Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian (25 page)

Nor do I want to tell it. But the theme of it, especially in this sometimes twisted world we live in, is relevant. And unfortunately, it gets more relevant with every second of news footage we watch—and every police drama that exists, and fortunately only subliminally in a few reality shows. That’s the one area they don’t hit on too often on those shows—incest doesn’t play well with people who participate in it. I just ran my fingers through my hair in a Bill Maher–like fashion.

The point of the film was not to display vulgarity. It was to hold up a mirror to a culture that believes in freedom of speech and yet . . . I’ve grown accustomed to her face. Wait, I don’t want to get all political about this. Look, it’s just something I was asked to do by two comedy artists I trusted, and so I participated, as though I was being asked to sit in with a jazz group one night. Except I don’t play jazz. I appreciate it, but I only know four chords, and they’re all G.

Telling the Aristocrats joke is like performing jazz. It’s scat. Interestingly or noninterestingly enough, the word
scat
has two meanings. And they both apply to this joke and the film. Jazz and poo. I’m coining it here:
jazzpoo
.

I hosted a show I liked on NBC once for a couple short seasons called
1 vs. 100
. On that show I coined the word
shiggles
. Yeah yeah, I’ve read your comments—I know it’s obvious I was combining the words “shits and giggles” in prime time. The censors had no field day. That was my edgiest in a prime-time game show.

One of the best renditions of the Aristocrats story was told by my pal Gilbert Gottfried, and what’s beautiful about it is it was done accidentally, because he wasn’t doing very well on his unairable portion of the Friars Club roast of Hugh Hefner. Gilbert’s a very sensitive person. Such a funny guy. He goes to a dark place immediately. There’s a lot of complication with someone who starts there.

I love comedians whose comedy comes from pain. Most comedians have bouts with pain and so it’s no surprise the people who excelled in the Aristocrats movie understood pain and comedy and how they intersect.

There were plenty of comedians in the movie who turned it down, who chose—intelligently—to
not
tell the joke. Including some of the best comedians who exist, like Chris Rock and Don Rickles. But I had no choice but to tell the joke. It was actually freeing for me. And I really didn’t know what I was doing.

I’d been boxed into family comedy for so long, and just felt like I had fallen out of touch with whatever edgy comedic voice I had, that there was some weird morphing that occurred when the joke came out of me that day.

So Paul and Penn had set it up explaining they were interviewing a hundred comedians telling this same joke. I went to film it at the Laugh Factory one night and slated a set to do after the shoot. I needed to talk to them before we filmed to make sure I even remembered the details of the joke. Again, it was the second time I’d ever told it. With good reason.

In the film it looked like I was just spewing the obscene story, but what you didn’t hear were Penn and Paul egging me on, yelling at me off camera: “Tell it!” “Go for it!” They cut out their off-camera comments. They had to egg me on because I really didn’t want to tell it. That’s kind of the joke. But once they got me wrangled, I delighted in their odd world of what was great about the film’s concept.

In the joke (deep breath) the family goes into an agent’s office— and to entice him to sign them as clients of his agency . . . they have sex with each other. They would possibly be the biggest winner ever on
America’s Got Talent
. Maybe they’d have to create a new show so that families all over America could come in and compete. “Who will be the sexiest family in America? . . . Who will it be . . . the Andersons from Connecticut, or the Chesterfields from Kentucky?” By the way, those are random made-up names.

My go-to disclaimer in this book applies here as well: for a little while I was not sure whether to write about that joke or the movie because, more than anything I’ve ever done, it truly crossed all lines. But that was obviously the point of it. The telling of the joke was the task, and George Carlin made it clear this was not a funny joke, nor was it something that should be told anywhere but in some alley behind a Dumpster.

The punch line isn’t a punch line. After the family finishes their “act,” the agent says, “And what do you call yourselves . . . ?” I never delivered the punch line on-screen in the film. I had to leave just as I was about to say it, as I was cosmically announced to go onstage. I never got to tell the punch line in a documentary based on an “opposite day” punch line.

