For Laughing Out Loud

by Ed McMahon

  We shot that commercial in one take. One very, very fast take. It was one of the finest acting jobs of my career. I had to act calm. Eventually we finished the commercial—and found the second snake.

  A phrase I often used in Anheuser-Busch commercials was "Someone still cares about quality." In the thirty years I spent working for Gussie and the brewery, that was always the truth. And in all that time there wasn't a single day when I had difficulty using that product. In fact, only once in my career have I lost a sales job because I didn't use the product. And it was not Alpo—my dogs asked for Alpo by name! At least that's what it sounded like to me. The sponsor I lost because I failed to use the product was Jenny Craig's diet meals.

  I was overweight. I needed to go on a diet but I needed some kind of incentive. My assistant at that the time, the wonderful Madeline Kelly, provided the incentive. She negotiated an agreement with the Jenny Craig people that paid me quite a bit of money to become their spokesperson—but only if I lost a certain amount of weight by following a Jenny Craig diet plan. If I kept the weight off an additional six months, the deal was automatically renewed.

  I faithfully followed their diet plan. I ate their frozen dinners. And I lost thirty-two pounds. Now, what could be better than being paid to lose weight? The commercials were very successful. I was very happy with their products and I think the Jenny Craig people were very happy with our relationship. All I had to do was keep the weight off for six months.

  Unfortunately, it was just after I lost all that weight that my marriage to Victoria broke up. I was very unhappy and when I'm unhappy I eat. Of course, I also eat when I'm happy, which is why I needed to diet in the first place. But this was a difficult time for me and I regained most of the weight I'd lost. Now, this was completely my fault; the meals did exactly what they were supposed to do. I believed if I could just get through a couple of bad months I'd go back on the diet and lose the weight again. So we told the Jenny Craig people that I wasn't gaining weight, I was just wearing bigger suits. We blamed my weight on my suits. Was I over the weight stipulated in my contract?

  Weigh-oooo!

  Eventually I had to admit to the Jenny Craig people that I had regained the weight, and they did not pick up my option.

  Now, what, you ask, what could possibly be better than being paid to lose weight? Being paid to give away somebody else's money. Talk about an offer I couldn't refuse. Years ago American Family Publishers, the fine company that uses a national sweepstakes to attract attention to its magazine subscriptions, wanted me to be their spokesperson.

  Before I accepted their offer I had to make sure they really had the money to give away. I did some research and discovered the company was partly owned by Time Inc. Okay, I figured, they got the money. And that's how I came to be the guy who says, "You may have already won ten million dollars."

  When I started working on this campaign I had no idea how much a part of American pop culture it would become. American Family Publishers sends out about two hundred million pieces of mail every year. Just about every household in the country has received an entry form and stickers to order magazine subscriptions. The Tom Snyder Show got one addressed "Dear Mr. Show . . ." When my daughter Katherine Mary was only six months old she received a letter informing her, "Katherine Mary McMahon, you may have already won two million dollars and Ed McMahon will award this giant prize to you on The Tonight Show . . ." And when then senator Bob Dole received his entry form, he wrote back to me, explaining, "As I am seriously considering running for President, I am prohibited by federal law from accepting contributions which exceed $1,000 per person. . . . However, Ed, I might suggest that you and your wife each contribute $1,000 and, to make up the additional $9,998,000, ask 9,998 of your friends . . ."

  The prospect that Ed McMahon might unexpectedly show up at your front door with a big check has become the subject of numerous cartoons and greeting cards, even the punch line of jokes. Hallmark did a greeting card with a forlorn figure on the front, and inside it asked, "If Ed McMahon has time to write me, how come you don't?" Even a small rug-cleaning company sent around a flyer listing ten reasons people should have their carpets cleaned. The tenth reason: when Ed McMahon rings your doorbell, you don't want to be embarrassed.

  "You may have already won ten million dollars" has become one of the best-known lines in the history of advertising. Once, when I walked down a street, people would greet me with either "Hi-oooo!" or "Heeeeere's Ed!" No more. Now it's always, "Hey Ed, where's my ten million dollars?"

  "I was over at your house this morning," I sometimes reply, "and you weren't home. So I gave it to your neighbor." Or, "I've been looking all over for you. What time are you going to be home tonight?" Dick Clark responds to that question by telling people, "Ed's home counting it out in singles. He's going to be at your house in ten minutes. What are you doing here?"

  I have become so well known as the man who gives away tens of millions of dollars in prizes that when I make a phone call I often begin by saying, "Hi, this is Ed McMahon. You didn't win yet, but . . ."

  Now, how could I possibly go wrong by giving away money? I thought, if there is one sure thing in life, it's that people are going to love me for doing this. And generally that has been true. But in 1998 American Family Publishers, as well as myself and Dick Clark, received a great deal of publicity after American Family Publishers signed an agreement with thirty-two state attorneys general around the country. As part of the agreement, American Family Publishers agreed to make certain changes in its mailings to make it even more clear that the mailings were entry forms, not notifications that the recipient had won. In much of the publicity, the point that was often lost was that American Family, along with Dick Clark and myself, had over the years helped to give away more than seventy-seven million dollars.

