Private Parts : chap 11

MAGIC: Well, you sitting
WOMAN: I just want to say that
that night we spent together so beautiful.
MAGIC: I say, are you sitting down, woman?
WOMAN: Magic, I got to be honest with you. I thought you were like every other basketball player, you wouldn't call me back. And I know
you could have any woman you want. I've dated a lot of basketball
players. I make a habit of dating sports figures and people in the entertainment industry, but they never call back. This is so beautiful that you
called back.
MAGIC: Oh, baby, you're making it harder and harder. Baby, I was shooting arsenic.
WOMAN: What?
MAGIC: Well, there's good news and bad news.
WOMAN: Well, what's the good news?
MAGIC: The good news is you'll be losing a lot of weight soon. You can
go bang away, you got nothing to lose.
WOMAN: What's the bad news?
MAGIC: Well, I got something.
WOMAN: A gift? An engagement ring? Not one of you guys has
ever even called me back, now I'm engaged.
MAGIC: No, no, no, no. I got something ... it rhymes with maids.
WOMAN: Now what rhymes with maids? Blades? Rollerblades?
MAGIC: No, I don't got no Rollerblades.
WOMAN: Oh, my God, wait a second, I think I know what you're trying to tell me.
MAGIC: You know what, baby, it would be a whole lot easier if you tuned in the national TV. Just tune in to my press conference.
WOMAN: Okay, but that doesn't sound like good news.
MAGIC: Look at it this way. You can smoke all the cigarettes you want, do lots of drugs, jump out of an airplane, and race cars.
Now the phones and hate mail really went crazy. A few days later I picked out the best seething hate letter from a woman in L.A. named Laura and I called her up on the air.
"Honey, you're a big phony," I said. "You can't face facts that Magic Johnson, your supposed hero, was banging everything on two legs."
"Howard, you would have sex with lots of girls, but women don't want you."
"In your dreams."
That was it. I couldn't bear to talk with this moron. So I did all the talking. I had more to say than she did. "There's no way you can stop my juggernaut of coming and barreling through L.A. The ratings continue to grow. You're right, there's a lot of people like you who don't have any comprehension level. You read a book and you don't even know what you read. You speak and you don't know what you just said. You're a stupid woman who will never understand my show. You should not be listening. I don't sit and idolize Magic Johnson. I tell you the way it is. I tell you that he slept with thousands of women and that's why he got the AIDS virus. He used no contraception whatsoever and you can't deal with that because it's an adult opinion. I don't go around gaga about Magic. He's not my God and hero."
"You're your only God and hero," she said.
Maybe she was more perceptive than I was giving her credit for.
"You should quit the Catholic church and pray to Magic Johnson.
Build a giant sneaker in your bedroom and pray to that instead of the Virgin Mother," I said.
"I have a basketball..."
"Take the basketball and pray to it."
"Howard, you have this godlike attitude that ain't gonna work for long."
"If you don't like the show, listen to Rick Dees, Mark and Brian, Jay Thomas, I'll name them all. IN FACT, I FORBID YOU FROM LISTENING TO MY SHOW AND YOU ARE ONLY ALLOWED TO LISTEN TO MARK AND BRIAN AND RICK DEES AND JAY THOMAS. Now I'll hang up on you. Thank you for calling and thank you for your hate letter. You are no longer allowed to listen."
"Thank you, Howard," she said and hung up.
"I don't want anybody like her listening," I continued. "I want to hand-select the people who listen. Their hero. They got a real hero. Meanwhile a real hero like Jonas Salk can't afford cable TV."
It's funny, after all these years doing my show, I never really got into a physical fight. Plenty of screaming matches, verbal threats, and posturing, but no fisticuffs. But it wasn't until we went to L.A. to do a live remote from the Grammys that I ever got into a real fight.
This wasn't a real fight either. It was more like a New York mugging. We were set up in a hall at the Roosevelt Hotel, along with a lot of other radio stations from around the country. The problem was my show was so controversial that the idiots escorting the celebrities from station to station were shying away from bringing me guests.
I wasn't going to take this lying down. I called over the jerk who was running the show and berated him on the air. He told me that I had a history of "hogging" guests. I told him to screw off, I'd get my own guests. It just so happens that for these purposes, I carry a megaphone. The previous year at the Grammys, I used this megaphone on Lou Reed in an attempt to shame him into coming and sitting for an interview with me, even though I knew he hated my guts.
I picked up my megaphone and turned it on. Scanning the room, I spotted Elaine Boosler at the next booth. Great. Another jerk who didn't like me and wouldn't be a guest. I really wasn't interested in her being on my show until I heard she requested not to be on. The guy who ran the show told me that Elaine had been hearing me talk shit about her all week, too. This was going to be fun.
"HEY, ELAINE. WHAT'S THE MATTER? YOU DON'T WANT TO COME ON MY SHOW?" Everyone in the room could hear me. The whole room turned as one toward me. The other stations were pissed because my loud megaphone voice was interrupting their broadcasts.
"So's your face," a strange-looking guy suddenly said.
"Who are you? Take a seat," I motioned toward my empty guest chair.
All of a sudden, all hell broke loose. This jerk attacked me, slamming my megaphone into my nose. He was about to do more damage, but my faithful producer, Boy Gary, grabbed him from behind. He poked Gary in the mouth and threw a full cup of soda at me before one of my brave listeners from New York, who had won a radio contest, managed to wrestle him to the ground and bloody his face with his studded wristband. During this fracas, Elaine Boosler came over screaming, "He's with me and he has taste." It turns out that this guy was Boosler's boyfriend. The entire room started buzzing with excitement. The best thing about the fight was we never went off the air. THIS WAS GREAT RADIO!
