Private Parts

by Howard Stern

  Fartman first hit the air when I was in Washington. I remember it well. A few miserable Poles had just declared martial law and poor Lech Walesa looked like he was going to have to organize a union of solitary confinement prisoners. This was a job for Fartman. I got on the air, called the Polish embassy, and actually got through to the Polish ambassador, farted into the phone, and the rest is history.

  Years later, Fartman was called back to active duty. We were at K-Rock, it was July 6, 1988, and the United States had just made a dreadful but honest error. We had shot down an Iranian airbus, killing 290 people. The Iranians were outraged and milking the incident.

  These were the very same people who had funded and orchestrated the terrorist groups that had taken innocent American civilians as hostages. As far as I was concerned, this was war. I decided to take some positive action. We would call the Iranian consulate on the air that day.

  "I can say the things the president can't say, Robin," I said as I dialed the number.

  "Is this the Iranian embassy? This is Fartman. We're on the radio."

  "Yes."

  "Are you Iranian?"

  "Yes."

  "Listen, douche bag," I told him. "I'm gonna try to talk sense to you and if you don't listen I'm going to fart into this phone." There was silence; I had his attention.

  "Look, let me explain America's position. Sometimes in the heat of battle you look up in the sky and see a plane and feel you are being attacked. It was an honest mistake."

  My logic must have stunned the madman because he remained silent. And silence pisses Fartman off.

  "Now get ready." PHHHHHT! I unleashed a masterful gas missile. "That is all I have to say about this issue."

  "If that makes you feel better..." was his reply.

  He was nonchalant but the reaction was instantaneous. Our switchboards were flooded by calls from listeners who called to pay homage to their new superhero. It is not a coincidence at all that the Ayatollah soon shuffled off this mortal coil.

  THE RETURN OF FARTMAN

  Unfortunately, we had to call on Fartman many times over the next few years. When a hostage was killed, Fartman called the Tehran Hyatt and chastised a reservations clerk. When the dreadful massacre took place in Tiananmen Square, he called the Chinese consulate and then called the world-famous F.A.O. Schwarz toy store and demanded that all their Chinese checkers be removed from the shelves. When Iraq invaded Kuwait, it incurred the full wrath of Fartman. Saddam has not recovered to this day.

  Wherever injustice reared its ugly head, Fartman was there. When General Noriega ruled Panama with his pockmarked despotic face and hand, Fartman reached out to the Panamanian Marriott to offer his services:

  "My tushy rules and drools, my digestive system pumps foul air for truth and justice. I squat and fart and whoosh my way into the

  hearts of my people, as my hemorrhoids sway in the breeze, my stenching toots burn nostrils and bowl over bad guys because I am Fa rtman! I can blow Burt Reynolds's toupee from here to Panama. I am calling the Panamanian people to offer my services....Hello?"

  "Panama Marriott."

  "My name is Fartman. I'm calling from the United States. May I speak to the reservations desk?"

  "Reservations. Can I help you?"

  "This is a radio station, this is Fartman. Are you familiar with Fartman?"

  "Are we familiar with Fartman? No, sir."

  "In the United States I am considered a superhero. Because of my unique colon, I am able to help the people of America. I would like to offer you help in your trials with General Noriega. If you need me in time of war I am el farto stinko hombre. Do you hear what I'm doing? Listen." PHHHTT! "Are you in fear of General Noriega or can you speak?"

  "No, I cannot."

 

  My first appearance as Fartman, with Adam West on my TV show. I threw the costume together in five minutes, complete with a toilet-seat necklace.

 

  Friends of Fartman: Fred Norris, the King of Mars Man, and Belly Button Man (Jackie Martling, right.)

  Poor woman. She was afraid to speak. "I will help you. I will come over with my farting power. I will blow up General Noriega and his armies. My flying dingleberries will put his eyes out."

  "Okay, so whenever we need you, we can call you?"

  "That is correct," I replied. She was completely out of it. What kind of a lunatic would take Fartman seriously?

  "We'll be waiting for you then," she politely responded.

  "And I'm sorry about Ricky Ricardo and Zorro."

