LA Comedy Writer

I have a certain respect for people who fart in public. I’m not talking about the dude (or girl) who lets one fly in a loud disco; I mean the guy who can ease one out at a cocktail party amongst society’s elite. It takes a certain spectacular control over your ass muscles (can’t imagine what THAT gym workout is like) to know it won’t sound like the noon whistle that signals lunch time for the factory, combined with the discipline to not laugh out loud as your funk permeates others’ olfactory senses. Unfortunately, I never had either. There’s been but one instance in my life, and I failed miserably. I was 7, and one day Mrs. Frederick decided to read our 1st grade class a story. We were all seated on the floor around her. I can’t remember if I consciously tried to do a “one cheek sneak”, or if it slipped, but, there’s only one way to describe the sound…remember when you were a kid and they would sound an alarm for the “duck and cover” exercise? I was within that decibel range. Mrs. Frederick shot a lasered glare in my direction, as did the rest of the class. My best friend next to me tried to cover, by laughing like an idiot and pointing right at me, while I gave a half-hearted denial, all the while with a telltale smirk. I’ve never had a problem lying to a woman, but a group setting is a different animal. I look guilty even when I’m innocent. I was reminded of this while in a very classy bar last night, standing with my cocktail, when the aroma of cabbage and broccoli wafted over me like a desert breeze. As others discretely put fingers under their nostrils, I started looking around. For some reason I always look for a fat, unkempt guy first. Nope, nobody around like that. In fact, it was primarily women, so since it wasn’t me (I swear), it had to be one of these classy women, apple martini in hand. Curious as I was, I couldn’t hang in the area 1) because I noticed rats heading for the door, and 2) it wouldn’t be long before those women started making horrible assumptions about ME. Goddammit, I felt that fucking smirk start to creep into my face as I sidled toward the smoking area. But somewhere, there’s a chick who totally got away with it, and my hat’s off to her.

My other tale of woe concerns my first days in sunny LA. It was 1987, and after an appearance on Wheel Of Fortune, I decided California was the only place to live. It was a spectacular place back then. I had a great bachelor pad in Hollywood, and shortly after getting settled I took in the beach in Santa Monica. As I came back from the sand and surf, towel around my neck, I arrived at where my car was supposed to be. I looked up, and right in front me I saw a guy driving right by me in my car. I must have looked very sad as that little Vietnamese man drove away from me in my own vehicle. My only thought was, Welcome to California. Now go home. I had no other choice but to take the bus home. On the bus, a man with everything he owned in a couple of bags beside him could see my disgust with life in general. “What’s the matter?” he asked. I was barely able to mutter, “Little Vietcong stole my car”.  “Oh man” the guy said, “Well keep your head up. It’ll all turn around for ya. One day you’ll have five of them cars.” I thanked him and went back to staring out the window, avoiding the dried loogey left by a former patron. But you know what? I’ll be damned if that dude wasn’t right. Today, in my garage, I have five 1977 Chevettes. And I don’t feel any better.

The cheers you are hearing collectively around the nation are with the news that Lindsay Lohan has been sentenced to 90 days in jail, and 90 days of subsequent in-house rehab. It’s not that we love seeing celebrities go to jail, only the morons who flaunt the law repeatedly, then act appalled that they have to be subjected to court hearings and the like (OJ, Mr. Blake…are you listening?). The actress known for her role in Mean Girls, but perhaps better known for her maniacal pursuit via SUV of her former assistant down LA streets, put on her best acting job in years when she broke down while addressing the court. How do I figure it’s an act? A few reasons. 1. Because LA jails are so overcrowded, non-violent offenders only do approximate 25% of their sentences (remember Paris Hilton’s 23 day stint?), and LiLo will do about the same. Fuck! Anyone can do 23 days. You get out, go home, and your utilities haven’t even been shut off. 2. Like many people in their early 20′s, she hasn’t taken her probation seriously. She missed a court appearances by running off to Cannes and (supposedly) having her passport stolen, shown up late for court in a most disrespectful fashion, and removed her monitoring ankle bracelet. 3. But perhaps even more telling was the message painted on her middle finger during a court appearance yesterday. Lohan has already stated she thinks the judge “hates her”. So what better way to get that mean old judge back, than to paint “fuck you” on your fingertips (see inset). This was probably meant as an inside joke between Lohan and her hard-partying friends, and wasn’t intended to be caught by the cameras. Let’s just hope the pic gets back to the judge, so the next time LiLo breaks her probation (and believe me, she will), her honor will have the picture handy as a harsher sentence is imposed.

