A Load of Hooey Read online

  HITLER: What kind of tiffs?

  FRITZ: Nothing earth-shattering.

  A BOMB whistles and crashes LOUDLY, shaking the furniture.

  HITLER: What kind of tiffs?

  FRITZ: “Tiffles.” Not even as big as tiffs. “Where did I put my hat?” “Are you wearing my hat?” “Haha, we mixed up our hats.” “We’re such silly-billies!” That kind of thing. A lot of that.

  HITLER: Must be nice.

  Eva smiles at Fritz…good stuff. Fritz is energized—

  FRITZ: Oh, it is, it is. It’s wonderful! Low stakes! You should try it sometime! I mean, join us at the university, someday. Do you ever consider what you might do after…uh…later in your, uh, career?

  Eva shakes her head, staring at her plate.

  HITLER: You mean after the thousand-year Reich is up?

  Fritz laughs.

  EVA BRAUN: I think that’s enough salad. Let’s get the main course, shall we? [She taps her glass to summon a waiter. No one comes.] Where is that staff?

  HITLER: They’re in the bunker. They can’t hear you.

  Hitler grabs Eva’s fork to stop the tapping. A bomb explodes outside.

  HITLER: I’m sorry. This is my fault. I do apologize. I think I’ve made a mistake.

  ANNETTE: I hope you don’t mean that you made a mistake in having us to dinner. We do so love to dine with you and darling Eva—

  HITLER: I was talking about the war. World War II.

  ANNETTE: Yes…I’m familiar with it.

  FRITZ: Oh, Herr Hitler, I wouldn’t call it a mistake. I think you’re being a little hard on yourself—

  HITLER: What would you call it then? A boner? Did I pull a “real boner”?

  Eva tries to stop him—Hitler waves her off, turning to Fritz, raging—

  HITLER [cont’d]: Tell me, old friend! Say it to my face! Tell me

  I pulled a boner! Somebody, say it!

  FRITZ [meekly]: You pulled a boner.

  HITLER: There! Finally. Someone said it. What a fucking relief! Jesus H. Christ. That took long enough.

  FRITZ: I…still like your artwork.

  HITLER: Well, you’re an idiot.

  Lights fade as the sound of bombs rises.

  Famous Quotations—Unabridged

  “Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend. Or we could skip the walk and just be pen pals. Let’s do that instead. It’s cold out.”

  —Albert Camus

  MY SPEECH TO THE GRADUATES OF THIS FINE INSTITUTION

  Hello, young people. Today is a momentous day. Today you are stripping from yourselves the protective husk of “student” and stepping into the harsh, naked, unforgiving fluorescent light of adulthood. I don’t envy you, unless you have a massive penis. If you have a massive penis, this speech is not for you. You can just daydream for the next few minutes. Think about the women you will soon be having sex with in a series of porn films. Do me a favor: can you not look into the camera when you appear in those porn films? In fact, tell the director not to allow the camera to ever show your face. I don’t want to see it. Seeing men’s faces in porn immediately kills my “zest,” if you will. Thanks, sorry about the sidetrack, but it’s important to seize the moment when you have the attention of a potential celebrity.

  To the rest of you, who won’t be appearing in porn films—well, maybe some of the women will go into porn, and to you I say: good job, thank you, and I’m sorry—all three at once.

  To those who remain, here is my only advice: finish college, don’t take advice from strangers, and enjoy all the porn you “accidentally” see.

  G’night Cleveland!

  Famous Quotations—Unabridged

  “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. When I have failed miserably, that, too, was on the shoulders of giants—giant fuckups, that is.”

