Rubber Balls and Liquor (27 page)

Then, for no good reason, I launched into a retelling of a famous joke that was known to be one of the most offensive, outrageous, off-putting jokes in the history of comedy. In my defense, all these years later, I can only say that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

People also told me later that there was an unusually long point of pause, between the booing and what happened next—that is, if you don't count all of that arm flailing. That happened right away. But I didn't say anything for the longest while. It was so long that people had time to think that maybe the microphone wasn't working—or, more likely, that someone had thought to shut it off before I could say anything else.

But I finally opened my mouth and went on with the show.

“Okay,” I said, after my too long pause and the people had seemed to settle down a little bit. “A talent agent is sitting in his office. A family walks in. A man, woman, two kids, and their little dog. And the talent agent goes, ‘What kind of act do you do?'”

Without any introduction or fanfare or warning, I'd launched into a bit that would either send my career off a steep comedy cliff, after which I would never be heard from again, or leave me to be ripped apart by the mob of angry old fucks who hadn't quite managed to leave the Grand Ballroom in a huff just yet. The bit was a timeless vaudevillian joke that was well known in comedy circles. For as long as I could remember, it was referred to with great reverence simply by its punch line: “The Aristocrats.” Once in a while, you'd hear it told as “The Sophisticados,” and on Wikipedia it suggests that it sometimes goes by the kicker “The Debonairs,” but most people know it as “The Aristocrats.” That is, people who tell jokes for a living know it this way. People who don't tell jokes for a living don't really know about it at all—or at least they didn't, until Penn Jillette and Paul Provenza made a documentary about it, featuring all these different comedians, telling all these different versions of the joke, and putting their own little spins and flourishes on it. The movie made it seem like the joke was a beloved jazz piece, and that every comic brought his own style to it, which I guess was true enough.

In the documentary, a bunch of comics remarked that the joke was like a secret handshake among comedians, and it talked about how we tried to one-up each other with our retellings backstage, between shows. It was only rarely told onstage, to general audiences, and was mostly passed back and forth among comics, looking to impress or shock or otherwise entertain their peers.

Here's an interesting side note: some years earlier, I told the joke to Richard Belzer's brother, Len, who kept asking me to tell it again. And again. Len just loved the crap out of that joke, and every time we got together he asked me to tell it. Each time out, I told it a little differently, depending on what was going on in my head at the time, or in the world, or in the room where I was doing the telling. One day Len came up to me and said, “Gilbert, this joke is just so hysterical, and it never comes out the same way twice. It gets more disgusting, more hilarious every time I hear it.”

I said, “Gee, thank you, Len. I knew there was a reason I liked hanging out with you. Now, if you don't mind, say some more nice things about me.”

He said, “No, really. I'm serious. You know what you should do? You should make a film of you just telling this one joke, over and over.”

And I thought,
Yeah, there's a great idea for a movie
.

Once again, what the hell did I know?

However, on this night in September 2001, most of the audience at the New York Hilton had never heard the joke. Not only that—they hadn't heard
of
the joke. I hadn't planned on telling it, but I'd dug such an impossible hole for myself with my Empire State Building joke that it was the only thing I could think of to pull myself out. It was like a crutch, that joke, and I guess I thought I could just beat people over the head with it. I didn't even think about it on any kind of conscious level. I just went for it. The other comics must have known where I was going with this, but everyone else was in for a big surprise.

For those readers who've still never heard the joke, I'm afraid I can't do it justice on the page. Why? Well, the joke itself is nothing much. Really, it's mostly a nonjoke. That's one of the reasons it's become such a staple, and a favorite of comedians, because it's the ultimate antijoke. It's all in the setup, in the telling. The idea is, if you can tell this joke well, you can tell any joke well. If you can amuse your friends, jaded comedy professionals, then you can amuse just about anybody.

The premise of the joke is basic: an apparently clean-cut family visits a talent agent, hoping to break into show business. The talent agent asks about the nature of the family's act, so the family proceeds to demonstrate. This takes us to the jazz part of the joke, only in most versions it's more like porn, because the family members usually just rip off their clothes and start sucking and fucking each other in every unimaginable way. Even the dog gets in on the fun. The idea is to be as disgusting and degenerate as possible, with everyone in the family going at each other and exchanging bodily fluids like they're at a Mamas & the Papas reunion. Bowel movements, urine, semen, snot, spittle, sweat … there are buckets and buckets of the stuff, all coming and going, in and out of every orifice, until finally the family is whipped and spent and collapses in exhaustion on the other side of the talent agent's desk.

At the ultimate climax, the talent agent very reasonably says, “Well, that's an interesting act. What do you call yourselves?”

At this, the father, the mother, the son, the daughter and the dog all lift themselves proudly from the pile of shit, piss, semen and sweat where they're lying and take a great big bow and say, “The Aristocrats!”

Well, the whole time I was telling this joke, in my own skillful way, the mood of the room started to change all over again. The people who had been recoiling in their seats, horrified at my Empire State Building joke, were now laughing their heads off. Rob Schneider fell off his chair he was laughing so hard, which really wasn't such a big deal because he's one of the few comics shorter than me and he didn't have very far to fall.

By the time I was finished the place was pretty much exploding with laughter.

