Read In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy Online

Authors: Adam Carolla

Tags: #Essays, #humor, #American wit and humor, #Form, #General

In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy (10 page)

BOOK: In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy
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RULE #5:
KEEP YOUR FEET ON THE GROUND.

A lot of guys I know, when in a public restroom, admit to flushing toilets and urinals and opening doors with their bottom of their foot. This is great for you, Jackie Chan of the Can, but horrible for me, who uses his hands to do things like flush urinals and open doors. I know what your plan is, but in an effort to realize your retarded goal of not touching anything, you’ve managed to destroy my simple goal of not touching things that have piss on them. You see, the piss was not on the door or the urinal handle until your fucking Reebok put it there, you asshole. And it’s not like you’re a fucking surgeon, douchebag. You’re not transplanting a goddamn liver. The next thing you touch is gonna be your computer’s keyboard, which I guarantee is filthier than the push plate on the bathroom door. And are you finished, or perhaps you’d like to rub your balls on my car’s door handle or wipe your ass on my son’s Buzz Lightyear pajamas?

RULE #6:
THE COURTESY FLUSH.

This is something that should be taught in schools. First you learn the courtesy flush, and if we have time left over, we can work on the Pledge of Allegiance. Not enough people employ this simple, nostril-saving technique. You simply flush the toilet as the first load of rubber meets the road. Now I’m not gonna lie to you and say it gets rid of the entire funk problem, but when timed properly it could get rid of up to 40 percent of it (your asshole may vary).

RULE #7:
TIMING IS EVERYTHING.

When I was doing morning radio, I can’t tell you the number of times I walked into the bathroom at six thirty in the morning only to realize some coworker had pulled the pin on an ass grenade moments earlier. And I would think to myself, Jesus Christ, you showed up to work ten minutes ago and you already shit up the bathroom? People do this routinely in the workplace. Could you imagine doing this anywhere else? It’s not like you pull up at church and take a dump before the morning sermon or go to the movie theater—“Honey, get me a Diet Coke and some Junior Mints. I’m gonna go shit up a stall.” No, you time it. You do your off-loading at home. Look, I understand if you’re pulling a double shift and you ate dinner off the roach coach, but these are people who’ve worked at the same place, on the same schedule, for years and they refuse to dial their asses in. If I owned a business I’d give all new employees a two-week grace period for their asses to acclimate, and then after that if they shat up my bathroom, they’d be getting a pink slip—except this one would have a brown stripe running down the middle of it. And right next to the sign in the warehouse that said
DAYS SINCE LAST ACCIDENT
, I’d have a
DAYS SINCE SOMEONE SHIT UP THE COMMUNITY HEAD
sign.

RULE #8:
NOT ALL URINALS HAVE THE MAGIC EYE.

We’ve fucked ourselves up as a society by retrofitting half the nation’s urinals with the automatic-flush infrared eye and leaving the other half manual. It’s why at least half the time when I hit a public urinal, there’s a nice frothy effervescent pot of gold waiting for me. Whoever took that piss was used to the urinal that flushed itself. It’s like if the ATM you normally use spits your card out before the money, you’ll never lose your card. But if you’re on the road and you use a machine that spits your card out thirty seconds after the cash, you’ll be in your car by the time the card comes out. This only excuses half of you. The other half of you know exactly what you’re doing but are too lazy or inconsiderate to flush. And for you gents I’d like to say the following: What the fuck is wrong with you Purell pussies? I know you look at yourself as royalty and your policy is His Highness can’t soil the royal cuticles with a handle. Great, so all us knaves can stare at your piss and have to flush the toilet twice? I know in your world other human beings don’t exist, but I wish a group of these imaginary people would beat the shit out of you.

RULE #9:
URINAL PARTITIONS.

This is less a rule of thumb and more a building code. I was at American Airlines’s multimillion-dollar, brand-new, state-of-the-art terminal at JFK. Went in to use the bathroom with the polished nickel-plated fixtures and extensive granite and marble only to realize they’d skimped on the most important piece of equipment in a public bathroom: the divider between the urinals. The thin sheet of vinyl-coated plywood that protects my cock from judgmental prying eyes and protects my slacks from the scourge known as secondhand whiz. For basically what it costs to build a birdhouse, I don’t have to look at another guy’s wang or worry about the “dick-ochet” when a guy built like John Candy sidles up next to me to unload the seven Heinekens he had at the bar.

RULE #10:
NO DESECRATING THE BATHROOM.

