Chronicles of a Hollywood Hillbilly

“Stevie D. and I go way back, from the Sunset Strip to filming Rockstars of Comedy. This dude has great taste in music, but questionable taste in hairstyles.

He’s always been funny, but I’m surprised he wrote such a good book.”

-Bret Ernst, Comedian/Actor, Cobra Kai, Weeds, Vince Vaughn’s Wild West Comedy Show “Some of my funnest times in comedy have been spent playing the sidebar room at the Best Western in Hollywood. We were both starting out. I didn’t have jokes. And Stevie didn’t have jokes. But he had the arms. I eventually got better at jokes and so did Stevie...but I never got better at arms. It’s a privilege to be picked up in his Trans Am! This book is hilarious!”

-Jamie Kennedy, comedian/actor, Jamie Kennedy Experiment, Malibu’s Most Wanted, Scream, Uncomfortable “Stevie D is a man that sticks to his Rituals (hair flips), Standards (driving a Trans Am), and Values (making us laugh no matter what life throws at you)!

A true hero, father, and brother to me! I loved reading his hilarious, crazy stories!”

-Candice Michelle, 2 Time WWE Champ, Life Champ Coach, Superwoman

Steven Dupin (a.k.a. Stevie D.) is a Kentucky-born comedian, writer,

producer, and podcaster. After spending years performing in comedy clubs, he produced and hosted the concert film, “Rockstars of Comedy.” Stevie’s first book, The Trans Am Diaries- A Hillbilly’s Road Trip from Standup Comedy to Cancer...and Back Again received rave reviews and a Hollywood Book Festival Award. Dr. Jonathan Simons, C.E.O. of the Prostate Cancer Foundation, compared Stevie’s writing to that of Ernest Hemingway. Stevie can be seen and heard on his weekly vodcast, “C’mon Get Happy Hour” where his guests include an eclectic array of his Hollywood “So-called friends.” When he isn’t creating content, Stevie stays busy with his family hiking, camping, doing donuts in his sweet Trans Am (a.k.a. Kentucky Porsche) and teaching his kids important life lessons, like the hair flip!

Steven DuPin (a.k.a. Stevie D.)

Headline Books, Inc. Terra Alta, WV

Chronicles of a Hollywood Hillbilly

by Steven DuPin copyright ©2022 Steven DuPin All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Headline Books, Inc. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Cover photo—Matthew Watson Cover conception—Judi Lewinson ISBN 13: 9781951556648

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021944054

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

I would like to dedicate this book to my stone cold fox wifey, Katie. She’s the one who keeps this crazy train on the tracks.

Thank you for believing in me. To my main man, my son, Colin.

No matter if it’s a talent show, or sport you are playing, I’ll always be the dad yelling a little too loudly, and offering too much advice. My daughter, Faith aka, Faithy Doll. I love that you dance to the beat of your own drummer. Please continue to use your powers for the good.

My heart of gold, sassy, Mama. You’ve never asked for anything, but we all owe you so much. Oh, and sorry for making your hair turn prematurely gray. The late, great legend, Uncle Ricky. I bet you’re up there laughing every time you hear someone say, “Blaze On”! I can hear you now saying, “They know that’s cool!”

My late sister, Donna. I know you are waiting to wrassle me when I see you again. My sweet sisters, Sandy and Holly who have always supported all my adventures.

My publisher, Cathy Teets at Headline books, for letting this hillbilly tell more crazy stories. And all of y’all who encourage me to wake up every day and shine!

1 Hey, Y’all!

Hey, y’all! That’s Southern for “Nice to meet you!”

I’ve always thought it was a great greeting. It’s friendly, endearing, and usually accompanied by a warm smile and a twinkle in the eyes. The twinkle also hints of mischief. I usually have a smile and a twinkle and always a mind full of mischief.

If you don’t know who I am, I wrote a memoir called The Trans Am Diaries: A Hillbilly’s Road Trip From Stand Up Comedy to Cancer... And Back Again. I hadn’t planned on another book, but apparently, my brain has more to say. They say a crazy mind never rests, but neither does a genius’. I believe I’m a little of both.

Some compared my book to the bestselling Hillbilly Elegy

by J.D. Vance. (For the record, mine was published first). I tell people the major difference that sets our stories apart is the fact that J.D. went to Yale University, and I went to “Hell Yeah” University. That pretty much sums it up.

Although I was humbled by the reviews for my first book, this new one you are reading now is all about the funny. I keep it rural and I keep it ridiculous. My only objective this time around is to make you spit out your coffee.

More comedy, no cancer!

Now that we’ve become acquainted allow me to bring you up to speed on me.

I was born a poor hillbilly in Kentucky, escaped right out of high school and eventually landed in California, where I did standup comedy, hosted some TV, got married to an amazing 5

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woman way outta my league, had two beautiful kids, got cancer, and kicked cancer’s ass. Oh yeah, I raised a lot of hell in between.

The “in-between” makes for great stories.

I met my beautiful wife, Katie, back in 2000 when she walked into The Comedy Store in West Hollywood. However, when she first saw this crazy hillbilly wearing leather pants and a sleeveless “Purple Rain” t-shirt, I doubt she thought to herself, Now there’s the future husband of my children! Luckily for me, she liked to laugh and dance, which are two of the few things I happen to be pretty good at.

Now, it’s 18 years later. Katie is even more beautiful and together. I’m still immature and dressing pretty much the same.

It’s funny how activities with my little ones will trigger childhood memories of my own, usually involving me doing something dangerous. I occasionally find it amusing to share them with my kids, much to the disapproval of my wife.

“Hey, kids, Daddy and his buddy used to ride our mopeds on golf courses. We would hide and wait for old rich guys to hit their balls on the green. We would then ride up, steal their balls, and laugh as the angry old men chased us all over the course.”

I’m afraid the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My kiddos have that twinkle in their eyes and are usually up to some funny business. I’ve spent the past few years secretly documenting some of their shenanigans. I hope they don’t find out what I’ve been up to, or they may expect to be compensated. You’d think that sweet $2.50 allowance I give them would keep them sufficiently blinged out.

Raising kids these days is a lot different than when I grew up. Playdates today require summits of mommies involving schedules, texting, pie charts, etc. It’s like an NFL draft—“The playdate with Faith this weekend goes to....”

So much planning and details. Are there food allergies? Who will be supervising? Will the parents be home, or will it be the nannies? Will kids be exposed to inappropriate music or have access to inappropriate things on the Internet, like some of my comedy bits?

My playdates were a lot less informal. They were usually 6

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kicked off with my mom yelling, “Stevie, get out of the house!”

Bam! Instant play date! The only rule was to have my ass in the yard before the street lights came on.

I grew up a latchkey kid, which meant that I was left unsupervised a lot of the time. As the saying goes, “Idle time is a hillbilly’s playground.” (I paraphrase). I had plenty of time to let my wild imagination run wilder.

Although we were poor, I wasn’t aware of it, other than eating bologna sandwiches every day. I had the basic essentials of any red-blooded American boy—a BMX bike, a set of drums, and a paper route. In my mind, I was going to be Evel Knievel and a rock star in my spare time. My only regret is that I didn’t spend all those hours learning guitar instead of beating on the drums. It’s not easy taking a drum set camping, not to mention annoying.

“Hey, y’all, this is Alex Van Halen’s drum solo from ‘Panama!’

Check it!” (Cue the flaming s’mores flying in my direction).

Marshmallow is really difficult to get off of drums, by the way.

In case you are wondering how we afforded a set of drums, well, my mom had a friend whose son had outgrown them, so she bought them for 50 bucks, eventually paying them off on a $5 a week lay-a-way plan.

So, while I probably should’ve been studying, I was busy watching “Dukes of Hazzard” and jumping trash cans on my bike. I still wear the scars like badges of honor. We didn’t have those wussy helmet laws in the ‘70s. It probably would’ve been even more dangerous wearing them because of the beatdowns you would suffer. Thank you for supporting my crazy dreams, Mama! Sorry for making your hair turn gray in your 30’s.

I have learned a lot of lessons from my experiences. I’ve also learned that I’ve never completely grown up. I still go through life with my middle finger pointing at authority. Of course, I pretend to be fixing my hair if this gesture is noticed.

My wife, Katie, likes to tell people that she has three children, which I would have to agree with. Case in point—the kiddos and I were recently on a bike ride when Colin challenged me to a race.

I was passing him at full speed when I decided to ride a wheelie.

Unfortunately, I was going too fast and lost control, wiping out 7

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on the concrete. The kids thought this was hilarious. What if I had died? They would’ve always remembered that moment when their dad bit the dust and they were about to pee themselves.

And that’s exactly how I would want it.

This book is a collection of my misspent childhood growing up in Kentucky, raising hell in Hollywood, and raising kiddos.

Some of these stories may be illegal, so just in case the statute of limitations hasn’t run out, let’s say they are hypothetical. (wink).

I’ve decided I don’t want my kids to be like me growing up asking, “Where’s my dad?” I want my kids to say, “There’s my dad—the one doing the donuts in his Trans Am on the soccer field!”

Thank you for purchasing my book. I hope you enjoy the ride.

“I like nonsense. It wakes up the brain cells.”- Dr. Seuss

8

2 You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out, Kid! My parents divorced when I was four, after which my dad moved away to Louisville, which is about a hundred miles from Owensboro. I don’t believe they had any sort of court arrangement on visitations. It was more of a situation where he would show up when he felt like it, or when he wasn’t in jail. This usually meant he would pop in a couple of times a year to play Super-Dad. I cherished those visits.

One spring break, while other kids were going off to exotic locations like Kentucky Lake and Nashville, I waited anxiously for my dad to pick me up. He wasn’t able to call with his ETA because we didn’t have a phone. Finally, on the second day, he showed up.

The problem was, he rolled up on a Honda CB750 motorcycle.

I loved motorcycles, so when I heard an engine revving outside, I ran to check it out. I saw my dad riding wheelies up and down our small street to the delight of the neighborhood kids. My dad hadn’t bothered to consider the dangers of taking a 10-year-old kid on a two-hour motorcycle ride. What if we crashed? What if we broke down in the middle of nowhere? What if I fell asleep on the back of the bike? (Which I did!)

My mom was at work at her factory job, so she wasn’t around to argue. Dad was a believer in the “it’s better to apologize than to ask permission” philosophy. It sounded like a good plan to me, so I brought out my suitcase filled with my best clothes (“Charlie’s Angels” t-shirts, Sears Toughskins jeans). Undeterred that he hadn’t thought ahead enough to even bring a bungee cord 9

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to attach a bag, he simply went into our backyard and cut my mom’s clothesline. I protested, but he promised to replace later (he never did), and we were on the road.

On my 12th birthday, Dad popped in for another brief appearance. He stopped by to wish me a Happy Birthday and to drop off my sweet, thoughtful gift, a 20-gauge shotgun. Since it was unwrapped, I assume he ran into Kmart and picked it up right before swinging by.

The gun laws were much more lenient then. It’s also possible that Dad could’ve won the shotgun in a poker game. According to my older sisters’ memories, he had won more outrageous things in poker games. Like the time he came home with a real monkey. It only lived with us for a short time. We took it for a ride when it scampered out the passenger window and climbed on top of the car as we cruised down the street at 40 mph. After being left alone and destroying the inside of our house, my mom made my dad get rid of it. Who knows? He probably took it out to the woods and set it free. Maybe this explains all of those crazy Bigfoot sightings in the 70s around those parts?

I don’t recall ever shooting a shotgun before this day.

Although, in my dad’s defense, he did attempt to give me a brief safety talk. He said, “Now, son, don’t point this at anyone’s face.”

Got it, Dad. Good talk!

I used to go out in the country a lot with my Uncle Ricky and shoot firearms. He taught me how to load a gun, shoot, and drive a straight-shift pickup truck while he drank beer and smoked a joint. It was like a redneck Big Brother program.

When I left Kentucky two weeks after graduating from high school, all I took was a couple of suitcases and an Elvis “King Creole” movie poster. (That was his best movie, by the way). I left my shotgun in the care of mom’s brother, Uncle Joe. I’ve been thinking the last couple of years I would like to someday pass this 20-gauge down to my own son. I contacted Uncle Joe to see if he still had it in his possession.

Luckily, he told me he had the gun and would send it to me.

Uncle Joe was a man of few words. I assumed he would take it to a gun shop and transfer it to a shop here in Los Angeles, which 10

Steven DuPin (a.k.a. Stevie D.)

is the proper procedure. Uncle Joe was a no-nonsense, Vietnam veteran and proud American. He had no time for legal mumbojumbo. A few days after speaking to him, I get a post on my Facebook page that read, “Stevie, I sent your gun in the mail. You should be getting it in a few days.”

After reading this I message, I panicked. I’m convinced that most social media sites, especially FB, have algorithms. The letters g-u-n would surely get my account flagged, not mention, and possibly get me placed on an FBI watch list. I sent Uncle Joe a private message saying, “Hi, Uncle Joe, thanks for mailing the gun. How did you send it? Did you go through a gun shop?”

I was really hoping this is how it was handled, but I knew my uncle better than that. Uncle Joe replied, confirming my suspicions, “Hey Stevie, I just put it in a light bulb box and dropped it in the regular mail.”

Damn, I was convinced I would never see my gun again!

I began to check the mail frequently every time I would come home for a break. We lived in a condo at the time, with the mailboxes located at the center of the property. When packages were too big to fit in our mailbox, the mailman would leave them at our door. We had had things stolen before, so I could only 11

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imagine what would happen if the shotgun got into the wrong hands. Three days after receiving my Facebook message, I hear a quick knock on the door. I rush to open the door to discover a long box leaning against the wall. I look both ways down the sidewalk, but no postman was in sight. I scan the bushes for any FBI agents hiding out before I bring the package inside. Sure enough, I find a fluorescent lightbulb box with my old heirloom inside. No C.O.D. or signature required; not even a note saying, “Don’t point at anyone.”

The natural order of progression for weapons for young boys goes like this— slingshot, pocketknife, BB gun, nunchucks, shotgun. By the way, the nunchucks should come with steel underwear because, within five minutes of having them, the boy is guaranteed to hit himself in the nuts.

I was a big fan of the Daisy BB gun, and, of course, I used it in highly inappropriate ways. I had several cousins from Louisville, where my dad lived. I wasn’t very close to these relatives, as I only saw them every couple of years. We would meet up at my grandmother’s, who lived out in the sticks. (That’s a scarcely populated area, for you city folks who don’t know.) We weren’t really interested in asking a lot of questions to catch up. We bonded in another way—BB gun wars.

There was a surplus of BB guns at my grandmother’s, so each cousin would grab a rifle and load up our pockets with ammo.

One particular battle stands out in my mind. Although I have three sisters, they are actually half-sisters, meaning that we share a mother but have different fathers. It’s the hillbilly way.

Therefore, my dad would only pick me up to visit his mom. The cousins from Louisville were a tight bunch—four wild boys and one girl. We divided into two teams, with the sister on the sidelines, out of harm’s way. We counted to 10 and spread out, with each person finding a tree, woodpile, or any other obstacle for cover. As I recall, the rule was, you get shot, you’re out. You could usually tell who was shot by the expletives shouted or tears.

But the main rule was, “Don’t shoot in the head.”

The first BB was fired, and the battle was on. We were about 10 minutes into this epic war as cousins began to drop. I was 12

Steven DuPin (a.k.a. Stevie D.)

a thin and wiry little dude, so I was able to easily hide behind trees. I carefully peeked out to see my cousin Rick advancing. I waited patiently until I could see the white of his eyes before I popped out and took him off-guard. He spun around and made a hasty retreat, but my rifle was drawn and he was in my sight.

I squeezed the trigger, he screamed in agony and went down, holding his head.

As he lay on the ground crying, things suddenly got quiet all around us. His siblings ran to check on him. In my defense, the accuracy of BB guns is not very good. I was aiming for his butt.

(And that’s the story I’m sticking to.) I felt horrible as I lowered my gun and walked slowly toward him. As his siblings gathered around him, they discovered that I had shot him in the head. In unison, they all looked up at me with murder in their eyes, even the older sister who ran to his side. I tried to plead my case, but it was no use. They all pointed their guns at me. I thought the older sister would be the voice of reason, but she sided with her clan. She even pulled a gun of her own. It was a pistol. I don’t even know where that one came from. She must’ve been hiding it in her boot.

“Get him!” she shouted. I turned and ran for my life. Hey, what happened to our alliance? I thought. It was the scene from the movie “Platoon,” being played out in slow motion. With every step I took, at least five BBs hit me in the back. Even the cousin with the head wound recovered enough to squeeze off a couple of rounds. They left me for dead and headed back to my grandmother’s house for a victory lunch. Nothing like a celebratory bologna sandwich after shooting a family member!

13

3 The Squirrel Whisperer It was a snowy, cold winter morning in Kentucky. School had been canceled because of the weather, so I decided to go out and play in the snow. We had recently moved to this side of town, so I didn’t have a lot of homies. While other kids were sledding and building snowmen, I found myself strolling alone through a local park. I was bored and lost in my thoughts when I noticed a cute little squirrel trying to scavenge some I really could’ve used Fantastic food from a trash can. I stopped to Sam’s to fix those bangs admire the cute little fellow when he noticed me watching him. Instead of scampering off, he started walking toward me. I swear I even saw a gentle smile across his furry little face. There was no other movement in the park besides the two of us.

As my new little friend got closer, our eyes connected. It was like he was speaking to me, “Hey, nice little boy, I’m cold and lonely too. Will you cuddle with me?” Of course, I will, little buddy.

I crouched down, thinking, This is amazing! I’m the squirrel whisperer! I looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this touching moment. Nope, just me and my soon-to-be new 14

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pet/best friend. The squirrel was now only inches away, so I gently extended my hand. I will protect you, my fluffy little friend.

You are safe with me.

Suddenly, his warm smile turned menacing and his innocent eyes filled with fire. At lightning speed, he sprang up and chomped down on my finger with his razor-sharp teeth! This little demon, son of a bitch, was clamped down like a vice grip! I screamed in a panic as I jumped up and down, shaking my hand feverishly.

No matter how hard I shook, this little Tasmanian devil would not release his death grip. Damn, where are those creeps in vans when you need them? Finally, after more jumping, flailing, and punching this evil rodent, I managed to shake him loose and ran for my life. I swear I heard him giggle as I sprinted to safety.

To this day, I strongly support my grandmother’s favorite pastime of squirrel hunting. The only good squirrel is one on your plate, preferably served with biscuits and gravy.

White Trash Waterpark I had a lot of freedom as a kid.

Actually, way too much freedom. I always seemed to be roaming the streets looking for some fun. Some of my most fun times would be right after a rainstorm. I would go out and find some sewage drains that had overflowed. We would create our very own “white trash water park.” Good times! The thought never crossed my mind that I was doing the backstroke in bacteria.

I was visiting my grandmother Let’s all not look at the camera during one particular summer thunderstorm. There was never much to do there except watch “Hee Haw” and eat Totino’s frozen pizza, which I considered a delicacy. I decided to go out for some splishing and splashing fun.

In my neighborhood, I knew which streets would be flooded, but I wasn’t having much luck in her ‘hood. I decided to expand my 15

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perimeter and head to a bigger street that I remembered flooding before. I walked about four blocks when I saw a perfectly flooded area. The street had a huge dip located right in front of a storm drain. It was also located in front of the Catholic high school, where, I would find out years later, there was other fun to be had, but that’s a different story.

I hit the jackpot! This water was deep enough to even do a cannonball off the curb. Since the flooding was so bad, there were no cars in sight. The street was all mine, the splash king! I ventured out a little deeper, not noticing the water whirlpool in the middle of the street. I got a little closer when suddenly there was no street below me and I felt myself going under. It was a manhole! The water pressure had pushed the lid off, and now it was sucking me under, kind of like being flushed down a giant toilet. It wouldn’t do much good to scream because I was the only person around. I struggled to keep from being sucked in and finally managed to get back on my feet. Note to bored, smalltown hoodlums—don’t go puddle jumping without a buddy.

And, make sure your shots are up to date.

I decided to give up flood chasing and stick to jumping trash cans with my BMX bike. It was safer.

Here’s another little incident where I narrowly escaped death or serious bodily injury…

Target Practice A new little strip mall had opened, so of course, we had to be on hand to score some of the free popcorn and lemonade. Some kids go to Disneyland; we went to strip mall openings.

My mom didn’t drive, so my Aunt Anna scooped us up for this crazy celebration. She brought along my cousin Jimmy Ray, or Jim-Ray, as we called him. Jim-Ray was four years younger and my protégé. I taught him to play drums and sweet karate moves at a bargain rate of 10 cents per lesson. I had never actually taken a karate class, but I owned a book on the subject, so in my mind, I was a black belt. My cousin was basically paying me to punch him, but I was practicing the Golden Rule—only a family member can hit another family member.

16

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My younger sister, Holly, was also along for this grand gala. I taught Holly a few good lessons in her young life, but this would not be one of them.

One of the new businesses opening in the mall was a Fantastic Sam’s hair salon. This was big time for our little town. Besides a McDonald’s, there’s weren’t many franchises in the area. My family never had extra cash to go to a fine establishment like McDonald’s, and something told me after today, I would never see the inside of this upscale salon either. I was right.

The highlight of the day’s festivities was a hot air balloon.

The kids were allowed to line up and take a short ride in the balloon, which was tethered to the ground with a 40-foot rope.

There was a drawing to be held at the end of the day, with the two winners receiving an actual hot air balloon ride, unanchored.

Unfortunately, Holly was too young to qualify, but Jim-Ray and I filled out our information and dropped our ballots in the box located inside Fantastic Sam’s. The salon was just trying to get info for their mailing list. They would be wasting a stamp on my family, but I was happy to work the system anyway. I must’ve filled out 50 entry forms, unbeknownst to my mom.

I begged my mom and aunt to stay until the drawing was held. I was sure my cousin and I would be winners. I was half right. My name was called, along with another kid who had more nerve than brains. Jim-Ray was devastated, but luckily, he didn’t rat me out for filling out enough entry forms for every kid in town.

The other crazy kid and I eagerly climbed into the basket, ready to blast off. Looking back on the situation now, I’m not even sure this was legal. Here was a complete stranger, about to take my mom’s only son hundreds of feet in the air in a giant picnic basket, with not even a parachute as a backup plan! I could understand if it were one of her daughters. She had three of those, but not the golden child. I don’t even recall a waiver being signed. “Hey dude, you’ve flown one of these before, right?” I inquired. He ignored me and proceeded to blast off.

I had never even flown on an airplane at this point, so this was definitely an adventure for me. As we began to ascend, I looked 17

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down to see the town folk waving goodbye. My mom’s and little sister’s eyes filled with fear for me, while Jim-Ray continued to cry. I believe he may have waved goodbye with his middle finger.

It’s pretty damned frightening to be standing in one of these baskets with nothing under your feet but air and distance. We began our journey by flying over a neighborhood before heading toward some empty cornfields. The other kid and I decided to add to the danger factor by holding onto the corner of the basket and lifting our feet. This caused the basket to tip, which led to us being scolded by the captain. I translated the tone in his voice to say, “You do that again, and I’ll throw your scrawny asses overboard!” It was a clear and peaceful Kentucky summer day.

The only sound would be the fire caused by the captain pulling the handle to release gas into the giant balloon every couple of minutes. Choosh, choosh!!!

As we gently floated over a field located just a couple of miles from my house, I looked down and saw a kid I recognized having target practice with a bow and arrow. This dude was a little troublemaking, inbred hooligan. I wanted to make this little punk jealous, so as we got closer, I leaned over and yelled his name. Apparently, inbred rednecks don’t process jealousy very well because instead of waving, he looked up and, with a crazed grin on his face, slowly raised his bow and drew the arrow back.

I thought the little jackass isn’t crazy enough to shoot us; he’s just trying to be a badass. Our captain began shouting down at him.

Inbreds also don’t seem to be threatened by authority figures. I tried to reassure the captain that this punk wasn’t going to shoot, but before I could even get the words out of my mouth, I heard a “whoosh” as an arrow flew inches from our heads. Our captain began to panic, leaning over the basket and shouting at the little psycho, even threatening to call the police. Apparently, this fell on deaf or at least dumb ears. I carefully glanced over the side and saw the demon child loading up another arrow. Once again, he drew back and let it fly. This time our captain attempted to catch the arrow, which grazed his glove and went straight into the balloon. I was expecting it to have the same effect as a birthday balloon that slips between your fingers and flies out of control 18

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across the room. Luckily, we continued to soar across the sky.

I peeked over the top of the basket and saw the inbred boy on the ground laughing hysterically as we drifted away. The captain frantically began pulling the gas lever to gain some altitude.

Meanwhile, I was releasing some gas of my own in my Sears Toughskins jeans!

I was never so happy to see my mama as I was when we landed at the local Catholic school a few minutes later. I’m not sure what happened to the white trash William Tell, but something tells me he’s not allowed to play with sharp objects where he is. Hopefully, Cupid has shot his own arrow at his cellmate.

“You got a purdy mouth, boy!”

19

4 Swiss Cheese As I took my seat in my fifth-period English class, I nervously surveyed the room. This was my first day of seventh grade at a new school. It was unfamiliar territory to me since we had recently moved from the other side of town. Although we lived in a fairly small town, my mom didn’t have a car, so we hadn’t ventured over to this side much.

My goal was just to try to simulate and assess the situation— who were the Crips, the Bloods, Jets, Sharks, jocks, and jerk-offs?

The first day was almost over, and although I hadn’t really spoken to many people, at least I hadn’t gotten beat up... yet.

I was sitting in a comfortable, nondescript spot, in the middle aisle, third seat, minding my own business, when I heard a voice from the back whisper, “Hey kid!” I figured the dude whispering surely knows the other kids’ names, so he must be talking to me. I slowly turned and looked over my shoulder, not knowing what to expect. I saw a boy in the very back row staring at me, with a menacing look on his face. He looked just like Butch, the bully from “The Little Rascals.” Without saying a word, he slowly raised his freshly sharpened #2 pencil, holding it tightly in his clinched just. He extended his right leg out to the side of his desk and swiftly plunged the pencil down, stabbing himself in the side of his calf.

I was in shock! My eyeballs must’ve bugged out like Buckwheat’s, as I let out a gasp! I stared at this lunatic in disbelief.

He didn’t even flinch as a slow smile stretched from ear to ear.

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What kind of crazy psychos were at this school? I thought. I was in a teenage insane asylum. I was expecting Nurse Ratchet to come in and take this nut case away. I glanced around the room in confusion, but the other students hadn’t even noticed this incident. I didn’t know how to react. If I told the teacher, this sociopath might stab me in the neck for being a snitch. Before I could jump out of the second-story window (this school was built in the 1800s; it was supposedly a plantation), I hear him whisper again, “Hey, kid!” I hesitated to look back, afraid of what I might see next. Is he going to gouge his eye out? Is he going to put his scrotum in a vice grip? I slowly turn to see a demented smile steal across this maniac’s face as he slowly raised his right pants to reveal a prosthetic filled with pencil holes. His leg had more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese. Apparently, this dude was an amputee who’d been pulling this trick on many other suckers before me.

After recovering from the shock, I thought it was hilarious and brilliant. Just for a second, I was jealous I didn’t have a prosthetic. I would sit at the mall and pull this stunt all day. I gave him an approving thumbs-up. The little juvenile delinquent’s name was Terry, and he and I became good friends after that day. His leg had been cut off just below the knee when his father ran over him with the riding lawnmower when he was a toddler.

Sometimes the leg would give him problems and he would have to take off the prosthetic and use crutches for a few days. I looked forward to these days because I would carry his books and we got to skip out of class a few minutes early. Other days we would just take his leg off and leave it in the locker and pretend it was giving him problems, so we could leave class early and go watch the girls in gym class. I left that school after that year and headed back to the other side of the tracks. I never kept in touch with Terry, but I hope he’s somewhere, whispering, “Hey, kid,” before traumatizing some unsuspecting little brat.

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5 Huffing and Puffing Thanks to my wife’s healthy cooking, our kids have been indoctrinated into liking fruits and vegetables. They had never experienced McDiarrhea from the golden arches until recently.

As I arrived home one afternoon, my daughter was giddy as she told me, “Daddy, we went to McDonald’s today!” I looked at Katie, thinking, “How could you spend seven years feeding them fruits and veggies and now go off the rails with McCrack?”

I was already imagining Colin selling his Hot Wheels to get another Happy Meal. Or Faith selling her dolls on Craigslist to get another apple pie. I didn’t even want to think about what would happen when the McRib comes back.

But before I could say anything, Colin chimed in and explained, “Jackson’s nanny took us there!”

Okay, time for the interrogation. “Who is Jackson? Who in the hell is this nanny? Does she have a driver’s license? Is she on crystal meth? Did she also take you to East LA to get a tattoo?”

Okay, maybe I was overreacting. A little Mickey D’s here and there is not going to kill them. I think if you preach too much to your kids, they will rebel at some point. If you never allow your kids to have a Snicker’s, they will go straight to black tar heroin.

Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but my point is, a sugar-free household is a fun-free household.

We’ve got friends who brought their kids along to trick-ortreat with us last Halloween. We were about on the third house when I looked over at their son and noticed that he didn’t have a 22

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bag. “Hey, buddy, where is your trick-or-treat bag?” I asked.

My friend replied, “Oh, we don’t let them eat candy.”

What the hell? That’s cruel and unusual punishment! The only reason to dress your kid up in a silly costume is to score some Milk Duds.

Do you also take them to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap and then as you’re leaving, say, “Oh, by the way, that wasn’t really Santa, it just some fat dude in a red suit. He probably ate too much Halloween candy.”

My mom was pretty much at the opposite end of the spectrum when it came to treats that could possibly be hazardous to us. For example, to this day, my favorite treat my mom makes is brownies.

It was a major special occasion in our house when Mama was baking brownies. Turn off the phone and pour me a cold glass of milk! Actually, we didn’t have a phone until I was around 12.

We would take turns licking the bowl and count the minutes until the brownies were done. When they came out, they were cut perfectly, so everyone got the same amount. If you reached for an extra one, you got stabbed in the hand with a fork. This brownie recipe was handed down from my great-grandmother, still on the same worn, yellow piece of paper. I would suggest she save this sacred recipe on her computer, but this also could get me stabbed with a fork. To this day, she hasn’t shared this recipe with anyone.

A few years ago, my mom was visiting and decided she was going to make these brownies for me. The first thing she asked was, “Where does Katie keep the Crisco?” Yes, Crisco. In case you aren’t familiar with this wonderful cooking product, it’s because no one has used it since 1975. It probably has something to do with the fact that this lab-created trans-fat lard tastes like petroleum. Crisco was one of my basic food groups as a kid. No wonder I was so smooth.

My mom was from the old school of parenting—let them figure it out on their own. For instance, when I was a kid, every night during the summer, the bug truck would drive by, emitting a giant green cloud of pesticide. My friends and I had a blast following the bug truck around, getting a buzz inhaling the poisonous fumes.

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It’s a lot more difficult for a young kid to get a good buzz, whiffing chemicals these days.

I was recently in an art store looking to buy some paint for my son’s pinewood derby car. Once we finally located the paint, I noticed they were all locked in cages. You have to find an employee who gets on his walkie-talkie to locate another employee, who then calls for a drone, which sends an encrypted message to a satellite, which transmits the message back down the 19-year-old who’s hiding in the stockroom, checking her Instagram. (I also want to take this opportunity to mention this same store sells a model of “The Dukes of Hazzards” car, the General Lee, with the Confederate flag removed. This makes the car just a Dodge Charger.)

