Rubber Balls and Liquor

  I said, “Gee, thank you, Len. I knew there was a reason I liked hanging out with you. Now, if you don’t mind, say some more nice things about me.”

  He said, “No, really. I’m serious. You know what you should do? You should make a film of you just telling this one joke, over and over.”

  And I thought, Yeah, there’s a great idea for a movie.

  Once again, what the hell did I know?

  However, on this night in September 2001, most of the audience at the New York Hilton had never heard the joke. Not only that—they hadn’t heard of the joke. I hadn’t planned on telling it, but I’d dug such an impossible hole for myself with my Empire State Building joke that it was the only thing I could think of to pull myself out. It was like a crutch, that joke, and I guess I thought I could just beat people over the head with it. I didn’t even think about it on any kind of conscious level. I just went for it. The other comics must have known where I was going with this, but everyone else was in for a big surprise.

  For those readers who’ve still never heard the joke, I’m afraid I can’t do it justice on the page. Why? Well, the joke itself is nothing much. Really, it’s mostly a nonjoke. That’s one of the reasons it’s become such a staple, and a favorite of comedians, because it’s the ultimate antijoke. It’s all in the setup, in the telling. The idea is, if you can tell this joke well, you can tell any joke well. If you can amuse your friends, jaded comedy professionals, then you can amuse just about anybody.

  The premise of the joke is basic: an apparently clean-cut family visits a talent agent, hoping to break into show business. The talent agent asks about the nature of the family’s act, so the family proceeds to demonstrate. This takes us to the jazz part of the joke, only in most versions it’s more like porn, because the family members usually just rip off their clothes and start sucking and fucking each other in every unimaginable way. Even the dog gets in on the fun. The idea is to be as disgusting and degenerate as possible, with everyone in the family going at each other and exchanging bodily fluids like they’re at a Mamas & the Papas reunion. Bowel movements, urine, semen, snot, spittle, sweat … there are buckets and buckets of the stuff, all coming and going, in and out of every orifice, until finally the family is whipped and spent and collapses in exhaustion on the other side of the talent agent’s desk.

  At the ultimate climax, the talent agent very reasonably says, “Well, that’s an interesting act. What do you call yourselves?”

  At this, the father, the mother, the son, the daughter and the dog all lift themselves proudly from the pile of shit, piss, semen and sweat where they’re lying and take a great big bow and say, “The Aristocrats!”

  Well, the whole time I was telling this joke, in my own skillful way, the mood of the room started to change all over again. The people who had been recoiling in their seats, horrified at my Empire State Building joke, were now laughing their heads off. Rob Schneider fell off his chair he was laughing so hard, which really wasn’t such a big deal because he’s one of the few comics shorter than me and he didn’t have very far to fall.

  By the time I was finished the place was pretty much exploding with laughter.

  A week later, a critic for The New York Observer gave me one of the best reviews of my career, writing that I had turned the joke into “an extended bacchanal of bodily fluids, excrement, bestiality and sexual deviance.” I had no idea what most of those words meant, but they sounded pretty good, strung together like that.

  After that, the critic had some more nice things to say. “Mr. Gottfried plumbed the darkest crevices he could find,” he wrote—which I think he meant in a good way, even though you might think that plumbing all those dark crevices might be seen as a negative. “He riffed and riffed until people in the audience were coughing and sputtering and sucking in great big gulps of air. Tears ran through the Hilton ballroom, as if Mr. Gottfried had performed a collective tracheotomy on the audience, delivering oxygen and laughter past the grief and ash that had blocked their passageways.… Then he brought it home.”

  I could go on and on, but at some point the New York Observer guy stopped writing.

  People who were there have called my rendition of the joke “breathtaking”—and who am I to argue with them? Certainly, people were gasping for air, so I guess it’s an accurate description. It was as if everything that had happened earlier in the evening—the fits and starts of the other comics, my own offensive jokes—had set the audience up for my rousing performance, and I killed. I know, I know … it sounds like I’m bragging, but this is my fucking book, so it’s allowed.

  (Feel free to join in and pile on the praise.)

  People who weren’t there and who tried to attach big words to explain the impact of my performance have called it “cathartic”—and once again, I can’t argue. At first, I wasn’t even sure what that word meant. I knew there was a word that would get close to describing the emotional release we all felt in that ballroom that evening, but I was going for “catatonic.” I don’t think I was in school the day we learned “cathartic.”

