Why We Suck Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1 - WHY EVERYONE HATES US

  CHAPTER 2 - YOUR KIDS ARE NOT CUTE

  CHAPTER 3 - PLEASE DRUG YOUR CHILDREN

  CHAPTER 4 - I HAD SEX WITH KATHIE LEE GIFFORD (AND SHE WAS AMAZING)

  CHAPTER 5 - BULLIES R US

  CHAPTER 6 - AUTISM SHMAUTISM

  CHAPTER 7 - FAMOUS DEAD KIDS

  CHAPTER 8 - NUNS, TITS, BOOZE AND MY MOM

  CHAPTER 9 - LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME-IN UTERO

  CHAPTER 10 - SELF-ESTEEM THIS

  CHAPTER 11 - MATT DILLON IS A GIANT FAG

  CHAPTER 12 - YOUR CAT SUCKS FISH HEADS IN HELL

  CHAPTER 13 - GRANDE VENTE MOCHA OPRAH CHAI

  CHAPTER 14 - DOES THIS BOMB MAKE MY ASS LOOK FAT?

  CHAPTER 15 - TESTICLE-COLORED TOWELS

  CHAPTER 16 - THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON SEMEN

  CHAPTER 17 - WE’D HATE YOU EVEN IF YOU WEREN’T BLACK

  CHAPTER 18 - THE POPE IS A PIMP

  CHAPTER 19 - THE ASSHOLE OLYMPICS

  CHAPTER 20 - SOMEONE TELL MY MOM THAT CELL PHONES CAUSE CANCER

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.Penguin

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  Books Ltd)Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2008 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Killarney Ink, LLC, 2008

  All rights reserved

  Illustrations by Patrick Campbell. Illustrations copyright © Killarney Ink, LLC, 2008

  Photographs courtesy of the author.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Leary, Denis.

  Why we suck : a feel good guide to staying fat, loud, lazy and stupid / by Denis Leary.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-64073-5

  1. American wit and humor. I. Title.

  PN6165.L43 2008

  814’.54—dc22 2008025027

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  “Just remember, kid—it’s all bullshit.”

  —ROBERT MITCHUM, WHISPERING INTO NICK NOLTE’S

  EAR AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS

  DOCTOR’S NOTE

  I’d like to point out that all of the facts and allegations and medical science spoken about in this book have all been thoroughly researched. By me and my staff. Which means—just me. I didn’t make footnotes and I’m not listing any evidence. That shit just takes way too long. You wanna find out if what I say is true IS actually true? Google it. That’s what I did. The things I didn’t bother to Google? They happened to me firsthand. Good luck and good reading.

  Dr. Leary

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank everyone who ever told me to go fuck myself. It’s why I fell in love with my wife, who bears more than a fleeting resemblance to me—except she’s far prettier. And is a girl, obviously. And she’s funnier than I am. And smarter. And somehow fell in love with me when I was broke and barely owned the sneakers on my working-class Irish feet. I owe everything in my life to Ann and my two terrific children—Devin and Jack. Let’s face it—the only reason I wrote this book is because both of them wanna go to college. So thanks for helping to further their education by purchasing this fine piece of literature. Wow. I wrote a whole book. Well, it’s SHAPED like a book. Anyways—enjoy.

  SECRET HIDDEN MESSAGE PAGE

  I have never been fat. But I have been—and oftentimes continue to be—loud, lazy and stupid. So put down the Pop-Tarts and listen up a little. I’m trying to help us here.

  A SECOND NOTE FROM THE DOCTOR

  Just in case you still do not understand (and given the condition of this country and the people we place into elected office, I think there are whole cities full of morons who couldn’t beat a bag of hammers in a game of Scrabble out there) let me make it simple for you:

  This is a comedy book.

  Which means it’s meant to be funny.

  So when I say something in here I am offering up my opinion, my slightly exaggerated take on people, places and things and very often a twisted take on reality.

  In other words: it is parody, satire and poking fun.

  If you are mentioned within these pages and your first reaction is to call a lawyer?

  Good night and good luck.

  Because there are endless things you can buy in America—but a sense of humor isn’t one of them.

  We got pills and potions for your head, face, fears, tits, ass, anxieties, colon, kidneys, alcohol addiction, drug jones, heart, lungs, lips and attitude—but we don’t have anything that can make you laugh at yourself.

  Otherwise—before you read this book?

  I’d prescribe a fist full of it.