  FARTMAN DEFENDS SALMAN RUSHDIE

  Fartman's greatest test came at the hands of a Libyan peasant. It all started when we decided to support the great author Salman Rushdie, who was under a death decree from the Ayatollah for his book The Satanic Verses. I decided that Fartman should read from the book. When the Iranian embassy didn't answer, an alternate plan was hatched. I asked my producer Boy Gary to call any hotel in Iran in order to establish diplomatic ties. "I've got the Tripoli Hilton on the line," he proudly announced.

  "Hello. Is this the Tripoli Hilton? This is Fartman calling from American radio."

  Robin was the first to realize Boy Gary's error.

  "Tripoli?" Robin said, confused. Boy Gary was in a state of confusion once again. We had called Libya in error.

  "Oh, this is Libya?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "Wait a second. This is Libya? I was supposed to be calling Iran but this will have to do." It wasn't the first mistake Gary had made and it wouldn't be the last. "Let's call Australia next, Boy Moron.

  "Hello, this is Fartman, is anybody there? Hello? This is Fartman, you dothead. Somebody must be there."

  Finally, "Hello?"

  "Yes, this is Fartman. Can you speak English?"

  "Yes."

  "I am going to read from The Satanic Verses." I began my narrative. " 'You couldn't find your way to heaven or what? Insensitive words to speak to a woman. '" Maybe Rushdie did deserve a death decree.

  "Yes?"

 

  The sequels to Fartman, the Movie.

  "Can you say anything but yes?" I wondered.

  "Yes."

  We laughed.

  "What's funny?"

  "I am not afraid to read The Satanic Verses. Are you afraid to read them?"

  "I think you are crazy," said the infidel on the phone.

  "I am not, I am Fartman. I can blast you with just one fart. I will toot until all is well. Because my farts are wet."

  "I think you're crazy, you know."

  "I don't like Qaddafi. He sniffs camel farts!" I unleashed a mighty blast. PHHHHT! "I'm not afraid of him. One sniff of my gas powers and he'll be knocked unconscious. You know all those holes in Qaddafi's face? They're from the time that I met him and blasted him with one of my farts." This was war! "If I see you, I will fart in your face. Where do you fart? In your house, in the market, in bed with your hairy wife?" PHHTTT! "I am not afraid of Qaddaf -- "

  "Everybody is afraid of my leader!" he suddenly bellowed. Was it something I said? I'd found his weak spot.

  "He's a coward! He's afraid of us! That's why he resorts to terrorism and cross-dressing."

  "You donkey."

  "I'm not a donkey, douche lips, I'm Fartman. America's the greatest country in the world, where everyone is allowed to practice freedom of religion. Unfortunately, even the Muslim religion."

  "You are sick, I think," he said.

  Robin suddenly interrupted. "I don't know why we're railing

  against the Libyans when it's the Iranians ..."

  "This is the only number Gary has. Gary, you're an idiot. Why am I talking to Libya?"

  Gary stepped into the room. "He's Islamic. The whole nation of Islam is against the book."

  "Let me tell you, your country stinks on ice. I wish you were here so I could fart in your face. Are you wearing sandals?"

  "No."

  "Aha. You are wearing sandals. My rectum knows all."

&nb
sp; PHHHT!

  He grunted, obviously weakened by the cumulative effect of my blasts, then cursed, and hung up. At least we found an Islamic. We would have spoken to a Puerto Rican if it was up to Gary.

  FARTMAN GOES TO HOLLYWOOD

  Hey, what's more American than doing something heroic and then wanting to cash in on it? Altruism goes only so far. I decided it was time to take Fartman to Hollywood ... to the MTV awards.

  The first problem was finding a copresenter for me. MTV couldn't get anybody to appear with me. For about a month they made phone calls to everyone in Hollywood, endless phone calls, and no one would appear with me. I wanted Cindy Crawford but she wouldn't appear with me. Then I wanted to get that girl from "Beverly Hills 90210," Shannen Doherty, but she's a friggin' Young Republican. She wouldn't do it. No one would do it. Then Luke Perry heard me bitching about it on the air and he volunteered to copresent with me. He was really nice about it.