  Now, looking back, it’s hard to say which came first, the documentary or my rousing performance at the Hugh Hefner roast, which readers might remember was featured as the centerpiece of the movie. (When the movie came out, one reviewer suggested that if an Academy Award could be handed out for telling a dirty joke, it should go to me.) It’s a classic chicken-or-egg question. The movie was already in development, of course, and this Hugh Hefner roast came early on in the process, but I prefer to think I was the complete inspiration. Once again, it’s my fucking book. I’ll say what I want.

  And speaking of saying what I want, did I mention that I was good friends with President Hoover? (Note to publisher, with a name like Hoover, perhaps we should consider a blow job joke here. Or have we exceeded our quota?)

  I wasn’t convinced that there was a movie in all of this, but Penn was persistent, so I signed on. He even convinced me to participate for free—making the movie itself one of Penn Jillette’s greatest magic tricks. It still kills me, that trick, because once The Aristocrats movie became a surprise hit, I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t making a dime from it. Like every family member in every version of the Aristocrats joke, I definitely got fucked in the ass.

  ENCORE

  Another Slice of Pizza and a Grape Drink

  So there you have it. My book. Not bad, huh? Especially for my first book. It would even be impressive for my second or third book, I think. By the fourth or fifth book, though, I’ll probably do a better job. By then I’ll really have the hang of this book writing business. By then this one will pale by comparison.

  Like I said at the beginning, I had modest goals for my first literary effort. Once again, at the very least I wanted it to be like a slice of pizza and a grape drink, and as many people know I’ve made a career out of reaching for the very least. The grape drink has nothing in it that can be considered of nutritional value. Same here. And a slice of pizza is like a blow job. Even a bad one is still pretty good. The only difference between a slice of pizza and a blow job is I can remember the last time I had a slice of pizza.

  We’ve covered a lot of ground in these pages, in case you haven’t been paying attention. We’ve laughed. We’ve cried. We’ve come to terms. Hopefully, we’ve all learned a little something about ourselves and what it means to be alive. Also hopefully, we’ve celebrated the simple beauties of self-love and self-absorption, which I’m happy to report often go hand in hand. Along the way, I’ve shared some of my thoughts and experiences. I’ve invited you, dear reader, into my head and heart. A few of you have even received an invitation into my pants. You know who you are. I’ve yet to hear back from you on this, but you shouldn’t have too much trouble finding me. I’m the guy who wrote this book, remember? My picture’s on the cover. Make a few calls and figure it out.

  If you have an opportunity to tell your friends and relations about the book we’ve just enjoyed together, I encourage you to do so.
There’s a lot riding on this, and not just for me personally. It’s not about the money. Well, okay … maybe it is about the money, but only a little, and the reason it’s only a little about the money is because the publisher is paying me only a little.

  If you must know, I’m doing this book mostly as a public service. Anyway, that’s what I’ve been telling myself, to justify the time and effort. The way it’s supposed to work is that every time someone buys a copy, an angel gets its wings. Also, for every tree the publisher knocks down and turns into paper to produce one of my books, we plant another one … in Israel! I made it a matter of contract, when we were negotiating my book deal. That’s how strongly I feel about my Jewish heritage. Of course, if I was making a little more money on this deal, I’d plant some trees for Arab terrorists. This way, the Arabs could enjoy some shade while waiting for their prophet. Jews don’t have to wait. We already know how to make a profit.

  Oh, which reminds me. I have a joke. (Right now, I can hear all of you readers saying, “Finally!”)

  All kidding aside (which will probably be my final kidding aside, since I’m running out of pages), there’s always room for one more joke, and here it is:

  Two Arab terrorists are sitting together, sharing pictures of their kids. One says, “This is my five-year-old daughter.” The other one says, “This is my three-year-old son.” Then both terrorists sigh, and shake their heads and say, “They blow up so fast, don’t they?”

  Please realize, I don’t mean to come across as anti-Arab with this one last joke. I’ll have you know, I’ve seen every episode of Make Room for Daddy.

