Private Parts : chap 10

But that's what usually happens. I'm doing my job, entertaining people, and my wife gets a call from one of her yenta friends whose husbands are cheating on them, and they get Alison all pumped up and she calls in angry. Then I go home and we fight. Who needs her to call in the first place? If I worked in the leather business like my sister's husband, do you think Alison and my mother would be so quick to call during the day to see what I was doing? I'm lucky Alison doesn't drive into the station and try to watch through the glass walls of the studio. But she doesn't have to. She's got Robin there. "Robin, I'm counting on you!"
Well, one April Fool's Day, we got Robin back for all the times she's been Alison's police force. Let Robin tell the story.
First, let me explain what it's like being the only woman on the show. Sometimes I feel like an anthropologist studying male behavior when I'm sitting in my studio overlooking Howard and the guys. It's as if they're in a men's locker room and I'm getting a dose of how men really talk to each other when they aren't afraid that women might hear them. That's why I don't object to what's happening, because they're pretending that this is a boys' room. They're not doing this to offend women, they're just being guys.
If you look at Howard's life, I serve the same purpose as the other women in his life. He's more human because of us. If we weren't there, Howard would just be this huge id, out of control, saying whatever, burping, farting. If it weren't for women, he'd never control any of his bodily functions, he'd never have a nice thought.
This April Fool's thing started when a girl called up and said she was in love with Howard and he said she should come up to the studio so he could see her. Nothing out of the ordinary. She came up and she was sitting there, just looking at him, telling him how much she loved the way he sounded over the air and how much she was in love with him and how she would do anything for him. I was sitting there thinking, 'Yeah, right, ha ha ha.' I couldn't care less.
All of a sudden, Howard said, "You really do love me and you'd do anything for me? Make love to me right now -- right here on the air. Man, I've been waiting for this all my life." He was telling her that it was cheating on his wife only if fie did something, not if somebody did something to him. This woman had convinced me that she was really crazy in love with Howard. So he said, "Come over here." She got up and went around the console. "What are we gonna do?" he said.
"Let's just get down here," she said and, all of a sudden, they disappeared under the console. I couldn't see anything anymore. And Howard was saying, "All right, Robin. I'm down here and she's taking off all my clothes." And I started to see clothes flying out over the console. I saw a shirt. I saw a blouse. I saw a bra. I saw a skirt. I saw panties. Then I saw Howard's pants! Then I saw his underwear! I was thinking, 'This is ridiculous,' and they started making sex noises and carrying on and I was saying, "NO! This woman's crazy, she's out of her mind!" I jumped up and I ran into the studio and ran around the console. I had to stop him from destroying his marriage! I thought he'd lost his mind, that he hadn't thought this through. There they were, lying on the ground with all their clothes on, with a bag full of clothes they were throwing out.
"APRIL FOOLS!" they screamed.
But with our famous Super Bowl parties, we elevated this concept of fantasy sex into a true art form. It didn't start out that way, though. Our first Super Bowl party was when we were still back at WNBC and it was just a gathering of the men who worked on the show. One of our sponsors, Big Al from Great Sounds, lent us a fifty-
inch projection TV and we rented a room in a motel in Westbury and watched the game. No girls, no nothing. All we did was watch the game and smear Cheez Whiz all over the huge TV's corrugated screen. There'd be a close-up of a quarterback and we'd take the Cheez Whiz and draw a dick going into his ass, mature stuff like that.
The next year, we planned a more elaborate party. We had it at my friend Neil's house. And we realized that Super Bowl Sunday was probably the only day in the year that married guys could get massages from strange women and get away with it. So Ronnie, my limo driver, rounded up a couple of hookers who were absolutely disgusting. I don't even know if we can call them hookers because nobody would go near these skeeves, except for Jackie "the Joke Man," who wound up in the basement with them. He claimed that they only gave him a toe massage but we never believed him.
By the third year, things started picking up. We had the party at Neil's house again. We had more guys and more hookers.
Then Neil's house was too small so we moved to the Garden City Hotel, and I was in charge of booking the entertainment. I packed the place with Penthouse pets and lesbians. It was Disneyland for men.
The highlight of the whole party was when a guy named Joe mooned everybody. He had written "GIANTS SUCK" in Magic Marker on his ass.
As Joe pulled down his pants, Jackie, who was sitting on the floor eating a giant plate of ribs, nonchalantly reached over and shoved his finger right up this guy's ass. It was the single most disgusting thing I ever saw Jackie do.

