by Brad Garrett
My point is, it’s not the food that kills you. It’s your genetics, stress, and DNA. And luck of the draw. In other words, you have zero control over it. Eat right, and a bad ticker is a bad ticker. Bathe in biscuits and gravy until your aorta emerges from your left nipple, and you’re fine as long as your grandpoppy was a miner and your mother worked on engines during her third trimester. Chances are you’ll hit seventy even if you abuse the shit out of yourself (see: the Rolling Stones).
And so be it. You never hear anyone say, “Ohhh, if I could just relive my seventies and have that stroke at the mall again. Waking up facedown in front of Pottery Barn, mumbling the name of my cat while a Mexican kid ate a churro over my forehead as the paramedics ripped open my shirt like a Hong Kong parasol . . . good times!” Here’s what I suggest: throw a few Lipitors into the piehole and start up the hibachi. Cornbread’s on me.
Oh, and don’t let some quack tell you there’s a good cholesterol and a bad one. They’re either both good or both bad. And what’s the difference? I wish I had a dollar for every vegetarian I met who outweighed me by seventy-five pounds. I can hear the heifers whining as I write this: “I only eat vegetables.” I’m thinking: so do elephants. You’re fat and you’re not fooling anyone. If you want to spin it your way, be honest and tell everyone you’re hiding refugees in your ass until the Germans blow through town. Or don’t. Either way, take it all with a grain of salt. Or a handful of popcorn and more salt. With some of that fake friggin’ movie theater butter that I love—so bad for you that you now have to put it on yourself. The theater will no longer be liable for administering something that lethal to the pulmonary system. But remember: free refills.
I’ve never met a happy vegetarian. Never. I’ve met content ones. I’ve never seen one who looks relatively healthy, either. They may be on the inside, but the outside is gasping for gristle. When I dine with one, I know they want a bite of my burger. I see it in their little beady protein-deficient eyes. They shun my steak and judge my chicken as their bony yellow mitt reaches for a snow pea with the salad fork ’cause the bigger fork is too heavy.
I’m frustrated with them because they are the kink in the food chain. I understand they love animals. So do I, and I promise not to eat my pets. Or the neighbor’s. Or even the horse I dropped nine hundred dollars on at Santa Anita. But I’m going to put the hurt on a cow. I understand they’re cute and didn’t do anything wrong and have the eyelashes of a stripper, but I’m sorry. They’re slow and stand by the highway for a reason. Easy access to market. They’re begging for it. And I prefer my steak crazy-rare. Take the cow, wipe its ass, and walk it through a warm room, and I’m happy. Then throw some béarnaise and crab on it. Pigs are cute when they’re under five pounds. After that, all bets are off because, as we know, bacon is the Lord’s candy.
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I feel it’s my duty as an American to help thin out the herd. But being that this American is of Jewish descent (though not enough of a Jew to avoid pork), I like to get a middleman to do the dirty work for me. In other words, if I had to kill the beast myself, I would probably become a vegetarian by proxy. That’s why I can’t hunt. But I can eat.
And please don’t be one of these douchey culinary spin doctors who are not animal activists per se but come up with convenient ways to explain how their lust for carnage is more humane. Like free-range chicken. “They’re treated better than other chickens.” Are you fuckin’ kidding me? They’re treated much worse. Mentally tortured, in fact. Why? Because they’re free-range. They’re made to believe they’re free because they’re “set free.” Able to roam. Freely. On the range. But it’s a terrible lie. At least the birds in their small cages understand their true fate. “Free-range” is Latin for “ten-minute head start” and nothing more. Corn-fed steer? Not even worth discussing.
I also recently learned about “sustainable salmon.” Apparently, it’s much more humane to eat than Chicken of the Sea or Alaskan king crab. Sustainable salmon are caught only after they have bred and are on their way downstream from their one-night stand. Salmon die after breeding, so the more humane fisherman figured, let’s kill them before they die and convince you stupid diners these guys were on their way to death anyway and you’ll feel less guilty. Why? Because you must believe there are clairvoyant fisherman out there who will be able to detect which fish screwed the night before. Are they wearing evening attire (the swim of shame) during the day on their way downstream? Smoking that afterglow ciggy? Avoiding all the texts on their phone the next day, etc.?
