Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night - Lewis Grizzard

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she said I was a sexist. The dumb broad probably doesn’t shave her legs.

      So, I want my Pulitzer and I want it as soon as possible. And I want you to enjoy this book. And if you have read this far, go on up to the counter and pay for it. The guy at the Gucci store said if I could get up the down payment for my white loafers, he’d finance the rest of it.

      1.

      A Kinder, Gentler Nation

      Making America a Kinder, Gentler Nation

      George Bush has asked for a kinder, gentler America, and I want to do my part in 1989.

      Understand that I am usually a kind and gentle person. I am kind to animals, except cats, and I am gentle when it comes to children, unless they are screaming in the seat behind me on an airplane.

      But I must admit there are things that cause me not to be kind and gentle, and these are the things I want to learn to accept and be kinder and more gentle about in 1989.

      Let us start at the beginning:

      Cats: The thing about cats is, they are not to be trusted. A friend of mine’s cat snuck behind me once and jumped on my head, causing me to spill the coffee I was drinking. It went all over my lap (the coffee). The cat stayed on my head and danced the merengue.

      I did not handle the situation with kindness or gentility. I reached up and removed the cat from my scalp and bit one of its ears off.

      Ever tasted a cat ear? They’re terrible. But I’m a new man now. If a cat jumps on my head in 1989, I’m not going to bite its ear off. I’m going to poison it, but with a quick-acting potion so it won’t suffer for long.

      Screaming children in airplanes: I’m not going to ask the flight attendant, “May I have a napkin so I can gag the screaming child?” I’m going to buy the kid a drink. Maybe it will go to sleep.

      People affiliated with certain religious organizations who ring my doorbell at an inappropriate time in order to save my soul: Normally, I take out my Uzi machine gun and attempt to blow these people away. From now on, I’ll fire a few warning shots before I attempt to blow these people away.

      People who drive eight miles an hour in the passing lane on interstate highways: I hate people who do that. They should be arrested and flogged. But that’s the old me, not the kinder, gentler me.

      From now on, I’m not going to get behind such people and pretend I’ve got machine guns behind my headlights and fire until the cars erupt in flames.

      I’m simply going to take down their tag numbers and find out who they are, where they live, and then I’m going to their houses and bite their cats’ ears off.

      People who cheat in the express lane in supermarkets: Previously, I have dog-cussed these people and put curses on them like, “May your children grow up to be liberal Democrats.”

      I’m not going to be that mean-spirited anymore. What I’m going to do is go to the vegetable bin, grab a large cucumber, and beat them about the head and shoulders with it.

      Telephones: Telephones never work for me. I either can’t get a dial tone, or I get one of those awful noises that sounds like a cat who’s just had its ear bitten off, and I slam the receiver down and throw the telephone against the wall.

      Not anymore. All I’m going to do now is throw a rock at the television every time I see Cliff Robertson.

      Liberal Democrats: I have no use for these people, and when I’ve run across one at a cocktail party, I’ve said things like, “Well, how many vicious criminals did Michael Dukakis furlough today?”

      But in the immortal words of Dan Quayle, “That was uncalled for.”

      From now on, I’m going to sneak up behind them and jump on their heads. I’d bite off one of their ears, but it might make me sick.

      Call It a Conundrum

      Somebody broke into the birth-control clinic at Grady Hospital in Atlanta recently and stole sixteen thousand condoms. I swore I wouldn’t write about the incident.

      At the time, it seemed too easy. All I would have to do is sit down in front of my typewriter and come up with a few cute lines about condoms, and I’d have a quick “no-brainer” and I could take the rest of the day off.

      Anybody could write about the theft of sixteen thousand condoms, couldn’t they? Sure they could. But let them try to make up something funny about Yassir Arafat not being allowed to speak at the United Nations or animal rights.

      But then I began to act and think sensibly. Somebody steals sixteen thousand condoms only once in a columnist’s career. I decided I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

      In fact, I’m not sure this wasn’t the first condom heist in history, and even if it wasn’t the first, it certainly had to be the biggest.

      Several questions concerning the theft began to creep into my mind.

      Like, how much do sixteen thousand condoms weigh? Would they weigh so much or be so unwieldy to handle that the job involved more than one person?

      What went through the robber’s (or robbers’) mind when he or she came upon the sixteen thousand condoms?

      Did the thief think, “Hey, there’s sixteen thousand condoms here. Let’s see, if I could sell them for fifty cents each, I’d make eight thousand dollars.”

      Or did the thief think, “Just for kicks, I’ll take these sixteen thousand condoms with me and see if anybody writes about it?”

      Or was the thought, “I think I’ll stage a huge group sex party. I’ll need these condoms, of course, and then I’ll invite Audrey and Henry and Rebecca and Grover and Peggy and Ralph, etc.”?

      If it was the thief’s idea to throw such a party, I’d like to be invited—if not to engage in the activities to at least study and take notes and later chronicle the event for history. Maybe the Romans held orgies that required sixteen thousand condoms, but I don’t think it’s been done recently.

      Some more questions came up.

      If somebody steals sixteen thousand condoms, where do they hide them? Could you get sixteen thousand condoms in a closet? In the garage?

      A locker at the bus station certainly wouldn’t hold all of them. What if you buried them?

      If the thief did bury the sixteen thousand condoms, would he or she take a friend out to the burial site and say, “Guess what I’ve got buried under here?”

      The friend might respond, “A Brink’s truck filled with money.”

      “No,” the thief would explain, “anybody could steal a Brink’s truck filled with money. I’ve got sixteen thousand condoms buried under here.”

      There’s one other thought I had. Perhaps the condom thief was acting as a humanitarian. Perhaps he or she took the sixteen thousand condoms and plans to distribute them around the United States as a means of helping put a stop to unwanted pregnancies and the spread of sexually transmitted diseases.

      We always think the worst of people when we should think the best of them.

      Imagine this person handing out condoms across the width and breath of our great nation as a favor to his or her fellow citizens.

      Johnny Condomseed. It might be. It just might be.

      America’s Newest Killer

      Maybe all of us should band together and say “Enough is enough. Please don’t tell us what else will kill us.”

      Where is all this going to end? First it was cigarettes. We are still being warned cigarettes will cause lung cancer or emphysema, not to mention turn our fingers and teeth yellow.

      A

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