Private Parts

by Howard Stern

 

  At my sixth-grade graduation with my sister (left) and mother.

  genius. I could do no wrong. I could read Itsy Bitsy backward, forward, whatever. I had the friggin' thing memorized.

  My mother's good friend Estelle was a substitute teacher at Roosevelt. She called my mother up and said, "Do you know that your son is in a class reading Itsy Bitsy ?" So now my mother got hold of me.

  "Are you reading Itsy Bitsy ?"

  "Yeah."

  "Let me see this book, Itsy Bitsy." I gave her the book.

  "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!" she started screaming. "ITSY BITSY ! YOU'RE READING THIS IN THE NINTH GRADE?!"

  She called up the school; next thing I knew I was in the hardest English class, a new house of horrors.

  It had the three white Polish kids who were the only other whites left by then in the school. They were sitting right in front of me. I was kind of feeling as if I was in a white school. The first day in this new class, I was sitting behind these three big Polacks, having a good time reading and everything, and one guy turned around to me, and he said, "Hey, Jew!"

  Pow! Smash! Full fist right into my face. Hard as he could. I couldn't believe it. I finally got away from the blacks and the fucking Polacks were beating me up.

  Today you're always reading about kids in the New York City public schools who get caught carrying guns to school. They should have issued me a gun to go to that school.

  My parents finally realized it was time to move on when Alan, my one black friend, started getting hassled. Alan was a great kid; he would come over to my house and have milk and cookies and we'd play chess. One day, Alan and I were walking home and a bunch of black kids surrounded us. They beat the shit out of Alan for hanging out with a honkie. That was the final straw. My parents put the house up for sale. They decided to move to Rockville Centre. I'll never forget the day we moved. Everyone was crying. It was a real emotional experience. My mother was crying because our next-door neighbor, a really nice old black man, came over and was trying to convince us to stay, that Roosevelt needed white settlers like us. My father was crying because he was giving up a 3 percent VA mortgage on this house. And I was crying because I was afraid that my mother would listen to that old black fool and stay.

  It turns out that it wasn't any better in Rockville Centre. I

  couldn't adjust at all. I was totally lost in a white community. I felt like Tarzan when they got him out of Africa and brought him back to England. I didn't know how to act around white people. I don't think I talked to anybody for three years. But I was thrilled to be out of Roosevelt. I promised myself that I would never, ever go back. Just thinking about it gives me the shakes. I remember before I married Alison, she would come to visit me in New York and she'd stay at my parents' home in Rockville Centre.

  "I really want to go to Roosevelt and see where you lived," Alison decided.

  "No, absolutely not." I was insistent. "I will not go to Roosevelt again."

  "Why can't we go to Roosevelt?" she pleaded.

  "Things could happen. Something could go wrong. Besides, I'm not even sure I know how to get to Roosevelt, I have such a bad sense of direction."

  She wasn't buying it.

  "Please," she started in with the whine, "I want to see how you grew up. I'm marrying you. I'm in love with you."

  "I'll tell you the truth," I said. "I don't care where you grew up. Why do you care where I grew up?"

  I finally relented. By now it was dark out.

  "Okay, I'll take you to Roosevelt."

  We got in the car. I drove a few blocks from my parents' house and made a few turns and then drove around that block about seventeen times. Finally, I pulled up to a house. We were maybe two seconds away from where we started.

  "Roll down the window," I instructed Alison. "That's my old house." She had no idea we were still in Rockville Centre.

  She peered out the window. She got all misty-eyed.

  "That's my neighbor's house. That's my other neighbor's." I'm bullshitting like crazy.

  "This is a beautiful community," Alison said. "How does it make you feel to be back here?"

  "I don't know." I shrugged. "I just feel funny. But I'm glad you got a chance to see it. Roll the window back up."

  Then I drove around the block about seventeen times again and bingo! We were back home in Rockville Centre. To this day, Alison thinks she's been to Roosevelt.

 

  My getup for my Black Men Who Look While sketch; hair inspired by Kid 'n Play.