"Elaine Boosler's people just beat up Gary," I immediately announced. "Are my earrings in?" Gary asked. "I think he pulled one of my earrings out."
"You get punched in the eye?" I asked him.
"No, I'm okay," Baba Booey said. "But I don't want you to ever say I don't do anything for you. I took a shot for you, man."
He was absolutely right. I made a mental note not to berate him -- at least not until we got back to New York.
"Howard Stern? I can't stand him." -- Lou Reed
More and More and More and More Hate Mail
I feel sorry for you Howard. You are a man caught inside a world of his own ego. Who are all these fictitious people that are always mauling you where ever you go? Honestly Howard do you really think you are that recognizable. You look just like about 500,000 other tall black hair, big nosed Jews that live in New York City. There are no people bothering you Howard it is all part of some warped make believe world. A world that you have conjured up to support your own ego problem. You are worse than the addicts you occasionally make fun of.
600 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Dear Pig,
You suck. You suck
You suck. You suck.
You suck. You suck
You suck. You suck. You suck. You
You suck. You suck.
You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.
You suck. You
suck. You suck
You suck. You suck. suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.
This is in response to your inhumane remark referring to lawyers as retards and mongoloids on your show of Thurs., July 9. I, on behalf of all handicapped people demand a public apology for your heartless remark. Retarded people can't help what they are but you can help what you are. You think your so cool but you're nothing more than a radio rendition of Don Rickles. You get your laughs (so you think) by tearing other people apart which is so unoriginal and boring. You are a has been and your sponsors hate you because your only appeal is to an all male audience. Why don't you take a look at your own pathetic life before making fun of the less fortunate. It's too bad you weren't socially conscious enough to have had a vasectomy before bringing two more dregs into society like yourself. Retarded people will have more to offer society than your subhuman family.
Out of the Closet Stern
I' m Six-Five, Weigh 190 Pounds, and I Have a Tongue Like an Anteater Chapter 14
Frankly, I cannot fathom how any man can look at another man's buttocks and get turned on. But this is America, and I will defend to the death the right of any man to insert his penis anywhere. And as for transsexuals, I think those sex-change operations should be outlawed. These freaking doctors should spend less time carving vaginas out of penises and find a cure for cancer already.
The truth is, I am one of the world's leading authorities on homosexuality, and I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight on why men become homosexuals. Many people today lean toward the revisionist theory that homosexuality is biologically determined. In my opinion, homosexuality is just another way of delaying adulthood. When you're with another guy you don't have to deal with the responsibilities of a traditional family. You extend the joys of your prepubescence. You're stuck in the phase of your life where you just hang out with boys. It's a simpler time. And a gross sign of immaturity. I believe homosexual behavior is not genetic but rather a deeply rooted defense mechanism that allows the human mind to ward off outside pressures. Like obsessive-compulsive behavior, alcoholism, or gambling addictions, homosexual behavior can be changed. I have nothing against homosexuals and support gay rights, but...
... I can't fathom the ass as a sex object. I mean, why don't I just go and put my dick in a garbage pail?
I could shower my backside ninety times a day, I could clean it out with a wire brush, that smell is a road flare to me.
I once asked one of the guys I had on Gay Dial-a-Date how he could stomach the smell of another man's ass.
"Dogs smell each other's asses all the time," he said.
"All I know," I said, "is that you're a psychopath if you don't realize that a man's backside smells like a waste area, a human cesspool. You can take colonics for a month, you can sit on a bidet, you can take a bottle of Opium perfume and stick it up there with the cap off, and it will still stink to high hell!" I yelled. "I've done experiments on myself. I stay in the shower for hours and soap every nook and cranny and when I come out and lie on the floor and smell myself, it still stinks!"
"You better see a doctor, Howard," he said.
"You are a lunatic! You're attracted to the smell of a man who goes to the bathroom! You must have an air freshener lodged in your buttocks, Socrates. That area is an exit, not an entrance."
"Women have no odor?" he said.
"They stink, too, but it's worth putting up with," I said. "Once you feel a woman, there's nothing better."
Sometimes I actually envy gays when it comes to having sex. If you can get over the fact that it's a guy's buttocks, there are no head
trips involved. You don't have to have three dates. You don't even have to be attractive. You stuff your ass into some jeans and go down to a gay bar, and guaranteed someone will pull down your pants and blow you. No begging, no guilt, no game playing. Got an ass? WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU, STAN! No "So what kind of work do you do?" With gays, it doesn't matter.
"What's your job?"
"Actually, I'm out of work at the present."
"Bend over!"
And if that doesn't work because you're so damn ugly, all you have to do is stick your dick into a glory hole.
Gay bars take a wall and drill some holes into it so you can have totally anonymous sex. You just stick your dick through a hole in the wall and someone on the other side starts sucking you. I could never go to one of those places because I'm so small. I couldn't reach the other side of the wall.
One of the more interesting things I receive in the mail over and over again is a list of objects gay guys put in their asses. One thing is certain, this is definitely a guy thing. Women don't seem to shove a lot of stuff up there. Men are weird. We've got really bad habits.
Here's a list of things doctors have harvested from men's asses. Imagine spending all those years in medical school only to specialize in doing this.
Some doctor actually chronicled these items and detailed the information for a medical journal, so if any politically correct scumbag thinks I'm making this stuff up, you're full of shit.
