[I love George Carlin’s work and this is one of my favorite pieces. It’s Carlin’s satire of technology and buzzwords. He weaves a poem, almost a rap, of loosely connected words and phrases and shows how meaningless they are.]
I’m a modern man, digital and smoke-free; a man for the millennium.
A diversified, multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist; politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect.
I’ve been uplinked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading.
I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting-edge, state-of-the-art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond.
I’m new-wave, but I’m old-school; and my inner child is outward-bound.
I’m a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer; voice-activated and bio-degradable.
I interface with my database; my database is in cyberspace; so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive, and from time to time I’m radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin’ the wave, dodgin’ the bullet, pushin’ the envelope.
I’m on point, on task, on message, and off drugs.
I’ve got no need for coke and speed; I’ve got no urge to binge and purge.
I’m in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar.
A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary.
A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom-feeder.
I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps.
I’m a totally ongoing, big-foot, slam-dunk rainmaker with a pro-active outreach.
A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic; out of rehab and in denial.
I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda.
You can’t shut me up; you can’t dumb me down. ‘Cause I’m tireless, and I’m wireless. I’m an alpha-male on beta-blockers.
I’m a non-believer, I’m an over-achiever; Laid-back and fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home; low-rent, high-maintenance.
I’m super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last.
A hands-on, footloose, knee-jerk head case; prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate-mail.
But I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing. A supportive, bonding, nurturing primary-care giver.
My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow.
I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports.
I’m gender-specific, capital-intensive, user-friendly and lactose-intolerant.
I like rough sex; I like tough love. I use the F-word in my e-mail. And the software on my hard drive is hard-core—no soft porn.
I bought a microwave at a mini-mall. I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-size, ready-to-wear, and I come in all sizes.
A fully equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically-formulated medical miracle.
I’ve been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped and vacuum-packed.
And . . . I have unlimited broadband capacity.
I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready to rock; rough, tough and hard to bluff.
I take it slow, I go with the flow; I ride with the tide, I’ve got glide in my stride.
Drivin’ and movin’, sailin’ and spinnin’; jivin’ and groovin’, wailin’ and winnin’.
I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty, and lunchtime is crunch time.
I’m hangin’ in, there ain’t no doubt; and I’m hangin’ tough.
Over and out.
George Carlin – November 2005