I’ve noticed my flax bill is not too high.

Would someone please explain to me the supposed appeal of having grandchildren? People ask me, “Are you a grandfather yet?” as if it’s some great thing. I’m sure it has its charms, and I imagine some dull-witted people want to see their genes passed along just for the sheer novelty of the idea. But overall, I don’t get it.

It’s been on my mind for some time, but I’ve never said it publicly. So here goes: “Vo-do-de-o-do and a scoddie-woddie doo-dah day.” Thank you.

Boy, am I glad to finally be rid of that fuckin’ Mother Teresa.

Masturbation is not illegal, but if it were, people would probably take the law into their own hands.

It used to be you got a tattoo because you wanted to be one of the few people who had a tattoo. Now you get a tattoo because you don’t want to be one of the few people who don’t have a tattoo.

Just when I discovered the meaning of life, it changed.

People in Washington say it’s not the initial offense that gets you in trouble, it’s the cover-up. They say you should admit what you did, get the story out, and move on. What this overlooks is the fact that most of the time the cover-up works just fine, and nobody finds out a thing. I would imagine that’s the rule rather than the exception. My advice: Take a chance. Lie.

The IQ and the life expectancy of the average American recently passed each other going in opposite directions.

Hotel fun: Smoke a big fat joint and then watch a complex spy movie with a lot of characters and plot twists. Then a few weeks later at a different hotel, smoke another joint and watch the same movie. It’s like seeing a whole new film. But the real fun is that about every fifteen minutes something happens in the plot that you seem to know already. It’s an odd feeling. By the way, this exercise can probably be repeated indefinitely with the same movie. As long as the grass holds out.

This is just one more way of starting a sentence with the word “this” and ending it with the word “that.”

Odd Slang: A woman who fucks a priest is said to have “taken a ride on the holy pole.”

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Guys in their fifties named Skip.

Anyone who pays for vaginal jelly with a platinum credit card.

An airline pilot wearing two different shoes.

A proctologist with poor depth perception.

A pimp who drives a Ford Escort.

A gynecologist who wants my wife to have three Quaaludes before the examination.

Guys with a lot of small pins on their hats.

Anyone who mentions Jesus more than 300 times in a two-minute conversation.

A dentist with blood in his hair.

Any woman whose hobby is breast-feeding zoo animals.

A funeral director who says, “Hope to see you folks again real soon.”

A man with only one lip.

A Boy Scoutmaster who works at a dildo shop.

People who know the third verse to the “Star Spangled Banner.”

Any lawyer who refers to the police as “the federales.”

A cross-eyed nun with a bullwhip and a bottle of gin.

Guys who have their names printed on their belts.

A brain surgeon with BORN TO LOSE tattooed on his hand.

Couples whose children’s names all start with the same initial.

A man in a hospital gown, directing traffic.

A waitress with a visible infection on her serving hand.

People who have large gums and small teeth.

Guys who wear the same underwear until it begins to cut off the circulation to their crotch.

Any woman whose arm hair completely covers her wristwatch.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-69” ??CANCER IS GOOD FOR YOU ?

A lot of people worry that their drinking water isn’t safe, because it contains things that cause cancer. Not me. I don’t care if the water is safe or not, I drink it anyway. You know why? Because I’m an American, and I expect a little cancer in my water. I’m a loyal citizen and I’m not happy unless government and industry have poisoned me a little every day.

Besides, cancer never hurt anybody. People need a little cancer. It’s good for you; it keeps you on your toes. I ain’t afraid of cancer, I had broccoli for lunch. Broccoli kills cancer. A lot of people don’t know that. It’s not out yet.

It’s true. You find out you got some cancer, get yourself a fuckin’ bowl of broccoli. That’ll wipe it right out. Cauliflower, too. Cauliflower kills the really big cancers, the ones you can see from across the street through heavy clothing. Broccoli kills the little ones, the ones that are slowly eating you away from inside. While your goofy, half-educated doctor keeps telling you, “You’re doin’ fine, Jim.”

In fact, bring your doctor a bowl of broccoli, he’s probably got cancer, too. Probably picked it up from you. They don’t know what they’re doing. It’s all guesswork in a white coat. What you gotta try to do is develop more than one kind of cancer, so you can turn ’em against one another. That’s what you gotta hope for: that the cancers eat each other up instead of you. Fact is, the way I look at it, the more cancer you got, the healthier you are.

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Many people in this country want to tell you what you can and can’t talk about. Or sometimes they’ll tell you you can talk about something, but you can’t joke about it. Like rape. People say you can’t joke about rape. They say rape’s not funny. And I say, Fuck you, I think it’s hilarious. How do you like that? I can prove rape is funny: Picture Porky Pig raping Daisy Duck. See? Hey, why do you think they call him Porky?

And I know what men are gonna say. Daisy was askin’ for it; she was comin’ on to Porky, she had on tight feathers. Porky got horny, and he lost control. A lot of men talk like that. They blame it on the woman. They say, “She had it comin’. She was wearing a short skirt.”

Doesn’t seem fair to me; doesn’t seem right. But I believe you can joke about it. I believe you can joke about anything. It just depends on how you construct the joke, what the exaggeration is. Every joke needs one exaggeration. Every joke needs one thing to be way out of proportion.

I’ll give you an example. Have you ever seen a news story like this? Some burglar breaks into a house, steals some things, and while he’s in there, he rapes an eighty-one-year-old woman. And you think to yourself, “Why? What the fuck kind of social life does this guy have?” I want to ask him, “Why did you do that?” But I know what I’d hear: “Hey, she was comin’ on to me. She had on a tight bathrobe.” And I’m thinkin’, “Next time, be a little more selective, will you?”

Now, speaking of rape, but changing the subject slightly, you know what I wonder? Is there more rape at the Equator or the North Pole? I mean, per capita; I know the populations are different. I think it’s the North Pole.

Most people think it’s the Equator. Because it’s hot down there, people don’t wear a lot of clothing, guys can see women’s tits, they get horny, and there’s a lot of rape and a lot of fucking in general. But that’s exactly why there’s less rape at the Equator; because there’s a lot of fucking, in general. You can tell the Equator has a lot of fucking; look at the population figures. Billions of people live near the Equator. How many Eskimos we got? Thirty? Thirty-five?

No one’s gettin’ laid at the North Pole; it’s too cold. An Eskimo says to his wife, “Hey, honey, how about some pussy?” She says, “Wally, are you crazy? The windchill is 150 below!” Eskimo guys are deprived, they’re horny, they get pent up, and every now and then they gotta rape somebody.