These guys' asses are like garages. They store stuff in their holes and then forget about junk that's in there. How do you forget about stuff that you lodged in your ass?
1. A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup. (Now that's a big bottle, complete with her head and those big round shoulders.)
2. An ax handle.
3. A plastic spatula.
4. A Coke bottle.
5. An antenna rod.
6. A 150-watt lightbulb. (That's very thin glass.)
7. A screwdriver.
8. Four rubber balls.
9. A paperweight.
10. An onion.
11. A frozen pig's tail.
12. A broomstick.
13. An eighteen-inch umbrella handle. (Ouch! And all this disappeared? I don't understand it. This can't be possible.)
14. An oil can.
15. A toolbox weighing twenty-two ounces. (This was in a medical journal. It's not as if I'm reading this in the Enquirer.)
16. A flashlight.
17. A turnip.
18. A pair of eyeglasses.
19. A polyethylene waste trap from a u-bend of a sink. (What the hell is going on? I mean, you walk into the kitchen and look at the drain and say, "I know what to do with that. I'll stick it in my ass"?)
20. A live, shaved, declawed gerbil.
The gerbil thing is pretty wacky. They shave the hair off the gerbil, clip its nails, break its teeth out, put it in the freezer for a few minutes, then put Vaseline on it, and shoot it up with coke. Then they insert a tube up their rectums and squeeze one end and the gerbil runs up the tube into the tushy. As the gerbil starts fighting for air, it's supposed to create a really erotic sensation. Who would think of this? Someone ought to call the ASPCA. Someone called them on me once because I was doing a show with a guy who ate live mice dipped in olive oil. Five ASPCA marshals came down and threatened to arrest me.

Vinnie D'Amico offered to eat a mouse at my live show.
But the weirdest story was reported in the Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology. It seems that one guy had his life mate pour a batch of concrete mix into his ass through a funnel while he lay on his back with his feet against the wall at a precise forty-five-degree angle. After a few hours the concrete hardened and it became so painful he had to go to the hospital. Under general anesthesia, his anus was dilated and two catheters were inserted. A suction was created and they chiseled the concrete cast of his rectum out. The best part was they found a Ping-Pong ball inside the concrete!
Meanwhile, a lot of these guys are putting the goddamn Eiffel Tower up their butts without incident, for the most part, and I'm the one with the anal fissures. Go figure.
One time I was sitting in my office and I noticed an ad in the paper for the Gay Party Line. I decided to call it because I wanted to see just how far I could go before I made a gay man throw up from disgust.
"Hi. I'm six-foot-five, I weigh 190 pounds, and I have a tongue like an anteater," I proudly announced. There were a bunch of voices immediately responding to my sexy voice.
One deep masculine voice gasped, "Hey, you sound cute. Let's get a private line." I dove right in: "I want to shave your balls. I want to drop some scalding hot candlewax on your scrotum."
He was getting really turned on. He actually wanted me to burn his scrotum. He was hot for me. Suddenly an operator interrupted.
"You two are getting very graphic. Exchange phone numbers and call each other on your own." Evidently the operator's job was to make sure that homos like me don't get too obscene. Something to do with the FCC again. They never leave me alone.
I told the operator I wasn't ready to give out my number because I still had a few questions for my friend to see if he was my type. She said, "Fine, but nothing too graphic."
"Are you still there?" I said in my seductive voice.
"You know what I really want to do to you?" I had to think quick about what would turn this guy off. "I want to ... piss in your ass."
He moaned with lust... there was no stopping him. Thank God the operator threw me off the Gay Party Line. I hadn't even gotten to the concrete and Ping-Pong ball discussion. I'm probably
the only guy ever thrown off a Gay Party Line.
Over the years, I've gotten so many complaints from humorless listeners about my gay material that I decided to write a hate letter to myself:
Dear Mr. Stern,
At 6:30 A.M. on September 3, you referred to a gay couple as a pair of lunch pushers and made references to them opening beer cans with their sphincters. Horrifying.
At 8:45 on September 18, you called a gay caller a weenie genie and asked him if he really thought other men's private parts were a party ... which is so mean.
At 8:15 on September 22, you said Rock Hudson died of botulism -- bad meat in the can -- which the gay community found unfunny and terribly offensive.
At 9:15 on October 2, you made the so-called joke "What do Henry the Eighth, Rock Hudson, and Donald Manes have in common? They all screwed Queens and died." Also not funny, Mr. Stern.
At 7:00 on October 23, you referred to a homosexual caller as a log breath, a B.V. Deviant, a tube-steak Tarzan, and a flagpole sitter from the Baloney Cavalry. So incredibly demeaning.
On December 3, you again berated a gay caller with an endless list of rude homosexual nicknames, including bun splitters, tonsil jockeys, knob gobblers, pickle chuggers, bone smugglers, worm worshipers and Hanes grazers ... did I miss one?
On December 22, you did a ten-minute soliloquy on your personal AIDS research and made comments about the laboratory rats not cooperating because they were always at the ballet. This, you putz, even I laughed at.
I'm sure I'll never win an award from any gay group, but I think I've actually done a few things to make people more tolerant of different lifestyles. Here's Donahue pandering to ridiculous and insulting stereotypes of gay men by parading a bunch of drag queens around as a symbol of homosexuality, and GLAAD (Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) gives him an award.
Ninety-nine percent of the gay community isn't running around in drag. Why are they honoring him?
I haven't won any awards, but I've given some award-winning
performances in skits such as Lean on Meat, Gay Squirty Dancing, Gay Wall Street, Raging Bulimic, Gay Bonanza, Butt Cheek Fever, Homo Pyle, 2010: A Gay Space Oddity, and my three favorites, Homocop, Buttman, and My Gay Left Foot.
