New Rules: Polite Musings from a Timid Observer (3 page)
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Authors: Bill Maher
BOOK: New Rules: Polite Musings from a Timid Observer
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Foreword
NEW RULE
No more books by talk show hosts! No, I mean it! Just this last one and then that’s it. Who do we think we are, anyway?
I guess it’s not enough to broadcast our every brilliant thought to millions of viewers each week. We also have to amass compilations of our favorite, most precious
bon mots
so that people can carry them around under their arms and enjoy them at the beach or on the subway or during a quiet moment sitting alone at home in a small room. Okay, okay, and they also make great gifts. There, I’ve said it.
bon mots
so that people can carry them around under their arms and enjoy them at the beach or on the subway or during a quiet moment sitting alone at home in a small room. Okay, okay, and they also make great gifts. There, I’ve said it.
But this book is different. It’s not your typical, pompous fare where I, the all-knowing host, sit in judgment, presuming to know, through my vast experience as a media whore, how you should be living your lives. No, no—not at all. This is a simple, humble collection of rules that basically points out how everyone but me has their head up their ass. Trust me, it’s a great read. And have I mentioned it also makes a great gift?
But here’s why I really wanted to publish this book: whenever I’m at an airport waiting for a plane to take me to some stand-up gig, a stranger will invariably approach me and say, “Excuse me, sir, could you drop your pants so we can see what the dog is sniffing at?”
And that’s why I wanted to make New Rules into a book—not just so there would be something else for people to discuss with me in airports, but also because it seemed about time that this “structureless” society of ours got back to the idea of rules, limits, and boundaries.
We have come to interpret the word “freedom” as meaning “without rules or boundaries,” but that’s not all there is to it. Kris Kristofferson wrote, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” apparently without considering that “nothing left to lose” is not another word at all, but four words. In doing so, he followed the rules of neither math nor grammar. What a loser.
And yet, when I was a teenager, I wanted to be just like Kris Kristofferson: grizzled. And not following the rules. Rules were for squares. I thought I was too cool for rules, which is quite amusing considering nothing about me at that age even remotely suggested coolness, except maybe my plaid polyester bell-bottoms. Of course, that’s often the way it is: The urge to rebel in youth often predates having a reason to do so. But then one day you take a lawn dart in the kidney and suddenly following the rules—at least the rules about lawn darts—doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I never did take a lawn dart in the kidney—that’s just an example—but I did wake up one morning after a sleepover at John Waters’s house to find my sleeping bag wasn’t zipped up the same way as when I passed out. We all learn. It’s just a matter of how and when.
Whatever happened to all of the rules we used to live by, anyway? Before the “Me” Generation, followed by the “Me, Me, Me” Generation, followed by the “What Part of Me Don’t You Understand?” Generation, there were rules—rules like “No trespassing,” “No shoes, no shirt, no service,” and “Please don’t touch the dancers”—and they applied to everyone. Nowadays, these same rules are either ignored completely or viewed more as suggestions to be followed a la carte, depending on which ones we like.
And our respect for rules seems to be fluid, depending on convenience. Take “Do not feed the ducks.” That rule would seem easy enough to follow, especially if we have no intention of feeding the ducks in the first place. But if we’ve come all this way with a carload of toddlers and a sack full of bread, what’s a little duck feeding going to hurt? It is presumptions like that one, that rules apply more to others than to ourselves, that have placed society into disarray and Martha Stewart into an electronic ankle bracelet.
Even our trusted leaders can’t be counted on to observe the rules—or at least they do so only selectively. “Rule of law!” Remember that popular refrain from the days of the Clinton impeachment? As House Republicans told us at the time, they really had no choice. It was all out of their hands. Legislators are bound to uphold the rules as they’re written, no matter what—except, apparently, as they apply to subpoenaing the brain dead. And by “the brain dead,” of course, I mean baseball’s Mark McGwire.
Rules are the signposts that define where our rights end and those of our fellow citizens begin. Adhering to rules and abiding by a code of civility—this is what separates us from the apes ... and Tom DeLay. Stop following the rules and you start stepping on toes. And that’s where this book comes in—not necessarily to rehash our old, out-of-date rules but to establish new ones for a self-obsessed, success-by-any-means, get-mine culture. These are the rules that, frankly, were not necessary back when we practiced those old-fashioned time wasters: courtesy, consideration, and common sense.
Rules are important—we all need them. They provide structure and help us to know where we stand with others. That’s why I’m constantly fighting with my neighbors—no rules. Okay, and because the makeup sex is fantastic. When we disregard the rules altogether we get anarchy or, worse yet, Enron.
Of course, children need structure and rules, too. I’ve always said the three most important things for a child to learn are respect, accountability, and to shut the hell up on airplanes. Rules help shape kids and let them know that they’re loved. Children not subject to these healthy boundaries often find themselves, by the time they are teenagers, lacking any real sense of security or self. These kids are destined, sadly, for social difficulties, school shootings, or, even more likely, session after session of red-hot car sex with their French teacher.
Children, though, who are exposed to the healthy, enforced rules of conscientious parenting seem to grow to their “right size,” complete with a moral compass. There is no limit to how far a child can go with just a little discipline and structure. Just look at what the Hitler Youth did for the pope.
So, then, here you have them—my New Rules for a better world, for all of you out there who love freedom but still crave a little structure. This book, come to think of it, is a lot like having to drop your pants at the airport: There’s an important point to it, but mostly it’s just plain funny. So, enjoy it! And did I mention, it also makes a great gift?
BILL MAHER
A
A
NEW RULES
Stop calling it a “perfect storm” when two bad things happen at the same time. Sometimes it’s just some crap happening at the same time as some other crap. Let’s go back to what we used to call it before that movie about George Clooney and his epic struggle to kill more tuna: Shit happens.
AND NEW RULEI don’t care that your phone takes pictures. It’s a phone, not a Swiss Army knife. Great, now the annoying camera buff and the annoying cell phone prick can merge as one guy. Hey, if you can figure out how to make that “camera phone” play country-western music real loud, we could call it “a perfect storm of assholes.”
A Suit and Battery
Now that you’ve won and you’re safe, you have to tell us: What the hell was that thing on your back during the debate?
AARP Yours
Stop fucking with old people. Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle—it’s square, with a bigger label, and the top is now the bottom. And by the time Grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you’ve just solved the Social Security crisis.
Abigail Van BuriedDead people can’t write advice columns. Dear Abby has been dead for years, yet she continues her daily syndicated column. If I want to hear what a corpse thinks, I’ll read Robert Novak.
Abu Grab-AssLynndie England and Charles Graner should not be sentenced to jail. They should be photographed performing sex acts, stacked in a pile of naked people, and stripped of their dignity. Or as it’s better known here,
The Real World.
Accessories after the FactThe Real World.
Martha Stewart does not need an electronic ankle bracelet. There’s a caravan of news vans on her driveway, choppers overhead, and paparazzi with telephoto lenses in the trees—where the hell is she gonna go? Plus, what sense does it make to remand a “home diva” to her home? That’s like sentencing Kirstie Alley to check in nightly at IHOP.
Ad-NauseumStop running TV ads I don’t understand. I’m not sure if IBM’s latest is advertising weapons of mass destruction or stool softener. Then there’s the one with clouds moving in fast motion, some Buddhist monks on a cell phone, and James Earl Jones saying, “We’re the world leader in virtual network upstream data retrieval.” What?! Hey, fuck you. I watch TV to see bimbos marry strangers for money. If I want to be confused, I’ll take mushrooms.
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