Am I white trash?

And if so, am I proud?

When you grow up poor and go to public schools, you don’t consider the possibility that you might be white trash.  Mostly because there is always someone white trashier than you.  

I’d like to think I’m NOT actually white trash. I’m mixed: half-white, half-trash — my mom is from the South and my dad has teeth. But looking back at my childhood, I realize much of it had some dubious trash trappings.

Yes, I dipped occasionally, but I never had the worn white denim ring on the outside of my back jeans pocket from the perpetual Skoal can.

Yes, it was public school, but it was also very PROGRESSIVE — we were mainlining retards in my high school by the meaty fistful.

As a matter of fact, Virginia public schools were teeming with retards when I was there. Listen: I know “retards” isn’t PC, but I’m talking “Down’s Syndrome” kids — if anyone can truly capture the comic essence of the word “retard,” it’s these drooling, straight-banged bastards (why do they ALWAYS have the same haircut?).

Like most Down’s Syndrome kids, I never once got my hair cut by a ‘professional’ until my senior year of high school (in this case, a ‘Supercuts’ technician). Up until then, my dad cut my hair. “Bowl cut” isn’t a figure of speech, people– a “bowl cut” is when someone puts a bowl on the head and cuts the hair around it.

Unfortunately for me, my dad would put the bowl on my head facing up, so all I’d have would be a little tuft of hair sticking out the top of my skull like a “Freaks” pinhead. (That last bit was a joke).

Shopping with my dad was another cue that perhaps I was trash or at least trash-adjacent. Department stores were the worst — not because dad was poor, but because he was poor AND tried to play it off like he was ‘frugal.’ I literally thought that there was a brand name called “SLIGHTLY IRREGULAR.” My dad would buy my SI underpants (we called them SI’s for short) by the bulk. And then I’d have to wear imitation corduroy jeans called TUFFSKINS that felt like polyester cardboard which was being continually lit on fire right in the vicinity of the scrotal sac.

Between the TS’s (as I called them) and the slightly irregular undies, I’d spend the entire day doing the “work the wedgie out” walk. People at school thought I had scoliosis. Or spina bifida, if the TS’s were freshly out of the laundry.

ALL I wanted in life was to be rich — and that meant having a real designer shirt! Like Izod or Polo. I’d get polo-’style’ shirts instead — which would be shit like a horse with no one on it. My mom got the clever idea to sew Alligators on Izod-style shirts. The first time I donned one, I went to school all arrogant until someone pointed out that the Alligator was facing the wrong way. I tried to convince people it was their new “greater than” line, but it was actually “equal to” beatings on the playground.

Remarkably, despite this, my parents successfully tricked me and my two brothers into thinking that we were middle class.   When your high school experience involves — at least bi-weekly — watching big black ballers get in fistfights with “Joey the Retard” in the cafeteria and LOSE (DS kids are as strong as PCP-addled Orangutans), it’s easy to forget about mundane things like exactly what rung you are on the socioeconomic ladder.

One day, I finally saved up enough money to buy my own designer piece and I got a “members only” jacket. It was like summer and hot, but I still wore that thing to class every day for a week. I would hear things like: “Dude, that style is so dead,” “More like ‘Only Member’” and “Fag.” I cried and cried. I’m telling you, kids can be so mean in college. 
 
As it turns out, it wasn’t until I became ensconced in the Ivory towers of Princeton University that I learned I was, in fact, poor white trash from Virginia.  
 
My freshman year at Princeton is when I first found out how completely uncouth, unfashionable, uncultured, and unPRINCETONy I actually was.  At first, I was angry at my parents for not teaching me how to be refined and shit — like what a hand towel is; which are the proper utensils to use for eatin’; and what ‘manners’ are.

But after 4 years of going there and after 3 subsequent years of dating a trust fund girl from the LIPPER financial family,  I finally got my chance to be RICH… by proxy, at least.

And I realized something profound that changed my life: rich people, in general, suck enormous amounts of cock — figuratively speaking, of course. Specifically, the East-Hampton-wall-street-posing-$5000-worth-of-makeup-nose-job-for-their-sweet-sixteen-having-to-cover-up-their-genetic-inbreeding-spoiled-acting-Prozac-gulping-therapist-obsessing-breakfast nook-eating-deluded-wrongly-entitled-group-of-talentless-and-stupid-bratty-fucknut TYPES.

Wow, did I type that out loud? I seem bitter, huh? Well, for the record, I dumped her. White trash - 1. Legacy family - 0.

So I guess maybe in retrospect, I am White Trash and Proud.

When I was a kid, I would bug my dad relentlessly about the possibility of going to “summer camp.”

I would tell him that all my cool friends went to overnight camp during the summer… on account of the fact that THEIR dads actually loved them. Because two of the defining aspects of my dad’s personality are his Scottish frugality and his emotional Asperger’s, he never budged a bit.

One day, without any reason given, he submitted, and told me that he was going to send me off to “CAMP HIGHROAD” in the mountains of western Virginia. For a full week! I was so excited, I almost pee’d my hand me-down Garanimals.

Inside this trojan horse of summer water sports was a bunch of Bible-wielding rednecks itching for a Holy war.

Because “CAMP HIGHROAD” was, in fact, Jesus Camp.

See, the THIRD defining aspect of my dad’s personality is his religious fundamentalism. I guess he figured that if he was going to waste his hard earned government employee money on a camp, his children better get some eternal salvation in the process.

I’m not sure why, at age 8, my dad thought I needed to be saved. Perhaps he was aware of my FUN DIP addiction. Perhaps he knew that I was up to 6 Oreos a day and dangerously beginning to move into Doublestuff. Or possibly, since I had a terrible and lateral lisp that no speech therapist could seem to lick, he suspected something more Satanically systemic….

The logo of ‘Camp Highroad’ was a black cross with a serpentine red flame curling perilously close to it…. Hmmmm, wooden cross… about to be on fire… hills of Virginia?… In retrospect, the calculus was pretty easy.

The camp (like my dad) Trojan-horsed their religious agenda inside a zippity-do-dah “ADVENTURELAND.” We did the same outdoorsy activities that everybody else did everywhere else. The only difference was that we did every camp activity for the glory of Jesus: canoeing, ziplines, and, often, atomic wedgies, for Jesus.

The highlight of camp had to be the campfire. Every night, we sat around a huge bonfire, read sermons, and sang terrifying songs about the second coming of Jesus Christ in the imminent “rapture” as we roasted marshmallows — or as the counselors jokingly called them, “Sinners.” It was a regular Jesus Jamboree with splashes of fear and xenophobia thrown in.

