Hopefully I’ll be wealthy by the time my children are born, and they will turn out to be white and male, thus decreasing by
75 percent the “life’s unfair” speeches I will have to give. But maybe they won’t be. Maybe they will have a life that I could
only gloomily daydream about (i.e., I, unlike my mother, would
not
raise them to be Jewish). Perhaps they will grow up to reject all things thoughtless and unjustified and find their way to
my old punk albums and shitty mix tapes that I will strategically leave around the house for them to discover. Maybe at age
14 they will want to put on a bunch of black eyeliner and go to some all-ages straight-edge punk shows at the rec. center.
Will I stomp and stammer and have a 1950s/2005-era Christian Parent freak-out? Nope. I will excitedly point them in the direction
of the club, help pay for their fake ID (they’re not
all
all-ages shows), and gas up the car. Then I will wait at home for them and sit back proudly, knowing there will be at least
one less asshole in the world. And with that comfortable blanket of parental satisfaction warming me in my den, I will secretly
jerk off to the latest rackaliscious Jessica Simpson video. See! Everyone’s a winner!
Good night, sweetheart.
A compilation of babies eating the poo of their household pets.
A compilation of babies being fed their pets’ poo by the boyfriend of the mom of the baby.
A horse fucking a baby.
A baby throwing up in a stranger’s mouth.
A boyfriend of the mom of a baby throwing up on it (the baby).
The incredible “no-armed, no-leg baby” (from Iraq).
A precocious baby, quoting H. L. Menken.
An entire greased-up baby being squirted out of a gay biker’s asshole during a weird gay biker sex ritual. I guess the word
weird
isn’t really necessary there.
A drunk baby trying to stand up and walk across the room.
A baby dancing to the cast recording of
Mama Mia.
A baby dressed up as G. G. Allin for Halloween swearing at people for candy.
Three babies balanced on top of each other.
A roomful of babies and one defanged tarantula.
A baby surfing and/or snowboarding with sunglasses that are too big for its face.
Two babies getting married for real.
A baby sitting in the toilet while rednecks laugh at it.
A baby duct-taped to a large dog that barks as the baby cries hysterically.
A baby tandem sky-diving.
A baby walking out of a public toilet stall who has been coached to say “Don’t go in there!”
A baby who has been coached to say “Show me your tits!” during Mardis Gras.
P
ERHAPS NO CULTURE ON EARTH HAS MORE TO GAIN FROM THE
advancement of robotic studies than Orthodox Jews. Due to an unwavering belief in unchangeable laws that were established
thousands of years ago when people were, by today’s standards, childishly ignorant, to put it generously, Orthodox Jews are
handcuffed from living a normal life from sunup to sundown on the Sabbath, the most holy of days in the seven-day Gregorian
calendar week. But the Jews are nothing if not savvy and have figured out numerous clever, conniving ways to get around Talmudic
law, which is in part designed to show fealty and reverence to an almighty and at times petty, vindictive master. Some Jews
figured out long ago that you could just pay the help (or a poor Palestinian neighbor) to switch on a light or cook your food
for you. Some women even figured out how to look good on their wedding day, when your head is supposed to be covered, again,
in a gesture to God, who presumably hates seeing hair grow out of a scalp. I’m sure God wouldn’t arbitrarily create this law,
which some of his creations might deem petty, or silly. The brides figured out that by wearing a wig made of human hair, they
can cover their head with a virtually undetectable replica of their real hair and still technically they are showing reverence
to God. Ha ha! Take that, God! Jews 1, God 0! What else you got, big guy? Gonna try to make me live in a dirty house because
I can’t clean it on the Sabbath? Fuck you! I’m presetting a Roomba. Didn’t think about that, did ya, when you were making
your list of egomaniacal, draconian “laws.”
Forgot about man’s ability to progress into the industrial, then technological, age, huh? You say I can’t handle money on
the Sabbath, but you didn’t say nothing about training my dog to. I can attach things to my dog with Velcro and walk him on
over to the bodega across the street. Don’t test me, God. I got a million of ’em!
