by Brad Garrett
What we do know is: few people change, most repeat, and all lie. So what’s the point?
The experts don’t have the answers; they have hype combined with charisma, financial backing, and brilliant salesmanship. Even Dr. Oz lied to me and the world about shedding ten pounds in five days. Is there no shame?
Take my fellow giant, the charming Tony Robbins, with that huge smile like the entrance to a fun house. I learned a long time ago that when someone smiles continually, he either has just let one rip or someone’s about to take a slug. I’m sure he means well, but I’m not ready to burn a three-day weekend learning about “brotherhood,” followed by a walk on hot coals. You want to learn something useful? Have the life coach teach you how to walk on eggshells so you can deal with your old lady after you return from that three-day bachelor party in Cabo. “I did it! I walked on coals! I made it through the rain!” Yeah, so did Manilow, and now he’s banished to life in Vegas.
The key is to realize that at the end of the day, you’re most likely very fucked up. If you think I’m not talking about you, you’re fucked up beyond repair with more baggage than a Carnival cruise. You have to stop bullshitting yourself now. Quit the charade and stop trying to be someone you’re not. Save time and money and burn those skinny jeans.
I had to break down last year and buy the old-man thunder-bags also known as “dad jeans.” The unfortunate fact revolving around my high taste in clothes is that I’m usually limited to the shit they sell at those Big ’N’ Tall bull-tiques, such as the store I affectionately refer to as Big Fat Fucks. For years I’ve tried to convince those storeowners not to put their crappy threads in the damn windows. It helps no one whatsoever. Do we really need to see a size 68XXXL beige suit behind glass while at a stoplight? You have to make a right turn to see how they finished the shoulders. Does a 450-pound man need a sleeveless sweater-vest? Or does he need a shirt just small enough that it keeps him from raising a fork to his mouth? How about a belt that automatically closes another inch every sixty days, whether you want it to or not? And shouldn’t pastel colors be outlawed for anyone over six-four? Or should we really walk around looking like giant scoops of sherbet? Why not a helmet built into a nice fez or fedora for when we hit our head every time we’re sneaking out of Home Town Buffet? How about a pair of size-fifteen shoes that don’t look like they should come with a pair of bolts for your neck? And why do they make shoes that large in white? “Look at me! I’m a giant nurse!” What the hell? Put this shit in front of a mirror before slapping it on the backs of random pituitary cases.
Last time I was at Big Fat Fucks, they asked if I would sign a picture that they could put on their Wall of Fame, alongside the likes of Pavarotti, Orson Welles, John Candy, the actor who played Jaws in that Bond film, Christopher Hewett (Mr. Belvedere), and others whose hearts had imploded while they attempted to tie their shoes. I told them I was only a burrito away from deserving that induction, and they would receive a photo within the next hundred pounds.
If you have been lucky enough to dodge the men in the white coats, your only saving grace is to let those around you, especially potential dates/business partners/prosecutors, know how fucked up you really are. I feel that telling it like it is becomes a turn-on for most of the opposite (or same) sex because few do it. And we all love rooting for the underdog, so why not make that dog you?
Your best shot in life is finding someone as messed up as you are or worse. Yes, water seeks its own level, but so does vomit. Lower the bar and get laid more. And forget the notion that opposites attract. They distract. Learn from the jungle. You may see a monkey in a tree looking down at a tiger, thinking, I’d like to fuck me that cat, but he doesn’t act on it. Even the stupid monkey knows that if he plays it out with kitty, he’s gonna end up one dickless chimp. That’s why you never see a warthog hanging with a dingo unless Disney’s behind it.
When it comes to relationships, my father always told me: “The best relationships are a blending of neuroses.” Truly a marvelous evaluation of the human condition. Though, as I mentioned earlier, he was married six times, which he said proved his point. He wasn’t much of a blender, but he owned five of them—all wedding gifts.
People who are always looking to better themselves are generally very annoying. Everyone looking on knows these people have no chance of changing because they’re incapable of it. If you worked on bettering yourself twenty-four hours a day, the difference would be negligible at best, while you appeared desperate to the world. Fucked-up people need to come out. Transparency as a society is our only hope.