I imagine Camp Highroad had the same type of kids as a regular sleepaway camp. The only difference, I later realized, was that a lot of the kids at Highroad were clearly there to learn how to let Jesus, the Son of God, enter into their young hearts so that they wouldn’t be tempted to let Hay-soos, the Poolboy, enter into their young buttholes. Maybe my lazy and sloppy “esses” had made my father wonder about my sexuality because it seemed that an unspoken mission of Camp Highroad was to exorcise “faggotry” whenever it reared its ugly head…. or whenever a kid’s head was on rears.

Any institution THAT anti-gay was, not surprisingly, chockful o’ gay. But enough about the Republican Party.

It shouldn’t shock you then that my second strongest memory from Camp Highroad involves being constantly exposed to peni. After daily swimming classes, all the kids AND counselors would hop in the communal showers together. The adults would casually walk around the changing room naked like it was some ancient Greek mentorship program. Some of the counselors even did the overtly homosexual maneuver (as seen at “CRUNCH” fitness) of putting on every single bit of clothing, even socks and watch, before finally, and begrudgingly, shimmying into their tight briefs.

Even at that young age, I knew something was fucked up about that. Tube socks, a wristwatch, and a cock should never, ever be seen at the exact same time. I think that is actually a subset of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.

I also knew there was something VERY wrong about the sight of a 12 year-old kid with a two inch hairless acorn standing next to a 25 year-old counselor lathering his hair — arms up in a Calvin Klein billboard pose — as shampoo froth funneled down through his butt cheeks. I seemed to be the only person who was freaked out by the “openness” of it all. I never showered once. I would just sit there, mouth agape, looking at all the different dicks like bizarre fish in an aquarium, feeling like Darwin probably did after his first trip to the Galapagos.

Having only seen my own kit and caboodle previously, I was shell-shocked. I remember, at one point, staring at this southern kid Jake’s penis. He was a pale kid and his penis looked painfully purple and diminutive. It was like someone had sewn a maroon button into the seam of his crotch. I gazed, slack-jawed in astonishment. All of a sudden, he shouted across the locker room in a squeaky Huckleberry Hound accent: “Hey, what are you lookin’ at? We all got one!”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, but not a purple one like THAT, E.T.! It looks like it got burned in a space fire!”

The worst part about class with the NAMBLA synchronized swim team was the fact that I was a crappy swimmer. To get around the swim test towards the end of week, I gave myself “the flu” by asking to see the nurse and putting the thermometer against a desk lamp bulb when she wasn’t looking. My temperature came out to 120 degrees. I exclaimed, “Wow, I didn’t realize I was that sick!” The nurse gave me a knowing smirk and wrote a pass to excuse me.

Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to do the backstroke for Jesus.

I did, however, have my first fight for Jesus.

I don’t remember exactly why I got into a fight with this particular kid. I just remember that he baby talked a lot. Many of the kids there baby talked about the Bible, and it irked the everliving fuck out of me. I would look around when the kid was doing it, like “Is it just me!?” I felt like the protagonist in one of those Michael Bay films where you have to convince the President’s cabinet that the world is going to end unless they do something immediately, and they just look at you like you’re smoking a crack pipe.

Much like this President and his Cabinet, I found a lousy pretense other than the truth (the baby talk) to attack, and I preemptively pushed the kid. I don’t think punches were thrown. I just remember him pinning my head against the dusty wood slats of the cabin floor and saying, in the baby talkiest of baby talk patois: “Okay, aw you weady to quit now? Can’t we be fwiends?” He won. I guess God was on his side. It was beyond humiliating.

I will say this about Camp Highroad: that place works!

First of all, by the end of camp, any latent gay I might have had in me was wiped completely out thanks to baby talking quasi-fags and ugly purple cocks burning indelible scars into the parts of my brain responsible for shame, sexual gratification, and long-term memory.

Second of all, I DID have a born-again moment at that camp where I asked Jesus to enter into my heart.

I vividly remember when it happened, and it was also probably the FIRST time I sincerely prayed to Jesus. After the fight, I was uncertain of who to turn to, or where to go to share my pain, I humblydropped to my knees by my short-sheeted cot and prayed:

“Dear Jesus. . . . Please get me the fuck out of Jesus Camp . . . in Jesus’ name I pray. . . . Amen. ”

The next day, I called my dad at the camp office and told him to pick me up. Two days early.

I thought he would be furious with me for not finishing the program, but, as he has my entire life, he surprised me with his kind and gentle nature. He didn’t tell me I was a disappointment to him or say one stern word. He even took me to Arby’s, my favorite restaurant, for lunch. He didn’t ask me about God, and he didn’t make me talk about the fight, the forfeited swim test, or the purple-penised fag and Jew haters.

Despite his Republican fundamentalism, I think he knew that, more than a soul that needed saving, I was his confused and scared son.

So . . . we just sat there, father and son, eating America’s roast beef in silent communion.

I’m in an airport right now watching Tiger Woods recite a scripted, stilted apology to the world on CNN.

Apparently, he is sorry for “being selfish.” I guess “being selfish” is shorthand for “banging a boatload of bitches.” He looks pallid, almost wan, like he’s been taking Michael Jackson black-be-gone pills. His mom is sitting there, arms staunchly folded, looking sternly Phillipino.

Among other things, he says that he had felt entitled, after working so hard in life, to give in to all the “temptation” around him.

By a strange bit of serendipity, I am eating an Apple, bite marks skirting around the edge of the sticker….

Tiger keeps reading as if an automaton, apologizing to the golf community, the children of the world, unborn fetuses, and everyone else whose world view has been totally subverted by the sloppy swinging of Woods’ wood.

Now Wolf and the Situation Room are having a ‘Brady Bunch’-style panel of talking heads discussing the whys and the whatnots. Pat “O’Let’s Get Crazy” Brian is one of the “experts,” which is hilarious and depressing.

The panel is discussing the sincerity of the apology and whether or not Tiger has changed. I, for one, truly believe that Tiger has changed. As a matter of fact, I would bet my life that Tiger Woods will NEVER, EVER cheat on his wife with a Chili’s waitress again.

He will probably upgrade to an Applebee’s hostess.

I mean, he is DEFINITELY going to cheat again. Let’s face it, the course of the history of politics, art, and war has been chartered by powerful men sticking their peepees — or attempting to stick their peepees — into forbidden fruit.

So, to understand Tiger and his skank-fetish, it might help to look at some of the causes of male infidelity in general…..

There is a universe of notions about ‘Why men cheat.‘

Inside this giant circle are the different permutations of cheater. There are theories on ‘Why married men cheat,’ with more specific explanations of ‘Why wealthy, successful married men cheat’ and ‘Why black men cheat,’ AND, in a tiny subset of venn diagram, there exists ‘Why the fuck did Tiger Woods cheat on his hot supermodel wife with a bunch of dumb white trash?!’

