Evans: That makes sense. I thought you meant that blowjobs were only for marriage …
Me: No, no, we are not saving it ’til marriage … No, that would be weird!
Evans: This is horrible!
Me: Yes! All of a sudden this became the worst life ever!
Tom: Is it called a hand job when you’re the worker?
Me: I suppose it still is if you use your left hand?
Tom: I don’t think it is.
Group: Oooh!!
Tom: The left hand.
Anthony: But then you get it on the door.
Me: Ooooh!!… uncomfortable. (Gesturing a jerking motion with left hand, thinking it through.) Then who cleans up?
Anthony: Exactly!
Me: Oh bleh!!
Tom: The people who rented you this car!
(Group laughs.)
Tom: What do you mean? What are you talking about? There’s no way you’re doing this in YOUR car! But the second you get a rental car … (Gestures jerking off and making a clicking noise while doing it.)
Me: Blowjobs are good. Hand jobs are good. No matter what happens, it’s all good. Right?
Evans: Yeah, any type of job is …
I don’t know where else you’re ever going to hear a conversation like that. Thank me later!
One of the amazing side benefits of having some really fucked-up conversations with well-known people is that every so often, I’ll end up getting some insight into the real person. Sometimes that insight comes from them, directly, and sometimes it comes from a friend or colleague. In an interview with comedians Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette, I asked them who in their experience had the dirtiest comedic mind and went the furthest. They threw out a couple of comedians, as I expected, and then settled on, of all people, Carrie Fisher, whom they’d worked with on a documentary Penn had produced and Paul had directed called The Aristocrats. At the time I remember thinking … What?? Huh!! Princess Leia was the one who went the furthest:
Penn: Carrie Fisher … because she brings in real people who really are related to her. When she talks about Eddie Fisher blowing a goat and her mother being a golden showers queen, it’s astonishing because …
Paul: Mickey Rooney huge with fisting—it’s comedy gold.
Penn: I mean Carrie Fisher was kinda like … what the fuck!
Paul: Yeah, that was a little surprising. In fact, we even asked her afterward if we can really say all that [in the documentary]. She said, “Yeh, yeh. My mother’ll be a little bit upset, but go for my father, all the way; go, go for him. He’s an asshole! Give it to him.”
As if I didn’t have enough reason to love Carrie Fisher. A dirty sense of humor, too. Game over!
One of the more special encounters I remember was with Paul Walker, who sadly passed away in 2013. I had interviewed Paul several times over the years, and he was always really cool and really sweet. Almost a bit shy, which made him very endearing. He was an outlandish personality, although you could tell there was mischief in him. On the occasion of the junket for Fast & Furious, which reunited the original cast and rebooted the series, he was in great spirits and super playful. So, of course, we spent a little time discussing nude racing, what else?
Me: Dude, it was so nice to see everybody all together again.
Paul: Yeah, it is. It’s like a high school reunion.
Me: Except this time the reunion was like a raging kegger.
Paul: Yeah, you can imagine, huh.
Me: This one you’re gonna go fully naked, right?
Paul: Yeah, the whole time. Nude racing! It’s a new trend in Japan. It’s awesome!… Holy shit, we’re coming back to make a fourth one? Yeah!
Me: YAY!!!!… I’m thinking that the last few Fast & Furious were so intense that they actually raise the hair on the back of your neck, right? I mean, they were great!
Paul: Yeah.
Me: This one, it upped it a little bit.
Paul: Really?
Me: This one is so intense that it raises the hair on your balls.
Paul: Wow!! (He starts giggling to himself.)
Me: Would it be fair to say that?
Paul: Well, I’m pretty clean right now, but yeah …
Me: Okay, maybe not YOURS.
Paul: (Giggling.)
Me: It did for me. It worked for me!
Paul: That chicken skin starts sprouting, ya know. (He wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes.) Wow. This really is uncensored, isn’t it? (Still laughing.)
Me: Yeah, a little bit. (Laughing.) How’s that feel? Is it okay? Did I give it enough energy?
Paul: It feels good. Yeah, it felt real.… Now all my religious friends are going to be mad at me. I already talked about the chicken skin. (He smiles.) Go see The Fast & the Furious, dammit!
