Authors: Denis Leary
Why We Suck (2 page)
You disagree?
Then you gotta be a chick.
Open vagina-insert head.
I told you this book was gonna tick you off. Let's face it-the raw truth hurts.
Like this fact: I don't know a living man on this planet who DOESN'T have attention deficit disorder or spends at least twelve hours of each day thinking about his penis.
I didn't know the guy personally but I would bet my left ball that even Jesus thought a lot about his johnson. Hey-he could probably make his do special tricks. If I was the Son Of God, special dick tricks would probably be the second or third thing I'd be spending my time on after I found out about my secret identity.
That's a lie.
Who am I kidding? It'd be the first.
Here's another lively topic:
It says somewhere in the piece of paper that this great country of ours was founded upon that all men are created equal.
Bullshit.
All men are created equal as long as they don't wanna blow each other.
And then decide to keep on blowing each other long enough to fall in love.
And then suddenly express a desire to formalize that relationship by getting married.
It's apparently okay to have sex with other guys as long as you keep it secret and have a wife who somehow doesn't know AND you are either the pastor of a church or a sitting senator or both. In Larry Craig's case the term "sitting senator" will more than likely get a laugh out of you-as will the term "wide stance."
Yup-there is a real fear in America that gay marriage will somehow upend heterosexual unions and throw the entire moral fabric of the country into a tailspin-no pun intended.
I know several gay men and gay women involved in very committed and honest relationships with other gay men and gay women that would put a lot of straight married couples to shame. They are monogamous and caring and devoted and affectionate.
Besides-why shouldn't they get married? Why should straight married couples be the only ones who never have sex, argue incessantly over what to watch on TV and walk around on a daily basis harboring a deep and bottomless well of resentment and anger pieced together brick by murderous brick over years and years of both real and imagined slights and emotional warfare and wallpaper choices? Shit-I say marry every gay and willing couple off right now. Mark my words-just like the rest of us-within eighteen months at least half of them will come running back to court begging to be released from such an endlessly mind- and libido-numbing fate.
Open ass-insert the Bill of Rights.
Here's another inarguable factoid:
Racial and ethnic stereotypes exist because they are TRUE. For instance-don't tell me the Irish don't love to drink. I AM Irish. We invented whiskey, for crissakes. You know what whiskey means in Gaelic? Water of life.
I rest my case.
Of whiskey.
On YOUR politically correct goddam lap.
Years ago I wrote a piece for the New York Post about the St. Patrick's Day Parade in which I made fun of the fact that most of the Irish and a few Puerto Rican guys I knew would annually-which means every single fucking year-spend the unofficially holy day painting their faces green and getting drunk and then beating the living shit out of each other after an argument broke out over who had better pitching, the Yankees or the Mets.
The Irish Defamation Society threatened to file a lawsuit against me for perpetrating an awful and ruinous myth about Irish Americans.
Several weeks went by and no lawsuit emerged. Why?
Because they soon realized that all I had to do was call up any local news channel and request footage from ANY St. Patrick's Day Parade held since the invention of the television camera and there in front of our eyes would be green-faced Irish Americans in a drunken punch-up with their own cousins and best friends and actual brothers-many times right in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The Puerto Ricans and the New York Mets didn't enter the equation until they both started playing baseball during the 1960s. Otherwise?
Case closed.
The right to bear arms and the right to vote and the equal rights amendment and freedom of speech and every other piece of paper evidence you wanna throw onto the pile may guarantee you the right to spout stupidity (see Newt Gingrich, Mel Gibson, Barry Bonds et al.) but it also guarantees that the rest of us don't have to buy into it.
Ya wanna build a giant fence to keep all the Mexicans out? Fine. Who's gonna build the fence? Where are we gonna get our cheap Mexican weed? Who's gonna host The Dog Whisperer?
Our country has been so driven into debt by a drug-addled, inbred, dry drunk of the Republican revolution-a man who ran an oil company into the ground (do you know how hard it is NOT to make money off of oil? My daughter's Chihuahua could pull it off)-that we are now borrowing money from China.