Does Tiger’s lonely sliver hold the key to all the outlying circles of the kingdom of infidelity? Why did this man, who has everything, bone a Chili’s waitress in the back of a Buick? And then sundry sluts everywhere else? Is there a hole this golfer won’t play? When he gave in to “temptation,” did he eat too much of the Apple from the Tree of Knowledge and now nothing can sate his appetite?

In the ongoing maelstrom, the women wonder ‘Why the fuck did he cheat?,‘ while most men only think ‘Why the fuck did he get married?’

The reason the Tiger drama has struck such a chord with America is because it taps into every woman’s fear that her man may, in fact, be a cheater.

So… Is he?

Well, the good news is that men don’t always cheat. The bad news is that men almost always want to cheat.

However, the problem with all these easy statements — including the nauseatingly popular “Men are as available as their options!” axiom — is that they don’t offer the reason why.

So, if we accept that all men do, indeed, WANT to cheat, we can start to hone in on the genesis of why.

For some cheaters, maybe the ‘why’ seems obvious.

Like one-balled wonder Lance Armstrong: “I have one testicle so I’ll show you a man!”

Typical Hollywood actor: “My mom was a drunk and I fear abandonment so let me spork you… and you… and you!”

Tiger Woods: “I was an OCD golfer in high school and longingly short-stroked to tit-laden blondes who thought I was nerdish and blackish.”

But, alas, these could just be excuses. Maybe Lance would have been a prick with three balls. Plus, Hitler allegedly had one ball and he exterminated the Jews — he didn’t hump Hollywood starlets. Clearly, these reasons are anecdotal. Something MORE must be at the cheating core of the mass of men, right?

Is it, as some “Iron John” followers believe, that modern men are so removed from their macho saber-tooth-hunting ways that plowing women is the only way, in today’s world, to assert masculinity? These neo-masculinists believe that the urge is curbed by doing manly man shit, but it seems that men with six-packs who go on warrior weekends and build stone houses are still mostly assholes. Ernest Hemmingway tough-guy’ed his turkey neck into most any supple “v” that was willing.

So, are men just psychologically damaged by the pressures of society? Well sure, the neural highway connecting a man’s cerebellum to his celery stick is full of fucked-up potholes, detours, and Mexicans on the off ramp selling oranges, but, again, these explanations becomes way too varied and anecdotal. The reason for rampant male infidelity throughout the history of the world MUST be more systemic, right?

Ok, let’s start at the beginning. Adam and Eve.

Adam was a man. He lived in paradise. He was safe. Completely. With a push, Eve introduced him into the “world” which is harsh and violent and begins and ends in suffering. She betrayed him. As a former mayor of D.C. might say, “The bitch set him up!”

Of course, there was no actual Adam and Eve. It’s a myth. But the true meaning of the ‘Garden of Eden’ is rarely expanded upon.

The real metaphor of Genesis, at once obvious and obscure, is childbirth.

The ‘Garden of Eden‘ is the womb. ‘Eve‘ is mother.

After nine months in a womb of Eden, a woman betrays man by pushing him out into mortality. Harsh lights, cold steel, shrill screams. His connection to God, his paradise, is lost with the snip of a cord.

This woman is now a con artist, holding him and saying, ‘This whole umbilical thing was a set-up. It was always meant to end. You’re on your own now! So go to that Tree, take that Apple, and cut your teeth on it, boy.’

Birth. The first and ultimate betrayal by a woman.

We never forget it and, because of that, we never, ever, fully trust. And we silly men can never understand the fathomless, unconditional love of birthing another person. Of creating life. We can only understand protecting it for reasons that we don’t fully comprehend. So we are left with that paradoxical, initial trauma of birth. And then a life of vigilance and being hard, and fighting wars, and defending what is ours.

Yet underneath that armor, we have a vague memory. It is antithetical to this truculent existence. It is our alpha and omega. Inside of a woman. It is the lure of the womb, the Garden of Eden. Mysterious, unseen, calling to us like Sirens from salty cliffs.

And once we arrive, the deceptive opiates of our orgasm create, however briefly, a snapshot of amniotic oblivion. The unbearable lightness of being. For a moment, we are engulfed and surrounded in safe and unconditional love. The flatlined thoughts and the pounding blood in our ears mimic that liquid sarcophagus whose benevolent whooshing tricked us into believing that once, in the beginning, life actually WAS a paradise.

And then, we collapse into you…. After a few seconds of vulnerability, too soon, we are back.

We open our eyes.

And all we see is Apples.

Happy ‘Valentine’s Day’ everybody!   In honor of this holiday, may I express my befuddled amazement at the fact that “Romance” hasn’t yet been outed as the cheap street crack that it is.

Because, let’s face it, romance is essentially crack cocaine for chicks. And much like crack, It creates an addiction that makes living simply day to day virtually unbearable. Watch any lonely woman on a Friday night desperately browsing the shelves of a video store; she may as well be saying to the cashier: “Hey, baby, I’ll suck your dick for a Twilight DVD….I WILL SUCK YOUR DICK!!!”

It always amazes me how women fall hook, line, and sinker for the whole notion of “Romance.” It’s like Charlie Brown and his sisyphean challenge of trying to kick that fucking football. He (as well as the viewing audience) strongly suspects that Lucy is going to pull the pigskin away, but the “blockhead” charges full steam ahead in his awful brown shoes, visions of glorious victory dancing inside his stupid, bald cranium.

Inevitably, Lucy snatches the ball and Charlie Brown sails through the air. His line lips shake and vibrate as he lets forth a blood-curdling scream of existential pain and disappointment until he crashes to earth with a brutal and onomatopoeic “THUNK!”

Much like Charlie Brown keeps trusting that Lucy won’t be a fucking bitch, millions of women congregate every monday to watch “The Bachelor” with hope in their hearts, although the sad reality is that — after 13 seasons — NONE of the Bachelors are currently married to any of the women they chose as the “the ONE.”

Partially because the whole conceit of “the ONE” person that can make you happy is Trigger-Palin-retarded!  My mom has been happily married for 40 years and she told me, “Relationships are WORK, not soul-mates and sparkly vampires. Love is when you can take a Clorox Bleach Pen to your man’s tighty-whities and erase a skidmark without batting an eyelash.” Amen, mom, amen.

Still, almost every woman in the history of foreverness has uttered the ubiquitous phrase “I think he just might be the one.” Although that sentence is at once a modern and progressively strong expression of woman’s ability to choose, it is also completely fucking TPR (i.e., Trigger-Palin-Retarded).

Concepts like “THE ONE” don’t actually mean anything substantive; well, other than whatever unicorn-laden-Narnia-like world they conjure up in the romantic’s mind. The phrase is an expression of science fiction and nothing else.

A woman, upon having intense eye contact with some hunky new prospect, might actually think: “I hope he’s the one!” Unbeknownst to her, that same prospect is probably thinking, “I hope she swallows!”

