OK, so we are looking at a stack of sources today
that if you didn't know better, you'd swear describes
two completely different men. I mean, it's just
wild. On one side of the desk, we have the biography
of like a clean cut suit wearing variety comic.
The Ed Sullivan guy. Exactly. The guy who eventually
becomes the gentle, soothing narrator of children's
shows about talking trains. And then on the other
side of the desk, you've got the FBI files. You
have the. Legal briefs for a counterculture icon
who was arrested multiple times for obscenity,
battled the FCC all the way to the Supreme Court,
and then spent his final years on stage telling
his audience pretty bluntly that the human race
was basically a failed experiment. But the mission
today isn't just to look at the comedy of George
Carlin. It's to trace the connective tissue between
those two guys. Because looking at the archives,
it wasn't a sudden switch. No, not at all. It
wasn't like he woke up one day in 1970 and decided
to just burn all his suits. It was a slow, painful,
and honestly, a legally complex evolution. It
really is the ultimate evolution of an artist
when you dig into it. We're talking about a man
whose career arc moves from the unproductive
airman, and that's an actual military designation
he received. Which is incredible. All the way
to being the first posthumous recipient of the
Mark Twain Prize for American humor. And what
stands out to me in these notes is that central
tension. I mean, he was the man whose seven dirty
words routine literally defined. Indecency for
the federal government. Literally wrote the rule
book. Yet for a huge chunk of the population,
specifically millennials like me, he's Mr. Conductor
on Shining Time Station. That juxtaposition is
the whole key. Yeah. But if we only look at the
polls, the dirty words versus, you know, Thomas
the Tank Engine. We miss the struggle in the
middle. Right. The sources we have today, the
court transcripts, his personal letters, even
his military discharge papers, they paint a picture
of someone who was consistently rebelling, even
when he was trying to play by the rules. So let's
get into that origin story. Because usually when
we talk about a rebel, we picture someone from
the fringes of society. But George Dooney Patrick
Carlin was born right in Manhattan, May 12th,
1937. Not the fringes at all. No, he grew up
in Morningside Heights. Right, but if you look
at his own writings about that time, he didn't
call it Morningside Heights. He and his friends,
they dubbed the neighborhood White Harlem. Which
is just such a telling detail, right? It's all
about his self -mythology. Totally. Morningside
Heights is right near Columbia University. It's
respectable. White Harlem sounds gritty. It sounds
tough. Exactly. He was cultivating a street tough
persona from the time he was a preteen. He wanted
to project this image that he wasn't just some
polished kid from a nice Catholic family, even
though, you know, structurally, that's sort of
what he was. Well, the family dynamic was definitely
complicated. His father, Patrick, was an Irish
immigrant and an alcoholic who, well, he left
the picture almost immediately. Yeah, George
was only two months old. Two months old. And
then Patrick died when George was just eight.
So he's raised entirely by his mother, Mary.
And Mary is such a fascinating character in this
story. The relationship was incredibly fraught.
I mean, George ran away from home constantly
to get away from her. Constantly. But he also
credited her entirely for his linguistic gifts.
She was the one who taught him to appreciate
the rhythm and the precision of the English language.
It's that classic Irish storytelling tradition,
isn't it? The love of the gift of gab. But there's
another genetic component here that I hadn't
realized until I really dug into the deeper biography.
His maternal grandfather was an NYPD officer.
A cop. Which you'd normally associate with rules
and order. You would. But this cop used to transcribe
the works of Shakespeare by hand. Get out. Just
for the sheer pleasure of writing out the words.
Okay. That is such a critical link. I mean, think
about it. You have law enforcement. the ultimate
authority figure, combined with a deep, almost
obsessive reverence for language. If you fast
forward 40 years, what is George Carlin doing?
He's battling law enforcement using language
as his weapon. It's almost like his entire career
was pre -written in his DNA. It really was. He
was fighting the cop side of his heritage with
the Shakespeare side. And that rebellion started
way, way before the comedy clubs. I mean, just
look at his education. Expelled from Cardinal
Hayes High School at 15. Three semesters. That's
all he lasted. And you have to remember, this
is the 1950s. Getting expelled from a Catholic
high school wasn't just a bad grade situation.
