS-TER-OWN!!
So why are men like this? I think the overriding problem for men is that in life’s main event, reproduction, they’re left out; women do all the work. What do men contribute? Generally, they’re just looking for a quick parking space for some sperm. A couple of hits of hot jism, and the volume on the TV goes right back up. It’s my belief that most of these flawed male chromosomes should not be allowed to go forward for even one more unfortunate generation. But such is biology.
And so, excluded as they are from reproduction, men must find other ways to feel useful and worthwhile. As a result, they measure themselves by the size of their guns, the size of their cars, the size of their dicks and the size of their wallets. All contests that no man can win consistently.
And let me tell you why all this happened. Because women are the source of all human life. The first human being came from the belly of a female. And all human fetuses begin as females. The brain itself is basically female until hormones act on it to make it structurally male.
So, in reality, all men are modified females. Where do you think those nipples came from, guys? You’re an afterthought. Maybe that’s what’s bothering you. Is that what’s on your mind, Bunkie? That would explain the hostility: Women got the good job, men got the shitty one. Females create life, males end it. War, crime and violence are primarily male franchises. Man-shit.
It’s nature’s supreme joke. Deep in the womb, men start out as the good thing and wind up as the crappy thing. Not all men, just enough. Just enough to fuck things up. And the dumbest part of it all is that not only do men accept all this shit . . . they do it to themselves.
By the way, I’m not letting women completely off the hook. After all, the one part of the lower anatomy that is the same in both sexes is the asshole. But women who are assholes aren’t called that. They’re named for a different part of their lower anatomy. They’re called cunts. Isn’t it nice that cunts and assholes are next-door neighbors?
NINETY-NINE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW
There are ninety-nine things you need to know:
Number one: There are more than ninety-nine things you need to know.
Number two: Nobody knows how many things there are to know.
Number three: It’s more than three.
Number four: There is no way of knowing how many things you need to know.
Number five: Some of the things you need to know are things you already know.
Number six: Some of the things you need to know are things you only think you know.
Number seven: Some of the things you need to know are things you used to know and then forgot.
Number eight: Some of the things you need to know are things you only thought you forgot and actually still know.
Number nine: Some of the things you need to know are things you know but don’t really know you know.
Number ten: Some of the things you need to know are things you don’t yet know you need to know.
Number eleven: Some of the things you think you need to know are things you probably don’t really need to know.
Number twelve: Some of the things you need to know are things known only by people you don’t know.
Number thirteen: Some of the things you need to know are things nobody knows.
Number fourteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that are unknowable.
Number fifteen: Some of the things you need to know are things that can only be imagined.
Number sixteen: At any time the list of things you need to know can be abruptly suspended.
Now you know.
EUPHEMISMS: Shell Shock to PTSD
Earlier in the book, in the first section on this subject of euphemistic language, I mentioned several reasons we seem to employ so much of it: the need to avoid unpleasant realities; the need to make things sound more important than they really are; marketing demands; pretentiousness; boosting employee self-esteem; and, in some cases, just plain, old political correctness.
But no matter their purpose, the one thing euphemisms all have in common is that they soften the language. They portray reality as less vivid. And I’ve noticed Americans have a problem with reality; they prefer to avoid the truth and not look it in the eye. I think it’s one of the consequences of being fat and prosperous and too comfortable. So, naturally, as time has passed, and we’ve grown fatter and more prosperous, the problem has gotten worse. Here’s a good example:
There’s a condition in combat—most people know it by now. It occurs when a soldier’s nervous system has reached the breaking point. In World War I, it was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. Shell shock!!
That was 1917. A generation passed. Then, during the Second World War, the very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now. It takes a little longer to say, stretches it out. The words don’t seem to hurt as much. And fatigue is a softer word than shock. Shell shock. Battle fatigue. The condition was being euphemized.