When men use the phrase “the ONE” regarding women, it usually goes something like, “She’s the ONE woman I worry might say something to my wife…” OR “Wow, you know, I think she just might be the ONNNNE MINUTE — WHO’S THAT BITCH THAT JUST WALKED IN THE ROOM?!”

Through some strange cosmic tear in the space-time continuum, this overarching cognitive dissonance doesn’t stop hordes of women from weekly making popcorn and snuggling and imagining themselves getting handed the final rose at the ceremony. And for some bizarre reason, they look at shows like “The Bachelor” as viable paradigms for what love is and can’t believe it when their own relationships fail miserably.

“He was sooo amazing in the beginning!”

Yeah, well, that’s because he was FAKING it, sweetheart.

Look, ladies, it crushed us as well when we learned that you faked orgasms. You fake coming, we fake carats. We both do it for the sole purpose of making the other person feel better, but both sexes are equally counterproductive and TPR in this regard.

Now this is all not to say that, as a guy, you should pin your girlfriend down and fart on her face to quell any and all sense of romance. You don’t need to purposely and violently squash any idea she might have that you’re a romantic character in a Nicolas Sparks novel, but you also don’t need to pretend that you like Walt Whitman and glittery Cullens in order to maintain a relationship with her.

And you definitely don’t need to take her to some epicene movie like “Valentine’s Day,” particularly when you could be supporting your country by masturbating to the Olympic female mogul skiiers. God Bless America…. and Canada too…. and, oooooh, some of the Ukrainians….

Here’s the great PARADOX of the female obsession with romance: as much as women believe in romance and worship at the chintzy-smelling altar of all things fairy tale and epic, they actually have a greater capacity for real love than we silly men will ever have. They are compassionate and take care of us in ways that we can barely appreciate and rarely reciprocate. For as long as their entire lifetime, they can file away their swashbuckling image of you and, most of the time, completely accept you for the schleppy fuck-up that you actually turned out to be.

As my mom said, women have the type of compassion and love where they can pick up their lovers’ ratty underpants and erase skidmarks and STILL think he’s “THE ONE.” Although men aren’t ‘romantic’ at all, do you think they have the capacity to love like that … at all?

Men are much more prone to say something akin to the following: “I loved her sooo much…. But then she FARTED in front of me! I mean, what the hell is that?!!! I didn’t hear her fart or anything but I could smell it, and, even though I was farting around the same time, I knew she farted because it had a completely different odor. It was disgusting! It was just SUCH a turn-off that I had to immediately break up with her by email.”

In truth, we GUYS are the hopeless romantics. We are the ones who can’t imagine our ladies being anything but perfect and angelic, while at the same time we deride them for their sappy movies, books and “foolish” ideas about love and romance. Guys, let’s be honest, we kind of suck and we’re kind of hypocrites regarding this.

So, for Valentine’s Day, if you see your girl getting all twitterpated by concepts like love and trust and ‘HE WENT TO JARED’S,” just give her a break. She’s still gonna take care of you. She will always have the magic ability to juggle the Clorox Bleach Pen and the Edward obsession.

But, ladies, I hope that this day at least is sans skidmarks.

As for what happens tonight, well to each their own….

When I was six, I got a ‘Stretch Armstrong’ doll after much begging and cajoling of the parental unit.

I think Santa had fucked up that year and given me a v-neck sweater, so I blubbered and stamped my feet until my folks, out of guilt or exhaustion, finally conceded and allowed me a rare off-season present. They even chauffeured me in the dilapidated station wagon to my childhood mecca, Toys ‘R Us.

In his glossy box at Toys R’ Us, Stretch Armstrong looked like the answer to all of my action-figure needs. In retrospect, his black bikini briefs, golden locks, muscular physique and malleable rubber body made him the paragon of Turkish-bath-loitering Chelsea queen, but at age 6, Stretch was the answer to the void in my soul.

My GI Joes were in bad shape. Their fuzzy little afros looked post-chemo and most of their Kung Fu grip fingers were missing, like maybe Duke had gambled away his digits in drunken bouts of five-finger fillet. Their phalanges had been reduced to curled and lonely index fingers. In short, Duke and his team of Joes looked like Nam vets working at saw mills.

Alas, no worries! NEW Stretch Armstrong– with his helmet of blonde coif and fresh smell of packaged polyurethane — was going to remedy the existential angst brought on by the demise of my dolls. At six inches and bullet-proof, Stretch would be the toy to end all toys.

Although I usually would try to milk my parents for all they were worth whenever we entered a Toys R’ Us, this time I only had eyes for Stretch. I bee-lined, breathless, to the shelf in the back middle of the store, grabbed him on tip-toes, and held him aloft like a conquering hero as my hand-me-down ‘Garanimal’ coduroys happily chafed away until my arrival at the register.

My periphery couldn’t distract me. I didn’t even ask my pushover mom for one of those bouncy “superballs” that I would normally want and then get home and throw against the wall, where it would immediately get lost behind a piece of heavy polyester furniture. Fuck that, I was on a mission.

I marched to the checkout line and my dad handed me a $20 bill so I could make the purchase all by myself. It was the first purchase I ever made and, more importantly, I think the single greatest moment of my life….

About three weeks later, that sucky piece of shit sprang a leak.

Thick jelly started oozing out from his armpits. It was red and viscous and it smelled like dead frogs.

When it first happened, I tried to delicately duct-tape the tears in the rubber, like some mini-MacGuyver. But the rips developed all over his body: his kneecaps, his groin, his shoulders. No matter how hard I tried, the end result looked like Stretch had been held hostage and beaten in the joints with a lead pipe. My Joes would watch in their perches, fingerless and silently smirking.

I continued to try, in vain, to make him do superhuman stretchy things, but he just wanted to lounge around and bleed through his Speedos. I eventually (and begrudgingly) put him in the bottom of an old wooden crate that would end up serving as a sarcophagus for the relics of many of my childhood disappointments.

When I think about some of the women that I fell for who ended up disappointing me, I experience almost the exact same blend of wistfulness and remorse with which I recall those childhood moments. Stretch Armstrong was no different. I actually think Stretch Armstrong was my first heartbreak. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that my first heartbreak came when I was six, or that it came at the rubbery hands of a gay doll.

You never get your heart broken like you do when you’re a kid, but my most recent heartbreak feels pretty close. In some ways, it’s a similar story.

I fell in love hard with this woman. But somehow, within 7 months, she was quietly packing up her errant belongings in a matching suitcase set. We left our mutual memories in a few digital photos and a duct-taped box - one more sarcophagus for the relics of another adult disappointment.