The infamous finger in the moon incident (top). Moments later, eating ribs.
Joe grunted and turned green. Jackie pulled his finger out of Joe's ass and went right back to eating his ribs.
"Wash your fucking hands!

My fantasy sex life gets more twisted . . . bikini-clad women eating hot dogs on a string (top left), the How Quick Can You Put a Condom on a Banana Contest (bottom), and orchestrating one of the sickest moments ever . .. the Howard Stern Prom Show. I crowned this couple Prom King and Queen when she shoved her five-inch heel up his ass.
You're eating finger food, you cow!" we all yelled.
Poor Joe was so freaked that he ran out of the party. Jackie had raped him with his finger!!
This was the funniest thing I ever saw. But Jackie was unfazed -- compared to the other disgusting things he had done, this was nothing. After all, Jackie had once urinated inadvertently in his mother's face and had taken a shit out of a moving vehicle in traffic.
Each year our party got more and more elaborate. We got more booze, more food, more girls. Better girls, too. One year Penthouse pet Amy Lynn came and was doing her hot oil strip routine for the guys, but I missed it because I was in another room getting a rubdown from two girls who were doing all sorts of great stuff to each other.
But by this time, I realized that my modest idea had grown out of control. It was too depressing to be at one of these parties. There were beautiful, willing women in any of the rooms and I wasn't allowed to have sex with them. My conscience wouldn't allow it. Who needed this aggravation? I put an end to the Super Bowl parties. It's just too hard to lead two separate lives. You can't be a family man and parade around with naked women tempting you every second.

Massaging and male bonding on TV (top).

Never before seen: the back of my office door, compliments of my listeners and viewers who send me pictures of themselves nude.
Finding more stupid ways to get close to women: Spokesmodel of the Year (top photo), a new game show called Guess Who Has the
Breast Implants? (bottom right), and an audience member turned
spokesmodel endorses Snapple.

You can never get enough of butt bongo.
By the way, I learned all of this family value stuff by reading that sensitive and inspiring work I Can't Believe I Said That! by Kathie Lee Gifford, my idol. Actually, my mother set me straight when I first got married. She told me if I ever started running around with other women, she would take Alison and the kids into her home and would never speak to me again.

Penthouse pet Amy Lynn (left) and dancer Tempest assist me for the cover shoot. We posed for over three hours knowing full well these
shots were too outrageous for the cover. But who cared?
Like most of the other pussy-whipped men in America, I now spend Super Bowl Sundays home with my family.
But my quest for the ultimate surrogate sexual experience continues. We recently went from spanking to butt bongoing, which is really just frenetic spanking in time to a rock record playing in the background. I even showcased butt bongoing on my last videotape, Butt Bongo Fiesta. But we're beginning to get jaded. The thrill is rapidly vanishing. There are fewer and fewer fantasy sex worlds to conquer. I knew we were treading on the outskirts of total dissolution when, as a practical joke, I decided to secretly tape-record the first creative meeting for Butt Bongo Fiesta.
I called Dan Forman and John Lollos, the former executive producers of my TV show, to the meeting. I was going to tell Forman and Lollos, two pretty straight, family-type guys, that our next tape should be just ninety minutes of enemas and douching. I was sure
the idea would make both of them want to vomit and they'd take a righteous stand and refuse to work on it. Meanwhile, I would really nag them and try to convince them and we'd have a great practical joke to play on my radio show.
"We'll call it 'The Howard Stern Enema and Douche Party.' " I pitched the project straight-faced to Dan and John. "Just ninety minutes of douching and enemas. What do you think?"
"I hate to say it but I like it," Dan gushed. "But I wish I wasn't saying that."
Then I turned to John and asked him what he thought. He was against it and had a lot of reservations. He said, "I don't see where we are going with this."
I realized how far gone we were. Everyone was now taking me seriously. Everyone believed I was now willing to produce a douche and enema tape, whether they were for or against it. No more morality, no code of ethics. It didn't matter what it was, we'd do it. I told the guys to turn off the hidden tape recorder. We had definitely gone beyond the pale. We weren't philosophers, we were perverts.
Star Wars Chapter 13
I'm good at starting fights, always have been. Even as a kid I would turn to my sister and tell her I was heading downstairs to get Mom and Dad worked up. My dad would come home from work around 7:00 p.m. and quickly race to the dinner table. After putting in a long day, he was tired and it was time to eat. I'd sit at the table waiting to start a little trouble. My father's partner in the recording studio had started a small record label called Ping Pong, which annoyed and frustrated my dad. The very words Ping Pong could set him off.
