The next morning I Googled myself and discovered that my joke had set the Internet ablaze. The L.A. Times described my joke as "a cruel beat-down on Hilton." Even on my own unofficial Web site, one visitor--and presumably a fan--posted: "That was one of the meanest things I have ever witnessed." Everywhere I looked, I saw words like "cruel," "mean," "vicious," and "nasty." Web sites and blogs were consumed with the question of whether or not I had gone too far, of whether or not I was a bitch. Paris weighed in with an unequivocal yes. If Guy Aoki had stirred up just a fraction of this level of outrage with my "Chink" joke, he would still be jacking off to it now.
In fact, I felt much worse about this than I did about upsetting Aoki. He'd misunderstood a joke. Paris was genuinely a victim of a joke. I felt horribly guilty. At the time, I was writing the second season of The Sarah Silverman Program, but I was so disturbed that I could not focus on work. I left the writers' room and wrote a letter to Paris, who was now, on top of being hurt, in jail.
It was surely one of the least important media controversies in history. And I was probably the only person specifically Googling the story, so most of it was probably just playing out in the space between my laptop and my eyeballs. But what I took away from it all was, if I ever did another MTV awards show, I needed to be more careful about the jokes I told.
* * *
I Do Another MTV Awards Show, and Am Not Careful About the Jokes I Tell
* * *
Several months later, when MTV asked me to do a couple of minutes of stand-up at the Video Music Awards, it sounded like fun. I guess MTV awards shows are like childbirth: God makes you forget the pain so that you'll do it again, which makes sense, as MTV awards shows are crucial to the survival of the human species.
I had a week to put some jokes together, not realizing that I would be perceived, essentially, as hosting the show. That's what an awards show host on MTV does--a few minutes at the top, after the opening number.
In this case, the opening number was Britney Spears. Britney was not performing merely to support the network that made her famous, but to launch a comeback--from musical oblivion, pregnancy pudge, and willful baldness. Anytime you do stand-up on a show like this, you have to do a couple jokes on the performance you just followed as a segue into the bulk of your act. Since I followed Britney, I had to do a couple of jokes on her before I moved on. But you have to understand that there was no doubt in my mind that she would be amazing. Her brilliance has always been in blowing the lid off the live MTV Video Music Awards: the Catholic schoolgirl, the Madonna kiss, the boa constrictor. She is MTV's homerun queen.
Unfortunately for both of us, Britney's performance was a complete abortion. I don't mean that snarkily--I just state it as scientific fact. She looked in turns tentative, nervous, and listless; her lip-synching was distractingly bad, and though her body was still outstanding by almost any standard, it fell short of what the public had come to expect from her, and was exposed for the world's scrutiny by an unforgiving sequined bikini.
But I would only learn how catastrophic her performance was much later in the night. People think that comics sit casually watching a show, then waltz onto the stage and talk off the top of their heads. The truth is that I was crafting specific jokes all week, and during Britney's live performance, I wasn't watching her, I was pacing manically, going over my material.
Immediately after Britney wrapped up her train wreck and scurried off the stage in disgrace, I marched out there, clueless, and said this:
Britney Spears, everyone. Wow. She is amazing. I mean she's twenty-five years old, and she's already accomplished everything she's going to accomplish in her life. It's mind-blowing. And she's so grown up. She's a mother. It's crazy. It's weird to think that just a few years ago on this very show she was this, like, sweet innocent little girl in slutty clothes writhing around with a python...But have you seen Britney's kids? Oh my god, they are the most adorable mistakes you will ever see. They are as cute as the hairless vagina they came out of...
It must have seemed akin to making jokes about a hit-and-run victim as they were getting loaded into an ambulance. But I'm telling you, I had no idea there'd been an accident.
After the obligatory Britney portion of my monologue, I segued to other jokes I was more excited about. My appearance seemed to go well, and the rest of the night was a blast. When I woke up the next morning, I went online to find that my performance was eviscerated.