  —Sir Isaac Newton

  WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR IN ANOTHER MAN

  All right, ladies, back off! You’re not the only ones looking for a good man in your life. I may be a man myself, but that doesn’t mean I am all I need. I want a companion—more than that, I need a helpmate, a bro, someone of the “rougher sex” to applaud me and be by my side as I navigate the vagaries of this life. I’m prepared to describe this hunk to save myself from having to suffer through a bunch of interview/back-rub sessions, so back off and butt out. Speaking of butts—

  First of all, I’m not looking for a “hot bod” or a cute butt. Frankly, I wouldn’t know a cute butt if it bit me in the ass. My dream dude must have a sense of style so he can help me pick out clothes that fit together instead of me just grabbing the first thing on the top of the pile. I’m forty-eight years old and my clothes are still kept in a “pile,” so I need this guy, pronto. He will probably be gay, because none of my straight friends are any good in this department. So gay is fine—but again, no cute butt necessary. A cute butt would just be wasted on me.

  He should have wonderful, piercing, clear eyes. By that, I mean his eyes must be clear for him to see out of, and his clarity of vision should pierce through smog and low-lying fog. My eyes aren’t doing so well: things are getting watery and I’ve always been color-blind. My guy mustn’t be color-blind! I need him to tell me what’s in front of me, especially when we’re out racing in his car.

  He should have a car, and oh! What a car! A stylish mini-convertible like the kind James Bond would drive. We could take it for spins in wine country—even with the low-lying fog (see above), and I could drive superfast around those hairpin turns because he would be using his piercing eyes to see oncoming danger, and we’d never, no, never, get lost (see below).

  Mr. Hotstuff must have a good sense of direction so he can orient me to where my GPS is trying to tell me to go, because sometimes GPS stands for “Getting Places Circuitously,” if you know what I mean. This magic dude could even reroute me entirely if he felt like it. By “reroute” I’m not trying to be metaphorical—again, I’m not gay, and I’m not planning to “turn” gay.

  You know what? Now I’m thinking my “perfect fella” should probably be homosexual. The position shouldn’t even be open to anyone else. I need diversity. I need to open things up. Heck, I’d like him to be one of those guys who knows what women are thinking. He can help me interpret cryptic signals from my wife, like when she tells me she’s “had it” with me. What does that mean? Is it a come-on? If so, it’s not very sexy.

  He doesn’t need to be a hunk, but he should have upper-body strength like a mule, because guess what? We’re going to be moving some furniture! More specifically—can my hottie’s forearms be sinewy and scrawny like a pterodactyl’s? So he can reach through gratings for dropped keys, and under cracked windows to turn levers to lift the window so I can crawl through and unlock the front door when I lock myself out? Better yet, just make him a certified locksmith!

  Let him be well-read, so he can tell me what happens in The Great Gatsby—that thing always tires me out before the end. Also, may he have a rhyming dictionary in his head for when we’re in the car making up lyrics and laughing. He doesn’t have to be good at Scrabble, though…it’s okay if he puts up a fight, but I want to be winning, mostly.

  I don’t know if the guy I’m dreaming of is out there. Then again, maybe there are quite a few gentlemen who would work for me—I’m just starting this process. If I meet more than one outstanding man, then it’ll come down to a personality match—or maybe I’ll just be forced to pick the guy with the cuter butt.

  Famous Quotations—Unabridged

  “You must be the change you wish to see in the world. If you want things to be more fun, bring toys and Frisbees with you. If you want things to be more attractive, dress up a little. If you want things to be warmer and brighter, light yourself on fire, or something. What do I care what you do? Now, are you gonna finish that?”

  —Gandhi

  THE PHIL SPECTOR I KNEW

  In a decade of f
riendship, Phil Spector, Mr. Wall of Sound, has gone from being an acquaintance to a friend to, finally, my BFF of all time. Phil’s a wonderful, talented, sweet man, and in a decade of laughs, life, and life-ter (laughter and life), he has enriched my world with music, good conversation, and gunshots. This is my story of him, and, if you must know, us.

  HOW I MET MR. WALL-OF-SOUND

  Fifteen years ago, I was working at the Fatburger on Santa Monica Boulevard, seating people (not an official position, as they reminded me every five minutes), when his Phil-ness came in with bodyguards at three a.m. to get a chili-egg-pizza burger. I immediately put some of his songs on the juke and won him over with my grins and head-bops in his direction. He could tell I was a fan, and what’s more, that I was unencumbered by employment or responsibility, and so he invited me back to his “castle” at Alta Loma. I got in that limo and never looked back. (I was facing the back of the limo, so I would have been looking forward if I looked “back.”)