Although I am very tolerant of the gay lifestyle, there is one aspect of it that I truly abhor.
NAMBLA, the North
American Man Boy Love
Association. These guys are twisted! They advocate sexual
relations between grown men and underage boys. One time on the air I called the NAMBLA hot
line and was totally repulsed
when a guy who sounded like a cross between Count Dracula and Jose Jimenez delivered the following message:
"Hello, this is NAMBLA... if you're a boy, do not despair, be true to your feelings. Times will change and your oppression will end. If
you're a man, be safe, be brave, and above all be proud to be a boy
On second thought, the guy on the NAMBLA message sounded just like Ricky Ricardo. Listening to that I imagined what it might have been like if Ricky had decided to call NAMBLA. I asked my favorite artist, Drew Friedman, to illustrate how I imagined Lucy would react if she discovered that Fred and Ricky were having sex with young boys. I'm excited to present to you my first cartoon ever of the most offensive subject I could imagine:

The television epic Gay
Munsters. From left to right:
Robin, Grandpa Al Lewis, me as
Gay Herman, Fred as Lily, Gary as Eddie, and Jackie as Marilyn.
More, More, More, More and More Hate Mail
You have no talent, looks, class, or any redeemable social value. You have as much appeal as watching cottage cheese turn rancid. As far as your nose is concerned, It looks like the business end of an enema tube. As for Quivers, I'm surprised you haven't inserted plates in her lips and used her to rest coffee cups on. Your show(s) should be shown to prisoners awaiting the death sentence as an alternative. What's with that mass of weeds you call hair? You are so ugly, you could replace medusa. It also looks like you cultivated your staff in a toxic dump. Stuttering John should have been terminated at birth. Tell Gary that a padded coat hanger makes a good butt plug. Fred should be force fed a mouth's worth of morning tooth crust from pig-boy Dell 'Abate.' And as for Jackie, it shows what can happen if syphilis goes untreated.
Dear Howie:
Our membership voted today to pray for the following:
Your ratings go to zero.
You lose the show.
You go broke.
Your wife leaves. Takes the children to her mother's. Gets a court order, you can not visit.
You get AIDS and cancer.
You join the homeless and linger for five years among the homeless.
A charity benefit is held for you in MSG. No one shows except the director of the FCC. He gives you five dollars. You fall to your knees and kiss his hand.
Burial is held at NYC Potter's field. No one shows except the entire staff of the FCC. They all piss on your grave and then attend the sold out celebration at Yankee Stadium.
If there is anything else we can do, please call.
I feel sorry for you Howard. You are a man caught inside a world of his own ego. Who are all these fictitious people that are always mauling you where ever you go? Honestly Howard do you really think that you are that recognizable. You look just like about 500,000 other tall black hair, big nosed Jews that live in New York City. There are no people bothering you Howard it is all part of some warped make believe world. A world that you have conjured up to support your own ego problem. You are worse than the addicts you occasionally make fun of. You have the worst addiction anyone could possibly have. You Mr. Stern, are addicted to, Howard Stern.
The Comics
Kinison, Dice, Seinfeld, and More
Chapter 15
Comics love appearing on my show. Are they attracted to me because of my brilliant wit, my intense interviewing skills, or my incredible improvisational abilities? The truth is that just like everyone else, they use me. " '"'
Nobody loves me. They all come on my show because they know that a plug to my audience guarantees them a sell-out crowd at Goofy's, Zany's, or whatever godforsaken little club they're appearing in.
I've always been jealous of anyone who earns a living passing judgment on the talent of others. I will now attempt to set myself up as a critic with the hope that USA Today will hire me to become the Mr. Blackwell of comedy. This will enable me to fulfill my lifelong desire to quit my radio career and do something fulfilling . . . criticizing other people in print.
Sam Kinison -- Most natural, most spontaneous of all. Eddie Murphy -- O ne of the greatest stand-ups of all time. Jackie Mason -- You want to hate him, then when you see his show, he wins you over. He's great.
Jay Leno -- Funny.
Johnny Carson -- Not funny. Richard Pryor -- Funny. ; Larry Miller -- I don't know who he is. Tim Allen -- Not funny.
Paul Reiser -- Not funny. Robin Williams -- Not funny. Rita Rudner -- Not funny. Bill Cosby -- Not funny. Never was. Steve Allen -- Not funny now. Alan King -- Funny until he did those stupid Toyota commercials. Elayne Boosler -- Lame.
Jerry Seinfeld -- Funny. Richard Lewis -- Funny. Billy Crystal -- Funny. Richard Belzer -- Funny.
Judy Tenuta -- She showed me her tit once. That was funny. She's funny. Dennis Miller -- Funny. Joan

Rivers -- Funny. Andrew "Dice" Clay -- Funny. Woody Allen -- Not funny now. His testimony's a riot, though.
Rodney Dangerfield -- Funny. Cheech and Chong -- Really funny movies. The original Beavis and Butt-head. Steve Martin -- No longer funny. A serious actor. Roseanne Arnold -- Not funny. Tom Arnold -- Definitely not funny. He will ruin his wife's career. Chevy Chase -- Never been funny. Gabe Kaplan -- Not Funny. Dave Thomas -- Funny. Gallagher -- Not funny.
Dennis Wolfberg -- Sometimes
funny. Garry Shandling -- Really funny. Gilbert Gottfried -- Absolutely funny. David Brenner -- Funny. Albert Brooks -- Always funny. Pat Cooper -- Extremely funny. Robert Klein -- Very funny.