“Does this dog make my penis look bigger?” (Paul Mobley)
20
Bad Decisions With Good Intentions
Bad decision #1: trying desperately to hold on to your youth.
If you’re in your mid-forties or older, you’re not allowed to get a tattoo or an earring if you don’t already have one, understand? I’m speaking mostly to the men. It’s one thing to yearn for your youth, but I can’t allow you to look like a douche while you hold on to it with a death grip. If you have tats and earrings, you better be a recognizable rock star or belong to a motorcycle gang. It’s no different than seeing a sixty-year-old broad in Daisy Dukes and a tube top. She’s the only one who enjoys that, not us. It’s desperate and unattractive. (Note: I’m writing this wearing my dad jeans, a T-shirt with a duck on it, and warm slippers—join me here on the older side of denial and don’t look back. Or do what you want and come off as a sad, insecure imbecile who’s praying that Blue Oyster Cult reunites.)
Also, attention, any asshole over twenty-three who rides a skateboard: you’re affecting our reputation as a species that walks upright. Get a fuckin’ clue. If your skateboard loses a ball bearing, what’s your option? Your little sister’s Big Wheel? Unless you’re cruising for kids, buy a friggin’ car, for crying out loud. You can get one on Craigslist for two grand (the same place you bought that futon for your room in Mom’s basement). If you think you look cool, buy a full-length mirror and reevaluate . . . pre–bong hit. Grow up. It’s more fun to be a big kid. If you’re worried about looking cool, how about getting a job? That’s kind of cool.
Not to sound like an old fart, but I also really need you younger kids to think long and hard about getting tattoos. They’re forever. When you’re in your twenties, you have no idea what forever is, but think twice before getting that red hibiscus flower inked over your taint or the Tasmanian Devil forty-five degrees south of your left nut. And if you think they were painful to apply, the removal is ten times more painful. I don’t know this firsthand, but I have friends who are ex-cons, and we all know they don’t lie.
To the kids who get piercings in their noses, tongues, lips, eyelids, labia, not to mention the bread plates stretched into the lobes of rebellious teens from the Valley who think they have a spiritual connection to the people of Uganda, I say: “Next!” Please, save something for Halloween. Yes, I believe in self-expression and thinking differently and with authenticity, but some of this shit becomes an addiction and a form of self-mutilation. If you have a bone in your nose, saucers in your ears, and a tribal tattoo on your neck, you better have some great dance moves around a huge kettle as you prepare to eat a missionary. If not, stay the hell out of the show, light-skinned Makumba.
* * *
Most of this book is aimed at people of my generation, but for any youngsters reading, please set your feelings of invincibility aside for a moment. We age, and that means YOU WILL, TOO. So ladies, know that the cute little scorpion tattoo you have on your perky titty is sexy today, but when you’re seventy, it’s gonna look like a lobster hanging by a claw. And the last thing the kiddies need to see at Thanksgiving is Grandma’s lobster dipping into the yams. Nor do they need the pressure of getting your shiny nipple ring away from the kitten. It’s the holidays, for Christ’s sake.
Now I need to address the tattoo the ladies get right above their bunghole, also known as the “tramp stamp.” First of all, being right above
your crack, it’s close to impossible to see without a mirror, correct? Unless you’re an owl with 180-degree head-turning capability. I knew one girl who had a dragonfly and a butterfly right above the Chattahoochee Canal. Guess what? Not that attractive. I don’t know about you, but I’m not big on seeing flies of any kind emanating from that area. Dated a “dancer” for two hours who had a skull and crossbones in the same place. Lovely. Nothing better than feeling like you’re fucking a pirate or a poisonous substance.
Here’s a thought: get a tattoo for us guys to enjoy, since we’re the ones back there trying to get you back to the barn. Something motivating like, I don’t know, a cheeseburger, or maybe a tattoo of your sister who’d we really rather bang. Or maybe I’m just jealous because I don’t have the cojones to endure the pain of getting some ink on my rumply ass or lack-of-bicep.
Oh, and a note to my African-American brothers and sisters: most tattoos are a waste of your time. They just end up putting extra pressure on your friends to try and figure out what it is you’ve got on there. How can I say this without being offensive? Because as we know, that’s not my thing . . . but it’s hard as shit to see. That’s why Mike Tyson said, “Fuck it. It goes on my face.” Save us all the trouble or use Wite-Out.
* * *
We must face the truth and move along, people. And not on a skateboard, wearing an earring, and sporting a snake tattoo. Because it’s been done way too much, and you’re better than that. And people are pointing and laughing, you just can’t hear it over the carny music that continually plays inside your head. Be yourself. Shit, maybe that is being yourself . . . if so, I don’t know what to tell ya.
Just use your common sense, okay? Ask yourself, “Will this make me look like a douche?” “Am I too old for this bracelet?” “Should I shave the beatnik patch of hair off my four chins?” “Should my car be red if I’m not Persian?” “Is it better to have my hammertoe fixed before buying new sandals?” “Is it okay for my necklace to have a Jewish star and a crucifix?” “If I text a picture of my penis, can I keep my shirt on?” Only you know these answers, and I trust you.
* * *
Bad decision #2: filling the void with too many pets.
One of the nice things about growing older is you can have as many pets as you want. But as with cookies, your parents were right: there is such a thing as too many. Being deprived of this privilege as a kid, I more than made up for it in my adult life. What I love the most about dogs is that, unlike people, they are exactly the same every day. As predictable as a sunrise or a cold sore on picture day. Also, unlike people, they shit, piss, and puke on various items that happen to be nowhere near a toilet. Not to mention the incessant licking of their baggage in front of dinner guests. So why the hell did I acquire four?
My herd is comprised of the following: I have a blue-tick coonhound named Betty who was a rescue and hiding among a group of various Labradors up for adoption. My son, Max, picked her out of the doggy lineup. Next is Chester, the West Highland terrier. He was a gift from the ex-wife in exchange for the house, the cars, my dignity, etc. Then I have Lucy, a twelve-year-old yellow Lab who is showing signs of old age and suffering from dog-mentia: barking continually at imaginary objects. Last is Bernice, a Bernese mountain dog, a breed known for pulling small wagons in the Alps. Bernice is practically maimed from a rare neurological disorder, thanks to the puppy mills that sell to high-end pet stores, so there will be no pulling of anything. She wears a harness with a handle so we can lift her up when she needs help. My daughter, Hope, calls her “Lunchbox.” She’s not in pain, just a big pain in the ass who has to be lifted and pushed to go anywhere. Just imagine Larry Flynt if he were a dog.
The thing that gets me most crazy about Bernice is that she eats her own shit. I’m a huge animal lover, but when I witness this, I consider burning my PETA hoodie and ordering veal. I’ve tried for years to convince her to stop. Yelling, offering cookies and bones instead of her feces, pleading with embarrassment when she displays this habit while company is over, all to no avail. I took her to my trusted veterinarian, Dr. Lisa, and said, “Bernice eats her own shit, and I’m losing friends. What can you do?”
The good doctor replied, “Brad, this is very common in the canine world. What you need to do is put something on the shit to make it taste bad.” (Please reread the last line and let me know if you blanked like I did.)
“What? Put something on the shit to make it taste bad?” I retorted. “What on God’s green earth can I possibly put on shit to make it taste worse than shit? You’re losing me, Doc.”
She said, “Do you have any Tabasco around the house?”
“I’m sure I do somewhere. I mean, I’m no Emeril, but I can tell you I don’t think it tastes worse than shit.”
“Listen to me. When the dog is done pooping, immediately take the Tabasco and pour some right onto the crap. She won’t eat it again after that. Guaranteed.” Now, there’s the paranoid part of me that thinks I’m being punk’d and this is going to end up on a blooper show. But she is a doctor, so she must know what she’s talking about.
Cut to six-thirty the next morning. I was standing in my robe in the backyard, sprinkling my dog’s steaming pile of shit with a newly opened bottle of Tabasco. I was staring at Bernice like “Don’t you make a liar out of Dr. Lisa, you hear me?”
And the dog was looking at me wagging her tail and, I swear, actually smiling as if to say, “You are the best owner ever! I can’t believe you’re seasoning my shit! No wonder we’re best friends! Can’t wait to tell the cat.”