After about nine minutes, an employee finally shows up, looks at my son and me suspiciously, and slowly unlocks the cage like it’s the vault at Fort Knox. She asks me which color, but I see the shade of tan in the cage and reach for it myself. She quickly intercepts by stepping in front of me and closes the cage.

I expected this paint Nazi to shout, “No paint for you,” and storm off. She gave me another chance but stared at me sternly. While pointing to a particular can, she asked me directly, “Is this the tan you’re looking for?” Now I’m nervous. I can’t think clearly under this kind of pressure! I really need to take a closer look.

(Did I mention that I am also color blind, so shades really throw me off? The last time I took the kiddos to get paint, their job was to help me choose the right shade. I had ordered an ashtray for the Trans Am off eBay, but it was the wrong color.

The kiddos were acting crazy and being impatient. I had pulled a selection of light browns and was comparing them to a picture I had taken to try and match. This was very important to me.

I have worked very hard to restore my beautiful bird. I asked the kiddos which color matches the ashtray. Without paying much attention, they point to one and continue being lunatics.

Needless to say, I painted the ashtray, which is now about nine shades lighter than the rest of the interior.)

Now back to the paint Nazi…

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There were about a dozen different shades of tan, so I needed to compare. The employee was getting highly annoyed as she pulled them out individually. Each time, I would have to hand the can back to her before she would pull another one. She cautiously watched me as if I were trying to slip a Rolex into my pocket. I turned to my son and said, “Hey buddy, when I was a kid, we were free to walk into a hardware store and buy paint.

We could use it as an explosive, huff it, or paint the school bus.”

I turned back to the paint Nazi who only stared with a deadpan look and asked, “Have you decided?”

I chose a particular shade of tan, but she took the paint out of my hand and instructed me she would take it to the register.

I tried to insist that I was capable of carrying the can myself.

It looked like we were playing tug-o-war. I tried to motion for Colin to get on all fours behind her so she would fall and I could make a dash to the register.

Unfortunately, there was a failure to communicate. I finally released my grip and gave her the precious can of paint. I really don’t understand the store policy on paint. Do they think I’m going to take my seven-year-old son out to tag the city?

“Hollywood Hillbilly and Lil’ Heathen was here.” (You’ll lose street cred if proper grammar is used when tagging). Of course, when we get to the checkout counter, the paint is nowhere in sight.

What happened to the good old days when kids could have some harmful chemicals if they so choose?

When I was 16, I worked at a Winn-Dixie grocery store. Part of my job was stocking the shelves. This was an extremely boring task unless you were stocking the Cool Whip. The employees back there in the dairy section were always happy. I soon found out why. (You didn’t hear this from me, kids). Cool Whip cans are filled with nitrous oxide, which gives them the pressure they need to dispense. On one grueling, hot afternoon, I was in the stock room pretending to work when another employee got my attention.

“Hey, Dupin, check this out!”

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This young stoner dude was about my age, but I hadn’t really spoken to him much before. I was usually preoccupied with hitting on the checkout girls and avoiding the manager. The guy holds up a Cool Whip can, puts his lips around the nozzle, and presses. After a few seconds, he pumps his fist in the air, letting out a rebel yell. As I’m looking over my shoulder, thinking we’re about to be fired AND arrested, he pitches me a can, “Try it, dude,” he says. Monkey see monkey do. I repeat this process to the same effect. I found that if you don’t shake the can, you will get a serious head rush from the nitrous oxide. It was a lot more fun if we had to bag groceries following these Cool Whippets— eggs and bread on the bottom, milk and canned goods on top.

People were always returning the Cool Whip cans because when they tried to use them, the pressure was gone, and the cream would drip out. My manager thought there was a defect in the product and kept sending them back to the company.

Another teenage summer, I got my hands on an old Yamaha scooter which only ran about 20 percent of the time. On the rare occasions when I did get the engine to run, I didn’t have any money for gas. One sweltering August day, I had the bright idea to cut a piece of the garden hose off and siphon some gas out of my mom’s Gran Torino. My mom finally got her license when I was a freshman in high school. She got a lot of practice driving by taking me to detention before school.

Like a member of a military Special Ops team, I crawled undetected behind my mom’s car. My poor mom worked her butt off in a shitty factory, and now her little delinquent of a son is outside stealing her gas. I had no shame. My only concern was scoring some petro and hitting those country roads. I needed some freedom. I needed to feel the wind blowing my mullet as I barreled down the road at full 23 mph.

I remove the cap and slowly slide the garden hose down into the tank. When I thought it was in far enough, I began to suck. I was so excited, I was sure I was going to jack enough gas for a full tank. Hell, I may have enough to get me to California. I began to suck harder and harder, but nothing was happening. No gas was coming out, but I was definitely feeling something. Why was the 26

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earth suddenly spinning? Before I knew it, my eyes roll into the back of my head and I pass out cold, right on the front lawn. It must’ve looked nice for any neighbors who happen to be driving by. When I came to, I was staring straight up at the sky, sweating and feeling nauseous. It was then that I realized my mom’s gas tank was empty. I never thought to check the gauge first.

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6 East Bound and Dumb After my first book came out, a lot of my friends contacted me through social media, with stories that weren’t included. I was under a lot of pressure while writing the book. Cancer seems to have that effect on people, so here a few stories I left out.

Although I’m certainly not proud of my foolish actions, I hope you find them amusing.

I will call one of these childhood friends Rob because he may expect royalty payments. Rob’s favorite pastime is to remind me of where I came from. I believe it’s a case of arrested development.

I will post a nice picture of my family on Facebook and he will leave a comment that sounds like it came from a sixteen-year-old.

“Hey Dups, remember all those hot bitches from high school?” I was recently sent pics of his most recent arrest for crystal meth, a.k.a. “hillbilly heroin.” Apparently, this is his third offense, so my friend will be going away on a little vacation. I wish you well, my friend. My only advice—don’t drop the soap.

Rob was from a decent family, but unlike some of my other running mates, his parents were fairly lenient. This meant that he had more free time to wreak havoc in our small town. In case you didn’t read my first book, I informed the readers that during my senior year of high, I had my own apartment, a.k.a. “The Crib.”

My place was basically central control center for priming and plotting.

Rob’s parents were aware of our shenanigans, but occasionally they would allow him to sleep over. It was much safer than the 28

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alternative of driving home under the influence. By the way, Owensboro is the home of some of America’s finest whiskey distilleries, which provided an ever-present scent of this nectar of the gods to permeate the air. I recently read that Kentucky has more barrels of whiskey than population.

I am convinced that idol time is the devil’s playground when it comes to teens. One weeknight, while bored and desperate to score some alcohol, Rob and I had a brainstorm. It was rumored that if you were to take a barrel that had been storing whiskey for many years, cut it in half, fill one half of the barrel with a gallon of water, cover with plastic, and set it in the sun for a week, you would Ladies and gentleman, your class President magically have yourself a gallon of sweet Kentucky sour mash. Or at least some potent backwash.

Either way, sounds like a brilliant plan, right? Well, it did to two desperate and dumb 17-year-olds.

“Let’s do this!”

We had a particular distillery in mind, which was located in a remote area on the edge of town. Without weighing further logistics or ramifications, we jumped into Rob’s mom’s nice little hatchback Chevette and burned rubber. Actually, those cars were just four cylinders, so it’s more like we only kicked up a little gravel. Nonetheless, the “Smokey and the Bandit” theme song “East Bound and Down” was playing in my head. “We gonna do what they say can’t be done!” In case you haven’t seen the movie (which makes you a communist), it’s about a really dangerous and illegal stunt based on a one-dollar bet.

These were my heroes, folks.

After speeding to the outskirts of town, we reached the sweet spot. The first obstacle we encountered upon arrival was the 12foot security fence. In our haste, I seemed to have forgotten my wire cutters, blow torch, and catapult. Maybe those camouflaged 29

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clothes that I never used for hunting would come in handy about now? It was too late to worry about the details. This mission for mash must go on.

As we pulled closer to the entrance of the property, our dilemma was solved— the gate was open! With the lights off and the radio turned down, we slowly drove the Chevette onto the grounds. Our redneck recon mission was now officially in motion. We were also now officially trespassing. In the state of Kentucky, I’m pretty sure trespassing to steal booze is a death penalty offense, punishable by the property owner. We carefully surveyed the situation, looking out for the barrels and armed guards. In the distance, I see our jackpot—at least a hundred empty oak, aged whiskey barrels, neatly stacked. This heist was going to be a piece of cake. One more quick scan for the fuzz, and we quickly sped over to the barrels.

We spring out of the ‘vette and immediately start to argue over the perfect barrel. “Here’s a good one,” I shout.

“Nah, that one sucks, here’s the best one,” Rob replies. Need I remind you, they were all exactly the same.

After finally agreeing on one, we each grabbed an end and threw it in the back. This is when we encountered our first snafu—the barrel was too big for the hatchback to close.

Of course, this major detail should have been a derail, but we had a solution—leave the hatch open and drive carefully.

It shouldn’t look suspicious at all; just two drunken hooligans, driving under the speed limit with a stolen whiskey barrel sticking out the back of a soccer mom’s car.

Rob jumped behind the wheel and we sped off. However, we didn’t get very far. When we approached the gate, we discovered it was now closed and locked shut!

“Oh shit, the security must have discovered us and locked us in to trap us until the cops arrive,” I shout.

This was not a good situation, so of course, we did what most bumbling bad guys do in comedies—we blamed each other. After some name-calling and arm punching, we decided there was only one thing to do—ram the gate! While Rob’s sweet mama was home peacefully sleeping, her not-so-innocent son and his 30

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heathen co-conspirator were not only out committing crimes but using her vehicle as their get-away car.

What we quickly discovered was that driving 5 mph would not break the gate open, but it WOULD bust out the headlights.

We also discovered that 10 mph was not enough speed to bust it open, but was sufficient to do substantial damage to the front end and paint. Third time is a charm, we figured, so we picked up the speed and, BAM! We broke through the gate, causing even more damage to the car. As we tore out in a cloud of dust and car parts, I looked back to see a security guard running toward us, yelling for us to stop! Sorry, buddy, it’s a school night, and we really must be going, because I believe I have a test tomorrow. We owe you a drink. If you can wait a week, we’ll have a gallon of Kentucky’s finest.

Our main priority was to get home as quickly as possible. In a small town like ours, the lights go out early. If there is a car on the road after midnight, it’s usually either some hard-working citizen coming home from the late shift or someone up to no good. Like us.

Example: Once, I was arrested for D.U.I. while driving a moped. It was after midnight. As we sped through town, we approached some railroad tracks, so naturally, instead of slowing down, we hit the tracks and went airborne, “Dukes of Hazzard” style. We hit the ground with a hard thud, causing the hatchback to come down with a loud crash. The glass had hit the barrel, shattering it all over the street. Instead of stopping and checking for damage to the car and my spine, we kept on trucking. How we made it home in a speeding car with no headlights and a stolen whiskey barrel sticking out of the hatchback is beyond me.

After we arrived back at my apartment, we quickly jumped out of the beaten-up Chevette and hauled the heavy barrel to my backyard. We had just caused thousands of dollars in damage and risked going to jail for a $40 whiskey barrel.

We spent a total of two minutes devising another brilliant plan of what we were going to tell his parents. Being the smooth criminals that we were, we thought we had the perfect alibi— A) Find a brick, and B) Strategically place brick in back of car. Yeah!

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We must’ve fallen asleep while studying and were struck by the brick bandit. Hey, maybe Rob’s parents would see the damage and be so relieved that their sweet boy was safe, they would have the car towed to the shop without bothering to inspect further. Hell, his dad will probably throw Rob the keys to their new Monte Carlo, plus a $20 bill for breakfast at Denny’s.

Unfortunately, his dad was much more suave and intelligent than we were. It was around 2:00 a.m. when we heard a very angry male voice that we recognized as Rob’s father at the front door. We opened the door and gave the world’s worst acting performance.

“Oh, hi dad, so sorry, we must’ve fallen asleep studying,” he muttered while rubbing sleep from his eyes. Rob’s dad wasn’t having any of our nonsense and demanded Rob get outside immediately and explain what happened to the car. We stayed in character, pretending to be startled and appalled at the damage.

What savages could’ve been so cruel to harm Rob’s sweet mama’s little car?

Of course, his dad didn’t buy a word and asked the solid question— “If someone threw a rock through the back window, where was the glass?” Damn, his dad would make a great lawyer, except I’ve never heard that many expletives used in a courtroom.

Hmm...we hadn’t thought of that. And Pops went on to add, “What the f-k happened to the front of the car? It looks like you drove through a gosh damned steel gate!” Whoa, did he also work for the Psychic Friends Network?

I never saw Rob again after that night. I wonder what happened to him? Just kidding! After a brief homebound punishment, we continued to terrorize the small town of Owensboro, Kentucky.

Oh, and by the way, we checked our barrel a week later only to find a gallon of bug-filled, dirty water. Instead of getting drunk, we got a case of diarrhea.

What’s In the Cup? I might as well start this one out with Rob, my partner in crime, from the previous story. Rob and I were bored one summer afternoon, and when hillbillies get bored, trouble usually follows.

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I thought it would be a good idea to take the shotgun that I got for my twelfth birthday out for some skeet shooting. (A skeet is a clay disc that is projected into the air after the shooter yells, “Pull!”) Usually, a gun owner goes to a professional range to participate in this sport. Of course, there was no shooting range near us, other than the woods, so that’s where we went. We loaded up Rob’s dad’s Datsun pickup truck up with beer, shotgun shells, and reefer (Rob’s), and headed over to my aunt’s house to borrow my uncle’s skeet shooter. As I recall, his mom’s Chevette was in the body shop for repairs. (wink!)

This skeet machine was far from a professional model; it was more like a slingshot with four small legs. I’m sure it came with instructions, but instructions are for losers. If we had read, the instructions probably would have had a warning like, Slingshot operator should maintain a safe distance from the shooter.”

This would not suffice with Rob and me. We thought it would be much more fun to stand next to each other. After a few beers and a few turns each, we decided this new sport was getting a little boring, so we raised the difficulty level and danger. Our strategy involved having the shooter face the opposite direction.

After he yelled “Pull,” the operator would release the skeet into the air while the shooter swung around wildly with his loaded shotgun and pulled the trigger. However, after a few turns, even this game of redneck roulette grew tiresome. Disappointed, we got another harebrained idea as we were loading up the truck.

Our new game was this- we would take turns driving while the other rode in the back. The goal was to speed around the woods as quickly as possible. Getting airborne or driving through mud or water was good for bonus points. Oh, and the best part of the game was that the object was to throw the other guy out of the truck bed. Yee haw! (Damn! Too bad this truck wasn’t available when we pulled our whiskey caper. We could’ve gotten at least three barrels in it!)

Okay, I believe I have shown that I wasn’t the smooth criminal that I believed I was, but this next stunt should put Rob in the Dumbest Criminals Hall of Shame. So, here’s how it usually goes down for teenagers in a small town on weekends. Throughout the 33

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school, word will spread if there is a weekend party on someone’s family farm. Usually, the parents are gone, so the teen of the house will bribe an older sibling, neighbor, or Uncle Ricky to get a keg for the party. Many of these parties took place on someone’s farm, so you had to be careful navigating the country roads.

Once there, you have some laughs, raise a little hell, and hit the keg as much as possible until the inevitable happens— the PD arrive. The police barrel up the drive, kicking up dust, shining their spotlights, and demanding, over their intercom, that everyone freeze! The way we usually handled it was to chug the beer and run our little asses and hide out until the coast was clear.

On this particular bust, it was early, so we were still fairly sober. It was collectively decided that we would ditch our beers and play innocent. “Hey officers, just a friendly little Friday night Bible study. We may get crazy and play Twister, but we’ll try to keep it down.” The police were being pretty cool, probably because there was no alcohol or illegal substances in sight. That is, except for Rob, who decided to nonchalantly hold his beer while we received our lecture. By the way, we were seventeen at the time. One of the policemen looked at him and did a doubletake in disbelief. When the officer sternly asked Rob what was in his cup, he calmly answered, “Just beer.” The officer was not amused and promptly demanded Rob’s I.D. The rest of the group took about five steps away from Rob. I may have even blurted out, “I’ve never seen that guy before!” Upon seeing his age, the cop promptly placed Rob under arrest and threw him in the back of the squad car. The site of one of us actually getting arrested caused a panic in a few of the kids (including me), so we decided to make a run for it. The arresting officers left Rob in the car and pursued us.

Might I take this opportunity to add that I was never caught in a foot chase by a law enforcement officer? Behind the wheel was a different story. As we were hauling ass through the pitchblack woods, Rob made the decision that he wasn’t going to wait patiently for the cops to return. The officers had left the glass partition open that separates themselves from the criminal. Rob 34

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scampered over the front seat, opened a door, and was out of there. Rob didn’t have his chance to move to Mexico, change his name, and knock up a señorita; he was caught very shortly thereafter. He wasn’t hard to find, either. What he had failed to take into account before he made a break was the fact that the policeman still had his I.D. Stevie D.s Day Off In case you haven’t guessed, I was the class clown in high school. I also happened to be class president in the 10th, 11th, and 12th grades. On the many occasions when I got myself into trouble, I would often try to use my position to make the situation work in my favor. Hey, it’s the political way.

On one such occasion, my 12th-grade year was winding down. While many of my classmates were preparing for their college future, I was planning my Hollywood takeover. My favorite class was radio/television communications. Imagine that. The teacher, Mrs. White, was one of few authority figures who believed that deep down inside, I actually had potential. She had seen my madness channeled creatively through the projects we were assigned in class. If she gave us a mock news segment to create, I would write everyone’s part, produce, and coach everyone. She tried not to gloat on me too much, but one time when she told us to create a product and produce a commercial for it, I created a men’s cologne commercial and starred in it as a young Stevie Wonder, singing and playing the harmonica.

Although she tried to restrain herself, Mrs. White showed my commercial to all of her other classes, including English, which she also taught. In other words, I knew I had her. She showed her cards. Of course, I took full advantage of this fact. When I was short of a credit needed to graduate, she assigned me as her teacher’s aide for a class. The hour I worked as her aide, she wasn’t even in the classroom. I don’t believe she actually trusted me to grade papers. Of course, I would’ve easily taken a bribe to bump up a student’s grade. Oh, you need a grade? That will cost you three Snickers Bars and two packs of Bubble Yum.

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I would spend the whole hour watching “The Dick Van Dyke Show” or overdubbing obscene dialogue to classic movies.

Occasionally, I planned for a female student to drop by and “keep me company.” Sorry, Mrs. White.

Mrs. White even allowed me to borrow the classroom’s VCR and take it home on weekends. The thing was the size of an SUV and weighed a ton. She always warned me to be very careful because it was the only one the classroom had, and it cost $1,000!

I had a friend whose older brother worked in a video store, where he would allow me to rent R-rated movies. I would rent movies liked “Stripes” and, like any red-blooded American boy, pause on the boob scenes. These damn kids nowadays have such easy access to boobs, they must be bored with them. To this day, I can recall the very first time I saw a woman’s rack. It was in the movie “Billy Jack.” My Uncle Ricky, whom I dedicated the “Blaze On” chapter to in my first book, would take me to inappropriate movies, and I loved them. In elementary school, kids would be singing songs from “The Jungle Book”—tunes like “The Bear Necessities”—and I would be quoting “Cheech and Chong”— “Hey, man, this joint smells like dog shit. I think it’s Doberman Pinscher man!”

This made for some interesting moments during “Show n’ Tell.”

One day, I was bored and decided to peek into a classroom next door. I noticed the teacher was out of the room, so I stepped in. I had a couple of buddies in the class, so I thought I would entertain them. Unfortunately, I got a little carried away. On the wall of the classroom was a fire extinguisher that didn’t have glass on the case. I grabbed it and snuck up on one of my friends. When he turned around and saw me pointing the extinguisher directly at him, he got up and started to run around the room. I immediately followed suit. As we lapped the room, the students were laughing and rooting for me to blast him. Well, as many of my teachers frequently said, “Don’t encourage him!”

I originally had only planned to scare him, but now I didn’t want to disappoint the audience, so I squeezed the trigger and gave him a blast of the foamy concoction. I was still basking in the laughter when I returned to Mrs. White’s room. Unfortunately, 36

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when their teacher returned and noticed the mess, some snitch ratted me out.

I was called to the vice principal’s office (I will call him Mr. Buttgomery). Mr. B. was a good ol’ boy and cattle rancher in his spare time. This man had it in for me. He was more than happy to dish out a few swats with his trusty hickory paddle, which he used on unruly students. Our high school had a demerit system.

The maximum number of demerits, or D.M.’s that a student could receive before a three suspension was 12. However, there was also a barter system in place. A student had the option of trading D.M.’s for a paddling. Mr. B. would serve up three swats on your butt per one D.M. to be erased. When I tell people of this disciplinary policy today, they find it hard to believe. I was doing a book signing where a former classmate brought a high school yearbook to reminisce. I opened the book and there was a shot of Mr. B. raring back, paddle in hand, smile on his face. The boy who was about to feel the lightning crack across his ass was a friend of mine. I took a pic of the page for proof. If this were today and Mr. B. paddled my son, I would own his cattle and he would be shoveling the shit.

Mr. B.’s arm must’ve been tired from swinging that hickory stick because instead of giving me an option, he gave me a threeday suspension. Since I had no adult supervision at home, my only concern was that I would have to spend three lonely days with no audience. That’s when I remembered that our graduating class had not participated in the annual tradition of Senior Skip Day. What better time to have it than the next three days? Damn it, I could not let my classmates down! I spread the word— “As your president, I declare tomorrow our official Senior Skip Day!” Do I deliver my campaign promises or what?

I let it be known that at noon the following day, we would all meet at Ben Hawes State Park. This was the ideal spot, located at the edge of town and secluded with lots of trees. It was a perfect spring day as I, along with a large portion of my classmates, threw Frisbees, footballs, drank beers, and flirted. It was all fun and games until we noticed a procession of cars driving very quickly up the entrance. Someone yelled, “Teachers are coming,” 37

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as teenage bodies began hightailing it into the woods. Now, most of my friends and constituents brought beach towels and other accouterments, which were all laid out across the grass. The caravan of cars came to a screeching halt and out jumped teachers, coaches, and my friend, the assistant principal, Mr. Buttgomery.

The goon squad immediately started to sprint towards me as the A.P. shouted, “All right, Dupin. Where is everyone else?”

I looked up and innocently and answered, “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m just out here trying to study and get my life back on track. These towels all belong to me.” I’m pretty sure if there weren’t witnesses, he would’ve taken a cattle prong out of his truck and beat me to death. After waiting around a few minutes, the staff decided to let this one go and headed back to campus. The high school hobbits emerged from the woods and we continued our studies.

Shawshank High As the self-appointed class clown, it was my duty to entertain the troops/students when there was a lull in the action. One boring afternoon, while the social studies teacher stepped out, my friend, Carol, went up to up to sharpen her pencil. These were the old crank sharpeners on the wall. I always loved watching the girls go up because the faster they would crank, the more they would shake. Hey, it’s not like my eyes were in my books.

Carol was a very attractive girl, but very straight-laced, which is probably why we were just friends. Try as she might to be a good student, I would sit next to her, relentlessly trying to distract her until I got a laugh. I would occasionally go too far, like this particular incident. (By the way, she gave me the nickname “Stevie D.” in the 9th grade.)

I was fidgeting around when I noticed Carol and her booty in her short skirt. That’s when I had a devious brainstorm. But, as I remind my wife all the time, why do anything cool if no one is watching? With this in mind, I reached into Carol’s purse and pulled out a compact mirror. So many laws were about to be broken, but it was going to be awesome. I stood up and quietly got the attention of my classmates. I slowly walked to my 38

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unsuspecting friend with her mirror strategically placed in my shoelaces, facing up. I think you know where I’m going with this.

As Carol cranked away, I carefully slid my foot between her feet for a perfect view up her skirt. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see much, but I couldn’t let my audience down. I turned, smiling like a Cheshire cat, and gave a triumphant thumbs-up. The laughter of the class alerted Carol, who spun around to see what was so funny. When she looked down and saw the mirror directly under her skirt, she screamed a few obscenities and stabbed me directly in the middle of the chest with her freshly sharpened #2 pencil, which the class thought was even funnier than my prank. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Luckily, Carol promised not to tell on me if I didn’t press charges on her for attempted murder. Perverted crime doesn’t pay, kids.

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7 The Big Eeek In the 1970s, a new hotel was built in my hometown of Owensboro, Kentucky. It promised to be a place that would be glamorous, glitzy, and attract world-renowned entertainers.

It was to be our own Hillbilly Hilton. This amazing, magical structure was called “The Executive Inn,” a.k.a. “The Big E.” The once-charming and historic downtown area was becoming a ghost town. The Big E. seemed to be just the shot in the arm the economy needed. When it was finished, I thought it was the most beautiful structure I’d ever seen. You must keep in mind I had never been outside of my home state, other than to Tennessee, so I really didn’t have much to compare it to. Owensboro was mostly a one-story town, but the Big “E” was a staggering five stories. You read that right— five stories of brick and beauty. Hey, not even the Big Bad Wolf could have blown down this magnificent masterpiece. The interior was even more impressive. It was filled with fountains, trees, restaurants, and shops—a good ol’ boys’ oasis on the Ohio River. I would sometimes ride my bike there, just to walk around.

I only saw two concerts there. The first was country singer Mickey Gilley when I was 12-years-old. It was Mickey’s bar, Gilley’s, that was featured in the movie “Urban Cowboy.” I remember the first time I saw it. The scene with Debra Winger riding the mechanical bull gave me butterflies in my underwear.

I thought Mickey was cool. He had a hit called “The Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time.” Although I didn’t know what the lyrics 40

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meant at the time, I would later understand its profound message.

(Bonus points—Mickey is also Jerry Lee Lewis’s cousin.) After the show, I even had my picture taken with him. Since he was the only celebrity I’d ever met, I treasured that photo.

About a year later, I saw an ad in the National Enquirer looking for candid pics with celebs. Like a dummy, I submitted my only copy. Not only was it not chosen, but they didn’t return my pic. I’m still mad about that.

The Big “E” also provided me the opportunity to see one of music’s greatest legends, the Godfather of Soul, James Brown.

This was during his rough years when he was leading police chases fueled by cocaine and whiskey. Most of my friends were only into Van Halen, AC/DC, and other hard rock bands, so it wasn’t easy for me to find someone to go with me. After promising my friend, Todd, that lots of women would be at the show, he decided he didn’t want to miss out. (I failed to tell him they would be middle-aged.) When we arrived, we soon discovered we were under-dressed and under-pigmented. We were the only white dudes in the crowd. Most of the men in the crowd were wearing fedoras and slick suits. I was wearing parachute pants and a Night Ranger t-shirt. I loved it so much, but I did have a feeling that our lives were in danger, especially when I stood up to join in on the song, “Say it Loud - I’m Black and I’m Proud”!

The Big E was known for its amazing late-night buffet, but I never had the $6.95 to savor the exquisite delicacy of their biscuits and gravy. After my dad died, I got my own apartment (see my first book for details) and lived on my Social Security checks, which totaled about $400 a month. On my recent “Dr. Drew” appearance, he asked, “So, you were emancipated?” I guess you could say that, but in Kentucky, we don’t jam up the court system with the formalities.

I usually break it down like this—my stepdad was a dick, so I moved out. We keep things simple in the South. The cost of living in Kentucky is very low—in the 1980s, a person could pay rent and eat on four bills a month. I believe my rent was around $200, so I had a few bucks left over to buy food—mac-n-cheese and cheap beer. I also had a side hustle: I would get a keg of 41

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cheap beer (thanks to my Uncle Ricky) and have parties on the weekends, where I would charge $5 to hit the keg. You get one red Solo cup upon entry. Drink until you throw up or until the well runs dry.

One of my biggest expenses was my senior prom. I was a cocky showoff, so I had to go big! This meant limo, dinner, and booking a room at the Big “E,” of course. The parents of the girl I asked were aware of my reputation and did not want to allow their innocent little angel to go out unsupervised with this hellraiser. It wasn’t until our meeting where I used my gift of gab to convince them, and they agreed. I promised that I would not drive, I would rent a limo with a professional chauffeur, and of course, drinking was out of the question.

Naturally, I procrastinated making reservations, and by the time I called the only limo company in town, there were none available. Did I let this minor detail spoil my plans? Of course not. Operation Plan B now in effect. I jumped in my shitty car and headed to the ghetto part of town. I knew there was one business that always had limos— funeral homes. I rolled up to the only one I knew of, a small family-owned joint. I dashed in and asked to speak to the owner. It was my lucky day because there wasn’t a funeral planned that weekend. Since business was slow, he agreed to rent me the company limo for a whopping $50 for the entire night.

The car wasn’t exactly what you picture when you think of a traditional limousine. For starters, it was a midnight blue 1977 Fleetwood Cadillac. It didn’t have fancy disco lights or a bar in the back. It had fold-down seats behind the driver’s seat and an FM radio. I also hired one of their employees, Jerome, to be our chauffeur. I was rollin’ legit! The look of horror on my date’s parent’s faces when I picked her up was priceless. Hey, at least I didn’t get the hearse. (Damn, why didn’t I think of that?

I could’ve saved the money on the hotel room.) To solve our booze dilemma, Jerome was happy to buy the alcohol for a $5 tip. Something tells me this story isn’t going to seem funny to me when my daughter is of prom age.

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I don’t have a lot of memories from that evening, other than wearing a powder blue tuxedo, sneakers, a spiked belt, and one glove. (Thanks for that, fashion train wreck Michael Jackson.) I also remember I had the DJ play Billy Squier’s “Everybody Wants You” as we entered the dance. Teenagers are so delusional. For the adolescent lust fantasy that followed, let’s just say I slept in my hotel bed alone that night with my drunk friend, Ron, passed out in the other bed next to me.

Years later, I was living in LA and decided to go back to my old stomping grounds for a visit. The main reason for the trip was to see the kinfolk, but the other reason was to show off my model girlfriend. Since I was going to be ballin’, of course, we had to stay at the “Big E.” I had set the stage with my girlfriend, telling her about this swanky joint. I hope I’m not underdressed. I thought, Maybe they will loan me a blazer at coat check? However, as we pulled into the parking lot, it was obvious the place wasn’t as it was in its’ heyday.

Not to mention, it was about a third the size I remembered. Who knew there were buildings taller than five stories in the world?

Nonetheless, I strolled up to the check-in counter with pride and confidence. In my mind, I had done good.

“Hi, checking in, please?” I say. The sweet lady behind the counter asks where we’re coming from. I take this as a request to tell her my whole life story.

“Well, we’re coming from L.A., but I’m from here. Yeah, I felt the ol’ limelight calling my name, so I had to answer. Out there living the dream. Have you ever watched Party Machine dancer ‘The Party Machine?’ I’m a dancer on that show.”

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She keeps typing and informs me that she doesn’t watch much TV and only listens to country music. Unfazed, I reply, “That’s cool. Maybe you can teach me ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie?’

She only gives me a gratuitous snicker. Tough audience; I really expected a bigger laugh. I glance over at my girlfriend. Surely, she would appreciate this perfectly timed zinger, but she seems to be blinking in Morse Code to the receptionist, “Can you please give us the key so he will shut up?”

Finally, the receptionist hands us the key and tells us, since we were visiting from L.A., she gave us one of the best rooms—a luxurious, non-smoking, waterfront suite. Bam! Now this is the kind of respect I was looking for. I gave my girlfriend a confident wink. However, she only glared, took the key, and walked away.

I was filled with anticipation as we stuck the key in the door.

