George Carlin Got the 'Last Words' After All

As a comedian, George Carlin always liked to have the last word. And now, with the publication of his final memoir, "Last Words," fans will get to read the life story of one of our greatest comedic minds. Carlin was working on "Last Words" (with former National Lampoon editor Tony Hendra) for over 10 years prior to his June 2008 death.

The book now serves as a culmination of his life work -- an unbridled, hilarious look at the ups and downs of a stand-up legend. Carlin's battles with drugs and the IRS, his run-ins with the law and tumultuous family life are all told in the comedian's uncensored, no-holds-barred style.

In this excerpt from "Last Words," Carlin recalls his birth in typically foul-mouthed fashion. Take a look below, and then check out a tribute video featuring testimonials from Richard Belzer, Michael Ian Black, George Wendt and others.


"George Carlin: Last Words"

Chapter 1: The Old Man and the Sunbeam

Sliding headfirst down a vagina with no clothes on and landing in the freshly shaven crotch of a screaming woman did not seem to be part of God's plan for me. At least not at first. I'm not one of those people who can boast of having been a sparkle in his mother's eye. A cinder comes closer.

I was conceived in a damp, sand-flecked room of Curley's Hotel in Rockaway Beach, New York. August 1936. A headline in that Saturday's New York Post said "Hot, sticky, rainy weekend begins. High humidity and temperatures in the 90s send millions to the beaches." At the Paramount Theater in Times Square, Bing Crosby and Frances Farmer starred in Rhythm on the Range. Meanwhile at Curley's Hotel on Beach 116th Street, Mary and Patrick Carlin starred in yet another doomed Catholic remake of Rhythm in the Sack.

For several generations Rockaway Beach had been a favorite weekend retreat for New York's alcohol-crazed Irish youth in search of sex and sun. Popular ethnic slurs to the contrary, the Irish do enjoy sex -- at least the last ten seconds or so. But we must admit that Irish foreplay consists of little more than "You awake?" Or the more caring, sensitive "Brace yourself, Agnes!"

Not that my conception was the tale of two young lovers, carried away by passion and strong wine. By the time my father's eager, whiskey-fueled sperm forced its way into my mother's egg-of-the-month club, she was forty and he was forty-eight -- certainly old enough to be carrying rubbers. The odds against my future existence were even longer: this particular weekend was a single isolated sex-fest during a marital separation that had lasted more than a year. In fact the preceding six years of my parents' marriage had consisted entirely of long separations, punctuated by sudden brief reconciliations and occasional sex-fests.

The separations were long because my father had trouble metabolizing alcohol. He drank, he got drunk, he hit people.

My mother told me that my father hit her only once. (My older brother, Patrick, can't say the same.) His first marriage ended disastrously when his first wife died of a heart attack not long after one of his beatings. My mother's theory was that while my father had been very free with his hands where his first family and Patrick were concerned, he didn't abuse her, because she had four brothers and her dad was a policeman.

Their reconciliations were sudden because my father had a terrific line of bullshit. And because my mother really loved him. The two of them were crazy about one another. According to those who knew them they were one of the great pairings of all time. So while I sprang from something good and positive, by the time I showed up I was a distinct inconvenience. This marriage had gone south long before. As in Tierra del Fuego.

Getting conceived had been hard enough. Staying conceived literally required a miracle. My next brush with nonexistence came two months after the sweaty sex-weekend in Rockaway Beach.

A Video Tribute to Carlin



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