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Song Details
Duration: 3:45 
Release Date: 1986  (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Lyrics By: George Carlin (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Music By: N/A (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Produced By: George Carlin (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Released By: Eardrum 90523-1 (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Published By: Dead Sea Music Inc. (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Licensing: BMI (Stavro Arrgolus) 
Keywords: BATTERING, BOLIVIA, DEAD, MOMENT OF SILENCE, PETS, PLANTS, ROLLERCOASTER 
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Song Lyrics:
As long as were in this sort of public service mood, I’d like to mention a social problem we have in this country that a lot of people don’t like to talk about in public, but I think it’s time we faced this thing head on. It exists in a lot of families, but most people won’t admit to it and I’m talking about battered plants. It’s plant beating pure and simple. There’s no way to put a nice face on it. But battered plants is part of a larger problem as you know; the overall problem is called "the battering syndrome." And we’ve heard mostly about battered wives and a lot of work has been done in that direction, but then we began to hear that there were battered husbands too. There are battered husbands. Apparently this happens when the woman is real big, the man is real small and they each drink a quart of whiskey a day. And you heard that there are other members of the family being abused, battered step uncles in-law, battered foster cousins, battered third cousins once removed, in fact, the whole idea of battered distant relatives strikes me as a little strange. To get on a bus and ride for six or seven hours just to beat the s**t out of someone you hardly ever see.

But the problem continued to spread - battered fiancés, battered best friends, battered total strangers. Which I think indicates a short fuse, don’t you? And battered blind dates, which as many of you know is so often completely justified. But then the problem got a little ugly and the problem got a little strange; we began to hear about battered pets. Battered pets, that’s how I felt. When I first heard of it I couldn’t believe it. I said to myself, “What?” And I answered, “Well yes, apparently so according to the information.” I often have these little conversations with myself. I do so love good conversation. But it’s true there are battered pets. This happens when someone gets frustrated at work, comes home, beats the s**t out of Fluffy. But then the problem got really sick. Then the problem, I don’t know, we began to hear about battered plants. Battered plants, I couldn’t believe it. I said to myself, I said, “What?” And I answered, “Well.” Because this time I was speechless.

But it’s true… there are battered plants. And I don’t mean just physical abuse. I’m not talking strictly about the physical abuse of plants. I don’t’ mean like drop kicking some zinnias into the next yard. I’m not talking about pistol-whipping a gardenia. I’m not even talking about stopping the car, getting out and pissing on a bush. But I am talking about psychological torture. The mental abuse that we put plants through day in and day out. For instance, hanging plants. How do we know they aren’t scared shitless up there? No wonder ivy clings. You’d cling too to the side of a building. So when you get home tonight, please take a look around the house, make sure you haven’t put a plant in some corner where it doesn’t want to be. And for God sakes never, never keep a plant in the bathroom. They hate that.

And now ladies and gentlemen, before we actually begin the humorous portion of tonight’s show I wonder if we might just have a moment of silence for the forty-three elderly, mentally retarded Bolivian senior citizen volleyball fans who lost their lives this morning in a roller coaster accident just outside of La Paz, Bolivia. Apparently they all stood up on a turn and went flying off into the cool, crisp morning La Paz air and, being heavier than air, landed in the funhouse. So I thought it might be appropriate for us tonight, as I say, to have just a moment of silence for the forty-three elderly, mentally retarded Bolivian senior citizen volleyball fans who went [whistling sound] off a goddamn roller coaster into the goddamn funhouse. And in case you think this is a moment of humor, a time to be joking, a time to be poking your neighbor in the ribs, I ask you to please put yourself in a Bolivian’s place. In fact, put yourself in your own place. Put that place into Bolivia for just a moment. Think of yourself visiting Bolivia, watching a Bolivian comedian in a Bolivian theater and he says that some mentally retarded American volleyball fans were tossed out of a roller coaster and he wants a moment of silence and your sitting next to some Bolivian jackoff who's giggling through his nose, might I say you’d be highly pissed? Might I add, rightly so. So ladies and gentlemen please let us consider the many grieving Bolivian’s in our audience tonight and let’s check that very normal human impulse to laugh quite a bit when another person dies. And let us observe a moment of silence for the forty-three elderly, mentally retarded Bolivian senior citizens volleyball fans. Not to mention the poor unsuspecting ******* in the funhouse.

Well, I can see this isn’t going to work. But that’s all right… that’s all right because I don’t know what to do during a moment of silence either. I don’t know what to do during a moment of silence. What do you do during a moment of silence? What do they want? What do they expect of me? Do they want me to pray? They don’t say that. If they want me to pray, f**k em’ - let them ask. I’ll pray but goddamn it, you got to ask me. They don’t say that, they issue no instructions whatsoever. You go to the baseball game; you go to the football stadium and they’ll say, “Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, would like, would like, would like, would like, would like, would like, would like, moment, moment, moment, moment, moment, moment, moment, silence, silence, silence, silence, silence, silence.” I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I have evil thoughts. Usually I wind up counting the pimples on the neck of the man in front of me. Looking for a white head with a hair growing through it. Or sometimes I’ll find myself staring at the huge but perfectly formed breasts on the woman in the row in front of mine. Rising and falling softly in the late October afternoon sun and my thoughts turn gently romantic, “Wow! Look at the knobs on her! What ******’ knobs man! Knob City, U S A!" I think I’m going to go down to the refreshment stand and buy myself a weenie and conceal it in my pants. And then come during the half-time activities I’m whipping out the weenie. Then I’m going to eat the weenie and force her to watch me. Nah, she probably wouldn’t understand. It’s my way of asking for a date. Well your imagination runs away with you.

I don’t know what to do during a moment of silence. And why is it silence? What is it silence they want for? I mean after all the man, whoever it is were honoring, is dead. What good is silence? Guy’s not going to wake up now. How about a moment of screaming? Wouldn’t that be more appropriate for a dead person? [Screams] Would sure put you in the mood for the ball game. And why is it always the dead? What’s this favoritism toward the dead? f**k the dead! What about the injured? What about the injured? You always have more injured than you have dead in any good accident. How about a moment of muffled conversation for those who are treated and released? I’ve always wanted to be treated and released. Usually I’m treated and detained. But that’s private. That’s personal stuff.
(Stavro Arrgolus)
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