When you’re at someone else’s house, and they leave you alone in a room, do you look in the drawers? I do. I’m not trying to steal anything; I just like to know where everything is.

I don’t understand this notion of ethnic pride. “Proud to be Irish,” “Puerto Rican pride,” “Black pride.” It seems to me that pride should be reserved for accomplishments; things you attain or achieve, not things that happen to you by chance. Being Irish isn’t a skill; it’s genetic. You wouldn’t say, “I’m proud to have brown hair,” or “I’m proud to be short and stocky.” So why the fuck should you say you’re proud to be Irish? I’m Irish, but I’m not particularly proud of it. Just glad! Goddamn glad to be Irish!

Don’t you think it’s funny that all these tough-guy boxers are fighting over a purse?

I wonder: On rainy nights, does the sandman send the mudman?

I think they ought to have an annual ceremony at the White House called the Bad Example Award. They should give it to the one person in America who has made the most complete disaster of his own personal life. Someone who through drugs or alcohol or simply a bad attitude has been fired, arrested, killed a marriage, completely alienated friends and family, and perhaps even attempted suicide several times. But it must have happened because of personal behavior and conscious choices, not bad luck. It seems to me people like that never receive any recognition.

Christian deodorant: “Thou Shalt Not Smell”

Lou Gehrig was a pretty tough guy, but I wonder how he handled it when they told him he had Lou Gehrig’s disease.

Most people don’t know what they’re doing, and a lot of them are really good at it.

Sea World should have a special aquarium that features fish sticks. In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing Mrs. Paul herself swimming around in there: “Hi, kids!”

Do you think Sammy Davis ate Junior Mints?

Have you noticed when you wear a hat for a long time it feels like it’s not there anymore? And then when you take it off it feels like it’s still there? What is that?

I can never decide if “what’s-his-name” should be capitalized.

Do you know why they call it a blow job? So it’ll sound like there’s a work ethic involved. Makes a person feel like they did something useful for the economy.

As soon as someone is identified as an unsung hero, he no longer is.

It isn’t generally known, but you can save money on phone calls by simply not letting the other person talk. Studies have shown that on many phone calls as much as 50 percent of the talking is done by the other person. If you can manage to dominate the conversation, you can save money.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-45” ??DYING TO STAY ALIVE ?

You’re all going to die. I hate to remind you, but it is on your schedule. It probably won’t happen when you’d like; generally, it’s an inconvenience. For instance, you might have your stamp collection spread out on the dining room table.

[Ominous music]

“Now?”

“Now.”

“May I at least put away my commemoratives?”

“No.”

Inconvenient.

Nobody wants to die. Nobody. Well, maybe Evel Knievel, but most other people don’t like the idea. It doesn’t seem like an enjoyable thing. People figure if being sick is no fun, dying must really be a bother. After all, part of the pleasure of being alive is the knowledge that you’re not dead yet.

And when you get right down to it, people don’t mind being dead, it’s getting dead that bothers them. No one wants to get dead. But we’re all gonna do it. Death is one of the few things that are truly democratic—everybody gets it once. But only once. That’s what makes us nervous. No rehearsals.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-46” ??TICKET TO NOWHERE ?

And actually, I think people should look forward to death. After all, it’s our next big adventure. At last we’re going to find out where we go. Isn’t that what we’ve all been wondering? Where we go?

“Where do we go?”

“I don’t know.”

“We must go somewhere.”

“True.”

“Phil says he knows.”

“I know he does. But take my word, Phil doesn’t know.”

Where do we go? Maybe it’s nowhere; that would be interesting. On the one hand, you’d be nowhere, but on the other hand, you wouldn’t know it. So at least you’d have something to think about. Or not.

Personally, I think we go wherever we think we’re going to go. What you think is what you get. Have you ever heard one of those guys who says, “Don’t even bother prayin’ for me, I’m goin’ straight to hell; I’m goin’ to hell to be with all my friends”? Well, he is. He’s going to hell, and he’ll probably be with all his friends. What you think is what you get. If you keep saying you’re going to heaven, chances are you’ll get there. But don’t look for any of your friends.

In my own case, I expect I’ll be going to a public toilet in Honduras. And by the way, should you be interested, I can tell you on good authority that when Monty Hall dies he will be spending a lot of time behind door number three.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-47” ??DEATH: THE SHOW ?

Die Big

My feeling is that as long as you’re going to die, you should go out with a bang. Make a statement. Don’t just “pass away.” Die!

“Arnie passed away.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Quietly, in a chair.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, that’s the idea; no one knows.”

“True. On the other hand, they say Jim died.”

“Oh, yes, Jim died! He died, and now he’s dead! He had a thirty-minute seizure in a hotel, danced across the lobby, and wound up in a fountain, twitching uncontrollably. Bellhops were actually applauding.”

“God bless him, he went out big.”

I say go out big, folks; it’s your last chance to make a statement. Before you go, give ’em a show; entertain those you leave behind.

Two-Minute Warning

Now, you might be wondering why I would even suggest that someone can affect the manner and style of his death. Well, it’s because of a mysterious and little-known stage of dying, the two-minute warning. Most people are not aware of it, but it does exist. Just as in football, two minutes before you die you receive an audible warning: “Two minutes! Get your shit together!” And the reason most people don’t know about it is because the only ones who hear it are dead two minutes later. They never get a chance to tell us.

But such a warning does exist, and I suggest that when it comes, you use your two minutes to entertain and go out big. If nothing else, deliver a two-minute speech. Pick a subject you feel passionate about, and just start talking. Begin low-key, but, with mounting passion, build to a rousing climax. Finally, in the last few seconds, scream at those around you, “If these words are not the truth, may God strike me dead!” He will. Then simply slump forward and fall to the floor. Believe me, from that moment on, people will pay more attention to you.

Of course, such a speech is not your only option; circumstances may permit a more spectacular exit. Perhaps you’ll get your two-minute warning during an aerobics class. If so, volunteer for something strenuous. Grab three sets of dumbells, strap on a lot of leg weights, and start running on the treadmill at a really steep grade. When they tell you to stop, turn the treadmill up to 20 miles an hour and start leaping in the air. Tell them it’s a new exercise called the Hindu Death Leap. Then collapse on the treadmill, allowing it to fling you backward into the mirrored wall, breaking the mirror and showering everyone with small pieces of glass. I guarantee the police will search your locker carefully.