I’ve written before about how much I hate other parents, right? Hold on, let me rifle through my essays past and double check…

…vicodin…lesbian porn…my wife is awesome…vicodin…Guided by Voices…pants shitting…vicodin…

Yup, here it is. I wrote one about how other parents are condescending and shallow and about how I hate spending time with anyone who’s vagina has “passed a human”. Well, I’m about to append that belief as it has recently changed. I also hate spending time with myself, because I’ve become one of those tiresome zombies.

I was starting this week’s column with the sentence, “My daughter has been projectile vomiting all weekend” when I realized that I have become one of those people who have no frame of reference past their own children. Last week I did a show called "Asssscat" at The Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York. My job was to create monologues based on an audience suggestion from which other performers would create scenes. I did about eight monologues that night, all of which had something to do with my child.

I have not, thank god, started talking about pre-schools or strollers or Osh-Kosh B’Gosh. I haven’t yet fully gulped the Kool-Aid. I’m still using a sippy cup. But I can’t remember having a conversation that didn’t somehow refer back to my daughter and the always-story-worthy things she does.

So, patient readers, allow me this one last indulgence. Permit me one final Stream of Kidsciousness and I will be done. Two weeks from now I’ll be back, talking about diarrhea and making fun of black people. Thanks in advance.


-Here is a list of words my daughter can say: Mama, Dada, Banana, boat, car, sock, hiya, bye, cup, hot, hat, cookie, apple, back, water, bottle, Nana, book, bike, bag, various animal sounds, no more, burp, diaper, night-night, bubble, pop, cat, buckle, echo, thank-you (sounds like “dada”), boo-boo, pocket and Bukakke. Allow me to back up.

She was trying to say “car-car”, an appropriation that appears in a song we sing to her whenever we are driving in the car and she is crying (which is all of the time). She also loves “B” sounds and, not surprisingly, landed upon “Boo-ca-ca”. “Bukakk-ee” was not far behind. My mom was visiting and heard my wife and me laughing and I soon found myself having to define “Bukakke” for my Christian mother. It went well. I anchored my definition in the ancient Japanese ceremony on which the graphic fetish porn is supposedly based. Regardless of how technical you are in your definition of “Bukakke”, it still ends with, “And they ejaculate all over her face.” My mother is nothing if not a good sport.

By the way, if you Google Bukakke (which I just did) the first site listed is actually the “official” Bukakke site. The author of the site is quoted thusly, “Asian bukakke is as good as Extreme bukakke but I do like UK bukakke, and I do think that American bukakke and Tampa bukakke is great…” I alerted him to his grammatical errors in a concise and well-executed email, hoping they were not just stylish flair. I’ll report back to you when I get his thankful reply.

-One Fish ,Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish is not a good book. It’s supposedly about fish and how they come in varying numbers and colors, but around page 10 it totally jumps the shark. By page 58 kids are playing “Ring the Gack”. I played “Ring the Gack” once in college and once, a few years later, while taking ecstasy. Ringing the Gack, as I know it, is not something kids need to know about until, at least, Junior High. Boo, Dr. Suess, Boo! You should have your medical license revoked!

-My penis. She saw it the other day and went straight for it, smiling and pointing. Luckily my wife was watching and alerted me before she got to there. But I’m wont to travel the house naked and I fear that, someday, her sticky hands will find it. But that story has not yet happened.

-She kisses everything: other kids, boo-boos, the floor, the TV when Elmo is on, other kids’ boo-boos, rocks, books, a fireman the other day, the bottom of her plate, the wheels on her stroller, dogs, her clothes, our fax machine, her diapers (or, more specifically, the picture of Winnie the Pooh on her diapers) the air, a picture of George Bush in the newspaper (no joke – she got newspaper ink on her lips), anyone or anything we tell her to kiss, and probably my penis if my wife hadn’t been quick enough.

-She has started throwing tantrums and I have no idea what to do. Usually my wife knows how to handle every situation, like she was born with a spider sense but for babies. But, for the first time, my wife seems flummoxed as well. My wife thinks we should somehow let her know that we understand she is angry but that a tantrum is not an appropriate way to express it. I think we should drop her into a rusty Saw-like maze of death-traps for ninety minutes and let Jigsaw teach her what’s right and wrong. People always learn their lessons in Saw movies.

-After my second time in rehab, I made the mistake of doing blow behind my fat, black bodyguard. He went on the Today Show and told everyone about it and now my ex-husband has become the honorable one in our custody battle. So what if I give my kids soda, let them stay up past last-call and treat them like they’re nothing more than huge, fleshy action figures? Oh, and I flashed the world my pussy again.