Oh, no. That was a moral failing. It was a huge
deal. He bounced around other schools, but the
die was cast. He was already rejecting dogma,
rejecting authority. Although there is this one
little soft spot in his early years. Camp Notre
Dame in New Hampshire. Yes. Amidst all the running
away and the expulsions, he actually thrived
there. He won drama awards. It was one of the
few places he felt validated for his talents
instead of being punished for his behavior. And
it clearly meant something deep to him. Oh, absolutely.
He requested that some of his ashes be scattered
at Spofford Lake where the camp was, which, you
know, it suggests that deep down he really held
on to that little piece of innocence. But before
he could become the comedian we all know, he
had to go through that standard 1950s young male
rite of passage. The military. And this is where
we get the unproductive airman title. It's honestly
my favorite part of his resume. It's just perfect.
It's amazing. He joins the Air Force, trains
as a radar technician, and gets stationed in
Louisiana. On paper, he should have been a squared
-away soldier. In reality, he was a complete
disaster. The list of infractions is genuinely
hilarious. He was court -martialed three times.
In three years. Three times. Most people get
kicked out after the first one. He was sleeping
on duty, shirking responsibilities, just generally
making a mockery of the entire chain of command.
But while he's doing that, at the same time,
he's moonlighting. He starts working as a DJ
at a local radio station, KJOE in Shreveport.
Right. So while he's failing spectacularly as
a soldier, he's discovering the microphone. He's
finding his voice. And that split focus is eventually
what got him out. In 1957, The Air Force gives
him a general discharge. The official label they
slapped on his file was unproductive airman.
And that word is so important. They didn't say
he was incompetent. They said he was unproductive.
He refused to produce what they wanted. Which
was conformity. Exactly. It's amazing that the
military just kind of gave up on him. But those
discharge papers might as well have been his
diploma. He takes that radio experience and pretty
soon after, he teams up with Jack Burns. They
form a duo. The Wright brothers. And this brings
us to what I always call the tale of two Georges.
Because you go on YouTube and pull up clips from,
say, 1960 to about 1968. The guy you see is.
Yeah. He's unrecognizable. He looks like an accountant
or an IBM salesman. Totally. Short hair, skinny
tie, a well -tailored suit. And the material
completely matches the suit. He and Burns were
successful. They were on The Tonight Show with
Jack Pair. They played the Playboy Club. When
he went solo, he was a regular on The Ed Sullivan
Show. And you just don't get more establishment
than Ed Sullivan in the 1960s. You don't. I was
watching some of those old bits like the hippie
weatherman character, Al Sleet. Hippie dippy
weatherman. Yeah. And it's funny, but it's very,
very safe. It's poking fun at the counterculture,
but from a comfortable distance. It's a kind
of comedy your parents could watch without getting
offended. That was the entire point. And it was
working for him. He was making a reported $250
,000 a year by the late 60s. Which, adjusted
for inflation, is just massive money. He was
comfortable. He was a star. But internally, you
can see from his writings, he felt like a fraud.
The notes mention the Lenny Bruce connection
here as a major catalyst. And this story is legendary.
It's the moment the torch was passed, in a way.
So it's 1962, Chicago. Lenny Bruce is the godfather
of modern standup. He's the one actually taking
risks, actually talking about society in a raw
way. Right. He gets arrested for obscenity during
a show. And George Carlin is in the audience.
Just watching the show. And the cops start checking
everyone's IDs, right? Right. They're trying
to round up witnesses, whatever. And George,
even in his clean cut suit and tie phase, he
can't help himself. He refuses to show his ID.
He tells the police he doesn't believe in government
issued identification. Which is such a purely
Carlin move. He just talks himself right into
an arrest. Exactly. He wasn't performing. He
wasn't part of the act. He was just a bystander.
But he ends up in the back of the paddy wagon
right next to Lenny Bruce. And Lenny asks him,
so what are you in for? And George says, I didn't
show my ID. Wow. It's this incredible moment
of solidarity. He saw firsthand that words and
even just attitude could get you locked up. But
the real transformation. to what we're calling
the great pivot that happens around 69, 1970.
I mean, the country is on fire. Vietnam, civil
rights, the assassinations. And George looks
in the mirror and sees a guy in a suit telling
safe jokes. And he just couldn't do it anymore.
He said he felt irrelevant. He used the phrase,
I was entertaining the enemy, meaning the people
who supported the war, the people who hated the
youth culture he was starting to identify with.