Quick question, since we’re stuck on food: if the crab in the salad isn’t real, what the fuck is it? Imitation crab, I get it, but that doesn’t answer the question. Who’s impersonating the crab? What species is it? It’s still a kind of seafood, I’m guessing, but what, exactly? When it’s imitation chicken, it’s usually tofu or some shit pounded together with grain, veggies, and I don’t know what else. But the fake crab must be a sea creature, too. Just tell us what it is! They’ve got us eating sea urchin now—I’m sure it ain’t worse than that. Is it hermit crab? I can take it, just come clean.
The fanatical vegans also avoid honey and leather (two things I can’t run out of in my bedroom). I didn’t know bees were smoke-stunned so honey makers could collect the honey—I really didn’t. Don’t care, either. One could argue that they kind of deserve it after stinging ninety million people yearly worldwide.
And there are those who won’t wear leather. They don’t seem to understand the cow is already dead because we needed the ribeyes, but whatever. I think they’re just cheap bastards who need an excuse to buy a vinyl belt. But of course someone figured out a way to cash in on the humane as well. Stella McCartney, Paul McCartney’s daughter—someone who really needs the dough—has her own designer line of vegan-synthetic accessories. Beautiful purses, not made of leather, starting at a couple grand apiece. They’re plastic. As in really cheap. Twice as much as leather. I don’t get it. I thought all you needed was love.
Bottom line: no one has any idea what’s good for us and what’s not. And by the time they figure it out, we’ll already be blown to bits by a third-world country that we supported for years, only to find out their donkeys were used as suicide livestock. Look it up, it happened. And if the secret can be found in nature, why is everyone waiting in line to get a prescription filled? Take the acai berry, for instance, or whatever that new tiny fruit is that they discovered in South America that is supposedly the new cure-all, the key to the fountain of youth. It’s the one Oprah eats before sending Stedman off to bed in the guesthouse so she and Gayle can play Rosa Parks and the Milkmaid. (I may have just blown my chances of getting into Oprah’s Book Club, but a man is allowed to dream.)
I once heard a scientist on the news say: “The monkeys in the rainforest have been eating these purple berries for years . . .” This just in: Jane Goodall called, and it’s time to get thine head out of thine ass. Or rent Gorillas in the Mist and play it backward. Those primates she’s referring to live to be thirty-five, on average. If the berry is really that great, maybe the monkeys would choose to eat it over the mites they pick off their buddy’s anus. Just because some wacko with access to a Bunsen burner and a PhD in horticulture says it’s the magical fruit of tomorrow, everyone’s tripping over themselves at Trader Joe’s to get a bottle. You ever see the folks who live in the rain forest? Not exactly the picture of health. The reality is, you can eat right your whole life and your colon can still end up more twisted than Courtney Love.
My fully committed Jimmie Walker impression at the Funk Bar Mitzvah, 1975. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
18
Embrace Your Stereotype
If you haven’t noticed, I’m not very politically correct, nor do I have a very useful filter. I call it like I see it, and I welcome the world to do the same (unless you’re Rush Limbaugh).
I feel that stereotypes exist because they are factual and authentic in nature at least 90 percent of the time. Stereotypes usuall
y come from traditions and habits that are innocently passed down or inherited, and for that reason alone, we need to learn to embrace them. They also come from jokes shared at cocktail parties or holiday suppers from one generation to the next, thus continuing the cycle in a more palatable manner. And since my humor falls on the more racial end of the spectrum, I appreciate this opportunity to help you learn to take yourself and others more lightly.
Is it racist to ask my black friend where I should go in New Orleans for soul food? Is it racist if my Armenian friend asks me whether I can recommend any Jewish friends selling diamonds downtown? Is it wrong if I ask my Irish buddy for a good place in Boston to drink beer and throw darts? Am I being stereotypical or racist? Or are these just questions posed to people who know what the fuck I’m talking about? Should I go up to an East Indian and ask him where the best bagels are in Montreal? Does that make everyone feel more comfortable? Will the bagel be great? I think not. But let him fix my computer and I’ll be one happy camper.