A week later, a critic for
The New York Observer
gave me one of the best reviews of my career, writing that I had turned the joke into “an extended bacchanal of bodily fluids, excrement, bestiality and sexual deviance.” I had no idea what most of those words meant, but they sounded pretty good, strung together like that.

After that, the critic had some more nice things to say. “Mr. Gottfried plumbed the darkest crevices he could find,” he wrote—which I think he meant in a good way, even though you might think that plumbing all those dark crevices might be seen as a negative. “He riffed and riffed until people in the audience were coughing and sputtering and sucking in great big gulps of air. Tears ran through the Hilton ballroom, as if Mr. Gottfried had performed a collective tracheotomy on the audience, delivering oxygen and laughter past the grief and ash that had blocked their passageways.… Then he brought it home.”

I could go on and on, but at some point the
New York Observer
guy stopped writing.

People who were there have called my rendition of the joke “breathtaking”—and who am I to argue with them? Certainly, people were gasping for air, so I guess it's an accurate description. It was as if everything that had happened earlier in the evening—the fits and starts of the other comics, my own offensive jokes—had set the audience up for my rousing performance, and I killed. I know, I know … it sounds like I'm bragging, but this is my fucking book, so it's allowed.

(Feel free to join in and pile on the praise.)

People who weren't there and who tried to attach big words to explain the impact of my performance have called it “cathartic”—and once again, I can't argue. At first, I wasn't even sure what that word meant. I knew there was a word that would get close to describing the emotional release we all felt in that ballroom that evening, but I was going for “catatonic.” I don't think I was in school the day we learned “cathartic.”

Now, looking back, it's hard to say which came first, the documentary or my rousing performance at the Hugh Hefner roast, which readers might remember was featured as the centerpiece of the movie. (When the movie came out, one reviewer suggested that if an Academy Award could be handed out for telling a dirty joke, it should go to me.) It's a classic chicken-or-egg question. The movie was already in development, of course, and this Hugh Hefner roast came early on in the process, but I prefer to think I was the complete inspiration. Once again, it's my fucking book. I'll say what I want.

And speaking of saying what I want, did I mention that I was good friends with President Hoover? (Note to publisher, with a name like Hoover, perhaps we should consider a blow job joke here. Or have we exceeded our quota?)

I wasn't convinced that there was a movie in all of this, but Penn was persistent, so I signed on. He even convinced me to participate for free—making the movie itself one of Penn Jillette's greatest magic tricks. It still kills me, that trick, because once
The Aristocrats
movie became a surprise hit, I kept reminding myself that I wasn't making a dime from it. Like every family member in every version of the Aristocrats joke, I definitely got fucked in the ass.

 

 

ENCORE

Another Slice of Pizza and a Grape Drink

So there you have it. My book. Not bad, huh? Especially for my first book. It would even be impressive for my second or third book, I think. By the fourth or fifth book, though, I'll probably do a better job. By then I'll
really
have the hang of this book writing business. By then this one will pale by comparison.

Like I said at the beginning, I had modest goals for my first literary effort. Once again, at the very least I wanted it to be like a slice of pizza and a grape drink, and as many people know I've made a career out of reaching for the very least. The grape drink has nothing in it that can be considered of nutritional value. Same here. And a slice of pizza is like a blow job. Even a bad one is still pretty good. The only difference between a slice of pizza and a blow job is I can remember the last time I had a slice of pizza.

We've covered a lot of ground in these pages, in case you haven't been paying attention. We've laughed. We've cried. We've come to terms. Hopefully, we've all learned a little something about ourselves and what it means to be alive. Also hopefully, we've celebrated the simple beauties of self-love and self-absorption, which I'm happy to report often go hand in hand. Along the way, I've shared some of my thoughts and experiences. I've invited you, dear reader, into my head and heart. A few of you have even received an invitation into my pants. You know who you are. I've yet to hear back from you on this, but you shouldn't have too much trouble finding me. I'm the guy who wrote this book, remember? My picture's on the cover. Make a few calls and figure it out.

If you have an opportunity to tell your friends and relations about the book we've just enjoyed together, I encourage you to do so. There's a lot riding on this, and not just for me personally. It's not about the money. Well, okay … maybe it
is
about the money, but only a little, and the reason it's only a little about the money is because the publisher is paying me only a little.

If you must know, I'm doing this book mostly as a public service. Anyway, that's what I've been telling myself, to justify the time and effort. The way it's supposed to work is that every time someone buys a copy, an angel gets its wings. Also, for every tree the publisher knocks down and turns into paper to produce one of my books, we plant another one … in Israel! I made it a matter of contract, when we were negotiating my book deal. That's how strongly I feel about my Jewish heritage. Of course, if I was making a little more money on this deal, I'd plant some trees for Arab terrorists. This way, the Arabs could enjoy some shade while waiting for their prophet. Jews don't have to wait. We already know how to make a profit.

Oh, which reminds me. I have a joke. (Right now, I can hear all of you readers saying, “Finally!”)

All kidding aside (which will probably be my
final
kidding aside, since I'm running out of pages), there's always room for one more joke, and here it is:

Two Arab terrorists are sitting together, sharing pictures of their kids. One says, “This is my five-year-old daughter.” The other one says, “This is my three-year-old son.” Then both terrorists sigh, and shake their heads and say, “They blow up so fast, don't they?”