No pissing on the toilet-paper roll, no boogers on top of the urinal, no carving your gang tag into the toilet seat, no kicking in the stall door. (Ladies, I know you’re all appalled right now, but this is commonplace.) You know when you’re driving and you’re eight miles from your house and you have to shit so bad your teeth hurt and you screech into a gas station and ask the guy if you can use the bathroom and he says it’s for employees only? Do you think that’s the policy they started out with, or the one they put into place after all the dickheads treated their bathroom like an enemy village their platoon had overrun? Thanks to you assholes, my asshole’s gonna have to wait until we get home.

BONUS JOKE

On one of the construction job sites I worked on, there was a Porta Potti. On the outside, written in Magic Marker, it said
MEXICAN SPACE SHUTTLE
. On the inside, above the toilet-seat liners with the same Magic Marker, it said
FREE COWBOY HATS
.

WOMEN,
HEAR ME
ROAR

I get labeled a misogynist all the time. But I’m simply pointing out that men and women are different. Or at least they used to be.

WOMEN ARE BECOMING MEN

We’ve done away with gender roles. As a culture we decided the smaller the chasm between male and female, the more evolved our society would be. But there’s a reason you have cooters and we have peckaroos. We’re different, and that’s a good thing. Why is it that the same people who beat the celebrate-differences drum when it comes to cultures refuse to acknowledge the biggest cultural difference on the planet? Men and women. I guarantee you Japanese men, German men, and black men have a fuck lot more in common than your average dude and chick. Let’s face it. Women are better with the kids when they get a boo-boo, but when it comes time to disarm the roadside bomb, that’s where the fellas come in.

I have a theory that I think will put things into perspective. Look at society as a giant X. Women on one bottom leg, men on the other bottom leg. The date: 1950. Women cooked, cleaned, took care of the kids, and mended torn dungarees. Men provided, fixed the car, patched the roof, and warded off intruders with a baseball bat. Then the sixties arrived. Each gender moved a little higher up the leg of the X. Women stopped shaving their armpits and men grew their hair out. Women started going to work and men started taking their car to the mechanic. Now we get into the eighties. Figure we’re about halfway up the X leg before the cross. Men start applying mousse and eyeliner, women are more worried about having rock-hard abs than they are about their kids. Now the nineties. School districts are being sued for girls’ rights to play on the boys’ football team, and being a woman trapped inside of a man’s body is as real a medical diagnosis as Hodgkin’s lymphoma. In the 2000s, we officially hit the intersection of the X. Men are “metrosexuals” getting mani-pedis while their wives drive a jeep to their job as an NFL sideline reporter. If you go to a store today you can find unisex fragrances. This idea would have never worked in the fifties. Women’s perfume came in a glass slipper and smelled like baby powder and lilacs; men’s cologne came in a ship or a football and smelled like a pine cone.

I grew up in the seventies with a steady diet of “the reason girls play with dolls and boys play with trains is because of the Man’s homophobic agenda.” Bullshit. My son loves trains. All boys love trains. They can’t help it, it’s in their blood. It’s amazing that the train wasn’t invented earlier, considering that young boys have been around for millions of years. It’s heroin for them—they go berserk for it. If you put a boy alone in a room with some Thomas the Tank Engine toys and some Barbies and don’t say a word, I guarantee that he’ll go right for the trains.

What the fuck were my mom and her angry hippie friends thinking? And why haven’t they apologized?

CHICKS ARE DUMB/EVIL

We’re constantly talking about the Man and how the worst people on the planet are Republican sixty-year-old white guys. The Dick Cheney type. I’m now sure the worst people on the planet are twenty something white chicks. Like the chicks from
The Hills
or Hugh Hefner’s ladies from
The Girls Next Door
. At least the evil white guy in his fifties punches a time clock every day. These chicks aren’t even doing anything. They contribute nothing to society except, if we’re lucky, a bootleg sex tape. If anything, they’re making us dumber. I’m not saying every girl needs to aspire to be Hillary Clinton, but let’s aim a bit higher than Khloe Kardashian.

Chicks, especially hot ones, have learned that by looking good they can get guys to do the work for them and thus never learn anything. They’re dumb and they don’t need to get smarter. I had the blondes who currently play the Doublemint twins in the commercials on my podcast last year. At some point in the conversation, the movie
Young Frankenstein
came up. I asked the Doublemint twins if they liked Mel Brooks and, I shit you not, they asked if Mel Brooks was a dude or a chick. At that point I wanted to commit a double murder. “Yeah, that’s Mel B’s full name. Scary Spice also directed
Blazing Saddles
and
Spaceballs.”

This happens constantly with young women. They don’t know shit, and when you try to correct them you become Weirdo Grandpa: “I wasn’t even born when
Spaceballs
came out.” And I wasn’t born when
Citizen Kane
came out either, but I’ve still heard of Orson fucking Welles. (Not that
Citizen Kane
is half the film that
Spaceballs
is.)