  Once again,

  Dr. Denis

  SPECIAL THANKS

  I’d like to thank Lydia Wills for her support and finely tuned interest. I’d like to thank God—if only because I am so sick of hearing rappers with criminal records longer than their extended-length Hummer limousines do it at the Grammys. But I’d also like to thank Satan—who never gets enough credit for his wonderfully inspirational work with everyone from Judas Priest to The Rolling Stones and seemingly every other talk-radio honcho and Bush administration member. I think I speak for all comedians out there when I say without Satan and his many evil minions, we wouldn’t have such a wealth of great targets to aim at. I also must thank Patrick Campbell for his fabulous artwork that will make you laugh out loud later on. But I can’t thank Patrick without mentioning his wife Kerry and their son Wyatt, who stopped by the apartment and my office many times when Patrick and I were working. I must also thank Wyatt for puking on the kitchen floor instead of the living room rug. And last but not least I’d like to thank my editor Josh Kendall for his bright advice and deft suggestions and all the lively and lovely girls from Penguin who first came into the offices at Apostle—my production company—and said “you gotta write a book.” They sparked my interest. I have to thank two key people at Apostle as well—Bartow Church and my assistant Anna Urban, both of whom I drove
nuts with requests for celebrity post-autopsy toxicology results and lists of political trivia etcetera etcetera. And I must thank the one man in particular who made this whole thing happen: my production partner Jim Serpico. After the Penguin girls had pitched their idea and left, Jim said “if you’re ever gonna write a book, this is the time and these are the people.” Then he kept kicking my ass to make my deadlines and reading drafts and telling me what made him laugh and what didn’t and telling me time and time again that I only had such and such a number of months left and why don’t you push that subject a little further and when are you gonna have that chapter done and you only have eight weeks you only have three weeks you only have four more days and I think this cover is the best cover and I’ll tell you why. He’s the hardest-working guy I have ever met and he’s funny and he’s sharp and he’s really really really smart and he’s made every project we’ve ever worked on better simply by being involved and God how I hate him. Thanks, Jimmy. You slave-driving sunuvabitch. I’d also like to thank my recently departed Irish Wolfhound Clancy—the biggest dog in the history of the world. Let’s put it this way—when I had a cup of coffee in the morning, so did he. THAT’S how big he was. And I gotta give kudos to my new dog Lulu—she picked up right where Clancy left off. Only she doesn’t drink coffee. But she did sit at my feet under the desk each day and look up at me yearningly with her big brown eyes, as if to say—when the fuck is this book gonna be done, asshole?

  It’s done, Lu. Let’s go get us some squirrels.

  PROLOGUE

  Put this book down.

  Right now.

  Do not buy it.

  Stop reading.

  Now.

  Why are you still reading this?

  Okay.

  I warned you.

  Now I will beg you, beseech you—in short, do everything possible in the limited format of this medium to get you to buy any other book within reach right now (if this book was a gift and you are at home or on a plane or sitting in a hotel room somewhere I would suggest grabbing a newspaper or a magazine or even your laptop) because this book is going to piss you off.

  If you are a woman, you will soon be livid.

  If you are a man, you are going to be filled with a burning rage.

  If you are a kid—meaning anyone under the age of eighteen—you will soon be filled with shock and awe.

  Scratch that.

  If you are under the age of twenty-five you will soon be filled with shock and awe.

  If you are a fan of Oprah—good luck.

  If you hate Oprah or Oprah tends to drive you insane—you too will need some assistance.

  This is not a book for the faint of heart or the politically correct or the weak or the extreme right wing or the left of center leftist Democrat or nuns or any other members of any organized religion or New York Yankee fans.

  I am warning you—I am not here to make you feel all warm and fuzzy or superior to everyone else or all soft and gooey inside. I am here to debunk and declassify and otherwise hold up a brutally honest mirror to our fat, ugly, lazy American selves.

  I am here to explain how we can and must thin the herd and extricate the stupid and eradicate the obese and take Rush Limbaugh’s head and make a bong out of it.

  Senators, psychopaths, fence-sitters (all three of those may sometimes be the same person), celebrity assholes (hello), presidents, centerfielders, centerfolds—everyone is up for grabs here.

  Because I’m sick of it all.

  I’m sick of low self-esteem and fake fat-suit-wearing female talk-show hosts and extreme makeovers and Cats The Musical and cats in general and steroid-laden home-run hitters and Paris Hilton and Grey’s Anatomy and Reese Witherspoon movies and Paris Hilton’s himbo boyfriends and celebrity rehab and Dr. Phil and Terrell Owens and almost anyone else you can think of.

  This country—including you and most of the people related to you by birth or marriage or both—is populated by beings who have been so blessed for so long that they have become almost completely immune to any interests other than their own.

