Private Parts (25 page)

And how much longer can she go on milking the death of her husband, Edgar, for ratings? At first she did a few magazine articles, then a book. Okay. That was cool. She got it out of her system. Then she had her daughter, Melissa, on the show and they both cried,

embarrassingly, on national TV. I envisioned Joan's ultimate sweeps week line-up as she ran out of ways to milk Edgar's death for ratings:

"C'mon baby, you know you need a hot sausage . .. Coming on to Edgar's widow.

"On Monday's show I'm going to have my doorman. You know, when Edgar died the doorman came up to me and opened the door. You want to talk about class. He's a very special doorman."

Joan starts sobbing here.

"Tuesday, we'll have Edgar's embalmer. He's the man who last touched Edgar. A real class gentleman. He put the formaldehyde in Edgar, who looked so handsome. He was a handsome man."

Now Joan's hysterical.

"All next week, the man who built Edgar's casket. And during sweeps week we're going to get the guy who dug the hole in the ground. He was the last man to see Edgar."

Joan's inconsolable.

"For my Christmas show, I'm climbing into the hole with Edgar to decorate him and I'll cry the whole show. I'm going to decorate his skull like a
hamantashen.
We're going to put Edgar's skull on top of the tree. We'll be right back, I can't go on ..."

Joan sobs all the way to the commercials.

Now, as soon as Joan comes back from commercials, it's time to sell gold jewelry.

"This jewelry is replicas of all the jewelry Edgar has given me over the years. Of course, I have the real thing. You're going to wear this fake shit that I wouldn't be caught dead in.

"Now this is a replica of a bee Edgar gave me right before he died. The Greek word for bee is 'Melissa.' That's why he gave it to me.

"I'm all about class and now you'll be full of class, too. Now I have this next item on sale, available only through QVC.

"This is a solid silver miniature booze bottle, the same booze bottle that Edgar drank from right before he committed suicide," Joan weeps bitterly.

"This is a solid gold replica of Edgar's thumb. Different Edgar body parts are available to wear around your neck. I'm wearing right now a tiny diamond-studded coffin, the same coffin that Edgar put himself in. A class box. And these are my eggs. Edgar put his sperm on these eggs and we made Melissa. I had my eggs removed like caviar right before I stopped menstruating and they've been petrified and I've made copies of them, so you can wear them around your neck."

Can anybody else turn personal tragedy into ratings like Joan?

How Joan remained friendly with me after all those Edgar routines I did amazes me to this day. She even invited me on her show. One time I went to her show carrying a hidden video camera. I put it in my dressing room and called Joan in before I went on. I gave her this long sad rap about how I was not getting along with my wife, Alison, and how much I'd like to take her out that night. I made a move to grab her, but she ran away. I don't know why, but she was repulsed by me.

"He's honest, he's forthright, he says what we all think. He has no fear, he's a great showman and a loyal friend. My hand would go into fire for him, but I'd make sure there's a fire extinguisher nearby."
-- Joan Rivers

DAVID LEE ROTH

I once got pissed off at him because he was making the rounds of the rock stations to promote his album but he neglected to come on my show after he promised me he would. I really like David and think Van Halen sucks without him. So, naturally, I was angry that he didn't show up. I was so mad at him that I grabbed his record and

scratched it up pretty good and then I smashed it into a million pieces.

"I've always been good to him," I whined. "I've even avoided talking about his new hair weave. I've been kind to him. Hey, screw him.

I'm going to talk about this. He's David
Weave
Roth. He looks like my Jewish accountant without that hair. I've had it with him." A listener called up with his New York hotel room number but he didn't answer.

"He's probably putting on his hair!" I fumed. "Hey, whenever you see him just call him 'David Weave Roth,' " I instructed my listeners. That night I got a call at home. It was David Weave. "You're killing me," he said. "Everybody on the street was fucking with me." The next day I went on the air.

"So who calls me at home but David Lee Roth," I gloated. "You mean David
Weave
Roth," Robin said. "You better keep your mouth shut, Robin," I said. "He's going to be here in about twenty minutes. He's making the peace." Well, David did show up, and he proved to me he wasn't wearing a weave.

