Rubber Balls and Liquor
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Nobody ever reads this part of the book. Somebody at the publishing house explained to me that it’s actually called the book flap. That sounded dirty, so I giggled for three hours. But it says in my contract that I have to write something over here in this tiny space, even though I don’t think anyone will notice. Some people might open up to the middle of the book and start flipping through pages, but nobody will read this part. In fact, I’ll bet anything that you’re not reading this part now. And if it turns out that you are . . . well, the guy in the bookstore is probably staring at you, saying, “Stop reading that book!” I guess there’s a reason bookstores are going out of business, left and right. Cheap fucks like you think it’s okay to stand in the aisles and read to your heart’s content. So for the sake of bookstores everywhere, buy this fucking book. I myself don’t care. I only care about the poor working man. Oh, and the sanctity of the written word. I care about that, too. And in my case, those written words, of course, include fuck, dick, and pussy.
living room. It was like having a front-row seat to the whole wide world. And the best part: it came with catering. Most of the time, my mother would bring out a little tray of something for me to snack on as I watched and took notes. Other times, I could usually find enough crumbs in the cushions of the couch to keep from going hungry. Back then, they’d always show these great old movies. They’d be edited for television, and sometimes there’d be huge chunks missing—like, the entire second
indie-cartoon, which meant that it was smart and subtle and that nobody really watched it. In any case, for a few moments, in a small, meaningless way, I was pretty damn hip. Kevin Smith and his partners got a bunch of celebrities to do cameo appearances as themselves, and when certain celebrities were unavailable or unwilling to stoop to lending their voices to a hardly seen indie-cartoon, they looked to me. For example, they wrote a couple lines for Jerry Seinfeld, but he refused to read them,
day. It also came to pass that I found myself in a situation where I could use a phrase like it came to pass and have it sound like I was writing a bad detective novel. Me and my celebrity pals were playing for a guy named David, a police officer from Los Angeles, in the X spot, and a woman named Valerie, a librarian from Texas, who (oddly) introduced herself as a wedding and funeral singer, in the O spot. The contestants went back and forth, deep into the game. They went all the way through our
Hunchback of Notre Dame. I couldn’t think what to do or say at this point, so I started making some furious hand gestures. This is what you do when you’re stuck in a tense moment with a deaf person. If I couldn’t make myself understood in my own language, I would make the extra-effort and communicate in hers, so I made an OK signal with my right hand, and poked my left forefinger through the hole, over and over. I hoped she would take some comfort in this, because I seemed to remember that this
giants of the entertainment business to submit themselves to the cruel and unusual punishment they’d receive as the butt of all these jokes—and for this particular roast, Jeff came up with a master stroke of casting. Hugh Hefner was a roast master’s wet dream, presenting an endless possibility of jokes about getting old, getting laid and getting to do whatever the fuck you want for an entire fucking lifetime. Plus, it was also a master stroke because Hef once had a stroke while masturbating. (A