The media-Internet outrage was way more intense than it had been after the Paris Hilton debacle. Paris was a divisive figure, and many people took delight in her comeuppance. But Britney had become this tragic figure, and evidently I had kicked her when she was down. The fact that I'd made jokes about her children (though if you look at the text, you'll notice it was about her, not anything specific about her children) was widely viewed as hitting below the belt. Bloggers seized the opportunity to attack me--my looks, my lack of talent, my heartlessness. The only thing they were more brutal toward was Britney's extra eight pounds.
To make matters far worse, Britney's representatives lied to the press. They contended that I was the cause of Britney's disastrous performance. According to them, she had seen my jokes at rehearsal and was so devastated that she was unable to regain her composure by the time she got onstage. The proof that this was false lies in MTV's evil genius. MTV's producers very deliberately instructed me NOT to recite my actual jokes in rehearsal. Dress rehearsal is more for the nailing down of lighting and music cues. Instead, I walked out on stage and said, "Joke, joke, joke, blah, blah blah, enjoy the show." Wisely, they didn't want to be held responsible for anything I said on live TV. But they always want the benefits of any controversy or embarrassment that happens on their air-waves. I loved that they didn't want to know the jokes I was doing because it gave me total freedom in a world normally straightjacketed by the network's Standards and Practices Department. (MTV presents itself as the ultimate destination for hip and edgy, but from a corporate perspective, it's a children's network, closely monitored by parents and advertisers.) I was annoyed that the network had no problem hanging me out to dry. Is that what I did to Britney or Paris?
Regardless of the Spears camp's lies, and of MTV's having totally set me up for this, I had no interest in drama or feuds with girls two-thirds my age. I sat back down at my old apology-writing desk, its seat still warm from earlier in the summer, and sent Britney a letter, expressing what was my sincere regret. I don't know if she received it.
I'm a comic known for dirty jokes, Britney is a singer of frothy pop songs, and the VMA is an award show for the dying art of music videos, which airs on a channel that barely shows them anymore. In other words, this controversy was equally as unimportant in the world--if not more so--as the Paris Hilton incident. But I can't help noticing that the public outrage was far greater in both instances than it was over my alleged offense against the Asian American community. A wider swath of Americans expressed their condemnation of me in the Britney and Paris melees.
Maybe it's that people view Asian Americans, a population known for high levels of college enrollment and enormous success in small business, as a people who can take care of themselves and don't need defending, whereas, thin, white, young blond women are enjoyable to have sex with. It makes perfect sense. They're as much a sacred symbol of America as the bald eagle and the Humvee. I had basically taken a shit on the head of a bald eagle. Is it possible that what truly caused me to do it was the deep-seated anger and resentment of a dark, hairy, backwoods Jew toward these dainty, fair-haired embodiments of American perfection?
Nah. But I knew you were thinking that, so I felt a need to say it first.
To all you sensitive sallys out there who spend your time scribing angry letters, I have great news: Scientific models show that, in the not-too-distant future, all the races will become so completely interbred that humanity will have a monolithic caramelish color and common facial features. There won't be blonds or hairy Jews anymore. Words lik
e "Chink" will cease to have meaning. They will be relics, along with those who use them for comedy. Which is exactly why I am past that meta-racist shit and onto poop and pee. Onward and downward!
CALLS FROM SCHLEPPY
Dad (in front of an old pic of himself) at his surprise seventieth birthday party in New Hampshire
Since the day I moved away from home my dad has called me every Saturday. I learned fairly early not to pick up when I saw it was him, as more often than not, at least to me, his messages were comedy gold and I wanted them on tape. My dad is a weirdo. Most all of his friends in New Hampshire are literally from summer camp. They continue to call him by his childhood nickname--Schleppy. When he and my stepmother, Janice, go to Boca Raton for the winter, my father sits at Starbucks and heckles rich people as they walk in and out, saying things like, "Hey, nice Mercedes! That could probably feed eighty thousand people in India, but, no, you need it. Good job!" He has been punched in the face three winters in a row.
The following are a few voice-mails from my father, transcribed by me. I wrote it, as best I could, phonetically--to account for his very thick New England accent, as I feel it adds an important layer of understanding. You may pick up on his carefree sense of humor, his penchant for dialing the wrong number, and his vocal dislike of rich people. Here are a few samplings for your enjoyment.
6/13/09, 11:10 A.M.