MOM: How was your day, Ben?
DAD: Good, good.
ME: Hey, Dad, anything going on with Ping
Pong? . . . Ping Pong?
DAD: Shut up!
ME: Just kidding.
DAD: Don't you know how to shut up?! Even a moron knows to sit quiet at the table.
ME: Hey, I was just saying Ping Pong.
MOM: You know your father doesn't like that. What's wrong with you?
ME: I'm proud of Ping Pong. I just want to know more about it.
Within minutes my father would be threatening me, my mother would be yelling, and I was ecstatic. It was real drama. And to think I make a living doing the same thing today, by pushing people's buttons and getting them to fight on the radio. One time there was a traffic guy at WNBC who was a Vietnam vet. I respect vets and I'm genuinely curious about combat experiences. I asked the guy if he had killed any gooks in 'Nam and the guy went nuts, and he complained to the general manager. The next day the general manager gave me a good reaming and said that I should deliver an on-air apology. Of course I protested. I never apologized, but I did tell him on the air that if I offended him in any way I certainly hadn't intended to do so. He was very understanding and just as he was signing off I said, "So, did you or didn't you kill any gooks?" The guy went nuts and changed his shift to another show.
The traffic reporter who I believe really disliked me was Roz Frank. When I first came to WNBC I had to kiss Roz's ass because they told me she was a bigger star than I was. We'd get into on-air fights all the time.
Then she got pissed at me for an interview I did with the New York Post. They asked me if I was at war with Roz, so I told them that I really liked Roz except for her eye cheese. She called me at home, screaming at me to cut the shit. But I got her another way. Before she went on the air, Roz always cleared her throat. We recorded that and every time, right before she came on with her
report, we rolled the tape of her clearing her throat. We even used to play Celebrity Phlegm and have listeners call in to identify it.
One time I got the entire staff of K-Rock's sister Spanish station pissed off. They were hiring the Spanish Dr. Ruth, a big star, and the general manager of the station, Frank Flores, told me that they were having this big press conference and he made me swear that I would leave his press conference alone. Every major Latino newspaper would be there.
I couldn't help myself. It was as if Satan got inside me. I went to this serious press conference and stood outside the doorway and held up signs that read "Castro Rules" and "Give Me Back My Hubcaps." They went nuts. None of the Spanish people from the station ever spoke to me again.
Some of my guests cry at the slightest provocation. I made Wham wince when they sat down and the first question I asked them was, "Let's solve this once and for all: Are you guys gay?" They denied it. I've made Richard Simmons cry a hundred times, but that's easy.
The last person to cry on my show was comedienne Judy Tenuta, and it wasn't even my fault. She cried because Sam Kinison and Penn Jillette ganged up on her. Before Judy came into the room Sam offered me five crisp, new hundred-dollar bills if I got Judy to show us her breasts.
As soon as Judy showed up, Sam and Judy started going at it. Judy started goofing on Sam's young girlfriend, Malika, and her sister, Sabrina, whom Sam was also doing. Sam wouldn't take shit from anyone and he came back at Judy with a vengeance. He kept attacking her relationship with Emo Phillips, the comedian, because Judy kept their marriage a secret.
"Judy thinks she can just come in here and slap and abuse every man in this room just because Emo turned out to be such a disappointment in her life," Sam said.
"I don't hang out in day-care centers," Judy snarled.
"We're the enemy just because we share genitalia with this disappointment you call your boyfriend. You're not even proud enough of him to claim him as your man," Sam bellowed. "Emo's probably locked in your trunk outside! 'I've been good, can I come out?' "
"Yeah, like your poodles aren't on a leash outside," Judy shrilled. They were going at it pretty good.
Finally Penn decided to do a card trick. He pulled out a deck of cards and he had Sam pick one.
"Howard is a Buddhist monk in heat."
-- Judy Tenuta
"I'm putting it back in the deck, shuffling it, remember the card, visualize it clearly. Okay, okay, Judy, now take off your top," Penn said. Judy was pissed. "It didn't work," I said.
"I have to go," Judy suddenly said, and stormed out of the studio. We were all in shock. Judy was upset because she thought she was coming on alone.
"Tell her, 'Welcome to comedy and show biz on the same day,' " Sam said. He was Mr. Sensitive. "When she came in she wasn't wearing white slacks. Maybe it was a special day."