As much as I love Janine, she’s made a bit of a mess with her personal life, and this story is too damned funny to pass up. Porn starlet Janine, who was cheated on by hubby Jesse James before he cheated on newly ex-wife Sandra Bullock, has supposedly given up the porn life, and now has a degree from, drum roll please…CLOWN COLLEGE! Can’t help but wonder how that conversation with Mom went:

Janine: Hey Mom, it’s me.

Mom: Yes dear, I’m very busy. The senior bake sale is this afternoon.

Janine: Well, I know how you’ve hated my career in adult movies, so I wanted to be the first to tell you that I’ve officially given up porn.

Mom: That’s nice, dear, but prostitution isn’t much of a career change.

Janine: No, Momma, I’m completely done with all that. I went back to college and got my BJB degree.

Mom: Blow Job…

Janine: No, it’s a Bachelors in Jackass Behavior. I just graduated from Emmett Kelly University, magna cum!

Mom: Don’t you mean magna cum laude?

Janine: No, just magna cum. I had to persuade the instructor to pass me because I missed a few classes.

Mom: So what can you do with a clown degree, dear?

Janine: I have no idea. It’s kind of like my friend who majored in fine arts. But I feel so free now! I could join the rodeo, or be a mime. The world is my oyster! Aren’t you proud of me, Momma?

Mom: A rodeo clown? A fucking mime? All things being equal, I’d prefer you go back to porn. At least then I can go to the AVN’s in Vegas. I think I read somewhere the national mime convention is in Des Moines. Well, I think my pot brownies are done, dear. I better go. Call me when I can see my grandchild.

Editor’s Note: With all seriousness, I hope Janine can somehow, someway, get her life squared away. She’s definitely made some piss-poor choices, but if you know her personally, you’re rooting for her to turn it around.

My final thought of the day: Will someone PLEASE tell Dr. Oz that there are a number of effective laser treatments for hair removal? Either that, or he has to start wearing a long sleeved shirt. Every time I have to look at his Sasquatch arms, I can taste my own vomit, and feel the need to jump into a swimming pool full of Nair.

Ringo Starr turns 70 today? Just the thought will make some peoples’ bones ache. How could a Beatle be 70? Ringo always was the carefree Beatle, seemingly happy to just be along for the ride. And why not? He wasn’t the original choice. Way back when, there was a guy named Pete Best who provided the back beat for the earliest of the Lennon/McCartney tunes. Eventually, it was decided that Pete had to go. Apparently, the Best man didn’t win. Debate has raged on for almost fifty years as to why Best was cast aside for Ringo (playing with another band at the time). The official version is that Ringo was a more “professional” drummer, and necessary for the fledgling band to go forward. According to Best though, John Lennon was jealous of Best’s looks, and the fact that Best was drawing more attention from the ladies.

Either way, Best not only got the short end of the stick, but had it stuck firmly in his rectum (Rectum? It damn near KILLED him! …old joke, sorry). Best continued on with an unspectacular career, while The Beatles became the biggest selling act of all time. Reportedly, each of The Beatles makes in excess of $10 million per year in royalties, merchandising, and other fees. Meanwhile, the ultra successful show Love, a tribute to The Beatles, plays to sold-out crowds night after night at the Mirage. The tribute to Pete Best, titled The Beatles Can Fuck Themselves, plays to a handful of degenerates at the El Cortez.

It wasn’t all bad for Mr. Best. He tried to capitalize on his brief Beatles fame by recording/releasing songs on the defunct Prune label, eerily similar to Beatles standards. During his sexual years he recorded two songs: Help, My Nuts Are On Fire!, and Lucy In My Bed With Herpes (#898 on the British charts). Later, he had a failed cartoon effort with Yellow Snow. In 1972 he had a string of legal run-ins, and chronicled them with Hey Judge. His final shot at making it on his own was with The Ballad Of Woody And Soon-Yi, and the closest thing he ever had to a hit, Let It Simmer, which was a finalist for the theme to Rachel Ray’s show. It seems poor Pete just couldn’t catch a break. With that in mind, I think it’s only fair that somehow the remaining Beatles should kick down a little of that $10 mil per year. Not enough to make him rich, just enough to keep the heat turned on. After all, with just a hint of luck (or a pockmarked face), Best could have been the one on the Ed Sullivan Show, and smoking hashish with the Maharishi. Instead, he splits a bottle of ripple with a homeless bloke named Ollie. Nearly fifty years later, it’s time to show Pete Best some love.