Here’s why guys are smarter than women. We’re curious. We want to know shit. Men stared at the moon for twenty thousand years and thought, “What is that? How do we get there?” It came out every night, hung over us, and mocked us. “You think you can make it here? You’re not man enough. How are you gonna land on me? What about the gravitational pull and the Earth’s rotation? You ain’t making it. You don’t have what it takes.” So guys were like, “Fuck you, we’re going to the moon.” And we’re competitive. It’s not like we were racing the Russian
women
to the moon. There’s no chick that stares at the moon and thinks, I need to hit a golf ball off that thing. I’m not saying the curiosity gene is always practical, but I am saying it’s what motivates us. It gets guys killed, but it also gets the sound barrier broken.

It’s not just intelligence, it’s communication. Women do not have different tones. Everything is an emergency. Men have different vocal qualities for “Hey sweetie, I’m calling because you forgot your purse” and “There’s a guy with a machete in the house.” I’ve gotten the call where my wife is like, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” “What?!” “We’re out of Sunny D.” I thought one of my kids had been dragged off by a mountain lion. This is why chicks would make horrible air-traffic controllers. With them there’s no difference between “A bag has been lost in Newark” and “Your wing is on fire.” Or you’ll hear them talking to their other hysterical friends: “Oh my God, Sheila. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. That’s horrible.” “What happened? Did Greg die?” “No, she forgot to TiVo
Ellen.”

WOMEN IN THE WORKPLACE

This emotionality is why women make seventy cents for every dollar we earn. (Are they pissed because they’re making less or because they’re getting paid in change?) One of the many reasons women are better at home with the kids than at the workplace is because they have something called feelings. We all know women who have cried at work. I’ve never seen a dude cry at work. Except that
Man Show
wrap party when a six-foot sub rolled off the board as they were carrying it in. It was like the Trail of Tears, but with white guys. On the other hand, when the kid brings home a piece of craft paper with some elbow macaroni glued to it in the shape of a pony, no dad has ever ripped it out of their hand and said, “This needs to go to the framing shop tonight.” You see, we’re better at work, and they’re better at Scotch-taping horses made of elbow macaroni to refrigerator doors. It’s just good science.

And no man has ever sued over a “hostile work environment.” This soul-sucking nonissue takes up our time and money because anybody, especially if they have been victimized in the past, can claim sexual harassment. And of course that is the siren song of the lawyer. Anybody can sue for sexual harassment because it is completely subjective, which means the company’s asshole lawyers have to make everyone jump through a bunch of bullshit hoops to protect the company from the “victim’s” asshole lawyers.

Let me give you an example. Every workplace has a “cool guy” and a “creepy guy.” Let’s call the cool guy Adam. He’s one of those guys where you just dig his vibe. The men in the office would like to talk cars, sports, or chicks with him over a beer. The women in the office will laugh at all his jokes and will give him every detail of their last date. “Don’t worry, ladies, I’m not going to make a move. And if I did, you’d love it.” Every office also has a “creepy guy.” Let’s call him [your name here]. Uncomfortable in his own skin, awkward. Picture the neighbor in the eighties movie who shows up to the blind chick’s apartment and offers to set up her VCR while her Seeing Eye dog goes nuts and she says, “That’s funny. Rondo never barks at anyone.” Now here’s the scenario. The attractive receptionist comes in a few minutes late on a Monday morning wearing tight new jeans. Cool Guy comments, “Somebody’s been working out.” She replies, “Oh, it’s just the jeans.” Cool Guy looks her up and down and says, “You do have good genes.” She laughs and says, “We’re doing a shot at the Christmas party.” Now, same scenario with Creepy Guy. Receptionist walks in, Creepy Guy says, “Hey Kelly, nice jeans.” And she marches straight off to Human Resources to file a report. This can’t be taught in any sexual-harassment seminar because the women themselves don’t even know it.

When it comes to these seminars, why isn’t there more outrage? How many hours of our lives are squandered with this shit? Why are we being treated like criminals? You wouldn’t need to attend a drug and alcohol counseling class if you had no history of DUI. I’ve been employed since I worked at McDonald’s when I was fifteen and a half. Thirty years in the workforce and I have zero sexual-harassment claims against me. So with thirty years with no strikes, I still need to throw away two hours of my life to satisfy corporate lawyers? And I’m an atheist, so my life is more valuable than yours. You guys are going to have a rich, fulfilling afterlife, whereas I’m going to spend eternity in a pine box with a bunch of worms trying to stuff themselves into my ass like frat boys into a telephone booth. And here’s what life comes down to—not how many years you live, but how many of those years are filled with bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything to satisfy the requirements of some dickhead you’ll never get the pleasure of punching in the face. If I told you you were going to live to a hundred, you’d say, “Awesome.” If I told you you were going to live to a hundred but fifty of those years are going to be spent taking off your shoes at airports, sitting at sobriety checkpoints along the 405, and attending sexual-harassment seminars, you’d say, “Just kill me now.” Isn’t this what we’re doing to ourselves? I think we should no longer keep track of our human life in years, but rather in hours. Your average person has six hundred thousand hours on this planet, and you want me to waste three of mine listening to some fat postmenopausal cunt talking about something that’s never happened to her?