I can’t think of any more stories, isn’t that ironic? Perhaps it’s because I haven’t cornered you at a party. Perhaps the baby-story trigger is watching someone chew their arm off in order to get away from me and my tales. I’m not that worried. I write for SuicideGirls, I have street cred to burn, right?

In case I don’t, I’ve been compensating in other ways. I was walking to the store the other day to buy Gatorade for my dehydrated baby (she was puking, remember? That’s what this story used to be about? I’m like a modern day Dr. Suess.) when I came across some gutter punks outside The Knitting Factory selling Seraphim Slaughter CDs. The most pimpled one told me that the second song, “Stabbed with an AIDS Needle” will cure homosexuality if you listen to it eight times. I asked him which song would make me cool again. He said told me that number six, “Armagedon Raperrampage” may help but that it hasn’t been tested.

I bought two.



Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

O Dear friends! What a prolonged spell! What a gap! Where has the laughter gone? Why the tears? Why the tears, baby? You know I’d never mean to hurt you! I just can’t control myself! Who’s my special reader? Who’s my special reader? You are! You are!

(pause here while Rob lifts up your shirt and kisses your belly button. His unshaven chin tickles you a little. He’s looking into your eyes now. You’re falling. Falling. All is forgiven. Within moments he is finger-banging you. Mmm.)

So, I’m back. I feel terrible. I know you guys come to this site for the culture. You get your geek-fix from Wil, you get your hard news from Marisa, you get an instruction on how-not-to-write from Kessleman, and from me…you get a page and a half of vicodin-laced stories abut how cool my wife is, which she totally eats-the-fuck-up by the way.

I’m in New York shooting a very, very important film (a comedy in the romantic vein, something for the ladies) and my wife and daughter fly in today so before I trek out to JFK to scoop them up I’ll explain my absence.


1. I was busy. But not really. I don’t mean every second was taken up by something, I was just busy being somewhere else that wasn’t home, you know? It takes a lot of psychic energy to “go somewhere and do something”. I have a Suicide Girls routine which is hard to follow here in NY. It involves a lubricant containing a live culture that is illegal on the East Coast. Get with it, East Coast!

2. I’m lazy. But not really. I’ve actually had an inordinate amount of energy lately, but it’s all been spent on taking the subway to Buy Buy Baby to get socket plugs and going to Trader Joes so that my wife has that egg-white salad she loves so much. God, what a special lady, huh?

3. I’m spending a lot of time on set. In my trailer. Doing nothing. Perfect time to write you may ask? No. Perfect time to nap. Perfect time to make phone calls. Perfect time to organize my digital music into inventive Smart Playlists. Perfect time to masturbate. I love my wife.

4. I’m trying to invent a time machine. Ask Wil, that’s HARD.

5. Television is fun to watch.

6. I’ve been eating a lot of citrus. I’ve been cooking soufflés. I’ve been reading Erma Bombeck’s back catalogue. I’ve been trimming bonsai trees.

7. I’m a functional alcoholic. That means lots of dinner parties and wine tastings. I only attend functions where it would be uncivilized not to drink. I rarely drink alone (unless no one is with me) so a gallery opening is the easiest place for me to rationalize a self-medication. Try writing with half-a-hangover. No way Jose. Seriously Jose, how many times do I have to tell you to shut-up?

8. I’m insecure. I’ve been going through a molting process. I can’t seem to say, write or do a funny thing. I’m worried that I’m a plagiarist at heart; a comedy-vampire with timing. But like The Hungry Caterpillar I’m eating a lot of green leaves and will soon be a Beautiful Butterfly. I love you very, very much. Fuck off.

9. I never know how to end these things.

The First-Ever “Rob is in a movie being released this weekend” Movie Review!


I play a small but fun role in a hilarious movie opening this Friday called The Ten. It was directed by David Wain (Wet Hot American Summer) and stars every member of his former sketch group, The State, as well as many huge Hollywood stars like Winona Ryder, Famke Jansen and Adam Brody, to name just a few.

I’m never one for shameless self-promotion so I find it hard asking you to go see this very funny movie. It’s only in thirty-or-so theaters, which places it, at best, in the “art-house” category. Suffice to say, we would definitely benefit from your purchasing a ticket. But I understand that there are a lot of great movies premiering this weekend and I would rather you go see a movie that fits your tastes than go to a film you’ve been pandered into seeing.

To which end, I’ve written short reviews for some of the movies opening on the same day as The Ten. I hope this collection inspires you to make an informed choice. At any rate, you can’t go wrong with any of these movies, they are all special in their own way! Have a great weekend and keep reaching for the stars!