  That first night was a party that has (metaphorically) continued to this day (it’s Tuesday as I write this). Sir Phil took me home. There were a couple of nasty hookers whose names shall remain unremembered, and the party started Spector-style when Phil playfully brandished a gun, playfully herded us into a listening room, and playfully wouldn’t let us leave until we heard his Christmas album ten times in a row.

  Since that time there have been many actual (non-metaphorical) parties, too many to recount. But they have all had that same exciting mix of “hail fellow well met” and “I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t do what I tell you” energy, blended just so, everything “pushed to its limit”: an experience I have come to call the WALL OF FUN.

  Let me testify to his character. Phil has only shot me three times in ten years. Granted, he has shot AT me around fifteen times, and granted he has shot at the walls and ceiling near me approximately thirty-seven times, but when you take into account how many times he has shot a gun off around me, or, more important, how often he has merely brandished a gun in my presence (125 times), then being shot three times is not very much. Keep in mind—we were partying. This was a GOOD time.

  dreaming of his beep-boop

  Now, if you’ll get off your high horse for a moment, I will let you in on something else. Of the three times that Phil has shot me, he has only killed me TWICE, and of the only two times he has killed me, he has only shot me in the face ONCE, and, sorry to step on your sick fantasies—he has never had sex with my corpse. It goes without saying that as I am writing this, I have been revived—brought back from the dead—every single time Phil Spector has killed me. Uh-oh, did I rain on your parade? Boo-hoo. I’m so sorry.

  I’ll tell you some more secrets that may ruin your simplistic assumptions. Phil only shoots near you or at you if you’re already a friend. That’s right. You’re not a true pal until you’ve been “tapped.” It’s an honor. See, he lives by a code. He never shoots in anger, only in fun: when he’s partying, or working, or when you’re in the same room with him.

  WAS IT ALL WORTH IT?

  Phil’s talent and contributions to American music far outweigh his murderous and threatening behavior. One thing that’s often been overlooked is how important the “wall of sound” is to American music. The wall of sound has generated some of the greatest records of the last forty years. These are songs that play on the radio constantly, and especially in nostalgia-themed diners. It’s an inspired sound, and listening to those records often makes you nod your head in brief recognition before you go back to eating your burger and worrying if your car is being ticketed. What a gift he’s given us!

  The point is, my Hollywood friend is no longer free to roam and party and shoot at me, so you’ll have to excuse me if I seem kind of down. I’m not. I just don’t feel as jumpy as I did when my pal was around. Miss ya, Phil, thanks for (mostly) missin’ me.

  Kisses.

  Gunshots.

  Famous Quotations—Unabridged

  When asked by an associate “How long should a man’s legs be?” Abraham Lincoln thoughtfully responded, “Long enough to reach the ground!” Then, after another think, he added, “They have to make it up high enough to reach his torso, as well. Basically, they must go from the base of the stomach to the shoes…and the feet should fill the shoes completely. Did I mention the knees? One for each leg should do the trick. Yes, that’s good enough for me—frankly, I’m more interested in his ass—” And at this the great lawyer was cut off.

  MEANINGFUL POEM

  IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER AGAIN

  If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes.

  I’d risk more, go out on a limb. I’d take longer walks, feed the ducks in the park.

  I’d wear thicker socks, and eat more ice cream.

  More ice cream—and a better brand of ice cream.

  With a higher fat count.

  Gourmet ice cream.

  In fact, I would stick mostly to gelatos.

  I would notice every bird and give it a name,

  and write that name in a tiny notebook.

  But let me return to the issue of ice cream.

  I wouldn’t confine myself

  to national brands.

  I would travel the countryside eating the regional equivalent of premium ice creams.

  And if I were eating ice cream with you, I would steal yours when you looked away.