Steven Wright -- Witty but not funny. Rosie O'Donnell -- Not funny. Sandra Bernhard -- Funny. Damon Wayans -- Not funny at all. Don Rickles -- I loved him when I was a kid. Bob Hope -- Was one of the greats.
I truly respect anyone who can get up in front of an audience and make them laugh. Especially in those smoky little rat-hole clubs with the uncomfortable wooden chairs that you can't sit in for more than two minutes. Here are some of my favorite moments with comedians who've paid their dues in shit holes like that.
Dennis is a great stand-up comic but an annoying, arrogant asshole. Incredibly, he switches from a great fun guest one minute to an overly sensitive scumbag the next. I really think he dislikes me, but when he needs the promotion, he runs to do my show.
I remember one time he called me when comedian Gilbert Gottfried was in the studio with me. Miller was just starting his miserable late-night show and he really needed a plug, so not only did he call in, but he was calling in while he was holding his baby boy, Holden. As Dennis began to plug his show, Gilbert and I began to talk only to his newborn son. Instantly, we turned into mock pedophiles, begging for sexual secrets about baby Holden Miller.
"Holden, this is Uncle Howard," I said.
"Holden, what are you wearing?" Gilbert wondered.
"I'm sorry? Did Gilbert just ask my son what he was wearing?" Dennis asked incredulously.
"Holden, how big are your testicles?" Gilbert screamed.
"Holden, can you send me a Polaroid of yourself?" I said.
"Holden, put your hand inside your diaper and rub," Gilbert said.
"Gilbert's a little pervert. I hope you never have him on your show," I said to Dennis.
"Holden, I want you to unpin your diaper, okay? Just reach around and slowly unpin it. Now slap some baby powder on."
Dennis was not amused. He hung up, but Gilbert and I continued wooing Holden.
"I'd like to be holding Holden," Gilbert said. "Holden, go under the tree and pose."
"Holden, you're so natural and uninhibited. And your skin is so pink," I whispered.
"I remember the last time I saw Holden he was wearing Pampers
and the Velcro was just a tiny bit open," Gilbert reminisced fondly.
"When Gilbert was in the hospital," I interrupted, "he would slip into a doctor's uniform and go to the pediatrics ward."
"Time for your rectal examination," Gilbert riffed. "This won't hurt a bit. Bounce up and down on my lap. Why don't you climb up on my leg, like you always do? Climb up my leg and slide down."
"Touch Uncle Gilbert's candy cane," I said.
"Would you like a spanking, Holden?" Gilbert asked. "We've both been bad boys -- it's time for our discipline."
"Enough, Gilbert!" I interrupted. "Even I'm disgusted by you."
Another time Miller came up after his TV show had been canceled; he must have thought he'd get some sympathy from me. But I just reamed him because he blew it. He was blaming Jay Leno for stealing his guests when the real issue was that publicists were not going to book celebs on a show with no ratings.
"Fuck Jay Leno and guests. Your show sucked!" I discreetly explained. He had all these conspiracy theories, meanwhile the show blew and he didn't want to blame himself.
He's another one of these guys who gets a little bit of fame and then his marriage breaks up. I had him on once when we were out in Hollywood and he brought this model he was marrying. So I asked him about his first wife. After we finished the show, he begged me to edit out the stuff about his first wife. So I did him a favor and edited it out. He stayed away from the show for another four years. He was so pissed off that we even asked him about his first marriage, but as soon as he got the TV show, and the ratings weren't there, boom, he was my best friend again.
First, he wanted me to be a guest on the show and I said no. I was honest. His show was floundering and I wasn't going down on that ship. Then he told me they'd devote a whole hour to me on the same night that Jay Leno took over "The Tonight Show." Why would I go up against Leno?
Suddenly I was the guy to talk to when he was desperate for ratings and he couldn't talk about his first wife, this Hollywood guy who got some luck and married a model. It was funny, he was one of these politically correct guys who women thought was cool. Me, I'm perceived as a fucking sexist pig. Meanwhile, I'm the guy who sticks with his wife in real life and he's the one whose marriage broke up as soon as the fame kicked in. Strange world, huh?
People mention Milton Berle and they get all teary-eyed. He's a comedy pioneer, revolutionized television, blah, blah, blah. Hey, the reason those early comedians had such huge shares on television was because they went up against test patterns, okay? I never saw the Milton Berle show when I was growing up. I didn't know anything about Milton Berle. The only reason I had him on my show was because he was infamous for having a huge fucking cock. That fascinated me. I found Uncle Miltie to be a great guest, interesting and quick, but all I wanted to hear about was that cock.
But Uncle Miltie didn't want to talk about it. Hey, if I had a penis like his I'd rope cattle with it. I'd be showing it all over the place. I'd be so proud of it. The first time we had him on I tiptoed around his cock. Then we booked him again. His publicist warned Gary that we shouldn't deal with the "penis thing." Yeah, right.
"Here comes Milton Berle into the studio," I announced. "Mr. Berle, every inch a gentleman, by the way, if I may say so. The last time you were on everyone said to me, 'But Howard, you didn't ask him about his weenie.'"
"Oh, stop, that's terrible," Milton protested.
"I have always maintained that you and Forrest Tucker had the biggest ones in the business. Man, it's gotta be great to have a big one," I went on. "You know, when they circumcised Uncle Miltie, they threw more away in the pan than I have. Doesn't it make life easier for you? You don't have to put that much effort into it. I have to do stuff to my wife just to get her excited. Your wife must be like, 'Oh, my God, this is unbelievable.'"
