Every Day is an Atheist Holiday!: More Magical Tales from the Author of God, No! (19 page)

Jonas Salk yelled something about not caring a bit about the same old boring Arno stuff; he wanted to hear a joke.

Arno stood onstage quietly and thought. There was a lot to weigh before the vice president of Bell Labs could tell a dirty joke onstage at TED. This was a big hairy deal. The audience was clamoring for the joke, and Arno was thinking. Salk was still heckling and being a dick about it. Jonas wanted to hear a joke.

Arno looked out at the crowd and found me. He asked from the stage, “So, Penn, can I do it?” I nodded yes, and raised my right hand in the gesture of our rehearsed ellipse.

Okay.

“A guy goes into the doctor with an orange dick.”

Imagine if Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and Elvis Presley walked out onstage together at a sold-out rock show at Madison Square Garden. The crowd went nuts. Looking back, I imagine I can hear Jonas whooping.

Arno told the joke. He got way carried away. During the section where the guy is getting his dick tested, Arno had details of the machines being used. When talking about the guy’s job, Arno built an entire backstory. This was the extended play version. One of the most important parts of comedy is committing. If you hold back one bit, if you give the slightest wink that shows you’re not completely in the joke, the audience leaves with you. Even if you’re dying, even if the idea isn’t good, you have to keep your heart in it completely. In acting, we all know the actors who let you know they’re above the character. These are the actors who suck dead dog cock. We know the comedian who laughs a bit at his own joke and let’s you know he’s just a regular guy talking weird shit. You might laugh at the time, but those comics will never change you. They won’t give you lasting beauty.

Arno committed. Like a motherfucker. Arno committed like Andy Kaufman. My mouth was bone dry. I was hyperventilating. I had tears in my eyes. At the time, I didn’t have children, but I felt like my mom must have felt watching my TV appearance. I was leaning forward in my seat, moving my mouth with his. I have never wanted a joke to go better in my life. I was more nervous in that TED audience than I was on
Saturday Night Live
live. Arno was going long. There was no doubt he was going way too long. He was putting in too many details. But this was an audience of scientists, and the details were killing. He knew the names of all the machines that would be used to test this guy’s dick. He had the doctor in the joke do a House differential on what could have caused this perplexing orange dick.

I haven’t found any recording of Arno telling this joke online, but I don’t want to. I want my memory, with all its mistakes and exaggerations. My memory is that this joke went on longer than the longest Grateful Dead show. My stomach was in knots, but the audience was right with him. It wasn’t too long. Penzias was killing. He got to the end of the orange dick guy’s day. He got to right before the punch line, and his eyes found mine in the audience, and he went into it. He started the list, his right hand and voice rose for the ellipses and he hit the punch line on the offbeat. He nailed it. Silence for a heartbeat, and then explosion.

Remember that Madison Square Garden show with Jimi, Lennon, and Elvis onstage? Kurt Cobain, Lenny Bruce, Dean Martin, Tiny Tim, and Jesus H. Christ joined them onstage. The crowd went nuts. In my memory (all of this is my memory, I didn’t fact-check, I didn’t want to), Jonas jumped to his feet. The reaction was insane.

It was a lecture hall, with a raked audience and very low stage. Arno jumped off the stage and ran up the aisle. I stood up and Arno hugged me. I was crying my eyes out. I believe if I were to win a Nobel Prize, it would be more emotional than this, but not by much. Arno was just a different person. We were all different. He finally got the crowd to calm down and went into his talk. My hands shook for the whole talk and I had butterflies in my stomach until I went to bed that night. It was an amazing moment. Payback can be a bitch, but payback can also be a super inamorata. Wow, did Arno pay me back for “LabScam.” I saw scientists in a whole different way. The separate worlds in my mind joined together. The strongest moments in my life make me feel one-nation-under-a-motherfucking-groove, and I felt that when Arno talked about the guy’s orange dick and Jonas laughed his genius ass off.

Several times during the next couple of days, speakers made references (some of them on graphs) to the orange dick. Arno had set up a runner for the conference.

Arno’s telling of the “Orange Dick” joke in that room was the platonic ideal of a joke. Brave and true, and not the least bit mean-spirited. Rebellious and shocking at no one’s expense. Uplifting and enlightening to everyone involved. Beautiful.

Think about that next April Fools’ Day when you’re thinking about putting Saran plastic wrap under the toilet seat. Get it?

Listening to: “I Started a Joke”
—
The Bee Gees

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

EXPERIMENTAL PROTOTYPE COMMUNITY OF TOMORROW
was Walt Disney’s idea for EPCOT Center. His idea was to have a working city of about twenty thousand people where they would test all sorts of groovy future shit, like hydroponic carrots, flying cars and apocalyptic zombies from hell. When I first read about Walt’s plan, I was thrilled. I loved the idea of scientists, artists, and guys who run dry-cleaning businesses all living together and digging the future. That was before I visited some planned communities like Columbia, Maryland, and I became a libertarian. Smart city planning always seems like it’s going to be inspiring and beautiful but the results are usually beige, with those “tasteful” McDonald’s signs. Central planning doesn’t work; give me garish Golden Arches and people being free to be stupid. Central planning is not good for us nuts. It’s good for beige.