  Let me get back to the public service part of this book deal. My idea was to sell tons and tons of books, destroying acres and acres of inconsequential American forest, and at the other end of the transaction we’d plant a bunch of trees in the homeland of my people. After that, the trees would grow and flourish, and in a couple years, after I’d done some growing and flourishing of my own, I could travel to Israel before I die and take a nice walk in the park where my trees had been planted and enjoy a short nap in the shade of my own making. Who knows, I might even be inspired to sit beneath one of my trees and read a book. By some other comic. Who’s not as funny as me.

  It’s the circle of life.

  And the best part is it’s environmentally correct. It’s just made out of paper, this book, so you can recycle it. You can even recycle some of the jokes—because God knows that’s what I’ve been doing, all these years. This gives me great satisfaction, because being green is so fashionable these days. A lot of the hotter, better-looking young actresses in Hollywood seem to be in favor of it, so I’m all for it. Anything to improve my chances. Now that I think about it, it doesn’t even matter to me if you’ve read the whole thing, from beginning to end. I don’t care, as long as you bought it. That could be the entire extent of your commitment, as far as I’m concerned. If you took it out of the library and then didn’t read it, then we’d have a problem. But as long as you’ve paid your way, do whatever you want. Rip the pages from the spine and use them to wipe your ass, for all I care—although, now that I think about this it feels to me like something I should have known, going in. It would have been helpful. I mean, if you weren’t going to read the book anyway, I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to put so many words on each and every page. I could have left all the pages blank.

  (Note to critics: that “left all the pages blank” line is my gift to you. You’re welcome.)

  CLOSING CREDITS

  “I’d Like to Thank the Academy”

  This is the “thanks” part of the book. It’s like one of those long acceptance speeches at the Oscars. In fact, if this part gets long and boring and you’re lucky enough to be near a piano, please feel free to tinkle a few notes on the keyboard to let me know it’s time to wrap up and get off the stage.

  You see, giving thanks is like leaving tips or giving gifts on Christmas. You really don’t want to, but it’s expected of you and you’re too much of a pussy not to.

  So here goes. Most importantly, I’d like to thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. In the middle of this book, when I thought there were no more places I could fit the words “cock” or “cunt,” He came down and pointed to several spots I had apparently missed. Turns out He has a really good eye for that sort of thing.

  On a more earthly plane, I’d like to thank my parents, because without them I would never have been born. (A final note to readers: I’ll now give everyone a few seconds to say, “And why would that have been bad?”) I’d also like to thank my sisters, Arlene and Karen. They didn’t help with the book, but they like seeing their names in print. So there.

  I’d like to thank Marc Guss and Dan Strone, as well as Marc Resnick and everyone at St. Martin’s Press for waiting until I left the room to say, “Who thought a Gilbert Gottfried book was a good idea?”

  I’d like to thank a man who stood behind me … in the men’s room, when I was trying to pee.

  I’d like to thank Dan Paisner, for stopping me every three words to say, “Can you talk a little slower?”

  They say that behind every truly great man there’s an overbearing Jew bitch who screeches, “Gilbert, shut off the television and get back to work on the book! We’ve had the same dining room set for an hour and a half! It’s time to get a newer, much more expensive set!” So, thank you to my wife, Dara.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank my nephew Graham, for yelling “Ca Ca Booty!” at his preschool teacher. A few more outbursts like that and St. Martin’s Press will offer him a book deal.

  RUBBER BALLS AND LIQUOR. Copyright © 2011 by Gilbert Gottfried. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gottfried, Gilbert, 1955–

  Rubber balls and liquor / Gilbert Gottfried. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-66811-2

  1. Gottfried, Gilbert, 1955– 2. Comedians—United States—Biography. 3. Actors—United States—Biography. 4. American wit and humor. I. Title.

  PN2287.G656A3 2011

  792.7'6028092—dc22

  2010054558

  First Edition: May 2011

  eISBN 978-1-4299-7856-9

  First St. Martin’s Press eBook Edition: April 2011

  * This footnote is for readers who might be unfamiliar with the work of Leopold and Loeb, two famous college students who were known as “the thrill killers” in the 1920s, after kidnapping and murdering a little boy in what they thought would go down as the perfect crime. I include this information so readers will understand the reference, and enjoy the full humor of the piece. Also, I’m told that writers who use footnotes in their books come across as particularly smart and scholarly, so I’m going for that as well.