  A designer put together my costume to feature my ass cheeks. And I made the belt tight so my belly would hang out. I wanted this to be the most disgusting thing people had ever seen. I wanted people to retch over my outfit. I ate my ass off the weekend before so

 

  I put on twenty-five pounds so my belly and butt would look extra gross, hanging out of my costume. The backside needed full openings to gain maximum comedy impact. These are shots of the fitting session. Believe it or not, it took three fittings to develop this mess.

 

  Designer Ted Shell's working sketch of Fartman for the MTV awards show.

  the costume would be extra gross. I also decided that I was going to fly in as Fartman. I figured I'd fly in about five feet above the stage.

  When I got there before the show, the same guys who flew Peter Pan were going to fly me. Oh, great, this'll be a piece of cake, I thought. When I showed up for the rehearsal, they said, "You gotta go up there. Thirty feet in the air." Suddenly I'm a Flying Wallenda. Wait a minute. They want me thirty feet up in the air suspended by two little wires when I ate like a pig all weekend?

  They had to raise me up in stages. And I'm shaking. I'm trembling with fear, because you have no idea how scary it is. They got me up there and said, "Stick out your hands. Let go of the wires." I couldn't even move. When I got down, the one thing they kept saying to me was, "When you're on the stage, don't spin around, because you'll tangle the wires. And if you tangle the wires, it's not good."

  Backstage before the show, I suddenly felt like I was back in high school. Everybody there was trying so hard to be cool. The blacks were on one side, the whites on the other; everybody was going out of their way trying to look like this whole gig was a burden, trying to outcool each other. That "My Prerogative" guy, Whitney Houston's husband, Bobby Brown, was back there with about nine hundred black guys hanging around, bodyguards or something. If you're a white guy, they all stare at you, and they don't smile. Nobody can smile at each other. When I saw Bobby Brown, I said, "What's going on in there?" He barely smiled. Hey, Bobby Brown's a multimillionaire married to Whitney Fucking Houston. How tough could that be? It's gotta be fun to get up and dance. On his worst day his feet are sore.

  My ass was so fucking embarrassing, I kept covering myself. Everybody was staring at me. You have to remember, my buttocks were full of fucking pockmarks, cellulite, hairs, all kinds of shit. But the reaction from every celebrity I passed was unbelievable. I walked by Mick Jagger, and he was disgusted. I'm standing in this dressing room, and all of a sudden, there was a Michael Jackson look-alike in there and he was looking at me like I'm some kind of jerk. He was a fucking Michael Jackson look-alike, and he was staring at me? I passed by Shannen Doherty, and she gave me a look like, "You fucking piece of shit." It was a very strange vibe going up to do this.

  Then it was show time. Time for my segment. I was thirty feet in the air and I looked down and saw Luke Perry being introduced. He

  went to the podium and said, "I would like to introduce my copresenter 'cause no one else has the balls to show up and do it." Pretty cool, I thought. "From a land far away and long, long ago, it's a bird, it's a plane" -- hey he was really getting into it -- "it's a really bad smell. Ladies and gentlemen, F-F-F-F-Fartman!" Whap! I was on my way down. The farting noises were coming right on cue, I was booming out, "Yes, I'm Fartman. I'm the superhero Fartman." I landed on the stage in one piece. So far, so good. "Superman is nothing. Yes, behold the most beautiful of sights. It is this." I turned my back to the audience and stuck out my buttocks. The audience was going wild.

  We were stealing the show. Luke was going wild applauding. "Yes, I am Fartman." I turned around with my back to the audience again. "Is the camera getting a good shot of my beautiful ass? Look at it. It has powers." The place was going wild. "Allow me to demonstrate the greatest farting powers of all." I bent over, tensed up, and BOOM! the fucking podium exploded in a cloud of smoke. I blew the podium apart with my fart! I couldn't believe I was fucking doing this. I mean, I was almost forty years old. How sick was this?

  "Luke, look at my ass." Luke was my disciple now. "Touch it for power. Rub it!" Luke held his hands up and grabbed my cheeks as if he were worshiping at the altar of my anus. Then he held his hands up, like he was cured. I felt like Jimmy Swaggart. "Yes, you may be laughing at my ass now, but when my movie Fartman becomes number one, all of

  Hollywood will kiss my ass." I farted to punctuate the sentence. "Do not adjust your televisions at home. This is really my ass." Another fart. There was no stopping me now. "Who of you would like to touch my ass?" The whole first ten rows started squealing in delight. A cute young girl jumped onto the stage. "C'mon up here, honey, touch it for power." I had this total stranger kneading my buttocks. This was too weird. "Yes, thank you, darling." It was time to present the awards, but I was on a roll. "How did that ass feel, Luke?"