I had met Adrienne last January 31st, 2009. Although we had corresponded for years, it was the first time I had laid eyes on her in person. She emerged from a yellow cab beautifully alabaster, six feet tall, in a black Valentino dress. She greeted me with soft brown eyes, beguiling lips, and impossibly long legs that looked like the answers to all my questions. Her raven coiffure and fresh female perfume were going to remedy the existential angst brought on by the demise of all my previous relationships. The first kiss that night was arguably one of the great moments of my life. It was supposed to be the kiss to end all kisses….

And then it sprang a leak.

My thirties seem to be zipping along.

It seems like I was 29 with “one more year of carefree living bro!” just days ago. I must be getting older because I watch the Jersey Shore with as much nostalgia as I do revulsion. When I hear Mike being mocked because he’s 27 and going after girls in their early 20’s, I find myself defending his whole ‘Situation.’

The problem with getting older isn’t the physiological slowing (that’s why God invented caffeine!), it’s the increasing awareness of the finiteness of things, people, and experiences.

That’s a fancy way of saying that I’m starting to freak about my parents dying.

Aaaaand I’m starting to think I need to marry a bitch so my mom can die with her Irish eyes smiling.

She’s “worried” about me. She’s worried that I will never meet a woman who is both willing and able to take care of me. Each year that passes she thinks that my chances are receding like my hairline. I’m the opposite; I think my chances are expanding like my waistline.

This is why she worries: both of my brothers are doctors. And they’re both married to doctors. I know it breaks her little heart when my father does the family introductions at holiday parties: “Hey, this is Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, and… Bill.”

My dad finds that intro hilarious. My mom is different. I’m actually mixed, even though most people can’t tell. I’m half-white, half-trash. My dad is caucasian and my mom has a mullet. Don’t laugh, it frames her tooth well. I’m kidding of course. She has dentures.

Both of my parents are making a little bit more of an effort with our relationship now that they are convinced they’re gonna be dead soon. My mom even made the ‘this could be our final Christmas together as a family’ threat last month. (Irony alert: Oy vey).

My mom has gone so far as to apologize for the drinking she used to do. Recently, she confessed: “Billy, I have to tell you something: I drank through the entire pregnancy.”

In typical Southern fashion, she tried to make it seem okay when she added, “But don’t worry, it was alllll top shelf shit…. Bailey’s Irish cream, as a matter of fact.” Apparently, when her water broke it was 80 proof. Although I don’t remember my infancy (I mean, I was wasted, how could I?), I’m assuming her drinking mean I didn’t breastfeed. Or, if I DID breastfeed, it was probably with salt and lime. I’m too embarrassed to ask.

My mom wasn’t really a huge fan of church but went every Sunday JUST for the communion wine. My dad went to get salvation, my mom went to get sloshed on the blood of Christ. Or, as she called it, the ‘Christini.’

My dad has never been as fun or as Irish as my mother regarding church. He tended to take things a little more seriously. I grew up reading Christian comic books (the Adventures of Jesus Boy!), listening to Christian Rock (oxymoron alert), and worrying about the physical pain of perhaps going to hell. It’s a real place in his mind, replete with imps and dinosaurs and firey fire lapping up the flesh of naked sinners.

He was so afeared for my soul that my dad even sent me to JESUS camp. As much as I make fun of it, that camp is where I finally learned how to pray from the heart. I remember the first time I was overcome with emotion and got on my knees to pray: “Dear Jesus… please get me the fuck out of Jesus camp.”

My dad also thinks premarital sex and masturbation are sins. Sins that, if accrued too much, could result in my reservation in Hades. Because of this, my dad tried to cockblock me with religious imagery all over my bedroom walls growing up. While most kids had posters of metal bands and hot pinups on the wall, my walls had Bible verses and a poster of a little yellow duckling in high green grass that said, “Only the meek shall inherit the earth.” In retrospect, I was giving myself a daily reminder that “Hey Billy, be a pussy. It’ll suck in terms of your lifetime, but you’ll get a slice of Heaven out of the deal.”

He went so far as to put a plastic Jesus on the nightstand right by my bed. It was a bobble head, so most nights Jesus was very disappointed. Sometimes, 3 times a night….

My dad fit the three “R”’s that are destroying, I mean embodying, America today. He was religious, Republican and racist. I know, I know, those words are basically synonyms, but there it is. My dad went to weekly racist meetings every Sunday called ‘Church.’

Ironically, from the crucible of this upbringing, my first serious girlfriend in high school was black. Plus, I grew up in a very racist area… called the UNITED STATES.

For religious reasons, my dad didn’t think I should ‘COMMUNE’ with a black girl. I remember thinking, ‘But dad, isn’t The Bible black?… And wasn’t Eve black? I mean, she was made from a rib.”

My dad eventually came around and opened himself up to the idea that racism is bad. Or at least only acceptable within a small circle of good friends. I mean, I can’t hope for miracles, can I? My mom stopped drinking and turned her energies on being the emotional center of the family.

Truth be told, although my dad is a Republican and a homophobe and a racist and religious, he is probably the best human being I know. He is an inspiration and an amazing man. I don’t know exactly how that’s possible but it’s true. My mom was also an incredible mom who showered and showers me and my brothers with love and support. I kind of feel like I have the best parents ever, despite the things I wrote… which are like 87 percent true. I mean, they raised my two brilliant and amazing Doctor brothers… and Bill….

My parents are going to read this, but I am posting it anyway with two fervent hopes:

My parents have a very good sense of humor.
So does God.

I’m in my teeny dressing room right now, daydreaming about my hot female co-stars (I won’t mention names coughallofthemcough), thinking about the personal irony of playing “Val.”

See, I have a “recurring role” on “All My Children.”  For those of you who don’t know what a recurring role is — it’s a character who’s on the show sometimes, but isn’t really good looking enough to be on the show all the time.  I know I’m a good-looking guy (my mom told me so), but apparently producers and writers think there’s only so much of “me” an audience can look at week to week.

Being a recurring character is actually kind of a great gig for an actor.  Sure there’s less fame and money, but it frees up time for cool things like picking my nose, jerking off, and watching Batman reruns.  You know, Tuesdays.

It ironic because even though I have a crush on my female co-star, I play a homosexual on the soap.  In the soap world, apparently, I’m not that great looking AND I’m not that straight looking.

Even though I’m not gay, when they made me the offer, I took it.  I don’t mean “I took it!” — I wasn’t Robert DeNiro method acting the role — I mean I needed the money, so… crap, that doesn’t sound right either… you know what I mean….

I originated this role 10 years ago in New York.  One thing I learned about the crazy world of soap fans is that the people watching take these shows very seriously.  They think YOU are the character.  So much so that I would get hate mail — letters sent to my personal home address every week saying things like, “Young man, you are going to burn in the fires of eternal damnation unless you change your goddamn lifestyle!”

After a while, I decided to write back:

“Dear Dad, I’m just acting.  I know you wanted me to be an engineer… Why don’t you love me?”