He changed. And we are not talking about a subtle
shift here. This was a complete reinvention.
He grew the beard, grew the hair long, put on
the jeans and T -shirts. And the industry punished
him for it immediately. Oh, it's financial suicide.
That $250 ,000 a year income, the sources say
it dropped by 90%. 90%. I mean, just try to imagine
that. Taking a 90 % pay cut. Voluntarily. It's
staggering. He was kicked out of the Copacabana.
He was fired from the big casino gigs in Vegas.
The establishment didn't want this long -haired
weirdo. And the hippies didn't trust him yet
because they still remembered him from the Ed
Sullivan show. He was completely in no man's
land. This is where his management team, Jeff
Wald and Ron de Blasio, really earned their keep.
They saw that the college circuit was exploding.
Right. They were smart. They pushed him into
the coffee houses, the little folk clubs like...
The Troubadour in L .A. and The Bitter End in
New York. They realized that if he wanted to
talk about the counterculture, he had to go to
where the counterculture actually lived. And
that huge bet paid off with the 1972 album FM
and AM. The title itself is the perfect metaphor
for what he was doing. It is. The AM side was
his old stuff. The zany characters, the safe,
broadcast -friendly jokes. The FM side. That
was the New George. That's the underground stuff.
Yeah, he was talking about drugs, birth control,
the Vietnam War, and crucially, the language
we use. It won a Grammy. It was this huge validation
that the audience was ready for the New George.
But on that FM side was the seed of his biggest,
most defining legal battle. We have to talk about
those seven dirty words. Heavy seven. This routine
is the absolute fulcrum of his career. And it's
so important to clarify, he wasn't just standing
on stage shouting profanities for shock value.
No, it was a linguistic seminar. It was a bit
about the words. He was breaking down why these
specific sounds were forbidden. Shit, piss, fuck,
cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. He
argued that these words have no inherent evil.
They're just sounds. He had that great line.
There are no bad words, bad thoughts, bad intentions,
but no bad words. But the Milwaukee Police Department
disagreed. Strongly. In July 1972, he was at
an outdoor festival called Summerfest in Milwaukee.
He performs the routine, he comes off stage,
and the cops are waiting for him. And this leads
to the first major legal distinction we need
to make. He was charged with violating obscenity
laws. But the judge threw the case out. Right.
And this is crucial for what comes later. The
judge in Milwaukee ruled that the language was
indecent, but not obscene. And because he didn't
cause a riot, you know, nobody fainted, nobody
started a fight. He was free to say it. It was
actually a big victory for free speech. But then
comes the big one. FCC v. Pacifica Foundation.
This is the case that ends up in every law school
textbook in America. And it all started because
of one single complaint. One guy. A single complaint.
A man in New York was driving with his 15 -year
-old son in the car in the middle of the afternoon.
He had the radio tuned to WBAI, which is a Pacifica
station. A listener -supported station known
for being progressive. Exactly. And they played
a recording of Carlin's routine, now titled Filthy
Words, from another album. The father hears it,
gets upset, and writes a letter to the FCC. He
writes a letter saying, essentially, my son shouldn't
have to hear this on the public airwaves. And
the FCC, which was under a lot of political pressure
at the time, decided to make an example of Pacifica.
They issued a censure, basically a formal reprimand.
Pacifica sued and it just kept getting appealed
all the way to the Supreme Court in 1978. Now,
this is where we have to get a little technical
because people often get indecency and obscenity
mixed up. They're not. The same thing legally.
Not at all. Obscenity under the Miller test has
zero First Amendment protection. If something
is legally obscene, you can be jailed for it.
But the Supreme Court had already defined obscenity
as something that, among other things, lacks
serious literary, artistic, political or scientific
value. And Carlin's routine clearly had artistic
and political value. It was satire. Right. So
the court couldn't call it obscene. So they hardened
this other category in decency. And how do they
define that? It was a very close ruling, 5 to
4, a razor -thin margin. The court ruled that
the government has a compelling interest in protecting
children from patently offensive material on
the public airwaves, which are uniquely pervasive.