In the end, the dog ate her crap faster than she’s ever eaten anything in her life. I’m not proud to say I wanted to hit her with the Tabasco bottle, but it’s rather tiny and wouldn’t do much to a hundred-pound dog who’s already crippled. Plus, the neighbor was watching.
When I shared this fiasco with my buddies during a poker game, one of them piped up and said, “Don’t use Tabasco, man. You’re supposed to use pineapple. Everyone knows it’s pineapple.”
“Do they, Leonard?” I asked. “Pineapple will keep them from eating shit, you say?”
“Yep. Worked with my Yorkie. And they say dogs that eat shit are vitamin-deficient.”
“And what better place to find nutrients and vitamins than in one’s shit, right?” I mumbled.
“Try the pineapple, Brad. Thank me later.”
I never did try putting pineapple on the dog shit. I figured if the hot sauce didn’t blow off the deal, a sweet Hawaiian fruit wouldn’t turn the bitch around, either. And I wasn’t willing to risk it. Because I love pineapple. And I want to keep it that way.
I just have to close with one last note about the so-called designer dog breeds that have hit the market over the last several years, each costing literally thousands of dollars. The Puggle, Labradoodle, Yorkalier, and so on. Guess what? They’re just mutts, people. The neighbor’s German shepherd getting out and having its way with the Jones’s bulldog does not make it okay to sell the offspring, known as Gerbulls, for twenty-five hundred each. If a poodle is fucked by a Rottweiler, I think a discount and possibly a lawsuit are in order, not an opportunity to drop three grand on a species that wasn’t meant to evolve. Why are the mutts at the pound free and the others cost a fortune? And why stop here? Let’s really bastardize the genetic relevance of what’s acceptable. How about hooking up a harbor seal with a Chihuahua while we’re at it? Imagine the bark on that pup. Plus, they can swim back to the border where they originated.
* * *
Bad decision #3: overcompensating with wheels.
The classic bad midlife-crisis decision inevitably involves a vehicle. I firmly believe that expensive sports cars would not cost nearly as much if guys didn’t buy them to get laid. Most guys in a Ferrari have no right to be in one. Including me. Been there, done that.
I remember a few years back, when my midlife crisis was in full swing, I decided to drop close to three hundred grand on a gorgeous yellow Ferrari 360 Modena. I knew nothing about t
hat car, but I knew my penis would be thrilled with the purchase. I showed up with my cousin Darren at a luxury automobile agency in Beverly Hills and inquired about a test drive. Most guys would get laughed out of the showroom, but television is a powerful thing, and the sales manager proceeded to move the 360 from the center of the showroom to Wilshire Boulevard. It took me three attempts to physically get into the car. Like all sports cars, it wasn’t designed for a giant. The car salesman, being a whore like they always are, convinced me he knew a guy in the Valley who could put the seat rails back and get me another two inches of legroom. “We did that for Shaq,” gloated the greaseball.
The extra legroom wouldn’t have mattered, since I hit my melon hard trying to enter the cockpit. As I grabbed my left leg to pull it into the car, my shoe popped off and got stuck under the clutch. I proceeded to take the other shoe off. The manager photocopied my license, gave me a three-minute tutorial, then Darren and I were off. It was a manual transmission, which I always wanted in a sports car because that was “real driving.” The problem was, my last stick-shift experience was in my first car, back in 1976, and that was my dad’s ’72 Pinto Runabout. This Ferrari transmission was just not as forgiving.
As I hit 75 mph in first gear, I noticed a lot of white smoke accompanying my jerky shifting. This particular model had the glass covering the engine compartment directly behind the driver seat. Now the smell of smoke was oddly creeping into our area. What a piece of crap, I thought. What new car smokes like this? Afraid of blowing up, we raced back to the dealership, where we were met by a very irate sales manager and an Italian-speaking Ferrari technician. The interior was full of smoke. Seems I had burned out the clutch. “That’s impossible!” said I, the idiot. I was looking at a nine-thousand-dollar repair. In my dire compulsivity, I convinced him to write off the repair if I bought the car in an automatic model. He, of course, obliged.