Dad: Hey, Baby! Guess who? It's You-ah daddy! Happy Shubbus. I say that 'cause you-ah friend, Jeffrey Ross, is in Israel. And I've been spending time with you'ah nieces. I took Shi Shi [my niece Ashira] to Chuckie Cheese twice--she is SO FUCKIN' CUTE. Gimme a call when ya get a chance, um, I leave in a coupla owahs but I'll be in my caah for an ow-ah oah two--know whe-ah I'm goin'? I am goin' to...my fiftieth fuckin' reuinion of UNH! It took fifty fuckin' yee-ahs to get hee-ah. Goin' through it, it was all those days with you and Laura and Jodyne and Susie and aggravation and business and blah blah blah. And you look back on it, and it seemed like it took twenty minutes--the whole goddamn thing! It's amazin'. It took so long to get here, just to look back so quickly. So watch out, 'cause you-ah only goin' one way, and that's oldah! And once you can no longah doin' sumthin', that's forevah. I been pretty goddamn lucky so fah. I love you. That's my homily fo-ah the day. I love you. Give me a call if you get a chance, like if you-ah walkin' you-ah dog o'ah sumthin' boring like that. And I'll talk to ya latah. MMMMMUAHHH. [Then, to himself] Uh...shut off phone.
Dad's annual Fourth of July uniform
03/28/09, 1:49 P.M.
Hello, Sarah! It's you-ah daddy, callin' from Boca Raton, Flarida, whey-ah they-ah ah a lot of entitled people. They whey-ah expensive watches that tell time just like my Timex, and they drive very expensive cahhs that help people to know how rich they ahh, and that they ah entitled so if you see one of them, you'll know to act prop-ah-ly. I love you and I will talk to you again soon. Bye-bye.
03/14/09, 11:54 A.M.
Oh shit I dialed the wrong numbah. He hee. That's a good one. Hi, Honey, you wah wondahful last night [I was on Real Time with Bill Maher], really, I gutta watch it again...Arhh! I'm yawnin' 'cause I just woke up from a little nappy cause I'm tryin' to get a little sleep he-yah 'cause I'm goin' to a BIG wedding tonight with big rich people who I don't even know. Jesus Christ, it's like they all like you-ah evil step-muthah so much they invite us to these goddamn weddings. Oh well. Luckily I gut a tuxedo that I bought at Good Will--did you know that? Did you know that I bought it at the Jewish Good Will store--a goah-juss tuxedo fo-ah thirty-seven dollahs and fifty cents on sale, half price, it was originally seventy-five dollahs, and it is goah-juss. I LOVE telling people how much I paid far it. [Big loud yawn.] I need a little bit mo-ah nap. Alright, Honey, I love you. Gimme a call when ya get a chance. Talk to ya latah. Bye-bye.
3/07/09, 10:40 A.M.
Excuse me but, who is this? Is it really you? [Sing-songy.] Maybe it is and maybe it isn't.
How ya doin', Sweetie? Ahhhhhh, gimme a call when you getta chance. I'm on my way to the beach club far an ol' swimaroony, you wanna come with me? [I'm in L.A. and he's in Florida.] Rich people live at the beach club, po-ah people have to drive they'ah. [Sing-songy again.] Love you. Talk to you laterrrr. [The hard "r" is his way of making fun of how I talk.] Bye-bye, Dahlin'. Mmuah.
2/28/09, 2:01 P.M.
DAD: A hundred bottles of bee-ah on the wall, a hundred bottles of bee-ah, take one down, drink it down, ninety-nine bottles of bee-ah on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of bee-ah on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of bee-ah, take one down--whoop
JANICE [his wife, in the background]: Hi, Sarah! Donald, stop it.
DAD: I only had ninety-eight mo-ah to go--
JANICE: Call us when you wake up in the mo-ahning 'cause we-ah going out in about fifty-five minutes--
DAD [to Janice]: Yeah, you tell ha that you know what she does, Janice?
JANICE: What?
DAD: She calls knowin' we-ah not hee-ah so she can leave a fuckin' message.
JANICE: Call us when you wake up, Sweetie.
DAD: Oh shit...[I'm guessing he spilled something.]