  Open ass—insert head.

  THAT is the mantra with which most of America lives each and every day.

  THAT’S what should be printed on the plaque beneath our beloved Statue of Liberty. Along with the following:

  Welcome to America where I’M not fat, I’M not stupid, I’M not the problem—YOU are.

  Americans have been so isolated geographically, financially and psychologically for so long that we don’t even see reality in the mirror anymore. Everyone has bought so far into their own bullshit—backed up by other jerk-offs and human jack-o’-lanterns on TV—that the truth has been distorted into a believable fantasy world: I can’t be overweight, look at the tub-a-lard sitting next to me. The food I eat can’t be bad for me ’cause the commercial on TV says it’s actually healthy. I’m not addicted to these doctor-prescribed drugs, the drug company discovered a disease that I have and then invented these pills to cure me.

  Responsibility, research and actual factual thinking have gone out the window. If most people in this country see something on TV it must be true/news/necessary/important. Therefore, when things go wrong—how can the innocent citizen/TV watcher be at fault?

  I spill a vat-sized “cup” of morning coffee onto my giant cellulite-dimpled thighs at the take-out window and suffer third-degree burns because it was hot and I desperately needed to wash down the two-ton doughnut I just manhandled into my gaping mouth—do I blame myself and go on a diet and start working out?

  No.

  I sue McDonald’s because the take-out window kid who handed me the cup of joe—who’s from Bumfuck, Mexico, and has been in this country all of eighteen weeks and only knows the English words “can I take your order, please,” “would you like fries with that” and “go Yankees”—didn’t warn me that the coffee was the same temperature as the air in the hut he grew up in was every single day of his childhood.

  Open ass—insert head with flame-red tongue.

  My kid is the size of an out-of-shape NFL offensive lineman, has what within two months might become a full-blown Fu Manchu mustache and is already smoking two packs a day and watching Internet porn even though SHE is only twelve years old.

  Do I put her on a diet and make her start working out?

  Fuck no.

  I sue McDonald’s because they make shitty, hormone-and-chemical-filled food that she eats every single day three TIMES a day because I’m very very busy living my selfish extended adolescent life and don’t have time to:

  a. Cook her normal food.

  b. Monitor her free time.

  c. Stop smoking pot and drinking so her easiest sources of alcohol and marijuana dry up.

  Open ass—insert thick, self-medicated head.

  An out-of-shape and overweight guy in Denver, Colorado, claims he developed lung cancer because he ate microwave popcorn with artificial butter flavoring. He loved when he would pull the bag out of the microwave and tear open the top and it would go “WHOOF” and he would stick his face in and inhale the aroma. You can just hear him sucking in the sweet sweet smell of all that great fake butter, can’t you? Just like Homer Simpson: Ooooh—buttery fake butter. After whiffing up the cloud of chemicals, this moron on a mission would proceed to scarf down the entire bag and then—that’s right—start the whole process all over again. He admits to snorting and scarfing two bags a day so let’s do the actual math and add the two more bags he won’t admit to because he probably figures four bags a day would just be really embarrassing so what we have here is a guy who ate and sniffed so much fake butter that he developed the same cancer that people who work in the plant where they manufacture the fake butter did—people who make thousands of bags of pretend popcorn every single day.

  Should he blame himself for his lazy butter-assed slovenly ways?

  Nope.

  The popcorn factory workers filed a dangerous workplace/permanent health damages lawsuit and he decided to ride their cancer
coattails all the way to the bank.

  Let’s up his total to at least five bags a day. Whatever the actual number might be I’ll guarantee you one thing right now—you don’t wanna be THIS guy when you’re sitting down in the lung cancer chemotherapy waiting room. ’Cause when the guy who worked in a coal mine for twenty-seven years or the fireman who spent decades pulling people out of asbestos-ridden burning buildings asks how YOU got lung cancer the last word you wanna mention is “popcorn.”

  Open ass—insert fake butter bag.

  And I don’t wanna hear the words “misogyny,” “racial profiling” or “politically incorrect.”

  I’m talking common goddam sense.

  Misogynistic means you hate women—it doesn’t mean you hate women because you are trying to tell them what they do not want to hear.

  Like yes, your ass IS fat.

  Or no—most heterosexual men do NOT find Renée Zellweger attractive.

  AND—it’s not possible that every single pair of shoes or every dress you decide to buy can be on sale. Maybe four hundred and seventy-nine dollars is the ACTUAL price and “marked down from seven hundred” is what they teach the salesclerk to tell you.