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George Carlin On “Suicide” | Full Script

Now, just to change the subject a little bit, do you realize, do you realize that right this second, right now, somewhere around the world some guy is getting ready to kill himself. Isn’t that great? Isn’t that great? Did you ever stop and think about that kind of shit? I do. It’s fun, and it’s interesting and it’s true. Right this second some guy is getting ready to bite the big bazooka. Because statistics show that every year a million people commit suicide. A million. That’s 2800 a day. That’s one every 30 seconds [checks his watch]
There goes another guy. And I say, guy, I say guy because men are four times more likely than women to commit suicide. Even though women attempt it more. So men are better at it. That’s something else you gals will want to be working on. Well, if you want to be truly equal, you’re going to have to start taking your own lives in greater numbers.
But… But I just think it’s interesting to know. Interesting, that’s a big word in this show for me. Interesting to know that at any moment the odds are good that some guy is dragging a chair across the garage floor, trying to get it right underneath that ceiling beam, wouldn’t want to be too far off-center. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Somewhere else another guy’s going over and getting a gun out of a dresser drawer. Somebody else is opening up a brand-new package of razor blades. Maybe struggling with the cellophane a little bit, you know. “Oh, shit. It’s always something. Goddamn it, fuckin shit.”
I just think that’s interesting as hell. That’s probably the most interesting thing you can do with your life, end it. I don’t think I could do that, though. Could you? God. I couldn’t commit suicide if my life depended on it. But I understand it, you know. I think I do. I don’t wonder about it. I don’t wonder, Well, why did he do that and, What was going through his mind. You know what I wonder, Where did he find the fucking time? Who’s got time to be committing suicide? Aren’t you busy? I got shit to do. Suicide would be way down on my list. Probably down past lighting my own house on fire.
I might want to try a little self-mutilation first. You know, take a couple of chunks out of my arm. See if I like the general idea. Because you’ve got to have priorities, man. You know. And you’ve got to have a plan, too, for something like that. You’ve got to plan that shit. People just don’t run out of the house and jump off a bridge. There are things you have to decide. Timing is important. When you’re going to do it. “Well, let me see now. Wednesday’s out. Got to take Timmy to the circus. “Survivor” is on, on Thursday. Friday I got my colon cleansing. The folks are coming over on Sunday. Sunday. By God, that’d be just the thing. Maybe mom will find my body. Serve her right for fucking me up the way she did.”
Then you have to pick a method. How you’re going to do it. “Well, let me see now. Afraid of heights, that’s no good. Can’t swallow pills. Don’t like the sight of blood. Fucking oven’s electric. I’d lie down in front of a train, except the Amtrak ain’t coming through here in 30 goddamn years. Maybe I’ll just take a gun and shoot myself in the mouth. Suppose I miss it? People will be laughing at me. Suppose I live? I’ll have a big fucking hole in my head. I’ll have to wear some kind of dumb-ass hat.
Well, I guess I’ll just hang myself. That’d be good. Gotta get a rope. Oh, shit, it’s always something. I got a rope in the garage. It’s got a lot of greases and paint on it. Don’t want to get that stuff on my neck. Wal-Mart’s having a special on a rope this weekend. No sense spending a lot of money to kill me. Then again, I can always put it on my credit card I’ll never have to pay the fucking thing. That’s it then. I’m hanging myself and Wal-Mart’s paying for it.
What’s next? The note. Oh, Jesus. I got to express myself. Hell, if I could express myself, I wouldn’t be thinking of doing something like this. Where’s a pen? I can never find a pen. Told the kids not to move the pen away from that telephone. Goddamn, kids. I ought to just kill them, too. Make it one of the family package deals. Here’s a pen. I’ll just jam it into my fucking neck and get it over with. Let’s see now. Where do you put the date? Upper left? I can never remember that. To whom it may concern. It sounds kind of impersonal. Dear Marzel. Leaves out the kids.
I know. Hey, guys. Guess what? Keep on reading. How are you? I hope you are fine. I am not fine. As you can no doubt tell from me hanging here from this ceiling fixture. You are the ones who drove me to this. I was doing just fine until you fuckers came along. I hope you’re happy now that I’m goddamn dead. Signed, the corpse in this room. P.S., fuck you people.” Yeah, good enough. That would be a good note. I don’t think a writer could ever commit suicide. Do you? A writer would be too busy working on the note all goddamn year. Trying to get it just right. First draft, second draft, third revision, a whole new ending. Finally, he’d turn it into a book proposal and have a reason to live. That wouldn’t work.
I think about stuff like that. It’s interesting to me. As I said, certain things are interesting. Suicide’s interesting. Life is filled with interesting things. That’s why I could never commit suicide. I’m having too much fun keeping an eye on your folks. Watching what you do. Human behavior. That’s what I like.