I
T’S NO SECRET THAT
I
HAVE BEEF WITH
J
IM
B
ELUSHI
. A
ND
I
HAVE
often used him over the years as my go-to utilitarian plug-in for any “lucky, marginally talented at best, annoying celebrity
with douchebag tendencies” reference I needed in a comedy piece—whether appearing as himself in the semifictional, good-natured
joshing of the Caldecott Award–winning “Cigar Corner” columns I’ve written or in a shout-out to his book,
Real Men Don’t Apologize
, in my universally disliked animated program,
Freak Show.
Oh, and also there was the time I went to his ridiculous, self-indulgent “blues” show in Martha’s Vineyard (that he had the
audacity and outright shameless greed to charge forty fucking dollars for) and jumped up on stage a couple of times before
getting thrown out of the club. You can see that on YouTube if you’d like. I’ll explain more about that later.
But David, why Jim Belushi, exactly? “What did he ever do to you?” you may ask. There are soooo many undeserving douchenozzles
with inflated egos in Hollywood, why him? Why not Jeremy Piven, or Stephen Dorff, or whoever? Well, I’ve met both Jeremy Piven
and Stephen Dorff, and while Jeremy Piven was a bit of a dick to me, and Stephen Dorff wasn’t a dick to me personally but
rather to the valet guy outside of Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills after a birthday dinner for Ben Stiller, neither episode really
warranted a lifetime of sarcastic japery. And really, when haven’t any one of us been a jerk to somebody before, whether intended
or not? But my one, single experience with Jim Belushi was so noxious and unbelievably lowest-depths shitty that I feel justified
for any cute, little, harmless piece-of-joshing fluff wherein I’ve mentioned him. And yes, there is an actual, real, honest-to-goodness
incident that has driven my now very public scorn.
I’ve often been asked what the deal is, and time and time some more, I have patiently told the story. Sometimes at dinner
or a bar, a couple of times onstage, but only when prompted—that’s been my one rule. I never told the story unsolicited. Until
now.
Now, for the first time, I will put it out there for all to read and judge. Maybe I’m being too harsh; maybe I’m not being
harsh enough. Regardless, here is the story. And again, all true. Not an ounce of embellishment or exaggeration. Also, let
me say this: if you think my opinion of Jim Belushi’s work is undeserved, please get your hands on a copy of
Homer and Eddie
co-starring Whoopie Goldberg. It is one of the best/worst movies ever made, and Jim Belushi’s performance is pure, unintentional
comedy gold. Trust me, it’s worth the hunt. Need a little teaser? Jim comically yet poignantly plays a grown man who’s brain
damaged and on his own. A modern-day Candide, with Whoopie as his street-savvy Dr. Pangloss. Just watch it. Oh! And even though
his character was born and raised in a tiny rural town in Arizona that he’s never left, he speaks in a thick Chicago accent.
That must be one of those weird brain rewiring things that neurologist Oliver Sacks is always yammering on about.
Okay!! Here’s the story.
In 1995 I was given my first real part in a movie. The movie was called
Destiny Turns on the Radio
, and it starred Dylan McDermott and Nancy Travis. As you might surmise, Jim Belushi was in it as well. Now, I not only had
zero scenes with Jim Belushi, but I was never scheduled to even shoot within the same couple of days as him, so the fact that
I saw him at all was a bit of a lark. I should preface this story by describing my very first time on set. On any set, really.
I had driven out to the set during the beginning of the shoot to meet with the wardrobe department. I entered the trailer
to find one woman softly crying (as if it was the end of a bigger, deeper sobbing session) and another woman alternately consoling
her and cursing some unknown “him” who wasn’t there. It was awkward and I kept my distance but made my presence known. I had
never met these ladies before, let alone ever gone “to wardrobe.” They gathered themselves and were very sweet and apologetic.