  This sweepstakes has changed lives. It's sort of like Star Search —without the talent portion of the show. I called one winner to inform him that he had won two million dollars on the day the bank was going to repossess his house. Literally. They had already taken his car and by the end of that day he was going to be homeless. Talk about good luck. When Dick Clark handed a check for ten million dollars to a struggling musician, he asked, "What are you going to do with the money?"

  "Go out and buy a new set of drums," the musician told him.

  The only people ineligible for the prize money were employees of American Family Publishers—which includes me—and their relatives. I guess I didn't realize the impact of that restriction until Pam professed her love for me by pointing out, "Look what I gave up to marry you."

  When the giant Colonial Penn Insurance Company wanted to market a whole-life insurance product, they asked me to be their spokesperson. The difficulty Colonial Penn had in selling this insurance was that it seemed too good to be true. This is a life insurance policy aimed at buyers more than fifty years old, the people who need the insurance most and often can't afford it or pass the physical. The point that Colonial Penn wanted me to emphasize was that there was no physical examination required, everybody qualifies, no one who wanted to buy this insurance could be turned down. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is hard to believe, but you cannot be turned down for this insurance. Let me repeat that sentence, you cannot be turned down for this insurance.

  Now, these are not large policies. The benefits are not substantial. They are usually supplemental policies or replacements for life insurance policies that were lost at retirement. They generally pay in the twenty-thousand-dollar range, enough to cover the expenses involved with death and burial; the idea is that your family should not have to go into debt. The benefits are restricted for the first two years, but after that period these policies pay the full amount.

  Admittedly, life insurance isn't as much fun to sell as beer or as exciting as the sweepstakes; I mean, when friends drop over to the house I don't get to offer them a life insurance policy, and I won't be coming to your house to surprise you with the benefits. But believe me, many people have
come up to me and told me how vitally important this money was to them at a time when it was really needed.

  My contract with The Tonight Show made it difficult for me to work for companies that might compete with our national advertisers. But that didn't stop me from representing local businesses. My business manager and I realized that local businesses could benefit by being represented by someone with national recognition. Banks, for example. There are no national banks, so I could represent as many noncompeting local banks as wanted to hire me. And I was perfect for the job. Who could possibly be a better representative for financial institutions than a person known for giving away money?

  Eventually I ended up becoming the spokesperson for thirty-eight banks and financial institutions in eighteen states. Basically, I was selling a sense of confidence. I was telling viewers that I was willing to put my name and reputation behind these banks. Imagine that, banks needed me to tell people they were honest. That's a long way from selling slicers on the boardwalk. And before I agreed to represent a bank, we did do a lot of research to make sure the bank had a good reputation in the community and was financially in good condition.

  It was a good program for the banks. For only slightly more than they would have paid to produce local commercials, they got network-quality commercials and me as their spokesperson. So when a viewer in Oklahoma City was watching me with Johnny Carson, he was, I hope, reminded about the Liberty National Bank. One Chicago bank told me that they'd decided to hire me after doing extensive research "to determine who would be the least offensive spokesman and carry our message the strongest." It turned out I was considered to be one of the least offensive people in Chicago! How about that!

  The concept was a very good one and for several years this was a very successful program for both me and the banks. Several of the banks I represented became the leading financial institutions in their local market. For a while I thought that this was going to be something I would be doing for a long, long time, like Alpo. Banks didn't go out of business, banks put other people . . . But then there was this thing that happened called the savings-and-loan scandal.

  Kay-oooooooooo . . .

  At least dogs always have to eat.

  I've been in television fifty years now, and in that time I've seen numerous innovations once thought impossible.

  I've seen that tiny little box showing grainy black-and-white pictures broadcast only locally grow into giant screens on the sides of buildings broadcasting in sharp color from anywhere in the world. I've seen two-hundred-pound cameras reduced to cameras light enough to be carried easily by one person. I've seen historic events as they happened. I've seen pictures broadcast live from the moon. I've even seen Tiny Tim get married. But maybe more than anything else, I've seen the creation of one thing I never dreamed possible: the cable shopping networks. All selling all the time. A channel that exists only to sell. A channel on which all the performers are pitchmen. The channel I've been waiting for my entire career!

  Selling on cable television is very similar to standing up on the block and selling on the boardwalk; you have a limited amount of time to capture the attention of your audience, pitch your product, and finally close the sale. The difference is that you have a much bigger audience—we call them "eyes," as in "there are a lot of eyes out there." Instead of selling inexpensive items, we can sell very expensive merchandise, and although on the boardwalk a rainy day is terrible, bad weather is the best possible thing for selling on television.

  And I found the perfect product to sell to home shoppers. Something every household needs. A unique product. Le Dome cookware. Cookware made by the largest French manufacturer. Cookware made especially to ensure that nothing, absolutely nothing, will stick to the bottom. Cookware with the handles on the corners making it easier to balance and thus safer to carry. It's the kind of cookware that no household should be without. Now, I know a lady in Bayonne, New Jersey, who bought a set of this cookware and . . .

  My first day on the channel I sold almost two hundred thousand dollars' worth of this wonderful product. And, I didn't even have to throw in the juicer.

  After fifty years in the business, after becoming one of the most recognized personalities on television, after hosting or cohosting tens of thousands of hours of television programs, I was right back where I started: selling pots and pans.

  I loved it, I absolutely loved it.

  11

  When Star Search went off the air I found myself without a television show for the first time in my professional career. From the day I'd begun at WCAU in Philadelphia, September 12, 1949—except for the time I'd spent in Korea—I'd always been under contract to a network or a show. I had assumed Star Search would continue indefinitely. We'd become a major attraction at Disney World, and what could be more permanent than that? So being without a show was very strange for me. And I didn't like the feeling at all. As much as I tried to dismiss the thought, I couldn't help but wonder if my career was over.

  Maybe the most difficult thing for me to deal with was free time. For me, time had always been just like money—I spent just a little more of it than I had. I was always busy, always going from one appointment to the next. But with the end of Star Search I actually had time to do whatever I wanted to do—unfortunately, what I really wanted to do was have every minute of my day filled.

  Johnny Carson's retirement allowed him to fulfill his passionate love of tennis; he had time to play the game and follow the professional tour around the world. My passion— besides my wife, Pam, and my children—was broadcasting. Same as it had been when I was a child. And one thing you can't do when you retire is work.

  I've never had a real hobby. Tennis, for example, Johnny's passion, never really interested me. I've tried golf because I wanted to play with friends like Newhart and Dick Martin. I bought a set of clubs, joined the Bel Air Country Club, and took lessons. I always hit the ball a long way, unfortunately even when I was putting. I'm not good at not being good at something. I get frustrated. After one particularly bad day, I emptied my locker, resigned from the club, and gave my beautiful clubs, gloves, shoes, and golf balls to Patrick Marwick, who loved golf, telling him, "From now on, you're my designated golfer."

  I don't think I realized how bad I was until I lost a putting contest to a . . . blind golfer. Please note the judicious use of the pause right there. This contest took place at my golf tournament. I may well be the only nongolfer to have had his own celebrity golf tournament. The Quad Cities Open, played in the cities of Bettendorf and Davenport, Iowa, and Moline and Rock Island, Illinois, was having difficulty surviving because it was played annually on the same weekend as the British Open. The local Jaycees hoped they could draw attention to the tournament by attracting celebrities. Now, they realized that my greatest strength as a golfer was that I made a great host. I was great after we finished the first eighteen holes. So I became the host of the Ed McMahon Quad Cities Open. And the plan worked: among the celebrities who came to play in my tournament were Bob Hope, Telly Savalas, Buddy Greco, and Tommy Sullivan. Tommy Sullivan is a wonderful singer, and although blind, he is a good golfer and played in the Ed McMahon Open every year.

  My third year as host, Tony Amendola, Tommy Sullivan, and I were having dinner with our drinks, and Tony suggested that a putting contest between Tommy and me would attract a lot of publicity. At the time, that seemed like a great idea. It was only when I woke up the next morning that I realized I was in a terrible situation; if I won, I'd beaten a blind man. If I lost, I'd lost to a blind man. How could I explain either result?

  Part of me wanted to play for fun, to make it obvious to everyone that I wasn't really trying to win. But I realized that wasn't fair to Tommy. So I played it straight—it's just that my putts didn't go straight. We played eighteen holes on a large putting green. He beat me on the last hole.

  I hosted the tournament for five years. I stopped when NBC hired me to go to Russia as a feature reporter during the Moscow Olympics. I was going to do
Ivan-on-the-street interviews. That was the year that we boycotted the Olympics in response to the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. If I'd gone, just imagine what might have happened to my career! But that was the end of my association with my golf tournament.

  With one exception. When I was in Florida with Michael, Jeff, Lex, and my son-in-law Peter, we had our own tournament. I had trophies made for Very Best Golfer, Could Have Been the Best Golfer, Might Have Been the Best Golfer, Possibly Could Have Been the Best Golfer, and Tried Very Hard. I got the trophy for trying.

  I was a much better fisherman than golfer. In fact, I was a member of a very exclusive fishing club known as the Skipjacks. When I had my summer house in Avalon, once each year six of us would charter a deep-sea fishing boat with a captain and mate for a day. It cost us about five hundred dollars, which was a lot of money in the late 1960s. We'd start the day with Budweiser for breakfast and when we finished several cases of beer we'd ease into the vodka. For years we didn't catch a single fish. But one day, one incredible day, I was strapped into the deep-sea fishing chair and I got a bite. Everybody got excited, they were all screaming instructions: give him line, yank him in, fight 'im, tire him out. I fought that fish as best as I could. And finally I won, I reeled him in. This was a great moment. We finally caught a fish.

  When I got him close to the boat, the mate said, "Oh, it's a goddamn skipjack."

  A skipjack is a small fish, it's a cousin of the bonita. I don't swear often, but when I heard the mate say that, I turned to my friends and said, "Five hundred dollars a day, four cases of Bud, six bottles of vodka, and it's a goddamn skipjack?" We unhooked the fish and threw it back in the water. I suspect that fish was embarrassed enough having been caught by me.