READING IS FUCKINMENTAL / Jason Matthew Smith

PORK FROM HEAVEN

George Carlin is probably hand-delivering the pork to J.C.

Well, you did it, America. You’ve killed George Carlin.

I know what you’ll say. “He always had problems with his ticker!” And it was probably nothing more than a good, old fashioned heart attack that claimed his life on June 22. Genetics, hard livin’ and an atrocious diet, most likely. But I’ll tell you something: I prefer to think of Carlin cashing in his chips because of something he saw you doing on television, America. He shot up from the La-Z-Boy, pointed at the TV with an impossibly long finger, furrowed his brow in that oddly plastic way he had, and exclaimed, “What the fuck?” And that’s when the chest pains began. I have no idea what he was watching—maybe another round of moral cluck-clucking about all those knocked-up teen girls in Massachusetts. Who knows. But Jesus, America. I’m sure it’s something you’ve done that pushed Carlin over the edge. Fuck knows you’ve given me chest pains on more than one occasion. (And in some small measure, we all owe G.C. a debt of gratitude for the freedom to say the word fuck in certain circumstances. The litany of tributes and memorials that have come in the last few days will cover that territory, so I won’t go into detail here. But for a crash course, click here. 

George Carlin wrote a handful of books, most notably Brain Droppings (1997), Napalm & Silly Putty (2001) and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (2004). But of course you don’t get the whole Carlin experience by reading his books, good as they are. Your best bet is to snag his DVDs. Five minutes in you’ll be struck by how many of today’s comics pale in comparison, and how little they have to say (I’m lookin’ at you, Dane Cook.)

When I was a young’un, there were a few HBO programs my parents expressly forbade. Such as Risky Business—primarily because of the Tom Cruise/Rebecca DeMornay scene on the train, still one of the hottest goddamn simulated sex scenes in cinematic history. The other program on the shit list was, well, anything with George Carlin. But many years later I had an opportunity to catch G.C. live in Salt Lake City—which is the most mind-humping juxtaposition of mental imagery in and of itself. Several people walked out during the show (especially after he began skewering the Mormons—what did they expect?). He was in rare form.

Goodnight, George.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.