Milton wanted to drop the subject.
"Yeah, it's easy for you to be humble, when you've got a thermos in your pants," I snickered.
I asked Uncle Milton if he'd be so kind as to take phone calls from my audience. What he didn't know is that I had had Gary prescreen the callers and set them up with penis questions. The first caller came on.
"Listen, Uncle Miltie, when you get aroused, have you ever fainted from all the blood rushing into your tool?"
"Very funny," Berle said.
"You see? People are genuinely interested in the size of your
genitals. Uncle Miltie, don't deny this aspect of show business." We went to the next caller.
"Mr. Berle, is it true that you're hung so well that you have a five-skin?" These callers were very well rehearsed.
"Oh, boy," Milton moaned. We put the next caller on.
"I'm dying to ask you this, Uncle Miltie. The thing is, you always wear those baggy pants, so it's really hard to tell. Do you hang to the left or the right, or do you wrap it around your waist?"
I punched another call through.
"I have a legitimate question for Milton."
"Thank God." Milton was relieved.
"When you wore a dress on stage, Uncle Miltie, did anything ever stick out and graze the floorboards of the stage?"
"See, that's all they want to know about, Uncle Miltie," I gloated.
"No more phone calls!" Berle screamed. But we had made our point. We had exposed a true giant of show biz.
I love Jerry's comedy and he's always been nice enough to come on the show, but his appearances do seem to revolve around his latest Nielsen rating. When his television show went up against "Home Improvement" and his show's ratings were in trouble, he was an almost weekly visitor to the show. Then, when NBC switched him so that he followed "Cheers," we never heard from him. One week they shift his time slot and his ratings plummet, boom, he's in our studio before the ink of next week's TV Guide is dry.
But I love making fun of Jerry.
The main reason I get on Jerry so much is that I'm jealous of him. It drives me fucking crazy that every babe on the planet, especially these Long Island hausfraus who are looking for husbands, thinks Jerry's a great, regular guy and they could get him. Meanwhile, he's going from model to model, dumping one and picking up another one a week later. Every imbecilic single woman I know wants to meet Jerry Seinfeld. Even if they look like a truck hit them in the face, they still think they can get Jerry Seinfeld.
This guy is living the dream bachelor life! I saw it on that Barbara
Walters special. He's got a three-million-dollar house with two refrigerators in the kitchen.
A woman who once had a date with Jerry called into the show. She said he picked her up and took her back to his place where they watched Jay Leno do his monologue on TV. To top off the evening, the dream date included a running critique of Jay's monologue. Now that's incredibly romantic. If a regular guy did that on a first date any normal woman would be disgusted. So whenever Jerry comes in I'm sure to bust his chops about his womanizing.
But women are such idiots; they keep going out with guys like Jerry because he's famous. They never dated me and I have a much better personality than Jerry Seinfeld.
"Aren't you nervous about getting the AIDS virus, Jerry?" I asked.
"No, I'm not nervous about it," he laughed.
"What? Do you check the girls?" I asked.
"Yes," Jerry said.
"What, you spread their legs and use a flashlight?" I said.
"I only go out with girls that can do a split on the hood of a car. That's how I check them. And then I get behind the wheel of the car and I look through the windshield," he laughed.
"And you just put on the wipers, right? I like that," I said.
"I get the windshield wiper fluid with Nonoxynol-9," Jerry said.
Then I found out Jerry was dating a seventeen-year-old. How immoral! How wrong! God, how I wish I were doing it! I saw the pictures of her in the Enquirer. She had the breasts of Jayne Mansfield, the hips of Marilyn Monroe, and the butt of Betty Grable. My God, she had the body parts of all dead people.
We even wrote a song about her. Her name was Shoshanna. It was a parody of "At Seventeen," the old Janis Ian hit, and, even better, we got Janis to sing it when she came into the studio to plug her new album.
Seinfeld's girl is seventeen An innocent with double Ds He saw those breasts and flipped his lid For a real young busty high school kid
A horny lonely TV geek Her major jugs made Jerry weak Can't he find girls his age to date? She's seventeen and she's jailbait
He takes her out in New York town That lovely girl and the TV media clown She'd barely shed her training bra She'd kiss his lips for candy bars
A nice guy you turned out to be Did she sit upon your knee? You shouldn't really grope for them At seventeen ...
Her panties must smell like a rose Is Seinfeld just like Piscopo? Seducing girls in a limousine While his fans think that he's so damn clean
Can't Seinfeld find an older dame? Do private parts all look the same? Does he make her parents shout When he sticks his tongue into her mouth?
You're making such a spectacle Thinking with your testicles If you're gonna make some glue You should date girls as old as you
Fell for an old man from TV Her pubic hair grew in last week With fresh and firm and round butt checks At seventeen...
As of now Jerry's not talking to me because of this song. I got word through a publicist that he wouldn't appear on my TV show because of it. Jerry should be flattered I wrote a song about him. I wish someone would write a song about me.

One of my favorite comedians is Garry Shandling. His "Larry Sanders Show" on HBO is about the best thing on television.
I happen to think the Diceman is truly funny. Especially when Dice first broke on the scene, I thought his material was hysterical. Dice makes me laugh hard, and these other comedians who put him down are just jealous assholes who wish they could fill a stadium with rabid fans. How anybody could think this guy was somehow more than a comedian is beyond me, but all these nudnick journalists started writing essays like "The Politics of Hate" and suddenly Dice was being treated like a politician, as if his words really mattered. Hey, lighten up, the guy's a fucking comedian.