"At any given time, Howard says what is really on his mind. Most of the time, Howard says what is really on your mind. This makes Howard unique on American radio."
-- David Lee Roth

SANDRA BERNHARD

Sandra used to come on my show a lot before she got a job with that fatso Roseanne and Tom Ono, who, because they hate me, have prevented her from coming on my show. But Sandra was really open about her relationship with Madonna. I had her on my TV show the night we did a roast. While she was roasting me, I leaned over and pulled something out from between her teeth.

"I always wanted to see Madonna's pubic hair," I said. Whenever Sandra would come on the radio, I'd ask her if she ever got it on with Madonna.

"I've gone to some dumps before, but I've never gone to that place. I have a little bit of dignity," she said.

"Did Madonna steal your girlfriend?" I went on. "A real friend wouldn't steal your girlfriend."

"I know and I couldn't be happier. It worked out beautifully."

"I can't stand Madonna," I said. "I think she's the biggest bitch phony."

"Beyond," Sandra said.

"When you girls don't get any penis, you all fall apart," I observed.

Sandra plugged her show and hung up. "I would do Sandra," I said. "She's got a good body. And those lips. Lips o' plenty, lips to do things with, lips to make up for everything else, lips that, maybe after you finish with her, might make you a little nauseous. But I don't care. I'm proud to admit I'd fuck Sandra."

JESSICA HAHN

Jessica carries a pocketbook full
of lingerie when she visits my

show in case I ask for a
striptease.

How we first got to know each other is a great story. Jessica was an obscure young girl from Long Island who was propelled into the headlines when she was caught up in the Jim Bakker sex scandals. I really felt sorry for her. It was clear that she had been manipulated and used by these phony preachers. Meanwhile, she was holed up in her little trailer on Long Island, hiding from the press.

Baba Booey had gotten hold of her home phone number from a friend of a friend who worked for a television station. Apparently the entire New York media had her number, but Jessica would never pick up the phone when someone from the press called. We decided to give it a try. I dialed the number on the air and got the answering machine.

"Hello, Miss Hahn, my name is Howard Stern. I don't know if

you've heard me before but I'm a reporter. Not a reporter. A friend. I'm a deejay."

Suddenly, we heard a click. "Is this really Howard Stern?" a female voice said. "Yes," I said.

"Do you listen to the show?" Robin said. "Yes, I do," Jessica said and we all cheered. "This is really cool, you're like a newsmaker," I said. "I appreciate it," Jessica said. "At least you guys make me laugh. It's a great way to wake up."

I immediately began a role that would continue throughout our relationship. I counseled Jessica on dealing with her newfound celebrity.

The next day we called back with a gift for Jessica: an all-expenses-paid trip to Montego Bay for seven days. Of course, I made her promise she wouldn't talk to any other New York radio stations, especially WNBC. And, in this second phone conversation, I began a sexual flirtation with Jessica that over the years has put tremendous strain on my marital vows of fidelity.

The strain was intensified when Jessica came into the studio for her first live appearance, almost four months after that phone call. Jessica had just gotten back from Chicago where she had done the Donahue show. In fact, I was furious when she told me that the Donahue audience had the nerve to laugh when Jessica revealed that I had been giving her advice. Morons!

"I have fun with you, Howard," Jessica said. "People don't want me to relax. They want me to start preaching or sit in a corner and cry." "I stuck by your story the whole time," I told her. "I know. I love you for that," Jessica gushed. "I just love you so much."

You could cut the sexual tension in the studio with a knife. In fact, it got so heavy that Alison called in. Gary came in and conveyed her message: "She loves you, but watch it." We got Alison on the phone. She exchanged pleasantries with Jessica. Dominic Barbara, Jessica's lawyer, offered Alison his services for the divorce. "Alison knows she's on the gravy train, she

ain't jumping off for anybody," I said.

