Entertainment Weekly
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Seinfeld
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Readers Digest
’s Top Ten Ways to Make Lunch More Christian Friendly
Spin
magazine’s Top Ten post-punk neo nu-metal T-Shirts, Blog Sites
Kyle Tarkentun’s List of Why Travis Booker Sucks
Golf Digest
’s Ten Best Whites-Only Golf Courses
Sylvia Plath’s Top Nine out of Ten Reasons to not Kill Herself
Jesus’ Ten Best Wet Dreams as a Teenager (Romans 13:9)
Der Speigel
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L. Ron Hubbard’s Ten Reasons to Sue Logic and Science
Andrea Dworkin’s Ten Reasons Why a Pickle Is Better than a Man (hint: they’re comically sexual!!)
I
DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW
T
HE
O’R
EILLY
F
ACTOR
AND THE
Radio Factor
are still on the air. By that, I mean allowed to stay on the air. The amount of misinformation that’s disseminated from the
host, Bill O’Reilly, is so vast and consistent, that you wonder what it would take. What absolutely, 100 percent wrong “fact”
that Bill O’Reilly cites that becomes the basis for a twenty-minute diatribe in which his audience is encouraged to take his
outraged position will be the straw that breaks the camel’s hypocritical back? It’s hard to imagine, given the egregiousness
of his many “errors.” I can’t really think of another job where one would be allowed so many mistakes or actual lies. (Outside
of “Page Six,” TMZ, various gossip sites, politicians, cereal manufacturers, lawyers, P.R. firms, government officials, pundits,
infomercials, the tobacco companies, pharmaceuticals, Monsanto, real estate companies, Henry Kissinger—oh wait… I get it.)
In a perfect world, knowingly lying about something would be a punishable offense. But it’s not. Unless you lie under oath
à la Scooter Libby, you can glide through the whole process like a greased pig on a buttered Slip ’n’ Slide, and even then
you can be pardoned. Think about it: if a history teacher at any level of teaching in any school outside of Appalachia or
an Indian reservation, public or private, were to teach the same amount of completely wrong information that Bill O’Reilly
dispenses each day, he or she would be rightfully fired. Then they would never be allowed to teach in America again. That
shit may fly in China or Azerbaijan, but America? No, thanks. We’d rather have the facts correct, please.
Right? Hmmmm, maybe not. Okay, let’s approach this differently. What might happen if video footage of a news/opinion show
host from, say, Russia or Venezuela using the exact same tactics that Bill O’Reilly uses when engaging someone he disagrees
with started making the rounds on the Internet. It would be used as an example of the dangers of state-run media in an authoritarian
government. We would watch it and be thankful we don’t have that kind of thing over here. We learned our lesson with the circus
sideshow that was Morton Downey Jr. and Wally George. So it is curious and frustrating that not only is Bill O’Reilly not
in jail and/or dead by his own contrite hand, but that, worse, he is a millionaire a hundred times over. If he were to call
himself a comedian, of course, he could get away with a few fact boners (as I like to call them) every once in a while. But
he doesn’t. He takes himself seriously. So…
Back in June of 2006, I had been asked to appear in studio on
The O’Reilly Factor
on FOX News. This was due to this very story that you are now reading. Appearing on his show was not a decision I made lightly,
nor was it made alone. I had seen firsthand Bill O’Reilly’s mendacious, insulting, and immature way that he would conduct
a “discussion” with people he didn’t agree with or even remotely like. His was well-known and documented habitually uncivil
behavior, and I wondered if I wanted to put myself through that potentially frustrating and deflating experience. I consulted
several people, including many past guests of Mr. O’Reilly, and, after getting their takes on their experiences as well as
advice, often unsolicited and imparted with passionate urgency, I called the show back and accepted their invitation. I felt
a heavy sense of duty. I was David Cross to his Goliath O’Reilly.