Paul was just about as nice as they come. A genuine salt of the earth good guy. Someone who never changed with all his success. I’m glad to have gotten a chance to know him a little.
This chapter would not be complete without a James Cameron story. He is arguably one of the greatest cinematic visionaries in the history of film and someone I am a huge fan of. But everything I could dig up about him spoke to his passion, determination, and intensity about his craft. He was someone that no one fucked with ever! Fuck! These are not the most encouraging things to hear before you fly to England to interview him for the very first time for this new, technologically groundbreaking film called Avatar. So I was concerned. We wanted a great piece, but I did not want to walk into a Tommy Lee Jones situation with some guy on a tear. That would be such a buzzkill. Then, a couple of nights before I left, I caught some interview he did on TV and it was all very serious, but there were fifteen seconds where they briefly touched on a baseball cap on his desk, which had the acronym HMFIC on it. That’s all I needed. I knew exactly who this guy was.
And he did not disappoint. We got on perfectly. We went together like”ramalama” and “ding dong!” So much fun. He’s a fascinating guy with the gift of swear. He was one of us! So you damn well know we were going to talk about some serious shit the others were afraid to ask. So I set the tone with, “Is it fair to say that this is the most expensive porno for the imagination for the Viagra Ecstasy generation?” That’s all he needed to hear to instantly bond with me. Then it was all about what I took away from the film and why it mattered. I explained that, from what I could see, this was about blue balls and finding a cure. Very noble. It was the simple tale of a boy who’s hung like a donkey but suffers from a terrible case of blue balls. He falls for a girl and spends the entire film literally chasing tail to find some relief for his balls. The rest is just random camerawork, some green bullshit, a couple days of animation, and some minor effects. Two hundred million dollars and five years of your life. Congratulations! He had so much fun fucking around with me, he even created a new Na’vi word just for me: “P’taoung,” which means douchebag. “Fuck yeah, America!” said Topher Grace. ☺
As they started to wrap me in the room, I brought up that infamous baseball cap, and just as I suspected, he revealed that it stood for “Head Motherfucker in Charge.” I fuckin’ knew it from the moment I saw it. That’s when I knew that I was free to be me. Before it was over, Jim paid me the very best No Good compliment: “I like the way your mind goes right into the gutter. It’s refreshing in a woman, I have to tell ya.” That was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. He would ask for us to be invited to his press junkets, and any time I’d see him on a red carpet, he’d always come by and say hi and tell whoever was around how much he loved No Good TV. We hadn’t just made a friend; we made a fan. Now that was fuckin’ cool!!
NGTV was built for this audience, and I have always been proud to be its ambassador. The celebs obviously get a kick out of what I do, and the fans fuckin’ love it because we feed their obsession with crazy treats! I have to say, no one is happier than me, except maybe Ryan Reynolds, about the massive success of the R-rated Deadpool movie. It’s triggered a major movement towards more edgy a
nd hardcore superhero films. And if there’s any audience who appreciates more color in their language and violence, it’s this one. So it’s about fucking time. Let’s hope the studios do it right and don’t unload a bunch of shit and kill its potential. An R-rated supercut of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice is a great start!
I’m also super excited to see Ryan Reynolds embrace this side of his personality more definitively, and find so much success. After all, he was the man who delivered my jam, “cock-juggling thunder-cunt,” with the conviction of Sir Laurence Olivier, way back when. He and I have danced on the edge in our interviews many times over the years. In more of a sarcastic battle of “wits and shits” than a full frontal “butts and fucks.” It’s been fun, but I always felt like he was holding back; I just knew there was a twisted motherfucker in there that he was keeping at bay. Guess I was right. Well, seeing Ryan taking ownership of that and getting down with his profane self brings real joy to my heart. (Oh wait, what’s going on here, Ryan? I smell burnt toast!!)