I also despise this idea politically correct people have that no one can make their own decisions and evaluations in life, and that the average guy who goes to see a show is such a moron that after he hears Dice he's going to go right out and rape two broads and get
drunk and do some coke. I can't believe anyone would place that much significance on Dice's act.
Dice is a very nice guy, and I think he's a very talented comic. But I think he reacted to the criticism the wrong way. When his critics really came down hard on him, his reaction was to say, "Hey, I'm a character." By saying that, he turned off his core audience. They didn't want to know that he was a character, they wanted to think that Dice was that guy they saw on the stage. And you want to know something? I've spent a lot of time with him and he is that guy.
I remember one time Dice called me at home and told me that now that he had a wife and a baby he was going to buy a house. He was finally going to move out of Brooklyn. Dice had a really nice house in Brooklyn, but he was a fixture in his hometown neighborhood. I didn't understand how he could have stayed there that long, but he didn't care. His whole thing is, he'll go anywhere, he doesn't give a shit, and if people come up to him and ask for autographs, he says, "Fuck off."
When Dice decided he was going to buy a house he figured he should live near me, so I agreed to go house-hunting with him. I called the realtor who sold me my house -- a really nice, sweet woman. Dice kept saying, "Don't call a realtor! I don't like realtors! Fuck those realtors!" I said, "Well, Dice, I really don't know what's on the market, quite frankly, so you've got to deal with the realtor."
"Well, does she understand what I want?" he said.
"What do you want in the house?" I asked.
"I'd like a ranch house. I've seen your house, you got stairs. I don't want stairs. I'd like a ranch house, but not so modern. I'd like it more regular, you know." Fucking Einstein could not have interpreted that description of a house, but I called the realtor I knew anyway.
Meanwhile, I can't believe he really talks like Dice, all the time! People who knew him early on told me that he didn't talk like that, but I think he's actually become that guy. So we made an appointment with the realtor. I took Dice and his humble assistant, Hot Tub Johnny, to a parking lot at the post office near where I live to meet the realtor. While we were waiting, a guy who appeared to be Indian came toward our car to ask directions. Dice rolled down the window.
"Excuse me," the Indian guy said.
"What the fuck do you want, you fuckin' dot-head?" Dice said. I was like fucking crunched down on the seat. I didn't even want to be seen with these guys because this is where I live. And Hot Tub
Johnny was videotaping it all on a camcorder he had brought along.
"What do you want? I don't understand you! Speak some fucking English!" Dice was yelling. He was totally rude, and I was just dying, but finally this guy left. I started yelling at Dice. I told him if he was going to act like a fucking asshole, I wasn't going to go with him.
"Calm down," said Dice. "We're going to have a lot of fun today. Because when Johnny and I go house-hunting, we like to run up and down people's stairs and videotape it."
"If you bring a video camera with you and start running up and down other people's stairs, then I'm not going with you!" I was getting the feeling the Dice was showing off for me. I just wanted him to act normal.
About this time the realtor pulled up. We were all going to go in her car. Dice said to me, "You think she'll let me smoke in the car?"
"I don't know," I told him.
"Well, smoking to me is like a big deal. And I don't like these realtors," Dice said. "But I've got a test to see if she's really okay."
So we got into her car and Johnny started videotaping the realtor. I was saying, "Hey, guys, can you put away the videotape?" Amazingly, they put it away. But then Dice had to light up a cigarette.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" Dice said to her.
She didn't really say anything but you could tell it was annoying the hell out of her. Before she could answer, Dice said, "Well, I'm lightin' up a cigarette anyway." He was puffing away, and I was dying.
We got to the first house and Dice and Johnny decided that they were going to run around. I didn't know if they were putting this on for my benefit but it was as if I was the dad now, and I was in charge of these two little boys.
At each house we went to, Johnny turned on the video camera and he and Dice went running through these people's homes -- while the people were there! Meanwhile, the realtor was looking at me as if these guys were crazy but she knew Dice had to have some serious dough because he was looking at really expensive houses.
One thing you find out when you go house-hunting is that the owners are very emotional about their homes. And one of the things you don't do, even if you don't like the house, is say anything negative.
But Dice would just turn and, at the top of his lungs, right in front of the people, bellow at the poor realtor, "This house is no good! This is not what I asked to see! You're not showin' me what I asked to see! C'mon, next house, next house." He wouldn't even go through the houses out of courtesy.
Finally, I pulled him and Johnny aside. "Listen, you two fuck-heads, number one, put away the fucking tape recorder -- you're making me crazy. Number two, you gotta fucking lighten up. This is this
poor woman's whole fucking gig. You're being totally rude."
"Andrew," she said calmly, "I'm trying to get an idea of what you like, and by seeing what you don't like ..."
"NO! NO! NO!" he interrupted her. "I know what you guys do. What youse do is you don't have anything to show us, but you wanna hook us in. You knew you didn't have what I wanted. I want a ranch!" He was all pissed off. Meanwhile, he was talking about a house that didn't exist anywhere except in his head.
This went on all day, and I was going out of my mind. We took him through new construction -- everything -- to no avail.
That night the realtor called me. "What's with this Andrew?" she said. "He's a little wild." I said, "Let me call him up and see what he thought of the day." So I called him up.
"Ahh, I don't know, that realtor, I didn't like her," he said.

Dice wanted to live in my neighborhood, but Satan chased him away.