Would the room look like I remembered? To my surprise, it did, only with another 20 years of wear and tear. Apparently, the place hadn’t been redecorated since it was built. The floral wallpaper was peeling in spots, the couch was faded and frayed, and the shag carpets had bright orange with red patterns, probably to disguise the throw-up from all the prom after-parties. It looked like Mr. Furley from “Three’s Company” could stand in the middle of the room and not even be noticed. I felt like I should’ve brought a polyester leisure suit to match the decor. I wondered if Jerome and his ‘77 Fleetwood were available. My girlfriend looked at me in disgust. “Hey, it’s retro-chic,” I tried to explain. Nonetheless, we had people to see, barbecue to eat, and bourbon to swig, so we dropped our bags and headed right out.

As we drove around visiting my old turf, I noticed that, just like the Big E, everything seemed much smaller (with the exception of a couple of ex-girlfriends). I was surprised it only took 10 minutes to drive across town, and as a kid, I thought the other side of town was like visiting another state. Another side effect of being car-less.

I showed my girlfriend the elementary school where I received many spankings with wooden paddles. (Can someone get my lawyer on the phone?) We drove by a couple of the many homes in which I grew up. The houses looked like cracker boxes.

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The main streets where I had many crazy adventures were empty.

Maybe my old running mates had moved away to pursue their careers. By careers, I mean jail.

We had been moving and grooving for about 18 hours at this point, so we decided to head back to rest up. When we returned to our Hillbilly Hilton, I entered the room and was immediately hit with the strong odor of cigarette smoke. The room had been tidied up, so apparently, the maid decided to fire up a few Marlboros. Whistle while you work, puff while you dust. I called the front desk to complain, but they didn’t seem to think it was any big deal.

“Hey, my room smells like smoke,” I whined.

“Oh, honey, that was probably just the maid.”

No shit, lady. I didn’t think The Hells’ Angels had broken into our room. I decided not to get too bent out of shape and just let it go. After all, besides bourbon, tobacco is one of the state’s top industries. Hey, my cleaning lady was just supporting the local economy. We barely had time to get undressed when we hear someone on a PA right outside of our window shout, “Alright y’all, let’s get this party started! Yaa-hoo!” just as a live band kicks in Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration!”

Now, speaking from 10 years of experience of spinning records, I can tell you there are a handful of songs a DJ ever wants to hear again—“Mony Mony,” “YMCA,” and “Celebration” are definitely on this list. I throw back the curtains to see a couple of hundred people shaking their asses and spilling their Bud longnecks all over the Riverfront patio. I grab the receiver to complain to the front desk. I recognize the same cheerful Southern drawl, “Good evening Mr. Dupin, how can we help you?” she asks.

“Hey, there are people dancing right outside of our room!” I whine.

“Oh, yeah, darling, there’s a wedding going on,” the receptionist casually explains.

“A wedding? How am I supposed to sleep?”

“Well, I didn’t think you would mind, since you mentioned you were on “The Party Machine.” Maybe you should go out and show them how it’s done!” she joked.

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“I need to move rooms!” I protest.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” she replied. “We’re all booked because of the wedding.”

Frustrated, I hang up the phone. Just as the receiver hits the base, I hear the singer of the band belt out, “Young man, there’s no need to feel down…!”

At this point, I decided to crack open the bottle of Kentucky’s finest we had picked up to bring as a souvenir. My girlfriend’s method of taking the edge off was a relaxing bath.

The peace didn’t last long. After only two minutes after letting Calgon take her away, I hear a terrifying scream. I rush in, expecting to find a psycho hillbilly murderer, and spot a giant cockroach in the tub. It seemed to be doing the backstroke.

Again, I called the front desk. I could hear in the receptionist’s sweet voice begin to change, “How can we help you.... this time, Mr. Dupin?”

“Hey, there’s a cockroach the size of a Buick in our bath!” I shouted.

Unalarmed, she answered, “Ah, that ain’t no cockroach honey, it’s just a water bug.”

I could imagine the whole staff laughing at me after we get off the phone, Hey y’all, Mr. Hollywood is afraid of a little ol’ water bug!

Exhausted, I hang up once again and collapse into a lounge chair. Over the pumping music and frantic rantings of my girlfriend, I heard a maniacal laugh. I glance down to see the prehistoric roach smoking a Marlboro and doing the Hustle. He winked and gave me a high five as I headed off to bed. (This last part could’ve been a hallucination from jet lag and bourbon.)

The Big E. has since been torn down. The cockroach is still there.

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8 Cavity Search My mom is very nervous about flying. The first time she ever flew was to Los Angeles for my wedding. Since then, she has flown only a couple more times to see me, Katie, and the kiddos. Whenever I am visiting Kentucky, before I leave, she makes me promise to call her to make sure I made it safely. (As if there would be a huge plane crash in the United States and she wouldn’t hear anything about it on the news!)

Many years ago, before Katie and the kids came along, I had gone back for a little down-home visit. My mom and my nephew, Eric, drove me to the Nashville airport for my send-off.

My nephew was probably around six at the time, so visiting an airport was a pretty exciting event for him. I checked my luggage and the three of us headed to the security screening area. This was before 9/11, so they were allowed to walk all the way back to the x-ray area. (Damn, evildoers ruin all the fun!)

After saying our goodbyes and promising to call when I landed (I always forgot), I put my carry-on bag on the conveyor belt and proceeded through the metal detector. I always kept my basic essentials in my carry-on—Rolling Stone magazines, Sony Walkman and, of course, my blow dryer. In other words, things I would need to survive in case of a plane crash. I casually walked through the metal detector, looking over my shoulder to give my mom a reassuring smile. I reached down on the conveyor belt for my bag, but there seemed to be some holdup. I impatiently glanced at the screener as if to say, “Come on, lady, I’ve got 47

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important boy band auditions in Hollywood. Can you hurry it up?” The agent had a concerned look on her face as she looked up at me and then back to the screen. While keeping her eyes on me, she got on her walkie-talkie and began to whisper.

I looked over at my mom and Eric and gave them a nonchalant shrug. Within seconds, two security agents rushed to the scene.

These dudes looked like they meant business. They ordered me to step away from the screener and immediately began grilling me: “Can you tell us what’s in your carry-on bag, sir?”

Okay, now I get it— they have a quota to meet, so they might as well harass Mr. 90210. I decided to play along. I give them a list of my cool inventory and attempt to ease the tension by adding, “And of course women’s underwear, but who doesn’t wear those, right?”

The joke got nothing! The agents didn’t crack a smile as one asked, “Are you carrying a handgun?” I was stunned. “A gun?

Absolutely not!” I replied. And then it dawned on me, “Oh, you must be referring to my blow dryer! I always bring that in my carry-on. In case my luggage gets lost, I’ll still be able to rock some fresh hair-flips. It’s still my policy to this day.”

The agents assured me it was not a blow dryer, and the questions continued. “Sir, did you pack your own bags? At any point, was your bag left alone, etc.?” As I was answering his questions, I glanced back at my mom, who had not only a look of fear, but also guilt.

One of the agents asked me sternly, “Sir, can you take a look at the X-ray screen? Do you recognize this item?”

I saw the object in question. “Damn, that’s a gun!” I blurted out. Oops, did I just incriminate myself? The agents assumed a more defensive stance. One placed his hand on his gun while the other one frisked me. I grew up around firearms. Maybe one of my uncles gave me a surprise present? The other agent put on latex gloves and pulled the gun out of the bag. It was a chrome .22 caliber revolver, which luckily was only a toy. The gun looked familiar. The agents were less than amused. I told them I had a suspicion where it came from, looking toward my mom.

“Did you put this in my bag?” I pleaded.

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She innocently confessed, “Yes, it was yours when you were a little boy, and I thought you would like to have it.” At this point, my nephew was sobbing. He thought he was about to see his crazy Uncle Stevie sent off to San Quentin. Hey, don’t worry, little buddy, you can visit me on weekends, just like I used to visit my Uncle Harley when I was your age. Please bring some Rolling Stones mags and a blow dryer! I explained to the agents that my mom had never flown on a plane before and was not aware of the safety procedures. I asked him if I could just return the gun to my mom since it had sentimental value. In this day and age, they probably would have confiscated it and placed me on a terrorist list.

The agents were cool enough to allow me to walk over and hand the toy back to my mom and even give my nephew a noogie.

I explained to my mom that it was illegal to bring the gun onto the plane in my bag. However, she naively attempted to hand the gun back to me, saying, “Well, here, can’t you just carry it in your hand then?” I quickly walked away from her before the agents lost their patience and decided to give me a cavity check. I’m thinking of pulling this same stunt on her with one of my son’s toy guns the next time she visits. Stay tuned for the outcome of that story.

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9 The Grossest Show on Earth When my wife, Katie, was ten years old, her dad came home from work one day with a big surprise—he had scored tickets to the circus. I say “scored” because my father-in-law always appreciated a good deal, and there’s no better deal than free.

Being a prominent judge in Los Angeles has its perks, including the occasional comp tickets to local events.

I’m not implying that my father-in-law was on the take. On the contrary, he was one of the most honest men I ever met.

Once while visiting Northern California with my mother-in-law, he unknowingly made an illegal turn. He also wasn’t aware that a traffic camera had captured the violation. When they returned to L.A., he received a citation in the mail. Along with a check, he wrote a letter with compliments to the city and an apology.

The powers that be sent him a 50 percent refund on the fine and a note that said this was the first time a traffic violator had complimented the city while paying a ticket. They thanked him for his kind words and invited him to come back and visit.

On this circus adventure, the Judge allowed Katie to bring a friend, whom I’ll call Charlotte. (Names are changed to protect the guilty). The other ticket went to Katie’s older sister, Colleen.

It was a sweltering summer day in the San Fernando Valley, where the temperatures soar to over 100 degrees. Katie and her friend were giddy with excitement as they jumped in the back of the family sedan. Colleen, who was class president and very popular in high school, was brought along to help wrangle the 50

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girls. Instead of hanging out with her cool friends at the mall, she gets to babysit her little sister and her goofy friend. As Valley girls use to say, “Oh my gawd, gag me with a spoon!” Did someone say gag? Careful what you wish for.

If you’ve ever driven in L.A., you know that the first rule before you head out into traffic is to use the bathroom! Being the father of two little ones, we go through this battle every day.

Me: “Hey, kids, be sure to hit the bathroom before we leave!”

Kids: “We don’t need to go.”

Me: “Are you positive?”

Kids: “We’re positive.”

Five minutes into traffic…

Kids: “Daddy, I have to pee!”

True to form, Katie and her friend were way too excited to go.

Judge: “Are you sure you don’t have to go?”

Katie: “We’re positive!”

Send in the clowns!

The good-time gang arrived at the festivities, parked, and rushed in to watch the creepy clowns, sedated tigers, and dancing elephants. Did they hit the port-a-potties first? Of course not.

The stench of the animal poo did nothing to curb the appetite of these giggly school girls. Katie’s parents usually didn’t allow her to have much junk food, but Charlotte was carrying some sweet cashola and readily reciprocated for the tickets by treating to refreshments. Cotton candy, popcorn, peanuts, deep-fried Oreos, sodas? “Yes, we’ll have all of the above, please!”

After over two sweaty hours of good times under the big top, it was time to head back home. This time, Katie’s dad insisted the girls hit the porta-poops. Although they were both squirming around with a desperate need to relieve themselves, after seeing the disgusting conditions of the facilities, they screamed in horror and ran out.

They failed to mention to the Judge that they, in fact, did not go. They loaded back in the family sedan and hit the freeway.

It was now rush hour, which meant the traffic was at a crawl—drive 5 mph and then stop, drive 5 mph and repeat.

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Katie’s dad was oblivious to the tsunami that was brewing in the girl’s tummies. The Judge turned up MPR on his AM radio and rolled on. As the cotton candy and soda began to slosh around in Charlotte’s belly, the situation was now becoming urgent. Finally, she announces, “I have to go to the bathroom!” Katie’s dad didn’t seem too concerned, assuming the girls had gone before they left.

The Judge nonchalantly glanced back in his rearview mirror and said, “Oh, well, I’m sure you can wait,” as he continued to creep along with no intention of exiting. Katie could see that her friend was now starting to panic. “I really need to pee!”

Watching her friend fidget around caused Katie to blurt out, “So do I!” With this confession, Charlotte eases herself up and shouts, “It’s coming out!” With this announcement, she begins to relieve herself.

Soon, not only were her pants wet, but so was the seat. Upon seeing this, Katie loses control of her bladder and, in a show of solidarity, also pees, which also gets all over the backseat.

Apparently, the wives’ tale is true—when you can’t pee, just look toward water, and you, too, shall spring a leak. Katie’s dad yells for the girls to hold it, but it’s too late. I guess Charlotte completely lost control of her bodily functions about this time because the next announcement was, “I’m pooping my pants!” At this point, Katie’s dad is frantically trying to navigate the sedan off the freeway, but he is stuck with nowhere to go.

The odor in the stuffy car must have been nauseating because, within few minutes, Charlotte began projectile vomiting all over the back of the car. The sight and smell of this caused Katie to also vomit, all over herself, the floor, roof, etc. Colleen now had her head sticking out of the window fighting the urge to throw up herself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived home.

The girls were such a mess that they were ordered to rush right into the house and clean themselves up. Colleen was ordered to stay and clean out the disgusting car. I believe if it were my car, I would’ve torched it. When the insurance adjuster questioned 52

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me, I would’ve said, “I guess I parked a little too close to the flame thrower?” Colleen now has three kids of her own. I wonder if Santa brings them barf bags in their stockings? As for Charlotte, I believe she was forced to go into the Witness Protection Program after this embarrassing event.

I’ve always been a fan of a good gross-out story. It’s probably because I have the maturity of a 12-year-old. However, it’s usually more fun when it happens to someone else. Colin has been getting car sick since he was three years old. The kid has it down to a science now. Sometimes we don’t even realize when he’s throwing up. We have a large Ziploc bag in the side door next to him for these occasions. We can be driving down the road and he will silently pick up the bag, throw up, and zip it shut—such a perfect little gentleman.

A couple of months back, he had an asthma attack at church.

I can usually tell when an attack is coming on. His eyes get heavy, and he looks as if he’s about to pass out. As I’m listening to the Good Word, I feel his body slouch against me. I look down at his little face and see he’s in trouble. I get Katie’s attention, and we make a quick decision to get him to the emergency room.

We drove separate cars that morning, so Faith and I stay behind as Katie rushes him out the door. As soon as they get outside, Colin turns toward the bushes as begins throwing up. When he’s finished, he confesses to Katie that he had thrown up on the way out, but held it in his mouth. Since Faith will announce when she toots in church, I’m pretty sure if this were to happen to her, she would stand up in the pew and projectile-vomit with her head spinning around like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

“Hey, look at me! Now, who wants to hear me toot?”

I honestly don’t believe it was the animal activists who caused the demise of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus; it was parents who were tired of their cars smelling like up-chuck.

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10 Dudley Do Wrong Back in the late 80s, while working as a DJ down in Panama City Beach, Florida (a.k.a. the Redneck Riviera), I got acquainted with quite a few colorful characters, including a group of male strippers. Once again, having friends in low places lends itself to fun stories. A lot of these guys were from Atlanta and would come down to PCB on weekends for the Male Revue Show. Most of the clubs in the area would close for the winter, so their employees were forced to find work elsewhere during the off-season.

Panama City Beach

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Since I had a few connections in Atlanta, I decided to head there and try my luck.

One Friday evening, shortly after I arrived, I had plans to hit some clubs with my friend Dudley, who was one of these schlong swingers. After scooping me up, Dudley informed me that he needed to make a quick stop. He had been booked for a private party, to dance for a birthday girl. The party was taking place at a TGI Fridays restaurant. Although it didn’t sound very private to me, Dudley reassured me it wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes.

I wanted no part of this. How could this man go into a public restaurant on a busy night and humiliate himself? Did he have no shame? Dudley then informed me that he would need me to act as emcee and he would compensate me with free drinks with his earnings. Free drinks? “Slap on your thong and let’s get it on!”

The traffic is always horrible in Atlanta, but we finally managed to reach TGI Fridays. We rushed in trying to look inconspicuous, which was impossible since I was carrying a giant LL Cool J-style boombox. As expected, the place was packed with people just getting off work, singles getting primed before hitting the clubs, and families with kids. Lots of kids.

We pushed our way toward the hostess, who was extremely busy juggling reservations. In a very low voice, I tell her we are there for Lisa’s birthday. For some reason, I thought that by whispering, she would understand that we are the pervs who were there to violate birthday girl, and she would discreetly guide us to her. Without missing a beat, she points to the middle of the main dining room and continues multitasking. Dudley and I look in that direction and notice about 30 people at a table, with the birthday girl seated at the end. I glance at Dudley, who looks at me, shrugs, and starts walking toward the crime scene. I follow with AC/DC’s song “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” running through my head. Usually, when girls have a bachelorette or birthday party and order a stripper, it takes place in a private room. It seemed unusual to have a dude in a banana hammock perform on a Friday night in a room full of respectable customers.

Oh, well.

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As we approach the party, I whispered into one of the girls’ ears, “Hey, is this Lisa’s birthday party?” She smiled and answered, “Yes.” I give an approving wink and inconspicuously slide the boombox under my chair as Dudley and I sat and joined the festivities.

The party guests were just getting their food, which led me to believe this was going to take a while. Nobody wants to see a dude shaking his junk while they’re trying to enjoy their fajitas.

We immediately struck up a conversation and started to drink with the partygoers. Finally, after I had downed a couple of margaritas, the plates started to clear. Yes, I was keeping a mental tab for my reimbursement. I whisper to the girl next to me, “Do you think Lisa is ready for some action?” She laughed louder than a normal level and replied, “Yes, she’s definitely ready!” I give Dudley the signal and say, “Showtime!”

Without further ado, I scooted back my chair, threw the boombox on the table, stood up, and shouted, “Hey, Birthday Girl, are you ready to party?” Usually, the typical M.O. would be for the stripper to be dressed in character, such as, as a policeman. The emcee would come in and say something like, “Attention, there’s a violation going on here! Birthday Girl, you’re under arrest for being too sexy,” or something cheesy like that.

The stripper dressed as a policeman would then approach the birthday girl and start doing things to her that should be illegal.

Meanwhile, whispers had gone around the table that Lisa was going to be in for a “not so private” show.

After downing mass quantities of liquid courage, a.k.a. tequila, I was a lot less concerned about the other customers or how traumatized their kids were about to be. I announced to the birthday girl that her dessert has arrived. Taking my cue, Dudley jumped up and pelvic-thrusted his way toward the birthday girl, grabbing her chair, turning her to face him. “It’s about to get freaky up in Fridays,” I shouted as I hit “play” on the ghetto blaster.

All heads in TGI Fridays turned to get a glimpse of Dudley air-humping Lisa’s face.

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I could see parents covering their children’s eyes. I encouraged the crowd to participate—”Hey, ladies, feel free to slip a dollar bill in his g-string; just don’t try to get change back!” As the hype man, I was on fire! Meanwhile, Dudley continued his dong schwingin’ to whooping calls from the partygoers as nearby customers frantically signal for their checks. Finally, Dudley’s deed was done, and the cops hadn’t arrived yet. The birthday girl was trying to catch her breath, so I thought this would be the perfect time to get paid and hit the pavement.

As we finished our drinks, I started to inquire about who was paying us? I asked a couple of the girls sitting close to us, but they had no clue. Soon the question was making its way around the table. No one seemed to know who ordered the stripper. I was beginning to get very agitated, which doesn’t mix well with margaritas. We’ve been here for over an hour entertaining this party. Hell, Dudley grinded so hard on this girl she almost got pregnant, and now they are trying to stiff the stiffer.

Finally, Dudley decided to use the payphone to call the booking agent. Yes, I said, “payphone.” The struggle was real, kids. The agent sounded panicked, asking Dudley, “Where in the hell are you?” Dudley tells him he’s at TGI Fridays in Buckhead.

The agent replied, “Buckhead? Why are you there? Lisa and her party have been waiting for you at the TGI Fridays in Norcross!”

I was not very amused when Dudley returned to the table to tell me we were at the wrong birthday party.

So, we’ve been sitting here for two hours, running up a bar tab and committing perverted sexual acts, for nothing? If we don’t leave immediately, there’s about to be another crime committed. I’m going to beat Dudley to death with a fajita skillet!

Fake Lisa and her crew were still laughing as we rushed out the door. Parents, I’m sorry for the therapy your children will need for witnessing this indecent incident!

We put the hammer down and hustled over to the “real” Lisa’s party. By the time we arrived, the partygoers had long finished their meals and were trying to stall the real Lisa. I ran in with the 50 lb. boombox and repeated the same intro as earlier, “Hey birthday girl, are you ready for your dessert?” The less-than57

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enthusiastic partygoers looked at me like, “No, we’re ready for a nap.” Nonetheless, the birthday girl got served, and this time we even got the fee, a whopping 50 bucks. I’m pretty sure this didn’t even cover our drinks.

The following summer, I was back to my gig at Spinnaker Beach Club in Panama City. Dudley and his crew came down one weekend to put on the show. After the show, he was very excited to have me follow him to the parking lot to show off his brand new Mercedes, equipped with a car phone. This was the first time I’ve been in a car with a phone. My guess was that either his $50 fee had increased, or he was supplementing his income. (More than likely, it was the latter).

Panama nightlife was rowdy and rockin’ by the time we decided to take his car for a spin. This was around midnight, so I’ll conservatively say I had a few drinks in me. I might also add that I had a comp bar tab at Spinnaker, which I thoroughly abused. Dudley threw me the keys and told me to drive. I had never driven a brand-new Mercedes. Hell, I had never even driven an old Mercedes. I quickly jumped behind the wheel and put the pedal to the metal. Dudley picked up his phone and pumped up the music. I’m not sure if he was talking to anyone, but it sure looked cool as we rolled down the windows to show off.

If this car only had a speaker horn that played “Dixie,” it would be perfect. We had cruised a few miles down the Strip when I decided to pull into a country club to turn around. Instead of turning around in the drive, I cut the wheel to a sharp right and gunned the engine straight across the fairway. I started doing donuts across the greens, laughing like a maniac. Dudley dropped the phone receiver and began shouting obscenities. “What in the hell are you doing?” Laughing like a lunatic, I shouted, “Looking for Lisa’s birthday party”!

(Paybacks are a bi-atch. Read on…)

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11 Smooth Move Shawn is a friend that I wrote about in my first book, The Trans Am Diaries. Quick recap—He is a very talented guitar player who idolized Eddie Van Halen and Steve Lukather (of Van Halen and Toto fame). Shawn and I would often go to a particular “pitch and putt” golf course and hit balls. The one and only time he wasn’t able to accompany me, I just happened to get paired up with these two rock legends. Of course, I had both guys sign the scorecard, just to rub it in a little bit. Okay, all caught up, kids?

(Now go buy The Trans Am Diaries, you cheap bastards.)

Here is another fun Shawn story.

Shawn was the manager of the club where I was the DJ in the early 90s, which was the equivalent of giving the inmates the keys to the asylum. One night a group of four girls came in, who were accompanied by one very flamboyant male. They were a fun group, drinking and dancing and carrying on. The guy of the group seemed to be smitten with me, flirting and waving as he and his friends shook their booties. Shawn must’ve caught on because he got a wicked idea to send over a drink with a note attached. The note read something to the effect of, “Hey, I like the way you move,” signed “Stevie, the DJ.” This gesture only added fuel to the feisty fella’s fire because after downing his drink, he proceeded to shake his bon-bon in my direction. Every time I would look up, the guy would be gleefully smiling at me. I’m not a mind reader, but I could only imagine it was something like, “Hey, Mr. DJ, you can spin me 59

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right round like a record!” I soon received a Heineken myself, courtesy of my dirty dancer. At this point, I wasn’t in on the gag just yet, but apparently, the whole staff was. The manager would send him a drink, and he would send me a drink. The drunker the guy got, the flirtier he got. Finally, when it got to the point where he was air-humping while undressing me with his eyes, I had to break the news. I fessed up that the drinks were not from me, but I did buy him and his party drinks the rest of the night.

In other words, I put their drinks on Shawn’s tab. As an added boner—uh, bonus—we introduced him to one of our waiters who was more up his alley, literally. Ironically, the waiter’s name was Hymie. Hymie was the type that liked to boast of his sexcapades with the waitress, and from what I heard, he and Boogie Fever Boy didn’t see anything wrong with a little bump-andgrind. The dirty dancer and his crew actually came back to visit several times.

Fun was had at my expense, but now I owed Shawn one. I had to wait a few weeks to get my revenge, but when I did, it was well worth it.

There is a wonderful health product called Smooth Move.

The name says it all—Smooth Move is a cleansing tea. A very effective cleanse. I would exercise and eat clean during the week.

However, Sunday was the day when I would blow it out with pizza, burgers, etc. Occasionally, after this cheat day, I would flush out my system with a Smooth Move tea cleanse. If you’ve seen the movie “Dumb and Dumber,” the scene in the bathroom with Jeff Daniels is kind of like the effects are after digesting Smooth Move. The recommended method is to drink before you go to bed, you wake up eight hours later and let the games begin.

I think they should’ve called their product “Not So-smooth Move. (There are a few questionable Mexican restaurants in LA that have the same effect.) Shawn had been telling me for days about a hot flight attendant who was going to be coming into LA. A friend had set him up for a blind date with her. This was before the Internet kids, so the only thing he knew about her was she was blonde and fine. He was very excited about the possibilities.

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Shawn and I lived pretty close to one another, so we would sometimes hang out when not working. On the day of my master plan, I convinced him to drop by with his guitar to do a little jamming. It was a hot summer day, so I offered to make us some refreshing iced tea. I told him I was making it Southernstyle, boiling the water first, so the sugar would melt. (Also, so the Smooth Move could dissolve). Instead of a single dose, I gave Shawn a triple. As he was guzzling it down, he caught me giggling and wanted to know what was so funny? I had to come up with a joke to cover my ass. “What did the redneck say to the judge? Your honor, I was just helping the sheep over the fence!”

I actually don’t remember the joke I told, but it was probably something along those lines. Shawn was also going to need to cover his ass in a few hours. This was around 2 o’clock, so if my math was correct, it should start happening just in time for his hot date.

I got ready and went to work as usual that night, except when I came in, I made it a point to tell the bartenders, waitresses, bar backs, and anybody who would listen about my devious plan.

We couldn’t wait to hear the results. Shawn was on a budget, and since this girl had to leave town the next morning, his plan was simple—go to dinner, grab some booze and head back to his bachelor pad to join the Mile High Club. (I know you’re supposed to be flying to qualify, but I really wanted to use that phrase, so play along).

The flight attendant met Shawn at his apartment. They had a quick drink and rushed out to dinner. According to Shawn, things were going great at that point. They had a couple more drinks, dinner, and a few laughs. Things were looking good for Shawn to earn his wings. After dinner, they decided to go back to Shawn’s place, stopping by to pick up a six-pack on the way.

Shawn lived in a very small bungalow built around the 1940s.

These tiny units were about the size of a postage stamp, with a Murphy bed that pulled out of the wall. The bed also served as the couch. It was on the car ride back to his place that Shawn began to feel stabbing contractions in his stomach. Although he tried to ignore it, the pains grew increasingly worse and more 61

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frequent. After they entered the apartment, Shawn set the scene for his amorous evening, opening beers, putting on soft tunes, and pulling down the Murphy bed/couch. Romantic devil.

Things were about to get freaky, er…funky.

After a few minutes, Shawn and his date were laughing and getting cozy, but his cramps were becoming unbearable! As she carried on with a whacky airline tale, Shawn’s own tail began to squirm. A volcano was brewing inside of him, and it was about to blow. The pain had gotten to the point where he could no longer even hear what she was saying. His vision became blurred and sweat began to pour from his forehead. Finally, he jumped up in mid-sentence and made a run for the border, the Hershey Highway. Actually, the bathroom was only six feet away. He bolted in and slammed the door, leaving his date in shock. He said he barely got his ass on the seat in time before the eruptions.

It was obvious she could hear this disgusting catastrophe taking place on the other side of the door. Embarrassed, he shouted for her to turn up the music.

After an uncomfortable amount of time, Shawn came out of the bathroom to an awkward silence. The stench that permeated out of the bathroom was nauseating, so Shawn nonchalantly attempted to open the window as if nothing had happened.

Unfortunately, the windows in this old bungalow hadn’t been cracked since 1972. Shawn and his blind date babe were stuck in the stink box. He tried to resume the romantic mood, asking her to continue with her story, but she only stared in disgust.

He decided to start the banter himself, but after five minutes, the cramps returned, along with the beads of sweat. Shawn again made an immediate beeline to the porcelain throne. The poop Poseidon was even more intense the second time around. This time the girl was so grossed out, she yelled that she needed to be going and ran out the door. Your flight departing Poop Island is now boarding! About this time, it finally dawned on Shawn that I had spiked his tea. When he called me to yell, I summoned the crew to gather around and put him on speaker. We all laughed until our stomachs cramped. Probably still not as much as Shaun’s was, though.

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Shawn never saw or heard from that flight attendant again.

To this day, when he and I are together, we cover our drinks.

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12 Thankuverymuch I met my buddy, Mark, back in Atlanta in the late 80s. I usually didn’t have much money in my pocket when out carousing, so I would use my gift of gab to hustle drinks. One of my go-to crowd pleasers was my Elvis impression.

While out at a local bar one night, I was right in the middle of my “thankuverymuch” schtick when one of my friends said, “Hey, you should meet this other guy over here, who also does a great Elvis!” I was pissed. How dare someone try to steal my thunder?

“Hey, show me this imposter! I’ll karate chop his whole family!” I replied, still in character. I immediately went into Elvis’ tiger man karate stance to the amusement of my captive audience. I was led to a handsome, charismatic dude who was getting laughs with his bit. I eyed him suspiciously as we were introduced. “Hey, man, I hear you do a pretty good King.”

He answered in his best Elvis voice, “Thankuverymuch.” He followed it up with a perfect Elvis lip curl. I thought to myself, I hate to admit it, but damn, this dude is on his game. Okay, this calls for me to dig into the vault and pull out references only true King fans would get. I replied, “That’s pretty good, son, but I need to hop in the pink Cadillac and go get some jelly donuts for mama. Sonny, get over here before I fire everybody!”

Big laughs. Like the fiddles in the song “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” we were “dueling Elvises.” After a few minutes of our “Blue Suede” battle, we declared it a draw. Mark and I 64

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proceeded to drink and talk like Elvis, even when it wore thin and our audience was long gone. It didn’t matter, it was a bromance.

It was like we went to a party and totally hooked up! Just not in the “Brokeback Mountain” sense. It’s now almost 30 years later and Mark and I still drink and break into Elvis impressions, well past the time when we should stop.

A few years later, I moved out to La La Land while Mark was back home in Memphis. (Of course, I was jealous that he lived in the hometown of the King). Mark was pursuing a singing career while working in the advertising department of radio station WHBQ. WHBQ was the very first station to play Elvis. DJ Dewey Phillips played “That’s Alright Mama” on July 11, 1954. But, of course, y’all knew that, right? There will be a pop quiz, kids.

One of Elvis’s best friends, George Klein, was a DJ at WHBQ. Elvis was George’s best man at his wedding. Their friendship dated back to high school. Mark and I would talk frequently and he would tell me how he would fetch coffee and donuts for George, even though this was certainly not in his job description.

I was so jealous that he was one person removed from the King himself. I would be fetching this man’s coffee too, and washing his car, and tucking him in at night. Whatever it took, just to hear some firsthand Elvis stories.

One afternoon Mark calls me out of the blue. Mark is one of the few guys I don’t mind talking to on the phone. Usually, if my phone rings and I see it’s a friend, my first thought is, Why are you calling me, you weirdo? Can’t you just text like a normal human being?