"Listen, I trust you and I know when you're carrying on for the show," Alison said. "But Dominic, if anything happens, I'm taking him to the cleaners."

We had a lot of fun with Jessica over the years on the show. One time I made a phony phone call to her posing as Bob Trellis, a fictitious editor with Doubleday. She once told me that she wanted to write a book, but nothing dirty or pornographic. I wanted to see if she would stick to that premise if I offered her a lot of money. I told her that after hearing her talk on the "Howard Stern Show" about how she exercises her vaginal muscles, I realized it would make a perfect book.

"A step-by-step instruction guide would be fabulous," I said.

"But I'm not a pro on anything," Jessica said, not recognizing my voice.

"We're interested in your talents as a reproducer," I said. "Perhaps we'll have drawings. Dating habits, safe sex, lubricants, whatever."

I offered her a fifteen-thousand-dollar advance.

"It's a fledgling idea," I pitched her. "The idea of the inside mechanism of a woman's parts being exercised and used is an incredible concept. Obviously, a strong book would include the story that you used a milking machine for sexual use."

Jessica's best breast press photo.

While Jessica teases, she pleases the crowd at the outdoor funeral that I staged for my competitors.

The King of L.A. celebrates at the ratings death of his morning competition.

"I have to see this whole thing in my mind to be able to accept it and see if it'll work," Jessica said.

"It
will
work," I pushed. "You could do a whole chapter on using a candle. Or a loom rack. Or a plumber's helper's handle. A whole chapter on that would be fabulous."

"I really don't know," Jessica said.

"Look, I don't want you to get perverted for the book. If Jessica Hahn had used a propane hose, then we do a chapter on propane hoses," I said.

"Look,
Playboy
paid me a million dollars and they asked me to do one percent of what you're asking. I am not going to put myself on the line like this, this is too far out!" she said.

I barreled on:

"Let's say we find someone who uses road flares, for example. Then we'd put it in the book. Not necessarily you using a road flare. I don't think you'd use a road flare, you're a very beautiful woman, but some people are desperate."

"Look, I can only go so far," Jessica said. "I've done a lot of things that I don't regret at all, but this is going a little beyond that."

"So you're saying you're opposed to posing with weird

gadgets and strange people?" I said.

"Yes," she said firmly. She began to act a bit suspicious. She asked me for my phone number.

"Would it be out of the question to name the book 'A Red Snapper Ain't Just for Fishing'?"

"Can I ask you a question? Is this a joke? Did Howard put you up to this? I cannot believe in my wildest dreams that anybody from a book company would call me up like this."

I ignored her. "You have to be willing to put out when it comes to books. Books are bucks."

"Who is this? This makes
Playboy
look like church," she said.

"Your breasts were made for print," I whispered. "You know, a picture of you watching a guy spank his Franklin while looking at your
Playboy
spread would be unbelievable for a book."

"It's short-term bucks. There isn't enough money on the face of the earth for the idea you have," Jessica decided. "No! I'd do this and I couldn't get a job cleaning toilets."

"You know, squeezing a man's Jolly Rod with your Hay Nanny Nanny means dollars," I urged. "If we could just shave you down like a four-year-old ..." I started cracking up and I couldn't go on and I let her in on the joke. Another five minutes and I swear I could have signed her.

Jessica became a regular on the show. We found a pattern to her phone calls. She'd leave New York to go to Los Angeles for the weekend and she'd call in to say good-bye.

"I love you," she said.

"No, I love
you,"
I'd reply.

"I miss you guys," she'd come back.

"No, we miss you," I'd say.

After a while we started taking bets on the air to see how long it would be before she told us she missed us.

It got to the point where she was calling in so much that we had to brush her off a few times. Then she started leaving messages on Gary's answering machine at home. Gary would call in for messages and there'd be eighty messages and seventy-eight of them were from Jessica. Gary would bring the tape in the next morning and we'd play it on the air. Jessica was shrewd enough to know that this was another way of getting on the air. One day before Thanksgiving we were bickering with Jessica and I told her not to call anymore if I was causing her too much pain. So it was the day before