Penn, who had run out into the hall to apologize to Judy, came back in. "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I SAY ONE THING AND I'M THE SCHMUCK," he screamed. Penn suddenly jumped up and pointed at Sam. "THIS RAT BASTARD SET ME UP. HE PUT MY COMEDY BALLS UP AGAINST THE WALL. SAM GOT HER ANGRY... AND SHE COMES DOWN ON ME. I'M FROM MASSACHUSETTS, I DON'T NEED THIS. I'M GETTING OUT." Penn made like he was walking out.
Gary came back in and told us that Judy was crying when she left, saying she didn't have to take that crap, that she was ganged up on. "I can't imagine this crew being accused of ganging up. I wouldn't team up with anybody here," Penn said.
"I bet she's driving home sitting on a towel," Sam laughed. "I just wish Emo would grab Judy's hair and use it like the bridle of a horse and ride her into a wall."
Sam then told a story about the time he went to see Judy do a show in Denver years
ago and they had a little makeout session.
I felt really bad Judy left the show. The next morning, I arranged for her to come up again, this time alone.
"I love Sam. I can't help it if he was acting like a baboon in heat," I said.
"I was just surprised you had the whole small primate house in here. And I was not crying," Judy started off.
"You were crying like Roseanne Barr had just stepped on your foot," I said.
"And I didn't make out with Sam in Denver. He was like Jabba
the Hut with blow. He came backstage, I didn't even know who he was."
Suddenly, the hot line rang. I knew who it was without answering.
"JABBA THE HUT? YOU ACNE-FACED ..." Sam screamed. "I DEFENDED YOU YESTERDAY. I SAID ROSEANNE BARR STOLE EVERYTHING FROM YOU AND YOU RIP ME WITH 'JABBA THE HUT WITH BLOW'? YOU'RE MAKING A STUPID CAREER MOVE TO MESS WITH ME."
"I guess it's fair that you said I should have my head rammed into a wall?" Judy countered.
"I can overreact, too," Sam said. "It's not a female prerogative."
"You two should kiss again and make up. Like in Denver," I said.
"Sam, I'm sorry, I was making a little joke," Judy apologized.
"I got to go on a diet. That's my only vulnerable attack point," Sam said. "I love you, Judy. I think you're the best. If I hurt your feelings yesterday I'm sorry and I apologize."
"I FEEL SO GOOD NOW, SAM, I'M GOING TO CRY," Judy wailed.
"It's good you two kids made up," I said, "but this sucks for my ratings."
WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
One of my most celebrated on-air feuds began with a simple dispute I had with the rock group Bon Jovi and culminated in a knockdown, drag-out affair between Sam Kinison and me. It started very innocently when I got pissed at Bon Jovi for going on radio stations like Z-100 and WNEW to promote their new album yet shunning my show. I was mad because we were the only show to promote Bon Jovi when they were nobodies. I had what I thought was a good relationship with three guys in the band -- Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, and David Bryan.
One of my loyal listeners gave me Jon's home phone number, so I called him on the air and asked him why he wouldn't do my show. He gave me some lame excuse that the record company stopped him because the other stations threatened not to play the record if he came on with me. I knew this was bullshit and I teased him for kowtowing to the record execs. I renamed him Jon Bon Phony.
Jon sounded really contrite and offered to come over to my house, wash the car, and baby-sit my kids for restitution, but I was merciless.
"You guys wanted to get sodomized and we allowed you to have some girls in the backseat of a K-Rock limo and this is the thanks I get!" I whined. Meanwhile, here I was complaining that he wouldn't come on the air and I had already had him on for over an hour.
Then Sambora called in and I started in on him. I refused to accept his apology, I told the sodomy story again, then I warned him that Jon would dump him as fast as he dumped me.
"Go ahead, Richie, name the other two Supremes besides Diana Ross. You guys turned on me quicker than a Greek waiter." I was a hurt woman.
The next time Sam Kinison came to the show, he had a great idea. He had been hanging around with Bon Jovi and they even let him open up their show at Giants Stadium. I guess playing before seventy thousand Bon Jovi fans did something to Sam that, to this day, I can't comprehend, but he decided that he

would act as peacemaker between me and Bon Jovi. He suggested that the group come in the next morning and he would referee our on-air debate. What a stroke of Kissingerian diplomacy. I immediately accepted.