Months went by and my friend and then-manager Michael Price and I sat in the conference room at my management company to approve or disapprove the use of me in the film. I hadn’t signed the release after I left the shoot. I’d wanted to see it first. I knew before and after I’d filmed it that this thing could be funny and not be a problem, or it could stain me and tarnish me. That’s got to be the name of a porn film somewhere.

Since I wouldn’t sign the release until I saw myself in the film, a screening was set up for Michael and I to watch it in a conference room with one of the producers. We were laughing all the way through my footage, which was intercut with Chris Albrecht, the then-head of HBO, as well as my comedienne friends Carrie Snow and Cathy Ladman—who all spoke affectionately about me and how I would go to a sicker place than anyone else would for the sake of sick humor.

I recall being surprised that my peers perceived me this way. It was weird hearing that I had this reputation. I didn’t even feel that way about myself. I don’t feel that way about myself now.

The film ended. I must confess during my part I’d had my hand over my eyes. I looked up and said to Michael, “Yes?” He said, “Yes. If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it.” CUT TO: “And what do you call yourselves?”

I know I’m still dropping more names in this book than Cheez Doodles out of a goat’s butt, but here’s another one . . .

Doug Ellin, who wrote and created the show
Entourage,
called my managers soon after I’d shot my appearance in
The Aristocrats,
asking if I would play myself in an episode of the hit HBO show, which had been on for one year at that point. My friend Cliff Dorfman worked for Doug and stayed on him to make it happen that first time.

Doug had known me when he was just starting out and I was a stand-up who, as he relays it, was “balls-out.” One of the things people loved about
Entourage
was how it pulled the veil off of people who were sometimes perceived as a Goody Two-shoes in the world. Their guest cast got to fuck with perceptions of themselves and it was fun.

Another persona do-over for me was about to happen. Doug’s take was to portray me as myself, and he developed the character of “me” with me, who became, through his perspective, to be “the richest muthafucker with the biggest balls ever.” I said, “Okay.”

The first episode I was in, I showed up at Vincent Chase’s house with a basket full of muffins and
Full House
DVDs. The thing that got ad-libbed on the set and that Doug wanted me to cultivate as a line was directed at Vincent, played by Adrian Grenier.

Guys who loved the show also say this to me way too often. They are no longer boys. They are men now. And, as I’ve said, they quote lines to me from various works I’ve done, but this one, out of context, can also be really awkward: “Yeah, come over anytime. But hey, don’t fuck my daughters . . . Don’t you fuck ’em . . .” Ironically, I’ve said that word ad nauseam in my stand-up, but not much as a verb.

Entourage
depicted a much more despicable me than I am capable of being. It’s not really a side of me at all, just a fictionalized version of me, that was a fun turn. In this case, life does not imitate art. The only thing I am guilty of is: I
have
stood in my backyard by the pool with a girlfriend nearby—and yes, I was unshaven, wearing a black robe and smoking a cigar. But character-wise I don’t have the makeup to naturally treat a woman as an object. Maybe that’s why it was so much fun to play—imitating myself imitating myself.

One time I was in the Rose Bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel in New York with two of my daughters and Jeremy Piven was also there with a nice young lady. Jeremy, of course, played Ari Gold on
Entourage
.

The point of the setup here is I had to leave for a moment to go to the bathroom, leaving Jeremy and his date with my daughters. And it just came out. I told him I’d be back and was leaving my daughters with him and then we all looked at each other and the same line came out of our mouths at the same time: “Don’t you fuck my daughters.” He pointed at me in the Ari kind of way.

My daughters are amazing, always ahead of the curve with their father, who has a teenage boy’s demeanor. I went to the men’s room and was back in less than two minutes. When you’re out with your daughters in a bar, your bathroom breaks are uncomfortably short.

There is another story from when I was guesting on
Entourage
that I want to share but probably shouldn’t. Man, I have used that device a lot in this book—if you really want to get someone’s attention, tell them, “I really shouldn’t be telling you this . . .”

Well, now that I’ve got your attention, let me tell you about this time I was preparing my scene with a lovely actress on the show. She was playing a woman who—in my heightened version of myself—in all likelihood was going to sleep with me. In preparation she wanted to discuss our characters before we went to set.

