On my block, a lot of people walk their dogs and I always see them walking along with their little poop bags. This, to me, is the lowest activity in human life. Following a dog with a little scooper. Waiting for him to go so you can walk down the street with it in your bag. If aliens are watching this through telescopes, they're going to think the dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them's making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?
I say, if this is where we're at after 50,000 years of civilization, let's just give up. I'm serious, let's pack it in. It's not worth it. Let's just say the human race as an idea didn't quite work. It seemed good at first, we worked on it for a long time, but it just didn't pan out. We went to the Moon but still somehow wound up carrying little bags of dog doody around with us. We just got mixed up somewhere. Let's just give it over to the insects or whoever else is next in line.
I love to go to sports events. Love, love, love sports. Anybody running around in an outfit with a stripe on it, I want to watch them do it.
Take boxing, the simplest, stupidest sport of all. It's almost as if these two guys are just desperate to compete with each other, but they couldn't think of a sport. So they said, "Why don't we just pound each other for forty-five minutes? Maybe someone will come watch that."
It's strange, two guys in shorts competing for a belt. They should award them slacks or a shirt.
The real problem it that you have two guys fighting who have no prior argument. They should have the boxers come into the ring in little cars, drive around a little bit, eventually there's an accident. They get out...
"Didn't you see my signal?"
"Look at that fender!"
Then you'd see a real fight.
For men, the transplant is the procedure of choice. The hair plug is an interesting process. It's really quite amazing. Hair that was on your shower soap yesterday can be in your head tomorrow.
How did they do the first transplant? Did they have the guy take a shower, get his soap, rush it in to the hospital by helicopter, keep the soap alive on a soap-support system? Eventually they move it over, "We got the hairs, but... I think we lost the Zest."
Sometimes a body rejects a vital-organ transplant. Is it possible that a head could reject a hair transplant? The guy's just standing around, suddenly "bink" -- it lands in someone's frozen yogurt.
With any kind of physical test, I don't know what it is, I always seem to get competitive. Remember when you were in school and they'd do those hearing tests? And you'd really be listening hard, you know?
I wanted to do unbelievable on the hearing test. I wanted them to come over to me after and go, "We think you may have something close to super-hearing. What you heard was a cotton ball touching a piece of felt. We're sending the results to Washington, we'd like you to meet the President."
Women approach clothes from a different angle altogether. The other day I was watching women in a department store looking at clothes, and I noticed women don't try on the clothes, they get behind the clothes. They take a dress off the rack and they hold it up against themselves. They can tell something from this. They stick one leg way out and kind of lean back. I guess they need to know, "If someday I'm one-legged at a forty-five-degree angle, what am I going to wear?"
You never see a man do that. You never see a guy take a suit off the rack, put his head behind the collar, and go, "What do you think about this suit? I think I'll get it. Put some shoes by the bottom of the pants, I want to make sure. Now what if I'm walking? Move the shoes, move the shoes, move the shoes."
There's an entire industry of bad gifts. All those "executive" gifts, any stupid, goofy, brass wood thing, they put a piece of green felt on the bottom, "It's a golf-desk-tie-stress-organizer, Dad."
Nothing compares with the paperweight as a bad gift. To me, there's no better way than a paperweight to express to someone, "I refused to put any thought into this at all." And where are these people working that the papers are just blowing right off of their desks anyway? Is their office screwed to the back of a flatbed truck going down the highway or something? Are they typing up in the crow's nest of a clipper ship? What do you need a paperweight for? Where's the wind coming from?
I believe the closest thing that we have to royalty in America are the people that get to ride in those little carts through the airport.
Don't you hate those things? They come out of nowhere. "Beep, beep. Cart people, look out, cart people!" We all scurry out of the way like worthless peasants. "Ooh, it's cart people. I hope we didn't slow you down. Wave to the cart people, Timmy. They're the best people in the world." If you're too fat, slow, and disoriented to get to your gate in time, you're not ready for air travel.
The other people I hate are the people that get onto the moving walkway and the just stand there. Like it's a ride. "Excuse me, there's no animated pirates or bears along the way here. Do your legs work at all?"
I love those small airplane bathrooms. It's like your own little apartment on the plane. You go in, you close the door, the light comes right on. It's a little surprise party every time you go in.
And I love the sign in the airplane bathroom. "As a courtesy to the next passenger, please wipe off the counter with your towel." Well, let me earn my wings every day. Sorry, I forgot to bring my toilet-bowl brush with me. When did this Brotherhood of Passengers get started? "Did you lose your luggage? Here take mine. We're all passengers together. By the way, was that bathroom clean enough for you? I couldn't find the Comet or I would've had that crapper gleaming."
I don't know why people always have the same reaction when they hear about a plane crash.
"Plane crash? What airline?"
"Where was it going?"
As if it makes difference, like you're going to go, "Oh that flight. Oh, OK, that I can understand." Like there's some planes that are expected to crash.
You go up to the ticket agent. "Excuse me, this flight generally goes down quite a bit, doesn't it?"
"Acutally it does, yes. We do have another flight, but it explodes on take-off. It is, however, a snack flight."
People love to recommend their doctor to you. I don't know what they get out of it, but they really push them on you.
"Is he good?"
"He's the best. This guy's the best." There can't be this many "bests." Someone's graduating at the bottom of the classes. Where are these doctors? Is someone somewhere saying to their friend, "You should see my doctor, he's the worst. He's the absolute worst there is. Whatever you've got, it'll be worse after you see him. The man's an absolute butcher."
And whenever a friend refers a doctor they say, "Make sure that you tell him that you know me." Why? What's the difference? He's a doctor.
"Oh, you know Bob? Oh, okay, I'll give you the real medicine. Everybody else I'm giving Tic Tacs."