There were numerous rules that they insisted I adhere to before I was allowed on. And these weren’t just wardrobe ideas or
verbal rules for while on the set. These were written in triplicate by his lawyers and held within a seventeen-page waiver
that I had to sign and have notarized in front of three witnesses. Among the numerous points of interest in the waiver:
Again, this was a partial list of rules. I got a record of some of the past guests from a “for pay” website link from FNC
(FOX News Corp.) and got in touch with the ones I was able to.
*
I heard from Tom Duckett, a truck driver for “Aunt Grannies Old-Fashioned, Country Tyme Chemotherapy.” Mr. Duckett had been
asked to appear on the show to represent the transportation industry drivers who were then claiming to be under intense duress
due to the passage of the Pharo/Haman bill, allowing increased workloads and decreased available time allotted to deliver
said loads. Mr. Duckett explained to me that he was under the impression that he would come on and talk to Mr. O’Reilly about
general “working-class experiences” and how, through driving in the heartland, he was able to see the real Americans out there
and how they live a proud and simple life, unlike the fake Americans who live in cities on the East or West Coast.
He was slated to appear alongside Blaire Harmon, an ex-lobbyist, current rapist who was now working to educate the public
against the dangers of a bill before Congress that would legally reduce the number of hours an employee of any business would
be allowed to drive a truck. Mr. Duckett would routinely be asked to drive up to 2,000 miles and back in a 48-hour period.
Mr. Duckett, who initially welcomed what he thought would be extra income, had lost his ability to operate a truck seconds
after losing his left eye and the use of his jaw for five months after getting into an accident stemming from a hallucination
of a family of deer trying to cross the highway after he had driven for 32 hours straight. What he thought were deer were
in fact a Mexican family and just one deer. Although, to be fair, the Mexican family was acting “deerish.” Mr. Duckett found
himself blindsided by Bill O’Reilly when, after correcting Bill that Montana’s speed limit of 75 miles per hour was not “an
example of the Socialists trying to take over,” Bill called him a liar and a pinhead and went to lengths to say that his head
was not unlike a pin. “Idiot,” “fraud,” “dangerous,” and “anti-American” were also said, along with “jerk nose,” “baby brain,”
“goofy gus,” and “shit-storm Stanley,” as well as “poo feet,” “Indian-giver extraordinaire,” “the opposite of decent,” and
“a real dink,” once Mr. Duckett’s microphone was turned off and burned. Also, “dickbuttballs,” “stinky noise maker,” “worse
than Tutankhamun” “gold digger,” “fascist elitist,” and “caramel-coated candy apple faggot wannabe.”
I rode my bike up to the FOX studios on Sixth Avenue and, after going through security (ID check, background check, voting
record, retinal scan, credit report, and optional anal probe), I was ushered through the lobby and through to the second security
area (flight records checked, blood test, urinalysis, B. F. Skinner box placement, Pledge of Allegiance, and optional anal
tuck and roll). A pleasant but rather formal young woman named Gretchen greeted me with a smile and a chocolate American Flag.
She was very nice but walked super-quick, though, as if I had a steadycam strapped to me and we were shooting a scene from
Grey’s Anatomy.
Also, she wore an earpiece and bulletproof Kevlar vest. I asked her what was up with all the security.
“Ever since 9/11, we’ve been on threat level Ultra Red… or at least trying to be.” She slowed as we approached a thick, foreboding
door with an animatronic likeness (at least I think it was a likeness) of Sean Hannity. Gretchen stood in front of it and
said, “You’re a great American, Sean.” “And you, too, my friend,” said the robot, and the door opened. Everyone was really
nice, and I was soon introduced to Bill O’Reilly.
He was more pleasant and avuncular than I expected, and as he graciously offered me a cup of coffee he told me how excited
he was that I was on the show and mentioned twice how impressed he was with my courage for coming on. We talked very briefly
about his newish book,
A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity.
I asked him about the title and what made him decide upon one that could be so easily mocked. He told me he didn’t know what
I was talking about and asked what I meant. And I’ll be honest here, I was more than a little nervous and hemmed and hawed.
