what most of the kids’ parents refused to listen to. It took me over 50 years, but I’ve kept the promise.
I can still visualize exactly where I was standing when I made the decision to write about a sadistic, egomaniacal, lazy, ignorant bitch named Julia Quinn. I’m calling her a bitch because I decided not to use the “c-word” in this book. If people enjoy this book, it may be the only good thing that the evil horrible despicable cu—er, bitch—ever accomplished.
If I go to hell I’m going find Quinn and beat the crap out of her. But I may have to wait in line for my turn. If you think I didn’t like her, you’re underestimating my passion. I hated her fucking guts. And I still do.
The rest of the stories were written because I like to tell stories. I like to make people smile and laugh. I don’t perform on the stage, just on paper.
How do I know the book is funny?
For comparison, Marilyn also laughs at I Love Lucy, Boston Legal and Curb Your Enthusiasm. I, too, think Lucy is extremely funny, but I think the Larry David character on Curb Your Enthusiasm is an asshole. I can’t stand watching him, so Marilyn watches him with the dog. However, Larry is a good writer.
Where’d I get my sense of humor? It might be genetic. My father was very funny and my grandfathers, Walter Marcus and Dr. Jay N. Jacobs, were like George Burns and Jack Benny. Grandpa Jay could juggle while telling jokes.
There was a lot of laughter in my house even before we got a television, and we were one of the first families to get a television. Pop introduced me to MAD magazine. All fathers should do that. It’s as important as teaching about the birds and the bees.
My old man messed up that lesson. He skipped the fun part. He never told me how the “pollen” got from the daddy to the mommy. I first thought it flew through the air and I couldn’t figure out how it reached the right mommy and got inside her. Now schools teach sex—probably a better idea.
No foreword. No preface. A foreword is usually a short section at the beginning of a book that’s written by someone other than the author.
The person who knows me best is Marilyn. I don’t want her to read the book until after it’s been printed so she can’t nag me to change it.
Another reason not to have a foreword is because some people would think I spelled it wrong, and that it should really be “forward.”
Furthermore, unless a foreword has only one word in it, like “Hi,” it should be “forewords.”
A preface is written by the author and it tells the story of the book’s origin and development. I put that here, in what I’ve called the introduction. Everyone knows what it means and how to pronounce it. I don’t want to hear dumb hillbillies saying “pree-face” instead of “pref-iss.”
Autobiographies usually start at the beginning and progress in chronological order, but this is not an autobiography. It’s a bunch of stories, meant to be entertainment, not history. I’m over 60. I can’t remember exactly when things happened (or where I put my keys), but it shouldn’t matter.
Readers can simply choose any chapters that sound interesting. The many short chapters make this book good for reading on planes or while waiting for one. It’s also good for reading during TV commercials or while sitting on the toilet.
I hope it won’t be used as toilet paper.
There’s a good chance that the “Maine” lobsters were trapped in Massachusetts and that the “French” dressing was really made in the Wish-Bone factory in Kansas City—not in Paris or Bordeaux. It tastes fine anyway.
Actually, I merely assume it tastes fine. To be 100% truthful (or at least 80% truthful), I really don’t like French dressing and I never eat it. But I do like Italian, Japanese and Russian dressings even if they’re made right here in the good old U.S.A.
There’s a good reason why there’s no English salad dressing eaten in America. English food sucks. Steak and kidney pie?
Yuck. No fucking way!
The venerable and authoritative British Broadcasting Corporation recommends putting the yellow glop on cold pizza and mashed potatoes.
It’s no wonder that the Brits lost the Empire and their teeth.
Are the names real? I changed the names of some nice people to maintain their privacy. I changed the names of some bad people if I’m no longer as pissed off as I used to be and I don’t want to embarrass them or their descendents. Or if I think someone might sue me or beat me up.
I’m a writer, not a fighter.
The names of some very bad people have not been changed, and I’m not afraid to “say ill about the dead,” especially if they pissed me off.
Dead people can’t sue me. Fuck ’em.
What’s so funny? My wife often complains that I have a reckless sense of humor and I “go too far.” She’s afraid that I’m going to get into trouble like Lenny Bruce and George Carlin. I think artistic expression outranks domestic tranquility. In my domicile, we have much more expression than tranquility.
Like Penn and Teller, Bart Simpson and the folks on Jackass, I’ll do almost anything for a joke.
Other people have occasionally described my humor as sick, tasteless or black humor. That’s because I can find humor in almost any situation, and that can make people uncomfortable. I designed
I’m almost embarrassed to say this, but back in 1963 I came up with a joke about President Kennedy’s assassination within a few minutes of the shooting. I don’t remember the joke, and it wasn’t as grotesque as the necrophilia satire that Paul Krassner published in The Realist with Lyndon Johnson copulating