I answer the phone nonchalantly, “What’s happening, King?

Everything cool in Memphis?” (Pronounced “Memfus,” with a snarled lip). I was busying around and wasn’t quite catching everything he was saying, but it was something about someone wanting to say hi. He usually didn’t call me from work, so I assumed he was in the recording studio.

A man comes on the line and, with perfect enunciation, asks, “Hello, who am I speaking to?” This guy had the perfect game show host’s voice. I figured Mark told one of his buddies of my uncanny Elvis impression, so I decided to pour it on thick.

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“Man, what do you mean, who am I speaking to? This is the King man, who in the hell do you think it is?” I didn’t stop there.

This guy must’ve heard Mark’s impression, so I had to put mine over the top. “Man, I’m out here in Hollywood showing AnnMargret my karate moves. I’m about to teach her how to wax on and whack off.” Scu’ me (excuse me). I said, “Man, who am I talking to?”

He seemed to be taken aback, but gave a polite laugh and answered proudly, “This is George Klein, a lifelong friend of Elvis.” I was thinking, nice try Mark, but I wasn’t falling for this old trick.

I continued to berate this nice man, “That’s the worst George Klein I’ve heard. You ever impersonate the king’s best friend again, and I’ll come there and karate chop you AND your mama!”

I was still ranting and raving when he handed the phone back to Mark. “Your buddy doesn’t believe it’s really me,” I heard him say. I was preoccupied with working myself into a full “Hunk of Burnin’ Love” frenzy now. Mark comes back on the phone and says clearly, “Hey, Stevie, that really is George Klein. I’m at work at WHBQ.” It took me a few seconds for it to sink in. I snapped out of it as George gets back on the phone. “I’m sorry, George, no disrespect to the King. I know exactly who you are, president of Humes High School, Class of 1954. Elvis was the best man at your wedding.” I continued to drop too much knowledge about him until it started to get uncomfortable. I believe he thought I was about to tell him if he was circumcised, so he politely got off the phone.

I guess he wasn’t too offended because he sent two autographed pics of himself with Elvis. One for me and the other for my mama.

GK is still doing a weekly radio show on the Elvis channel on SiriusXM. When this book is finished, I going to send him a copy and sign it, “You do a horrible George Klein impression, but keep TCB.” (taking care of business).

Now get out your #2 pencils and get ready for the quiz.

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George Klein and the King

67

13 Light My Firebird I’ve always loved muscle cars, but I’m not a fan of banging my knuckles up under the hood. That’s why God invented AAMCO. I love the aesthetics of a beautiful, classic car. There’s nothing cooler than the fins on a ‘57 Chevy, the dash of a ‘64 Impala, or the grill of a ‘78 Trans Am. Get my point? I work hard for my toys, so I’ve always taken care of my stuff. This goes back to when I was a kid and had a paper route to earn funds to build the perfect bike. When it comes to my cars, I carefully survey a parking lot before I pick a spot. I’m not one of those assholes who take up two spots in his douchey mid-life crisis sports car. Those are the cars that usually get keyed out of spite.

However, I will methodically park exactly in the middle of the lines. I want to go on the television show “Shark Tank” with an idea I have— inflatable bumpers. It will, of course, need a catchy name. “Parking Pillows?” “Bumper Buddies?” I haven’t spent a lot of time on the name since I just came up with this idea five minutes ago. The concept would be similar to the ride at the carnival— you have a bumper that wraps around your car to protect it from dings. You pull into your spot, quickly wrap your car, hit the inflate button, and bam! They could also produce one for bad drivers, especially old ones. (In cheesy announcer guy voice: “Hey, check out the new Buick LeSabre with standard Bumper Buddies, for all of you old farts still driving. Each LeSabre also comes with a booster seat so you can see over the steering wheel!”)

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The problem with having a nice classic car in LA is that people drive like they’re in a “Mad Max” movie. Here’s an example…

In the mid-90s, I purchased a sweet ‘69 Firebird from a college kid in Santa Monica. This thing was a mean machine, with a finely tuned 400 engine and even a nitro tank in the trunk.

I remember thinking, “It’s a good thing I didn’t have this car as a teenager, or I probably wouldn’t be here today.”

I had a girlfriend at the time who was terrified of my sweet new ride car. The day I purchased it, I took her for a “Fast and Furious” drive around town, which only convinced her of the potential danger even more. She tried to warn me that I was going to crash in this death trap. Even though I was just fooling around, she vowed to never get in the car again. Let’s face it, no matter how fast your car is in this town unless it can fly, your ass will still be sitting in traffic most of the time. I’m also aware that police target hotrods. On the first day that I had my ‘79 Trans Am, I sped out of a gym on Sunset Boulevard, trying to keep up with a friend ahead of me. A policeman immediately pulled me over and gave me a ticket, even though I tried to throw my friend under the bus by pointing out that he was going much faster. Believe it or not, despite my numerous run-ins with the law during my misspent youth, that was my first speeding ticket.

While I’m on the subject, allow me to add this public service announcement: If you go within two blocks of an elementary school in a Trans Am, you will receive a citation. If you are driving a pre-1980 van, you will be placed on an FBI watch list. #scientificfact On the fourth day, I had the Firebird. I decided to take it over to a garage on La Brea Avenue that restored classic cars. I just wanted to get to know the owner for future visits. The shop was called Greg’s Classic Cars, and I had Greg himself come out and check it out. He seemed impressed with my ride, so I left there feeling pretty good about my purchase.

Traffic was starting to build on Fairfax Avenue. I decided I would play it safe and take a side street. There were several cars in the turning lane ahead of me. Most street lights in Los Angeles do not have an arrow to turn left, so when the light turns yellow, 69

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the first two cars, sometimes three, gun it to make the turn. This never made any sense to me since there are 14 million people in LA. My hometown, which has a population of about 45k, has more turning arrows than this place. However, my home state is also something like #3 on the list for most high school dropouts, so there’s that.

I sat nervously in my sweet new ride, beaming with pride. I imagined pulling up to comedy clubs and slipping the valet 20 bucks to leave it in the front. (Okay, maybe 5?).

I glanced in my rearview to see an older piece of shit Oldsmobile Sedan recklessly cut in behind me. I immediately got a sinking feeling that this a-hole did not know how to drive.

I kept my eyes on the driver, who seemed to be acting erratically behind the wheel. As the late Whitney Houston once said, “Crack is whack!”

When the light turned yellow, the first few cars in our lane took off, but the driver in the third car had second thoughts and abruptly stopped. All of us behind him moved up a couple of spots and then we all hit our brakes. Oldsmobile dude must’ve glanced up when we started to move and floored it. He slammed right into the back of my precious Firebird, pushing me into the car in front of me. The domino effect. His piece of shit Oldsmobile felt like a tank as the impact blasted me. I was too pissed to even think about being injured. I immediately jumped out to survey the damage. The front and rear end of my beautiful bird was crushed. I went to the car in front of me first to see if there were any injuries. The driver was a man in his mid-30s, and his passenger, I later found out, was his mom. They were shaken up but seemed to be okay. I then rushed back to confront the Oldsdriving asshole. When I got to his window, he appeared to be very disoriented. I tried to talk to him, but he slumped forward and told me, in a thick Russian accent, that he couldn’t move. I asked him to get out of his car, but he mumbled something about being injured and refused to move.

As I attempted to push my car off the road, a couple of pedestrians came out of nowhere to assist me. Wow, I was thinking, wherein the hell did these guys come from? They 70

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were like ninjas. One guy immediately started to recommend a chiropractor, and a personal injury attorney, and a massage with happy endings. Okay, I made that last part up, but this dude had a ridiculous amount of information. As a matter of fact, he had the attorney’s card on him.

I didn’t think too much of it at the time, other than how very helpful these guys were. My main concern at this time was whether the A-hole that caused this mess had auto insurance.

As a matter of fact, I’d better see that Geico gecko pop out of his pocket! “Sorry for the inconvenience mate, here’s a check for $150 Gs for your troubles.”

The bystanders and I managed to get my car into a Jack-inthe-Box parking lot. My plan now was to rush back into traffic and help Ruski get his shitty Olds off the street and exchange info.

However, when I looked over to the accident scene, I noticed the Oldsmobile and driver were gone! He vanished! How was this possible? Just minutes ago, he seemed barely conscious, and the front of this car was smashed! I ran to the street and saw him speeding away. What this dipshit didn’t factor in was that he was stuck in rush hour traffic.

The Olds driver only got a half a block before being stuck at the next light. I quickly sprinted up to his car and asked him where the eff he was going? He replied in his shitty accent, “I go around the block to come back.” Around the block, were you going to pick us up some pastries to enjoy while we exchanged information? Nice try, A-hole. I ran around to the other side of his car and jumped into the passenger seat. Needless to say, when we returned to the scene of the crime, he was reluctant to give me his info. In the following weeks, I got a lesson on how things work in this town. The Good Samaritan ninjas only wanted me to use their lawyers, chiropractors, body shops, etc. because they were getting a kickback. Accidents are so common in this town, these dudes troll the busy intersections for accidents. Mr. Soviet Shithead, of course, also changed his story. He claimed I was backing down busy Fairfax Avenue. Yep, because the best way to get around Los Angeles is to drive backward. My beautiful Firebird was totaled. It was almost a year before I saw a penny.

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Maybe I will use this case as part of my “Shark Tank” pitch for the “Bumper Buddy.”

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14 Princess I have many stories of characters I’ve trained in Los Angeles— actors, rock stars, porn stars, rich housewives, and every type in between. One client that was never dull was a Swedish transplant who liked to be referred to as “The Princess.” Although she was a smart businesswoman, her financial situation was due mostly in part to the fortune left to her by her late husband. (He was 50 years older than her, by the way). The crypt keeper and the sassy Swede met at the ‘84 Olympics in Los Angeles. She was in her early 20s and he was probably 112. I’m terrible at math.

The Princess loved to make a statement. She usually arrived at the party late, making a loud entrance, decked out in leopard skin. However, when I first met her, she looked completely different—brown hair, dreary style, and European body type. In other words, she was shaped like an 8th-grade boy (without the pee-pee). About a year into working out with her, she decided to transform into her muse, Pamela Anderson. She bleached her hair blonde, tanned, and got her money’s worth on a new set of fun bags (boobs). If it sounds like one of the women of “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,” well, you’re close. A few years ago, she was part of the cast of “Swedish Housewives of Beverly Hills.”

While I was training her, she started dating a diminutive, super machismo dude, whom I will refer to as “Mr. Cheese.” Mr. Cheese was in a very high position in a top clothing company.

This company was particularly known for its sexy jeans ads. Can

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you GUESS the brand? The woman was very frustrated because she said when she and Mr. Cheese would go out to dinner, every bimbo who walked through the door immediately recognized him. She said she would be embarrassed because the bimbos would sit in his lap, boobs falling out, giggling, and causing a scene. I thought to myself, maybe I need to start hanging out with this dude. Hey, I was a young, single man at the time.

My roommate and partner in crime was a guy I mentioned in my first book, Brian. He’s now a top dog film producer in Hollywood. One of his recent productions is “Hacksaw Ridge.”

I could go on with some of his other blockbuster hits, but this book ain’t about him. Besides, you didn’t see him give me a shoutout in the credits of “Hacksaw,” did you? By the way, I recently watched that movie while eating spaghetti and meatballs. Does that make me dead inside? Anyway, Brian was also a producer of my concert film, “Rockstars of Comedy.” However, at the time, we were just two poor, single dudes who would go out and get trashed almost nightly. Brian was a good-looking dude who happened to do a little modeling on the side, so Princess had a scheme for us and asked if we were willing. She told me that she and Mr. Cheese were going to dinner that night in Hollywood.

Spago’s clientele consisted largely of producer/executive types and a lot of M.A.W.s (model/actress/whatever). The men were also known as sugar daddies.

The Princess asked if Brian and I would stop by Spago’s around seven and pretend we were hitting their bar and act surprised when we stumble upon her and her date. She asked us to make a REALLY big deal out of seeing her. Revenge is best served cold, especially in a trendy restaurant. Even though it sounded a little corny, I agreed to do it. She was a good client and friend, and most importantly because she promised to pay us back with drinks and Cuban cigars.

As promised, around 7 o’clock, Brian and I strolled confidently into the bar area at Spago’s. We pause for a moment, pretending to scan the restaurant for hotties. Over the chatter and the giggling bimbos, I hear an obnoxious man’s voice, laughing at his own jokes. I look over in his direction and there was Princess and Mr. Cheese. She was dolled up in her usual heels and leopard skin 74

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attire while he was wearing a shiny buttoned-down shirt, with the collar opened, exposing his medallion necklace. Exactly as I had pictured him.

I immediately shouted across the room, “Hey, look, there’s a supermodel!” The Princess feigned embarrassment as she turned and jumped up from her booth. We scooped her up and proceeded to create a big scene. (And the Oscar goes to....) I know what you’re thinking—shouldn’t Brian have remembered what an amazing actor I am and given me the lead in “Hacksaw Ridge?” I agree with you, but let’s not digress.

As heads turned, I could see Mr. Cheese fuming at all the attention we were giving his date. Brian and I said our goodbyes and strolled back over to have a drink at the bar. As we walked away, I could hear him grilling her about us. She played it perfectly.

It looked like the plan worked.

About thirty minutes later, as Brian and I were laughing and planning our evening of debauchery, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I look to my right and see Mr. Cheese glaring at me. “Hey buddy,” I casually asked, “what can I get you?” He didn’t answer; he just stared at me sternly. After a dramatic pause, he said, “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on around here!”

I look at Brian with amusement before I say to Mr. Cheese, “Lighten up. I’m only her trainer and we’re just good friends.”

Mr. Cheese didn’t crack a smile. His glassy eyes remained steely as he slurred again, “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on around here!” He followed it up with, “I work out too! You’ll be on the ground in two seconds!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at Mr. Cheese trying to be Mr. T. I kept my cool and replied, “Ah, come on, man, chill out and have a drink with us.”

He only glared and repeated, “You’ll be on the ground in two seconds!” This dude really needed to expand his arsenal of smack talk. Okay, this broken record was now beginning to get annoying. I decided to call his bluff.

Looking directly at him, I say, “Okay, buddy, are you sure about that? Because I’m going to turn around, and when I stand 75

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up from this barstool, it’s going to be too late to change your mind.” He takes a small step back but didn’t answer. As I slowly turn my barstool about a quarter of the way, I see his expression change.

I only get one foot on the floor when he announces to the bartender, “Hey, these guys are friends of mine. Anything they want tonight is on my tab!” The bartender quickly jumped to please him and places cocktail napkins in front of us, asking us what we would like. Mr. Cheese places a cigar in his mouth as the bartender practically jumped over the bar to light it. Apparently, the no-smoking law doesn’t apply to the rich and obnoxious.

It was about this time when I see the Princess approaching us, asking, “What’s going on?”

Mr. Cheese laughs and says, “I’m just having a drink with my new friends.” I was tempted to expose this tool, but I figured she would find out on her own soon enough (she did).

As they turned to leave, he bumps into a tall guy standing next to us, who happened to be wearing a nice, white button-down shirt. The man was holding a glass of red wine which had now spilled all down the front of his white shirt. The man was livid, but before he could even get a sentence out, Mr. Cheese looks up at him and says, “You’ll be on the ground in two seconds!” At this point, I instruct Brian to go open the door. I quickly come off of my barstool and pick up Mr. Cheese and proceed to carry him outside. I put him down like a puppy that needs to go outside to pee. I re-enter Spago and hold the door, not allowing him back in. As Princess approached the door, I pushed it open and allowed her to exit. She was embarrassed, apologizing profusely as she left. I can hear Mr. Cheese ranting about how he was about to open a can of whoop-ass as they went down the stairs. I give a wink to the curious customers as Brian and I take our seats back at the bar.

The first order of business was to order another red wine for white-shirt man. In our drinking frenzy, the bartender filled us in a little about Mr. Cheese. He was very familiar with this ass clown. It seems Mr. Cheese comes in frequently and behaves this way. The bartender reaches under the counter and shows us 76

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a red folder. He explains that only a select few customers have the privilege of being in it, which means they are billed monthly instead of each visit. I asked the bartender if they have Louis XIV cognac. He points to the top shelf, at the premium drinks, and says, “Yes.” I ask, “How much?”

He says, “Eighty dollars a shot.”

I happily tell him, “Good, we’ll start with a couple of those.”

We even got the bartender to join us. We proceed to experiment with expensive drinks I had only heard about or read about in GQ magazine. Thanks to Mr. Cheese, we got sufficiently shitfaced.

My memory is foggy, but I’m pretty sure that when I tried to stand, I was on the floor in two seconds. Cheers!

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15 Roses I bet you think this chapter must be romantic because of the title, right? Well, I tricked you. It’s about poop. The band Outkast has a great song called “Roses.” There is a line in the hook that says, “Roses really smell like poo-poo.”

Although I’m glad that readers enjoyed stories involving my body’s plumbing in my first book, I wasn’t planning on going there this time around. Sometimes life has other plans. Enjoy, kids!

Now, when something really disgusting and horribly embarrassing happens to a normal person, their natural instinct is to try to forget it and hope it’s never, ever discussed again. I, on the other hand, feel the need to share it with the world.

My stomach has been acting crazy for some time now. I chalked it up to stress, repercussions of my surgery, etc. About a month ago, I got a sinus infection so bad I was forced to go to Urgent Care. My doctor and I can’t seem to get on the same page for an appointment, so I had to take other measures. The Urgent Care doctor gave me antibiotics, which I was ordered to take for 10 days. On the ninth day, I was feeling pretty good and decided to grab a Jamba Juice. I was trying to be extra healthy, so I tried a new beet concoction.

I downed the juice and went for a great hike. However, on my way home, I started to feel nauseous and dizzy. I skipped dinner, and, sure enough, I was soon running to the toilet for some violent, projectile vomiting. The fun continued with diarrhea. I 78

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remained in my bed the rest of the evening, dozing in and out of consciousness. About 11:25 p.m., I went to use the bathroom, which is normal, but when I walked out, I was overcome with the sensation to hurl. I quickly spun around to try to return to the porcelain throne, but ended up spewing all over the bathroom, which is not normal. The only good thing about the timing is that it was David Letterman’s final show, which I stayed up to watch. Great sendoff, by the way. This bile bonanza continued for the next 48 hours. I returned to Urgent Care and was told I had an allergic reaction to food. In my mind, I thought I knew exactly what happened—an illegal farmer, who was overworked and underpaid, didn’t wash his hands after taking a dump in the port-a-potty and then handled some beets that were sent to Jamba Juice. E. coli! Damn, somebody get Juan some benefits, so he will stop wiping his ass with my beets! I spent the next two weeks telling anyone who would listen about my near-death experience from eating booty beets. Sometimes I share too much.

Skip forward another two weeks, and I’m back in Urgent Care, this time, with severe stomach cramps. The doctor concluded that it was from the antibiotics that were given to me for my sinus infection. Apparently, you’re supposed to take probiotics along with antibiotics to counteract the effects on your stomach. Wait a second— I was prescribed a medicine that cures one ailment, but causes another? That’s like those Viagra commercials, where at the end, they quickly fire off a list of possible side effects— “May cause heart attack, stroke, diarrhea...” So, you could possibly die from a stroke, but you will have a woody AND dirty underwear.

The Urgent Care doctor needed a urine test and a stool sample. The urine test, okay, but the stool sample, not happening.

I was backed up like the 405 Freeway at rush hour. The doctor handed me a Ziploc® bag with a small medicine bottle halffilled with liquid, a plastic potty seat attachment, and a small Styrofoam bowl with a lid. I stared at the do-it-yourself poop lab and quickly glanced over the instructions (I paraphrase):

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Poop 2. Put poop in the container, take out two scoops, preferably the liquid consistency, put in the bottle.

3. Place poop in bag.

4. Hope no one is aware that you are playing with your poop.

I think I was halfway to my car with my bag of goodies while the doctor was still talking. This was now 10:30 p.m. on Thursday, and I did not want to want to stick around to ask further questions on pooping and scooping.

The next day I waited, but no action. Saturday, still no action.

Sunday was a new schedule for me. We have moved studios to record my internet talk show, and this was to be my first day.

I haven’t had a chance to visit the new location, so I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get there and get familiar with the setup. I was getting concerned because I hadn’t dropped the kids off at the pool (pooped) in four days, so the night before, I had taken Metamucil to get the party started. Of course, as soon as I’m about to walk out the door, the grumbling starts, and I hit the restroom, pronto! As I clumsily fumble for my poop kit, I try to remember the order of things. Let’s just say the result was not pretty.

What I did manage to accomplish was to get the two scoops in the medicine bottle. I put the bottle back in the Ziploc® bag. I then put the top on the container with the overflow. This should be plenty to work with. However, I’m now running late for my show. I was thinking of going on the air and apologizing: “So sorry I’m late, peeps. I was playing with my poo! But who hasn’t done that, right?” (as my two viewers switched to another show.)

First, there were two girls, one cup. Now we have one comic, one cup. Somehow, I make it through the show with no assidents.

(See what I did there)?

Monday was a busy day for me. As I drove around all day with my fecal stash in my car, temperatures continued to rise. I was beginning to worry. Is the mystery liquid that’s mixed with the poo combustible in heat? I can tell you that if this vial explodes, I will have no choice but to incinerate my car.

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Finally, sometime in the late afternoon, I get a chance to run by the lab at Kaiser Permanente Medical Center. I rush in as quickly as possible, trying to conceal the poo party package under my arm. Luckily, my number was called within minutes. I hurry up to the technician and plop the goodies on the counter.

The man seems pretty congenial until he reads the label on my vial. He then turns and immediately puts on latex gloves. Hey, I don’t blame him! If I had to touch a stranger’s poo, I would put on a hazmat suit! He takes the vial, but then notices the Styrofoam bowl. He looks at me confused and asks, “What’s that?”

I think to myself, “What do you think it is, Gummy Bears?”

I didn’t quite know how to answer the question. What would be the proper term? Poo-poo? Ca ca, doody, chocolate choo choo train? Finally, I nervously answer, “It’s the rest.” He looked at me sympathetically. I could tell he was trying not to embarrass me. I know that reaction. I have two little kiddos, and kiddos occasionally have accidents.

I remember once when my son was around two, I was giving him a bath while Katie’s brother sat in the bathroom with us.

Colin was playing with his toys when he suddenly stops and looks at me, surprised, and stands up suddenly. I asked, “What’s wrong, buddy?” Just then, I noticed something floating in the water.

It wasn’t a Babe Ruth candy bar, but I couldn’t resist a “Caddy Shack” callback. “Drain the pool,” I shout! Katie’s brother and I start immediately start to laugh, but a look of embarrassment came over his sweet little face as he began to cry. I reassured him, “Hey buddy, that’s no big deal. Daddy poops in the bath all the time!” (which may or may not be true.)

So now I had a grown man talking to me in that same tone.

“Hey, sir, it’s no big deal. I poop in cups and carry them around all the time.” I only wish he had actually said this.

Instead, he went on to explain that I didn’t quite do it correctly.

I would need to add two scoops of poo to the vial every other day for five days and then bring it to the lab. I asked if I can add this contribution to my collection? He sympathetically explained that it would need to be a fresh batch. Frustrated, I take the new vial 81

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and poo-it-yourself kit and start to leave, but he’s staring at me like I’m forgetting something. He and I stare at each other, and then he looks down at the container, still sitting on the counter.

He’s crazy if he thinks I’m taking this souvenir home with me.

The only thing more embarrassing than walking into a place carrying a bowl of poo is walking back out with the same bowl of poo. I ask if he can give me the time. As he glances at his watch, I’m gone! Poof! The poop bandit has left the building.

A couple of weeks later, I finally got in to see my primary physician and share all of the gross updates involving my stomach. I tell her about the migraines and how they kick my ass. She decides that because of my history with cancer, I will need a complete diagnostic checkup. She tells me I must return for a series of tests, colonoscopy, endoscopy, ultrasound, MRI, and blood test. She also informs that the stool sample test was canceled after that first drop-off because the stool was solid. This means I continued to poop and scoop for a week more than I needed to. I imagine that same lab tech laughing to himself.

Touché, my friend. I wonder if the bowl is still sitting on the counter.

Ultrasound Just as I mentioned in my first book, I didn’t know that men have a Kegel muscle. I also was not aware that men get ultrasounds.

Upon my doctor’s orders, I go in for my scheduled ultrasound.

As the nurse pushes and prods the scanning device, I ask her how it’s going. She tells me that it’s difficult for her to get a clear picture because I have a lot of gas. I tell her to pull my finger, and that should take care of that! After the ultrasound is concluded, she gives me the good news—I’m not pregnant.

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16 Baby Bump So this new thing happened in recent years that I don’t recall taking a vote on—co-ed baby showers. I’m sure my dad’s generation looked forward to baby showers because that would be a great excuse for them to go play some poker and raise a little hell. But apparently, we are now the wussified, Mr. Mom generation. All of my wife’s friends are cool, but I’m sure there are about 99 other things a man would rather be doing than sitting at a baby shower.

As I discovered, the showers also include games, such as guessing the mama-to-be’s waist size. This is done by the hostess pulling out a roll of toilet paper while the guests are supposed to guess how many sheets it would take to make it around momma’s waist. Now what you don’t want to do (MEN) is guesstimate that the woman is bigger than she actually is. Just like you should never assume a lady is pregnant and make a remark about it. As Weird Al says in one of my son’s favorite songs, “Tacky,” “Are you pregnant girl, or just really fat?” Thanks to my years in fitness, I’m pretty good at this sort of thing. I take one look at a mommyto-be and can confidently guess “42 sheets of toilet paper.” When the hostess measures, it’s exactly right. Cha-ching! I won! Does this mean I get to leave? No, it means I won a “special” prize.

I can’t remember what it was exactly, but it was something in the neighborhood of potpourri and a pedicure. Hey, ladies, you might want to drop this into the suggestion box—If you really want to entice men to attend these soirées, your door prizes should include beer and power tools.

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Now don’t get me wrong, I like people and I like parties, but men are only good for about two hours, and then we turn into the Walking Dead. When I walk into a party, it’s Showtime, razzle-dazzle, jokes, and jabs, but after a couple of hours, all I hear, when people speak, is the voice from “Charlie Brown”— “Wa wa..wa wa...” Men are sprinters, not distance runners. That’s a metaphor, but if you are a distant runner, you have too much time on your hands. You need more power tools.

My wife, on the other hand, is all about kibitzing with family and friends until the sun comes up. As long as the Chardonnay is flowing, the party keeps going! I jokingly told her that I wasn’t going to install a champagne fountain in our house and fill it with Chardonnay. She thought I was serious and got excited.

Even a goodbye can sometimes take an hour. This is what’s known in her family as the “Famous Farrell Farewell.” It’s completely the opposite in my family. The men come to family functions, briefly mumble to the other men about cars, sports, or hunting, grab some grub, and then get the hell outta Dodge.

“Gotta run, there’s a La-Z-Boy® recliner calling my name!”

My wife, Katie, is also notorious for the “phantom refill.” It goes down like this: After I’ve told every detail of my life story and asked every question in my head (approximately three), I attempt to drag my wife away from the party. I try to be polite, unlike some men where I come from, who, when ready to leave, will say something like, “Hey, Old Lady, get your purse, I’ll be in the truck!” If I ever said that to my wife, I would be sitting in the truck for a long time. As a matter of fact, I would probably be sleeping in the truck.

I patiently wait my turn to jump into Katie and her chatter battle partner’s convo like a kid waiting to jump in on doubledutch jump rope. Finally, I interject like a gentleman by saying something like, “Hey, Babe, I think the kiddos are getting tired.

We should take off.”

This is where she smiles and agrees, saying something like, “Oh yeah, sure, do you want to get their stuff?” Now I’m a sucker for this trick every time because after getting the kiddos’ stuff together, I return to find Katie with a full glass of cool 84

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Chardonnay, engaged in a completely new conversation. When I was a deejay, I would always cue up a silly sobering song for lastcall. Maybe I should download “Happy Trails” on my phone and play it for her when I’m ready to leave parties? “Bumba Deeda, Bumba Deeda…” “Hey, I’ll be in the truck!”

So, this particular shower turned out to be a sevenhour marathon. You heard me right, folks—seven hours of Chardonnay-fueled baby talk. This was about a year before our son was born, so I didn’t even have an escape plan. All I know was, I was getting so delirious I was starting to speak in Tongues. I hinted nicely to Katie that maybe we should get going by blinking in Morse Code, “For the love of God, please get me out of here!” I had no choice but to pull up a chair and wait it out.

Since I was invisible to the drunken housewives, I struck up a conversation with the momma-to-be’s 85-year-old grandmother.

Although this rare relic was telling some great Hollywood stories, like hanging out with Marilyn Monroe, I was fading quickly.

Katie sees that since Granny has me captive, she and her friends head over to the bar for a refill, hoping I wouldn’t notice. It took everything in me not to say, “Listen, Granny, unless you have a story of you, Marilyn, and Elvis having a three-way in the Jungle Room, I’m going to need you to zip it.” Instead, I politely excused myself and made a bee-line for the bar. Since I was driving, I hadn’t had a drink for these couple of hours, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I order a Heineken and chug it down.

Katie gets the not-so-subtle hint and decides she should start wrapping it up before her husband passes out in Granny’s lap.

Since my Trans Am was a D.U.I. magnet, we had decided to take Katie’s car this evening. (Or shall I say, this day, because it was 1:00 p.m. when we left our place). Since I was the designated driver, we jump in, and I take off like a bat out of hell. As I hit the 101 freeway, I must admit I was weaving in and out of traffic like Dale Earnhardt Jr. The only thing on my mind was hitting the sheets and snoozing.

Women love to hear details about your day. This questioning can feel like an interrogation. Every day when my son gets home from school, my wife gives him the 3rd degree…

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Katie: “Hey, Colin, how was school?”

Colin: “Good.”

Katie: “Who did you play with?”

Colin: “My friends.”

It gets to the point where Colin almost starts to grunt answers like a caveman. This is usually where I jump in and save him with, “Every day is fun, right, Buddy?”

On this particular night, I could have used Colin to jump in and save me, but since he is only a glimmer in my eye, I silently focus on the road. I can feel Katie staring at the side of my face. I glance over to see her pretty smiling face, eyes eager to get some answers…

Katie: “Did you have fun?”

Me: “Yes.” Katie: “Who did you play with?”

She may have said “talk to,” but I was too distracted by the blue lights that were suddenly in my rearview mirror to hear her clearly. I bring this little dilemma to Katie’s attention, but she doesn’t seem as worried about it as I am.

Me: “Sorry to interrupt, Babe, but there are cops behind me with their lights on.”

It takes a few seconds for that to register, but she asks in an annoyed tone, “What do they want?”

“Probably to arrest me,” I answer.

She continues talking, but my focus is now on a few other small problems— I’m speeding, I’ve been drinking, I’m not insured to drive Katie’s car, and, oh yeah, I may have an expired driver’s license. Side note: I was much more irresponsible before the kids came along. Good thing I wasn’t driving the Trans Am, or I would’ve thrown my middle finger up through the t-top and put the hammer down. (Just kidding, in case my kids read this.)

I’m cruising in the fast lane, so my first order of business is to navigate five lanes over to the shoulder of the freeway. This takes some maneuvering, but I finally manage to pull safely onto the roadside. The thoughts racing through my head are— be polite, comply, and don’t say anything stupid.

