Private Parts (44 page)

That was basically my Magic rap, but the listeners were calling the station in droves complaining. Hell, even my program director in L.A., Andy Bloom, a guy who was with me years ago in Philly, called me up and asked me to tone down my remarks about Magic.
Fuck him!
He called me at home and left a message saying that he had never seen a reaction to anything like the reaction of the L.A.

audience to the Magic raps and the reaction was overwhelmingly negative. I thought that was great. But he was worried about these callers. When I asked him why they were complaining, he couldn't answer. They didn't know why they were mad, they couldn't specifically cite examples of things I had said that pissed them off, they were just angry I was "attacking" Magic.

Well, I'd give them something to be angry about. The next day I went on the air and imagined one of the many phone calls Magic would be making to the women he banged:

MAGIC: Hello, baby, this is Magic

. . . Johnson . . . Yeah . . . now

speaking about my Johnson, we got a little problem here.

WOMAN: What is it, Magic? I never

thought I'd hear from you

again.

MAGIC: Well, you sitting

down?

WOMAN: I just want to say that

that night we spent together so beautiful.

MAGIC: I say, are you sitting down, woman?

WOMAN: Magic, I got to be honest with you. I thought you were like every other basketball player, you wouldn't call me back. And I know

you could have any woman you want. I've dated a lot of basketball

players. I make a habit of dating sports figures and people in the entertainment industry, but they never call back. This is so beautiful that you

called back.

MAGIC: Oh, baby, you're making it harder and harder. Baby, I was shooting arsenic.

WOMAN: What?

MAGIC: Well, there's good news and bad news.

WOMAN: Well, what's the good news?

MAGIC: The good news is you'll be losing a lot of weight soon. You can

go bang away, you got nothing to lose.

WOMAN: What's the bad news?

MAGIC: Well, I got something.

WOMAN: A gift? An engagement ring? Not one of you guys has

ever even called me back, now I'm engaged.

MAGIC: No, no, no, no. I got something ... it rhymes with maids.

WOMAN: Now what rhymes with maids? Blades? Rollerblades?

MAGIC: No, I don't got no Rollerblades.

WOMAN: Oh, my God, wait a second, I think I know what you're trying to tell me.

MAGIC: You know what, baby, it would be a whole lot easier if you tuned in the national TV. Just tune in to my press conference.

WOMAN: Okay, but that doesn't sound like good news.

MAGIC: Look at it this way. You can smoke all the cigarettes you want, do lots of drugs, jump out of an airplane, and race cars.

Now the phones and hate mail really went crazy. A few days later I picked out the best seething hate letter from a woman in L.A. named Laura and I called her up on the air.

"Honey, you're a big phony," I said. "You can't face facts that Magic Johnson, your supposed hero, was banging everything on two legs."

"Howard, you would have sex with lots of girls, but women don't want you."

"LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, HONEY!" I shouted. "I COULD BE OUT BANGING A DIFFERENT WOMAN EVERY NIGHT."

"In your dreams."

That was it. I couldn't bear to talk with this moron. So I did all the talking. I had more to say than she did. "There's no way you can stop my juggernaut of coming and barreling through L.A. The ratings continue to grow. You're right, there's a lot of people like you who don't have any comprehension level. You read a book and you don't even know what you read. You speak and you don't know what you just said. You're a stupid woman who will never understand my show. You should not be listening. I don't sit and idolize Magic Johnson. I tell you the way it is. I tell you that he slept with thousands of women and that's why he got the AIDS virus. He used no contraception whatsoever and you can't deal with that because it's an adult opinion. I don't go around gaga about Magic. He's not my God and hero."

"You're your only God and hero," she said.

Maybe she was more perceptive than I was giving her credit for.

"You should quit the Catholic church and pray to Magic Johnson.

Build a giant sneaker in your bedroom and pray to that instead of the Virgin Mother," I said.

"I have a basketball..."

"Take the basketball and pray to it."

"Howard, you have this godlike attitude that ain't gonna work for long."