The reaction was instantaneous. Baba Booey was deluged with requests from the press to cover this historic radio moment. Fred and Jackie and I convened and prepared a prefight skit. I went to sleep early to be prepared for the event. The next morning, hundreds of hairless thirteen-year-old teenyboppers in miniskirts and knee pads huddled at the front doors, awaiting their heroes' arrival. There was enough hair spray on them to knock out the entire ozone layer.
The press had shown up in full force and we had set them up in a separate room. We were waiting for Sam and the guys to show.
By 8:301 started getting pissed. We decided to run the predebate skit anyway. I had recorded a goofy parody of those stupid prefight profiles. Over that dumb Rocky-type music I did my best sports announcer:
"Welcome to the 'Wide World of Sports.' They're calling it the 'War on the Fourth Floor.' It all started back when Howard Stern befriend ed
these young boys and put them on Dial-a-Date. But it all went sour since the boys got famous. Wasn't it Jon Bon Jovi who once said, 'Hey man, somebody's working my mouth, I have no opinions'? Now Howard Stern is all burned up. Just wait till they get into the vicinity of Infinity. First it was Motown versus Showtown, now if s the king of Madison Avenue versus the tampon-wearing, mousse-using Polygram pussies. Polygram Records tells them to kowtow and they do! Even though the man makes a hundred eighty million dollars you'd think he'd get an individual thought in his head. He kowtowed and listened to the record company and did not come onto Howard Stern's show. "Thanks to the good graces of Mr. Sam Kinison, the Henry Kissinger of Comedy, they'll come onto the show today and either bury the hatchet or sever the relationship forever. 780QP Fahrenheit was the title of one of their cut-out records but it'll get warmer in here if those sanitary-belt-sniffing sissies show up."

On the set of my E! "Interview" show with Richie Sambora and Jon Bon Jovi.
It was almost nine by now and I realized that I had been had. They weren't showing up. I could believe Bon Jovi would do this to me, but Sam, one of my closest show-biz friends? HOW COULD HE TURN ON ME LIKE THIS? I had only one recourse. I grabbed the mike and proclaimed Andrew "Dice" Clay, Sam's arch rival, the new king of comedy:
"Good-bye, Sam, nice knowing you. Don't burn your friends. I've had it with you! Dice Clay is the future! Dice works his ass off, he's not passed out in some room. Everyone's laughing at me. We'll see who has the last laugh. Five pussies from Sayreville, New Jersey, chump pussies who hit it lucky. We'll see what happens when they're on tour with Iron Butterfly. I expect something like this from Bon Douchee. It's Kinison I don't understand. What is that all about? Sam's upset I put Dice on. Who cares? I put a lot of comedians on. Maybe he's insecure because he hasn't come up with any new material in a while.
"I wonder why any girls are with Sam. Guess if s his Rob Lowe looks. Believe me, I could get Malika. Lef s see where those girls'll be when he goes through all his money. I don't hear people talk about Sam anymore, all I hear is people talking about Dice. Think Sam finished his ninth ham-and-egg sandwich this morning yet? What a phony. I'm sitting here with a knot in my stomach."
I thought of my coworkers. Imagine how embarrassed Gary was, having to go into a room full of press and say we got burned. That was even more embarrassing than parking Robin's car every morning.
"Sam is dead to me!" I pronounced. "He used Jessica like toilet paper and threw her away. Maybe she is a little wacky, but she's a woman and she does have feelings. It's like taking advantage of a retarded girl. You can run and you can hide but you can't dodge my airwaves, dude. Wait until you see the power I have, wait until you walk down the streets of New York and people scream how bloated and fat you are! When you see Sam tell him that DICE IS YOUR GOD! If you're going to Sam's show tonight just chant 'DICE FOREVER, TROLL NEVER.'"
The next morning we came on and the phones were burning up. Quite a few of the callers had been to Sam's show at Rascal's the night before and they reported that 90 percent of the place was chanting "HOWARD" and "DICEMAN." Sam had flipped out and said, "Screw Howard. Who the hell is he? I planned that scam yesterday.
Howard had to be taken down a step or two." One caller even said that at one point Sam got thirsty and asked a ringside spectator for a sip of his water. The guy said he was a Howard listener and another guy yelled out, "Spit in it first, then give it to him." How great was this? My fans were tormenting Kinison at his own show!
Finally, we got another call. This one was from Sam.
"I haven't changed, man. It was a practical joke and I'm sorry, I didn't know you were going to freak out and turn on me like a rabid dog, man," Sam said.
"Hey man, you made me look like a jerk," I fumed. Sam had expected me to just forget about it. My defiant tone meant a fight was brewing.