They use this famous nuisance rationale. Justice
Stevens wrote that the words were like a pig
in the parlor. A pig in the parlor. Yeah. A pig
is fine in the barnyard, but it becomes a nuisance
in the parlor where it doesn't belong. So the
radio waves are the parlor and George Carlin's
words are the pig. So the government can regulate
the pig in the parlor. Exactly. This ruling established
the safe harbor hours. It's the reason why you
can't say those seven words on broadcast TV or
radio between 6 .00 a .m. and 10 .00 p .m. George
Carlin is personally responsible for the bleep
button. The irony is just delicious. The man
who wanted to liberate language ended up being
the reason the government built a cage around
it for most of the day. And he knew it. He wore
it as a badge of honor. I mean, he was arrested
seven times in total for performing that routine
in different cities. He became the poster boy
for the First Amendment, even if the Supreme
Court ultimately ruled against him on that specific
broadcast issue. And yet, while he's being arrested
and sued and becoming this counterculture hero,
he's also hosting the very first episode of Saturday
Night Live. Night Live in 1975. Which just cemented
him as the voice of that generation. Although,
interestingly, there's a great story in the archives
that he refused to be in the sketches. Right.
He told Lorne Michaels, I'm a stand up. I don't
do sketches. So he did three separate stand up
monologues that night. He was reportedly high
on cocaine for the entire week of rehearsals,
but he absolutely delivered. So by the end of
the 70s, he's a legend. But the 80s and 90s get
weird. We enter what the sources call the middle
years, where his career just fragments in the
most unexpected ways. This is where that Carlin
paradox we mentioned in the intro really just
explodes. Because on one hand, he's still the
edgy counterculture comic putting out HBO specials.
But on the other hand, he starts taking these
acting roles that introduce him to completely
new mainstream audiences. The first big one being
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Rufus. For
millions of kids my age, he wasn't the seven
dirty words guy. He was the cool, time -traveling
mentor from the future who helped save the world.
It completely softened his image. But the real
head -scratcher, the one that I think still confuses
people, is Thomas and Friends. 1991. The producers
are looking for an American narrator for the
show. Ringo Starr had done the British version,
so they needed someone with a really distinct
voice, someone who could be a great storyteller.
And they picked George Carlin. They picked George
Carlin. The man who fought the Supreme Court
for the right to say cocksucker on the radio
is now the voice of a talking tank engine. It's
the ultimate subversion. It is. But here's the
thing. He took it incredibly seriously. Britt
Allcroft, the producer, told the story about
how nervous George was in the beginning. He was
so used to having a live audience, that feedback
loop of laughter. He needed the energy from the
crowd. Exactly. Being alone in a vocal booth,
just reading a script about trains, it terrified
him. He didn't know if it was working. So they
had to improvise a solution for him. They did.
They put a teddy bear in the booth with him.
He had to deliver all the lines to the teddy
bear as if it were a child. That image is just
incredible. bearded, cynical, anti -establishment
icon, alone in a soundproof room, reading gently
to a teddy bear. It speaks to his range, but
it also speaks to his ambition. We have to remember,
George's original dream wasn't to be a stand
-up comedian. No, he wanted to be an actor. He
wanted to be Danny Kaye. He wanted to be a comedic
actor. He always thought of himself as an actor
who just sort of fell into stand -up by accident.
He did try the traditional acting route with
the sitcom, The George Carlin Show. in 1994 on
Fox. Which he absolutely hated. He famously trashed
the experience later. He said he liked the cast,
but he hated the committee nature of network
television. He hated the notes, the lack of control.
He felt like a cog in a machine. That experience
seemed to push him back to the stage. It did.
He realized that his true freedom was on the
stage, alone with a microphone. No notes, no
censors, no committee. But we can't talk about
this period without addressing the elephant in
the room, which was his health. Underneath all
the acting gigs and the constant touring, he
was really falling apart physically. He was a
man burning the candle at both ends and right
in the middle. He had a massive history of drug
abuse. Cocaine was his fuel in the 70s and 80s.
Later in life, it was Vicodin, painkillers, and
alcohol. And the heart attacks. It wasn't just
one. Three of them. 1978, 1982, and 1991. Any
one of those should have been a wake -up call.
Most people would slow down. George sped up.
And, you know, part of that was actually financial
necessity. The tax trouble. Huge tax trouble.