…okay, so Dave Dawes never did, in fact, write me.  But he’s very much a Red-stater, though, and very much uncomfortable with anything involving ass banditry.  Truth be told, I did, in fact, get a couple of letters from folks who, shall we say, jumped off the high dive into the shallow end of the gene pool (read:  also Red-staters).

I’m looking at my clothes in the mirror wondering why gay guys have to wear such tight clothes?  It seems like some shirts only come in a size gay.  What’s the correlation between tight shirts and loose buttholes?

I hope my co-star still gets I’m straight.  I’m torn about random people thinking I’m gay.  On the one hand, when straight people think I’m gay, it annoys me.  (Does that mean I should stop rollerblading around in cutoff denim shorts and tank tops?  Really?)  On the flip side, when gay men think I’m straight, I also get self-conscious:  “Am I getting fat?”

Speaking of getting fat, I joined CRUNCH fitness recently, where everyone seems to be gay or gay-adjacent.  Even the guys working  the juice bar.  It makes me a tad paranoid.  “Hmmm…. I’m gonna watch you make that smoothie… What’s that?  No, no protein boost! NO PROTEIN BOOST!”

The other day, I was doing bicep curls and this handsome guy was staring at me.  In my 20’s, when gay men checked me out, I’d think “Do I look gay?  Am I giving off a gay vibe?  Am I latently gay?”  Now I’m in my 30’s and when gay guy look at me, I just think “I still got it!”   So, I went from furious to flattered in about four seconds.

To be honest, for the briefest of moments, his stare turned me a little gay.  Not permanently, but for a couple puckers of my butthole, I felt “Faaaaaaaabulous!”  I went from working my bi’s to turning bi.  I started jonesing for a whistle and disco ball, and before you know it, I was configuring window treatments in my head.

As I left the gym in my tank top, freshly swollen biceps, designer smoothie in hand, I caught eyes with a hot girl entering, who, in turn, completely ignored me.  I realized that I must have looked gayer than a vat of Kevin Spacey to her.  Maybe I shouldn’t have tied the bottom of my tank top into a knot.  Hmmmmm….

But herein lies the rub:  How do you take care of yourself and look good for women, without doing things that might make you look like women make you go ‘Ew!’:

Let’s face it — everything a man does to LOOK better is pretty much gay:

1. Expensive haircut (over $50) — kind of gay.
2. Going to the gym — getting to be gayer and gayer.
3. Going to the spa and tanning — pretty goddamned gay there, buddy.
4. Manicure/ Pedicure — Tom Cruise gay.
5. Getting eyebrows waxed — extra gay with a side of penis.
6. Getting chest waxed — extra gay with a side of penis with man gravy poured on top.
7. Shopping at Banana Republic - you are doing “the walrus” on Adam Lambert and Lance Bass and singing Broadway show tunes while you read this sentence.

Shopping at Banana Republic might be the epitome of this paradox.  Their cashmere blends are shnazzy and just expensive enough to make you feel like you actually have a positive net worth.  But, you can’t walk into the store without tripping over a cock!  Plus, those v-neck wearing workers there are just so damn nice, that it almost makes you wish you were gay!

I mean, you ask a gay guy at “The BR” for a particular pair of slacks and he starts running around the store like Lamar doing the javelin throw in Revenge of the Nerds:  “Oh my God!  I think we might have JUST run out!  What size are you?  We have a similar pant in a slate gray and another chino version but that’s pleated, and I’m sure you only do flat front, so let me run into the storeroom and check and see, but if we don’t have it here, I’ll call over to our nearest location to see if they have it.  Since you’ve been so patient here’s a Caramel Frappucino, and a coupon for 20 percent off your next penis — I mean purchase!  I’ll be right back!  Sit down while Hector gives you a back rub!”

So why should I be offended if I get cast gay sometimes?  I mean, gay guys always look happy (hence the origin of the “gay” moniker — true story); they always dress well; and they always, and inexplicably, have tons of money — even though they only work in retail or Human Resources!  You know why?  They’re not spending money on bitches!  Eat it, feminists!

I mean, has there ever been a poor pole smoker?  Maybe, but when’s the last time you saw a gay HOMELESS person?  Have you ever been walking down the street and seen a guy jiggling a cup and shouting, “Spare Cha-heyyyyyyyyyyyy-ange!”

To make matters worse, almost everything a man does to make a woman happy is considered “gay” by other men:  Snuggling, cuddling, spooning, or any derivation thereof;  watching TLC programming or any show that has the word “makeover” in the title;  shopping ANYWHERE; listening.

At this point, there’s not much left for straight people.  We’ve still got fantasy football and murder; I think those are mostly our gigs, still.  Oh yeah, also nose-picking and Batman reruns.

So here I am, in my dressing room at ‘ALL MY CHILDREN,’ about to go on tape as Val, Erica Kane’s loyal and longtime gay assistant.  I have a little lip gloss, some make-up, a nice Ellen Degeneris coif.  Plus, a v-neck cashmere-blend sweater from the Banana republic.  I look fab.  But, in my mind, I get to go to the Fusion office and flirt with the beautiful and charming Stephanie…

… and ACTION!  Time to snap off the light and go to set…. Well, not ‘snap!’ off the light…. ‘turn’ off the light… you know what I mean…

I will soon be met with the biggest challenge of any comic on the road:

I will try not to get laid.

Some of you will not get that or, worse still, think me douchey for saying it, but that’s the truest thing I can write about being on the road.   If you are on the road and seeing someone or attempting to see someone or have “standards” or waiting for the Penicillin to clear up that drip, there’s a very difficult and unsettling conundrum with which you have to wrestle.

I call it the “pilgrim’s paradox.”

On the one hand, the second you walk into a big, empty, lonely hotel room, you instinctively want to hump anything with a hole.

On the other hand, do you really want to jeopardize something good in your life and/or possibly deal with a slobbering drunk stranger and risk disease, or even worse, talking.

I don’t get presented with this all the time.  I mean, there are shows where almost everyone in the room hates my guts.  However, there are other shows where I’m convinced that if vaginas were detachable, I’d look like Bill Murray at the end of “Ghostbusters.”

Why is it so easy for male comics, a very subpar-looking bunch, to get laid?

First of all, in every comedy club —  for some obscure reason that no one has been adequately able to explain to me —  there exists a two-drink minimum.

“What?  You wanna laugh sober?!  Well then, I think it’s time for you to leave, ma’am….”

As a result of this arbitrary mandate, you get a lot of women who “don’t usually drink” ordering ginormous cocktails that they nonchalantly chug like cherry sodas because of the distracting sparklers, bamboo umbrellas, and teddy bears attached to them.  They think “yum, fruity!” and keep ordering, occasionally asserting (between languid draws on skinny straws) the following drunk girl mantra:   “Geez, I don’t feel a thing!”

