If George Carlin Said It, Then It Must Be True

by Kevin Singarayar on July 17, 2008

in Rants and Quibbles


By George Carlin

I’m a mod­ern man, a man for the millennium.

Dig­i­tal and smoke-free;  A diver­si­fied, mul­ti­cul­tural, post-modern decon­struc­tion­ist; polit­i­cally, anatom­i­cally and eco­log­i­cally incorrect.

I’ve been uplinked and down­loaded, I’ve been inputted and out­sourced.  I know the upside of down­siz­ing, I know the down­side of upgrading.

I’m a high-tech lowlife.   A cutting-edge, state-of the-art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a giga­byte in a nanosecond.

I’m new-wave, but I’m old-school; and my inner child is outward-bound.

I’m a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool cus­tomer; voice-activated and biodegradable.

I inter­face with my data­base; my data­base is in cyber­space; so I’m inter­ac­tive, I’m hyper­ac­tive, and from time to time I’m radioactive.

Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin’ the wave, dod­gin the bul­let, pushin’ the envelope.

I’m on point, on task, on mes­sage, and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed;

I’ve got no urge to binge and purge.

I’m in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar.

A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range bal­lis­tic missionary.

A street-wise, smart bomb.

A top-gun, bottom-feeder.

I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run vic­tory laps.

I’m a totally ongo­ing, big-foot, slam-dunk rain­maker with a pro-active outreach.

A rag­ing worka­holic, a work­ing ragea­holic; out of rehab and in denial.

I’ve got a per­sonal trainer, a per­sonal shop­per, a per­sonal assis­tant, and a per­sonal agenda.

You can’t shut me up; you can’t dumb me down.

Cause I’m tire­less, and I’m wire­less.  I’m an alpha-male on beta-blockers.

I’m a non-believer, I’m an overachiever.

Laid-back but fashion-forward.

Up-front, down-home; low-rent, high-maintenance.

I’m super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last.

I’m a hands-on, foot­loose, knee-jerk head case; pre­ma­turely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate-mail.

But I’m feel­ing, I’m car­ing, I’m heal­ing, I’m shar­ing.   A sup­port­ive, bond­ing, nur­tur­ing primary-care giver.

My out­put is down, but my income is up.  I take a short posi­tion on the long bond, and my rev­enue stream has its own cash flow.

I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports.

I’m gender-specific, capital-intensive, user-friendly and lactose-intolerant.

I like rough sex; I like tough love.  I use the f-word in my email.   And the soft­ware on my hard drive is hard-core, no soft porn.

I bought a microwave at a mini-mall.  I bought a mini-van at a mega-store.  I eat fast food in the slow lane.

I’m toll-free, bite-size, ready-to-wear, and I come in all sizes.

A fully equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clin­i­cally proven, sci­en­tif­i­cally for­mu­lated med­ical miracle.

I’ve been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre­heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, prepack­aged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed, and… I have unlim­ited broad­band capacity.

I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal.   Lean and mean.

Cocked, locked and ready to rock; rough, tough and hard to bluff.

I take it slow, I go with the flow; I ride with the tide, I’ve got glide in my stride.

Dri­vin’ and movin’, sailin’ and spin­nin’; jivin’ and groovin’, wailin’ and winnin’.

I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rub­ber on the road.

I party hearty, and lunchtime is crunch time.

I’m hangin’ in, there ain’t no doubt; and I’m hangin tough.

Over and out.

George Denis Patrick Carlin

1937 — 2008

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