He owed the IRS millions of dollars, partly due
to mismanagement, but also just the sheer amount
of money he spent on drugs. Right. He frankly
admitted in interviews that he stayed on the
road because he had to pay the government. He
had this great line. He said, for many years,
I wasn't working for me. I was working for the
IRS. But he also claimed that that pressure made
him a better comedian. It did. He couldn't afford
to take a year off. He couldn't just do a greatest
hits tour. He had to generate a brand new hour
of material every single year to keep the theaters
full and the money coming in. It turned him into
a relentless writing machine. And that pressure
cooker, that constant need to create, led to
what I think is his most potent and maybe his
most important era, what the outline calls the
final evolution. It's all bullshit phase. This
really begins with the 1992 HBO special Jammin'
in New York. The tone shifts from, have you ever
noticed to, here's why you are all idiots. exactly
he adopts this persona of the grumpy old man
but it's a philosophical grumpiness he fully
embraces nihilism he stops trying to fix the
world and starts popping popcorn to watch it
burn The freak show. He called it the freak show.
He said, I have a front row seat to the decline
of the species. And frankly, I'm enjoying it.
There is a specific incident from this period
that just encapsulates this hostility perfectly.
The MGM Grand incident in 2004. Oh, this was
ugly. But it was pure, unfiltered Carlin. He
had a residency at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas.
Now, you have to think about the typical Vegas
audience. Right. tourists, gamblers, people who
just saw a magic show and are looking for some
light entertainment. They're not there for a
lecture on the evils of capitalism and consumerism.
Probably not. And George just lost it one night.
He started tearing into the audience. He told
them they were morons for coming to Vegas. He
insulted their intellects for gambling away their
money. He essentially told them that they, the
audience, were the problem with America. And
the audience, understandably, pushed back. Oh,
yeah. They started booing. Someone in the crowd
yelled, stop degrading us. And George, who was
never one to back down from a fight, fired back
with, thank you very much, whatever that was.
If not, well, blow me. And that was the end of
the residency. He was fired immediately. But
here's the crucial context that a lot of people
miss. Shortly after that incident, he checked
himself into rehab for an addiction to alcohol
and prescription painkillers. So the outburst
was fueled by substances. Probably, but the sentiment,
that was real. He genuinely despised the consumerist
culture that Vegas represented. He felt dirty
taking their money, and so he lashed out. His
final specials. life is worth losing from 2005
and it's bad for yah from 2008 are incredibly
dark i mean the topics are suicide mass death
natural disasters he has a whole bit arguing
that humans are inferior to animals and yet it's
bad for yah which was filmed just a few months
before he died is brilliant it's hilarious you
can see he looks frail on stage he's thin but
his mind is a razor He's attacking the self -esteem
movement. He's attacking parents who worship
their children. He went out swinging at all the
things he thought were making society soft and
stupid. Let's pivot to his private life for a
minute. Because for a guy who seemed to hate
humanity in the abstract, the sources show that
he loved very, very deeply in person. He was
a total romantic, which is another part of the
paradox. We have to talk about his first wife,
Brenda Hosbrook. They met in 1960 while he was
on tour. She was a waitress. They were married
for over 35 years. But the sources make it very
clear it was not a fairytale marriage. Oh, far
from it. For many years, it was total chaos.
He was addicted to cocaine. She was a severe
alcoholic. The stories of their fights are legendary,
but, and this is the real redemption arc of their
story, they got sober together. They cleaned
up. They did. When George finally kicked coke
and Brenda kicked booze, they rediscovered their
marriage. The last decade of her life, by all
accounts, they were incredibly close. And then
she died in 1997. Liver cancer. Right before
his 60th birthday. It absolutely devastated him.
He wrote about how losing her felt like losing
his anchor in the world. But then, not long after,
he meets Sally Wade. This is the part of the
story that always surprises people. He meets
Sally, who is a comedy writer, and he falls head
over heels in love. Like, giddy teenage can't
stop thinking about her love. There's that book
she published, the George Carlin letters. It's
a collection of the notes and letters they wrote
to each other, and if you read them, you just
cannot reconcile the man who wrote those letters
with the angry old man on stage. They are tender
and sweet and poetic. It shows that the anger
was a performance, or at least a channel for
his disappointment in the world. heart he was
a total softy we should also touch on his view
of religion because it was such a massive and
consistent target for him throughout his career
the invisible man in the sky he was raised catholic
and you can tell the scars ran really deep He
rejected it wholesale with a passion. But he
wasn't really an atheist in that sort of Richard
Dawkins science is everything sense. He had his
own little mystical streak. He did. He famously
joked about worshiping the sun because he could
actually see it. But in a more serious interview,
he said, no, there's no God, but there might
be some sort of an organizing intelligence. And
I think to understand it is way beyond our ability.