There wasn’t much to discuss. I was a playing a misogynist asshole version of myself—double take—and she was playing the part of a hot Ukrainian model. She asked me several questions so we could discuss our relationship: “Do we like each other?” “Yes.” “Are you nice to me?” “Yes.” And then came the only question that gave me pause . . . “Do you love me?” I felt bad for a second, because this heightened version of me went by my real name. And then I answered her . . . “No.” And she was okay with that. My life has never been that simple. Like I said, I’m an overly sensitive guy.

Once again, they had written dialogue for me that I still get shout-outs over in public places. Some of my dialogue with E, played by Kevin Connolly, went exactly like this:

“Don’t think I’m weird when I tell you this.”

“Anything, Bob.”

“Promise you won’t call me weird?”

“Just say it, Bob. I won’t call you weird.”

“I want to have sex in Murray’s office.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I want to fuck her in Murray’s office.”

“Look, I get it, Bob. I’m sorry if we wasted—”

“I’m serious. I’m not weird, I’m pragmatic. This would be great for my memoirs . . .”

And that’s the story of how I met your mother.

Is it humiliating to have people come up to me on the street to this day and say, “I want to fuck her in Murray’s office?” Not usually, unless a guy named Murray is within earshot.

Several years back, I was subjected to possibly the most intense round of humiliation ever . . . I’m referring to the Comedy Central roast that bore my name and will live long in infamy. In-fo-me.

I used to love watching the Dean Martin roasts. When I was young I would also listen to audiotapes of the Friars as well as other roasts—where I’d hear all the biggest comedy and movie stars in the world cursing in ways I’d never imagined. Fifteen-year-old boys love that humor. Hearing Jack Benny saying, “Tell him to go fuck himself,” made me love him even more. Jack Benny was my father’s favorite comedian. And obviously one of mine. Not for that one instance of hearing him curse. He was just a comedy genius who knew himself so well, the audience knew and adored him too.

I loved how loose the old roasts were. Something about the boys’-club aspect of it just allowing people to screw around with their friends. In retrospect, it’s maybe one of the reasons I developed the style of comedy I’ve ended up with. Having a structure—but just riffing through it and bouncing off your buddies.

But as much of a fan as I am of the roasts, I am a man who never wanted to get roasted or do the roasting. I don’t actually enjoy performing mean comedy. A writer friend of mine told me he thinks I use dirty jokes as a placeholder for what would otherwise be pit bull humor that I’m not comfortable doing. At the risk of sounding self-righteous yet again, I’m too positive and frankly too sensitive to be mean-spirited. Although one of my survival handicaps is, if someone throws one rock at me, I’ll get catapults to throw a thousand back.

Basically, my philosophy is, like Rodney used to say, “Make fun of yourself first, then you can go after the audience.” Over the years I did a couple private roasts for charity benefits, but I never
liked
making fun of people. Especially my friends. I wish some of my friends felt the same way. Okay, so the roast . . .

I’d seen all the previous Comedy Central roasts and didn’t see this offer coming. I’ve been self-aware and honest about where I was and am in my career, so why did I need millions of people to see it reflected back to me? I’m not geared to sit in a room with a bunch of people and find out what’s wrong with me and what mistakes I’ve made. If you crave that, all you have to do is go home for the holidays. Point is, I’m already my toughest judge.

That being said, I got the call from Comedy Central. To make my decision I watched every single roast they had done since they started doing them. Sometimes, it felt like the “It’s over” club, and other times it was the “This is cool ’cause what the fuck do I care—there’s an iconic thing to it” club. I chose the latter, but only if I could change up what they had done previously with most of those roasts. Make it more like the Dean Martin roasts, for
me
in my head at least—and have my actual friends on the dais.

A roast dais is supposed to have a podium in the middle of a Last Supper–like banquet table facing the audience. Except nowadays they set up these roasts to look like an airport lounge for Lufthansa, with an electric chair in the middle of it. That would be a good ending for the roast. Just electrocute the honoree. Oh, wait, they’ve done that.