Napalm and Silly Putty (5 page)

“Holy shit! How’d I get back here? This is where I was a coupla minutes ago!”

Apparently, you have to pay attention even at the red lights. I thought surely they were for resting. You know, drive a little, rest a little, drive a little, rest a little. Seemed that way to me. Guess not.

Oh, Brother!

Here’s a little red-light story somebody told me a long time ago. This guy’s drivin’ along, he’s got someone sittin’ right next to him in the passenger seat, and he goes straight through a red light. ZOOOOM!

Passenger says, “Whaddaya doin’?”

Driver says, “Never mind! My brother drives like this.”

They go a little farther, and come to another red light. ZOOM! Guy goes right through it!

“Whaddaya doin’?”

“Will you stop? I told ya, my brother drives like this.”

He keeps on goin’, and now he comes to a green light. He slams on the brakes.

“Whaddaya doin’?”

“Well, you never know. My brother might be comin’ the other way!”

Turn, Turn, Turn

Now, a couple of things to remember when you’re out in traffic. First of all, never get behind anybody weird. Y’ever get stuck behind a guy whose turn signal has been on for about eighty miles? And you’re thinkin’ to yourself, “Well, maybe he’s just a really cautious man. I’m not gonna pass him now, he may turn at any moment.”

And later you discover he was driving around the world—to the left!

Slow Dancin’ in the Fast Lane

Another pain in the ass you don’t want to get behind is anyone who drives real sss-l-l-l-o-o-o-ww. Boy, that’s good for your arteries, isn’t it? Someone really . . . really . . . sss-l-l-l-o-o-o-ww!

There are two classes of drivers in this category. The first is any four-foot woman in a Cadillac whose head you cannot see. This is certain death. At first you think, “Well, maybe it’s a remote-controlled, experimental robot car. No, I can see tiny knuckles on the wheel and a small patch of blue hair.” At this point I take no chances; I pull over immediately and take public transportation. I’m not about to fuck with a ghost car; let someone else flag down the Flying Dutchman, it’s not my job.

Another driver you don’t want to get behind is any man over seventy wearing a flannel cap with earflaps. In August. Keep your distance! Because, folks, you know how pissed you can get. Even though you think you’re a mighty cool customer, you do get mighty pissed out there.

Gettin’ Even

Don’t you occasionally wish that instead of having headlights you had a couple of 50-caliber machine guns on the front of your car? So you could send several hundred rounds of burning lead into that slow-movin’ gas guzzler up ahead? Just incinerate the motherfucker and get his ass off the road permanently?

Or don’t you wish you were driving a rented car, so you could bash the asshole in the rear end, pay the deductible, and be done with the whole goddamn thing? BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Don’t mind me, folks. I’m just tryin’ to ease him into second gear.” BAM! BAM! BAM!

God, it would do my heart good.

Or if the offender is directly behind you, wouldn’t it be nice to have an electronic message board that would rise up out of the trunk of your car and let you type in any message you like? ATTENTION, ASSHOLE! YOU DRIVE LIKE OLD PEOPLE FUCK. SLOW AND SLOPPY!

You Light Up My life

Speakin’ of behind you, don’t you just love it when there’s one of those guys on your tail whose brights are on? Isn’t that a treat? Some shit-stain who just had his headlights aimed and wants you to see what a wonderful job his mechanic did? You know how you handle a guy like that? Slam on your brakes and let him plow right into you. It might cost you a little money, but it sure puts them fuckin’ lights out in a hurry. Let him find his way home in the dark.

Volume Control

Does this ever happen to you? You’re driving through heavy downtown traffic, block to block, street to street. Busy area. People hurryin’ home at five o’clock. Maybe it’s winter, and it’s already dark, raining a little bit. You got the window open, and you can hear the rain and the traffic noise. People honkin’ at each other. Got the radio on. Got the windshield wipers going. Everything’s happening at once: radio, rain, wipers, horns, traffic—lots of noise. And you’re just trying to get across town to run an errand. And then, after all kinds of hassles, you get over there and park the car, turn off the key, go inside, and take care of business. And then when you come back out to the car and turn on the key, THE GODDAMN RADIO IS THIS LOUD!!!

And you sit there, stunned, thinking to yourself, “Could I . . . possibly . . . have been . . . listening to that?”

What’s My Lane?

Here’s one of those things you have to do every time you drive, especially if you’re in a hurry. It happens as you approach a red light, and find several lanes of cars ahead of you. As you roll up to the pack, you have to decide which lane to get into. You have to guess which car looks like a good bet to take off quickly, so you can move out fast when the light turns green. With half a block to go you have to decide who’s the really fast asshole in this group up ahead.

Forget the Volvo, she’s listening to public radio, and drives the way she lives—with fear and caution. You’ll also want to avoid that Toyota with the fish symbol; Christians drive as though Jesus himself was a traffic cop. And, by all means, ignore the Lexus with the heavily made-up, bejeweled pig-woman. She has the reflexes of an aging panda.

Ahhhhh! Here’s the correct machine to get behind: a Camaro with four different shades of primer paint and a bumper sticker that says I DATE MY SISTER. This guy’s a real risk-taker; full of crank, and on his way to an AC/DC concert. You’ll be home before you know it.

Goin’ Home

Now, one last reminder before I tow this trusty little shit-box of mine into the shop for its bimonthly overhaul. And this should go without saying. That’s why I’m going to say it: Drinking and driving don’t mix. Do your drinking early in the morning and get it out of the way. Then go driving while the visibility is still good.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-16” ??HEIGH-HO, HEIGH-HO, IT’S OFF TO WORK WE GO ?

What wine goes with Cap’n Crunch? I have trouble selecting a wine in the morning. Sometimes I give up, smoke a bong full of Froot Loops, and just go back to bed. Try that sometime. Smoke a bong full of Froot Loops, go back to bed, and watch the midmorning movie. Call your boss and tell him you smoked some Froot Loops, you’re watching a movie, and you’ll be in around 2:30. That is, if you feel like it.

That’s the way you handle a boss. You can’t take shit from someone just because you work for him. Let him know who the real boss is. Tell him it’s your job, and you’ll do it your way. That’s what bosses like—people with spunk. Act the same way when you go in for a job interview. Let ’em know what kind of person you are. Have a beer opener and some swizzle sticks sticking out of your breast pocket. Put a little confetti in your hair. Tell them your primary career is partying and work is kind of a sideline.

Tell the interviewer you’ll need an office near the front door so you can leave in a hurry at five o’clock.

“I ain’t stickin’ around this fuckin’ place after hours, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Let him know what’s happening. Tell him you hope it’s not one of those chicken-shit places where they dock your pay just for taking off Mondays and Fridays.

Then, if you still don’t have the job, point to the picture on his desk and say, “Who’s the cunt?” That’ll clinch it. You’ll probably have a nice long career with that firm. Once all your medical procedures have been completed.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-17” ??SHORT TAKES ?

In the expression topsy-turvy, what exactly is meant by turvy?

I’d like to pass along a piece of wisdom my first-grade teacher shared with us kids. She said, “You show me a tropical fruit, and I’ll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala.” I’ll always remember that.

I’m curious, what precisely is Zsa Zsa Gabor’s job title?

If free trade can really turn all these Third World countries into thriving economies full of entrepreneurs and investors, who’s gonna clean the fuckin’ toilets around here?

You know what’s fun? Go to a German restaurant and insist on using chopsticks.

I’m happy to say that during the 2000 Olympics I missed every single event without exception, managing even to avoid all the clips shown on newscasts. And although I sometimes watch NBC and MSNBC for other reasons, this time, whenever I ventured into those two locations it was with the remote control firmly in hand, ready to change channels instantly, in the event that depressing Olympic theme music or those repulsive five rings suddenly showed up.

If it requires a uniform it’s a worthless endeavor.

True Stuff There is actually a TV commercial in Las Vegas that advertises a service called “Discount Bankruptcy.”

There is now a Starbucks in my pants.

As long as you’ve decided to drink all day there’s nothing wrong with starting early in the morning.

Odd Fact When two women with different colored hair walk together on a sidewalk, the one with the darker hair will always be positioned closest to the curb.

I hope we’re not just human garbage drifting toward a big sewer. But I think so.