I have no prior history with sexual harassment, thus no need for this lecture. Should I also head down to the hospital for some prenatal care and lactation counseling? Everyone should stand up and refuse to go to these things. And if they fire you, hit them with a wrongful-termination lawsuit. Pit your lawyers against their lawyers in some dickhead version of Thunderdome. Because that’s who to blame for this, the lawyers. As if these seminars have prevented one single lawsuit. In fact, I’d love to see the statistics on sexual harassment lawsuits filed. I guarantee there were ten times as many after these corporate-sponsored time rapings began. All the information they cram up your ass falls into one of two categories: A) No duh, or B) Not going to do that. I’m not and never was going to make the intern blow me for a promotion, but I am going to forward the e-mail link to the celebrity sex tape. Fuck you. What are you going to do about it?

You know a group that doesn’t have to worry about being sexually harassed nowadays? Nurses. Remember in the seventies, in every episode of
Three’s Company
the neighbor Larry would hook up with a hot stewardess or a hot nurse? But look around. In the reality of 2010, stewardesses can barely back their fat asses down the aisle for the beverage service, and nurses are in worse shape than the people they’re treating. Nurses are a good eighty to a hundred pounds heavier than the average person. They’re sweating white country gravy while lecturing you about your cholesterol. These women are so fat that their skin color changes and you can’t tell what race they are. Their ethnicity changes to fat. It’s either those chicks or the big-muscled veiny gay guy. What happened to the hot nurses in the candy striper outfit? The scrubs these nurses are wearing now are why they’re fat. They have room to expand. These scrubs are essentially a painter’s tarp with a back pocket and a drawstring. You know how they say a fish will get as big as the bowl? These scrubs are the Pacific Ocean. It’s the black-bouncer-in-the-velour-sweatsuit effect. Put that guy in a pair of tight Daisy Dukes, I guarantee he puts down the hoagie. If you put him in a sweatsuit, he’ll just fill it out. I can solve America’s obesity problem right now. From here on out, every Friday is Wear Your Swimsuit to Work Day.

And don’t let the profession affect how hot you think a girl is. There are women who look good for their profession. That doesn’t mean they’re hot. Danica Patrick is hot … for an Indy driver. She’s a 7. If she were hosting at Nobu, you wouldn’t give her a second look. The “sexy” female athlete is an interesting phenomenon. I was watching some
Entertainment Tonight
–type show that was profiling “Hotties of the Winter Olympics.” They put the speed skaters and cross-country skiers in Victoria’s Secret underwear and snow mukluks. Then as they panned up their bodies, I was thinking, Hey, nice legs, good abs, she’s hot. But when they got up to their faces, I saw that they were just a little bit off. It’s sad, but they scrolled up the hot, toned bodies and the faces had a dusting of Picasso. The eyes were too close together, or the nose was a little crooked. Then it all made sense. I figured out why she’s an Olympic-caliber athlete: If it were Heidi Klum’s face at the top of that body, there’s no fucking way she’d ever get up for one five
A.M
. workout. Hot chicks don’t have that gene. So to all the wannabe Olympic moms and dads out there, if you want your little girl to be a champion, you’re one well-placed snow shovel to the face away from the gold.

There has been a pleasant uptick in hot teachers having sex with their students. Where were these women when I was at Walter Reed Middle School? How come kids now get Debra LaFave and I got Mrs. Wolk, who literally had a hygiene problem? I love the idiots who complain about the double standard and say we should punish these female teachers the same as we would male teachers. If the male gym coach has sex with the fifteen-year-old girl, she will be mentally and emotionally scarred for life. The only damage to a fifteen-year-old boy who nails the music teacher after class is carpal tunnel from getting high-fived by his buddies. Just like my grandfather used to say, “If you can beat off to it afterward, it’s not a crime.” This is another misguided attempt to treat the genders as if there are no differences. Little Billy who bangs the female teacher is gonna be all right. Little Suzie will end up working the pole at Olympic Gardens and won’t be going by the name Suzie.

BOOK: In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy
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