After the third drink, they will stand up and experience a slightly re-matrixed configuration of gravity.  They will giggle and stumble and haphazardly hover over the seat when they pee.  By the middle of their fourth drink, they will realize they hate their boyfriend, who invariably just doesn’t “listen,” and they will want revenge.  And it turns out you made them chortle twice because something you said is just “soooooo fuckin’ true!”

They will then swiftly down their 4th to the dregs and that is when they approach you… a horny, intoxicated velociraptor, swirling a glass of ice cubes and bad intentions.

Mostly there is absolutely no temptation, as these stories from my 20’s will surely attest….

Story #1:

There was a girl in Chicago, a friend of a friend.  She kind of flirted with me before the show and she was actually kind of hot and fun.  And sober.

After the show, not so much.  She staggered up to me with a newly wandering eye, smiled, and grabbed the whole of my left butt cheek with velicoraptor claws.  This, of course, was in front of her 3 other friends, who laughed knowingly.

I was being treated like a piece of meat…. Finally!

I thought I’d love this reversal of gender roles, but, to be honest, my asshole puckered and my ears reddened.  I tried to laugh it off as if it was all just goofy horseplay, while deep down, my soul looked for ‘a happy place.’  Then she leaned into me, pinched my ass with tight finger forceps, and whispered with fiery breath, “I want to fuck you.”

Then she took a couple steps back and, with her good eye, winked at me.  That’s right, she winked.   In case I missed the subtle fragrance of innuendo she was wafting my way, she figured she’d remove all doubt and clear up that ambiguity with a wink.

“You want to fuck me?… Hmmm, meaning what?…. Oooooh, you’re winking… I get it!  Fuck, as in fuck fuck!  Ah-hah!  I thought you meant “fuck me” as in over pull me over in a police cruiser and give me a DUI!  Noooowww I get it!”

A few minutes later, she came in for a kiss on my mouthal area right in front of her friends.  I leaned back and said, “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the FIRST time you’ve done something like this?”

Her friends erupted in knowing giggles again.  I almost expected a red flag to literally pop out of her vagina.

All of a sudden, this nice lady vehemently contested: “I never do this — I swear to God!”

“What, throw yourself on a comic?” I asked.

“No, throw myself on the opener.”

Somehow, I wrested myself free and went back to the hotel where Sportscenter and its ubiquitous theme music was dutifully waiting for me:  “Duh-nah-nah-DUH-nah-nah!”

Story #2

In Boston, I got 3 and 1/2 offers for threesomes.  Considering that I spent much of my masturbatory youth praying to Beelzebub to provide me with a delicious threeway, I just couldn’t imagine putting my happy into any of those horribly aggressive Southie Mouthies.  The accent alone made my penis wanna retreat behind my lungs.

One girl who offered a threesome opportunity wasn’t a Southie, but she was one of those confident fat girls whose mother apparently told her she had a “pretty face” growing up.  She had an enormous color dragon tattoo running along down her arm and back.  I think tattoo parlors should have a rule:  if you’re over 200 pounds and shorter than 5′6″, the only dragon tattoo you are allowed to have is Puff the Magic Dragon.

I told her I wasn’t down, at which point she called me “gay.”
I quipped, “If I hang out with you any longer, it might turn me gay….”

“DUH-nah-nah-DUH-nah-nah!”

Story #3

Maybe the reason I’m hesitant about hooking up with strangers may harken back to my FIRST experience hooking up with someone after a show.

And I mean IMMEDIATELY after a show.

I actually got head IN a comedy club (for legal purposes, I will call this club the “Laff Factorial”).

I’m not bragging — this girl was drunk!  And not just drunk, like “puke in the hair” drunk.  And not just her puke, I think other people’s puke may have been mixed in there too.

After the show, she aggressively grabbed my hand and said “Let’s go!”  I said “No, no, no!”  but I kind of jogged after her because she was pretty.  I faked resistance, all the while I’m sprinting after her with aerodynamically-shaped hands.

She led me up some stairs, took me into a little vestibule, and instantly dropped to her knees.

I said “No!” but I sort of shimmied off my Levis to help out.   I had never received hallway head before, and I found myself very unclear about what to do with my hands.  Do I interlace the fingers behind my head and “Calvin Klein” it?  Do I put my hands on my hips in a Peter North porn star pose and say bossy and dirty things?  I honestly don’t feel like I have the experience or equipment to justify that pose… So, do I just hit the “I’m a little teapot” stance?

In the end, I decided to put my hands on the crown at the top of her skull.  I looked for the place where there wasn’t any puke and planted my palms.  This will work, I thought.

And then….

Her hair moved.

Her whole scalpage area just… shifted.  Just a bit.  Enough.

For a second, I froze like a deer getting head in headlights.

I remember thinking… “Please have CANCER!”

That’s the first time I’ve ever wished that on anyone.  I was literally wishing that she was post-Chemo.   Probably not good karma to be thinking “cancer” and “please, please, please” at the same time, is it?

I was freaked out.  So I left IMMEDIATELY…

IMMEDIATELY after I came.  I mean, I’m not a quitter!  But I also wasn’t going to stick around like the Scooby Doo gang and try to figure out that mystery!  I think I almost knee’d her in the Adam’s Apple trying to get my pants up.

Anyway, I haven’t seen shim since.
—————————————

I have slowed down considerably since then.  I’m safely in my thirties now and I’m starting to think about finding someone who might put up with me for the long haul.

But, until that day, I might have to learn to like baseball, the most boring sport in the world that also, coincidentally, has the longest season.  That way, I will actually look forward to the day where I might enjoy a plethora of baseball highlights…

“DUH-dah-dah-DUH-dah-dah!”

People often ask: “Bill, how do you find material to write about every week?”

My answer: “Easy. I keep fucking up.”

For better or worse, my life is a veritable treasure trove of fuckupedness. If my life turns out to be a legacy of ‘what not to do’s,’ I guess I will have to content myself with the fact that at least it’s a legacy. Despite the amount of metaphorical shit I have stirred, I can honestly say that the maelstroms I create are never inspired by malice or ill will, and my latest sphincter-puckering predicament was no different….

Last week, I began shooting a reality show pilot about dads who do standup comedy. I was “cast” as counterpoint — the cock-swinging, younger single guy who lives with no strings, has frivolous road sex, and never ever has to wear pants with pleats.

The setting was a pseudo –“Poker Night,” where we cast members were supposed to gather around a card table and fake friendship for about four hours while nerdy tech guys tip-toed behind us with HD cameras in an attempt to capture the “reality” of the shooting-the-shit exchange. So it was a quasi-reality show; think “The Hills” but with man-boobs instead of surgically-enhanced perky ones.