Walt Disney died and the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow became EPCOT, just another Disney property. I like to think that Walt Disney would have designed his city better than Columbia, Maryland, but probably not. The problem is not who does the planning; it’s the plan itself. Groovy cities have to be free and wild with lots of unexpected ugliness; they can’t be planned.

The real corporate EPCOT follows the libertarian ideal of making money. Goddamn, they are good at that. Losing on
Dancing with the Stars
got me VIP treatment at all the Disney properties “forever,” which turned out to be about a year. We took our children over to California and down to Florida and we were treated great. I did worry a little that my children would be spoiled by not waiting in lines, but then ObamaCare was passed and I know they’ll get to wait in lines when they’re sick and that’ll build some real character.

I don’t remember why, but my wife was at EPCOT before or after me on one trip. We often fly separately. Our schedules are very different, so she’ll fly with the children the night before and I’ll fly noon the next day or something. It’s also good because then no one notices me flying first class while the children fly coach—hey, I’m bigger than they are, and they fit in those coach seats, right? No matter what the reason, Emily was at EPCOT for a while without me.

One of the ways EPCOT made money for a few years was by selling the little bricks that made up the walkway alongside the big white sphere known as Spaceship Earth. They called it Leave a Legacy, and instead of having to write a great novel or win a Nobel Prize, you could pay thirty-five bucks and have your picture taken or write a little message and they’d put it on a brick. Quite a deal. You got a tile with your picture or a message on it. They gave you a little map and when you come back, you could look for the message and maybe look at a few others until you be bored shitless with guys with carefully trimmed beards wearing mouse ears.

Emily Zolten Jillette is confrontational. She’s a freedom fighter. Some MILFs have dress shops. Emily’s fighting every time she goes through TSA and “The First Noël” at our child’s fancy-ass, uniform bullshit private school. (I think my major gripe with the private school Mox goes to is that she’s so happy there. How is that for a great dad? I had such a shitty education that I want her to rebel too, but she’s happy and learning a lot and treated well and making wonderful friends. Maybe there is something to this good education thing. I guess it plays to my libertarian ideals. Private schools are good and Mox even loves her uniform, but Emily still keeps an eye on their “Winter Pageant,” making sure Xmas doesn’t sneak in even at a great school.) Freedom fighters don’t take vacations, so at EPCOT she was itching for a confrontation. She decided to buy a molded piece of cement from Disney and have it signed “PEZ” (That’s P for Penn, and EZ her initials and her . . . style). She wanted the message to say “No God.” That’s a message she wanted in modern fake rock in the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow. She gave them money, and that was it. Until they told her they couldn’t allow that, because the bricks couldn’t mention god. Emily pointed out that the walkway was maggoty with bricks that read “God Bless.” Well, they shifted, now they didn’t allow offensive messages. She demonstrated offensive right in their faces at that one. She finally decided it was a private park and it’s their little goatfuck, so she backed down. Emily said she’d give up and leave a legacy of “Dog On,” and then our PEZ signature. There’s nothing offensive about that. They took her money and that was that.

A couple weeks later they called while Emily and I were having lunch together. She walked out of the restaurant with the phone and the Disney folks explained they were sending her money back because “Dog On” was “No God” backwards and they couldn’t allow that. I saw through the restaurant window that she was getting frustrated on the phone and raising her voice. I was just eating. She came inside, having given up, and said, “I told them they should talk to my husband about this.” Now, you may think there’s some sort of sexist, “Let the man take care of the little lady’s problems here” thang going on. I assure you, there’s none of that. Emily plays poker. Emily plays golf. Emily does the business in our family. Emily goes out with the guys. I’m the bath-oils-and-reading-novels gal in our family. I don’t do man things. You might think she was trying to pull some celebrity card, “talk to my husband—he’s a two-bit magician and that will impress Disney.” Nope, she knows I lost on
Dancing with the Stars
. Emily was putting me on the phone for the reason a lot of my friends put me on the phone, “This asshole wants to be crazy; we’ll show them fucking crazy. Put Penn on the phone.”

“Hello, this is Penn, what’s the problem?”

“We’re sending your wife’s money back to her for the Leave a Legacy tile she wanted to buy.”

“Good, send us all the money back, we like money.”

“Fine.”

“But we’ll still get our tile, right?”

“Well, no, that’s why we’re sending your money back.”

“It’s my wife’s money. I’ll never see it.”