Stereotypes are purely mathematical statistics. There is a very good chance that most African-American men I come across will have a larger penis than I do. Not all. But most. As in 99 percent most. And because of the law of statistics, my memory of high school gym class, and my smallish, rabbi-ravaged member, I will not ask the ones I’m in doubt of to prove it. I wouldn’t even ask them to take out just enough to win. I will believe them blindly. Because to win, you must play the odds.
I have a dear black friend, who will remain nameless, who literally had to get recircumcised at age eighteen. Are you fucking listening? RECIRCUMSIZED. As in “My dick outgrew its skin,” people. Was his schlong reptilian? No, of course not. It was African-American. And God bless him, because I can’t imagine having that procedure done at eighteen years of age. That said, I would go through the agony if my outcome were equivalent to what he started with. This particular friend is also an amazing swimmer, so there goes my stereotypical theory on that. In my defense, I believe he uses his massive wang as a body snorkel in order to help his amphibian tendencies. Again, just a guess.
Speaking of wangs, Asians are smart. If I needed a student to cheat off of in school, I tended to sit next to Lily Fujikawa instead of Domino Lopez. Doesn’t mean Domino isn’t as bright as Lily, but being a born gambler, I gotta go with Fujikawa in chemistry class. Don’t get me wrong, Lopez gets the nod if I can’t figure out why my car won’t start. Ironically, neither does his, and what’s up with that? They’re often wonderful mechanics, but their shit never runs. You would think the one thing they’ve learned from the border police is: “I need a ride that works.”
Is it racist to say that you never see an Asian guy in porn, or is it a bloody fact? Asians are also notoriously terrible drivers. There’s never been one to win the Indy 500. That’s just the way it is, and my good friend Wayne, who is Chinese, explained it to me brilliantly. He put us both in front of a mirror and said: “Look at my eyes. They’re obviously a different shape than yours in a way that would decrease my peripheral vision. Now try squinting your eyes to the point where you can still see, but in line with the size of my eye opening. See? Pretty shitty.” So next time you’re cut off by an Asian on the highway, take this into consideration before using a slur that’s perhaps racist yet accurate. A stereotypical, factual slur may suffice, such as: “That fuckin’ high achiever just cut me off! Friggin’ 4.0 nuclear motherfucker.” See the difference? Racist? Not really. Insightful and resourceful? Absolutely.
“Know your customer” is what my father the salesman always taught me.
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White Men Can’t Jump was the title of a very successful movie. It’s also a known fact, in general. If I made a movie called Black Guys Can Really Jump, does that make me a racist? What if the movie depicted only fat white people looking straight up into the sky, wearing LeBron jerseys and eating hot dogs, like they usually do? Does that mean “I hate whitey”? My point is, white men can indeed jump. Especially when being scared by a black man. This has happened to me on several occasions. Mostly in Miami. (Wait, those were Cubans.)
If I say 70 percent of professional football players are black, is that a racial remark? Or simply a fact—that many African-American people are gifted in sports. And music. And in being able to wear the color magenta. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is a very worthy holiday for recognizing one of the most courageous and insightful Americans who ever lived. But wouldn’t it make more sense to have a day when jobs are given to African-Americans instead of something they don’t need, like another day off?
My people, the Jews, are known for their frugality or cheapness. Not all, but in general. Oh, and their big noses. I happen to spend money like I’m allergic to it, and my nose has been compared to Scarlett Johansson’s, but that’s me. I’m sure there are many Jews who are generous. But not in general. I know three. Some historians say it may have something to do with the atrocities that my people had to endure when they were robbed of their belongings as well as their lives. Did this become an unfortunate stereotype rooted in brutal experiences and fact? Or is it that my people are smart enough to know you don’t tip on tax and liquor?
Speaking of liquor, the Native Americans shared in a similar plight, but probably not as many because they were able to get away on horseback. We didn’t have that advantage. If you see a Jew with a horse, he just won the Kentucky Derby. Plus, the Indians now have their own casinos, are allowed to hit on soft seventeen, and don’t have to pay taxes, so I’m assuming they’ll stop bitching. My people, not so much.