China.
The same country that tried to KILL our dogs with poison dog food three years ago.
China.
Where there are seventeen BILLION people and eight automobiles.
China.
A country so corrupt that if I lived there and typed the words "CHINA SUCKS" as I did just now? Within a day I would have disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving my wife and the only child we are allowed to have-and our three bikes-to fend for themselves.
We will delve deeper into each and all of these matters during the next couple of hundred pages.
And I do so as a doctor, ladies and gentlemen.
That's right.
Dr. Denis Leary.
You don't believe me?
Here's a photograph of the actual degree I received from my alma mater Emerson College on the afternoon of May 16, 2005.
Suck on that, Dr. Phil.
Or as I like to call him-Dr. Full.
Hey-I don't know what his actual weight was when he started pushing his diet book, but let's just say he was more than a little puffy and really not what I would call an authority on that particular subject. Hell-he might as well have written a book on how to stop being bald while he was at it.
Let me point something out-Dr. Full doesn't even have a license to practice in the state of California, which is where he tapes his daily talk show.
Let me point something else out-if I needed to go on a diet, I'd want the guy selling me his diet book to not only be thin but actually be in shape-is that too much to ask?
But this is America-where if you're on TV-especially if you appear on Oprah-you MUST be some kind of authority.
Well, I haven't been on Oprah but I DO have my own TV show and a degree that calls me a doctor. So here's my point-if Dr. Full can write a diet book then I can sure as hell write a self-help book. And that's really all I'm trying to do here-help you to help yourself AND make a shitload of money while I'm doing so.
Because I really do believe we live in the greatest country on earth but-just like that fixer-upper you get a very good price on-there's still a lot of work left to do.
We live in a country that's still very very young, as countries go, and I think the whole idea of the American Dream has been convoluted and undone.
We live in a country where the first pictures of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's baby were sold for over four million dollars. Shit-for THREE million dollars I'd sell you the pictures AND the kid.
We live in a country where Rosa Parks had the courage and conviction to sit down long enough to start a revolution that led to Al Sharpton screaming racism every time Barry Bonds gets indicted for taking performance-enhancing drugs in order to break a home-run record set by a black man who didn't even have the benefit of Advil.
A country where-once upon a time-the Presidential Medal of Freedom was given to people who fought for civil rights and equal rights and other matters that made a genuine difference and real contributions to a better future for everyone on the planet. Now it goes to guys who so botched the War on Terror that the president has to accept their resignations before they squirm off into the shadows to lick their wounds.
We used to honor our living war veterans with respect and bury the dead heroes with dignity.
George Bush The Second avoided Vietnam through privileged connections, shot down the brave deeds of another privileged son-John Kerry-who volunteered to serve, came home with medals on his chest and made the mistake of thinking the best man might win when he ran against a guy whose administration was caught cremating dead American soldiers from Iraq in a pet cemetery incinerator.
Because it was cheaper.
Open ass-insert Oval Office.
It's time to tear down the walls of the stupid and the inane and the politically correct and the righteous and the pretentious and the bald and tell them how much they suck and how fat they are and how everything in the Bible is NOT necessarily true and no your hair will never grow back and yes you look much older without it and no-women really don't find bald guys attractive unless you're Mark Messier or a multizillionaire or both.
It's time to shave your back and pay attention to your kids and buy a bigger-size dress and stop wearing spandex until you lose a hundred pounds.
Skinny jeans are meant for skinny people. In case you don't understand the term "skinny"-if your ass doesn't fit into a seat at the ballpark or hockey rink or football stadium-yer fat. Too fat for skinny jeans.
What would Jesus say? What I just said. Only louder.
And his hands and feet would be bleeding so he'd probably be in a very pissy mood.
So listen up.
I'm trying to help you here.
It won't be pretty. But it will be goddam funny.
Strap yourself in.
It's gonna be a bumpy-assed, roller-coaster-on-fire type of ride.
No helmets allowed.