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I turn off the car as the patrol cruiser approaches, but instead of getting out, the officer gives me stern orders over his loudspeaker, “Go to the next exit, and pull off the freeway!” I’m confused. I’m pulled over now, but he wants me to get back into traffic, only to pull over again? I cautiously merge back onto the freeway and proceed to the next exit, all the while Katie is still talking.

“So, did you talk to any of the husbands at the party?” At this point, I’m almost hoping they take me to jail.

Unfortunately, we were only a half-mile west of the 405 Freeway, so at this point, I’m not sure what to do. If I continue on the 101, the police could think I’m eluding them, and any chance of using my gift of gab with them would greatly decrease. If I exit and proceed onto the 405, the police could think the same thing.

I decide to head South onto the 405 South. I figured if they start shooting, at least I’m heading towards Mexico.

The police cruiser speeds up close and announces, “Pull off at the next exit!” By the tone of his voice, I’m guessing I made the wrong choice.

I find the next exit ramp, which loops around and puts me in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I finally find a spot to pull over and await my fate. Katie fumbles for the registration and offers advice, “Tell them you weren’t doing anything.” Has this excuse ever worked?

Hey, police dude, what’s your problem? I wasn’t doing anything.

Policeman dude: Oh, my mistake, sir, sorry to bother you. Have a nice day, law-abiding citizen. I try to remain calm and rehearse an alibi in my head.

The officer hits me with a spotlight as he gets out of his cruiser and approaches my car. As he comes up to the driver’s side window, the other officer covers the passenger side, gun drawn. The officer is shining a flashlight in my face and saying something to me in a stern voice. Only I can’t hear clearly because I can’t figure out which button rolls down the window. I hit a button, but the rear window comes down. The officer does not look amused. I lean back to try to explain, through the window, that it’s not my car, which sounds like I’m driving a stolen vehicle.

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The officer is now losing patience and starts aggressively tapping my window with this flashlight. Meanwhile, the other officer has Katie roll her window down and begins chatting her up in a much friendlier tone. I frantically fumble some more until my window comes down. I give a nervous smile and try to diffuse the situation with some hillbilly charm. “Sorry, officer, my other car is a horse!”

He doesn’t even crack a smile as he goes into the third degree: “Sir, you were driving erratically, have you been drinking?”

My first impulse is to be a smart ass and say something like, “I never drink while I’m tripping on acid sir.”

Luckily, I use better judgment. I’m trying to answer questions, but I’m getting distracted by Officer Smooth hitting on Katie.

He’s asking pretty mundane questions, but I’m hearing, Would you like to see my nightstick? I interrupt and ask how his questions are relevant?

I turn back to Sgt. Hardass who asks, “Where are you coming from?”

I answer, “A co-ed baby shower!” He obviously thinks I’m being sarcastic and orders me to step out of the car.

He has me step onto the sidewalk and immediately starts to administer a sobriety test. As he questions me about the number of drinks I’ve had, he gives me tasks to complete; walk a straight line, say my ABCs (if I were in a better mood, I might’ve made a crack about being from Kentucky, where this wasn’t taught).

The final test was to follow a pen he was holding with my eyes, without turning my head. I’m so tired and delirious, I believe my head turned 360 degrees. I’m pretty certain I’m going to jail as he asks again, “Where are you coming from?”

I look him in the eye and answer in the voice of a broken man, “A co-ed baby shower, sir.”

He looks confused, like he wasn’t sure if I was a smartass, and asks again, “Where?”

Exasperated, I say, “Sir, that’s my wife in the car. I have been at her friend’s co-ed baby shower for seven hours! I’m the designated driver and I’m in a rush to get home because I’m exhausted and need to get some rest for work tomorrow.”

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A big smile comes across the officer’s face as he turns to his partner and says, “Did you hear that? This poor bastard’s been to a co-ed baby shower for seven f-cking hours!” The two have a good laugh at my expense before the first officer hands me my license and says, “You’ve suffered enough, get the hell out of here!” I graciously thanked them and jumped in the car before they change their minds.

As I cautiously drive away, Katie turns to me and asks, “So…., who else did you talk to at the party?”

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17 Mister Fled About a year before Colin was born, Katie and I made a trip to Annapolis to visit her college friend, Meg. This is my first trip to that area, so we had a sightseeing excursion planned, including a full day in Washington, D.C. Meg was extremely pregnant, looking about three months overdue, but she and her husband insisted on giving us a tour.

Unfortunately, the day we arrived, Ronald Reagan passed away.

Katie and Meg were huge fans of this great American, so his death put a damper on our festivities. We didn’t realize what a huge impact this would have on our plans for the following day.

Apparently, when a former President goes to the big White House in the sky, the traffic in Washington is affected. Who knew?

Our first stop was one of the Smithsonian museums. The plan was to hit a couple of them and see some of our nation’s most treasured items. A few of the iconic pieces I was really looking forward to seeing: Evel Knievel’s motorcycle, Elvis’ gold lame suit, and the Crown Jewel-- the Trans Am from “Smokey and the Bandit.” It wasn’t until after we arrived I learned these items aren’t considered American history treasurers. Who’s in charge of this joint?

After only 30 minutes into our big day, when we noticed Maternity Meg was fading. She decided to rest on a bench in the lobby, but insisted we continue. About 15 minutes later, we looked down from the second floor to see her head back and snoring while leaning on an older gentleman sitting next to her.

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We decided we would wake Sleeping Biggie and bail on our Smithsonian tour. (Hey, if you’ve seen one flag hand-stitched by Betsy Ross, you’ve seen them all, right?)

Although we were only in the Smithsonian for less than an hour, when we came out, the streets were packed with tourists bustling around. People were arriving in droves for the upcoming funeral. In addition to pedestrians, we saw tons of police activity.

They were setting up barricades, positioning task forces vehicles, and even unloading horses.

We decided to stay out of the museums and take a leisurely stroll up the National Mall instead.

As we casually walked up the mall, I noticed out of the left corner of my eye a policeman mounting his jittery horse. He managed to get on the horse, but the horse continued to be jumpy and restless. Being a Kentucky boy, it was obvious to me this man was not an experienced rider. The police kept commanding the horse to “whoa, whoa,” but the horse was saying “no, no.” A horse will test the rider immediately, and this officer was obviously failing. The other three in our group were too busy reminiscing to notice this activity. Although the streets were bustling, there were only a few people mingling on the Mall lawn. Besides the four of us, there was one lady sitting on a nearby bench. She appeared to be enjoying the beautiful day with a good book and a warm tea at her side.

Suddenly, we were all startled by the policeman shouting as the stallion began to charge full speed across the mall. The horse was in a full gallop, headed straight for the bench where the unsuspecting lady sat peacefully reading. Just before the horse crashed into the bench, he planted his front hooves into the gravel, threw its head down, sending the policeman flying right over the bench. The officer landed with a hard thud on his back! The terrified lady dropped her book and began screaming hysterically. I honestly thought she was going to have a heart attack.

The enormous stallion spun around 180 degrees and charged right toward us before sliding in the gravel just a few feet from our faces. You never know how you may react in a situation like 91

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this. Meg started jumping up and down and screaming while her husband tried to pull her out of the way. Katie’s instincts were to spin around in a circle like the Tasmanian Devil. The horse reared on its hind legs as if he were about to crush us. This always looks so cool in cowboy movies, but in real life, it’s terrifying.

Apparently, I had a flashback from “Blazing Saddles” because I doubled up my fist and prepared to give the horse a right hook.

The powerful beast came down with a thunderous crash inches from us, spun around, and took off in a full canter up Jefferson Drive.

The policeman slowly raised up in a daze, looking around for his horse. I could’ve sworn I saw stars circling his head.

Meanwhile, the lady on the bench was still screaming hysterically.

Meg was so scared, she peed all over herself, which was very obvious by her soaked khaki pants. I stopped the funnel cloud of dust by grabbing Katie, and we ran over to check on the policeman. Instead of asking us if we were okay, I asked if he was okay. He mumbled something and asked which way his horse ran. I just pointed in the direction of the stallion, making his way to freedom.

It was quite a commotion to see a riderless horse charging down the middle of a busy street in D.C. Run, Mister Ed, run!

The stunned policeman grabbed his radio and said something about losing his transportation. I have a feeling someone’s getting demoted to parking enforcement.

I never found out what happened to the runaway stallion, but I know what they should’ve done. Instead of sending him off to a glue factory when he died, they should’ve had him stuffed and placed as an attraction in the museum. Hey, that’s what Roy Rogers did with his beloved horse, Trigger. The plaque on his exhibit would read: “Here’s the stallion known as Mister Fled He was to honor Ronnie, but had other plans instead He threw his rider and was gone in a glance Made a lady scream, and another pee her pants The chase went on until the break of dawn But he was finally caught, pooping on the White House lawn.”

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In Los Angeles, in the Autry Museum of the American West, they have a fake horse with a green screen. The visitors can sit on it, and magically, you’re in a cowboy movie with bad guys shooting at you. The kids could climb on Mister Fled, and it would look like the police are chasing them through the streets of D.C., or the screaming lady could be throwing books at them for scaring her.

Why doesn’t anyone consult me on these things? Happy Trails.

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18 Blaze On Saddles The “Blaze On” chapter in “The Trans Am Diaries” seemed to be a big hit with readers. It was about a Kentucky legend, my Uncle Ricky. Uncle Ricky is quite the character, always ready for a good fight and a good laugh (usually at his own jokes).

Since my dad wasn’t around much, Uncle Ricky would step in to keep me entertained. Our seven-year age difference really came in handy. When I was 11 and wanted to drive, Uncle Ricky would happily oblige. I’m not sure if he actually had his license, but he did have a car. Or, when I was a teenager and wanted some beer, he was my guy. He wasn’t exactly a good influence, but he sure was fun.

Uncle Ricky would occasionally pick me up in one of his beat-up cars and we would head out to the country to shoot guns. It was usually early on a weekend morning, but Uncle Ricky would already be a few beers in. He would bring along a stocked cooler of brews and a bag of herbs to last him the rest of the day. However, I don’t want to give the impression that he would drive in this condition. I did.

Uncle Ricky was always surrounded by a cast of characters, which he would give nicknames, probably because he was too stoned to remember their real names.

I remember one dude in particular that he always called Football Head. I never bothered to ask why. One sweltering summer afternoon as we were hanging out, Uncle Ricky comes cruising by on a Schwinn Stingray, with Football Head riding 94

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on the handlebars. Uncle Ricky picks up speed, looks over at me with a big smile, and says, “Hey Stevie, watch this!” With that, he jumps off the back and lets the bike ghost ride before slamming into a storage shed. As Football Head rolled around in pain on the ground, Uncle Ricky causally walks away laughing and says, “That’s why his head is shaped like a football.”

I talked about Uncle Ricky in my standup act for years.

People would see me and shout his catchphrase, “Blaze on!” The first time I told Uncle Ricky, he just laughed and said, “Hell, yeah, they know that’s cool!” Yes, I guess they do.

I always get asked how Uncle Ricky is doing. I guess my answer to that question would be he’s doing well, according to his attitude. Even though, supposedly, he has some type of cancer.

He tells me he’s taking pills from Mexico to treat it. I try to get more info on these “pills from Mexico,” but no one seems to have any information on them. I have no doubt that he is actually taking some sort of mystery pills. My question is, are they from a physician or from Dr. Feelgood?

I can see Uncle Ricky accepting money to be a lab rat for experimental drugs. He probably thinks, “Hell, I’ve put everything else in my body. What’re a few more pills?”

I spoke to my mom a few days ago, who told me that she took Uncle Ricky to get a disposable phone. I believe certain types of “distributors” refer to these as burner phones. So, it makes sense. My mom tells me that I would probably be getting a call from him. Sure enough, three days later, my phone rings. I didn’t recognize the number, so I didn’t answer. However, after listening to his jovial message, I knew I had to call him back.

“Hey, Stevie, what’s going on? It’s your Uncle Ricky!” (Like I wouldn’t recognize his voice?) “Hell, yeah! Shit, I’m partying like a fat girl with food stamps! Call me back!”

“Blaze on!”

I call back within two minutes, but a girl answers, which is usually the case. Knowing Uncle Ricky, I understand why it’s necessary to screen his calls. The girl on the phone and I begin the dance…

Me: “Hi, is Ricky there?”

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Girl: “Who’s calling?”

Me: “It’s Stevie.”

Girl: “Steve or Stevie?”

Me: “It’s Stevie, his nephew.”

Girl: “Steve?”

Me: “It’s Stevie, his nephew.”

I feel like I’m in the Cheech & Chong bit, “Knock, knock, who’s there?”

“Dave.”

“Dave’s not here, man.”

The girl shouts in my ear, “Hey, Ricky, it’s your friend, Steve!”

I hear him babbling something in the background as she tells me, “He’s bullshitting.”

I say, “That sounds like him.”

She asks me, “Are you still there?”

Umm, well, I just responded, so yes. I keep trying to reply, “Yes,” but she keeps talking over me.

“Hey, are you still there?”

After my third “yes,” she says, “Hey, Ricky, I guess he hung up,” as she hangs up on me.

I haven’t even spoken to Uncle Ricky yet and I’m already exhausted. I give it a minute and call back. This time, Uncle Ricky answers and the good times begin.

It’s always entertaining to get a call from Uncle Ricky, although I usually can’t comprehend everything that comes out of his mouth. I mention it was me that just called, but she hung up on me. He starts to laugh and goes right in with his hillbilly jive— “Ah, hell, well, she fell out of the ‘stupid’ tree and hit every branch on the way down!” The girl, still within earshot, starts shouting profanities at him. Uncle Ricky was too busy laughing at his own joke to notice and starts asking me how much a plane ticket would cost because he’s coming out to visit. I don’t take this announcement too seriously, (A) because I’ve heard him say this many times over the past 25 years, and (B) I’m pretty sure he’s never flown.

He then gets very excited as he tells me about a newspaper he found from the day Elvis died, August 16th, 1977. He says he was 96

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working on an old house and found it stashed in the wall. He tells me he first put it on eBay, and people were offering him tons of money. He excitedly goes on to tell me that no one had ever seen anything like it. (I didn’t have the heart to remind him that Elvis’ death was on the front page of every newspaper in the world. He says he told everyone who offered to buy it that it was no longer for sale. The California Kid now owns it.

I greatly doubt Uncle Ricky actually posted the newspaper on eBay, especially because he doesn’t have a computer. Nonetheless, I was very excited to receive this special paper in the mail a couple of weeks later. By the way, it was mailed by my mom. I also highly doubt Uncle Ricky has ever stood in line at the post office, mainly because they may have his face on the FBI’s Most Wanted poster there.

The highlight of this particular conversation (or at least the one I could make out the most clearly) was about a drunken friend who led police on a dangerous chase through town on horseback. Uncle Ricky said during the chase, his friend stopped by his house. Uncle Ricky hid the horse and the two smoked a little of Kentucky’s finest before he jumped back on his horse and blazed his trail again, with Five-O in full pursuit. Uncle Ricky said when the police came to his house, he told them, “I don’t know nothing about no damn horse.” He laughed and said, “There was horse shit all over the damn yard!”

Although I doubted the story, I found it entertaining. The next day, someone sent a picture of the local newspaper’s front page. It read, “Man charged with D.U.I. after leading police on a wild chase on horseback.”

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19 A Little Off the Top In my first book, I told a story about the time in high school when I got stabbed in the junk with a pencil. In a moment of adolescent ignorance, I jumped on an unsuspecting friend’s back with ninja-like prowess. What I hadn’t noticed were the two freshly sharpened pencils in his back pocket, which impaled me, puncturing my scrotum. I’ve been told that particular story has given men nightmares, but they still love to hear it. In fact, I did an hour-long interview on National Lampoon Radio, and the ten minutes they decided to put into rotation was that story. I didn’t want to disappoint this time around, so here’s another cringeworthy story, only this time it involves my son.

When it came time to make the decision whether or not to circumcise, my wife left it totally up to me. I decided we would snip. This whole process was new to me. I obviously have no recollection from my own experience. Did the doctor do it with a surgical instrument, or did he use a cigar cutter? Hell, my dad could’ve used a pocket knife for all I know. When you are raised by a single mother, these are not topics that are discussed. I know in the Jewish faith, there is a dude called a mohel that comes in with his instrument in a briefcase. He could probably carry the cutter in a Ziploc® bag, but it wouldn’t look as professional. The father of the house slips the Mohel a few C-notes and it’s free Willy time!

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Colin would somehow subconsciously remember and harbor resentment against me. “Mr. Dupin, have you made a decision about the foreskin?” Hell, yes, chop it off like a chicken head! I didn’t really say that. Instead, I discreetly tried to make hand signals for scissors. Snip, snip! I had no clue how this works.

One thing Katie was sure of was that since it was my decision, I would have to take care of the whole process and report to her immediately following the procedure.

I informed the doctor of our decision immediately. I thought she would tell me to come back on a Tuesday or even two weeks later to set up an appointment. But instead, she grabbed one of her nurses and casually said, “Okay, follow me.” I immediately start to have PTSD, remembering the pencil incident. I’m pretty sure I was walking bow-legged as phantom pains shot through my crotch area. Okay, I take a deep breath and tell myself that I can do this. I imagined we would scrub up and head to the operating room. Instead of a well-lit, sterile room, surrounded by high-tech equipment, she led us into a small side room that was used to store extra Band-Aids, throat suppressors, K-Y Jelly, etc. I’ve had cars with bigger trunks than this room.

The nurse went to get our son and returned, holding him in her arms. Ah, my sweet little innocent boy was staring up at me.

I just kept thinking, “Please forgive me, Buddy.”

I wanted to Google some information on the health benefits of circumcision and read them to him. Besides decreasing the risk of future infections, I believe he will be thankful someday that his junk doesn’t pop out like a turtle coming out of its shell.

To my surprise, they place him on a metal tray on the counter. He looked like a Butterball turkey that they were about to baste. The nurse removed his diaper and began applying some ointment to his crown jewel. That’s it? I was thinking. My son is about to undergo possibly the most traumatic procedure of his life, and you’re only rubbing salve down there? The doctor reassured me this is the safest way to numb the area. How could they know when he was completely numb? In hindsight, maybe I should’ve rubbed a scoop on my junk and hit it with a hammer to test it.

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I was a nervous wreck. I wanted my little man to be relaxed as possible. Shouldn’t we be whispering? Can we dim the lights and put on some Kenny G? Okay, keep calm. This doctor has probably done this a thousand times. I even told myself that it’s much better the doctor is a female. What if it were a man with penis envy doing the procedure. Because, of course, my son had twice the length as the average baby. Okay, let’s do this! “Remember, doc, just a little off the top.”

A hush fell over the room as she moved closer to Colin’s one-eyed worm. I imagined an announcer from the PGA softly commentating, “Okay, the doctor is stepping up to the penis. It looks like she’s chosen the #3 clipper. Oh, wait, her nurse caddy is recommending a larger instrument.” She lines herself up perfectly as my knees begin to tremble. I hope I don’t pass out and fall on Colin.

Suddenly, a nurse barges into the room and mutters, “Excuse me,” and then kneels between Colin and us and abruptly retrieves something from a drawer.

“Freeze! Step away from the penis!” I shout. We wait for the nurse to leave, I locked the door behind her, and we realigned.

That was one Mulligan too many. Somehow, the distraction didn’t faze the doctor. I think she’s done this before. She leaned in and—snip! It was done! The crowd goes wild!

I wasn’t completely back to my senses when the doctor starts giving me strict instructions for treatment. It was something about how to apply the antibiotic ointment. This delicate procedure would need to be performed daily for seven days.

I reported back to Katie it went smoothly, and not too much was taken off. It was a beautiful job. I couldn’t wait to show it off to everyone. I relayed the instructions the doctor had given me for the delicate ointment procedure. Katie wished me luck and once again reiterated she wanted nothing to do with this. It was all on me.

The first day home, when it was nearing time for his ointment, I took Colin to our room. We were alone, just this innocent little man and me. I promised him this was for his own good, as I applied the ointment very carefully. He cried, but we got through 100

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it. The second day didn’t go as smoothly. Katie had decided to witness this time. I felt a lot more pressure this time as she watched over my shoulder. I began to apply the ointment, but my hands were shaking, causing me to push too hard. His skin slid all the way up his penis like a turtle neck sweater. I’ve never heard a more blood-curdling scream than the one he let out that day. This caused Katie to also scream, followed by tears, from both of them. I knew I had done something very wrong, so the next day we took my little patient to the doctor. By this time, his pee-pee looked like it had been caught in a vice grip. Our doctor examined him and gave us the good news things were going to be all right, but I was instructed to be much more careful.

To this day, I hope the little guy never finds out what I did, or he could guilt me into getting anything he wants. “Hey, Dad, can I borrow your car tonight?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Hey, Dad, remember the time you almost ripped my junk off?”

I remind him to be home by midnight as I throw him the keys.

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20 Colin Quotes and “Faithisms” My kids crack me up daily, so I decided that, for this book, I would secretly keep notes on my iPhone of some of their zingers.

I wish my mom would’ve recorded some of my antics for the archives, but the only recording device we had was a portable cassette player.

A blank Memorex tape was like gold in our house. We would place the cassette player next to the radio speaker and eagerly wait for our favorite song to come on to record. This was the white trash version of Napster. The grueling task would sometimes take hours to get that one song. Sometimes you would be in another room and have to bust through the house, breaking things in your path to get to that “record” button. The quality was usually terrible, but you may end up with a couple of minutes of your favorite tune, usually with the DJ making a corny joke over the intro, “Hey, it’s a crisp 48 degrees outside this evening, and here’s Foreigner’s ‘Double Vision.’ Don’t have too many PBRs tonight, or YOU might have double vision! It’s fifteen minutes past the hour!”

Keep in mind that while the song was recording, everyone in the house had to be quiet.

This was almost impossible in our small house of four kids.

You might be right in the middle of “Stayin’ Alive” and hear my badass sister, Donna, in the background shouting, “Stevie, were you using my blow dryer again?” And me answering with a smartass reply, “No, were you shaving your face with my razor 102

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again?” That would be followed by the crash of her pounding my head into the wall. I was taking a beating, but I was “Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive!”

Now here are some gems from my little kooks. Enjoy.

While having breakfast one morning, I ask, “Hey kids, what should we get Mommy for her birthday?”

Faith: “Hmm… a ball, a movie theatre…”

Colin: “And a gold tooth.”

I just overheard Faith’s friend ask her if she still takes ballet.

Faith: “No, I quit. I’m not that type of girl anymore.”

Faith: “If I were President, every day would be my birthday, every day would be Christmas… for me I don’t always take ballet, but only. And no math! when I do, I’m Wolverine Walking to the car after playing in the ocean…

Faith: “Daddy, I feel like I have a tadpole stuck in my bum bum.”

Driving away from the beach one day, we couldn’t help but notice an elderly woman confidently walking next to the road in a string bikini. Her body was weathered, over-tanned, and loose. Colin stares at her and then turns to me in disgust and says, “Daddy, old people have saggy skin. I like new Anyone seen his sister? skin.”

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I always keep my phone in my left front pocket. In church this past Sunday, I had it set on vibrate, with Faith sitting on my lap. In a quiet moment during the service, I get a message and Faith feels the vibration. She turns to me and, in a voice loud enough for others to hear, says, “Daddy, you tooted.”

I whisper to her, “No, it was my phone.”

I continued to pretend to listen to the priest, but she repeated, “No, you tooted.”

I denied it again, but she began to giggle and tease in a voice loud enough for others to hear, “Daddy tooted!” I’m pretty sure Katie believed her.

Leaving a football game one morning, there is a stench of a skunk in the air. Faith announces, “Mommy, it smells like your pasta!”

As we drive away from Zuma Beach, I say, “Kids, doesn’t it feel good to shower off before you get in the car?” Colin says, “Yes, but I still have sand on my family jewels.”

Faith told me not to talk while she’s jumping rope because it gets her concentrated.

I just told our son that Carl’s Jr. just came out with an organic burger. His reply, “Carl’s Jr.? I can’t believe it!” Faith chimed in, “I can’t believe it, either! I don’t know what that means, but I can’t believe it!”

We took the kiddos out to dinner to celebrate their good report cards. We allowed them each to bring one item to keep them occupied. Colin chose his phone to play games. Faith brings a bag that I assumed had a coloring book and crayons. I should know better by now. Right after we place our order, I look down and there is a whoopee cushion on the table in front of me.

I ask, “What’s this doing here?”

Faith answers, “That’s what I brought to play with. Will you blow it up for me?” So, I did.

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We’ve had a sound machine in our kiddos’ room since they were born. Katie is convinced that they wouldn’t be able to sleep for 30 minutes without it. She believes it comforts them and reminds them of when they were babies, safely sleeping next to us. Without it, they could have separation disorder and possibly long-term psychological effects. I believe Mommy just likes it turned on so the kiddos can’t hear her watching “The Bachelor” in the other room. (Don’t tell her I said that). One night, while struggling to get the damn volume knob to work, I asked my son if he still liked it. He replied, “Well, Daddy, after seven years, it gets kind of annoying.”

Usually, I take it as a compliment when I make my son laugh so hard that he pees in his pajamas. Unfortunately, tonight he was riding on my back naked when it happened.

I usually call Katie and the kiddos when they are on their way to school. This particular morning, I can tell that Katie has had it with Faith. She goes on to tell me Faith has been talking back and being very difficult. I usually try to squelch the situation by saying something like, “Well, we’ll just have to sell her.”

Katie wasn’t laughing on this particular morning. She attempts to scare Faith by saying, “I’m going to have to put fear into her. I was afraid of my parents, and she needs to be afraid of me!” I hear Faith in the back seat casually answer, “I’m not afraid of anything.” What else you got, Mama?

One evening we had planned a family movie night. The movie we had chosen was rated PG. We normally don’t allow the kiddos to watch PG movies. Luckily, I’m not in charge of the selections, or we would probably be watching movies like “Goodfellas.” We were a little concerned with the language that may be in tonight’s screening. Kids are like little parrots—they might repeat what they hear. We were especially concerned with one of our kids in particular. (You can guess which one.) Before we started the movie, we warned them they might possibly hear bad language, and it was not to be repeated. About 10 minutes into the movie, Faith looks at me and says, “Daddy, can I have your iPad to play games? I’ve already heard three bad words and I might not be able to stop myself from saying them tomorrow.” I quickly gave her my iPad. 105

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Faith has a friend whose dad is the drummer in one of the biggest rock bands in the world. (Rhymes with Poo Biters.) After picking her and Colin up from school one day, she tells us her friend wants to be a drummer when she grows up but doesn’t know how to play drums. I sarcastically ask, “Do you think she knows a drummer who can teach her?”

Without hesitation, Faith answers, “Yes, me!” I look back at Colin in the rearview mirror, who snickers and rolls his eyes.

I say, “Are you a better drummer than her dad?”

Again, without hesitation, she answers confidently, “Yes,” as in...”Duh?” We allow Faith to bring one small toy to church. One Sunday, as we are standing in mass, I reach down and take Faith’s hand. I feel something unusual, so I turn it over to see what she was holding.

Faith had chosen a hand buzzer as her one item to bring. This was one of those old gags that you wind up, and when you shake someone’s hand, the other person gets a jolt. There is a part in Catholic mass where you greet those around you. I could imagine it going something like, “And peace be with you…” (BUZZ!!!)

“Did you feel the Holy Spirit?” I was tempted to let Faith go through with it, but I was afraid we would be demoted back to the cry room.

About a month after this little incident, we were on our way to church again. Faith was unusually quiet in the car. It’s generally a rule if Faith is quiet, she’s up to something. I glanced back at her and she gave me a big grin, revealing her toy of choice for this mass—fake hillbilly teeth. If only we had banjos in our congregation.

I comment to Faith that she’s getting so tall. She replies, “Yes, I’m long like Mommy’s toe.” Katie has an abnormally long 106

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middle toe on each foot. I mean, when she’s barefoot, it looks like she’s making an obscene gesture. I would bet she could hang up upside-down on a tree branch. (You didn’t hear that from me.)

Faith: “Daddy, if my friends ask who Mommy voted for, I’m going to say she did ‘eeny meeny miny mo’ and it landed on ‘none of your business!’”

After a series of toots, Faith shouts, “My caboose is out of control!”

Faith: “Sometimes I wish the Grinch was in our family so I wouldn’t be the meanest one.”

Out of the blue, one afternoon, Faith announces, “I’m making toot salad!” I didn’t bother to investigate.

On a recent afternoon bike ride with Katie, Faith informs her our whole family has an invisible middle name. When Katie asks what the name is, Faith explains she needs to mouth the name because it’s invisible. Apparently, our invisible family middle name is Alfredo.

Faith was going to poop in the dark bathroom. Katie walks in and turns on the light. Faith says, “Mommy, I tooted just as you turned on the light!”

Katie says, “Great minds think alike.”

Faith replies, “No, Mommy, great minds stink alike!”

One Sunday while Katie was working, I was on Daddy duty.

We were hitting the rounds and the first stop was getting ice cream. The second place we visited was a Japanese store that carries whacky gifts. We had probably been gone from our house around an hour. Finally, Faith announces, “Daddy, I’m not wearing any pants!” I glance down, and, sure enough, I had forgotten to put pants on her. She still didn’t want to leave the store.

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I took Colin to the Dallas Cowboys training camp in Oxnard, California. He had never been to an NFL game, so I thought this would be a good introductory experience. The scrimmage game was at 10:00 a.m., but we quickly learned these fans were drinking and carrying on like it was the Super Bowl. After an hour of hearing language that would make a hooker blush, Colin innocently asks me, “Daddy, are these people drunk or just tacky?”

I answered, “Both.”

I’m proud of the fact that I have schooled my kids on oldschool funk. Upon returning from a visit with Katie’s parents, Colin noticed that Grammy had given them cookies. Colin looks at me and says, “Hey, we got to bring home the Ore-Ore-O’s!” (A reference to The Time’s song, “Jungle Love.”)

Colin and Faith arguing in the backseat…

Colin: “I’m never speaking to you again!”

Faith answering casually: “Well, you’ll forget.”

On Faith’s first day of school, Katie receives a call informing her that Faith was bitten by a boy in her class. The teacher would not give any further information. When I arrived home in the evening, sure enough, Faith had a bite mark on her arm. I was furious and wanted the kid’s name. I asked Faith and she said, “Um, I don’t know his name, Daddy, but his head looks like a hammer.” I’m really trying to be a level-headed parent, but I had a decision to make— Do I tell Colin to find the kid and bite him, or do I confront the kid’s dad and bite him?

It’s hard being a grownup. Luckily, the school made the decision for us by kicking Hammerhead out of school. To this day, when the incident is mentioned, Faith refers to the kid as Hammerhead.

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I let the kiddos pick one song on iTunes that I bought for them. The song Faith picked was “Rude” by the band Magic. One afternoon Faith asked what the song is about. I explain it’s about a boy who wants to marry a girl, but her daddy says no. I tell her that when she’s old enough to date, the boy will have to come to me and ask my permission. I say if the boy is not respectful and polite, I won’t allow him to take her on a date. Faith shrugged and replied, “Well, what about a sleepover?”

Faith was having trouble sleeping one evening and walks out of her bedroom and says, “Daddy, my bum bum is grumbling.”

Faith is still as contrary and headstrong as ever. The other evening, I was reading the kids’ nightly books before bedtime.

The drill is, they get to pick one book each, which I read while they have their milk. The person whose book I’m reading gets to sit on my lap. On this particular evening, I finish Faith’s book, but she refuses to get off of my lap. She protests until Colin gives in and says she can stay on my lap through his book. I don’t think this is fair to Colin, so I tell her that the next evening, Colin will get to stay on my lap for both books. The next evening, at book time, Faith jumps into my lap. I say, “Faith, remember last night when I said that Colin gets my lap for both books tonight?”