The Bourne Ultimatum
This movie has AIDS. Don’t go see it. You’ll get AIDS. Guaranteed. This movie claims to have caught AIDS on a recent trip to Africa after it was bitten by a Rhesus monkey, but I have first-hand information that this movie caught AIDS after it fucked the whole UMass basketball team. This movie is a slut.


Hot Rod
Far be it from me to give career advice, but after having been voted “The Funniest Man on the Planet” by the Internet, the last thing you should do is go make a porno. And what run-of-the-mill fare! As far as I can tell this skin-flick is about a guy with a moustache who rides a motorcycle to the various places he fucks Isla Fisher.

Don’t get me wrong; I love Andy Samberg. I think he has taken Saturday Night Live into the digital age and the show hasn’t been this funny since it was all about Will Ferrell’s tummy. But what a terrible porn name! Andy Samberg? I assume he got it from the infamous “Hot Samburg,” which is a cross between a “Dirty Sanchez,” a “Doggy in a bathtub” and a “Bullwinkle.” Don’t go see this movie. It may also have AIDS.


Underdog
My friend, Daily Show correspondent Samantha Bee is in this movie and I wish her the best, but this is one of those movies that takes unnecessary liberties with an established and beloved character. Underdog was a cartoon that was watched by, literally, HUNDREDS of fans, and they will not take kindly to Hollywood messing with their favorite talking-dog superhero.
Speaking of which, IMDB claims that Underdog came into being after “a lab accident gives a hound named Shoeshine some serious superpowers.” But we all know that it was drugs that gave “Shoeshine boy” his awesome abilities. He took a “super energy pill” and could suddenly fly. This was edited out of syndicated broadcasts. Also edited out of broadcasts is Samantha Bee’s drug use. She is rarely not high. Ticket sales from this movie will go straight up her nose. Don’t go see it.


El Cantante
If you’re a racist (and who isn’t) you will hate this movie.


Bratz: The Movie
I hate to admit it but this movie genuinely scared the pants off me. I watched most of the movie through the slits of my fingers. I found myself yelling at the screen, “No! Don’t go in that door! (Wearing that!)” I had nightmares for days after screening it. This movie is a masterpiece of Modern American Horror. If you love scary movies, line up early for this future classic. Line up early, buy a ticket for The Ten, and sneak into Bratz.


Becoming Jane Austen
Finally, a movie set in 1795 that’s not based on a Jane Austen novel.


The Ten
The most important movie ever made. Ever heard of the Ten Commandments? Well, this movie has that shit inside of it! This movie is funny. It stars Gretchen Moll and Jessica Alba so it is also sexy! It also stars Liev Schreiber so it is Tony Award winning! It stars Ron Silver so this movie loves America! It also stars Paul Rudd so it is funny, accessible, charismatic, handsome and versatile! It also stars Rob Corddry, which means it’s bald and has to buy a house. Please go see it.


I Now Pronounce you Chuck and Larry
This movie opened a few weeks ago but it’s still doing way better than it should be. Don’t go see this film. Please? Just go see The Ten. We really need it. Did I mention that director David Wain has Parkinson’s disease? That is the honest-to-god truth. His drugs are very expensive and if you go see I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry you are literally killing him. By the way, I am in I Now Pronounce you Chuck and Larry. That’s how much you should go see The Ten.


Blame it on Fidel
I’m bored. Did I mention I have a daughter to feed? Yeah. And the residuals I get paid from you seeing The Ten go directly into her mouth. The money I get from you seeing Chuck and Larry will have AIDS. That’s a fact.


Summer ’04
Is this really a movie? Oh my God, we’ll definitely beat this one. I think it’s German. Ha! I hope so. We’re going to destroy this movie!
Oh shit, I just IMDB’d it. It says it’s, “A German film made in the French mode.” Holy Shit! We are going to bury this movie! The “French mode”! Oh man!


Charlie Bartlett
Have you seen Rushmore? Then you’ve seen this movie. Go See The Ten.

Things I can see from seat 6A:

I see a woman. She’s dressed in a yellow blazer like they used to wear on ABC sports back in the seventies. She’s about sixty, trying to look fifty-nine. She’s standing in the aisle wearing noise-canceling headphones and she’s visibly moving to whatever she’s listening to. Her movements are too big to be called “swaying” and too small to be called “salsa”. They lie somewhere in between. She’s rich. The rock on her ring finger would make my wife vomit salty tears. It’s big. She’s also wearing two Swatches. Yeah. People didn’t even do that when Swatch was trying to cram that fashion down our throats. I love her.


My always full glass of wine. I’m drunk.


The dude next to me. He has hair like Superman. He has slept the entire time. I’ve had flights like that. I envy him but I also hate him because he looks like a guy I know who I don’t like.