CHAPTER 1 - Why Everyone Hates Us
Us being America. This is just a partial posting. Many of these subjects will be discussed in much further detail as the book moves along.
But I wanted to give you a starter kit. A little menu tasting of the who, what and why when it comes to the rest of the world and the things about us that burn their proverbial balls.
A lot of them are things and people and events that many of us-like our fellow humans in the world-don't get or support or even have the slightest interest in. But for some reason they fill up our magazines and televisions and radio waves until they are chock full to spilling over with incredible pulsing chunks of unbelievably stupefying activity. And like a train wreck or multicar collision or Mickey Rourke's most recent face-we just can't turn our eyes away.
ANNA NICOLE SMITH
It's never pretty when you die in a pool of your own puke.
But when you're a mom and you die in a pool of your own puke AND you have a newborn baby-ya can't really blame postpartum depression.
Brooke Shields may have done many strange things after the birth of each of her kids, but lying facedown in her own vomit and trying to swim upstream was not one of them.
In Anna Nicole's case there were obviously several different wiring problems gone wrong. She may set the first public example for Babies Who Are Better Off With Their Birthmoms Absolutely Erased.
Anna Nicole may also be the ultimate example of what happens when white trash gets money. And she serves up a great argument against taking strippers out of the strip club. Listen, go ahead and watch them wiggle, watch them giggle and jiggle and strut their stuff-give them each all the singles and wolf-whistles you want but please-we beg of you-please do not bring the dancers home. It's like taking King Kong off the jungle island and dropping him into the middle of midtown Manhattan-nothing good can come of it.
Let's face a few facts about Anna. Pick any angle.
Her fabulously idiotic persona that-ingeniously-seems to have been created out of her actual penchant for pure moronitude built on a foundation of her own absolute genetic idiocy.
Her "I'm, like, really really really in love with him" marriage to a 109-year-old multizillionaire businessman that involved more than likely only one partial erection and then several years of undone hateful relatives and continuous litigation.
Her giving birth to one child while a second fully grown child already scarred by his exposure to his mother and a worldwide reality TV show audience-not to mention several hundred forms of prescription and recreational drugs-basically dies in the recovery room. Of a drug overdose. Which was probably a good thing because let's be honest-he was only facing a future full of "Mom, have you seen my methadone?" afternoons.
And when it came to drugs, Mom set a goddam house record. In the fridge of her Indian-owned hotel mini-bar they found several powerhouse forms, in amounts large enough to mollify a small horse. These were the various drugs found in her system at the time of her death: Ativan (an anti-anxiety pill); Klonopin (an anti-seizure medication); Robaxin (a muscle relaxant); Soma (another muscle relaxant-I guess she was bigger than we thought); Topamax (another anti-seizure medicine-maybe she was so worried about the first anti-seizure stuff she took, she was afraid the fretting might cause a seizure in itself, so she superseded that seizure-mania with a backup plan); Benadryl (to ward off any sniffles); HGH (wow); Nicorette ('cause God forbid you smoke around the baby); Tamiflu (is it possible to feel a little achy with all of this other stuff in your system?); methadone (just in case the Tamiflu doesn't work); and Noctec (another sleeping medication-hey, you try lugging those two tits around all day); vitamin B-12 (just in case she gets a little sluggish while she's sleeping); Tylenol (probably just found a white pill on the hotel room carpet and swallowed it out of habit); and that good old standby-Valium.
Wow. That's what she took the day that she died.
Happy Mother's Day, mom.
And, perhaps my favorite-narcotic lollipops. Which are used for kids who have cancer.
Narcotic lollipops-these alone give the Islamic world a sudden urge to strap on bombs.
Great name for a band, by the way. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome-Narcotic Lollipop.
Where did the narcotic lollipop come from?
Good old-fashioned American ingenuity folks.
You know kids-they hate medicine. So when they are really terribly horribly sick and absolutely need to take heavy-metal medicine-some genius doctor devised a way to put the dose inside a piece of candy glued to the top of a stick. The kids lick their little hearts out and fall into a pain-free, blissful, semi-coma state.