More time passed and we got to Korea, 1950. By that time, Mad
ison Avenue had learned well how to manipulate the language, and the same condition became operational exhaustion. It had been stretched out to eight syllables. It took longer to say, so the impact was reduced, and the humanity was completely squeezed out of the term. It was now absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. It sounded like something that might happen to your car.
And then, finally, we got to Vietnam. Given the dishonesty surrounding that war, I guess it’s not surprising that, at the time, the very same condition was renamed post-traumatic stress disorder. It was still eight syllables, but a hyphen had been added, and, at last, the pain had been completely buried under psycho-jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
I’d be willing to bet anything that if we’d still been calling it shell shock, some of those Vietnam veterans might have received the attention they needed, at the time they needed it. But it didn’t happen, and I’m convinced one of the reasons was that softer language we now prefer: The New Language. The language that takes the life out of life. More to come.
ELEGY FOR “MILLENNIUM”
You don’t hear the word millennium much anymore, do you? It’s kind of sad. Here’s a word that lies around for long periods of time looking for work, but never really doing very much. Then, every thousand years, things suddenly pick up and there’s a flurry of activity. The word is on everyone’s lips, and is heard in almost every conversation. It stays red-hot for several years, enjoying its popularity—seeing its name in newspapers and magazines, making appearances on radio and TV. But then a peak is reached, and, after a while, things begin to slow down. The activity tapers off, and before long, it’s once again relegated to history books, academic journals and reference works. Goodbye, poor millennium. I’m going to miss you. When you return, I may not be here to welcome you back.
WHO, ME? HATE?
I saw two bumper stickers on a car: HATE IS NOT A FAMILY VALUE and VALUE ALL FAMILIES. What is the purpose of having things like this on your car? Certainly it’s not to change someone else’s opinion of family life at a red light. More likely, the purpose is to inform us that the driver doesn’t hate anyone, and that he considers himself pure and virtuous and better than the rest of us. So it’s actually self-righteousness. The driver apparently forgot that the seven deadly sins include both anger and pride.
JACKO BEATS THEM ALL
I don’t care if Michael Jackson freaked off with little boys or not. It doesn’t bother me. Fuck those kids. And fuck their greedy parents too. What’s important to me is that Michael is the greatest entertainer who ever lived. Bar none. Watch him dance; pay attention to the showmanship. No one ever came close.
Elvis was a bogus white guy with sex appeal and good looks who ripped off a lot of great black music, watered it down, and made it safe for lame whites who couldn’t handle the experience of raw, emotional black music. Never grew as an artist; remained an entertainer. Fuck Elvis.
Sammy Davis Jr.? Nice try. Ordinary dancer, ordinary singer, second-rate impressionist. I also didn’t like the insincere sincerity. But he was a nice man, personally; I give him credit for that.
Frank Sinatra? Great singer of songs, among the best. Superb musician. Grew as an artist. No showmanship, though. Arrogant, too. And mean to ordinary people. Fuck him.
Michael Jackson buries them all. I say give him a bunch of kids and let him dance.
LET’S GET REAL, HERE
I’ve decided to cash in on TV’s reality-show trend. I have several ideas, but they may need some work before I approach the networks. Here’s what I’m working on:
ISLAND CUISINE
This idea grew out of Survivor, but I have a new twist: You put twelve people on a barren island, and you let them starve to death. You make sure they get no food, but you provide plenty of fresh drinking water—you don’t want them to die of thirst, you want them to starve to death.
That would be entertaining enough, but here’s the fun. You make sure half the contestants are large, aggressive, physically fit individuals, and the other half are small, mild-mannered and physically weak. Then you wait them out and see who survives—and, more fun, you watch how they do it. The show is called Guess Who’s for Dinner. The only part I haven’t decided yet is whether to provide utensils.