The “fly-over” states. I’m glad I’m flying over them. No offense if you live there. On second thought, FUCK you.


The dude across the aisle. This guy is a puzzler. At first I thought he was Fred Durst. He’s a little chunky. He wears a black-on-black Yankees cap, flat brimmed. He wears a tight t-shirt with a stitched decoration of what looks like a bird-frog. He has sculpted eyebrows and one of those black-guy beards: thin, sparse and meticulously trimmed into a fine line. It’s not Fred Durst. Then, a bunch of young girls walk down the aisle and squeal when they see him and I start to think he’s Fred Durst again. But they just know him. What a coincidence. He catches me looking at him and angles his video ipod away from my line of sight. He thinks I want to watch Shooter with him. I don’t.


Cashew chicken. Mmmmm. Airplane food has gotten a lot better. The gravy is a little gel-like and the chicken is not of the best quality but these cashews are good. Mmmm. They are, like, the king of the cashews.


The gayest Flight Attendant ever. He keeps filling my wine with a coy smile. We are in cahoots. We both know that a cross-continental flight is unbearable and he is in a position to ease my pain. He smiles at me conspiratorially as if to say, “I know it’s not the most comfortable plane and I’m sorry you can hear the autistic kid screaming in the back but the Bible says ‘drink wine’ so why not drink this.” Little does he know I am a functional alcoholic and afternoon flights are one of my triggers. But he’s nice. I might fuck him. Depends on how drunk I get.


The Autistic kid screaming in the back. I don’t see him as much as I hear him. I feel bad for the people sitting next to him but I feel worse for his parents. I feel worse yet for him. If you think it’s bad sitting next to or being the parents of a screaming, writhing four-year old, try being autistic. I imagine it’s unbearable. You’d count stuff too.


The guy’s head in front of me. He has the worst comb-over ever. Crystal Gale circa 1977 couldn’t grow the amount of hair this guy has whipped up onto the top of his head. I fucking hate him with every hate-filled cell of my body. Sell-out.


The Northwestern Airlines Logo. Is it an N? Is it a W? Is it two-people staring at each other? Is it a wine glass? Sobering up.


My empty wine glass. Perhaps I’ve reached my quota. My wine-toting friend has not returned with the bottle of “Three Blind Moose” in some time. I do not want to sober up. Nor do I want to hit the bar at LAX before I pick up my luggage at baggage claim. That goes more than slightly beyond functional alcoholism.


Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. Not-Fred-Durst has forgotten about my prying eyes and I actually find myself getting a little sucked in. You know it’s a bad movie when you don’t need the sound to know exactly what’s going on.


The feet of the guy next to me. They are tiny. Impossibly small. I want to dress them up like little dollies and serve them make-believe tea.


My yellow pee. Okay, I’m technically not sitting in seat 6A anymore, I’m standing above the toilet. I’m really dehydrated. We’re landing soon and I thought I’d squeeze in one more pee before I have to buckle my seat belt. I pee a lot. The guy sitting next to me (Tiny Superman) is hiding his annoyance well as I am constantly climbing over him. It’s not easy to extricate myself from the seat because I have “a thing” about using the seat in front of me as leverage. It’s rude. So, I’m basically rolling over the poor little guy. He’s handsome though. Superman handsome.


I get back to my seat and, in my absence; the Sommelier has refilled my wine glass one more time. What a sweetheart. I’ll be able to keep my “functional” moniker another day. Appropriately, we fly over Paso Robles. Wine country. I tip my glass of Three Blind Moose to the rolling hills and take a sip. Mmmm. It tastes like salty tears.

The Line, Eleven-Year-Old-Girls, Racism, Rape, Poo-Poo…

I was in line by 4:30, standing behind two eleven-year-old girls. I laughed out loud when I saw them, which is never something that makes eleven-year-old girls self-conscious, and asked them if they were buying the much-anticipated iPhone or whether they were holding a place in line for their cool twelve-year-old boyfriends. But I was in East LA, an almost exclusively Hispanic area, so they had no idea what I was saying. Earlier in the week, I had decided that I would find a remote AT&T store and jump in line mere hours before launch. I thought East LA would be the perfect candidate because I am virulently racist. The language barrier wasn’t a problem until I had to ask someone where the nearest bathroom was and if they would hold my place. No dice. It was either hold it or pee myself. I chose the latter because, as you know, I am rarely not wearing an adult diaper.