"If you don't like the show, listen to Rick Dees, Mark and Brian, Jay Thomas, I'll name them all. IN FACT, I FORBID YOU FROM LISTENING TO MY SHOW AND YOU ARE ONLY ALLOWED TO LISTEN TO MARK AND BRIAN AND RICK DEES AND JAY THOMAS. Now I'll hang up on you. Thank you for calling and thank you for your hate letter. You are no longer allowed to listen."

"Thank you, Howard," she said and hung up.

"I don't want anybody like her listening," I continued. "I want to hand-select the people who listen. Their hero. They got a real hero. Meanwhile a real hero like Jonas Salk can't afford cable TV."

MUGGED AT THE GRAMMYS

It's funny, after all these years doing my show, I never really got into a physical fight. Plenty of screaming matches, verbal threats, and posturing, but no fisticuffs. But it wasn't until we went to L.A. to do a live remote from the Grammys that I ever got into a real fight.

This wasn't a real fight either. It was more like a New York mugging. We were set up in a hall at the Roosevelt Hotel, along with a lot of other radio stations from around the country. The problem was my show was so controversial that the idiots escorting the celebrities from station to station were shying away from bringing me guests.

I wasn't going to take this lying down. I called over the jerk who was running the show and berated him on the air. He told me that I had a history of "hogging" guests. I told him to screw off, I'd get my own guests. It just so happens that for these purposes, I carry a megaphone. The previous year at the Grammys, I used this megaphone on Lou Reed in an attempt to shame him into coming and sitting for an interview with me, even though I knew he hated my guts.

"LOU REED? LOU REED? WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?" I boomed. "I'M A BIG FAN OF YOURS. I KNOW ALL YOUR HIT SONGS. 'WALK ON THE WILD SIDE,' 'SWEET

JANE.' WHY DO YOU IGNORE ME?"

I picked up my megaphone and turned it on. Scanning the room, I spotted Elaine Boosler at the next booth. Great. Another jerk who didn't like me and wouldn't be a guest. I really wasn't interested in her being on my show until I heard she requested not to be on. The guy who ran the show told me that Elaine had been hearing me talk shit about her all week, too. This was going to be fun.

"HEY, ELAINE. WHAT'S THE MATTER? YOU DON'T WANT TO COME ON MY SHOW?" Everyone in the room could hear me. The whole room turned as one toward me. The other stations were pissed because my loud megaphone voice was interrupting their broadcasts.

"ELAINE, YOU DON'T WANT TO BE ON THE 'HOWARD STERN SHOW? WHAT'S THE MATTER? IT'S SUCH A HORRIBLE SHOW? YEAH, YOU'RE SO FUNNY."

"So's your face," a strange-looking guy suddenly said.

"Who are you? Take a seat," I motioned toward my empty guest chair.

All of a sudden, all hell broke loose. This jerk attacked me, slamming my megaphone into my nose. He was about to do more damage, but my faithful producer, Boy Gary, grabbed him from behind. He poked Gary in the mouth and threw a full cup of soda at me before one of my brave listeners from New York, who had won a radio contest, managed to wrestle him to the ground and bloody his face with his studded wristband. During this fracas, Elaine Boosler came over screaming, "He's with me and he has taste." It turns out that this guy was Boosler's boyfriend. The entire room started buzzing with excitement. The best thing about the fight was we never went off the air. THIS WAS GREAT RADIO!

"Elaine Boosler's people just beat up Gary," I immediately announced. "Are my earrings in?" Gary asked. "I think he pulled one of my earrings out."

"You get punched in the eye?" I asked him.

"No, I'm okay," Baba Booey said. "But I don't want you to ever say I don't do anything for you. I took a shot for you, man."

He was absolutely right. I made a mental note not to berate him -- at least not until we got back to New York.