Wish they'd had these things when my kids were small. I woulda stuck those suckers in their mouths every single waking moment-which woulda been only about fifteen minutes a day, by the way. They would have spent most of their lives in dreamy McDreamland.
As did Anna Nicole, apparently.
Yup. She out-Elvised Elvis.
Elvis may have ingested drugs in myriad forms-mostly pills-and eaten his way through most of the peanut butter, bacon and bananas available on this green globe during his lifetime, but he never ever EVER took goofed-up candy from a cancer-stricken baby.
Would he have-if they had been invented sometime during his four decades on the earth? You can bet yer ass. The King woulda been the Kojak of the rock 'n' roll universe. But, alas, he died too soon. On the toilet. Which is literally only a couple of steps above where Anna Nicole ended up.
And then there are the men in her life, or as I like to refer to them-The Scumbags On Parade.
In no particular order:
(Ah, what the hell-let's put them in order of their proximity to the dead, bloated but always bronzed-with-skin-bronzer body):
Her scumbag lawyer, who the real Howard Stern should be currently taking to court for defamation of character by name association. This guy apparently had no other clients, lived in adjacent hotel rooms whenever Anna Nicole was in a hotel or upstairs in a guest bedroom at whatever abode she may have been renting or owned and his legal advice consisted of making deals for semi-glorified Girls Gone Wild videos featuring only one giant Orcatype girl-namely, Anna Nicole. As well as drunken, drugged and reeling casino appearances. And drunken, drugged and reeling public appearances. Last time I checked, that doesn't make you a practicing lawyer. But it does put you right at the top of the Celebrity Pimping List.
Her pretty boy ex-boyfriend who also claims to be the father of the child and is an actor slash model slash-what, exactly? Whore? Parasite? Yeah. Put those two words on your resume, pal.
And then there's the creme de la creme of the douchebag brigade-Zsa Zsa Gabor's twenty-seventh husband, who-while Zsa Zsa spends each day in a catatonic state being wheeled around her Bel Air mansion-was out carousing with Anna Nicole and who knows who else, which may just be his personal business except he made it public knowledge that they met for sexual trysts in hotels all over the country. Now-I don't know exactly how much Zsa Zsa is worth, but it's obviously not enough to keep this male version of Anna Nicole away from the media or the pile of money Anna Nicole's wheelchair-bound spouse left behind.
These are just three more elements of the low-rent high-lush life Anna lived that were left behind. At least Marilyn had Some Like It Hot and The Misfits and The Seven Year Itch.
What's Anna Nicole's legacy?
Her gaining seven thousand pounds while bingeing her way out of the death of her aforementioned lover/human ATM card and then taking an over-the-counter form of methamphetamine and losing all seven thousand pounds and then some and serving as a spokesperson/swimsuit model for this legalized speed.
PLUS the rumor that the eventually victorious dad Larry Birkhead (insert your own joke about his name here) and the evil Howard Stern guy were apparently videotaped going down on each other in a fabulous and hopefully very very funny 69 session-a rumor I have actually prayed to God is true. If there is a God I'm sure he has helped Larry and Howie to spend some of that dead lover cash-cow cash in exchange for the original copy of said video. THAT would be-at the very least-a tiny little sliver of sweet karma pie delivered almost immediately after the judge handed the kid they hope grows into another cash cow over into their greedy and supposedly gay grubby hands.
Anna Nicole and her two lover/liar/blow job buddies are a walking talking eating breathing advertisement for why America makes everyone else in the world angry.
By the way-we could replace this profile of Anna Nicole with so many other people-from Paris Hilton to Terrell Owens to Britney Spears and any guy she has married or even had sex with.
Not to mention-if we ever get to pick the initial hostages/innocent victims taken during a future American soil invasion, men who had sex with either Paris, Anna Nicole or Britney should be first up. And hand jobs definitely count.
GEORGE BUSH JR.
That's right.