"My girls aren't bitches. All you did was turn on me, man," Sam complained. "Man, you hurt my feelings."
"I'm hurt, too," I said.
"I don't know if I can forgive this stuff. You're a vicious fucking guy, man," Sam said.
"If I'm a vicious dude, you're just as vicious as me. I don't get the point of the joke," I countered. This went on for the rest of the conversation. There was no coming together, we were both too hurt.
"I made a mistake, you got press out of it. You can ride this for a week, it'll help ratings." All of a sudden, Sam was a general manager.
"You didn't care what happened yesterday morning," Robin interjected.
"Robin, you're such a snake. You're both vicious people. You deserve each other and I hope you have a great career together," Sam said and then he hung up.
I was bummed. I couldn't believe what had happened. But I couldn't forgive Sam.
The next day, Sam called up from the airport and apologized. I was momentarily disarmed, but the following day, after hearing a tape of his remarks about me at his Rascal's show, I was too hurt again.
"I really respect his work and wish we were still doing stuff on the radio but in all good conscience, man, I can't have this guy back on anymore. He's dead to me. I don't want to make a habit of people burning me. You burn Carson, you don't get back on Carson. So good night, funny man."
I missed Sam and he missed me. Almost every day I'd get on the air and moan about our feud, but we were both too proud and stubborn to make up. But leave it to Sam, he thought of a comedic way
to get back on the show. We were having a radiothon to raise money for Danny Philbin, Regis's wheelchair-bound abandoned kid. In the middle of this event Sam called up from L.A. and donated $500. That was the icebreaker. Sam was back on the A-list.
JESSICA DUMPS ON SAM
(AFTER SAM DUMPS IN HER ROOM)
This was an excellent radio war. It started when Jessica Hahn got upset with Sam because he had a short fling with her, used her in his "Wild Thing" video, and then never called her. Meanwhile, Sam was pissed at Jessica because the National Enquirer ran a story about this three-hundred-pound ex-preacher, Sam, who was in love with this starlet, Jessica Hahn. Sam was convinced that Jessica had leaked the story and had gotten paid for it. Jessica was so mad at being spurned that she came on our show and said that Sam had fallen asleep inside her while they were making love. The stage was set for fireworks.
It started with Sam on the show. Jessica called in and told Sam she felt used by him. She even mentioned she sprang for the outfit she wore in the video. Sam offered to pay her for her appearance.
"I don't want your money," said Jessica.
"DON'T EVEN START IN, YOU COW-FACED LOSER! I'LL COME AFTER YOU LIKE YOU WON'T BELIEVE!" Sam screamed.
They argued about who made what allegation on what tabloid TV show.
Jessica, remarkably, was holding her own.
"You think because your mom died you're the only one that knows tragedy?" Sam suddenly said. Jessica's mother had just died that week after a long bout with cancer. It was a low blow.
"All I did was call because.. ."Jessica started but Sam interrupted her.
"Yeah, do another Mr. Ed routine, babe, while your mom's dying."
That was the coup de grace. A few days earlier, Jessica had taped a radio bit with me in which she had sex with Mr. Ed. Unfortunately, on the same day, her mother died. She had no idea that her mother would die that day, and we had, out of respect to Jessica, held off playing the bit. Now Sam was using this in a dirty, vicious sneak attack. What a dastardly guy. What sleazy underhanded tactics.
What great radio! Jessica started crying, then she hung up. The feud was on, big time.
A few days later Jessica called and was ready to spill her guts. She got on the air and told me the most embarrassing story I've ever heard in my life. Yes, it was true that Sam had fallen asleep inside of her. They'd checked into a hotel for a big romantic night. Sam had been doing lots of coke and beer, drinking tremendous amounts of alcohol that day. They made love and he fell asleep. An hour or two later, Sam got out of bed and was "making a big racket," Jessica said. The room was dark and Sam was banging into things. Sam was looking for the bathroom, but was so out of it, he just lost control. He began to shit all over the floor. As he was walking he was blasting away. It was a big pile, like the kind an elephant leaves behind. Sam unloaded and without flinching strolled back to the bed and went right back to sleep.
Now mind you, Jessica is telling us this romantic story, making herself out to be Florence Nightingale. In order to protect Sam from tabloid gossip, Jessica said she needed to clean up the room. If the maids saw a big pile on the floor of Sam Kinison's room, they'd phone the Enquirer. Jessica Nightingale told us she quickly wiped up the
shit with towels and wrapped up everything in big sheets. Then she took the brown-stained bedding down the hall and left it in front of someone else's room. Then she crept through the halls, grabbed Windex from the maid's cart, and cleaned the stains from the carpet. Sam woke up the next morning as if nothing had happened. In fact, he probably didn't even remember what he had done.