  MALCOLM Z-Z-ZS

  Spike Lee reminds me of every lame-o I ever met in Roosevelt. He's a troublemaker who complains and bitches about the white man. He's totally unprofessional. You never see Steven Spielberg use race to raise money for pictures.

  "The white man don't give me an Oscar nomination," he whines. Why should they? They gave him twenty-eight million to make that shitty Malcolm X movie and he flew all over Africa and went to the pyramids and went way over budget and then he resorted to a standard in the Lee arsenal -- he bitched that the white man be racists for not giving him mo' money. I feel sorry for those poor jerks at Warner Brothers. He should have kissed their asses for giving him that money. Instead, he had the balls to go to his brothers and sisters in the black community with his little X cap out. He brought in Bill Cosby, Janet Jackson, Michael Jordan, Prince, Magic Johnson, Oprah Winfrey, and all they ponied in was $70,000 combined! What philanthropy! Warners chipped in twenty-eight mil but they were the white devil.

  Spike Lee's movies are like amateur productions, worse than NYU student movies. His movies have ridiculous premises. The scenes are lousy because he's a bad director. The photography is bad. There's a loose, disjointed story line in most of his movies that makes no sense. Every Jew is a money lender. Every Italian is a dumb guinea on the corner who owns a pizza store and is out to get the black man. Lee doesn't do anything nice for the Koreans despite the fact that they're the only idiots who would open up a twenty-four-hour deli in a black neighborhood.

  And the nerve of this schmuck to tell black kids to cut school and black adults to take off from work to go to the opening of that boring film Malcolm X. It's hard to keep black kids in school to begin with, and here he was inciting them to cut classes for his three-hour snoozefest. I know a lot of black men who called me up and said, "Howard, we've skipped work since 1978 to wait for the opening day of Malcolm X." That's been a big problem in the black community. "Why should we even take a job, when we'd only have to leave it to go see Malcolm X," they told me. I finally rented that film. I got

  news for you, it put me to sleep. They should have named it "Malcolm Z-Z-Zs." I guess that wouldn't fit on the hat.

  Plus, that little dickhead is a coward, too. After I was talking on the show about how blacks don't go to see his films, he called Robin in the studio. In fact, let Robin tell the story.

 

  Robin: What happened was Howard had been talking about Spike Lee on a Friday. He went through his usual litany of offenses -- Spike's an amateur filmmaker, his films are worse than college-student films, they're not funny, black people don't go to them, the whole thing. I didn't say anything. I've said I like Spike Lee films, but I don't have to defend Spike every time -- I just let it go. So, apparently, someone called Spike after that show and told him that Howard said no black people go to see his films. Well, Spike must have thought about this all weekend.

  Howard: Good, I hope I ruined his weekend. Dumb little peanut head. Go ahead, Robin.

  Robin: When he hit his office Monday morning, the first thing Spike did was call me. Now, I had no relationship with him, but I called him back out of respect. Spike immediately picked up and said, "Robin!"

  "Yes," I said.

  " I heard that Howard Stern got on the air the other day and said no black people like to see my films," he said.

  "Yes, that's his opinion," I said.

  "Well, that's bullshit, because lots o' black people go to see
my films."

  "And that's your opinion," I said.

  "And you sit there and let him say anything he wants," he said.

  Now I was pissed off. I said, "Excuse me, do you know what I do for a living?"

  "No, I've never heard the show," Spike said.

  "THEN WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN' ON THE PHONE TELLING ME WHAT I DO!" I screamed. "I've been defending your stupid films for years. I say I like your films -- everybody knows I'm black. I've been promoting your career for years. And yet the first time you call

  me to say anything is when Howard says he doesn't like your movies?! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

  Spike was speechless now. He didn't say, " You're a sister" , or anything like that. What he said was, " I sure hope they pay you a lott a money."

  "OH! AM I SUPPOSED TO QUIT MY JOB NOW?" I shouted.

  "No, I'm not tellin' you to quit," Spike said.

  "JUST WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" I was really screaming, cursing him out. And in the middle of this, I was thinking, "I'm yelling at one of the premier directors of film in America today." It was hysterical.