"Listen, you really did her a disservice," I said. "Why don't you just go out with her a couple of times? Now she has a good idea of what you want, she'll be able to find you something you'll like." So he called her up and he made an appointment to go out with her. And they went off on their own, thank God, because I didn't want to be there for this.
So they went out and Dice found a house he liked. It was a new construction, and the guy who built it needed some quick cash. Dice called me up. "I don't know, you think it's a good house?" So I sent my architect out. The guy did me a favor, he looked it over. He said the house was a steal -- it was fantastic. I told this to Dice.
I didn't hear from Dice after that. I figured he was going ahead and buying it. Next, the realtor called me. "Do you know what happened with the house?" she said. "Andrew didn't call me. We went to contract and then I never heard from him again. Does he still want to buy the house?"
I called him up and he said, "Look, I had a problem with that house, I couldn't buy it. I just couldn't buy it."
"What do you mean you couldn't buy it? We spent weeks working with you."
"I don't want to say. You'll think I'm crazy. Don't tell the realtor. Don't tell anyone." Okay, so I agreed to keep it a secret. "The house had a bad vibe." "What do you mean a bad vibe? What happened?" I asked.
"Well, we was going to contract, and I walk into the lawyer's office, and I sit down and the guy's got voodoo heads all over the walls," Dice said.
"What do you mean, voodoo heads?" I said. "The walls was lined with voodoo heads. They were like shrunken heads," Dice explained to me. "Okay, I tried not to react to that, but then, when she handed me the key -- 'cause I wanted to take someone to see the house -- on the key chain they had a voodoo head. And then I still was hanging in there, but I said to the real estate lady, 'How could I reach you at your phone?' So she says, 'Here's my number,' and it had 666 -- sign of the devil." "Yeah, so? What's that got to do with the house?" I said.
"Howard Stern is one of the most positive people I ever met. He believes in winning. Even at times when the media was all over me, Howard would tell me, 'Never back down and show no fear, ya hear?' I hear you." -- Andrew "Dice" Clay
"Hey, those are too many bad signs, so I just backed out," he said.
"Okay, Dice, I was just curious because the realtor called me," I said.
"Well, don't tell her what I said," he cautioned me.
So I called her back and I said, "Look, Dice backed out for various reasons. He was uptight about your phone number, because it had 666."
"Everyone in this area has 666. It's the exchange," she said.
"Well, he told me not to tell you this, but he said the lawyer for the other guy had voodoo heads all over the wall."
"Voodoo heads?!" she screamed. "The guy is an African art collector. He's collected some of the most expensive artwork in the world and he has it on display in his office. It's the most beautiful African sculpture and art that anybody could ever find!"
That's the last time I'll ever go house-hunting with Dice.
I remember when Sam Kinison first burst onto the comedy scene. It was with rage and fire and I never laughed harder in my life. He really changed the face of comedy. Only Sam could do a bit about the people in Ethiopia who were starving to death from the drought and scream at them for not moving. "Why don't they go to where the water is. THEY'RE LIVING IN A DESERT! IT'S ALL FUCKING SAND!"
Then he'd do a bit about the people who worked in funeral parlors having sex with corpses. He'd talk about dying and his body would be on the slab in the morgue, and it would finally be over. No more worries, no more pressure. Then a guy would come into the room and start boning him up the ass. "IT NEVER ENDS! IT NEVER ENDS!"
As great as he was on stage, I think he was at his best on my show, ad-libbing and talking about his life. It was like a spiritual purging for him. He'd come in and just open up. Nobody would consistently exorcise demons on the air the way Sam would on the show. He would not hold back one iota. And afterwards he would say to me, "I'm ruined, I'm ruined. Thanks a lot, man," as we walked him to the door. Meanwhile, he was the one who brought up all these subjects ... but I ruined him!
He was a true outlaw -- of comedy and of life. A friend of Gary's once came up to the show. She always thought that whatever went on during the show was just shtick, but they were sitting in Gary's office at eleven in the morning right after the show broke and Sam walked up to them. He was wearing that long preacher's coat of his and he had that famous black beret on. In one hand he had a glass and in the other a bottle of Dom Perignon.
"Gary, could you call down and order us some hamburgers and some Milky Ways and stuff?" Sam slurred. Gary's friend couldn't believe that stuff went on. But Sam was always roaming the halls up at the station with a bottle of champagne in his hand. Plus, he used to come into my office and plop down at my desk and lay out huge lines of coke.
"Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" I'd yell at him. "This is a radio station. We're regulated by the United States government. You could cost me my job." I felt like my father screaming at Symphony Sid to get straight.
But he gave magic radio.
One time he asked me who my favorite comedians were and I told him he was in the top three.
"Hey, man," he complained, "I do everything for you and I'm only in your top three?"
I couldn't take his whining anymore.
"SAM KINISON WILL BE THE GREATEST COMIC THAT EVER LIVED!" I exulted. Sam got so excited, he pulled his penis out of his pants. He just whipped it right out.
He ran over to the glass booth where Robin was and started waving his penis around the studio. It was thick, but not that long. Jessica Hahn said he was the best lover she ever had. She must be wide, but not deep.
There are so many Sam memories. We were out at the Grammys once and Sam was up for an award in the comedy album category. Sam was up against Andrew "Dice" Clay, Sandra Bernhard, Erma Bombeck, and P.D.Q. Bach. He was so sure he was going to win that he had an elaborate speech all written out. "I don't care if I lose to Clay," he confided, "but there's no way I'm going to lose to Erma Bombeck or P.D.Q. Bach. That's a fuckin' music record."
They got to the big moment.

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