I was one of only three white people in line. A few bicycle cops that were patrolling the area singled us out as prime candidates for a good old-fashioned mugging. I thanked the cop for the warning and mentioned also that I was glad that they were there, given how much Latinos like to rape young white men like myself. We are so pretty and fair. He assured me that he was only worried for my safety and the safety of my new phone but I kept thanking him for protecting the sanctity of “back-button”. It’s the burden of white people to be objectified and violated by the more “sexualized” races and I assured the cop that if someone attempted to “break my seal” I would, as instructed by a safety video I saw years ago, promptly crap myself. It turns a rapist off. Another group it apparently turns off is cops, as he was pedaling away within seconds. The only word I know in Spanish is “cabeza” which, he warned me as he was leaving, was exactly where I would be shot if I didn’t shut the fuck up. Some people just don’t get it. But, then again, he was black.



Signatures, Controversy, Instructions to Enjoy…

The iPhone is, of course, equipped with email, and the default signature, “Sent from my iPhone” automatically shows up at the bottom of any messages you send from the phone. It is, of course, changeable. You can type in anything you want using the controversial keypad, and creative alternatives have already been appearing in my inbox. Please enjoy…

-Sent from my iPhone
-Sent from my iPhone, bitch.
-Sent from my $600 iPhone
-Swnt elom m iphon
-Sent from my ipwn
-You’ve been iPhoned
-I have more money than you
-Sent from the Future
-I have an iPhone. Now will you fuck me?



Activation, Rowdy Roddy-Piper, Fucking Someone in the Neck-hole, AT&T…

One of the revolutionary things about the iPhone is that, rather than wait in the store for it to be activated, you can activate it at home using iTunes. No longer do you have to hang out with AT&T employees while you wait for the signal to be beamed to your new gadget.

So, imagine my distress when “Roderigo” asked me for my Social Security number. He told me they had to do credit checks in the store, though I knew that not to be true. Our conversation went like this:

Me: I was under the impression that I just buy it here and can set it up at home, even the credit check.

Roderigo: Yeah, sorry about that.

Me: Wh-? Sorry? Sorry about…not being able to hang with you while my phone activates?

Roderigo: Yeah, but Apple wants to do it this way, so…

Me: Hm. Okay. Well, can we speed up the unnecessary credit check? I’m in a hurry.

Rod: Yeah, well, the system is really slow right now.

Me: Really?

ROD: Yeah, we’re experiencing an unexpected amount of activity. Do you want a 4gig or 8gig?

ME: 8gig. Really? You guys weren’t expecting a bit of a push during an historic product launch? You didn’t think that the ten million or so people Apple is expecting to be signing up for this in the next few days would put a touch of a strain on your system?

Rowdy Roddy Piper: Yeah. Apple is really screwing this up. What can you do?

MEEEEEEEE: You can fuck off and give me my phone.

Roddle-doddle: Just waiting for the security check to come through.

Robert “I’m Angry” Corddry: You mean the credit check I’m going to have to do again when I get home you fucking retarded monster?

Hot-Rod: Yeah, sorry you’re going to have to that. Do you want a 4gig or 8gig?

Bobby-sox: I am going to rip off your head and neck-hole fuck your esophagus with my iPhone.

Rodo-Cop: I know, right?

Turns out I was one of the 2% of people that had trouble activating at home and had to go back to the store for the SIM card. Roddy wasn’t there. I was told he had been shot and killed the night before. Goodnight Sweet Prince. Flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest.



Design, Sweat, The Ancient Dance, SunO)))…

So I got it home. I took it out of the box. Immediately I was intrigued but not surprised by Apple’s packaging. The case is like an oversized ring box, symbolism-not-lost-on-me. I removed her from her plastic casing and held her in my hands for the first time. She was the perfect weight and cool-to-the-touch, though I could easily imagine her getting pretty hot during conference calls. I turned her on. She jumped to life, her hi-res screen glowing, her slide-lock pulsing. My breath became short. Slowly, I slid my right index finger just above her chrome ring and unlocked her. She responded to my touch and soon we were somewhere else, a home screen or something. My fingers danced over her smooth multi-touch screen, and she followed my every move, adding her own to the crescendo that was building. Sweat beaded on my forehead and threatened to drip on her, so I took off my shirt and swabbed my face and neck. As I was doing so, she collected my mail and displayed it in life-like LCD. I became lost in her. Our movements became rhythmic. I was clumsy with her keyboard at first but she told me to trust her and soon I was typing three letter, four letter, FIVE LETTER words all over her. She took it all. I was typing notes, emails, texts, and she responded suddenly by vibrating. A call was coming in! I answered. It was my wife. I told her never to call me again.