I said something to the effect of “no worries” and then asked what was wrong. In brief, and I am paraphrasing from a meeting
from thirteen years ago, Jim Belushi had come to set, hated the outfits that had been designed for his character (they were
supposed to be cheesy and “lounge lizardfish,” as he was the underhanded, small-time manager of a floundering small-time casino),
and took it out on the wardrobe women, berating them and demanding that they (against what had been written in the script)
get him designer suits. Prada, Armani, shit like that. In other words, the opposite of what the character would wear. Now,
I wasn’t there for any of this, only the aftermath. And it was told to me by two women who were clearly still emotional about
it. I couldn’t be sure it all happened the way they described. But after meeting Jim Belushi, I had absolutely no problem
believing it. Okay, moving on.
It is now the last week of shooting, and we are in Las Vegas at the Stardust Casino shooting interiors. As it happened, the
scene I was shooting that night took place in the same location (the floor of the casino) as Jim’s last scene of the whole
film. As is much the case for every movie, I was called in much earlier than needed. I had already gone through “the works”
(hair and makeup) and was in costume (a suit) and just waiting around with nothing to do but pick at craft services. I decided
to play some blackjack while I was waiting for my scene to be up. I sat at a table across from where we were shooting but
at a perfect vantage point to be able to see what was going on and when they would be finished and I’d be needed. Keep in
mind that I had barely been on TV before so no one, certainly not this group of middle-aged and seniors from Oklahoma or wherever
they were from, would ever recognize me, let alone assume I had some affiliation with the movie. I sat there playing silently,
immensely enjoying everyone’s speculations as to what the movie was about. The most ridiculous ideas based solely on watching,
from afar where you couldn’t hear anything, some people walking, then standing still for a moment talking, and then walking
away. “I think it’s about a guy who works at a casino. Jim Belushi’s the star of it.” Not quite.
Anyway, after about ten minutes of this, the dealer, a woman in her early thirties or so, says to the table, “I’m gonna try
and get an autograph from him [Jim Belushi]. I have an eight-year-old son who’s very sick and he’s a huge Jim Belushi fan.”
Now, this is the one part you might have some legitimacy issues with. “What eight-year-old is a
huge
Jim Belushi fan?” you might say. But I swear to you that that is what she said. It was at this point that I spoke up and
told her that I was working on the movie, and that I would get her the autograph. She told me her son’s name was Michael and
how grateful she was. “No problem.” I cashed in, walked over, and stood to the side waiting for them to wrap the scene. After
about ten minutes, “Cut! And that is a picture wrap for Jim Belushi!” The crew dutifully clapped as is the custom. I waited
for this to die down, and as he started to walk away, I approached him. Once again, keep in mind, we’ve never met. “Excuse
me, Mr. Belushi?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you see that woman over there?” I pointed across to the table. “Well, she’s got an eight-year-old son who’s sick, and
he’s a huge fan of yours, and she was . . .”
Jim cut me off, curtly saying, “Jesus, I thought you were gonna get me a blowjob.”
The next three seconds are difficult to describe. I got very angry but tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but no,
there’s no way he misunderstood me or I him. I could feel the blood in my face and my heart racing a bit. I took a big breath
and then with a measured tone and overenunciation repeated myself. “No… she has a sick son who . . .” Jim cut me off again,
this time angrier and even more dismissively with, “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than my second wife,” and walked away. I stood
there. A little shocked, but that’s perhaps not the best word to describe what I was feeling. Anger, incredulity, disgust.
Those are better words. And I knew that I was going to have to go back over to the mom and tell her that I couldn’t get the
autograph. Who was more gracious than she should have been.
So there it is. A real, true-life tale of Hollywood assholeness. I still get riled up when I tell the story. I shake my head
anew in disbelief at how vile he acted. I didn’t see him again until the 2005 Emmy’s when he came out to present an award.
I shouted “The Belush!!” as loud as I could, twice, hoping it would get picked up on air. It did not, but my friends nearby
had a gentle yet cautious laugh.
So from this precious moment in time forward, enjoy some faithfully reproduced “Cigar Corner” columns culled from the back
pages of
Cigars!
magazine with the edifying backstory in mind. Now, you’d have to be either retarded or the lawyer for this publisher to even
ask if any of these are true, but in the spirit of being fair to retarded people who are reading this book, and/or lawyers,
the following are not true. I repeat, none of these things really happened (that I am aware of). Anyway, here’s the first
one: