Why We Suck

by DR. DENIS LEARY

  What would you guess—honestly speaking—the girls of the Kardashian family have in store for them? The oldest one has spread her legs and fondled her breasts in Playboy and one of them has gone down on and banged a rapper on a sex video that SHE HERSELF made available for sale and now their cosmetically enhanced biological mom and their ex-javelin throwing stepdad—who apparently went to the same plastic surgeon who fucked up Kenny Rogers’s face—have the older girls and two sweet 1 young innocent little ones tramping around in a reality show called Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

  On one episode, mom and the three oldest girls agree to do a beachside photo shoot for a bikini line being sold by Girls Gone Wild impresario Joe Francis—who calls to make the offer from a jail where he is serving time for giving alcohol to underage girls and getting them to expose themselves and perform sex acts on each other while he videotaped them. Mom sells the girls on the bikini shoot by saying Joe Francis is guaranteeing the ad will be on a giant billboard on the Sunset Strip in the very city where the Kardashian family lives! Yay!

  Here’s another headline—the mother has a stripper pole in her bedroom and lets the girls practice their moves on it! Double yay!

  I mean—this is so insane in terms of parents without brains, borders or any INKLING of common sense that all I can say is it’s a dead certain lock the daughters will eventually never talk to their asshole mother again after a certain point—either because they simply have come to realize the entire planet finds them to be a joke or because they finally impaled mom and Bruce against a master bedroom wall with one of his old Olympic javelins.

  It’s five girls total so I’m gonna go out on a limb and offer up this fantasy Mix ’n’ Match questionnaire—pretend it’s eight years from now and try to peg the drug they will ultimately become addicted to and the occupation they are qualified to perform with the Kardashian daughter’s name:

  The annals of kids unleashed into the monster Hollywood machine who came out clean and still working on the adult side has two names on its list: Jodie Foster and Ron Howard. Case closed.

  You wanna argue about it? Two words: Dana Plato. Two more words: Brad Renfro.

  River Phoenix, Judy Garland, Mason Reese, Gary Coleman—I could go on forever.

  Drew Barrymore.

  I know she’s clean now. But think about it—you only know her to be okay over maybe the last couple years or so, correct?

  Right. Well guess what?

  She just turned thirty-three.

  Which means she’s been high or coming down from a high or seeking another form of a high most of the time since right after E.T. came out.

  Which was in 1982.

  And she probably STILL doesn’t talk to her mother.

  Jennifer Aniston—as far as we know—fine. But still—as far as we know—doesn’t talk to her mother.

  Brooke Shields. Fine. A mother in her own right. But spent a big chunk of her lifetime not talking to her mother.

  Enough with the girls? Danny Bonaduce.

  Attempted suicide while shooting a reality show called Breaking Bonaduce . He would’ve actually killed himself until he came to realize the ratings would probably spike through the roof.

  More boys? The OTHER black kid from the Gary Coleman sitcom. See? Don’t even really know his name, do you? Gary Coleman’s older brother? Come on. Think.

  He was Willis. As in What You Talkin’ ’Bout, Willis. Think for another second. His real name?

  Ready?

  Todd Bridges.

  In Todd’s IMDb biography, one section about the beginning of his career reads:

  “It all began one day while watching Redd Foxx display his comic genius on the hit sitcom Sanford and Son. Todd, then six . . . exclaimed excitedly to his mother ‘I want to do that!’ ”

  Which is when his mother should have said “No problem, sweetie pie—once you turn forty-goddam-seven! Now turn that shit off and go do your homework!”

  Instead she took him out of school and started carting him around to commercial auditions and his dad became his agent and they both became his pimps and blah blubbedy blah blah big hit show magazine covers Tiger Beat “omigod we love you!” groupies early promiscuity pot booze blow smack no hit show hates himself and his parents “omigod you look like shit! Look, it’s that guy who used to be on that show!” shoplifting guntoting crackwhacking armed assault drink drive rehab.

  Want some more boys?

  The entire male side of the Culkin clan.

  Macaulay and Rory and their failed actor dad/manager/pimp/money-whore Kit.

  Kit ran Macaulay’s career into the ground in the brief span of three and a half years—from the breakthrough hit Home Alone in 1990 to the box-office triple flip-flop of Richie Rich, The Pagemaster and The Good Son, which all came out and died one after the other during 1993 and 1994.

  His father had fought and won numerous battles over his kid’s fees, his own fees and “creative control” over the films themselves. If ya wanna real glimpse into this guy’s ego Google his website—it’s got a giant list of his acting credits and his books and blah bitcheddyass blah.

  After his career sputtered out Macaulay Culkin took legal action in order to be officially separated from his parents and was declared an emancipated minor. The nonfamous kids in the family—needing food and shelter, of course, and with no money to call their own—didn’t.

  Ya gettin’ my drift here?

  If I had taken my parents to court and asked for a legal separation from them and won? I’d have had to ask the judge to put me and my money in jail for as long as my parents remained alive because my father would have kicked my ass up and down the streets of Main South Worcester, Mass., shouting “I’ll emancipate your skinny minor ass right now!”

  In the case of Hannah Montana, whose real name is—let’s face it, Hannah Montana at this point—we have a kid hellbound for a five-star career crash PLUS they have discovered that Hannah Montana backpacks made in China with pictures of Hannah painted on the back have lead paint in them and so if kids ingest the paint—they can die. First off—if kids are licking their Hannah Montana backpacks—let ’em go. Give ’em up. It’s like a test run for future morons. Secondly—is there any way we can get Hannah to lick a few?

  Lindsay Lohan’s mom should not be repimping a second daughter while cell phone pix of her first daughter blowing some coke-addled ex-boyfriend are still circulating on the Internet. Lindsay’s response? She doesn’t remember. Which is evidence enough to signify why—whatever substances she was under the influence of at the time of the bj—she went into rehab. Could this happen to anyone’s daughter? Sure. But unless she’s famous the pictures don’t get to travel all the way around the world. Lindsay’s mom should be locked up WITH the dad, who now claims the reality show about second daughter/cokehead-in-waiting Ali was HIS idea and Mom even stole the title from HIM. Plus—HE was supposed to co-star. Come to think of it—let’s make this a pay-per-view event—Lindsay’s Ma vs. Lindsay’s Pa in an alcohol and ego-fueled full-on cage match. Call it “Whose Fault Is It, Really?” And let the two vapid, empty, chemically enthralled siblings take the money and run.

  Every other kid actor whose name you can think of and almost all of the ones whose names are escaping you can be qualified by one of three words: dead, addicted or well on their way to both. Okay—so it was nine words. Shoot me. Better yet—shoot their parents.

  I’ve met a few of these people—Bonaduce seems like a nice guy and has a terrific sense of humor but he went through a real rough patch—for thirty-five fucking years. That’s what fame does to a kid. He was paid to be the wiseass on The Partridge Family and the entire world was laughing with him not at him and then BAM! the show gets canceled, his balls drop, his voice gets deeper, his cock starts talking to him and he’s not famous anymore.

  The ball and cock part happen to every teenaged boy but imagine what it’s like when you’re not making money for your parents anymore.

  Everyone loves the kid who l
ooks to be eleven but acts as if he or she is twenty-eight years old. Yay—Dakota Fanning! She’s oh so cute and sooo precocious!

  Yeah—okay. Reserve the rehab spot right now. Book her next nine movies AND a three-month stay at Promises in Malibu during the exact same phone call. She’s eleven and a half but can drink like she’s thirty. Delete her mom’s number from her cell phone. Better yet—delete her mom.

  Here’s the right answer when your child points at the TV and says “I wanna do that!”:

  NO.

  N - O.

  CAPITAL FUCKING N. CAPITAL FUCKING O.

  Forget what you want or what you didn’t get to do or how much money you can manufacture or all your best-laid plans or your dreams of stardom or wanting your kid to like you.

  No no no no no.

  Embrace the power of no in all its iterations:

  No Nada Nein Nyet Fuck no Shit no No fucking way Not now Not ever Never ever What did I just motherfucking say? Not as long as I live Not over my dead body Not even if hell freezes over.

  These are the acceptable answers.

  Here is a small sampling of the questions that get an automatic, loud, fast, no negotiation involved no:

  Can I be on TV?

  Can I get a tattoo?

  Can I get my hair cut like Lindsay Lohan?

  Can I get pierced ears?

  Can I watch The Sopranos?

  Can I have a sweet sixteen party like they have on MTV when I grow up?

  Can I be home-schooled?

  That’s right—DO NOT HOME SCHOOL YOUR KID!

  I don’t wanna hear your justifications but I’m sure they include many or all of these unique reasons: my kid is special / my kid doesn’t get along with all the other kids / my kid is smarter blah blubbedy blip.

  Your kid needs to be in a building full of other kids so that your kid can figure out how to socialize and play and get beaten up by bullies.

  Staying home with mommy full-time is like living in a bubble where there is no crime no tension no sex no fear no trouble no pressure.

  Not being on TV or the movies means being a real kid.