She replies, “Yes, I remember Daddy, but I didn’t agree to it.”

One night as I’m tucking the kids into their beds (they still sleep in the same room, with bunk beds), Faith looks up at me and says, “Daddy, sometimes my bum bum has bumps on it.”

Colin immediately chimes in, “Mine too, Daddy—two bumps of awesomeness!” Okay, I doubt I thought about how my bum bum looked at eight years old, but apparently, my son thinks his is awesome.

I take a lot of pride in the fact that I’ve taught our kids to ride a bike and swim. When we were living in the condo, it was always quite a production to get them down to the pool. I would have two bags full of pool gear—towels, sunscreen, goggles, toys, 109

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scuba tanks, spear guns, you get the point. The one bathroom attached to the office was often locked, so I would make the kiddos go pee-pee before we left our place.

One afternoon, I come home from work to find the kids standing at the door suited up and ready to go. Katie is not a fan of the pool, so this is Daddy’s department. After squeezing past them through the door, I start loading all the swim gear. Last order of business, I ask them to go potty. They both swear they don’t need to, so off we go!

Once there, I grab our chairs, spread out towels, and start lathering them up in sunscreen. Low and behold, Colin announces, “Daddy, I have to go pee-pee!”

“I just asked you before we left!” I remind him.

“I didn’t have to go then,” he casually replies.

I instruct him to come closer and whisper to him, “Just go in the pool.”

He seemed a little too excited as he answered, “Really?”

“Yes,” I say.

As I continue to put enough sunscreen on Faith to protect her from the sun, she starts laughing hysterically and announces, “Look at Colin!”

Sure enough, when I turn around, I see Colin standing next to the pool with his trunks pulled down, peeing INTO the pool!

I glance across the pool and see a couple gathering their things, staring at Colin in disgust.

“What are you doing?” I asked. He giggles and replies, “You said to pee in the pool!”

Yep, this boy definitely has hillbilly blood in him.

So far, I’ve been able to take the kids to their first day, and last day of school, each year. This past week, Faith was finishing preschool, and next year she will be in elementary, along with Colin. As we pulled in, I said, “Faith, you’ve got to stop growing up so fast. Can you promise me you will stop?”

Faith replies, “I can’t do that Daddy, I still have my birthday party this Sunday.”

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healthy to unplug and get in touch with nature. On a recent excursion, Colin and I were hiking near our campground when he spots a pimped-out RV and he asks, “Daddy, do those have TVs?” “Yes, but I believe that defeats the purpose of camping,” I say.

“When I was a kid, we didn’t have cellphones or internet. We had to entertain ourselves with our imagination.”

He answered defensively, “That’s not MY fault,” as if to say, “Hey, old man, why should I suffer because your primitive generation didn’t have the brain development to create all this cool stuff? Now hand me your iPhone!”

At least a couple of times a week, the kiddos and I jump on our bikes and head out through the neighborhood. We have a lot of large trees in our area with giant roots that have grown under the sidewalks and cause larger bumps in the pavement. When they spot a good one, they pick up their speed and shout, “Sweet jump!” before going airborne. #proudpoppa One day, Faith was uncharacteristically sweet and obedient.

It was obvious she was sick, so Katie decided to keep her home from school. While having lunch with her, I asked what she missed most about not going to school. She answered, “Colin.”

(Just thought I would add a quick, sweet moment to show she’s not Looney Tunes all the time.)

It was Katie’s birthday, so I took my girls to lunch. Faith says, “Daddy, do you know how to ask for more ice in Spanish?”

I answered no, so she says, “Mice.”

Okay, I’ll have to try that. There goes the restaurant’s “A” rating.

On the way to school, Colin asked how did mommy know that Faith wasn’t feeling well? Katie answered, “Remember last night when Daddy was reading to you and she didn’t interrupt?

That’s how I know.” Colin smiled. He got it.

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One afternoon while eating some fro-yo, Faith says, “Daddy, that boy keeps staring at me.”

I ask, “Is that bad?”

“Yes,” she says, “it’s one of the Commandments.”

Colin has a collection of his favorite NBA action figures strategically positioned on a court. I noticed that he had his Bruce Lee action figure in the game with them. I sarcastically say, “I didn’t know Bruce Lee played basketball.”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Yes, but he fouls a lot.”

Colin and Faith were sitting next to each other watching TV when Faith turns her head and sneezes right in Colin’s face.

Disgusted, he yells, “Mommy, Faith just bless-you’ed all over me”!

Our daughter is like that drunken friend you’re always apologizing for. I mean, who toots in Christmas Mass... on purpose?

I occasionally will allow the kiddos to have a piece of gum in my car on the condition they are careful. I open the car door to get Faith out one day and notice a piece of chewed-up gum on the carpet. I immediately banned her from having any gum in my car for 30 days. Every day afterward, we would get in my car and the first words out of her mouth would be, “Daddy, can I have gum?”

I would answer “No” and let her know how many days were remaining.

On the 31st day, we get into my car and I beat her to the punch with, “Hey Faith, guess what today is? Gum day!” She was ecstatic as I unwrapped a fresh piece of Trident bubble gum and handed it back to her. We had the music pumping, so I didn’t notice she was unusually quiet on the ride.

When we arrived, she innocently tells me, “Daddy, I dropped my gum.”

What? How could this happen? I had very carefully handed it to her and she never mentioned dropping it. I ask her where, and she points to a tiny rectangular hole in her car seat, about the 112

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same size as the gum. I quiz her, “You’re telling me your gum fell out of your mouth and went exactly through that one?”

She sheepishly answers, “I think so.” After further inspection, I see the piece of gum inside her car seat is unchewed. When I handed her the gum, she must’ve looked down and noticed the amazing similarity in shape and size between the gum and the hole and had to test for herself. I couldn’t believe that this kid begged me for 30 straight days for gum, and within seconds, violates her probation. This would be like a prisoner serving his time, gets released, and walks out into the parking lot and hotwires a car.

Colin told Faith that Eddie Van Halen was the best guitar player in the world, but Faith said, “Daddy is better!” I had to confess that Eddie is slightly more skilled than I. Thanks for having my back, kiddo, but even Eddie Munster was probably a better guitar player than me.

Watching TV one evening, David Hasselhoff comes on the screen. Colin says, “Hey, I took a picture with him before. I also knocked on his door and annoyed him. I hassled the Hoff!”

When Colin was a year old, I saw David at the market and asked him to take a pic with Colin. A few months ago, I picked Colin up at a friend’s house. He tells me that Hasselhoff lives next door, so the boys went over and knocked. I asked why he did that. Colin said, “I wanted to see if he remembered me. He didn’t answer, but I could hear him inside.” I suggested next time taking David some Jack Daniel’s® and a cheeseburger. Someday he will stumble upon the Youtube video and get my reference. Some of my jokes are time delayed.

Warning my son about the dangers of the undertow in the ocean today, I say, “Be very careful; the undertow can even take the best swimmers down!”

My son: “Even David Hasselhoff?”

Proof that my kiddos are smarter than me…

Colin: “Daddy, what body part do you use the most?”

Me: “Probably my hands.”

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Colin: “What about your eyes?”

Faith: “Or your brain?”

I feel like I’ve been set up.

Colin was surprised one evening to learn I don’t care for the Beatles. “Daddy, I thought you liked the Beatles! I bought a Beatles book at the book fair with my own money because I thought you liked them.” I felt so bad I gave him money to buy a book about a true musical genius, The King.

Walking through the crowd of inebriated dudes at the Grand National Roadster Show, Colin looks up to me and says, “Daddy, football games and car shows are just bad words waiting to happen.”

Colin rushes into the living room one evening and proudly announces, “Daddy, I’m so proud of myself!”

I’m thinking he made ten free throws, finished his homework, or helped his mommy with a chore. I curiously ask, “What did you do, Buddy?”

“I learned how to do armpit toots!” I must admit, this warmed my heart a little.

Returning home after a dirty hike, I tell the kids they must shower. This announcement is usually followed by an argument over who will go first. To try to prevent this, I suggest, “How about ladies first?”

Faith, ever the contrary, replies, “Who’s the lady, you?”

One evening we were trying to watch a movie, but Faith was being crazy, so I gave her my phone to play games. I find out a few minutes later, she discovered how to do emojis of herself setting her toots on fire and proceeds to send them to people in my contacts.

I can’t blame the kiddos for all of their mishaps. One morning, as we were about to leave for church, I was trying to chug down my last bit of black coffee. It was Mother’s Day, so Faith was wearing a beautiful white and very expensive cashmere sweater.

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The sweater was a gift from one of my clients, so mommy had been saving it for a special occasion.

While waiting for mommy to finish up, Faith says, “Hey, Daddy, can I try a sip of your coffee?”

Now, any rational parent would’ve said, “Of course not!” I, of course, am not rational, so I answered, “Yes.” I decided to get my phone and take a video of Faith tasting coffee for the first time in her life. I warned her she probably would not like it and made her promise she would not spit it out.

She promised me she would not.

I hit record and very carefully placed the cup to her mouth.

Immediately after taking a good-sized drink, her face contorted, she opened her mouth, and the black coffee proceeded to drip all over the front of her white cashmere sweater. In my memory, this is the second everything goes into slow motion as I shout, “Nooooo!”

Of course, this alarms Katie, who steps into the room. A look of horror came over her face as she shouts, “What are you doing?”

Like a little kid being chastised, I tried to plead my case, “But she promised not to spit it out!”

This lame excuse only adds fuel to the fire as she yells, “She’s only three years old! Why would you give her coffee?” I was thinking, Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but luckily, I kept this thought to myself. Katie just looks at me in disgust and asks, “What is wrong with you?”

Well, My Love, I think a lot of people would like to know the answer to that question. In my defense, it takes one to marry one.

(This was another thought I kept to myself.)

Faith recently lost another tooth. Maybe the next time I tell her to clean her room, she will listen. (just kidding) As I’m tucking her into bed, anticipating the Tooth Fairy, I remind her to go to sleep quickly. She looks up and says, “Daddy, what if I’m just pretending to sleep and I see you put five dollars under my pillow?”

I answer, “What if the Tooth Fairy knows you’re faking and only gives you two dollars instead of five?” She quickly closed her eyes.

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Faith keeps mentioning that she has several boy friends in her class. We correct her and say, “No, you have boys in your class who are friends.”

She rolls her eyes and replies, “That’s what my teacher always says.”

Example of how polar-opposite our kids are…

After waking up one morning, Collin says, “Daddy, I had a dream I was talking to Jesus last night.”

Faith chimed in, “I had a dream last night, too. I had a dream I was talking to my boyfriend, Andrew.”

Unfortunately, we had a break-in in our garage on a recent Sunday afternoon. As usual, we had 90 places to be that day, so after church, soccer, and cheerleading, we ran home for a quick change before heading back out.

I had pulled the car into the garage, which is detached from our house, and in my haste, forgot to close the door behind me.

Katie brought this to my attention after she entered the garage ahead of me as we were leaving. She also noticed my hatchback was partially opened. This was not good. I immediately had a bad feeling. The kids loaded in the car as I was surveyed the situation. Sure enough, we had been violated! On this beautiful, peaceful afternoon, some lowlife rummaged through my car and stole my property. This included bullets, an ammo bag, and a hunting knife. These were all items Katie had recently given me for my birthday. Katie was not a happy camper. As a matter of fact, she was too upset to go to the party, jumped out of the car, and stormed back into the house. Now I was really pissed— someone’s gotta pay.

I was about to go Medieval on somebody’s ass. I immediately had thoughts of binding the perp up with duct tape, pouring honey all over him, and dropping his ass off in the desert. Maybe this thought was hindsight, but either way, I sped down the alley looking for the perp. I should’ve let the kiddos out of the car first, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. I was ranting and raving while trying to watch my language. The kiddos seemed excited to be my posse as we set out to catch the bad guy. Colin even 116

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seized the opportunity and asked, “Hey, Daddy, can we call the bad guy stupid?”

It’s a word we usually don’t let them use, but I made an exception and answered, “Yes, you can say a bad word this one time.”

Fortunately, and unfortunately, I did not catch the bad guy.

After driving around the neighborhood, I decided to let the real cops handle it. Just as I was pulling back into the garage, Faith blurts out, “Fart!”

In shock, I turned and asked her, “Why would you say that?

You know you’re not allowed to say that word!”

In true Faith-style, she answered, “You said we could say a bad word.”

All I could do was laugh. She just pulled this word out, like an ace up her sleeve she’d been saving since she could speak. She pled her case by adding, “Maybe the bad guy likes farts.”

I answered, “Yes, he probably does.” By this time, the three of us were cracking up and pouring more gas into the situation.

“The bad guy’s breath smells like farts,” “The bad guy eats poop for breakfast,” and so on.

I go in and convince Katie to join us for the BBQ. Although she had taken a week off from drinking Chardonnay, today was going to be an exception. “Chardonnay, take her away!”

I text our friend and inform him that we are running a few minutes late, without further details. My plan was, once we arrived, I would discreetly pull him aside and fill him in.

However, as soon as we walk in, Faith announces to everyone, “We were robbed!”

I’m only surprised she didn’t follow that up with, “And the bad guy loves farts!”

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21 Happy Tears I’ve shared plenty of examples of my kiddos acting cray-cray, so for this chapter, I thought I’d add a few sweet ones. However, never to disappoint, we’ll wrap it up with some classic toot stories.

So, Colin is officially growing up. He’s now missing both front teeth. I’m happy to report that it’s not from abusing crystal meth.

Although, if he were in the LA Unified School system, that could A girl’s got to take care of herself be a possibility. I pulled them out the old-school way—dental floss and a doorknob. I hope to not incriminate myself by putting this in print in case some snowflake decides to call Children’s Services.

This boy is really jamming in school. Must be Mommy’s genes? He was recently promoted to a level 3 reading level. Not exactly sure what that means, but it’s probably close to where I was when I graduated from high school. It’s a bittersweet feeling at night when it’s time for books, and now the kiddos will choose a book to read to ME. The other day he found a copy of my first book, The Trans Am Dairies, in my car and started reading it out loud. I had to pull 118

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over and take it away from him. He asked when he can read it, and I answered, “When you’re 25.” I’m raising these kiddos on the “Do As I Say, Not As I Did” program. It’s very interesting to see how their little personalities are developing. Faith is still a lovable lunatic. Waking up at 3:00 a.m., trying to have a conversation with her brother, who’s in the top bunk trying to sleep, yelling in frustration because he won’t answer her.

Colin has become a gentle giant. Now when we have our nightly wrestle-mania matches, I’m the one who usually bleeds.

However, he’s a very kind heart. He’ll usually get me a band-aid after the bloodshed.

We pulled up to our new home a couple of weeks ago, and Katie looks up right before we exit our car and saw a huge hawk sitting on the branch right over our sidewalk. As we take a closer look, we notice that he was holding a large dead squirrel in one of his talons. It’s like he was saying, “That’s right, this is my yard!

Which one of you bitch-ass squirrels are going to be next?” Katie and I knew this grotesque sight of the animal food chain would not faze Faith at all. As a matter of fact, it delights her. However, as soon as Colin looks up, he starts crying and pleading, “Why can’t the hawk be a vegetarian?”

The only dilemma we’ve encountered with his good nature is that little punk ass bullies seem to really be threatened by the fact he is well-liked and kind.

We had a situation a couple of years ago with a little disruptive brat on his soccer team, whom I’ll refer to as A-wad. Luckily for the kid and his parents, I wasn’t there. Apparently, Colin and A-wad started arguing when the boy spits in Colin’s face and then punched him. Colin was more shocked and saddened than hurt.

This particular boy is usually accompanied by his grandmother because, as the mom told Katie via email, she and her husband are both too busy to always be there. The mom would usually show up late to games and then yell at the coach when she felt her son wasn’t getting enough playing time. I had a talk with Colin that night and asked him why he didn’t hit the kid back.

He answered sadly, “I thought I would go to jail.” I wanted to say, “Not only will you NOT go to jail, but I will buy you a Hot Wheels 5-pack! “ 119

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Apparently, I’ve matured just a little because instead, I told him, “Listen, Mommy and Daddy love that you are kind and thoughtful, but think of yourself as a superhero. If a bully is trying to hurt someone, you have to put a stop to it and teach him a lesson. What if this bully, or another one, hurts your sister?” (Not that we have to worry about his sister taking care of herself, but still, he got the message.)

The next morning, Katie was nervous about dropping Colin off at school. There are very strict rules about the drop-off procedure at our school. The procession of cars pulls up to the designated area, where an aide will open the doors for the kids to quickly jump out. If a parent gets out of their car, the crossing guards are instructed to shoot them with their taser gun. Keep it moving, mommies! Sometimes if the parents arrive too early (Katie), the gate into school will still be locked. In which case, an aide will wait with the kids. As Katie was about to let him out of the car, she noticed only one other kid at the gate was A-wad.

Katie pointed this out to Colin and told him she would park the car and stay with him until school starts. Colin answered, “No, Mommy, I’m fine!’ He jumped out of the car and sprinted up the sidewalk.

Katie worried all day as any loving mother would. When she picked up Colin that afternoon, the first question was the same one she asks every day: “How was your day, Honey?”

He usually answers the way most red-blooded boys do: “Fine.”

The next question, and the one she anticipated most: “Did you play with A-wad?”

Colin answered in his usual upbeat manner, “No, Mommy, I spanked his bum bum for being naughty.”

I was so proud when she told me this. I only wish I could’ve seen the little brat’s face when Colin ran up and surprised him with a few hard swats to his hind end. Way to put the smackdown, my man!

Colin had another run-in at school with A-wad at school this year. This time it ended very differently. While Colin and his buddies were laughing and joking around during recess, A-wad 120

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and crony tried to interfere. After being called names that my mama would’ve washed my mouth out with soap for, Colin tries to walk away. A-wad decides to give Colin a hard shove in the back. Colin spun around, slammed A-wad down, and followed up with some ground and pound. I believe my buddy, Jason “Mayhem” Miller, would qualify this as a Bully Beatdown. I hope Colin enjoyed his Hot Wheels 5-pack.

This dude also has an amazing ability to forgive. Our kids have a bench on their school’s playground called The Buddy Bench. When a kid is feeling lonely or sad, he is encouraged to go sit on the bench. Other kids are encouraged to talk to the kid and invite him to play. About a month after this incident, Colin came home from school, and Mommy started in with the third degree: “What did you do at school? Who did you play with?”

To Katie’s surprise, Colin said that he saw A-wad sitting on the Buddy Bench and invited him to play handball. This is another quality he must’ve inherited from Katie. In Kentucky, we hold grudges for generations to come. Do the Hatfields and McCoys ring a bell?

Here’s another example of just how my son is a better human than I… Upon arriving at a recent soccer game, Colin’s coach tells us the other team is short of players. We would have to forfeit the game unless one of our players can volunteer to play goalie for the other team. Colin volunteered. My first thought was, why goalie? That’s going to be a very difficult choice to make, blocking the ball against one of your own teammates, or allow the ball to go in and score for your team.

I’m not sure if Colin actually thought this out before he quickly raised his hand. There were only a few minutes left on the clock, so my fingers were crossed that none of Colin’s teammates would get within scoring distance. Unfortunately, Colin’s best friend, Jake, got possession and was charging toward the goal. I was stressed as I wondered how he would handle it. Jake fired a nice kick, but I thought Colin was on top of it. Colin took a slight step to his right as the ball rolled past to score the winning goal.

(Technically, we aren’t supposed to keep score, but of course, we do.)

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After the game, I asked Colin if he let the ball go in, and he admitted he had. On the ride home, as he stared sadly out the window, he asked, “Was that the hardest decision I ever had to make?”

Sweet, but I was thinking to myself, No, buddy, there will be others, such as, Do I buy new wheels for the Trans Am, or do I pay the mortgage?

Hypothetical, of course.

Again Daddy

I recently had the opportunity to perform in a charity event where the emcee was actor Jason Ritter, son of John. I loved “Three’s Company” as a kid. I dreamed of someday coming to California and having a few brews at the Regal Beagle. I would watch and practice John, AKA- Jack Tripper’s pratfalls. I have a video of Colin Spencer Garret, Jason Ritter, at around 2-years-old, where I’m Peri Gilpin saying goodbye before I pretend to run face-first into the door. It’s the bit John does in the opening sequence of the show. In our video, Colin is cracking up laughing and saying, “Again, Daddy.” He actually didn’t speak sentences until around three. I’m sure my hillbilly DNA had something to do with this. As he got older, I would, and still do, perform similar stunts for him and Faith. No matter how funny it is the first, second, and third time, I still get “Again, Daddy!” I’m glad comedy club audiences don’t do that, “Hey, that joke was funny.

Say it again!”

Another evening I was doing my cardio, meaning I was chasing him through the house. I cut the corner of the hallway too short and caught my little toe. You could hear it snap from across the room. I let out a yelp and went down. When I looked up, I saw Colin also on the floor, except he was doubled over, laughing. All he could say was, “Again, Daddy!”

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I introduced myself to Jason at the charity event and told him how much I admired his dad. I told him about the video of Colin and how he and Faith always say, “Again, Daddy” when I do his dad’s schtick.

He gave a warm smile and said, “There were a lot of ‘Again, Daddy’ moments in our house, growing up.”

Two Juice Box Minimum It makes me proud to see Colin in his little Cub Scouts uniform. It brings me back to when I was a Cub Scout. I remember how embarrassed I was because I was the only one without a uniform. My mom was working her butt off to feed her brood, but we certainly didn’t have any scratch left over for a luxury item like a Cub Scout uniform. However, I came from school one afternoon to discover a full uniform, perfectly laid out on my bed. My grandparents had hooked me up. I was so excited, I wore it to school the next day. Chicks dig a man in uniform.

On a Monday evening recently, Colin and I were rushing out the door to get to his meeting when I noticed a package at the door. He was decked out in his uniform and ready to roll. I saw it was from my mom, so I ripped it open quickly to discover it was my Cub Scout vest, fully equipped with the patches I had earned for exploring, camping, catching a greased pig. (I think they make up challenges to accommodate the area that you’re from.) The vest was a hideous bright yellow and made of cheap polyester.

I asked Colin to put the vest on, so I could snap a picture. My mom had saved my vest for forty years for this moment. The poor little guy looked like the long-lost member of the Village People. I quickly got the shot and promised he’d never have to put it on again except as punishment.

At each weekly meeting, one of the Scout dads is required to do a presentation. It was Super Bowl Sunday, so after a full day of entertaining family and friends, I was wiped out. I decided to briefly scan my emails before turning in. There was one from the Cub Scout troop with details on the next night’s meeting.

These messages usually contain standard info, but this one had something that caught my attention— “Steve Dupin will be 123

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doing a presentation tomorrow night on communication.” Say wha? No, my brain is fried! I have to get up at 5:00 a.m.! I have no time to put together a presentation! The more I thought about it, the more I knew I had to step it up and not let my little man down. I had an idea. I don’t know a lot, but I know a lot about a little. Comedy is a form of communication, and I know comedy.

After Colin and I arrive at the meeting, I take each kid aside and instruct them to pull two jokes I had cut into strips. I didn’t allow them to read the jokes right away.

When every scout had two, I read over the jokes with them. I coached them on their delivery and timing.

When the Scout Master called me up, I immediately welcomed everyone to Comedy Club 320 (the troop number). I told the audience (parents) that we were gonna bring the funny, but first, I wanted to talk to the boys about communication.

Now take that vest up before Hey, I’m no Wolf of Wall Street, but someone sees you I am the Hillbilly of Hollywood. I told them that to be successful in the world, you must know how to communicate. Look the person in the eye when speaking to them, project, and be confident. I said, “Smile at your enemy, but always have a plan to kill them.” Oh, wait, that was General “Mad Dog” Mattis. I’ll save that one for my next presentation—Cub Scout Fight Club.

I told the scouts that the number one fear among people is public speaking. I had all of the parents in the audience back me up on this fact. I said, “Stand-up comedy is one of the hardest professions a person can choose.” I asked the grownups if any of them had ever tried stand-up comedy. They all replied, “Hell, no!” Actually, it was a resounding, “No.” I assured the little dudes we were going to show the grownups it’s no big deal. I told them the most important rule is having 124

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the ability to laugh at yourself. “Hey,” I told them, “If a jokes bombs make fun of how bad it was.” This is a very valuable lesson.

If a bully is teasing you, the ability to laugh at yourself takes away his power. (It also gives you a chance to run while he’s standing in confusion). Damn, I wish someone had taught me this when I was their age.

I warmed up the audience with a little smack talk and reminded the parents there was a two-juice box minimum. “If these boys don’t make you laugh, I’ll refund your cover charge!” I brought the boys up to a round of applause. I told them they could use their real names or silly stage names. The boys didn’t disappoint. They chose names like Wiggle Pants, Strong Man, and, my I don’t know where they get it? personal favorite, Mr. Poop. I asked if anyone wanted to go first. In stand-up, we call this “taking the bullet.” To my surprise, Colin volunteered. Not only that, but he also insisted on writing his own jokes.

I proudly gave the introduction to kick this party off: “Give it up for our first comic tonight, the rock star of the next comedy generation, Colin D!” I’m sure I was applauding the loudest.

He took the mic and delivered his two original zingers with confidence: “What did the alien say to the cow? Welcome to the mooooon!”

“What is a bunny’s favorite type of music? Hip Hop!” Bam! Pretty strong, Buddy. I could’ve used him to write my material during my first five years in the biz. All the boys did a great job that night. I think the parents also overcame one of their greatest fears— allowing a hillbilly to supervise their kids.

I don’t get the chance to take Colin to karate class very often, so one night when I did, he asked if I would stick around and watch? As he walked in, he was immediately approached by an overzealous kid, who challenged him. Colin looked over to see 125

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if I was watching. I nodded approvingly, thinking sweep the leg, Cobra Kai style! Colin and the boy move to the mat, where Colin grabs the kid and throws him to the ground! As soon as Colin helps the kid back to his feet, the boy shouts, “Never give up,” and proceeds to find a weaker opponent.

I like your style, kid, but you just got served! I decided against berating Colin for not finishing him.

Faith Faith’s energy is boundless, but when she gets an idea in her head, she hones in on it and gets obsessed. I have awakened many mornings to her barking orders at me, like, “Daddy, I need you to cut a triangle and two birds’ feet,” as she hands me art paper and scissors. No further directions. To stop and explain details would slow her down. Can’t I just read her mind and understand that she is making a life-size bird woman costume? Duh, Daddy! On one such morning, I was given orders to cut eight strips of paper, a circle, and unclog the Elmer’s glue. No matter how many times I remind her to screw on the cap, it’s left open. Again, this would only slow her down. To see her intensity when she is working on a project reminds me of the scene in the movie “Pollock” when the artist is entranced and slinging paint on the canvas. When we finished, I finally had the courage to question the artist on what this piece was. She informed me it was going to hang in her bed and turn “like that thing in baby cribs.” She said she painted pictures on each of the eight squares of things that she liked—her family, her bike, Jesus, etc. She had made a dream mobile.

Katie’s sister and her kids were recently visiting from Michigan. We had them over for a BBQ, along with Katie’s other sister and her kids. Faith was in cousin heaven. As everyone was preparing to leave, Faith asked everyone to stick around for a surprise. She was busying around at Faith pace, not giving any clues to her plan. She was cutting, coloring, and removing items from the kitchen. Finally, she instructs all of the cousins to line up facing the dining room table, youngest to oldest. She handed them each a ticket she had made and gave further instructions: When it came to their turn, Faith would hand them each a 126

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Ziploc® bag and a pair of tongs. On the table, Faith had poured all of her Halloween candy into a large bowl. She told her cousins this was like the arcade game with the claw where you try to grab a prize. Except in her game, everyone was a winner. Each cousin got two tries with the tongs to grab as much candy as they could.

At the very least, I would think she would’ve picked out the primo candy: Snickers, Reese’s, etc., but no, it was the whole booty. If one of my sisters tried to jack one of my Snickers, they would be missing a finger.

Faith was smiling ear-to-ear, seeing how excited she made the cousins. This really didn’t surprise me. I’ve seen this girl give her entire allowance to church. To be such a little stinker, she sure has a heart of gold.

Faith prides herself on her toots and belches. I have honestly never met another little girl as gassy as this one. She loves to announce her flatulence, just in case you missed it. She can be in another room playing and happily call out, “Daddy, I tooted two times!” She likes to tell me it’s her secret weapon to use on bad guys.

We were in church one Sunday when during a quiet portion of the mass, I hear what sounds like a duck call followed by, “I tooted!” Father forgive her, for she knows what she has done.

Today was Katie’s turn to carpool, so as Katie was driving home the crew of kiddos, Faith tells her, “Mommy, I tooted really loud in class today!”

After hearing this, her little male classmate who was in the car says, “I was wondering who did that.”

Later that evening, Faith tells me the same story. I asked her if she announced to the class that it was her, and she tells me, “No, I was silent and looked around like someone else did it.”

Apparently, she’s testing the waters on how to react to this new environment. I believe I gave her pretty solid advice, which is when she drops the bomb in the future, to look appalled and point to the classmate sitting next to her.

Reminds me of a little incident from my sophomore year of high school. Our high school was shaped like a four-leaf clover.

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out of money on the building budget, or maybe the designers couldn’t figure out how to build walls to separate the classrooms because many had chalkboards on wheels dividing them.

It was S.A.T. testing day, so the powers that be decided to remove the chalkboards to create one large room. This way, the teachers could scan the students more effectively to deter cheating. Most of my classmates took these tests seriously, for good reason. I, on the other hand, had no plans for college and little respect for anyone with authority. The way I saw it, my only responsibility was to entertain my peers. In a stressful situation such as this, my classmates needed me more than ever.

The teacher in charge of testing, I’ll call The General, was an intimidating character. The General was a burly, bearded man in his mid-fifties who taught social studies. His M.O was to pace back in front of the classroom, tugging at his belt as he lectured. He had a voice that could wake the dead, which he used effectively to keep us little delinquents alert. As The General firmly explained the rules, other teachers cruised the aisles, instilling fear into the hearts of the nervous teens. “You will not talk to anyone while taking the test, or you will be removed and receive zero! If you are caught looking at someone’s test, you will be removed, taken outside and shot….and receive a zero!” I paraphrase.

I couldn’t take it anymore. After his next line of orders, I seized the break of silence, leaned slightly to my left, lifted my right leg with the precision of a master craftsman, and released the loudest, bellowing gas explosion ever heard in the history of Apollo High School. Those concrete cinder-block rounded walls provided the perfect acoustics for my noise pollution. The entire classroom erupted in laughter. I wish I could’ve captured the look of disgust on The General’s face. I threw him off his game!

He was furious and demanded to know who had dared to make a mockery of this situation! As the students tried to compose themselves, most turned to look at me..

The General gave a look that said I wish I could remove this belt and beat you to death with the buckle. I, of course, kept a stoic look on my face. Frustrated, The General ordered everyone to get to work as he sat at his desk. Mission accomplished.

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Once again, “You’re welcome, classmates.” Now, normally, I’m not a fan of this type of cheap laugh, but desperate times call desperate measures. I’m pretty certain I know where my daughter gets her potty humor from, but I would never admit it. I do and will continue to blame Katie’s family genes for that one. (wink!)

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22 Kid Karma My nephew, Eric, is quite the brainiac. Not only is he the first one in my immediate family to finish college, but this dude went on to get his Master’s degree and now is studying for his Doctorate in biology. I suppose it’s possible he could’ve excelled if he had spent more time with Uncle Stevie, but it’s more of a possibility he would be pushing a broom. Before having my own, I had no experience with kids, so when my sister came to visit back in the early 90s, Eric got a different kind of education.