GETTIN’ HIGH AND HAVIN’ FUN
Here’s another idea I think has a good shot: Maniac on Drugs. Each week you put a different homicidal maniac in a van filled with assault rifles and you provide him with large amounts of speed, crack, acid and PCP. Then you let him drive around New York City for several days, and you videotape everything he does. Naturally, you clear all this with the police, so they don’t interfere with the smooth flow of the show. At the end of thirteen weeks, you take all the psychos, give them a fresh supply of drugs and turn them loose at Disney World with rocket-propelled grenades. Actually, now that I think about it, this idea is too good for the networks; I’m gonna put it on pay-per-view.
Here’s a variation for the finale, in case the Disney people get squeamish. You give the maniacs the same drugs, but instead of grenade launchers, you go back to the assault rifles. Everything’s the same, but this time you put them on an ordinary, nonstop passenger train from New York to Los Angeles. You strap video cameras to their heads and let them run loose on the train, allowing them to befriend the other passengers. Remember, it’s nonstop, no one can get off. I guarantee you’d get some really great footage. By the way, to save a little money, this could also be done on a Greyhound bus. But you’d need a really good driver who isn’t easily distracted.
GUYS’ NIGHT OUT
Here’s the one I’m proudest of because it took the most thought. I call it Lucky Bachelor.
Our chosen guy is selected from letters sent in to the show. In step one, the lucky bachelor is sent out on three separate occasions to pick up women in cheap bars and bring each of them to a hotel where he tries to fuck them. If they go along easily, he then convinces them to commit a perverted act involving a floor lamp, a woodpecker and a box of rubber bands—an act most people would consider completely depraved. All this activity is videotaped.
In step two, we stop three men at random on the street, show them the videos and ask them which of the women the lucky bachelor should marry. That woman is called the designated bride. We then ask the two losing women to vote on which one of the three random street guys looks like the best fuck. That guy is called the designated, best-fuck street guy.
In step three, we take the two losing street guys and the two losing bar girls and feed them near-fatal doses of aphrodisiacs, put them in thong bathing suits and turn them loose in an adult sex shop with unlimited credit. This footage, strictly an added feature, could possibly be some of the liveliest on the show.
Now, the alert reader is probably wondering what happened to our original lucky bachelor. Well, in step four we arrange for him and the designated best-fuck street guy to stage a bare-knuckle fistfight—to the death—in the center aisle of St. Peter’s in Rome during a papal high mass. The two men must keep fighting until one of them dies; it’s important to the show. As a side feature, we keep a camera trained on the pope, and every time he falls asleep during the fight, we give the guys an extra hundred dollars.
The reason it’s important that one of the two men dies is because the next day, in the same church, we’re going to hold step five: a combination wedding and funeral. The loser of the fight gets the funeral, the winner gets to marry the designated hotel-fuck bride, with the remaining, losing bar and hotel participants serving as bridesmaids and pallbearers. We then give the newlyweds all the leftover drugs from Maniac on Drugs and send them on a honeymoon to some nice, conservative golfing resort on Hilton Head Island, where they are required to take large amounts of drugs and two weeks of golf and tennis lessons.
LOOKS AREN’T EVERYTHING
This next one is a makeover show. My working title is Try Looking Like That For a Change! You start by picking three incredibly beautiful, successful supermodels and then, against th
eir wills, you sedate them, strap them down and subject them to extensive plastic surgery. You give them big, misshapen noses; sagging eye-bags; and plenty of wrinkles and drooping skin on their faces. Then you pump enough fat into their asses, hips and thighs to make them really unhappy. When they come out of the anesthesia, the audience yells, “Try Looking Like That For a Change!” I’m so excited about this one that I’m working on a variation that involves involuntary sex-change surgery.
WRAP-UP
Well, that’s about it. I suppose all that’s left would be for me to tell you about a show called Bowel Movement. Basically, it’s a show that involves a fixed-position camera, a toilet and a series of guys with diets organized primarily around beer and extra-spicy Mexican food. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t go into too much detail at this time. And you know something? This one might actually belong on cable.
That’s it, folks. I’ve done all I can to develop a hit show. But the creative process can only go so far; the rest is up to you, the public, and I’m counting on your good taste.