  Being a real kid means long stretches of homework interspersed with trying to avoid the mean kids or become one of them.

  Your job is to drop your kid off into the belly of the beast every morning and then pick them up and take them home and fill ’em up with food and some advice before starting the whole process all over again the very next day.

  No home-schooling, no protective bubble, no red carpet.

  Will your kid hate you? Yup. And here’s a little headline for you: your kids are SUPPOSED to hate you. YOUR KID IS YOUR KID—NOT YOUR GODDAM BEST FRIEND.

  Believe me—they may hate your fat ass now but they will thank you immensely later on.

  Seven million kids have been thrown into the star-making machine and how many made it out?

  Two.

  Jodie Foster and Ron Howard.

  Once known as the twelve-year-old hooker from Taxi Driver and fucking Opie.

  Now known as two bright and shiny Oscar winners.

  That’s it. Everyone else died or got arrested or sits in jail or found Jesus or is smoking a big fat bowl of crack while you are reading this and STILL vowing revenge on their filthy, money-grubbing parents.

  They don’t talk to their moms anymore because they blame their mothers for not protecting them. For not making them stay in the nest. If a bird mom lets a baby bird leave the nest before it’s old enough, it crashes to the ground and gets eaten by:

  a. A cat.

  b. A snake.

  c. One of the Culkin kids who skipped the court case bullshit, emancipated himself and now just lives in the woods on his own.

  Have you noticed a dearth of sparrows in and around Manhattan ever since Macaulay divorced his dad?

  Coincidence? Me thinks not.

  CHAPTER 8

  NUNS, TITS, BOOZE AND MY MOM

  Bird moms keep the babies in the nest until their biological clocks tell them it’s time to kick them out and let them fly away and start their own families.

  That’s what Dr. Full should be saying on his show—instead of trying to sneak Britney Spears out of the nuthouse and onto his cheap studio sofa in order to spike his ratings. Where did parents who play with a full deck of cards disappear to?

  I called my mom just now—literally, I hung up the phone and started typing the words you are currently reading—because I have some expertise in the area of kids and showbiz. My career began when I was eleven. A nun grabbed me in the hallway at school and told me to show up that night at an audition for the high school musical—there were twelve grades in my school—St. Peter’s. So I went home and asked my mom and walked back that night and did a little singing and dancing and some acting as well and the nun said thank you and I headed home. I got the part and it sparked an interest in being onstage or in front of the camera that never went away.

  I called my mom to ask if there was ever any discussion about me going into showbiz at that point—real showbiz—and giving up school etcetera etcetera. This is what my mom said:

  Hello.

  Ma?

  Denis?

  Hey.

  How are you?

  Good. Listen, Ma—

  Sheila Turbody has bad cancer of the face—it spread all down her neck and into her throat and into her brain.

  What?

  The doctors say she should never have been spending all that time out in the sun without a hat or sunscreen or anything at all plus she was smoking and—

  Ma—who is Sheila Turbody?

  You know who Sheila Turbody is. She lived around the corner all her kids got straight A’s? Remember?

  Oh. Those kids—yeah. Nobody liked them.

  Listen, Brian—you had better stop that smoking and wear some sunscreen and—

  It’s Denis, Ma.

  Don’t change the subject.

  Ma—listen. When I was doing that first play I did—Mame—when I was like eleven or whatever I was—was there ever any talk—did I come and ask you guys maybe about leaving school and trying to make it as a kid in showbiz or any—

  Good God no, Denis—are you crazy? You were good but you weren’t THAT good. We were happy to have you in the show and we went to see them and all but then it was right back to school. Show business. Where did you get that idea?

  I was just wondering if I ever asked you if I could leave school and become—

  Oh no no no—we would never’ve put up with that kinda—no one around here knew anything about that. Why?

  I’m just writing this section of my book and—

  What book?

  I’m writing a book about—

  You better watch out what you put in that book.

  Okay—I gotta go.

  (warning-type tone) Denis.

  (mocking her warning-type tone) Ma.

  What kind of book?

  It’s funny.

  Are they paying you for it?

  Yes.

  What happened to the TV shows and the movies?

  I’m still doing those, I’m just—

  None of us thought you’d be doing all this kinda stuff—we didn’t know what was going to happen to you. All the cadology and the blighyarding—the vicious blighyarding you would get up to.

  Ma—what does blighyarding mean?

  You know exactly what it means.

  Well—if it is what I think it is—they pay me to do it now.

  Well—that’s what’s great about this country. What’s the name of the book?

  Never mind.

  (with great gravity) Denis.

  (mocking her gravity) Ma.

  Don’t put me in that book.