Case in point: I decided to take the Kentucky tourists to a popular 50s themed restaurant. This was one of those whacky places where the wait staff act and dress in character. (Think of the restaurant where John Travolta and Uma Thurman danced in the film “Pulp Fiction.”)

A few minutes after we arrive, my sister notices my nephew needs to go to the restroom and suggests I take him. Apparently, she thought this would be some sort of male bonding. (I thought only women go to the bathroom at the same time.) My immediate thought was, if this kid has to do number two, he’s on his own.

Besides, I can barely wipe myself. My sister is an outstanding mother and prided herself on her little man’s great manners. As we’re walking to the bathroom, I asked him, “Do you need to take a whiz or drop the kids off at the pool?” Once I explained to him what that meant, he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. (I’m just warming up, kid.) He answered he only 130

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needed to pee. “Are you sure you don’t need to bake a cake?” I asked. The little dude was cracking up. Uncle Stevie was on a roll.

I may have to get him a fake I.D. and bring him to see my act.

As we returned, he announced loud enough for others to hear, “Hey, Mommy, I did number one. I didn’t have to drop the kids off at the pool!” My sis and bro-in-law were genuinely disgusted. I think their plan for bonding time with Uncle Stevie may have backfired.

When the waitress came over to our table to take the order, she was in full sassy, gum-smacking, beehive hair-rocking, poodle skirt-wearing mold. (Think Rizzo from “Grease.”)

“Well, ain’t that the sweetest lookin’ little angel I ever laid eyes on?” she cooed to Eric. “What will it be, Sugarplum?” Before Angel Face could answer, I whispered some advice.

He looked up at her, smiling from ear to ear, and answered, “I’ll take a cheeseburger and some fries to go with that shake,” as he pointed to her booty. He and I cracked up laughing and fistbumping. My sister and brother-in-law, not so much. If that were to happen today, this waitress would hold a press conference with Gloria Allred and sue my three-year-old nephew. My brotherin-law used to say it would take him 30 days to deprogram my nephew after a visit with Uncle Stevie.

My sister was, and is, very protective of her baby boy. During the time of this visit, my nephew was really into the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Their first movie had just come out, so they were all abuzz. My nephew couldn’t get enough of the mutant freaks.

What happened to the good old days when kids had idols like Evel Knievel? You put on a cape and jump some trash cans on your bike. Harmless child’s play.

It just so happens the Turtles were receiving their footprints, pawprints, or whatever the hell a turtle has, at the famous Mann’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. Eric was overjoyed as the four of us headed down there to try to catch a glimpse.

It was, of course, a mob scene with TV cameras, paparazzi, and freaks everywhere. We were stuck behind the crowd of lookieloos, who didn’t seem to care that they were obstructing the view of the TMNT’s biggest fan. This was unacceptable.

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My sister was clutching my nephew protectively when I spun around and snatched him from her arms. I pushed my way to the front of the line and yelled, “Hey, Leonardo,” to the Turtle standing closest to the velvet rope. I really “Hey turtle, I’m gonna need that kid didn’t know which one it back” was, but he turned to me.

Before he could react, I was handing Eric over the velvet ropes to him. What was he going to do, drop the kid in front of all those cameras? My sister had a panic-stricken look on her face as I turned to her and said, “Here’s your Kodak moment!” (Back in the day, before cell phones, this meant, “Take the damn picture, now!”) To this day, she has an awesome picture of Leonardo (?) holding her little man on her desk. And by the way, Eric still refers to going pee-pee as “taking a whiz.”

Corrupting my niece and nephew was all fun and games, but now I believe karma has come back to bite me in the ass.

I think we have established by now that our daughter is a piece of work. A couple of weeks ago, the kids and I were at some friends’ house for a reception to celebrate their daughter’s first communion. They have a pool, so the kids were all swimming while the parents were drinking and enjoying themselves.

However, Faith needs to be constantly entertained, so she kept begging for me to get in the pool. I tried to protest. “Faith, Daddy needs to talk to grown-ups.”

Undeterred, she replies, “Daddy, I’m not going to stop asking until you get in the pool with me.”

After about the twenty-seventh time of asking, I finally gave in. As I was walking to put my bag on a chair, she looks at me, and in the tone of a 35-year-old says, “What the hell is that?”

I stopped in disbelief and asked, “What did you say?”

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She casually repeated it again, the exact same way, “What the hell is that?” while pointing to the bag, as if to say, “Did I stutter?”

I was a little embarrassed, glancing around to see if any other parents heard this little delinquent. “Hey, that’s a bad word. Who taught you that?” I asked.

She very confidently answered, “Hammy.” Now, Hammy is the name of our “Elf on the Shelf.” For the three people in this world who are not familiar with this holiday craze that has taken over the past decade, “The Elf on a Shelf ” is a little stuffed toy that comes with a storybook. The story explains the Elf now belongs to you. You adopt him, give him a name, and each night while the children are sleeping, he flies back to Santa to let him know who’s been naughty or nice. The following morning, when the children wake up, he’s magically on a shelf. The children aren’t allowed to touch him, or he will lose his magical powers.

We adopted our Elf the year Faith was born and allowed Colin to name him. Colin only said about three words until he was two years old, with one of the words being his obsession, ham.

Therefore, when we asked him what he would like to name his Elf, he replied, “Hammy.”

Now back to our little delinquent. I asked her again, “Who taught you that word?”

She looked at me, as cool as a cucumber, and stuck to her story. “Hammy,” she said. About this time, Colin got curious and came over to ask what was going on. I told him Faith had said a bad word and what the word was. This is just another day in our life with Faith. Colin is quite used to this by now, but still gets amused as he chuckles and rolls his eyes. Faith took offense at this and began to defend her story. “Colin, you weren’t even there!” she shouts. “It was in our bedroom, and he whispered it to me! It was a secret!” Now her little criminal mind has even created an alibi. We have told our kids if any of their friends have bad behavior, or say naughty words, they won’t be allowed to play with them. This little smooth criminal even has the street creed down, “don’t snitch!”

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Okay, I can’t tell her that the “Elf on the Shelf ” isn’t real because, of course, he is. So, I tried another tactic. “Faith,” I say, “it looks like I have no choice but to report Hammy to Santa. He will probably be sent off to the Island of Misfit Toys. I thought this would rattle her, but not a peep. Since I didn’t have a rebuttal for Faith, I had to let this one slide. It looks like she got me... again! However, I never did tell her what the hell was in the bag.

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23 White Men Can’t Float I have a motto that I’m constantly reminding Katie of, “Why do anything cool if no one is watching?” I attribute this to the show-off gene that I inherited from my dad.

After Katie and I tied the knot, we took off on our honeymoon to an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. Of course, “all-inclusive” meant I had to do every single activity I had paid for in order to get my money’s worth. One of the activities included was a rock-climbing wall, which Katie had no interest in. I remember scaling the death-defying wall with the speed and agility of Spider-Man. When I reached the top, I was sure my new bride would be beaming with pride with her brave groom. I paused to look down, but no Katie. I scanned the property and saw her enjoying a fresh omelet while reading the paper. I yelled, “Hey, Katie!” to which she glanced up and gave me a polite thumbs up.

“Another mimosa, please?”

We also decided to take a bus trip up the Blue Mountains and ride bikes all the way down. Along the road was a waterfall.

Our guide gave us permission to swim in the cold water if we dared. Of course, I took it a step further and was the first to climb the rocks to the top and execute a perfect Tarzan dive from the top of the falls. At least, that’s how I remember. Katie seems to remember more of an awkward belly flop, holding my nose.

One of the activities I was really looking forward to was snorkeling, which included a boat ride out to beautiful coral reefs. I’ve never actually seen real coral reefs, but I believe my Uncle Ricky may have smoked some.

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We were booked for 10 days, and since this was day 8, time was running out. We scheduled our excursion for the next morning, although my head was foggy from all the fruity drinks I had the night before (drinks I wouldn’t be caught dead ordering in LA).

Since everything was pre-paid, I would get adventurous when ordering drinks. “Hey, my trunks are blue. Can you make me a drink that matches? Hey, why does my drink taste like Windex?”

We jumped out of bed on the 9th day and headed for the boat. I really wanted to make the most out of this adventure, so I stopped by the gift shop and purchased a disposable underwater camera. This was going to be an epic show-off opportunity. We boarded the boat with other eager lovebirds and set sail. Although it was a beautiful Jamaica morning, the waters were choppy. The 14 Mai-Tais in my tummy were starting to capsize.

After a rough 15 minutes, we arrived at the designated spot. The captain anchored while a member of the crew gave us some boring safety tips. The most important boring one was a warning about today’s water conditions. “Hey, mon, de wa-tors are berry rough today, please everyone, be careful, mon!” He advised everyone to wear a safety vest. Yada yada yada. As he was yammering on about safety precautions, I was staring at my watch, estimating how much this speech was costing me? He finally finished with a “Have fun and be safe, mon!” Yeah, mon, now step aside and let the hillbilly Michael Phelps show you how’s it’s done! Of course, I chose not to wear the safety vest and dove right in. Katie slowly came in behind me, wearing her vest.

Treading water, I slipped on my mask and began to swim around, admiring the beautiful aquatic world below. My first thought was, Wow, the body really tires quickly in these rough conditions. It had only been a few minutes, but I was beginning to fatigue. I should’ve hydrated this morning. This is the point where I should’ve swum back to the boat to get a vest, but that wouldn’t look very manly to my hot bride. In the meantime, Katie is leisurely floating effortlessly, enjoying the beautiful coral below. I make my way over to her and hand her the camera. If my Kodak moment doesn’t come soon, I’m going down like a Kardashian in an NBA locker room. Although I’m breathless, I 136

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play it off. “Hey babe, I’m going to swim down to the coral. Wait until I’m all the way down there before you take the shot.” This is going to be so cool. We had already been together five years, so she’s been in similar situations with me before. She rolls her eyes and takes the camera.

She managed to snap a few pictures, looking down from above the reefs below, before I spot the ultimate area for my money shot. I give her the signal, and down I go. I swam toward the reef, which only seemed to get further away. Wow, the clear waters really throw off the depth perception. I glance up to give her an “almost there” look while I keep swimming. I can feel the last night’s booze rising in my throat. Finally, I reach the sacred reef and, without a second to spare, I give the signal. “All right, start snapping, Katie!”

I decided to try a few different poses, one thumb up, two thumbs up, and a “Holy shit, I’m dying and about to throw up.”

A strange thing happens when you’re underwater and out of oxygen. Your body involuntarily wants to gasp for air, even though your brain knows that’s a bad idea. Okay, I hope she got the shot because I’m about to be shark bait. I swim as quickly as I can up toward Katie. I remember learning about brain embolisms while living in Florida. That happens when divers ascend too quickly. I also learned not to swim in rough waters, but the Mai-Tais must’ve caused amnesia. My head emerged out of the water, gasping for air. I open my mouth as wide as I can, just as a wave rushes over my head, causing me to go under. I try again, but the same thing happened. On the third attempt, I had no choice but to reach out and grab hold of Katie. I clutch onto her with a death grip as my eyes pleaded with her to save me. It was pathetic, really.

Apparently, there is a weight limit on those life vests because I was pulling her under with me. Honeymoon or not, Katie believes women and children don’t go down with the ship, or dipshit, and she kicked me hard right in the chest! What was going through my mind was that I couldn’t believe I was about to drown on our Honeymoon. What was going through Katie’s mind must’ve been, Do I have to return the wedding gifts? I swear 137

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I heard the boat crew laugh as they smoked a spiff and pumped Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song.”

Somehow, I managed to get myself back on the boat, with no help from my bride. What did I learn from this stunt? Make my wife wear a life vest with a bigger weight limit.

This story reminds me of a joke: “What’s the last thing a redneck says before he dies?” Answer: “Hey, hold my beer and watch this!”

“Hold my Mai-Tai” also works.

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24 Holy Water When you decide to marry a Catholic girl, there are many hoops one must jump through before you get to the alter. It was a lot simpler in my family. If your partner gets along with your mama, and you’re not related, you’re good to go!

About five minutes after I hope the priest isn’t verifying that baptism date Katie said yes, she whipped out a manifesto containing about 640 steps we had to follow before we could walk down the aisle. A few of these included: A) Find a nice church, B) Lockdown a priest who believes you two may actually make it, C) Go to the church and take a test. (Yes, you read that correctly—a test.) For those of you unfamiliar with this protocol, like I was, this came as quite a shock.

Katie and I decide on a beautiful church in Beverly Hills where members of the Rat Pack attended. She had me at Dean Martin. We contact the priest, who instructs us before we can proceed, we need to take The Catholic Marriage Test.

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that way, so we show up at church a couple of weeks later, on our designated test day. We are greeted by a no-nonsense nun who hands us our tests. She instructs us that we will be in separate rooms. I joke, “How am I supposed to cheat that way?” She didn’t crack a smile as she led us away. (Note to self: Never do a comedy show for nuns).

I’m starting to think that maybe they did a background check on me, and this is all a set-up. The nun instructs us to bring the tests back to her when we finish. She says it usually takes about 45 minutes. She reminds us of the importance of answering each question truthfully. The multiple-choice test consists of questions on issues that may arise during the marriage—Will your children be raised Catholic? Will faith be an important part of your marriage? Do you put the toilet paper roll on facing up or down?

I have a fool-proof system for multiple-choice tests—three “yes,” two “no’s,” one “all of the above,” reverse, repeat. Boom!

I was done in about ten minutes! I started to get restless, so I decided to get some fresh air. When the nun came in the room to find it empty, she must’ve assumed I had second thoughts and left town. She was surprised to find me on the sidewalk doing lunges. Sorry, Sister, got to keep my buns looking good for my hot bride-to-be.

The Sister brings us back into her office and explains the test will be put into a computer to determine our compatibility and the areas where we need work. I imagine a primitive computer with a love meter on the top. The meter, of course, goes all the way to burning hot after computing our tests and spits out a report that simply says, “Get a room!”

The Sister explains the results will be sent over to a Catholic marriage counselor, whom we will meet with and discuss. In addition to the test, we are required to take a marital counseling course. I wanted to ask if we would be receiving extra credit for that, but for once, I used my better judgment. Some of these classes can go on for months. Luckily, Katie found one that was only four hours on a Saturday and Sunday. An express lane marriage course. We signed up and cruised right through it.

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As expected, when we meet with the marriage counselor to review our test, she had a lot of questions. (Mostly, for me).

I began to question my fool-proof testing system. Well, it had been a while. Maybe I was just a bit rusty? She informed us that judging by our answers, we would need additional counseling.

I was confused. What could possibly be the problem? Katie has laughed at my jokes, she liked classic rock and never complained when I drove with the t-tops off the Trans Am. Apparently, there were grown-up issues that need to be addressed. Boring. The doctor wasn’t going to let me slide, but when we returned, I was ready for her. Every time she would ask about one of my test answers, I would say, “That was my answer? Oh, I must’ve been nervous. I couldn’t think clearly. I meant to answer the opposite of that.” What could she do? I was an honest and God-fearing man answering the best I could. I also had my fingers crossed behind my back.

After jumping through all the hoops, we were almost homefree. The only glitch was the warning we had received about the Priest at our Rat Pack Cathedral. We were told he could be difficult, to say the least. After a few phone conversations with him, we found out exactly what she was talking about. We didn’t think this would really be a problem since we were planning to bring in our own priest to officiate.

All went well with the rehearsal at the church. Afterward, we invited all of the out-of-town guests to dinner, which Katie and I hosted. This was the first time most of our family were meeting.

Everyone was having a great time. It looked like the meshing of the LA Irish and the Kentucky Hillbillies was going to make a great partnership. As we were laughing and enjoying dinner, my phone rings and I notice it’s the priest from the church. I’m thinking he must be calling to wish us luck, so I answered in an upbeat voice, “Hi, Father.” To my surprise, he sounded angry. I didn’t even know that priests got angry.

“Steve, this is Father _____. I’m here in my office, and I don’t see any record of your baptism. I cannot allow you to get married in my church tomorrow.”

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I was stunned as I listened to him continue to rant. I could not believe what I was hearing. This priest had months to go over our paperwork, and he waits until the night before our wedding to call it off. Instead of acting on my first thought, which was to head to Vegas, I ask him to speak to our priest, who is at the dinner with us. I grab Katie and the three of us head into a side room, away from the commotion. Our priest was frantically trying to convince him the wedding must go on. “Father, this a couple in love,” he pleaded. “Their family and guests are all here to celebrate this beautiful union.” Finally, the church priest has Katie and I get on speakerphone and pray. This was unusual to say the least, under the circumstances. As people mingled by, “Hey Stevie, can I get you anything?”

Yes, I’ll take another vodka. Make it a double!

Sorry, Father, where were we?

Following the prayer, the priest reluctantly agreed to allow us to have the ceremony on one condition—my mom and a witness would have to come to his rectory immediately to sign a sworn document that I was baptized. My mother, who is the most honest person on the planet, was in a panic. Since I wouldn’t allow her jackass of a husband to attend our wedding, she brought her friend, Charlotte, as her guest. My mama is more concerned about others more than herself. She made sure Charlotte was included in all family activities this trip. Out of all of our family and friends here, she chose Charlotte to accompany her to visit the priest.

My mom was very reluctant to go to the church because she couldn’t remember the date of my baptism. I assured that it was August 16, 1977. When she asked how I could be so sure, I answered, “I’m not, but that’s the day that Elvis died.” I gave her a convincing wink. She still wasn’t convinced, so I may have guilted her by saying, “Mom, if you don’t do this, we will be forced to elope. Our children will have no faith in their life. Our daughter will probably end up a stripper, and our son a meth head, and it will be all your fault.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

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The poor lady thought she was going to be struck by lightning for lying to a priest. Since this trip was my mom’s first time on an airplane, of course, she didn’t have a rental car. We had to get Katie’s uncle to drive her (and Charlotte) over to the church. The next day, the wedding went off without a hitch, and the priest was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was hungover from too much holy water. In any case, to this day, I’m not positive Katie and I are legally married.

I recently watched the DVD of our wedding. Right in the middle of my heartfelt speech, my mom pipes up, “And Charlotte’s here. Say hi to Charlotte!” So, if you’re reading this, I know my mama would want me to give you a shout-out. Here ya go-- “Hi, Charlotte!”

Believe it or not, I was actually baptized. Although, unlike Colin, who has lots of rigorous religious studies before his first communion, it was a pretty spontaneous decision. One evening while riding in the backseat of our neighbor’s car, this nut job starts asking me questions about my conviction. Religious teachings were pretty relaxed in our home. We believed in God, but we did not attend church regularly. My mom pretty much just taught us the basics—don’t steal, don’t cheat, don’t punch your siblings with a closed fist—that type of stuff. This dude was working himself in such a fever, Jimmy Swaggart would have been impressed. Finally, he pulls the car over, looks back at me, and asked if I’m ready to take Jesus as my personal savior. He said Jesus was coming back, very soon, possibly even the next day. He said my soul needed to be saved, or I would be left behind. He said I would burn in Hell with the rest of the heathens. I don’t want to be burned in Hell! I cry when my mom even threatens to spank me. Dude, sign me up! Now, can we get back on the road? “The Dukes of Hazzard” comes on in twenty minutes. This hillbilly prophet sure had the fire in him, but more than likely, it was the 80 proof kind.

The next thing I know, I’m in church being called up in front of the congregation. I slipped a white robe over my clothes and stepped into the tank of water. The preacher, who several years later would be involved in a sex scandal, put his hand behind my 143

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head, said a few words, and dunked me. It was official—I was a pure and cleansed young boy. Unfortunately, there was no party following the ceremony— no cake, cash, not even a Hot Wheels.

The next couple of days, I rode my bike looking down on my heathen friends. I would ride by and shake my head in disgust, for I knew their dirty secrets. My friend, Chris Willis, had a stash of Playboys. Billy Ray Clark would steal his dad’s cigarettes and smoke them in a nearby field. I was surrounded by degenerates.

Poor little bastards had no idea they would be facing hellfire and damnation any day now.

I would awake, comb my hair to look fresh, and wait. And wait some more. About a week after my baptism, I was riding my bike barefoot, returning from the community swimming pool. Just as I was about to pop a wheelie, my foot slipped off the pedal, scraping my big toe on the concrete. Agonizing in pain, I yelled, “Son of a bitch!” Terrified and stunned, I stopped in my tracks. I was certain I was about to be struck down by lightning at any second. To my surprise, nothing happened. I went home to nurse my banged-up toe and re-evaluate the situation. I did miss getting into trouble with my friends. Maybe God wouldn’t mind if I lusted just a little after Daisy Duke. Or dropped the occasional F-bomb. I took my rolled-up Farrah Fawcett poster out of my closet and re-hung it on my wall. Within a week, I was back to my role as the hillbilly Tom Sawyer. I also decided I no longer needed a babysitter. My mom agreed. I was only ten years old, and I’ve been babysitting myself and dropping F-bombs ever since.

Now that I’m married and have two offspring of my own, I totally get the premarital precautions. Until Katie and I were actually married, I was introduced by her mother as her friend.

At every family function, I was the designated photographer. You can look back at any holiday gathering during the first five years we were married and I will not be in one picture. Someday I plan to PhotoShop myself into these pics, wearing leather pants and throwing up devil horns.

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a matter of fact, if my daughter ever has her fiancé stay over, he’ll be sleeping in a tent in the backyard.

It felt very strange after Katie and I were married and slept at her parents.’ I so badly wanted to come out of the room blearyeyed, yawning, and say, “Woo-wee! So sorry if we kept you up last night! Man, I sure could use a strong cup of coffee right now!”

I chickened out after I imagined Katie’s dad saying, “Susan, can you get that priest on the phone? I want to discuss the date of Steve’s baptism with him.”

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25 Hillbilly in Hawaii In the early 2000s, I had the opportunity to go to Honolulu to perform for a week. I had never been to Hawaii, so I was pretty fired up to check it out. The comic that I went with was Orny Adams, who had just had a documentary film out called “Comedian” with Jerry Seinfeld. The documentary follows Jerry as he steps back onto the comedy stage after his hiatus. Orny is the hot, upcoming comic that Jerry’s manager takes on as his new client. I asked Orny if Jerry was supportive of him and if he offered any advice. Orny told me this story…

One afternoon Jerry took him to see his extensive Porsche collection. He had recently purchased a building in New York just to store them. Orny said the two of them stood admiring these beautiful works of art when Jerry turns to him and asks, “If you could have any one of these, which one would it be?” Orny said the question left him stunned. Was Jerry going to give him a vintage Porsche? Maybe this was a right of passage? A “Welcome to the club, kid” gift?

Orny stared in confusion and asked, “What do you mean?”

Jerry asked again, “If you HAD to pick just one?”

Orny said he paused for a moment before answering. He didn’t want to seem greedy in this situation, but then again, each of the cars was worth a fortune. Orny pointed to a ‘63 Speedster and answered, “That one.”

Without looking at him, Jerry casually nodded his head, says, “Good choice,” then turns and walks away.

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Was Jerry playing head games with this young buck, or was he just curious about his tastes in fine sports cars? Only Jerry knows.

I heard Jerry in an interview recently say that he really doesn’t like to meet people. Might explain this next story.

I’ve only met Jerry once. It was back in the early 90s when I was just starting out in stand-up. There was a bookstore in Los Angeles called Book Star. Although I was new to stand-up, I had convinced the manager to let me put together a comedy night there. On our first night, we were nearing the end of the show when I look up and see Jerry and comedian George Wallace standing in the back watching the comics. Jerry seemed to be hanging back to avoid attention, but George was all smiles and even seemed to enjoy my joke to the audience that our headliners had arrived. In my mind, I was thinking, Holy shit! George Wallace and Jerry Seinfeld caught wind of my show and came back to check out the competition! (I’ve always had delusions of grandeur.) The show was wrapping up, so as soon as I got off stage, I approached the two comedy legends. George was very friendly and approachable. I believe he wished me luck but told me not to quit my day job. (Wink.) I was feeling pretty good about myself as I turned to introduce myself to Jerry. I smiled and held out my hand to shake and said, “Hi, Jerry, my name is Stevie D., so great to meet you.”

Although Jerry is a great joke crafter, I wasn’t a huge fan. I was a DJ through his “Seinfeld” years, so I missed out on the craze. I joked to Jerry I was the genius behind the show and I would try to get him on in the future. Meanwhile, my hand was still suspended in mid-air. He left me hanging! He finally looks at my hand, reluctantly shakes it and forces a half-smile. I was embarrassed and pissed. I was just dissed by Jerry Seinfeld. A couple of the other comedians were close behind, saw he wasn’t in the mood and walked away. My fragile ego was crushed. I vowed revenge on this comedy legend.

I got my chance about six months later while driving down Beverly Boulevard in Los Angeles. I was on my way to the gym when I glance over to see Jerry and his then-girlfriend, Shoshanna 147

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Lonstein, walking down the sidewalk. I quickly pulled close to the curb, which got their attention, and shouted, “Hey, Shoshanna!

Looking good! Call me!” As I sped away, I glanced back in my rearview mirror and saw a confused look on Jerry’s face. I only hope this obnoxious greeting caused some conversation after I drove away. The thought of Jerry confronting Shoshanna with his famous line, “Who are these people?” brought me joy. I know this was sounds childish, but no one has ever accused comics of being mature.

Several years later, I was working as a personal trainer while still doing stand-up at night. One of my clients, Elizabeth, was a publicist to the stars. Among her clients was Larry David, the co-creator of “Seinfeld.” The entertainment business pretty much shuts down during the month of December. Many of my clients were in show biz, so I would start to wind down until January. It’s pretty customary for clients to give their trainers a bonus of some sort, preferably the legal tender kind. The gift had better be nice, or the upcoming year would be filled with a relentless training program of squats and burpees.

I was training Elizabeth for the final time before she took off for the holidays when it dawned on her that she had not given me anything. I may have dropped a subtle hint like, “Hey, woman, where’s my damn Christmas gift?”

I can’t quite remember, but in any case, she said, “Hey, I forgot to give you a gift. Are you going to be home this afternoon? I will have my assistant bring it by.”

Well, of course, I can make it possible to be home. For some reason, the thought of her assistant bringing it by, instead of her cutting me a check right then, made me think it was going to be something extra special. Cha-ching!

That afternoon I waited for my gift, as giddy as the dad from “The Christmas Story” expecting his “very special” award. Finally, the doorbell rang. I opened to find a delivery man making his rounds, probably from A-holes that had forgotten their clients.

I handed him a five-dollar bill and slammed the door before he could get out, “Merry Chris…!”

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The package was large, thin, and rectangular. I thought to myself, What could it possibly be? The golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory? A Hugo Boss suit? No, I bet it’s one of those giant checks like they give away to Publisher’s Clearing House winners!

Like a kid on Christmas morning, I ripped off the wrapping paper at lightning speed. I was stunned to discover that my Christmas bonus was… an autographed poster of Jerry Seinfeld.

WTF? Wow! Talk about not knowing your audience. In my mind, this was like buying a person with no legs a pair of shoes.

I had no intention of hanging up the poster of Jerry. However, if it were Shoshanna, I would’ve considered it.

I recycled the gift and gave it to my brother-in-law, who’s a big Seinfeld fan. “Who are these people that don’t know how to give an appropriate gift?”

The following year I tortured my client as promised. I think she finally moved to New York just to get away from me.

Okay, before we get back to our regularly scheduled program, here’s another Seinfeld-related story…

Sometime around the year 2000, my sister, Donna, came out to visit me. In my stand-up act, I would explain how Donna was the man of the house when we were growing up. I referred to her as a “Butch Marsha Brady” (all in love, of course).

Donna is a live-wire, like my daughter, with an energy level that is always on 11. Add alcohol and it’s 111. I had a weekly Friday night show at the Comedy Store in Hollywood. After doing my bit about her, I mentioned to the crowd Donna was in the audience. Instead of a subtle acknowledgment, Donna stands and starts waving for an awkward amount of time. Finally, I had to say, “Hey, Meryl Streep, it’s not the Academy Awards. Sit your ass down!” We had plans after the show to go across the street and hit the SKY Bar, but since I was hosting the show, I had to stay until the end. It was going to be a long night.

As I exited the stage, I noticed Michael Richards, a.k.a.

“Kramer,” sitting off to the side. He was alone and unassuming.

You could tell by his body language he did not want to be disturbed. I later found out he was there to watch a female comic 149

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he was dating. “A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do.”— John Wayne.

About halfway through the evening, I’m back in the green room when I hear a loud, familiar voice over the crowd.

You guessed it—Donna. I quickly rush out to the audience to see Donna standing over Michael, enthusiastically shouting, “Hey, you’re Kramer!” This commotion You will always be Kramer to is starting to get the attention Donna of the others in the audience. I immediately intercept and offer an apology, trying to diffuse the situation. My sister is elated to share with me and the rest of the room, “Hey, this is Kramer!”

He was very gracious as he looked at her and softly said, “Hi, I’m Michael.”

Donna let out a maniacal laugh and says, “You’re Kramer!

You’ll always be Kramer!” She then pushes it further and shouts, “I need to get a picture with Kramer!” Of course, this was before cell phones, so she stumbles her way back to retrieve her camera out of her purse, causing more of a disturbance. I expected him to seize this opportunity to escape, but he waited patiently for the boozed-up Marsha Brady to return. To make matters worse, she handed me the camera to get the shot. I took the pic and escorted Donna to the green room, where she could be in the company of other crazy people—the comedians. I’m grateful Michael didn’t blow a fuse and start calling everyone the n-word like he would do a few years later at The Laugh Factory. Although, I could’ve used the publicity.

Now back to the Orny story. In the movie “Comedian,” he comes across as an insecure, neurotic narcissist. Well, hips don’t lie, and neither does the camera. No, actually, he’s not a bad guy, but some comics are not as jolly as they appear on stage. He falls into this category.

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appearance. Orny and I made our rounds at the local stations to riff with the jocks and talk about the upcoming shows. Usually, the jocks have done a little homework as to who you are, but the comic shouldn’t count on it. It can be annoying to give your resume during an interview. I usually just make stuff up. How did I get into comedy? Well, I originally had dreams of becoming an Olympic swimmer. You see, I was born with six toes, probably from all of the in-breeding in Kentucky. Anyway, this gave me an advantage, but I was disqualified during try-outs.

Orny was not amused when two Hawaiian jocks weren’t familiar with his body of work. They hit a few bullet points on both of our careers. I actually didn’t have what could be considered a lucrative “career.” Case in point: They asked about a Pauley Shore movie I was in that was coming out. (My part was actually cut. Case dismissed). They knew a few tidbits about Orny, but apparently not enough to feed his ego. After about the third question, Orny says, “Jesus, didn’t you guys even see the movie?” When the jocks confessed that they had not, Orny spent the remainder of the interview in silence. He would nod his answer when asked a question. “So, Orny, you and Stevie are both based out of LA, right?” (DJ to his audience: “Orny is nodding yes.”) This tantrum was fine with me because it gave me more talk time, although I doubt we will ever be invited back on that show.

Since it was my first trip to visit this beautiful place, I had many plans. I thought we would get a rental car, cruise around the island, look for spots where Elvis hung out, find the cave where the Brady Bunch found the cursed statue, etc. However, Orny wanted to wallow in his misery on the beach, reviewing his sets over and over. I finally talked him into going to the Pearl Harbor Memorial (which, by the way, Elvis helped pay for with a benefit concert). The tour at the S.S. Arizona is a very moving experience. At one point, while we were listening to the tour guide give a somber speech about what happened on that fateful day in 1941, Orny whispers in my ear, “Damn, this place could sure use a Starbucks!”

