Get It Outta Here!

But there’s no place to put it. People don’t want low-cost housing built anywhere near them. We have a thing in this country called NIMBY: “Not in my backyard!” People don’t want social assistance of any kind located anywhere near them. Just try to open a halfway house, a rehab center, a shelter for the homeless, or a home for retarded people who want to work their way into the community. Forget it. People won’t allow it. “Not in my backyard!”

People don’t want anything near them, especially if there’s a chance it might help somebody. It’s part of that great, generous American spirit we hear so much about. You can ask the Indians about that. If you manage to find one. We’ve made Indians just a little hard to find. Should you need more current data, select any black family at random. Ask them how generous America has been to them.

Lock the Bastards Up . . . Somewhere Else

People don’t want anything near them. Even if it’s something they think society needs, like prisons. Everybody says, “Build more prisons! But don’t build them here.”

Well, why not? What’s wrong with having a prison in your neighborhood? It seems to me it would make for a fairly crime-free area. You think a lot of crackheads and thieves and hookers are gonna be hangin’ around in front of a fuckin’ prison? Bullshit! They ain’t goin’ anywhere near it.

What could be safer than a prison? All of the criminals are locked inside. And if a couple of them do manage to escape, what do you think they’re gonna do? Hang around? Check real estate prices? Bullshit! They’re fuckin’ gone! That’s the whole idea of breakin’ out of prison: to get as far away as you possibly can.

“Not in my backyard.” People don’t want anything near them. Except military bases. They like that, don’t they? Give ’em an army or a navy base; that makes ’em happy. Why? Jobs. Self-interest. Even if the base is loaded with nuclear weapons, they don’t give a shit. They’ll say, “Well, I don’t mind a few mutations in the family if I can get a decent job.” Working people have been fucked over so long, those are the kind of decisions they make now.

Putts for Putzes

But getting back to low-cost housing, I think I might have solved this problem. I know just the place to build housing for the homeless: golf courses. It’s perfect. Plenty of good land in nice neighborhoods; land that is currently being squandered on a mindless activity engaged in by white, well-to-do business criminals who use the game to get together so they can make deals to carve this country up a little finer among themselves.

I’m sick of these golfing cocksuckers in their green and yellow pants, precious little hats, and pussified golf carts. It’s time for real people to reclaim the golf courses from the wealthy and turn them over to the homeless. Golf is an arrogant, elitist game that takes up entirely too much space in this country.

Size Matters

The arrogant nature of golf is evident in the design and scale of the game. Think of how big a golf course is. It’s huge; you can’t see one end of it from the other. But the ball is only an inch and a half in diameter. So will someone please explain to me what these pinheaded pricks need with all that land?

America has over 17,000 golf courses. They average over 150 acres apiece. That’s three million-plus acres. Four thousand, eight hundred and twenty square miles. We could build two Rhode Islands and a Delaware’s worth of housing for the homeless on the land currently wasted on this meaningless, mindless, arrogant, racist game.

That’s another thing: race. The only blacks you’ll find in country clubs are carrying trays. And don’t give me that Tiger Woods bullshit. Fuck Tiger Woods. He ain’t black. He acts, talks, and lives like a white boy. Skin alone doesn’t make you black.

Wake Me Up on the 19th Hole

And let’s not forget how boring golf is. Have you ever watched it on television? It’s like watching flies fuck. A completely mindless game. I should think it takes a fairly low intellect to draw pleasure from the following activity: hitting a ball with a crooked stick . . . and then walking after it! And then . . . hitting it again! I say, “Pick it up, asshole, you’re lucky you found the fuckin’ thing in the first place. Put it in your pocket and go the fuck home!” But, no. Dorko, in the plaid knickers, is gonna hit the ball again. And then he’s gonna walk some more.

I say let these rich cocksuckers play miniature golf. Let ’em fuck with a windmill for an hour and a half. I wanna see if there’s any real skill among these people. And yeah, yeah, I know there are plenty of golfers who don’t consider themselves rich; people who play on badly maintained public courses. Fuck ’em! Fuck them and shame on them! Shame! For engaging in an arrogant, elitist, racist activity.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-43” ??THE GOOD BREAD ?

When you make a sandwich at home, do you reach down past the first few slices to get the really good bread? It’s a survival thing: “Let my family eat the rotten bread. I’ll take care of Numero Uno.”

And sometimes the issue isn’t freshness but the size of the slice you’re after. Everyone knows the wider ones are somewhere near the middle. So down you go past about six inferior slices to reach the ones you want. And, as you pull them up, you have to be careful they don’t tear. Then, just before you get them out, the top six slices shift position and fall perpendicular to the rest of the loaf.

“Shit!”

I leave them that way. Let the family think a burglar made a sandwich.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-44” ??SHORT TAKES ?

Did you notice that several years ago everything got different?

I never read memoirs; the last thing I need is someone else’s memories. I have all I can do to deal with my own.

It takes two scales to find out how much a scale weighs.

In this era of “maxi,” “mega” and “meta,” you know what we don’t have anymore? “Super-duper.” I miss that.

Fuck whole-grain cereal. When I want fiber, I eat some wicker furniture.

Suggestions I ignore: “George, you go out and draw their fire, I’ll sneak up on them from behind.”

You men, next time a prostitute solicits your business, ask for the clergymen’s rate.

I think doctors, who must always remain emotionally detached, should be accompanied on their hospital rounds by peasant women from the Middle East. The ones who cry and wail and throw themselves on coffins at those terrorist funerals you see on television. Just for balance.

The only thing high-definition television will do is provide sharper pictures of the garbage.

Have you noticed that some companies now call their menial employees “associates”? They’re trying to make them feel better in spite of subsistence salaries. “Associates” is a very slippery job title. Don’t be fooled by it.

God bless the homicidal maniacs. They make life worthwhile.

There are patriotic vegetarians in the American Legion who will only eat animals that were killed in combat.

Peg Leg Bates Jr.’s sole ambition was to follow in his father’s footstep.

When I was a kid I can remember saying, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” I’d like to confess now that I never really meant the second part.

Very few Germans know that in honor of her husband, Mrs. Hitler combed her pussy hair to one side.

You don’t hear a lot from imps anymore.

FECES TAKE PLACE

I think TV remotes should have a button that allows you to kill the person on the screen.

The phrase “digging up dirt” seems wrong. If you use a shovel correctly, the very first time you stick it in the ground the thing you come up with is dirt. The dirt is right there on top. It doesn’t have to be “dug up.”