“Fuck you, you motherfucking cunt, I hope your funeral consists of a steady stream of crusty old syphilitic cock-suckers shitting and pissing in your open casket, and then slapping your bloodless face with their floppy pancake tits.”
There you are: the perfect obituary for George Carlin, which not only uses all of his seven words that you can never say on television (even though this is, indeed, print), but does so in a joyously obscene and scatological fashion. But, quite honestly, I say good riddance you crazy old coot. You might have been funny once (god knows when, but it was certainly before I was born), but for the past two decades or so you’ve been nothing but a geriatric waste of TV space, taking up countless hours in HBO’s programming schedule that could have been much better served with re-runs of The Chronicles of Riddick and documentaries about the 1980 U.S. Men’s Olympic Hockey Team. Oh Lord, and the books…the pages and pages of material that you just had to put into book form even though we’d already heard about 90% of it in your stand-up special that aired last week. Do you have any idea how many trees you butchered, you hypocritical hippie-dippie bastard? You were responsible for more literary abominations than the illegitimate love child of Nora Roberts and Dean Koontz.
I would also like to extend a giant fuck you for subjecting me to what is bound to be at least a month solid of inane fucking retrospectives about how revolutionary a comedian you were and how many boundaries you broke down. I’ll have to watch countless hours of obligatorily tearful remembrances from whatever-the-fuck-number wife you were on to when you went six feet under and from the kids that you no doubt neglected, but who forgave you when they realized you’d be dead in a couple of months and they’d get all of your cash. Not to mention the other comedians talking about you like you were Sojourner Truth or something when all they’re really thinking is, “Thank God that cunt-rag is finally dead. If I had to see him bitch about backwards baseball caps one more time I would have killed him myself.”
I think what it comes down to is that you were just a lazy son of a bitch who couldn’t wait to kick the bucket. And yes George, I realize that when you die you don’t literally kick a bucket. You probably had an entire routine about that shit? “What fucking bucket? I’ve never seen any fucking bucket. Are you born with this bucket or do you have to buy one when you get old and start shopping for caskets. And do you actually kick this bucket while you’re dying or just before you go to meet your maker? And who decided that we have a maker in the first place…” It’s a fucking metaphor you over-analytical shit-brick! Ha ha! The English language is so fucking quirky. We get it.
Shit. The truth of the matter is that you got it. I can’t make this obituary entirely farcical, because you were too fucking important. When the FCC has a fucking law drawn up in response to a stand-up bit you’ve done, it goes beyond comedy and into the realm of truly important social critique. Your spot on the comedic Mt. Rushmore is already being carved right next to Richard Pryor’s combustible head. You weren’t Gallagher, smashing melons with a fucking mallet to make us laugh. Your comedy made us laugh, but it did so not by pandering to the lowest common denominator, but by flipping society on its head and shaking it like a bottle of orange juice until all the pulp had been evenly distributed throughout the audience, everyone the better for the experience.
Now that I’ve completed the sappy portion of this obituary, I would like to finish by telling you to fuck off and by hoping beyond hope that God is a devout Catholic who will give Beelzebub the charge of performing rectal probes on you in hell while making you watch your performance in Jersey Girl for all eternity.