First off, I didn’t know any of the comics. I didn’t even recognize any of them, which is not to say they aren’t awesome comedians with thriving careers and stellar acts. I simply didn’t know shit about them. However, at ACTION!, we were supposed to be old pals playing our usual Tuesday night game of Texas Hold ‘Em telling tales about wacky wives — except for me, who, as counterpoint, was supposed to regale these 5 older men with sordid stories of bitches and road ho’s.

The production designer brought out a mini-bar and placed it right next to my left elbow, as if to say, “Bill, being hammered will help you get funnier.” I’m a consummate professional, so I proceeded to lube my esophagus with booze. Truth be told, I don’t hang out with married people (because they are profoundly boring and/or miserable) and the idea of talking about Pampers, parties at Chuck E. Cheese, and Ikea excursions was giving me existential angst, not to mention heebie-jeebies. The amber glow of Jack Daniels in the soft studio lights began to look like some sort of salvation. I unscrewed the black cap and, while ‘married talk’ ensued, I sipped with Jack in silent communion. Unknowingly, a couple of the elements for a perfect storm were already in place.

Ten minutes into filming, Jack started whispering things in my ear like, “Bill, how about you talk about sex and masturbation like an adult?” So, sure enough, when the cameras wheeled towards me I started slurring about threesomes and sex with strangers in hotel rooms, trying my best to play the role of the carefree cocksman. It didn’t feel like me, per se, but my avatar in this faux-reality world was 24, whimsical, and bulletproof.

Destiny for disaster kicked up several nautical knots when the cameras suddenly honed in on an older, subdued African-American comic who began to talk about his family. In a very beaten and laconic voice, the man went into detail about his problems, saying that his son was allergic to 70 different things or foods or substances.

“That’s weird, I didn’t know your son was Jewish,” I said, as Jack laughed hysterically.

For a brief nanosecond in that darkened room, propriety held the collective breath of the cast and crew. In that moment of suspended animation, if I were observant and sober, I may have been prescient enough to see the gale in the corner across from me turning into one tropical motherfucker.

“Look, I don’t know you,” the older black man murmered under his fedora, the hint of a shadow flitting across his weathered features.

Suddenly, the funny fat Fred Flintstone comic in the room let out a guffaw. Suspense was broken, everybody laughed and slapped the leather rim around the green felt, and large white veneered-teeth slowly parted the older black man’s lips into a dubious grin. If the fifth of Jack hadn’t been so tantalizingly near my left elbow beckoning for a refill, I might have noticed that his eyes remained cold, even in the frame of his crooked smile.

Whatever, we were busting balls! Old buddies at a card table, right?

Another man started talking about his daughter maturing faster than his son, and how their nipples are different now that she’s beginning to hit puberty.

“Oh yeah, I totally noticed that!” I yelled out, as I saluted my rocks glass of Jack to nothing. Silence. Then laughter. Perfect. I was on fire.

The conversation danced around the table for another 40 minutes. TiVo came up, Monday Night Football, wives double-knotting their sweats before bed, and of course, birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese.

“Speaking of Chuck E. Cheese, do you ever get birthday anal from your wife? Is there such a thing?” I interjected.

A very mellow comic on my right with dreads and glasses responded dryly, “Look, after 10 years, you can’t ask to change the script like that, trust me.”

“And I guess if you’ve been married for 10 years to a wife that loves anal, you’ve got a whole other mess of issues, don’t you?” I was on my 5th drink. Hey, Mr. Daniels thought is was hilarious.

Unfortunately, the female director didn’t. She popped into the room and gave a ‘general note’ about the ‘tone’ of the conversation, perhaps targeted just a smidge at myself. She felt that things should be calmer and maybe a little more family-oriented. Well, I thought, I guess I can’t segue into my abortion jokes now.

With the new low-key directive, the older black man, who had been quiet for a while, finally found an opportunity to insert some of his dulcet tones into the equation. He bet into the small blind and began:

“The other day, I went to the Target to get a toy for my kid –”

“THE Target? What’s with the ‘The?’ You ARE Jewish, aren’t you? And from Long Island apparently,” I quipped, Whiskey Balls in full effect. “Let me guess, your kid is allergic to TOYS!”

The older comic looked at me sideways while the other comics roared (comics love a well-timed callback) and, within seconds, the dialogue was miles away from the older black man and his toy shopping at the Target. The older black man sighed and sat there impotently, his story nipped in the bud.

I looked at him and felt bad. Poor guy. In drunken grandiosity, I decided that I had to navigate this ADD-addled crew back to his story.

“Okay, back to the Target. So, you were buying a toy for your retarded kid…”

I took a sweet sip of my best friend and soul mate Jack and waited for another couple of laughs before the story began again.

“Oooooooffff…”

It was Fred Flintstone, expelling air from his lungs like he’d been punched.

The older black man looked down at his hands, both his wrinkled and laminated ones, and then turned his gaze slowly towards me.

“Like I said, you don’t know me,” he said coolly and softly.

I didn’t. I also didn’t know what to say, so I laughed a little to myself.

His mouth moved silently for a little bit. It was unclear if he was going to start the story again or continue the same train of thought.

I sipped my Jack and Coke. Yummy.

“You don’t know ME!” the man reiterated, this time standing up and taking a rocks glass in his hand.

“My son is DISABLED!!!” he yelled, his voice in some twilight vibrato between a cry and and a scream. Suddenly, he threw his rocks glass against the wall to his right, shattering it.

My body, as is often the case, was way ahead of (and more saavy than) my mouth. My hands went into the air like I was being held up, and I leaned away from him in my chair in a completely submissive position.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I said.

There are 5 comics in this room — all with kids — and of course, the one kid that I called ‘retarded,’ just so happened to be, you know… handicapped. Damn you, Jack!!!

“I should jump across the table and put my boot in your ass!” he bellowed, rising to his full angry black man height.

“Hey man, I’m sorry, I really didn’t know what I was saying,” I repeated. “It’s just –”

“I should beat your fucking ass!” He stretched across the table, trying to figure out the calculus of getting to me and perhaps lodging some sort of shoe up into my anus.

At that point, the executive producer came over and ushered me out of the room. As I left, I repeated the mantra, “I’m sorry, I had no idea….” over and over, over my shoulder to the apoplectic and trembling man.

CUT! I was pulled into another room as the older man gathered his belongings and left the set without a word.

I left shortly after, without fans on the project and CLEARLY, without a job anymore.

I shuffled dumbly back to my beat-up Honda in the late Burbank nip.

How did I do this again? I’m such a damn fool! I thought.

But Mr. Daniels had his own lucidity on what happened. He knuckled up and help coalesce my thoughts into a slightly stiffer resolve:

If I get fired because of THAT! Because of one word resulting from one small error in judgment… well, that’s just fucking re…

grettable.