Well, now you know where I go to find myself, and if that’s not a happy place, then I don’t know what the fuck is. There’s no question that I’ve been really lucky in finding my happiness within. It’s played a crucial role in every aspect of my life. One wrong decision or one momentary lapse in judgement and it all could have gone another way. So, in a fucked-up way, I totally understand what the “saddleback” teens are doing: just being teenagers and doing the dumb things they do. I really feel for those girls. I don’t mean to be funny, but they are definitely getting the raw end of the deal. It’s a sad situation, and these kids are completely misguided. But from their perspective, they’re just working the system like any other teenager would once they become sexually aware. They’re just trying to make it through a shitty adolescence by creating brief moments of happiness and acceptance through sex within the confines of a pretty bleak existence. Except their world is filled with nonsensical misinformation presented as fact, which is just about the most dangerous thing in the hands of a dumb-as-fuck teenager. And when you’re surrounded by idiocy everywhere you turn, well, you’re bound to make some idiotic decisions. So, inevitably, your decisions about sex appear to have been heavily influenced by Wile E. Coyote’s super genius. Except in your case the anvil won’t hit you in the head. It gets jammed up your ass!!
My Catholic-school experience could have easily left me upside down, too. It was a learning experience like no other, where logic and compassion were harder to find than a dildo with foreskin. We were taught to practice tolerance. It didn’t matter if it was verbal bullying, social bullying, or physical bullying; it was to be tolerated. We were also encouraged to embrace our fears and use them to move forward in life. In fact, we were urged to embrace new fears that we didn’t even have because we were told not all phobias were bad. Like homophobia—that was one of the good ones. And, boy, did these nuns practice what they preached because nothing helps fortify the tenets of a belief system like seeing it in action. And trust me when I tell you, there was a lot of nun-on-student action. But perhaps the greatest wisdom imparted to us were in the tools we needed to navigate puberty. Priceless insights about my sexual urges being the disgraceful thrusts of demon cocks fucking my soul really helped me through my teens. It truly was remarkable. An education provided with the intellect and depth of a thrown tomato and the subtlety of a rectal suppository. I unlearned so much!
Luckily for me, it was just a small part of my life, and I had a lot to balance against it. Now, if I didn’t have parents who were open-minded and not criminally insane to lean on for perspective, who knows, I may have turned to using my butthole to find a little escape and acceptance. But thanks to them, and despite all my efforts to the contrary, I never compromised myself to find a little fake bliss. And ultimately, I put my energies into moving away and starting a new life.
But I’ll tell ya, there’s a part of me that’s convinced that adolescent girls come preprogrammed with just enough sense to make only one good decision during our entire time as a teenager. So we have to fucking make use of it wisely. Our instincts are terrible, we have no knowledge or experience, and we’re basically just one raw nerve 90 percent of the time. So, of course, every other choice we make is going to be utter shit. And we don’t have any way of knowing at the time, but the best use of our one good decision should involve sex and/or our bodies. Mainly because teenage guys come preprogrammed with ZERO capacity to make a good decision. So we’re not getting any help there. Hence, the adolescent anal invasion sweeping the Christian nation. So, to all the girls going through this right now, first of all, keistering your guy isn’t going to make you happy, but it will make you messy. Sort of like ipecac for your butt. And there’s nothing that’ll fuck up your self-esteem like the gift of blood and chocolate. Secondly, hang in there. It’s going to suck for a long while, but then it’s going to get a whole lot better!
Anyway, this search for a happy place begins in your discombobulated teenage years and proceeds to consume the rest of your life. So we all get busy collecting joy. It could be a job, a cute boyfriend, a killer pair of shoes, an action figure, a severe addiction to butt chugging, or a cool fetish like being a furry. Some things satisfy you for a while, some things land you in the hospital, and other things get you arrested. But, hey, it’s all in the name of happiness.
Now what would this chapter be if I didn’t take you down a rabbit hole and “learn ya’s sum’in”? Unfortunately, happiness is not reserved for the deserving, and there are a lot of demented people out there looking for their inner smile, too. And unfortunately, what’s great about the United States is that there is something here for everyone. No matter what kind of sociopath you are—aliented, disaffiliated, hostile, cheated, aggressive, dysocial, or just your common garden variety—we have the cure for what ails you. Happiness is within reach!
So if your idea of a good time is firing a shoulder-launched missile at God knows what, you should head on down to South Carolina, where it’s totally legal. Just a quick permit from the Aeronautics Division of the Department of Commerce, and you and your FGM-148 Javelin with its built-in infrared homing device are ready for a party in the sky at Myrtle Beach. This “fire-and-forget” missile with lock-on before launch and automatic self-guidance will make sure no one forgets your next Independence Day family barbeque. South Carolina—it’s “Just right.”