Well, the story was fantastic and made for an unforgettable morning of radio. The next logical step was to milk it for all it was worth.
A few weeks later, when Sam came on, I played him the tape of this conversation!
"OH, MAN!" Sam exploded. Not literally, thank God. "OH, MAN! DUDE, THIS IS WAR! WHAT'S AMNESTY SPELLED BACKWARDS?"
"How long will it take for Sam's face to turn purple?" I wondered aloud.
"Watch my face turn purple. Believe me, not only did she make this up, but you accept $260,000 of extorted money from misappropriated funds from a church and it's in your account, doesn't this make you an accessory to conspiracy to blackmail? She ought to be in the cell right next to Bakker. Oh, dude, I'm frothing, man!"
Now I knew Sam was pissed. He had used "dude" and "man" in the same sentence.
Sam was almost choking on his cough lozenges.
"Let me tell you something. She's a sick pig. I've had it with her jealousy. She couldn't get me. She offered herself to me and I fell asleep inside her. That's the worst insult you can pay a woman, right, Robin? That's when the war started. I thought we made up. IS THERE ANY MEAT LEFT ON THE CARCASS!? How did Jessica get off on charges of conspiracy to blackmail? Believe me, if we had knowledge of that, we would be busted. Plus she gave bad head!"
It was almost time to go off the air, so I plugged Sam's show that night.
"There may only be ten people there. They might be afraid I'm going to defecate on them from the stage," Sam said. "When I shit in the hotel room, maybe I was just trying to make her a little breakfast."
SAM AND I BOTH DUMP ON DICE
(FIGURATIVELY, THIS TIME)
Why was Sam always in the middle of these fights? Come to think of it, this one might never have started if it wasn't for that Satanic Sam goading me on. Sam was in the studio one day when Andrew "Dice" Clay called in. Robin and I had been pursuing Dice for an exclusive interview about the circumstances behind his getting banned for life from MTV. That morning, I had heard from one of my listeners in Philly that Dice had actually gone on the air there first with one of my radio competitors. Dice called in and tried to smooth things over, but I wasn't buying. I let him know I was disappointed and I cut the conversation short. This was Sam's chance to goad me into a war with Dice, his hated rival. At the time, Sam had about twelve naked tits circling his head (we had some strippers in the studio that morning). After a while, Sam's prodding got to me.
"That's it! Dice is banned from the show!" I pronounced.
"Then I respect you as a man and I'm there for you," Sam said.
"SAM KINISON IS THE NUMBER ONE COMIC IN THE WORLD," I proclaimed.
"You're cute," Sam cooed. "I'd be your woman."
Sam was pretty good at getting in the middle of a fight. His next time on the show, we called Kathy, Dice's ex-wife, in Los Angeles. Sam tried to squeeze dirt out of her and get her to confirm what he had heard, that Dice didn't want people to know she was married to him -- this while she was supporting the guy for three years! Kathy did say their divorce was ugly.
"It's a sad and sick story," I said indignantly. "I am so shocked by what I heard. For a man to deny his marriage ..."
This probably put Dice over the top. A month later he was playing a sold-out show at the Spectrum in Philly and the crowd was packed with Stern supporters. At the first sign of "HOWARD" chanting, the Diceman flipped out.
"What are you fucking yelling 'Howard Stern' for? He's just jealous 'cause I talked to another radio show and he's got nothing better to do than rip me apart, that insecure cocksucker. Nobody fucks with Dice, Dice does the fucking. Nobody."
All of a sudden, he saw a huge "STERN RULES" banner. I LOVE MY PANS!
"All right, sit down, jerkoff. What are you showing me, 'STERN
RULES'? But you're at my show, ha ha ha. C'mon, stop jerking yourselves off. He's using you fucking people for his ratings. Not Diceman. I come out, I deliver. How much did he pay you to sit in the front row and show me that sign? He's a deejay asshole. I'm the biggest comic to ever walk the earth! So he could wipe his ass with your sign, too. Hold it up. Yeah, beautiful. You did your job, collect your fifty bucks from Stern in the morning."