“Well, you know, you could substitute almost anything for the word
humanity.”
“Hmmmm, you mean like ‘cake’ or something?
A Bold Fresh Piece of Cake.
Ha ha! I get it. That’s a good one. I never thought of that.” He said he had to get ready and thanked me again for coming
on and walked into Hair and Makeup. While he got ready, I spent the next three hours reading the old copies of
Newsmax
and Alan Colmes’ book
Huh?
that were prominently placed in my dressing room. Finally we were ready to tape the show.
I was the second guest on that night, following a panel consisting of William Bennett, Newt Gingrich, and the ghost of Dennis
Miller discussing “What’s wrong with kids today with all their rapping and drugs and video games?” I was introduced as the
“iconoclastic author of
I Drink for a Reason
,” and as I smiled somewhat tightly (I was still a little apprehensive about all of this) I felt a strange sensation on my
ass, as if my chair had the tiniest mild shock going through it. I fidgeted a bit and tried to not let it bother me. I thought
it might have something to do with my mic pack. After a couple of soft, friendly questions about how this book was doing,
he asked me to share some amusing anecdotes about a promotional reading I gave at Brooke’s Chinook Books, an independent book
store in Fairbanks, Alaska, selling books to North American Indians and their salmon. I took the bait (no pun intended) and
quickly got hooked by O’Reilly (no pun intended). He then began to reel me in (pun intended) and left me dangling on the line
with a fishhook in my mouth (no pun intended) as I flopped around the deck gasping for air (no pun intended) like a fish out
of water (pun intended).
As I started to mention giving a reading of a piece I had written entitled “In Anticipation of Reading This Right Now,” which
you’ll find elsewhere in this book, he jumped on my general description of the salmon in attendance as being “one of the dumber
fish out there.” “Hey! Uh-uh! Not on my show, mister! That kind of invective may make your far-left zealot pinhead fans laugh,
but it has no place on this show. NO PLACE!” It took me aback, and I stammered for a second, but then I got my bearings. I
started to reply that it was just a joke, like my earlier joke about what if the holes in Jesus’ hands and feet didn’t heal
up properly because of the lack of medicines available back then, and what he could then use the holes for when he got to
Heaven in a practical sense. It was meant to be a lighthearted look at his Jesus, but O’Reilly refused to let me explain by
cutting me off and going to the other guest.
I had a moment to think and calm myself down, and it was then that I again noticed the feeling in my seat like a mild shock,
but it felt slightly stronger now. I tried to ignore it but couldn’t. I debated whether to tell someone but ultimately decided
against it. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was nervous or, worse, crazy and just trying to deflect the charges.
I started to interject and then the shock became unbearable. I lept up out of the chair and yelled involuntarily. As I did
this, Bill jumped up as well (as if in anticipation) and grabbed my arm. While the other guest ducked, Bill pulled me toward
him, saying, “Look, you little punk, you want to go a few rounds with me? Fine! You name the time and the place, and I will
bury you, but I won’t let you try to subvert my program!!” With that he pushed me back into my chair. The electrical charge
shocked me once again and I jumped up immediately but this time made a sound that was closer to “owww” than the first sound,
which was more like “nrgggh.” O’Reilly ducked under his desk and then came up with a wooden table leg that he yanked off from
the bottom of his desk. He lunged at me, swinging the table leg at my head. I managed to duck and grab onto the table leg
with my left hand. I flipped over while still holding onto the leg and twisted his arm, dislocating his shoulder. I am hard-pressed
to tell you what was more disturbing, the quiet crunch and pop sound from his shoulder or the girly scream of pain he shrieked
out. He muttered some obscenities, saying, “Fuck it! We’ll do it live!” before staggering to the back wall clutching his arm.
Another guest was shooting the whole thing on his cell phone camera, which seemed odd as we were in the middle of taping.
The floor director and producer came running over to me to see if I was all right. “I’m fine,” I said, catching my breath.
“Just a little shaken up. I’ll be fine. Can I get some water and… holy shit! Look out!!”