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GEORGE CARLIN Through all these years, I have kept alive my one rema}n_ 6 ing childhood Catholic fantasy: I’m hoping that someday a new pope will choose the name Corky. Just once in my \tf^ j want to look up at that balcony and see His Holinessj Pope Corky IX. I think you’d have to skip straight to nine 10 give $ him a little credibility, don’t you? Somehow, Pope Coi-ky the

First doesn’t command a great deal of authority. K That’s because some names are inappropriate in the wrong settings. You won’t find many Schuyler Vanderpools t)iowin’ into a harmonica on death row; no one in need of brain surgery is breakin’ down the door to see Dr. Lucky l4pSnitz; and I’m sure only the most devoted aficionado wovjd pay money to see a ballet dancer named Bruno McNulty. 0 On the other hand, you’ll know that America has relaxed its hopelessly tight asshole if we someday elect a pi-esident named Booger. If we ever get a president named Booger, Skeeter, T-Bone, or Downtown President Brown, you’ll know that finally this country is a relaxed, comfortable place to live. . The point is, there are emotional values that attach to names; they carry psychological baggage. Just thinly of the Old West. I’m sure if Billy the Kid’s name had been ty[\\y the Schmuck, people wouldn’t have been afraid.

“Who’s that ridin’ into town?” ^ “Billy the Schmuck.” “Oh. Well, fuck ‘im!”

Would anyone have paid to see a Wild West shoiw if the star attraction was Buffalo Shecky?

Using this approach, western movies would have been completely unbelievable:

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“Hey, Shemp! Go get Sheriff Quackenbush, there’s gonna be trouble. Two-Gun Noodleman and Wild Bill Swackhammer are drunk, and they’re lookin’ for Deadeye Stoopnagle.”

This also applies to the legendary criminals of the thirties. Do you think the police would’ve spent a lot of time looking ^ for Pretty Boy Heffleflekker?

And what about Jack the Ripper? If his name had been K Wally, I don’t think people would have been afraid to walk the streets of London. Not if they thought Wally the Ripper was on the loose.

“Who’s that? Wally who? Wally the Ripper? Ha-ha-ha-ha! Really? Wally the Ripper, indeed! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Religion presents an interesting situation. Jerry Falwell; it’s 0 simply an absurd name for a clergyman. The last person in the world I’m going to believe has an inside track with God is some guy named Jerry. Can you imagine the supreme being, in the middle of the night, “Jerry! Wake up. I got some revelations.” On the other hand, the founders of the major religions had . names that seem quite suitable. There’s still a certain mystery surrounding the names Buddha, Moses, and Mohammed. But the poor Mormons. All they could come up with was Joseph Smith. Not too impressive.

“Listen, Caleb, we got a new religion. You wanna join?” ^ “Who started it?” “Joe Smith.” “See ya later.”

You can’t blame him. I wouldn’t follow a guy named Joe Smith halfway across a continent, either. “C’mon, we’re goin’ to Utah.”

0 R C E C A R L I N “Why?” “Joe Smith said that’s where we’re supposed to be.” “Well, I’m gonna finish this crossword. Why drop me a postcard.”

In ancient times, the rulers had magnificent names. Alexander the Great. Suppose he had been a less impt^w figure, do you think he would have been called Alex;m^er the Marginal? As it is, he had his detractors. You know, peo_ pie who called him Alexander the Scumbag.

History has given us other impressive names from si times: Edward the Fair, Charles the Bold, Catherine the These days, they would be Edward the Abuse Victim, Cnaries the Underachiever, and Catherine the Recovering Codepei^^

And let’s not forget the historical figures we never htar of. Tiberius the Wanker and Lucretius the Dog Fucker. Guys like ^at

And I’m sure history would not be the same if certajn names had been slightly different. For example, Worl^ II would have ended much more quickly if we had^ fighting a guy named Skip Hitler.

Suppose there had been a really outstanding eighteentn_ century composer who was better than Beethoven, Bacn an(j Mozart combined. But his name was Joey the Cocksucl^j. rj0 you think he would be famous today? “And now, fcugene Ormandy conducts the Philadelphia Orchestra as th&y per_ form the Requiem Mass in C-sharp Minor, composed fyy joev the Cocksucker.”

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Some names are embarrassing. We had a guy neighborhood, Michael Hunt, who called himself 26

b r a i n d topf injs because the only alternative was Mike Hunt. Of course, some (j| other names are just plain dirty: “Hi, I’m Peter Ball, and this is Dick Cox. We’re friends of Randy Bush.” Some people have funny names. They can’t help it, but it’s hard to keep from laughing when a guy named Elmo b Zipaloonie introduces you to his friend El Cunto Prickolini. And if you want funny, you can’t beat farmers with names k like Orville Pigdicker and Hooter Stumpfuck.

Speaking of funny names, do you realize Howdy Doody’s mother and father are known as the Doodys? And Bo Diddley’s parents are the Diddleys? How would you like to be at a party and have to introduce the Doodys to the Diddleys? And keep a straight face? “Mr. and Mrs. Doody, I’d like you to meet Mr. 6 and Mrs. Diddley. Mr. Doody, Mr. Diddley; Mrs. Diddley, Mrs. Doody. Mr. Doody, Mrs. Diddley; Mr. Diddley, Mrs. Doody. The Doodys, the Diddleys; the Diddleys, the Doodys.” Jesus!

Then, just as you Finish all of that, in walks Bo Diddley’s brother, Dudley Diddley, and his sisters, Dottie Diddley, Dodie Diddley, and Didi Diddley. And Howdy Doody’s sis-% ters, Judy Doody and Trudy Doody. I’d never get through it all. I’d be leanin’ over the punchbowl, thinkin’, “Please, God, don’t let Rootie Kazootie show up.”

In Hawaii, I once had the pleasure of meeting Don Ho (H and his lovely wife, Heidi. Plus his three brothers, Gung, Land, and Hy.

Hospitals often name a new facility after the person who makes the major donation. I grew up with a neighborhood guy who is now extremely wealthy, and I’m hoping someday

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the thing never comes off, but it hurts to put it on, and you gotta pay the guy. Plus if you do wanna take it off, it hurts again, and you gotta pay the guy again.

Another reason not to get a tattoo is that a tattoo is positive identification. No one should ever do anything to help the police. In any way. Especially when you may be the object of their interest.

So I never got a tattoo. But I had some good ideas. I was gonna get dotted lines tattooed on all my joints, wherever I bend. With little instructions: “Fold here.” “Do not glue.” I also thought about gettin’ a necklace of hickeys.

Here’s one I almost went through with. I was gonna get my nipples tattooed as radio dials: “volume” and “tuning.” And the hair in the middle of my chest was gonna be the speaker. For stereo, I’d raise my arms. Armpit speakers!

I guess the most popular tattoo of all time is MOM. A lot of guys get MOM. No one ever gets POP. You know why? Cause you can’t read POP in the mirror. In a mirror, MOM comes out MOM. POP comes out “909.” What the fuck is that?

If you guys want to get a MOM tattoo and save a little money, just get two letters done. Get about a one-inch capital M tattooed on each cheek of your ass in pink and brown ink. Then when you bend over, it says “Mom.” Also, later on if you’re havin’ sex with your girlfriend, and her parents are in the next room, when you finish up you can just lie on your back, draw your legs up to your chest and silently say, “Wow!”

Here’s another good one for guys: at the top of your inner thigh, next to your groin, you put, “In case of emergency, pull handle.” Or get your penis tattooed to resemble a candy