In Memoriam: George Carlin

May 12, 1937 - June 22, 2008

By Rob Turbovsky

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George Carlin opened his last HBO special by saying, "Fuck Lance Armstrong. Fuck him and his balls and his bicycles and his steroids and his yellow shirts and the dumb, empty expression on his face ... I'll choose my own heroes, thank you very much." Well, Carlin was my hero, and while people never get phone calls from their heroes, I did.

When I was an angsty high schooler, I wrote George a letter for something I was in way over my head on—a documentary on the dwindling choices in politics. I sent interview requests to many long shots, including names like Thompson and Maher. Months went by, and then the phone rang. "Rob? George Carlin here. Got your letter. Very well-written. Good grammar. Let's talk." After regaining consciousness and changing my pants, I worked out a time with him.

For weeks, I'd come home to occasionally find a hilarious voicemail confirming the date. When we finally talked, I was an awkward mess. But Carlin carried me through, even inviting my friends, my dad and I to meet him. He was as kind as he was insightful. We asked him about the other Mister Conductors from Shining Time Station. He boasted he could kick Ringo Starr's ass.

Even as he hit his 70s, he never lost his edge. And, most of all, he was fucking funny. Carlin's gift was transferring his giddy fearlessness to you. He proved "you can joke about anything," and when he did, he changed your whole sensibility. His Vietnam jokes could cause a riot. And they did. He was obscene when it could get him arrested. And it did. Whenever we skewer hypocrisy, mock dishonest euphemisms or use those Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television, we honor him. So, let's replace the moment of silence with shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits.

That's for you, George.