In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: . . . And Other Complaints From an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy

by Adam Carolla

  Get shot at and brush it off, saying, “I ain’t got time to bleed.”

  Be able to say someone attempted suicide over me: “She threw herself on the train tracks.”

  Catch a punch and twist the guy’s hand until he goes down to his knees.

  Have a celebrity shorten my name in an interview. “Bobby De Niro says working with Ace was great.”

  Be embroiled in a lawsuit that leads to a heroic story: “I broke the leg of a gangbanger robbing a liquor store, and now he’s suing me.”

  Stop a crime by throwing something. A guy steals a purse and starts running. I throw a can of corn football-style and knock him out.

  Track someone. I dismount my horse, then do that low squat where I pick up a clump of dirt and let it sift through my fingers.

  Hawk a championship belt or Super Bowl ring at a pawnshop when I hit rock bottom.

  Shout, “Release the hounds!”

  Be lost in the Utah desert with a hot chick, then come across an old Indian guy and speak his language.

  Pull a fake mustache off someone and shout, “A-ha!”

  Have a hot towel on my face at a barbershop with a cigar sticking out.

  Dislocate my shoulder to get out of a straitjacket.

  Snap Larry King’s suspenders and turn him into a pile of ashes.

  Shout “Not on my watch.…”

  Direct a movie called Awesome so that entertainment shows will have to refer to me as “Awesome director Adam Carolla.” Then follow it up with the sequel Hung Like a Rhino.

  Drive a car off a pier onto a garbage barge.

  Be stripped of a crown.

  Tell my team to “synchronize watches.”

  Dry-shave with a machete.

  Pull down a surgical mask and say, “There’s nothing I could do,” or beat someone on the chest and shout, “Live, damn you!”

  Box a kangaroo.

  Demand unmarked bills.

  Drape a suit jacket over handcuffs in the front like John Gotti.

  Fend off a Kodiak bear with a torch.

  Pop the locks on an attaché case full of money and slide it across a table.

  Be tied to a chair with a hot chick.

  Have to choose between cutting a red wire and a blue wire.

  Fight someone on top of a moving train.

  My biggest regret is that I hear you fart a couple of times after you die and I won’t be around to enjoy it and, appropriately enough, laugh my ass off.

  CONCLUSION

  Thank you for purchasing/borrowing/winning this book at the world’s worst charity raffle. No matter how you got it, I appreciate you taking the time to read it. I know that this book covered a lot of ground, from politics to pizza toppings, flying first class to taking ceramics class, homophobia to home improvement. I have many, many more things to say about these and other topics. But that’s for the next book. So until then, thank you and mahalo.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not be possible without the dedication, wit, and nimble fingers of Mike Lynch. This project would never have become a reality without his involvement. As a matter of fact he’s typing this right now. And also my agent, James Babydoll Dixon, and my wife, Lynette, who encouraged me to write this book when I was hell-bent on a coffee table book entitled Dade County Black Prom, 1977–1985.

  I should also thank my literary agent, Dan Strone, my editor, Suzanne O’Neill, and the whole team from Crown for letting a guy who’s never read a book write one.