Napalm and Silly Putty (20 page)

When you think about it, the planning alone would create all sorts of tasks. First, you’d have to choose a method. That’s big. And that might take a while; there are so many good ways to go.

“Let’s see. How about firing a gun in my mouth? Naaah! Jesus, that would hurt. And suppose I lived? My head would have a big hole in the top. Fuck that. Maybe I should just hang myself. No, too weird. I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Just sad. Really, really sad. I guess I could put my head in the oven and turn on the gas. Shit, it’s an electric oven. What am I gonna do? I’m afraid of heights, I have trouble swallowing pills, and I can’t stand the sight of blood. God, this is depressing. I know! I’ll throw myself in front of a subway train. No, I live in Cheyenne. Damn! Maybe I’ll just eat some infected dog shit.”

Dear Survivor

You also have to decide whether or not to leave a note. You might just think, Fuck ’em. Let ’em figure it out for themselves. And I really think not leaving a note is a nice touch, especially if you’re a perky, optimistic, happily married person and recently got a big promotion. Let ’em figure it out for themselves.

But, remember, if you do leave a note you’ll have to come up with a version you’re satisfied with. You have to get it right.

“Let’s see, ‘To whom it may concern.’ No, too impersonal. ‘Dear Myra.’ No, that leaves out the kids. I’ve got it! ‘Hi, everybody. Guess what?’ ”

Or you may want to go for maximum survivor-guilt: “To all of you who drove me to this, you know who you are. I hope you’re satisfied, now that I’ve destroyed myself.”

How about simply saying, “Hi. Hope this note finds you healthy and happy. Not me. Healthy, not happy. In fact, wait’ll you read the rest of this note.”

Suppose you’re a writer? Seems to me, a writer would get so involved revising and polishing the note that he’d never get around to the suicide. He would cheer up just by writing a really good note. Then he’d turn it into a book proposal.

Another problem for suicide people is the timing. “Okay, Tuesday’s out, gotta take Timmie to the circus; Wednesday’s my colon cleansing; the play-offs start on Friday; my folks’ll be here for the weekend. Hmmm! The weekend . . .”

I feel sorry for these suicide people. There are so many things to think about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still glad they do it; I find it highly entertaining. It certainly qualifies as drama: an irreversible act that puts a permanent end to your consciousness. Talk about a big decision; you’d better be thinking clearly. You gotta be at your best for suicide.

Must-Die TV

I just love the whole idea. I could really appreciate an all-suicide channel. Boy, you talk about reality programming: One person after another, destroying themselves permanently in front of the entire nation. And never mind that V-chip shit, let the kids watch. Teach ’em they have options in life. I would show every method imaginable. And when there’s a lull in the action, I’d run films of World War II kamikaze raids and Arab suicide bombers.

I think you could get big ratings with suicide. Especially if you had unusual methods. I’ll bet anything you could get 200 people in this country to hold hands and jump into the Grand Canyon. Sick people, old people, the chronically depressed. And to get young folks involved, instead of calling it suicide, you bill it as “extreme living.” Put it on TV and give some of the profits to the surviving relatives.

CEO Is D.O.A.

But I digress. You know what I really like about suicide? The reasons some people give. Like those Japanese businessmen who bankrupt their companies through bad management and decide to end it all. Imagine a guy in a three-piece gray suit and red tie, opening his briefcase, taking out a fourteen-inch fish knife, and slashing his stomach open eighteen inches from side to side. Wow! If that tie wasn’t red before it sure is now. By the way, this would be a really good idea for those Firestone and Ford executives.

No Coin Return

I love suicide. You know what they ought to have in amusement arcades? Coin-operated suicide machines. Simple idea. You sit down at a steel table and deposit 50 cents. There’s a thirty-second delay as you lean forward, place your head on the table, and put your arms behind your back. Before long, you hear, “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then a large cast-iron hammer comes slamming down with 2,000 pounds of force and smashes your head to bits. And it keeps on smashing for about twenty minutes, to give you your money’s worth. Lets you rest in pieces.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-81” ??EUPHEMISTIC BULLSHIT ?

I don’t like euphemistic language, words that shade the truth. American English is packed with euphemism, because Americans have trouble dealing with reality, and in order to shield themselves from it they use soft language. And somehow it gets worse with every generation.

Here’s an example. There’s a condition in combat that occurs when a soldier is completely stressed out and is on the verge of nervous collapse. In World War I it was called “shell shock.” Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. It almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was more than eighty years ago.

Then a generation passed, and in World War II the same combat condition was called “battle fatigue.” Four syllables now; takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. “Fatigue” is a nicer word than “shock.” Shell shock! Battle fatigue.

By the early 1950s, the Korean War had come along, and the very same condition was being called “operational exhaustion.” The phrase was up to eight syllables now, and any last traces of humanity had been completely squeezed out of it. It was absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. Like something that might happen to your car.

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 = presciption 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 firefighters 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: “pre-elderly.” 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.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-82” ??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.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-83” ??HIGH ON THE PLANE ?

Airlines disappoint me. Why don’t they have a flight 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 flight it used to be that gettin’ high was half the fun. Hell, even a short flight. 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 asshole now. Fair warning, my friend: if you’re gonna smoke a joint on the airplane these days, you better be an old pro.