Junior.
Fuck this Herbert Walker blah blah blah bullshit.
Looks like a junior talks like a junior walks like a junior.
Junior.
Junior brain junior brawn junior bullshit.
His father fought as an actual jet fighter pilot during World War Two and after a real live fight to the death in the sky crash-landed off the edge of a navy airship into the Atlantic Ocean and crawled up the side of the ship to safety.
Junior dressed up like a jet fighter pilot and pretended to land a plane on the deck of a navy airship and then changed into a suit and announced the victorious end of a war that then went horribly wrong and lasted LONGER than the war his father fought in.
Junior.
Nuff said.
BRITNEY SPEARS'S VAGINA
Whether you've seen it or not.
Whether it was actually her very own God-given pooch or just a Photo-shop configuration or not.
You know what I'm referring to.
That fact-along with the idea that so many millions of us either overheard a watercooler discussion of her muff or were actually the instigators of a "Britney's pussy" confab-is immediate grounds for foreign antagonism.
And it's not just an anti-pop star snatch hunt here.
The idea that in a civilized, free society there are supposedly grown men actually getting paid to find untethered and free-ranging celebrity hair pies, photograph them and then sell them to magazines apparently watering at the mouth for hot naked Hollywood gash can only mean one thing-well, maybe two things: there either is no God or not only is there one, but His idea of divine balance is an indiscriminate act of unjustified violence one second and then a naked celebrity coochie shot the next.
Because let's face the real facts: I may personally have no interest in Britney's bush, but you come up with a flash pic of Heather Locklear's or Sienna Miller's or Meryl Streep's and not only am I in-men all over the world are hard-charging to the Internet and their local magazine racks. Hell-Meryl Streep would send a lot of WOMEN running after those shots, if only to check out what Oscar-winning pussy looks like.
And that's why Muslims hate us. Not because they hate pussy or celebrity pussy photography. Just the opposite-they love it just as much if not more than we do. They just can't get their hands on it as readily as we can.
BRITNEY SPEARS'S HEAD
See preceding section on Britney's vagina.
Only in this case, the little-known Tarzana, California, hair salon she suddenly stepped into-demanding they shave off all of her hair before grabbing the shears and performing the task herself-at first discussed her condition as if they actually gave a shit about her. Words like "concerned" and "sad" and "hope" were being bandied about. But come the bright new light of the following morn?
They were selling her shorn locks on eBay.
Along with the empty can of Red Bull she left behind.
And her blue Bic cigarette lighter.
All available to the highest bidder.
In the newspapers that same day the shop owner's husband was quoted as saying some-and I emphasize the word "some"-of the proceeds from the sale would go to charity, possibly-and again I emphasize the word "possibly"-including Locks Of Love, which supplies wigs to kids with cancer. He also was quick to point out that the tresses from Britney's naked skull were the ONLY authentic Britney tresses available for sale.
Wow.
Imagine how much her pubic hair would be worth on eBay.
And which kids' cancer charity would "probably" receive "some" of the profits.
Britney Spears is a national train wreck who leaves the entire Western world looking suspect in her wake:
a. all the housewives and postfeminist pulpit bangers who buy the magazines with all the pictures of the hair and the hair salon and the vagina (with a gold star over the important bits) in them.
b. the paparazzi who not only take those unbelievable photos but the one or two who have apparently started having sex with her since the children were taken away and she blew a serious gasket.
c. the college and high school kids who-upon hearing that on the night she locked herself in the bathroom of her mansion with one of the kids when the cops came to take them away and place them back into the protectively tattooed arms of K-Fed-the night when she was photographed and videotaped being led out of the house while strapped on a gurney looking wild-eyed and insaner than ever-she apparently had been drinking a combo of Red Bull, vodka and NyQuil. Yeah. NyQuil. These college and high school kids immediately started having parties at which that concoction was not only served in great numbers but was given various nicknames: Purple Drank, Wake-Up Call, Britney Stinger, Good'n Crazy, The 911 etcetera etcetera.
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