"Howard Stern? I can't stand him." -- Lou Reed

More and More and More and More Hate Mail

I feel sorry for you Howard. You are a man caught inside a world of his own ego. Who are all these fictitious people that are always mauling you where ever you go? Honestly Howard do you really think you are that recognizable. You look just like about 500,000 other tall black hair, big nosed Jews that live in New York City. There are no people bothering you Howard it is all part of some warped make believe world. A world that you have conjured up to support your own ego problem. You are worse than the addicts you occasionally make fun of.

Asshole

K-Suck!

600 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10022

Dear Pig,

You suck. You suck

You suck. You suck.

You suck. You suck

You suck. You suck. You suck. You

You suck. You suck.

You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.

You suck. You

suck. You suck

You suck. You suck. suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.

This is in response to your inhumane remark referring to lawyers as retards and mongoloids on your show of Thurs., July 9. I, on behalf of all handicapped people demand a public apology for your heartless remark. Retarded people can't help what they are but you can help what you are. You think your so cool but you're nothing more than a radio rendition of Don Rickles. You get your laughs (so you think) by tearing other people apart which is so unoriginal and boring. You are a has been and your sponsors hate you because your only appeal is to an all male audience. Why don't you take a look at your own pathetic life before making fun of the less fortunate. It's too bad you weren't socially conscious enough to have had a vasectomy before bringing two more dregs into society like yourself. Retarded people will have more to offer society than your subhuman family.

Out of the Closet Stern

I'
m Six-Five, Weigh 190
Pounds, and I Have a Tongue
Like an Anteater
Chapter 14

Frankly, I cannot fathom how any man can look at another man's buttocks and get turned on. But this is America, and I will defend to the death the right of any man to insert his penis anywhere. And as for transsexuals, I think those sex-change operations should be outlawed. These freaking doctors should spend less time carving vaginas out of penises and find a cure for cancer already.

The truth is, I am one of the world's leading authorities on homosexuality, and I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight on why men become homosexuals. Many people today lean toward the revisionist theory that homosexuality is biologically determined. In my opinion, homosexuality is just another way of delaying adulthood. When you're with another guy you don't have to deal with the responsibilities of a traditional family. You extend the joys of your prepubescence. You're stuck in the phase of your life where you just hang out with boys. It's a simpler time. And a gross sign of immaturity. I believe homosexual behavior is not genetic but rather a deeply rooted defense mechanism that allows the human mind to ward off outside pressures. Like obsessive-compulsive behavior, alcoholism, or gambling addictions, homosexual behavior can be changed. I have nothing against homosexuals and support gay rights, but...

... I can't fathom the ass as a sex object. I mean, why don't I just go and put my dick in a garbage pail?

I could shower my backside ninety times a day, I could clean it out with a wire brush, that smell is a road flare to me.

I once asked one of the guys I had on Gay Dial-a-Date how he could stomach the smell of another man's ass.

"Dogs smell each other's asses all the time," he said.

"All I know," I said, "is that you're a psychopath if you don't realize that a man's backside smells like a waste area, a human cesspool. You can take colonics for a month, you can sit on a bidet, you can take a bottle of Opium perfume and stick it up there with the cap off, and it will still stink to high hell!" I yelled. "I've done experiments on myself. I stay in the shower for hours and soap every nook and cranny and when I come out and lie on the floor and smell myself, it still stinks!"

"You better see a doctor, Howard," he said.

"You are a lunatic! You're attracted to the smell of a man who goes to the bathroom! You must have an air freshener lodged in your buttocks, Socrates. That area is an exit, not an entrance."

"Women have no odor?" he said.

"They stink, too, but it's worth putting up with," I said. "Once you feel a woman, there's nothing better."

Sometimes I actually envy gays when it comes to having sex. If you can get over the fact that it's a guy's buttocks, there are no head

trips involved. You don't have to have three dates. You don't even have to be attractive. You stuff your ass into some jeans and go down to a gay bar, and guaranteed someone will pull down your pants and blow you. No begging, no guilt, no game playing. Got an ass? WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU, STAN! No "So what kind of work do you do?" With gays, it doesn't matter.

"What's your job?"

"Actually, I'm out of work at the present."