“Okay, your wife’s money.”

“And you’re still doing the tile right? We want that tile.”

“No.”

“Why not? That tile means a lot to us. You promised us that tile. You gave us your word.”

“I’m sorry, but the message is inappropriate.”

“Isn’t the message ‘Dog On’?”

“Yes, but it means ‘No God.’ ‘Dog On’ is ‘No God’ spelled backwards.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Of course, spell it out.”

“Dog . . . d-o-g . . . g-o-d . . . god. On . . . o-n . . . n-o . . . No . . . No God . . . well, I’ll be fucked.”

“Please, sir, watch your language.”

“Right, I’m not supposed to say ‘Dog On’ because you find that fucking offensive, but you said it first, didn’t you? Why wasn’t that offensive when you said it?”

“No, the other word.”

“‘Fuck’?”

“Yes, don’t use that language.”

“But ‘Dog On’ is okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then put it on the fucking legacy thing.”

“Watch your language, and it is offensive because she asked for ‘No God’ first.”

“And that’s offensive?”

“Well, not like the other word you said.”

“‘Dog On’?”

“No”

“What other word?”

“You know.”

“‘Fuck’?”

“Yes, and don’t say that or I will have to terminate this call.”

“I see, but I can say ‘Dog On’ or ‘No God,’ right?”

“Yes, we’re talking about that.”

“No, we were talking about ‘fuck.’ You changed the subject.”

“I’m going to have to hang up.”

“I’m sorry. Did you know that ‘Dog On’ meant ‘No God’?”

“Yes, because your wife asked for ‘No God’ and when she was told no, she just reversed it and made it ‘Dog On.’”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check: Dog . . . d-o-g . . . g-o-d . . . god. On . . . o-n . . . n-o . . . No . . . No God . . . Yup, well, I’ll be fu— Sorry, I almost said that other bad word that you brought into this conversation.”

“Thank you. So we knew that that’s what it meant, so we can’t use it.”

“But the people seeing this wouldn’t know the backstory, so how could that be offensive? They wouldn’t know the code that you broke, right? You had to have the code explained to you. It’s a simple code but ingenious.”

“But we know that ‘Dog On’ means ‘No God’ because she tried that first. We know what it means to her.”

“So, if I tried to get a tile that said, ‘Fuck you’ . . . ?”

“Watch your language. I must hang up.”

“Sorry, but stay with me. So I want a tile that says ‘Fuck you’ and you say no, it’s offensive, so I say I want to change it to ‘happy birthday.’ Then you would now know that ‘happy birthday’ means ‘fuck you.’ Happy birthday.”

“Watch your language.”

“Happy birthday.”

“‘Happy birthday’ would be okay.”

“Happy birthday. But you know what it means, don’t you, happy birthday? Happy birthday, you know what I mean by that. Happy birthday.”

“Yes, you explained.”

“Happy birthday.”

“But others wouldn’t know that.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Stop saying that, or I’m going to hang up.”

“You’ll hang up because I said ‘happy birthday.’”

“I know what you mean.”

“When is your birthday?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, whenever it is, happy birthday, happy birthday.”

“Cut it out.”

“Don’t send our money back, get a Leave a Legacy plaque that says ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then your name. You’ll know what it means. Happy birthday.”

“No, we’re sending your money back.”

“Happy birthday. Keep the money and use the plaque so the future can see ‘Happy birthday’ with your name. Happy birthday. My legacy to you is happy birthday, and you know that. Listen, just give us ‘dog on’ and be done with it. What do you care? Just tell your boss ‘Happy birthday.’ You remember what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Stop it and we’re not going to—”

“Happy birthday”

“—we’re not going to give you your Leave a Legacy plaque.”

“Happy birthday.”

“We’ll send back the credit card receipt.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Stop it—you will not get a legacy plaque!”

“Because you now know what ‘Dog On’ means to my wife and me?”

“Yes.”

“And you know what happy birthday means to you and me. That’s our personal private little love code: happy birthday. Happy birthday.”

“We are done, sir. Your wife will get your money back.”

“Happy birthday, it’s her money.”

“Her money.”

“Happy birthday.”

“I’m hanging up now, right now. I do not need to take this abuse.”

“You find ‘happy birthday’ offensive?”

“We’re supposed to hang up if there’s any obscenity.”

“And you think ‘Happy birthday’ is obscene—happy birthday.”

“I know what it means. I’m hanging up now.” He was yelling a little.

“
Wait
. Please don’t hang up. Please. This has gotten out of hand. I’m very, very sorry I offended you. Just calm down and don’t hang up. I won’t say that anymore. I’m sorry. Did you hang up?”

“No”

“Have you calmed down?”

“Yes.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you.”

And I hung up. A few months later, our friend went and got this plaque for us.

Happy birthday.

Listening to: “Birthday”
—
The Beatles