I took off my pants and headed to the bed. I plunged the iPhone into an industrial tub of WET ™ lubricant and, with one hand bracing the small of my back under a hastily placed pillow, I crammed the gadget into my starfish. Deeper and deeper went the most revolutionary gadget ever created. With my other hand, I fumbled over to the nightstand and grabbed our land-line. Hastily, so as not to interrupt my electronic-colonic, I dialed my own cell number and waited for my new communications tool/ipod/internet device to rock my insides. It rang. At the same time, I clicked on the iPod feature and blindly scrolled to the Sun O)))/Boris record and tapped play. I exploded in e-cstacy and eventually collapsed in vibrating drone bliss.

All in all, it was a satisfactory wireless experience. Thanks Mr. Jobs!

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

Yesterday morning I observed my usual procrastination ritual before settling down to work. I ate a Luna Bar (I am 100% straight), IM’d my friend Jason, called my mother-in-law, tried to hang a picture, watered a plant, lost ten minutes to god-knows-what, surfed my usual sites, and then went to Suicide Girls to get my Daniel Robert Epstein fix. And like that, he was gone.

I’m truly, truly heartbroken by this terrible news. Daniel Robert Epstein was, by leaps and bounds, the best and most prolific interviewer working today. When he first interviewed me I was a young, upstart fake reporter on a little known program called “The Jon Daily Show,” or something. Having been on the show for a few years, I fancied myself quite the savvy interviewee. They would ask me the same five questions and I would give the same five answers, just reworded slightly. But Daniel was disarming in that he was a man that simply wanted to talk about comedy, movies, music, comics, art, people, pop-culture. We had very similar interests and our conversation seemed no more than just that. His is one of the only interviews I’ve done that I can reread without cringing. He’s the only interviewer who’s face I remember.

Our interview was conducted over the phone, so the first and only time I met Daniel was a couple of years later in an old prison in Queens where director David Wain was filming me rape Ken Marino in the ass. We spoke for a while that day, mostly about comedy and movies and about how excited we both were to be standing so close to Winona Ryder. His was a huge presence and not just in physical stature. He leaves behind an even bigger hole.

So please take the time usually spent reading my column to read a few of his past interviews. If it’s your first time reading DRE’s work I feel both sorry and excited for you. I can almost guarantee you’ll be lost for hours in it. I only lament that the vast collection of his work has just become finite.

If it weren’t for Daniel I would never have known the work of Stephen Berkman. I may never have read the comic Y: The Last Man. I would never have known that Sarah Jessica Parker likes me. The list goes on. He has made my life richer.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
With Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton hogging the bad-girl spotlight, one party hopper has managed to limbo under the paparazzi’s plumb-line. That girl is, of course, female professional golfer, Michelle Wie. The young Hawaiian native has dodged the DUI designation because, apparently, nose-candy is her drug of choice. Lee is the second youngest female on the Pro Golf Tour, racking up multi-colored jackets all over the world. She enjoys golfing, karaoke, cocaine martinis and “shaving my pussy for when the photo-takers finally notice that I am flashing it all over West Hollywood.” Good luck Michelle! Nothing like a stint in rehab to start you hitting 70-71!



Unpre-dick-table
Jamie Foxx learns how to blow self! Years of Pilates has finally paid of for the hard-working Hollywood star. Add self-felatio to his resume, which is already bursting with words like “acting,” “singing,” and “Oscar.” Yes, Jamie Foxx finally knows the pleasure of wrapping his huge mouth around his own dick.

“I’ve been working hard on my core”, he said. “ I’ve had a history of disc problems but finally, with the help of Bikram Yoga, Transcendental Meditation, and Directional Non-Force Chiropracting, I’ve been able to taste my own cock-skin.”

Great work Jamie! I bet it tastes like success. That or Kanye West’s skull.



Goodnight Sweet Prince
Two nights ago we said good-bye to a venerable television institution. Families all over America watched the much anticipated finale of one of it’s favorite shows and the reception has been as mixed and as controversial as the show itself. It seems fitting that a show that challenged us so consistently would upend our expectations in it’s final hour. It was a show that existed, to a certain extent, in our minds, and there it will have to end. Goodbye “Grease: You're the one that I Want.” We hardly knew ye.



This One is About Paris Hilton
Behind bars, with nothing but her thoughts and a few books, Paris Hilton has, for the first time in her life, achieved a modest level of self awareness. “Wow. There may or may not be a god,” she was said to muse in the line for marshmallow salad.

She recently told Barbra Walters that, “I pretend to be an idiot most of the time and now I have nothing to do but ponder that. I’m sure that, after I’m released, I will return to not thinking about stuff. I guess I am an idiot. I can’t wait to forget that realization.”

We can only hope that her vagina gets caught shoplifting so that she can spend more quality time with her conscience.