The Asians were treated like shit for a long time as well, but we’ve all gotten used to paying eleven dollars for a bowl of rice, so now we’re even. But I’m not living down the Pearl Harbor bullshit because I love Hawaii.
How about the poor Italians who found it difficult to purchase weapons upon leaving Ellis Island and now find themselves controlling some of the best hookers and drugs in the free world? This is the land of opportunity, and we can’t lose our sense of humor while dissecting it.
There’s a reason why my grandfather changed his name from Cohen to Colton upon coming to the United States from Poland. The Polack jokes were tough enough, so maybe the Jew thing would go under the radar? Hardly. His nose was enormous.
Most importantly, let’s learn from our stereotypes. They are chock-full of wonderful information.
Attention, my African-American brothers: enough with the giant gold necklaces. Less is more, but remember your history. You shouldn’t be wearing chains, right? Or anything cotton. But stick with the Confederate flag toilet paper.
Attention, my Asian brothers and sisters, one word: orthodontia. You gotta trust me and keep the teeth straight. Way too much other shit for us to pick on. And when you can, try to appear surprised instead of sleepy—fight the feeling and stay in the moment. Oh, and try to laugh once a month. Helps move around bok choy in tummy.
Attention, White Trash: don’t even worry about orthodontia; just having any teeth at all would help. More than four would be delightful. And take down your fuckin’ Christmas lights before Memorial Day. And get over the breakup of the Little River Band. If you must chew tobacco, please do it only while wearing your sheeted hood, because no one wants to see that. I feel your angst to compete at the flea markets, but this just in: no one wants your old shit.
Attention, Latinos, Mexican-Americans, and All-Around Help: please get someone to read this to you. Stop parking on your lawn. There’s a driveway two feet away. The grass hates it, not to mention the pink plastic flamingo. Also, we don’t want to buy your fruit next to the freeway. It’s too tricky for a thousand reasons. We have the same shit at the market. Oranges aren’t that hard to get. You’re really not cutting out the middleman, you’re just stealing from the middleman by trying to sell it directly to whitey. Instead of trying to sell us shit, how about returning what you stole? And don’t take offense to this, please. If I didn’t believe in you, I wouldn’t leave my children in your care.
Atten
tion, fellow Jews: it’s just food. Slow the fuck down. The sandwich was originally designed to fit inside your mouth. Save some for the next guy. And not everything has to be a fuckin’ bargain. Milk is a certain price per gallon, period. Put away the Magic Marker and quit trying to mess with the expiration date. And quit bitching about being forced to build the pyramids. You owned the land, and who knows better than us: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Attention, Irish folk: attempt to read this only after your hangover subsides. And after you’re done apologizing to your woman for the shiner you gave her last night that you don’t remember. Oh, and call your brother, the cop or fireman. If your cholesterol isn’t over 315, you’re not actually Irish, so demand a DNA test from Pappy.
Attention, Italians: you’re not all in the Mob, so stop acting like it. And quit grabbing your crotch. The blacks have a reason, you don’t. And don’t keep taking your laundry to your mama’s so you can leave with her leftovers. The cord is so long, you could hang five snitches from it. Cut her loose.
I could go on, but I can only read so much hate mail. Remember, we’re all perfectly flawed and ethnically diverse—but I digress. A racial joke beats lobbing a bomb over a border any day. Oh, and the Arabs? This book ain’t big enough. Who ordered goat?
19
Mental Wellness
People rarely change. Especially since the banning of electric shock treatment. I realize in an earlier chapter, I mentioned that people do change. But at our core, we are who we are. Hence, the Three Strikes Law. If doing fifteen years in the big house by day and moonlighting as someone’s bitch at night doesn’t set you straight, I have a feeling that Dr. Phil lecturing you on anger management in that hayseedy Southern-redneck drawl ain’t gonna do it, either. Our tastes and habits change, especially considering we’re the most fickle species on the planet. But real self-change is a rarity.