JANICE: Love you.
DAD: Love you, bye, Honey.
2/7/09, 11:48 A.M.
That's so weird! 'Cause I thought I was callin' Laura, and I called Sarah! I don't mind callin' Sarah. It was on my list of things to do anyway. Call me back when you get a chance. Don't try and pull the old bullshit of callin' me tonight when you know I'm out. I don't fall for that one anymo-ah. Evah since it happened forty weeks in a row. All right, Honey. I love you. Give me a call. Bye, Sweetie.
1/29/09, 1:17 P.M.
Jesus, Sarah! I was callin' Mark Reingold! But I was pretty surprised when you answered the phone with you-ah answerin' machine. I guess I pressed the wrong button on the phone. Just remember this: I'm pretty fuckin' old and things like that can happen. I just made a quick turn. I'm drivin'. Talkin' to you on Bluetooth. Um, all right, Sweethawt. I love you, bye...[Several beats.] How do I shut this thing off?
Dad was so excited to visit the set of my show that he fell asleep within, oh, I'd say, twelve minutes.
1/23/09, 9:01 A.M.
[Sung to a made-up tune, while visiting the three L.A. daughters--Laura, Jodyne, and me. He insists on staying at a Ramada Inn nearby because there's a Starbucks in it.]
This is you-ah daddy. It's really, really me.
I'm callin' to tell you some oppahtunity.
The first choice is, to not meet us. The second choice is to go for a walk with Janny.
The third choice is to meet me at Stahbucks fahr a coffee.
The fou-ath choice is a quick Stahbucks coffee
...and a walk with Janice.
Those ah you-ah choices; I hope they satisfy you.
If they don't, then you'ah a dirty Jewwww.
[Spoken] Love you. Bye-bye.
9/14/08, 9:29 A.M.
[Note: New Hampshire still has the kind of car wash where you turn off your car, put it in neutral, and ride through.]
Hey, Baby, guess who? It's you-ah daddy! Guess whey-ah I am? The cah wash! Janice is at a baby showah and--oy. Oy! Jesus fuckin' Christ. My fuckin' windows ah down and the button to put 'em up won't work and I'm gettin' fuckin' soaked. [Several beats.] The whole cah is soaked. Oy. [Then] Okay, love you, Dahlin'.
1/17/09, 9:10 A.M.
I remembah when you whuh a tiny baby and I had to lift those tiny legs and wipe the SHIT out of you-ah tuchus. It was fuckin' disgustin'. All right. If you get a chance--I know you-ah really busy--give a call back to the guy who gave you life. Love you. Bye.
THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN LIFE: BEING ON TV
* * *
Pussyface
* * *
Dave Rath is a friend to all comics. He's a manager, but he's funny and silly and considered one of us. Whenever I would visit L.A., I stayed with Dave. He lived in a big house with a bunch of comics--Todd Glass, Brian Posehn, and Alan Murray. Dave is like a brother to me, and the deal was that if he didn't get lucky
that night I could sleep in his big bed with him; if he did, I was on the couch.
I slept in his bed one night and, in a bout of what I can only guess was nocturnal nostalgia, I wet the bed. I woke up early in the morning, and realizing what had happened, I knew I had to say something right away.
"Dave," I nudged him awake. "Dave, I peed in your bed, I'm sorry!" Dave didn't move. Didn't even open his eyes. Just murmured through his sleepy lips,
"It's okay, just put a towel down and go back to sleep."
Friends for life.
During one L.A. visit, I had to go straight to the Laugh Factory from the airport for a show before I could get to Rath's and settle in. I called him and told him to meet me at the club, which was just yards down the hill from where he lived.
I arrived at the Laugh Factory, put my luggage in the ticket booth, and sat in the back of the room, arranging my notes and figuring out my set. I looked up and there was Rath. I jumped to my feet and gave him a hug and a friendly kiss on the lips. As we pulled back, I noticed that his goatee left an imprint on my face. A viscous, slimy goatee of my own. Bracing for what I already knew in my heart to be true, I whispered through pained horror, "Were you just eating pussy?" His eyes popped open as if a magician just guessed his card.
The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee Page 13