One of the most influential figures in my life died this weekend, and yet, in a way, I can't be sad. Not because he disappointed me or became a hypocrite in his later years. Not because he ever softened his edge or repented for his youthful extravagances. Not because he switched parties, recanted his comments on Viet Nam, joined the Baptists or shaved his head and hosted possibly the single lamest game show ever produced. George was guilty of none of these, and what he may or may not be guilty of, I can hardly fault him for it. I am not sad, because just thinking about the man fills me with too much joy. How can I cry with "Shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker-motherfucker and tits" running through my head? How can I frown when I can still hear his voice saying, "Tippy, did you fart? Look at him, he knows he farted. I seen his ass open up"? How can I honestly mourn, with memories of Al Sleet, the hippy-dippy weather man, or Wonderful WINO Radio still vibrating the plaster off the walls of my psyche?
Besides, to lament death at the end of a life so well lived is really kind of disrespectful to the man that lived it, when he himself viewed death like this...
Jeez, I hope I don't die. Oh, by the way, you're all going to die. I didn't mean to remind you of it but, uh, it is on your schedule. Won't come when you want. It's always off a little. What, now? Here on the freeway? Um hmm. Thought surely I'd be home lying down. Comics are supposed to worry about dying, you know? I don't want to die out there, man. Jeez, I was dying. It was death out there. Like a morgue. On the other hand, if he succeeds- if he makes you laugh- he can say, "I killed 'em! Knocked 'em dead!" Why is there so much violence mixed up with comedy, you know, which should be so much fun? It's all dying and bombing. He bombed. Or else he was a riot! (makes 'riot' noise) A real scream! AAAAUGH! I cracked up laughing! He broke me up, too. I busted a gut laughing! My friend was in stitches! He fractures me with his punch lines...and his GAGS! (makes gagging sound) Slapstick! Knee-slapping! Side-splitting! Rib-splitting! Gut-busting! Laugh....I thought I'd die.
But I just want to talk about regular dying. Plain old cacking out. Some people think cacking out means to go to sleep. Dying. The big cackaroo. We're all gonna go; when will it be? You know, it should be...instead of a fear thing- it should be sort of fun. Kind of a, you know, the next big adventure. We're going to find out where we go! That's what we've all been talking about. Where the hell do you go? I don't know. Must go somewhere...maybe. Phil has an idea- I know, I heard Phil. But where do you go? I don't know. You're going to find out. Hope it isn't nowhere, man. Think you go where you think you're gonna go. Whatever you dwell on. Did you ever hear those guys- "Oh, don't pray for me. Don't waste your prayers on me. I'm going to hell." He is. If Monty Hall dies, he'll probably go behind Door #4.
Suicide is for people who can't wait to find out where the hell it is they're going to go. Holy shit! I've been waiting a long time. I don't have many nights like that, but when you think about it, you know, kind of it'd be a goof, man, yeah. Suicide. I've always pictured myself on the ledge. There's got to be a little show business involved. You know, you don't want to slump over a porcelain fixture. Let me get up here. Set the record; be the first guy to reach the double yellow line. Have your picture in the centerfold of the newspaper. Actually, a picture of the building with a dotted line showing "leaper's path".
Suicide. Suppose you worked on the suicide hot line. Helping people; talking them out of it. That's your job. "Hello, Suicide Hot Line?" Then one morning, you wake up...a little depressed. Should you call in sick? I'd like to see a top salesman commit suicide, a real persuasive guy up on the ledge...and the priest talks him out of it...and he talks the priest into it!
People say you come back. Reincarnation. Do you think so? Well, it doesn't seem mathematically possible to me, man. Uh, 'course at one time what we had on the earth was six people, you know. I avoid "two" because it's controversial but six.. most people agree, "Fuck, yeah, we had six at one time." Six people, six souls...cool. They died, souls went back to the place; six new people souls- still six souls. Now we have four billion people...claiming to have souls. Someone is printing up souls...and it lowers their value, you know.
When I die, I don't want to go through that funeral shit. Funeral. Hey, when you die, you get more popular than you've ever been in your whole life. you get more flowers when you die then you ever got at all. They all arrive at once- too late. People say the nicest things about you. They'll make shit up if they have to, man. "Oh, yeah. He's an asshole- but a well-meaning asshole." "Yeah, poor Bill is dead." "Yeah, poor Bill is dead." "Poor Tom is gone." "Yeah, poor Tom." "Poor John died." "Yeah, John." "What about Ed?" "No, Ed, that motherfucker's still alive, man!" "Get him out of here." Your approval curve goes way up, man.
