George Carlin and Cinnamon Whores

Let’s get one thing straight: I am a whore for cinnamon.

Not a literal whore. Chill out.

But I do love cinnamon flavored anything. Cinnamon ice cream. Cinnamon coffee. Cinnamon Coca Cola is one of my favorite things of all time.

What I am not a whore for is Oreos. I dislike Oreos, a great deal, as a matter of fact. They’re hard cookies, and I am not an eater of hard cookies. I am an exclusively soft cookie eater. I am not flexible on this point, and I will argue with you about it. I do not want to crunch a cookie. There are a few exceptions, of course. Savannah Smiles from the Girl Scouts are basically the only thing about the Girl Scouts that rock my world, along with Samoas, which get a pass, for being soft, soft cookies.


Fun fact: In elementary school there was this one day – probably around first or second grade – where the Boy Scouts and then the Girl Scouts came in to recruit new children for their fascist organizations, and the Boy Scouts went first. And I was like “yes. Fuck yes. Where do I sign up?”

And the leader laughed. Like, he laughed hard, at me, as my classmates looked concerned at first, and then confused, and then joined in.

“Only boys can be Boy Scouts,” he said, almost apologetically. “But the Girl Scouts are coming in next and I’m sure they’ll be excited to have you.”

So I waited. I listened. I heard the bitch out.

And all I heard about was some felt-based crafting and selling goddamn cookies for The Man.

“But the Boy Scouts get to go camping,” I inquired at the end of her shitty presentation.

“Yes, but they are boys,” was her basic response.

Wanna know what my basic, eight-year-old response to that trash was? “Fuck that.” Fuck it. Nope. I spent the first decade of my life running the woods like I belonged there. Like I’d been raised by wolves in the backlands of Pennsylvania. I was not trying to sell mass-produced sugar cakes and make birdhouses out of pine cones like some lame-ass Suzie Dumpling Whats-Her-Face.

Damn the Man.

Save the Empire.

Anyhow. That was a sort of a tangential rambling mess, eh?

Let’s get back on track now, you and I, dear reader.

All that Girl Scout shade being thrown was my meandering setup to tell you that Oreos make cinnamon flavored creme filled cookies now, and they’re basically the only Oreos that I will go out of my way to buy, and to eat. I saw them this morning, as I was reconnoitering the Tops for coffee and Coffeemate, because I don’t function without caffeinated beverages at work that I can deploy at will.

And I had to buy them. Mainly, because the front of the package claimed that the cinnamon flavor was true to those little cinnamon candy cinnamon flavors, and I love those little cinnamon candy flavored bastards. Those little cinnamon candies are my favorite flavor of cinnamon. So.

It had to be done.


So. That’s point number one. See, I promised I’d make it make sense. I may not have promised.

It doesn’t matter.

But my mind is a terrifying place, as that hot mess of an argument up above clearly illustrates.

Now. Point number two is this:

I love George Carlin. Before Louis C.K. turned out to be a fucking perv I considered myself, aspirationally-speaking, to be going for an authorial persona not unlike if Carlin and C.K. had a love child mixed up in some sort of angryGerman genetics lab and brought into this world as a poignant mix of their unique but similar comedic styles.

Now C.K. is the comedy father I’ve disowned and Carlin is my dead funny writing dad.

It’s fine.

But here’s the thing about George Carlin that I like. Yes, he’s foul-mouthed and crass. But that’s a stylistic choice made both to weed out the weaklings – because don’t nobody need an audience who’s too invested in clutching their pearls when your message is so clearly subversive – and to establish an uncluckable, authoritative authorial tone.

Because make no mistake, Carlin is a philosopher and a writer. He’s a smart bastard, and he’s good at crafting words into beautiful, indestructible bricks with which he then constructs himself, in every one of his specials, an impenetrable fortress of reason and insight. And yes. I know he’s dead. I’m using present tense anyway. Because the spirit of Carlin is all around us. Get used to it.

That’s why I love him. It’s, actually, the reason I love Hunter Thompson too. He finds fun, novel, really stimulating ways to combine words and make new linguistic creatures altogether, and it’s extremely satisfying to the pleasure center of my brain, that’s wired to get off on words and stories and voices and dialects and complex ideas. My heart is only accessible via my brain, you guys. And Hunter Thompson is another one who takes the moralistic demand that we not resort to “toilet language or potty humor” and takes a great big shit on it, and throws it up on a canvas, and hangs it up, and says “oh yeah, well here’s what I think of your bullshit rules and how do you like that?”

And the simple, thoughtless argument that people who swear are incapable of finding a way to intelligently express themselves just explodes into a great big pink cloud of glitter and middle fingers, which rains down upon their prude asses like the confetti thrust from a penis gun shot from atop the most fabulous float at the most flamboyant gay pride parade onto the bitter heads of the only (tiny) conservative Christian cohort in attendance.

Because cussing feels good, just, like, in terms of dopamine. It feels good. And the ideas that people like Carlin and Thompson and I have to express get us fired up and we need autonomy to do what it is that we do without having to censor ourselves.

I think that people like George Carlin, who carry George Carlin’s torch, will save the world. Or, I guess what I mean to say is that those are the people who will keep the world from going straight to hell. Because there will never be a day when we don’t have moralistic prudes trying to tell us to shut up and roll with the crowd. To stop thinking about things so much and just accept life as it is and go with the flow and do as The Man says.

To be Girl Scouts when we’d rather be camping.

Don’t be a Girl Scout who secretly wants to camp.

Be George Carlin when everyone around you is telling you to shut up and be Bob Hope.

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