The man was obviously losing it. Dice stayed banned from my show for over a year. During that time, Sam took every opportunity to publicly flog him and challenge him to comedy showdowns. He claimed that Dice had stolen his whole act from him. But I missed Dice. Finally, we both agreed to bury the hatchet. Dice came in with his entourage -- Hot Tub Johnny, Dutch Edsel, and Downtown Ronnie -- and a photographer to record this historic reconciliation. We hugged emotionally.
"I don't care if you go on other shows," I said magnanimously. "This is a nice reunion. Hey, your ex-wife said she masterminded your career." Dice was in the middle of an ugly alimony suit with Kathy.
"I can't talk about her," Dice said.
"She won't get a dime," I said brightly. "Don't worry about it." God, am I a diplomat.
Before long, we got around to talking about Sam. Maybe they could make up, too.
"I wouldn't be friends with Sam. He's garbage. He started a fight with my bodyguard Hot Tub Johnny in the Comedy Store. Sam comes over to Johnny and he goes, 'I ain't afraid of Dice.' Sam wouldn't tell it to my face 'cause the guy's a pussy, that's the bottom line. I kept quiet for two years while this bloated animal destroyed his career by talking about me. So he starts calling Johnny names and makes like he's gonna hit him and he goes to Johnny, 'What are you gonna do about it?' Johnny goes, 'Lay a hand on me.'
"So Sam, with five guys around him, grabs Johnny by the throat. Johnny bangs him one in the face, Tubby goes down. He banged him right in his big, fat, bloated two-thousand-pound head. Now he jumps on that fat bastard's back, he just jumps on him like a waterbed, right, and he rips that dirty rag Sam wears on his head right off, and holds it up and sees Sam is bald from the ears up. Now Sam's guys are jumping on Johnny, but Johnny is dragging all of them and Sam through the Comedy Store to the bathroom. Johnny's
strong, you don't mess with Johnny. So now he sees Sam's a contestant for the new fat Mr. Clean.
"He drags Sam into the bathroom and all Sam's guys are jumping over Johnny but Johnny's pushing them off. He's got Sam in a head-lock and he's looking in the mirror and he's going, 'Sam, tell me what you see.' And Sam's going, 'I'm Bozo, I'm Bozo the Clown. I'm a big, fat, bastard Bozo.' Johnny let him go, but we kept the rag. Now it's a bit in the act."
HOWARD VS. ALL OF L.A. AND THE SEX-CRAZED MAGIC
Hey, I don't only take on comedians who need to get back on my show to sell out their gigs. I take on whole cities at a time. One of those times was right after we got the news that Magic Johnson had tested positive for HIV. Of course I felt bad. But the media was honoring Magic as if he had just come back from World War II and had sacrificed his life for the honor of his country. The hero worship was sickening. And what I told my listeners was that Magic was pretty damn irresponsible to get it in the first place. It wasn't as if he got infected through a bad blood transfusion or from his dentist. No, this guy came down with it because he had incredible amounts of unprotected sex. Everyone was afraid to talk about Magic in an honest way. The press blasted me. Hate mail poured in. Ironically, after the story was out for a few weeks many newspaper columnists and editorial writers ended up saying the same thing -- that Magic was a womanizer who, in this day and age, should have worn rubbers.
Some role model! He was out banging every night, the guy wouldn't stop. Unless we stop that kind of behavior, we're doomed as a human race. Look, we all want to see a cure for AIDS. But the cure exists. Instead of taking a magic pill or a shot, take your penis and put it back in your pants. And if you want to get some male ass, what you do is you go to a doctor and you both get checked and you stay with each other till death do you part. No more glory-holing.
That was basically my Magic rap, but the listeners were calling the station in droves complaining. Hell, even my program director in L.A., Andy Bloom, a guy who was with me years ago in Philly, called me up and asked me to tone down my remarks about Magic. Fuck him! He called me at home and left a message saying that he had never seen a reaction to anything like the reaction of the L.A.
audience to the Magic raps and the reaction was overwhelmingly negative. I thought that was great. But he was worried about these callers. When I asked him why they were complaining, he couldn't answer. They didn't know why they were mad, they couldn't specifically cite examples of things I had said that pissed them off, they were just angry I was "attacking" Magic.
Well, I'd give them something to be angry about. The next day I went on the air and imagined one of the many phone calls Magic would be making to the women he banged:
MAGIC: Hello, baby, this is Magic
. . . Johnson . . . Yeah . . . now
speaking about my Johnson, we got a little problem here.
WOMAN: What is it, Magic? I never
thought I'd hear from you

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