  If you never looked away, I would badger you through the entire feast—

  “Are you going to finish that? Are you done? I’ll finish it if you don’t.”

  Until you gave in.

  For, you see, I have been one of those people who eats an entire box of “lite” ice cream

  with fewer calories!

  Who orders three scoops of ice cream and says, “Make one of them sorbet!”

  Who offers to share the “death by chocolate” dessert.

  I have even eaten an entire box of “dietetic” ice cream sandwiches

  in one sitting.

  What was I thinking? I should have just eaten the regular kind of ice cream sandwiches. I have even eaten popsicles when there was a Häagen-Dazs retail outlet nearby.

  I did that twice.

  Believe me, I remember.

  But if I had to do it all over again,

  I would eat even more.

  And I can’t restate this enough:

  A higher fat count.

  In fact, forget that stuff I said at the top about walking in the park

  and the bird-naming dealy.

  If I had my life to live over again, I would focus on the getting and eating of ice cream.

  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.’S WORST SPEECH EVER

  In the midst of the Freedom Riders summer, King was called upon to give a speech at the Rock of Abernathy Baptist Church in Abernathy, Mississippi. It was a hot summer, even for Mississippi, and King had had weeks to prepare this speech, but for some reason he dillydallied. If he was betting on rising to the occasion, he lost that bet.

  People in attendance that day remember the speech as “the opposite of a shining moment” and “terrible.” Abernathy’s Reverend Fulton Slocum dismissed it as “a total waste of everyone’s time.”

  While there is no medical proof, King scholars have ascribed his complete oratorical failure to “possibly low blood sugar” or “simply the greatest brain fart ever.”

  Here, then, is a transcript of Martin Luther King Jr.’s worst speech ever.

  LOOK UPON THINE FLYING EYEBALLS

  by M.L.K. JR.

  As transcribed, verbatim, from the actual event.

  Uhh. Um. Hello. Hi. I was not told I would be speaking today, but, I guess—I’m Martin Luther King, I’m invited to a church, should’ve put two and two together.

  [To himself] You can do this, King, come on, get it together.

  [To the crowd] We stand together today, all of us, black and white. Well, there’s not so many white people here. [Squinting] Maybe some in the back. Not important, movin
g on.

  All of us here today are a great conflagration! What? That’s not the word. Congregation. Not the same thing.

  [Wipes his brow] Whew—it is hot in here. Man, it’s hot here in the great state of Kentucky.

  [Whispers to the side] What’s that? Alabama? Mississippi? Okay, Mississippi. So why did that guy say Alabama? Yes, you did. You guys heard him. Whatever. That’s what I get for asking the peanut gallery to opine.

  [To himself] Let it go, Martin. Back on track—

  We stand together. Some of you are sitting, I know. But in your hearts you are standing! You are standing! No, you don’t have to stand up. Sit back down, please. Don’t listen to me. I mean, listen to me, but don’t do what I tell you to do. Just sit back down.

  See, I can see into your hearts—your happy, hopeful hearts, some of them hurting, all hoping to heal. What the heck’s with the letter h all of a sudden?

  [To himself] Back up, King, get on track here.

  Your hearts can see—they do, they can see better things. The eyes in your hearts are hopeful! Hopeful eyes that fly with wings! Blind to hatred, blind to retribution. Blind eyes that fly! Think about that! Boy oh boy oh boy, that’s something, isn’t it? That…strains credulity.

  Let me begin anew. Let us all begin anew: me with the talking, you with the listening.

  Can I get an “Amen”?? I can’t? Okay…par for the course.

  Wrap it up, Martin.

  Okay…what I’m thinking of is…a metaphor. A glorious metaphor like a shining beacon. A profound, top-notch metaphor. Imagine, for me, if you will, a metaphor for suffering, for sorrow, for persecution, but also for redemption, for joy, for celebration. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t it? Is this mic on?

  Okay, that’s all I got. I still have time? How about I do a Q and A? No? No questions? Criminy, it’s a steam bath in here.