  "Thank you for returning my call," Spike said. And that was the end of our conversation.

  That was a great story except for the part about him being one of the premier directors. He's a knucklehead. How dare he talk to Robin about his problem with me. Her job on the show is not to sit and correct me every five seconds and defend the world. He's some black leader. HEY, BLACK PEOPLE, IF YOU'RE FOLLOWING SPIKE LEE, YOU'RE IN BIG TROUBLE!

  NIGGA' OF THE NINETIES

  You know what the sweetest fruit of the civil rights movement was? The ultimate prize? We all know what the prize was. PORKING WHITE BABES! And you know who enjoyed this benefit the most? Superstar black athletes.

  One of the brothers who has attained the prize is the great basketball player Charles "I'm-the-Nigga'-of-the-Nineties" Barkley. Charles is so awesome, he once called us up and told me that he had just shared a hot tub with Donald Trump and some hot babes. I said that after that the water must have looked like egg drop soup! And this was when the Donald was still married to Ivana. I remember the time he called to tell us that he had just gotten married.

  "So you're married now, what fun is that? Why'd you do that?" I opened.

  "I got a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter," Charles said.

  "Gary told me you married a hot white blonde. You got the prize,

  my man! She must go wild when you take your pants down. You're like an Adonis, big shoulders, strong muscles, tight ass," I said.

  "That's from working hard, Howard. One day you'll get a job and have to work hard."

  "Does your wife wear hot outfits when you go out? Miniskirts?"

  "She has to dress her role," he said.

  "How tall is she?"

  "Five-foot-eleven."

  "How much does she weigh?"

  "One thirty."

  "What cup size, C or D?" I was relentless.

  "Probably a C. Jesus Christ, let me see."

  She was right there in bed with him! This was great. "What's she wearing?" I asked.

  "Nothing."

  "She sleeps nude?"

  "Totally nude."

  "And you can easily palm her breast? Like a basketball?"

  This was too much.

  "Let me talk to her," I begged.

  He put her on.

  "Hey, honey, how you doing?" I purred.

  "Fine, how are you?"

  "I'm damn good," I said in my best Barry White.

  "What are you calling her? Honey?" Robin butted in.

  "She's naked. Be quiet, Robin!" I got back on the phone. "You got yourself a good man, don't you?" I buttered her up.

  "Yeah, thank you."

  "What are you doing naked in that room? You know Charles is a wild animal. He'll jump on top of you. Is Charles an animal in bed?"

  "I guess he could be some kind of animal. Like an ant or a fly, something little."

  "Is it true, once you go black you never go back?"

  "I think so," she said.

  "Is Charles the best lover you ever had?"

  "He's the only one I ever had."

  This was too much.

  "You ever go to the gym and wear those aerobic tights with thong underpants?"

  "Oh, yeah. All the time."

  "Really!? Whew! Would you send me your sweaty shorts when you're done working out? I'd love to smell them. Let me tell you something, honey, I bet you if I got you alone, you'd mess around. I'd teach you a few things. I don't know how Charles is, but I do things that black guys won't do. I go the extra mile to please women."

  "That's not true with Charles," she said. "He's white in that respect."

  "Your parents give you any flak for being married to a black guy?"

  "They don't care. He makes three million a year."

  "You're set for life," I said.

  "You're right about that," she agreed.

  I got Charles back on the line.

  "Your wife'll walk right out the door if you don't protect your money, you know these white women," I said.

  "She ain't leaving with no money," Charles said.

  "Damn right. You get her to sign a prenup?"

  "No," he said.

  "What? Are you kidding me? How will you stop her?"

  "I'll have to call a couple of my boys to rough her up a little," he said. "That's the type of prenup you need."

  "It's a preknuckle agreement," I said.

  She got back on the line.

  "If I do leave him, he says he's gonna dish out the bucks big time," she laughed.

  "Smart woman. You sound like my wife," I said.

  It was sad to read recently that Charles and his wife were separated. From that conversation they seemed like a great couple.