  "Great ass, man." He pinched my belly fat. I was beginning to really like this kid.

  "Now that you have saved us from the dangers of clean breathable air..." He was starting in on the business at hand but I wasn't through yet. I leaned over, grabbed his face, and planted a wet kiss on his cheek.

  "He's the next James Dean," I crowed. "Let's get to the category filled with flashbacks and smoke machines, the best metal/hardrock video." They showed the clips of the nominees. When they came back from the clips, I had my back to the audience and I was shaking my Jell-O-ed ass. I opened the envelope. "The winner is Metallica," I boomed.

  I love the band Metallica, and their last CD is some of the best music I ever heard, but these guys were taking the event way too seriously.

  These two creeps from Metallica came down to accept the award. One of them, Lars Ulrich, was this total idiot who thought he was God's gift to the world of compact-disc technology. The other guy, a Carlos Santana look-alike, was wearing a beret. Enough said. This Lars jerk immediately went into a little self-pitying speech about how long it had been before these creeps won something from MTV. Meanwhile, the audience was going apeshit over me and Luke fooling

  around on the side. This jerk Lars started screaming at the audience to shut up. I couldn't believe he was telling his so-called fans to shut up. Then he started yelling at me, in the middle of his acceptance speech. "Hey, man, don't steal all the attention here, okay." What a dick.

  Afterward, I was in the press room, having forgotten I was in my outfit. I was walking around and people were like nauseated. I went and posed for all these pictures, and they made every newspaper, with my disgusting ass and belly sticking out. Then there was all this debate in the press as to whether or not I should have done this, how it was such a terrible, terrible thing, how it brought a complete lack of decorum to the MTV awards. I'm going, "Excuse me. Decorum? This is MT Fucking V!"

  WHAT DO YOU THINK OF HOWARD STERN'S ASS?

  (Asked of celebs at the press conference after the MTV event)

  ANTHONY KIEDIS, Red Hot

  Chili Peppers: I was more impressed by other things this evening.


  DENIS LEAHY, Comic. Watching Howard Stern's ass was the most fun I ever had, man.

  DANA CARVEY, Comic and Host of Show: I'm still haunted by it. I tried the Fartman outfit on later and we

  took snapshots and compared our

  asses. I thought he was really funny.

  It was great... we love each other very much.

  CINDY CRAWFORD, Model: I thought it was disgusting and if my ass looked like that I wouldn't show it on national television.

  Hey, Cindy, you better hope your ass doesn't look like mine because your looks are the only talent you have. To tell you the truth, I'm

  thinking about stuffing a balloon up my ass to make it look better. Or

  better yet, maybe I'll buy Cindy's incredibly dangerous exercise

  video. Give me a break, idiot. You empty-headed bim. "It was disgusting." No kidding, honey, that's why I showed it. All she has is the ability to look good. Let me tell you, Cindy, I guarantee as soon as you start looking a little old, I bet Richard Gere starts seeing other women. What do

  you think, he's there for your brains? Believe me, in ten years we'll

  see if you're still together. I'm sure

  your religious husband, the cerebral

  Richard Gere, will stay with you when

  you look bad. Your personality is great

  when you look like Cindy Crawford, but Cindy Crawford at forty is not

  going to be Cindy Crawford. I want to be there the day Cindy Crawford gets into a disfiguring car accident and

  Richard Gere has to live out his years

  staring at a legless, toothless, titless

  Cindy Crawford. Oh, please, dear

  Lord, let me be there for that big

  event.

  Lord, I offer you this prayer so that

  I might be a witness to Cindy

  Crawford's disfiguring car crash.

  Dear Lord: I am a sinner. I need Jesus Christ to come into my life and become my Lord and Savior. I give my life to you in Jesus' name. For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. My prayer is that you will allow me to be a part of this tremendous event when Cindy loses all her looks and is forced to rely on that dynamic personality. Thank you.