Now if a violent aerial assault isn’t quite the boner-loner you were looking for, but texting unsolicited pics of your dong to strangers anonymously and consistently on a daily basis is more your speed, then have I got the vacation spot for you. Say good-bye to judges, lawyers, and being hassled by the police, and say hello to the progressive state of Georgia. In the Peach State it’s perfectly legal to let your big dick and the twins do the talking for you, and they’re ready to welcome you with arms wide open. And with your daily cock-shot crusade, you can make sure that when people hear the song, “Georgia on My Mind,” all they’ll be thinking about is your schwantz!
If photography of the phallus isn’t quite your speed, and you need something more exciting, like smoking crack, nailing a hooker, and counting cards, then it’s time to head to the Garden State and “America’s Favorite Playground,” Atlantic City, New Jersey. Welcome to your new home away from home, where at least one of those three things is perfectly legal, and the other two are extraordinarily accessible. We guarantee that you’ll be in the throes of a torrid love affair with a crack whore, faded from being mounted by the white horse, and a hundred thousand dollars in debt on beautiful Baltic Avenue, within twenty-four hours. That’s when you’ll truly appreciate the biggest secret of this mystical paradise as it becomes clear to you that the tagline for Atlantic City is actually backward. It’s not “Do A.C.”; it’s “A.C.’s Gonna Do You” bareback then bounce!
If all these activities don’t live up to your more delicately refined Scandinavian inclinations, and you’re just looking for a little bit of How’s Your Father with an animal, yo
u’re in luck. It appears that you, the discerning zoophile, have the most options of anyone. It turns out, at the moment I’m writing this, that bestiality is legal in thirteen states, districts, and territories in the United States. Fourteen if you count Michigan, where, up until now, it’s been nothing but “Great Lakes” and “Great Times” for paraphiliacs. However, I recently read that the legislature there is “twying weyal haawd” to pass a bill making it illegal, so you might have to hurry. But, goddamn Michigan, you were right! There was “More to See.”
But it’s time to seize the day! When it comes to truculent savagery, the real party’s in our nation’s capital! So how about heading up to Washington, D.C., where you can have a romantic animal encounter with a stunning view of the White House, or there’s always beautiful Ka’anapali Beach in Maui, Hawaii, with its captivating sunsets and completely unlit shoreline. But wait, there’s more! There are so many other dreamy destinations you should consider that are tailor-made for sexing animals, it’s gonna make your head spin.
First stop is the “Bluegrass State,” the Commonwealth of Kentucky, where if you’re attracted to feral animals, “It’s that Friendly.” How about Nevada? Where the morality of farm sex is “Wide Open” to interpretation. Or New Hampshire, where the battle cry “Live Free or Die” has been protecting zoophilism since 1945. Then, of course, there’s New Mexico, where the state animal, the black bear, is just waiting for your amorous advances in their “Land of Enchantment.” And there’s just “So Much to Discover” in Ohio for the modern-day zoosexual in search of a good old-fashioned hullabaloo! And in the great state of Texas, it’s simple; if they catch you balls-deep in a steer, they don’t mess with you, and all they ask in return is that you “Don’t Mess with Texas.” Ya feel me, compadre?
It’s funny now that I think about it, but where would be the obvious place to get some serious mooseknuckle … from a “real” moose … that you are attracted to … for sexual relations? “Vermont, naturally.” Don’t forget “Wild and Wonderful” West Virginia: It’s an all-you-can-eat animal sex buffet for you. I shit you not! It’s “Almost Heaven.” And don’t even get me started on Wyoming! Yellowstone, Grand Tetons—it’s quite simply “Like No Place on Earth” for a zoo fetishist looking to score some serious four-legged poonani. I think you know what I’m talkin’ about?!! And don’t dismiss the tiny but beautiful island of Guam. If your thing is to have morning sex with whatever’s walking around the house, then “Where America’s Day Begins” is where you want to be! As you can see, we are living in a jizz-inhaling gerbil-fucker’s paradise, so plan your next vacation accordingly.
Everybody Curses, I Swear! Page 36