You might be at one of those funerals where you're lying in the coffin, you know, folks looking at you, they do have them. "Open it up, I want to see him." And you're lying there and they come by and the first thing they do after blessing themselves if they do that...is subtract their age from yours. Figure at a minimum what they still have to live. They don't know you're lying there with no back in your jacket and short pants on. Shit. Embarrassed by the rouge. And they say, "Jeez, don't he look good?" "He's dead, man." "I know, but he never looked that good." I don't want to have a funeral like that. I don't want to be cremated, either. I want to be blown up! BOOM! There he goes! God love him!
I figured out the way to commit the perfect murder. Again, you know, you got to think of something. You pick one guy up by his ankles...and you kill another guy with him. And they both die and there's no murder weapon. "What happened here, Sarge?" "I don't know. It looks like a pedestrian accident to me. They must have been moving at quite a clip."
Suppose you're in death row. They got to give you that meal; that last meal. They don't want to hear elephant steaks and shit like that, but within reason, your last meal, man...and suppose you can't decide between steak and lobster. That's it; can't decide. I don't know. Polygraph, truth serum- man doesn't know. Six months alive, can't decide. They'd have to let you live. They can't drag you down the last mile screaming, "I can't decide!" And then one day finally- "OK, all right, OK; give me the steak." "Now how'd ya want that cooked?" "Ohh, I don't know..."
They say you have a flashback just before you die. See your life over again, kind of a little movie, a little newsreel- (makes 'movie projector' sound:) "Diddle-enn, diddle-enn, diddle-enn". Again, it doesn't seem mathematically possible, hm? OK, you're out in the surf (GASP), second, third time (GASP). You're about to die and the movie starts- "diddle-enn, diddle-enn, diddle-enn". Now you've got to see the whole movie, including the ending, which involves arriving at the beach...walking out into the surf and having the movie start. You're going to see it again. Thanks to the movie, we can never die.
But I say if you're going to die, die big. Entertain those you leave behind. Posthumous reflexes. You know, dying takes place in stages...and not all of the electrical energy in your brain is discharged when you're dead. Every now and then, a corpse goes 'GNORRRT!' Veterans know, "No, no. That's just electricity." But I say if we have this possibility, let's plan those reflexes. Do something entertaining. Roll over on the autopsy table. Cross your legs, scratch your balls. Do something. Be fun.
But you can entertain and the only reason I suggest you can something to do with the way you die is a little known...and less understood portion of death called..."The Two Minute Warning." Obviously, many of you do not know about it, but just as in football, two minutes before you die, there is an audible warning: "Two minutes, get your shit together." The only reason we don't know about it is 'cause the only people who hear it...die..and they don't have a chance to explain, you know. I don't think we'd listen anyway. But there is a two minute warning and I say use those two minutes. Entertain. Uplift. Do something. Give a two minute speech. Everyone has a two minute speech in them. Something you know, something you love. Your vacation, man...two minutes. Really do it well. Lots of feeling, lots of spirit and build- wax eloquent for the first time. Reach a peak. With about five seconds left, tell them, "If this is not the truth, may God strike me dead!' THOOM! From then on, you command much more attention. Maybe you get your two minute warning when you're in the office. Get up and start your own funeral collection. "What's the record, Bill? I'd like to top the record." Whatever your motive. You might be at an exercise program. Get up and volunteer for something strenuous. Do the Lindy hops and refuse to stop when they do. Tell them you have a new exercise- the Hindu Death Exercise...jump 'till you die. Maybe you'll get your two minute warning and you're in the audience at a faith healer's program. "Two Minutes!" Get up and get on line with the healees. Tell 'em you got the willies. No one knows what the willies look like anyway, man. Just get on line and time it right, fifteen seconds and you kneel down, she puts her hands on your shoulder and you DIE! "Evangelist Slays Worshiper- Fifty Thousand Look On- Police Sift Clues." That's what they do, man. Sift clues."
From his 1977 album, "On The Road"
So long George. Hopefully, if there's a Heaven, they won't make you start at the bottom of the club circuit, but I'm pretty sure Richard Pryor and Lennie Bruce have already put in a good word for you.
Good night, Funnyman!