I like the fact that rap musicians are murdering each other. I don’t have a problem with rap music, it’s just that I like the idea of celebrities killing each other. Wouldn’t it be great if Dan Rather snuck up on Tom Brokaw during the news and stabbed him in the head? Or imagine Julie Andrews putting rat poison in Liza Minnelli’s triple vodka when she gets up to take a shit at Sardi’s. Here’s a great one: Richard Simmons and Louie Anderson grab Rosie O’Donnell and choke her to death. It’s just fun to think about, isn’t it?

Tennis tip You get a better return of serve if you let the ball bounce twice before hitting it.

People on a diet should have a salad dressing called “250 Islands.”

Can anyone explain to me the need for one-hour photo finishing? You just saw the fuckin’ thing! How can you possibly be nostalgic about a concept like “a little while ago”?

I tried to give up heroin, but my efforts were all in vein.

When I was a boy, on Good Friday in my parish, in order to dramatize the extent of Jesus’ suffering, a group of the priests used to get together and crucify one of the children.

If the reason for climbing Mt. Everest is that it’s hard to do, why does everyone go up the easy side?

By and large, language is a tool for concealing the truth.

What is all this shit about Dick Clark not looking his age? Take a closer look.

You know my favorite play in baseball? The bean ball. It’s great, isn’t it? It’s dramatic. Especially if the guy is really hurt. Sometimes the ball hits the helmet, and you feel kind of disappointed. Even though it makes a good loud noise.

Do you ever open the dictionary right to the page you want? Doesn’t that feel good?

Here’s my idea for another one of those “reality-based” TV shows: “No Survivors!” One by one, a psychopathic serial killer tracks down and kills all of the “Survivor” survivors. Think of it as a public service.

As far as I’m concerned, humans have not yet come up with a belief that’s worth believing.

People get all upset about torture, but when you get right down to it, it’s really a pretty good way of finding out something a person doesn’t want you to know.

How soon can we begin to execute these yuppie half-wits who name their golden retrievers Jake and put red bandannas around their necks? Apparently, this is viewed as amusing or ironic or some other quality yuppies value highly. It isn’t amusing; it’s precious, half-wit bullshit.

They say only 10 percent of the brain’s function is known. Apparently, the function of the remaining 90 percent is to keep us from discovering its function.

Ethnic-wise, I’ll tell you this: if I hadn’t turned out to be Irish, I would’ve really liked to be a guinea.

You know the good part about all those executions in Texas? Fewer Texans.

I’m tired of hearing about innocent victims. It’s fiction. If you live on this planet you’re guilty, period, fuck you, next case, end of report. Your birth certificate is proof of guilt.

I enjoy watching reruns of Saturday Night Live and counting all the dead people.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-18” ??AIRPORT SECURITY ?

I’m getting tired of all this security at the airport. There’s too much of it. I’m tired of some fat chick with a double-digit IQ and a triple-digit income rootin’ around inside my bag for no reason and never finding anything. Haven’t found anything yet. Haven’t found one bomb in one bag. And don’t tell me, “Well, the terrorists know their bags are going to be searched, so now they’re leaving their bombs at home.” There are no bombs! The whole thing is fuckin’ pointless.

And it’s completely without logic. There’s no logic at all. They’ll take away a gun, but let you keep a knife! Well, what the fuck is that? In fact, there’s a whole list of lethal objects they will allow you to take on board. Theoretically, you could take a knife, an ice pick, a hatchet, a straight razor, a pair of scissors, a chain saw, six knitting needles, and a broken whiskey bottle, and the only thing they’d say to you is, “That bag has to fit all the way under the seat in front of you.”

And if you didn’t take a weapon on board, relax. After you’ve been flying for about an hour, they’re gonna bring you a knife and fork! They actually give you a fucking knife! It’s only a table knife—but you could kill a pilot with a table knife. It might take you a couple of minutes. Especially if he’s hefty. But you could get the job done. If you really wanted to kill the prick.

Shit, there are a lot of things you could use to kill a guy with. You could probably beat a guy to death with the Sunday New York Times. Or suppose you just had really big hands, couldn’t you strangle a flight attendant? Shit, you could probably strangle two of them, one with each hand. That is, if you were lucky enough to catch ’em in that little kitchen area. Just before they break out the fuckin’ peanuts. But you could get the job done. If you really cared enough.