So he was a humble agnostic, really. Exactly.
He thought the real arrogance of religion was
claiming to know the answer. And when he died
June 20, 2008, from heart failure, he stuck to
his guns. No hypocrisy at the end. Absolutely
none. He was explicit. No religious service,
no funeral of any kind. He was cremated. His
ashes were scattered at some of the nightclubs
in New York where he made his name and at Spofford
Lake in New Hampshire where that summer camp
was. He returned to the places that made him,
not to a church. It's perfectly fitting. And
he worked right up until the very end, too. He
performed his last show in Vegas just one week
before he died. That's the ultimate comedian's
death, isn't it? You die with your boots on.
You do. So looking back at the legacy now, it's
just staggering. Five Grammys, the Mark Twain
Prize. Which was awarded to him posthumously,
the first time they ever did that. It was a recognition
from the establishment that he was too big to
ignore, even after he was gone. And Rolling Stone
ranked him the second best stand -up of all time.
Right behind Richard Pryor. Right behind Pryor.
And you see his DNA everywhere today. In Louis
C .K., Jerry Seinfeld, Jon Stewart, Chris Rock,
Stephen Colbert. He created the archetype of
the comedian as philosopher. Before Carlin, stand
-up comedy was mostly set -up, punchline jokes.
After Carlin, comedy could be a dissertation.
It could be a lecture. He made it okay to be
smart and angry on stage. Yeah, he really did.
But there is this weird side effect of his legacy
that we absolutely have to address. The internet
hoaxes. Oh, this drives me crazy. I call it the
zombie Carlin phenomenon. You open your email
or you check Facebook, and there's a meme with
a picture of George and some quote about how
we need to get rid of liberals or something really
right -wing and aggressive. And 99 % of the time,
it's completely fake. It's totally fabricated.
People just use his image to validate their own
anger. But if you actually know Carlin's work,
you know he would never punch down like that.
He attacked the powerful. He attacked the church,
the politicians, the corporations. He didn't
attack the marginalized. Those fake quotes are
the exact opposite of his philosophy. It's gotten
so bad that Weird Al Yankovic actually referenced
it in a song. And stop forwarding that crap to
me. The line is, and by the way, your quotes
from George Carlin aren't really George Carlin.
When Weird Al is fact -checking your legacy,
you know you've reached a strange level of cultural
saturation. So bringing it all back home, we
started with the paradox. The unproductive airman
and the Mark Twain winner. The dirty words guy
and the children's show narrator. What is the
through line? What connects all these different
Georges? I think the through line is disappointed
idealism. I honestly believe George Carlin was
a guy who loved language and loved the potential
of humanity. But he looked around and he just
saw us wasting it. Wasting it how? We wasted
our words on euphemisms and jargon. We wasted
our freedom on consumerism and mindless entertainment.
So the anger wasn't hate, it was frustration.
Exactly. You don't get that angry at something
you don't care about. He cared deeply. He wanted
us to be better. And when it became clear we
weren't going to be, he decided to at least make
us laugh at our own stupidity. And it goes back
to that dream he had. He wanted to be Danny Kaye.
He wanted to be an actor. And for a long time,
he kind of thought he failed at that. But he
didn't. That's the final realization you get
from the sources. His stand -up was acting. When
he performed the seven dirty words routine or
the famous stuff routine, he wasn't just talking.
He was performing a meticulously written, directed,
and acted one -man play. He was a one -man theater
company. He achieved his dream every night he
stepped on stage. That is a beautiful way to
frame it. And here is a thought to leave you
with as you're listening. We live in an era of
content moderation. of shadow banning, of so
-called cancel culture. We are constantly debating
what can be said and where it can be said. And
the Carlin warning is still on the airwaves.
Those seven words are still officially banned
on broadcast TV during the day. So is that warning,
that idea of broadcast indecency, more relevant
today than when it was created? Or have we just
found new digital ways to build our own parlors
and decide which pigs don't belong? Carlin told
us to question everything, including the people
giving us the news. And yes, even the people
making deep dives like this one. In his words,
it's all bullshit and it's bad for you. Check
your sources, question authority, and we will
see you on the next deep dive. Take care.