  RODNEY KING

  THE WORLD'S MOST DANGEROUS MILLIONAIRE

  They didn't beat this idiot enough. He should be beaten every time he reaches for his car keys. Here you got a guy driving drunk going 100 mph leading the cops on a wild-goose chase. What if your kid was crossing the freeway then and got hit by him? I say beat him more. And beat your kid, too, because he's not supposed to cross a freeway!

  I would have run him over and then backed the squad car up and run him over again. Jerk! The fact that he lived after a high-speed chase like that means he didn't get beat enough. They should have tied his testicles to the bumper and then done 115 mph, see how much he would have liked that.

  Those L.A. cops should have done what our New York cops have been doing for years: be real nice to Rodney, gently assist him into the squad car, give him a cup of coffee so he can sober up, take him into the basement of the station house, and beat the living shit out of him. No cameras. No riots. No nothing. Case closed. Justice is served. I love cops. Every time they're on a high-speed chase like that, they're taking their lives in their hands. Who knows what those cretins are packing when they get out of the cars? Cops, you deserve all the doughnuts you can eat. I just can't figure out why I still get traffic tickets.

  Actually, Rodney should get down on his knees and kiss the feet of those officers that wailed on him. Have you seen the before and after pictures of this dude? It was the Rodney King makeover. He went in looking like Skid Row Joe, and after twenty whacks to the head he came out looking like Billy Dee Williams. Nice new 'do. Stylish pencil-thin mustache. He looks like a movie star. They beat all the ugly out of him. Now he's a superstar. He threw out the ball at the first Dodgers home game. Maybe Mike Ovitz will represent him for movie-of-the-week deals. He just turned down a $2 million settlement. This guy is going to be the world's most dangerous millionaire. Can you imagine what happens when he gets his Lamborghini? "UH, MR. KING! PLEASE PULL OVER. YOU'RE DOING 375 MPH IN A 55 ZONE. PLEASE, MR. KING."

  "Sheet, this be fun. What sucker gonna stop me, Rodney King? I gots my own video camera now. Sheet, I can drive a damn helicopter through the Lincoln Tunnel, nobody stop me."

 
THE L.A. RIOTS SHOPPING SPREE

  One thing's for certain. Those black folks in South Central L.A. sure know how to make good TV. I couldn't stop watching the live coverage of the riots after the first Rodney King decision. Didn't you love that on-the-spot coverage?

  "We're here live as this supermarket is being looted."

  In the background, guys were carrying garbage pails full of chickens

 

  Orchestrating a wild African jungle scene for the Miss Howard Stern Show contest. Cheetah is played by Stuttering John (far right).

  Women were running around filling up their carts as if they were on "Supermarket Sweep."

  "Let me see if I can get a word in here with one of the participants."

  Participants? Looters? Animals?

  "Uh, miss, do you think this has anything to do with the Rodney King decision?"

  This woman looked at him and said, "Whaaa? I'm busy shopping."

  In the background, a woman was screaming, "IT'S FREE! IT'S FREE! PAYBACK!"

  And they were all proud of what they were doing. I remember the good old days of the Watts riots when the rioters covered their heads like Mafiosi going into the Federal Building. Now it was a friggin' photo opportunity.

  "Hi, I'm looting."

  There was no political agenda behind that rioting. This is what happens when we raise generations of kids who have never been told to do their homework, never been told to wipe their ass, never been told anything by their parents. In fact, it's more than likely that their parents aren't even around. They've got a senile grandparent raising them. Hey, they saw an opportunity and they went for it. And they blamed everybody else. "It's the cops! It's the Koreans! It's the

 

  "Howard Stern is a cultural mirror of what is good and bad in American media. If Howard Stern didn't exist, white trash would not have a superstar." -- Reverend Al Sharpton

  "If you want your radio to burn, stay tuned to Howard Stern."

  -- James Brown

 

  (Above) Here I am, shooting the shit with the Godfather of Soul, James Brown, and the Reverend Al Sharpton; and (left) using a metal detector on rap star Flavor Flav on the set of my E! Entertainment Television show.