The Fran Lebowitz Reader

“Hell no, we won’t grow!” the children screamed back. Suddenly a little boy broke loose from his newly acquired mother, ran to the bar, and grabbed for a bottle of milk. “Hold it right there!” yelled the officers of the law. Their warning went unheeded and the little boy was quickly joined by three other children of the sort who don’t know when to stop. They all drank greedily from their respective bottles and fixed the police with impish grins, flaunting their milk mustaches. The boys in blue, pushed beyond their limits, let loose with a volley of fire. All four children were killed. And such was the tragedy of Quenched State.

Up against the wall, mother luckers!”

An unbuttoned right suspender meant: It was my fault.… I’ll try to do better.… I cannot tell a lie.… I guess I’m just no good. This gang invariably found their way to the adults carrying their cigarettes in their left hands, which meant: No dessert.… Go to your room.… I threw them away.… We don’t have Christmas.

An unbuttoned left suspender meant: I talk back.… I don’t do my homework.… I will wet my bed until I am fifteen.… I will make your life a living hell.… You won’t know what you did to deserve me.

The most popular of these bars was called Chicken Little and was located in a brownstone on a fashionable street near the East River. Prospective parents on the prowl would arrive at this establishment by taxi or private car, knock smartly on the lacquered chocolate-brown door, and present themselves to a deceptively kind-looking septuagenarian known only as the Grandmother

The addition of the prefix natural to the word childbirth assumed that there was such a thing as unnatural childbirth. Advocates of this concept pointed out that for thousands of years people had babies in the privacy and quietude of their own homes or rice paddies simply by lying down and breathing deeply. This business of rushing to the hospital, being shot up with drugs, and attended by doctors was wrong. It was not meant to be. Some listened. Some did not. Some of those who did not, did not arrogantly, with a strong, pure belief in the righteousness of their unnaturalness. They liked rushing to the hospital. They loved being shot up with drugs. They adored being attended to by doctors. To them unnaturalness was the way of life. Secure in their commitment to artificiality, they greeted each other with knowing looks and bade each other good-bye with a whispered “à rebours.” They were content and they believed themselves to be as sophisticated as was possible under the circumstances, which were undeniably heterosexual and therefore limited

You Write Poetry and You Are Not Dead

You Are the Host of a Television Talk Show Who So Firmly Believes That Everyone in the Whole World Is Just About to Play Las Vegas for Two Weeks That You Introduce Your Next Guest as “Dr. Jonas Salk—a Beautiful Guy.”

Should you be found guilty you shall be sentenced to a one-year subscription to Psychology Today or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first

The penalty for those responsible for any of the above-mentioned crimes shall be ninety days spent in the company of the inventor of the male centerfold or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first

Once upon a time, long, long ago, people wanted to be well spoken. Those capable of an elegant turn of phrase were much admired. Wit was in great demand. It was the day of the epigram.

Time went on, and by and by it came to pass that people were chiefly interested in being well liked. Those capable of a firm handshake were much admired. Friendliness was in great demand. It was the day of the telegram.

Presently it appears that people are mainly concerned with being well rested. Those capable of uninterrupted sleep are much admired. Unconsciousness is in grea