We had gotten to know the manager and staff of the club pretty well, so on our final day, they offered to take us over to the 151

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North Shore. In my excitement, I threw up the “hang loose” hand gesture and shouted, “Yeah, brah!” They made me promise not to do that at the North Shore.

I had heard stories about how territorial the locals were. This turned out to be true.

There were two surfer dudes there, hanging out with a girl, drinking brews, and smokin’ some Maui Wowie. The dudes kept whispering and mad dogging us. Apparently, word had spread over the island that this hillbilly was about to school them on some sweet waves.

We had only been there about five minutes and two people in our crew were already bleeding from injuries. They were just wading in the shallow water when the powerful waves knocked them down, scraping them on the razor shop coral below. One of the dudes we were with brought a couple of boogie boards, so he grabbed one and headed out to catch a wave. Never to miss an opportunity to show off (often leading to me making an ass out of myself), I followed right behind him with the other board. My friend, the club owner, was a native Hawaiian, and even he didn’t dare venture out in these dangerous conditions. This should’ve been my first clue.

I shrugged off his warnings and charged into the waves. I had played around with a boogie board a couple of times, but this was the big leagues. I was faking it best I could, watching my friend and trying to copy him, but I just wasn’t able to rip like I imagined. Damn, where are all of these monster North Shore waves that I’ve heard so much about? It was on my third attempt when I found out.

I was growing impatient when I turned around to see what must’ve been a 15-foot swell coming my way. I quickly started paddling to time it just right. As the wave began to carry me, I felt the immense power of water below. Get your cameras ready, kids, this is going to be epic! I felt my body being lifted, but something wasn’t right. I looked in the direction of my friends on the beach, who were frantically waving their hands and shouting, “Don’t take it,” but it was too late. I was teetering on the front edge of the wave when I suddenly felt it catapult me like a rag doll. I believe 152

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the locals call this “going over the falls.” The real problem was I was soaring headfirst, about to slam into the three locals who were now waist-deep in the water. I could see the terrified looks on their faces. I assume they could see mine also. I now realized why they don’t want tourists on their beaches.

As I flew over the surfers’ heads, I managed to tuck my legs under my body and slammed into the coral. It hurt like hell, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t dead. I dragged myself to the beach as my friends ran over to give me some assistance. Limping back to the car, I began to wonder if Orny didn’t have the right idea after all. That night, on stage, I told the story of how I was shredding a 15 tube before those three locals got in my way. Unfortunately, the club owner started laughing offstage, blowing my story. I also asked if anyone had seen my dad, Dog the Bounty Hunter?

It turns out I chipped a bone in my heel, but at least I had a pretty damn cool story.

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26 Don’t Worry, Be Happy I’ve come to discover women are much better planners than men. I’ve also come to discover women tend to worry a lot more than men about details. I know these aren’t revelations, but this should be included in some sort of pre-nup, heads-up course.

My wife will make plans for us months in advance, and then run them by me when I’m preoccupied doing something extremely important like watching “American Pickers.”

“Are you working June 16th?” After 13 years of marriage, I should be smart enough by now to see that this is a set-up, but, of course, I’m not.

I answer with some smart-ass response, “I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow; do you think I know what I’m doing three months from now?”

Her retort is usually something like, “Well, we’ve been invited to an 8-year-old’s birthday party. Should I RSVP?” Damn, I fell for it again. Mike and Frank have just picked a KISS pinball machine, so just to move on and get back to my program, I reply, “Sure.”

In reality, I want to go to an 8-year old’s party about as badly as I want to watch a “Keeping up With the Kardashians” marathon.

I’m proud to say I’ve never seen a single episode. However, the program has been on our television on occasion. I won’t go as far as to say Katie’s a fan because she would just deny it. I’ll just say there have been times, for some mysterious reason, that the show has been on and she’s staring at the TV. I would be sitting 154

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next to her, with headphones on, while working on my laptop.

Every time I would glance up, there would be Bruce, sitting in the backyard alone, playing with remote control toys. I would always think to myself, Yep, he’s gay. My gaydar game is strong.

Anyway, back to the eight-year-old party problems— Of course, right before the date arrives, I’m excited about something like a car show, and Katie will stop me in my tracks by saying, “What time should we leave on Saturday?”

Surprised, I ask, “You’re going to the car show with me and the kiddos?”

“No silly, we’re going to that 8-year-old’s birthday party, don’t you remember?”

Hell yes, that’s like so much more fun than drooling over some ‘67 Chevelles. Hopefully, the kid will at least have some Hot Wheels for me to play with at the party.

I don’t get back to Kentucky often, especially now that I have a family of my own on the West Coast. However, several years ago, I decided to go home and surprise my oldest sister, Sandy, for her birthday. I tried to convince Katie to go with me. Our son was just a year-and-a-half old, so I wanted my family to meet him. Katie was pregnant at the time, but that wasn’t the reason she didn’t want to go; she had convinced herself there was going to be an ice storm. I don’t believe there’s been a serious ice storm since the blizzard of ‘78, but she’s a worrier, so she had it stuck in her mind this was going to be the year. I decided I wouldn’t push her, but I made my mind up I wanted to take Colin. I was looking forward to sharing this new chapter of my life with my Kentucky peeps.

Once I bought Colin’s plane ticket, Katie had second thoughts and decided she wanted to join us. I was happy my whole gang was going. Otherwise, my people there probably would’ve thought I had made up the beautiful wife story and rented this baby for the trip. You can rent babies, right?

We arrive at the airport and stand in the security line for what seems like days. Why is it a pregnant woman can park in a special parking spot at the mall, but in the airport, she gets the same abuse as everyone else? “Hey, Fatty, get those shoes off and 155

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put them in the tray!”

“But I can’t even bend over!”

“Not my problem, Shamu, keep it moving!”

As if the TSA torture isn’t enough, Katie continues to grill me about the potential ice storm.

After finally arriving in Nashville, the first thing I notice is that it’s much colder than I anticipated. It was also beginning to snow. I kept reassuring Katie this was no big deal, just a few light flurries. Besides the ice storm, another major concern of Katie’s was where we were going to sleep. A pregnant woman needs a nice, firm, comfortable bed. I always say that a tired mommy is a grumpy mommy, but a tired and pregnant mommy is the spawn of Satan. Although I was going to surprise my sister, I had corresponded with my brother-in-law. I informed him our plan was to get a hotel room, but he wasn’t having it. He convinced me my sister would be very upset if we didn’t stay with them and even insisted we take the master bedroom.

I tried to keep Katie’s spirits up during the drive to Kentucky, but I could see she was beginning to doubt my weather prediction.

It usually takes around two hours to get to Owensboro, but the strange white substance falling from the sky was throwing off my ETA. “Hey, isn’t this snow cool?” I excitedly add, “Colin will get to throw his first snowball!” Katie didn’t respond. I text my brother-in-law, Wayne, and ask him to slow things down at the restaurant. This is the Italian chain that promises the bottomless salad, so I instructed him to put their slogan to the test. My brother-in-law texted how lucky we were that it was snowing. He couldn’t wait to take Colin and me four-wheeling. Little did he know Katie was ready to turn these four wheels around and head back to sunny LA. We finally hit the restaurant about an hour late. My brotherin-law must’ve been on his nineteenth salad. He was going to have some serious plumbing issues the next day. The average Southern diet does not normally include much salad. It consists mostly of the meat and starches cooked in bacon grease. “Food that sticks to your ribs,” my mama used to say.

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birthday party. We were led to a room located in the back of the restaurant. As we were walking, I called Sandy to tell her how sorry I was we couldn’t make it. I asked her who was there. As she was going around the room, I said, you left someone out and told her to look up. She let out a joyful scream when she saw our California crew in the house. Hey, keep in down, Sis. I may have some outstanding warrants around these parts. I don’t really want to draw too much attention. Regardless, it was great to be home. #brotheroftheyear.

A few months prior to this, I was getting the full-court press from the reunion committee of my high school graduating class.

I mentioned in my first book I had been my class president.

As they say, with great power comes great responsibility. (Like organizing future reunions.) I made a non-verbal agreement, a.k.a. mental note since I was completely out of touch with 90 percent of anyone I went to high school with, my vice president, or anyone willing to take the gig should be in charge of the reunions.

As we entered the room at the restaurant, the first person that I saw sitting to my right was a former classmate who was heading up the reunion committee. When she and the committee were trying to wrangle me to attend the reunion, I told them it wasn’t possible because of my busy Hollywood schedule. I’m sure she thought I’m still as full of B.S. as I was back in high school. It had been a long day for my family and me, and many hours past Little Dude’s bedtime. I couldn’t wait to climb into the warm, cozy bed and get a good night’s snooze.

Back at my sister’s house, I decided to take our excited little man out and play in the snow for a few minutes before we got settled. Within 15 minutes, the D.’s were in our PJs and ready to hit the hay. However, the birthday girl was still in “our” room.”

I was thinking she must’ve been turning down the bed and putting chocolates on the pillows. It was then my brother-inlaw informed me we would be sleeping in their daughter’s old room. Huh? What happened to the master bedroom? I give Katie a reassuring look that says, “No worries, Mama, I know you’re very pregnant and very tired, and it’s hours past Colin’s bedtime, but isn’t this fun?”

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As we enter our room, I immediately notice it’s missing a few items that we’re accustomed to, like a bed. Since the kids were now away at college, apparently, my sister decided to get rid of the furniture and make more room. Room for what, I thought— air? My brother-in-law acts as if everything is fine as he starts to inflate an air mattress he’s brought into the room. Okay, let’s make the best of it; we’re in Kentucky, so I’m just thankful there is indoor plumbing.

As the temperatures outside continued to drop, so did the temperature inside. Apparently, another detail that was overlooked was turning the heat on in our room. Maybe they had plans to turn this room into a deep freezer? We hadn’t slept in these types of conditions since we camped in the snow in 23 degrees. That was before Colin was born, and possibly the reason he is here today. (wink) Maybe I should gather some wood and make a campfire? To make matters worse, Colin, who was also in our room, began a nasty cough that lasted all night. When he woke in the morning, he had a full-blown cold. I was sure Katie was going to call her dad, the judge, and began divorce proceedings.

When my sister saw how sick Colin, the 3rd degree began, “Why did you take that baby out in that freezing cold?”

I tried not to get bent out of shape, but I wanted to say, “Wait, Wayne wanted to take him four-wheeling in the snow, like an episode of ‘Jackass Jr.,’ and you had us sleep in a room cold enough to freeze an Eskimo’s balls!” For once, I bit my tongue and replied, “He’ll be fine.” Katie didn’t say much. Maybe she was still thawing out. I looked out the window to see a blanket of ice covering the snow. You guessed it—an official ice storm! Wayne announced, “I haven’t seen this much snow since the Blizzard of 78!”

There is not a lot to do in my hometown, especially during an ice storm, but I was determined to get out and explore my old stomping grounds with my crew. Especially since Sandy was now on the phone telling any relative who would listen how I took Colin out in the snow and now he has pneumonia. We might as well have been midnight-sledding in our underwear by the way she made it sound.

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I decided I wanted to expose Katie and our offspring to a little hillbilly culture, so we stepped out to visit a museum downtown, or shall I say the only museum.

The first thing I noticed as we entered was that, besides a couple of employees, we were the only ones there. This area was bustling with shoppers back in the day, but it looks like business is slow in Downtown Owensboro these days. Thanks, Amazon!

Or, it could also have something to do with the fact that there is an ICE STORM! The museum had some interesting local memorabilia- a wagon from the 1800s, bourbon jugs from local distilleries, but the coolest area was a cool kids’ play area located on the top floor.

We step off the elevator into an expansive top floor equipped with a cool tubing system for kids to crawl in like human hamsters.

By the way, this was the same building my grandmother used to work in when it was a department store called S.W. Anderson’s.

This was the place where she bought my Cub Scout uniform, so it seems appropriate I would bring my little future Scout here.

Colin was so excited he ran over to an opening to the tube system. The system was about ten feet off the ground and was quite impressive. Just as I was about to boost Colin up the ladder inside the tube, I notice a sign that reads, “No kids under five.” I look around the room for the tube police, but no one is around.

Hell, there could be homeless people living in this tube and they wouldn’t notice. True to my reputation, I decided to break the rules as I hoist our little daredevil up the ladder.

Katie decided to sit and rest, so I turned to reassure her with a thumbs up it’s safe because I was going up with him. She didn’t look convinced. Before I could even turn back around, I heard Colin shoot off like a rocket, scampering away through the tube system. I spun back around to see if Katie was aware of the situation, but like a protective mama bear, she was already on her feet running toward the sound of our escaped cub. She would point to one direction, where I would run, and then she would point to the opposite direction. Damn, this little criminal is quick!

Did my sister put sweet tea in his bottle this morning? Or maybe she gave him some Kentucky moonshine to help his cold?

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I was moving in on the sounds of his little footsteps when I noticed a tube coming straight down. That was the exit. These tubes have a few levels of platforms for kids to climb down (kids five and older, that is).

Yup, that’s an ice storm alright. Blizzard of 78’ Something told me at the rate of speed he was going, this was not going to work out very well. As I approached the opening at the bottom, I heard a few thuds coming down the tube. I dove in and caught him right before he hit the ground. “That was awesome!” I shouted. Little Dude was stunned, but not injured. Luckily, he has my hard head.

I turned to Katie to get my congratulatory high-five, but mama bear grabbed her cub from me and walked away. If my memory serves me correctly, she was also calling our travel agent.

Vegas: Another Worry Story Here’s another story when I thought Katie was worrying too much, but it turns out her intentions were right... again. Maybe she should work for the Psychic Friends Network?

Katie and I decided to take a weekend trip to Vegas and brought the kiddos along for the first time. She had some old friends who were meeting us there. Katie’s parents were also going to meet us there, so we had built-in babysitters. In my old Vegas days, it was me who needed a babysitter. The weekend went off without a hitch (I didn’t get arrested), and now it was time to head back to reality.

Of course, Katie had all of the details for our drive home worked out perfectly. We would depart at exactly 6:00 p.m., the kids would get to watch one movie, then fall asleep at exactly 7:30 p.m., and they would remain sleeping for the rest of the drive home. Katie would be my copilot, meaning she would cautiously be on the lookout for any careless drivers, meteors falling from 160

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the sky, zombies walking on the freeway, etc. She was on high alert for hours, pointing to potential upcoming dangers—”Watch out, that car is swerving! Slow down, you’re speeding! Keep your eyes on the road!”

I kept trying to reassure her I made this trip many times and everything would be fine. “Relax, go to sleep, Babe,” I pleaded.

“No,” she argued, “As soon as I doze off, you’ll fall asleep and the car will roll over twenty times and burst into flames. You and the kids will be fine, but I will die, you’ll remarry a big-busted bimbo named Chanel, and the kids will have a stripper for a mommy!” I paraphrase.

That’s ridiculous, I thought. I would never marry someone named Chanel. Still, she resisted the urge to snooze for about four and a half hours until we hit Glendale, which is only about 35 minutes from our house. I was pleased to see she was beginning to relax and hopefully would enjoy at least a brief nap before we arrived home.

I was in the fast lane westbound with the hammer down when suddenly, a driver going in the opposite direction slams into the divider wall. The Toyota® FJ Cruiser almost jumped over to our side of the freeway, but came to a grinding halt, straddling the divider. The impact sent blocks of concrete hurling. A large chunk of concrete struck one car. It quickly swerved and went off the road to the right. Another chunk hit the car directly in front of us, sending it into a spin. I tried to avoid a large piece that flew in our direction, but as it hit the pavement, it crashed into the bottom of our car.

The loud impact, of course, woke Katie and the kids, who were in a panic. Through the screaming, I struggled to keep our vehicle on the road. It was a strange sight to look back and see the Toyota resting on the wall in a cloud of smoke. None of the cars were engulfed in flames, so I decided to keep on trucking. I didn’t want to throw off Katie’s ETA. Surprisingly, instead of praising my amazing NASCAR® skills, I was blamed for the rest way home for this freak accident. As bad of an earful as I got, it paled it in comparison to the one the driver in the Toyota must’ve gotten. I bet he told his wife he swerved to avoid a zombie walking on the freeway.

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27 Lightning Rod They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I say that’s a good outlook, but add vodka and it’s even better. I’m just kidding— I don’t like lemons (rim shot). But seriously, many great things have come as a result of my cancer.

First, I’ll hit you with some highlights from the book tour.

My first stop was the Southern Festival of Books in Bowling Green, Kentucky, which was co-sponsored by Western Kentucky University (WKU). Ironically, this was the college where I was enrolled, but never showed up. As I’ve mentioned, I cut out of Kentucky two weeks after high school and never looked back.

The festival was surreal. Many of my relatives came, and some got to see me speak on a panel, where I got choked up when I spoke of my wife and kiddos. Don’t tell anyone this, but this also happens when I read a card from them, see them perform in a school play, or think of my career I gave up for them. (Kidding.)

Okay, they’ve got me, hook, line, and sinker.

I left Kentucky on a highway to hell and returned feeling like I was on the highway to heaven. I was quickly brought back down to earth when a socially awkward, frumpily dressed female approached my signing booth. (Think middle-aged, single woman with at least 7 cats). She immediately let me know she was familiar with my story. “So, you’ve met a lot of celebrities,” she said. “Yeah, I guess I have,” I replied.

“You’ve been on TV,” she continued.

I answered each question patiently. I was thinking to myself, 162

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“Damn, woman, please let me know when I’ve passed this test, so I can sign your book and move on.”

Finally, after ten minutes of interrogation, the cat lady says, “Well, you don’t look too bad for your age.” She then turns and walks away without even buying a book.

Another interesting moment took place in Cincinnati, Ohio, where I was scheduled to appear at the Books by the Banks Festival. I had been traveling all day and was completely wiped out. I finally made it to my hotel room at about 1:30 in the morning. I hit the sheets and grabbed the remote. The second I turn on the television, I see Katie, Colin, Faith, and myself staring back at me. Damn, I was so tired I thought I was hallucinating!

After hanging on this shot for a few seconds, the camera goes back to Deborah Norville, who is talking in front of a live studio audience. It takes me a second to realize this is the infomercial Katie shot for a skincare line. I took this as a reminder to stay outta trouble because Big Mama is watching. (Clarification: She’s not big at all. She’s actually tall, lean, and super foxy. Let’s move on....)

I was getting a lot of attention on the book, which led to being chosen as a spokesperson for two of the leading prostate cancer organizations—the Prostate Cancer Foundation (PCF) and Us TOO. It was a great honor, but I hoped they knew what they were getting themselves into. I’m not exactly known for having a filter on my mouth. (Hmm, wonder where my daughter gets it?)

The PCF had big plans on how to utilize me. Their goal was to encourage younger men to get PSA blood tests and raise money for the organization. The average age of men with prostate cancer is 72. I was about 30 years younger than that when Hillbilly in Times Square diagnosed.

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The PCF kicked off their campaign by placing an ad on the ginormous jumbo screen at Times Square in New York, using my picture. I’m not sure if my mug inspired men to get checked, but I’ve been told it did scare rats out of town.

The biggest event I did with the PCF was a full-scale national press day. They spent months and lots of money planning tons of TV and radio interviews, which took place remotely from a studio in Hollywood. At my side was the CEO and lead surgeon of the PCF, Dr. Jonathan Simons.

This dude has hundreds of scientists under him, and I can’t even spell stethoscope (without using Spell Check, like I did here). It was like a Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis routine. He was the cool smart one (Martin) and I was the goofball (Lewis), continually making inappropriate jokes. Surprisingly Dr. Simons had read my book and really enjoyed it. He told me my writing reminded him of Hemingway. I thanked him and said, “Well, I don’t know anything about fighting bulls, but I have been cowtipping.” What he didn’t realize was that he was now doing what my teachers warned other students not to do—encourage me.

Dr. Simons thought I was funny, so the way I saw it, I had a prescription to act insane.

I noticed when we would go to a live radio interview, Dr. Simons would use hand gestures, pointing to this crotch area as he explained the scientific research breakthroughs of prostate cancer. Since the interviewer wasn’t able to see us, I, of course, would bring this to their attention. “Hey, you should see Dr. Simons here, he’s pointing right at this junk!” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the producers in the control room shaking their heads and throwing up their arms in frustration. This made me happy.

In all fairness, I often use the same hand gestures in everyday conversation. This went on for the duration of the day. A producer would periodically come out and ask me to tone it down. I would apologize and continue to be silly. This year, actor/comedian Chris Tucker stepped into my role as spokesperson. I found it ironic they went from a hillbilly who can barely speak English to someone whose most famous line is “Can you understand the words coming outta my mouth?”

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I’ll wrap things up with a story of one of the coolest experiences I had during my prostate party—meeting Dr. Drew Pinsky, host of numerous TV and radio shows. As it turns out, Dr. Drew is on the Board of Directors of the Prostate Cancer Foundation.

I was invited to come on Dr. Drew’s podcast to “For a good time, call!” talk about my book and share my story. This was a huge opportunity, but I anticipated the good doctor wanted to talk mostly about cancer. I’m all for spreading the good word, but I’ve been busting my butt for too many years not to take advantage of this chance to bring the funny. As you probably know, Dr. Drew has worked closely with Adam Carolla for many years. I remember something Adam once said when he was a guest on “The Tonight Show.” He was complaining about how when a guest comes on his show, but then is reluctant to talk.

He said the guest is there for one damn reason—he has a responsibility to entertain. I told myself, “Don’t let the Aceman down. Give em the ol’ razzle dazzle!” (I sometimes speak to myself in 30s Vaudeville jargon for motivation.) I actually use a quote from Adam in a chapter of Trans Am Diaries. Adam said that every man has a good fight story. I use this as a setup for a funny-ass kicking story that happened to me on Sunset Boulevard.

Dr. Drew actually records his show in Carolla Digital Studios, so I took Adam my book. I signed it, “Sorry, I never sent a royalty check for the quote. Put it on my tab, I’m sure it will happen again.”

My wife, Katie, is a big fan of Dr. Drew. Her admiration goes way back to his MTV 165

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“Loveline” days, but her favorite is “16 and Pregnant,” or “16, Inbred and Pregnant,” as I call it. Unfortunately, our son was sick, so Katie wasn’t able to accompany me to the studio. I admire Dr. Drew, but I’m more of an Adam guy. I can relate to his “middle finger to authority” attitude. Needless to say, I’m pretty stoked as I pull up to his nondescript studio in Burbank. I pass a rock band leaving as I’m walking up. How do I know they are a band?

They are all wearing black, custom-distressed jeans, tons of hair products, and they have a little peon manager following behind them, critiquing their answers—”Hey, guys, don’t mention that you have girlfriends next time. And can you try to sound less happy?”

Two things come to my mind— A) “It’s a Sunday morning, why are you dressed like you’re headlining Coachella?” and B) “It’s a radio show; no one can see you.”

Anyway, I’m about to rock this joint, so I can’t get distracted by these posers. As I enter the studio, I see a few dudes wandering around and introduce myself. One is the producer, who instructs me that Drew is moments away. No worries, I decide to make myself at home by cruising around the studio. This place is my jam! The walls are filled with cool memorabilia, including a giant Evel Knievel poster and even Paul Newman’s race car. I could stay here a week! I was contemplating hiding in Paul’s car when I remembered I had a radio show to do.

Five minutes before the show is scheduled to air, the producer approaches and gives the phone number to post on my social media for call-in questions. Just as I sit to post, Dr. Drew comes through the door. He seems rushed (I guess a man with 400 jobs would be). I can’t look too excited, so I continue what I’m doing.

The producer explains I am posting the call-in number. I say, “Excuse me, just finishing up.”

I maintain my poker face, but Dr. Drew quickly shakes my hand and says, “Let’s do it!” and starts to walk away. I follow behind like a puppy.

Well played, sir!

Dr. Drew was very personable, but he was ready to get down to business. As soon as we enter the studio, I try to break the ice 166

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by asking him questions like, “how was the traffic? Do you live close by, boxers or briefs?” You know, normal small talk.

He tells me he wants to save that for the show and points to my chair. As soon as I put on my headphones, he tells the producers behind the glass, “Let’s go.” Okay, so much for getting to know each other. As Adam says, “Let’s get it on!”

When guests come on my show (“The Stevie D Show”), we ask them to arrive thirty minutes early. This is so my producer can verify all of their info, but most importantly, I like to shoot the breeze to get them to let their guard down. I’m familiar enough with the rapport between Drew and Adam to know that Drew is the straight man (old showbiz term for the serious one in a comedy duo). I was more than ready to be the silly one in this situation, even if we were going to talk about cancer. In my opinion, Cancer needs to get a sense of humor anyway.

The way intros usually work—The host greets the audience, bringing them up to speed with what’s going on in his life, reads the guest’s credits, and then introduces them.

Bam, showtime!

After the usual opening pleasantries, Dr. Drew tells his listeners about me— “He’s a stand-up comedian, who has written an award-winning book, The Trans Am Diaries.” And then I see his eyes light up as he goes into my next credit off the screen— ”And wow, this is pretty amazing! He was struck by lightning while playing golf on Father’s Day. Let’s talk about that.”

I start to panic. He’s looking at me with excitement. Shit, how did this interview get derailed already and we’ve only been on the air for 30 seconds? The first rule of any improv comedy class is when doing a scene, always agree with the other person, or the scene comes to a screeching halt (i.e., “Hey, Joe, I hear you’ve got hemorrhoids!”

“Hell yes, Ted, it feels like someone is hitting my bunghole with a blowtorch!”)

However, I cannot tell a lie (unless it keeps me out of jail). I confess I was not struck by lightning. Dr. Drew seems confused.

He asks the producer where he got this story. The producer says 167

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it was in my bio on the Internet. I go on to explain I write about playing golf with Eddie Van Halen in my book, but nothing about lightning.

Maybe my publicist embellished the story?

The producer starts scrambling to save his job. In the meantime, I try to bail both of our asses out by saying, “Hey man, that’s a good story. I think I will keep it. Yes, I was playing golf with Eddie Van Halen and lightning struck me in the penis, causing my prostate cancer!” Dr. Drew laughs and decides to move on.

Although he tries his best to keep the interview more on the serious side, I continue to be silly and sidetrack us. I felt like he was a boxer, keeping his guard up and moving methodically, and I was just waiting to get in jabs and cheap shots. Stick and move, baby! I recount the story of the first time I went to get my prostate checked, and how I was relieved I didn’t see the doctor’s hands on my shoulders while I was being probed. He reluctantly laughs and shakes his head. There is no stopping me. Sorry, Dr. Drew!

We discuss people’s curiosity about how our plumbing works after surgery. Many people are surprised to learn that even though men have had a prostatectomy and can no longer ejaculate, they can still have orgasms. Dr. Drew says Adam Carolla says a ghost comes out. I find this hilarious. I always knew Adam and I have a similar, twisted sense of humor. I tell people that fairy dust now comes out of my magic wand.

Finally, Dr. Drew decides to take a few calls. Maybe these people will ask some intelligent questions. The callers do ask great questions, but I still answer like a 12-year-old.

Caller: “Stevie, I enjoyed your book and your DVD, ‘Rockstars of Comedy.’ What are you working on now?”

Me: “Thank you, well, I’m trying to finish up book number two, and I recently starting dabbling in gay porn. But then again, who hasn’t, right?”

The caller plays along: “Cool, where can we find it?”

Me: “I believe it will be on Spank-a-Vision.”

As our interview comes to a close, Dr. Drew plugs the Prostate Cancer Foundation and invites me to come on another podcast 168

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that he hosts. Okay, I guess we make a good comedy duo after all. I always look for a take-away in every situation. In this case, it was “Believe in yourself, trust your instincts, and don’t take things too seriously, even cancer.”

Oh, and as an added bonus, I even have a new nickname for my junk— Lightning Rod. One More For the Road— Well damn, wouldn’t you know that after almost killing what few brain cells I have left, obsessing on rewriting, polishing, and punching up my book, I turn it in, and bam! A pandemic! Had I gotten the memo, I would have waited to turn it in after I told you stories of returning to standup comedy, doing TikTok dance videos with my kiddos, channeling Joe Exotic, zooming comedy interviews from the comfort of my son’s bedroom with amazing guests, upcoming TV projects, and lots more shenanigans with the fam. People often ask if I returned to standup because I had cancer and laughter is the best medicine. The answer is no, the reason is because my kids are getting to the age where they are starting to ignore me, and I need a lot of attention. Just ask my wife.

But the truth is, I was silly before, but one thing cancer taught me is to be grateful for every day. As William Wallace said in the movie, “Braveheart,” “Everybody dies, but not everybody lives.”

I hope you live, I hope you laugh, and I hope you cause some mischief!

Until next time!

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9021-oh no!

Adam Carolla

B. J. Novak, Leslie Jones, Hot wifey, Mick Rock (Trans Am Diaries fun) 170

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Bradley’s reaction when I asked if I could star in a movie with him

Comedians, Darren Carter, Mike Marino and WWE Champ, Candice Michele backstage

Bright lights, big city

Sebastian Bach, Taylor Hawkins, Hollywood Hillbilly, Rudy Sarzo 171

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Hard hitting news with Steve Sanders WGN Chicago

Dropping hillbilly knowledge

My precious 172

Hot Rod homies, Brad Fanshaw, Heather Storm, Dave Marek

He went that way officer

Still Smitten

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Badges of honor

The D’s on skis

Giddy Up

Pickin’ and grinnin’ with mama

My dad hugging a pony

They clean up real good 173

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Rockin’ the red carpet

Twinning!

Life’s a beach

Into the great wild open

Family tradition

Paramount Ranch

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C’mon Get Happy Hour

Jon B dropping by the double wide

Olivia Holt and her mama came out for some laughs

I put this in just to embarrass the kids.

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Alter egos—

Jake Steel

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“Stevie D. and I go way back, from the Sunset Strip to filming Rockstars of Comedy. This dude has great taste in music, but questionable taste in hairstyles.

He’s always been funny, but I’m surprised he wrote such a good book.”

-Bret Ernst, Comedian/Actor, Cobra Kai, Weeds, Vince Vaughn’s Wild West Comedy Show “Some of my funnest times in comedy have been spent playing the sidebar room at the Best Western in Hollywood. We were both starting out. I didn’t have jokes. And Stevie didn’t have jokes. But he had the arms. I eventually got better at jokes and so did Stevie...but I never got better at arms. It’s a privilege to be picked up in his Trans Am! This book is hilarious!”

-Jamie Kennedy, comedian/actor, Jamie Kennedy Experiment, Malibu’s Most Wanted, Scream, Uncomfortable “Stevie D is a man that sticks to his Rituals (hair flips), Standards (driving a Trans Am), and Values (making us laugh no matter what life throws at you)!

A true hero, father, and brother to me! I loved reading his hilarious, crazy stories!”

-Candice Michelle, 2 Time WWE Champ, Life Champ Coach, Superwoman

Steven Dupin (a.k.a. Stevie D.) is a Kentucky-born comedian, writer,

producer, and podcaster. After spending years performing in comedy clubs, he produced and hosted the concert film, “Rockstars of Comedy.” Stevie’s first book, The Trans Am Diaries- A Hillbilly’s Road Trip from Standup Comedy to Cancer...and Back Again received rave reviews and a Hollywood Book Festival Award. Dr. Jonathan Simons, C.E.O. of the Prostate Cancer Foundation, compared Stevie’s writing to that of Ernest Hemingway. Stevie can be seen and heard on his weekly vodcast, “C’mon Get Happy Hour” where his guests include an eclectic array of his Hollywood “So-called friends.” When he isn’t creating content, Stevie stays busy with his family hiking, camping, doing donuts in his sweet Trans Am (a.k.a. Kentucky Porsche) and teaching his kids important life lessons, like the hair flip!