Seriously, I Need Help
Sometimes when I am peeing I have a barely controllable urge to touch my pee-stream. I know it will do little harm, because I can immediately wash my hands afterwards. But I’m worried that this says something about my personality. I hope I’m not a serial killer.



Get Used to It!
“The highly anticipated iPhone, to be released on June 29th at 6pm, will be homosexual,” Steve Jobs announced today at the annual WWDC in Downtown San Francisco. Speculation that the iPhone would be gay has been referenced on Tech blogs like CNET.com and Gizmodo but most gadget-geeks are waiting to hear about whether third party applications will be able to be written for the much-ballyhooed smart-phone.

“I’m waiting to hear more about the controversial EDGE wi-fi network,” said David Pogue of the New York Times, “I don’t care who the phone fucks.”

Steve Jobs had little to say about how the iPhone’s sexuality would affect it’s price or battery life, saying only that it is “as God made it…totally queer.”



Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

My brother Nate and I went to Boston this weekend to host a benefit for local autistic children. We HATE autism. We hate everything about it. Everything. There is nothing good about autism.

Except for all of that math stuff. That’s pretty cool.

My sister asked us to host the event because her son, our nephew, is autistic, and the kids at his school need a new playground. Their current one is full of cockroaches and fire ants, not to mention a bench commemorating the death of an autistic kid that no one even remembers. Nate and I told our team of publicists to accept the invitation, that we would be happy to save a local playground from bugs and dead kids. We even paid for our own first class tickets*. We hate autism that much.

We arrived at the school for a pre-benefit tour of the offending playground. It was, in fact, unplaygroundable. I got splinters in my eyes just looking at it. I’m no private detective** but I’m pretty sure someone had let their dog defecate near the bottom of the slide fairly recently; within the last half-hour by my touch. And Fire ants were, indeed, all over the place, covering the ground as well as all of the toys. Thank god crappy jungle gyms can’t feel pain.***

Then we got to meet the children, a group that, my publicist tells me, I really, really love. Nate and I were in for a huge surprise. Who knew that autistic kids were such big Daily Show fans? What a treat for them! After we were finished autographing their tiny foreheads and answering all of their questions+ we gathered up our posse++ and headed over to the benefit.

A word about my four-year-old, autistic nephew Owen: we have some history. Ours has been a slightly rocky relationship. You see, a few years ago, my millionaire father died, leaving Owen his entire fortune and me an old convertible. So I kidnapped^ Owen and took him to Vegas where I put him to work counting cards. But my journey of revenge quickly turned into a journey of discovery. We stayed in a huge suite, I taught him how to slow dance, and we wore matching suits. Owen won an Oscar that year for best actor in a leading role.^^

The benefit went well. Nate drank his weight in Sam Adams and took control of the live-auction like he was a revivalist preacher let loose in a tent full of homosexuals. And those fags were bidding! Drunk on local beer and power, Nate single-handedly raised over ten thousand dollars pitting friends and families against each other in an orgy of bidding fervor. Nate truly found a second calling that night, conducting an auction for autistic kids. He was auction-tastic. He was auctistic.

I, on the other hand, drank Jack and Cokes and got into a political argument with an old friend of mine that had just bought land in Washington for when, as he put it, THE SHIT# goes down.

“Where is it?”, I asked.
“I told you, in Washington State.
He had, in fact, told me that.
“Where?”, I asked.
“I can’t tell you.”, he said.
“What?”
“I can’t tell you. I’m only telling my family.”
“I can’t come?”
“You’re too liberal.”
“That’s gonna matter when The Shit goes down?”
“My father hates you.”
“So what, he has cancer, he’ll never make it anyway.## What’d you do, email your family with instructions on what do and where to go when The Shit goes down?”
“Yes.”
(long pause)
“What kind of Shit are you prepared for?”
“We’ll be prepared for everything.”
“Radiation?”
“Yes.”
“Gasses?”
“Sure”
“Invaders?”
“Yup.”
(pause)
“Zombies?”
“Fuck you.”
“Because I’m good with a shovel.”
“We’ll have guns.”
“Guns’ll attract more Zombies you idiot.”
“We’ll use silencers.”

And so on…

Yeah, I did my part that night. Nate may have raised over ten thousand dollars for autistic children and their stupid haunted playground, but I convinced an idiot to argue, seriously, about the best way to kill a zombie. Who’s the real hero? Please refer to the footnotes.###

______________________________________
*We don’t ride coach. We are huge television stars and it would be confusing for people to see us paying for our own bloody mary’s
**But I “don’t play by the rules” like one.
***As far as we know.
+What’s Jon Stewart really like? Do you really interview those people or is it editing? Is the Peabody an international award? Etc.
++Publicist, sister, bodyguard, chef, autistic nephew, astrologer, etc.
^not my words.
^^He wouldn’t be nominated again until 1998 for Wag the Dog.
#THE shit.
##I didn’t really say that. That’s a comedy-joke.
###Me.


Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

“They have really dry hair from the chlorine, they have poor complexions from all the sun and they have the shadow of my middle finger stretching across their faces. You haven’t heard anything until you’ve heard the sound of a rubber wetsuit squeak over pre-cancerous skin.”

Remember those famous words? They were penned by a young Rob Corddry, fresh out of the gate as a Peabody Award losing columnist for SuicideGirls, describing his experience with a very singular sub-group of humanity called triathletes. Rob, or “I”, as he is called by me, went on to describe life married to one of these freaks; these people for whom biking and running just isn’t enough. His (my) story continues…

The Wildflower Triathlon is called “The Woodstock of Triathlons” by those with a very narrow frame of reference. It’s similar to Woodstock only in that competitors sleep in tents and most of them smell like hippies. In reality, Wildflower is like nothing else I’ve ever seen. Of course, I spent the weekend under a vicodin-blanket and peeking out from behind a flask of Makers Mark. My Monday morning diarrhea was, as you can imagine, exquisite.

Wildflower is a “long course”, that is to say, half-an-Ironman. You swim a mile, bike fifty-six and then trail-run thirteen. There were roughly three thousand entrants, and seven and a half thousand total if you count the Mountain Bike race and the smaller, “Olympic” sized triathlon happening simultaneously. Wildflower is known to be one of the toughest long courses on the circuit. I didn’t race, but I experienced my share of physical exertion. I experienced some minor withdrawal pangs at around 3pm Saturday as I was a long shuttle ride away from my drugs, and it certainly wasn’t easy to walk all the way from my nap-area to the hot dog stand. Not with both middle fingers raised, at least.

I’m not “in” shape. I look fine (with a shirt on) but I am far from being in peak physical condition. I do not like the things you have to do to get in shape which include lifting heavy things, walking faster than you have to and not-eating pork every day. I have little in common with people that seem to enjoy these things, save for my wife. She loves pork too, in all its incarnations (there are so many!). Thusly, when I attend these events I tend to spend a lot of time alone or conspiring to be alone. That’s was why I cringed when some dude said, “Hey Rob!”

It could be one of three things: A friend, a fan, or a fake wave.

I dreaded running into a friend. My plan was to spend the weekend gloriously wandering by myself, admiring the Vicodin-tinged colors. If I ran into a friend I would have to spend the day pretending to enjoy their company. The only welcome acquaintance would be a friend who likes to drink and take drugs before noon. They are few.

I prayed it was a fan. I’d take a picture, apologize for doing anything that wasn’t the Daily Show and move on with a smile. It sort of wasn’t. Sort of.

It definitely wasn’t a fake-waver. These mouth-breathers like to call out my name and then look the other way. I used to be one of these idiots until I graduated from the sixth grade. These guys are pretty easy to spot, as someone who would fake wave does not usually have the cognizant capacity to hide himself well after calling my name. They usually stick out like the driver on the retard-bus.

This dude was a different breed entirely. A “type” I had yet to encounter. He was “one who had read something I'd written and had reason to take offense”. His name is Glen and he enjoys dirt track races, whiskey, Italian greyhounds, karting, entomology, beekeeping, Italian travel, triathlons and is going to Hawaii in October. How do I know this? He is a member of the SuicideGirls Community. He is cucciolo.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. He came barreling up to me, as triathletes are want to do and, with a big smile, asked, “Do I have the shadow of your middle finger stretching across my face?” Up until that moment I was content believing that no one but Helen Jupiter and the sixteen or so people who regularly comment on my articles had actually read anything I had written (except for Kesselman, that douche is obsessed with me). I was struck dumb. My face flushed. I began to giggle. Pulling my narcotic blanket up over my ears I responded, “Huh? Ooooooooh. Oooo. Wow. Woah. That’s…that’s fucked up.”

Somewhere in there I managed to say, “I wasn’t talking about you.” and I shuffled off.

It’s difficult being taken to task. And though he, honestly, did not fit the type I had been making fun of, it didn’t matter. I routinely spend my wife’s triathlon days symbolically flipping athletes the bird. And not because I think I am better than them, but rather, the opposite. I know I am not. My wife attacks these seemingly impossible tasks with a vigor that inspires more vigor. I embrace my sedentary lifestyle with an enthusiasm that borders on pathological. And my wife is infinitely happier than I am. By leaps and bounds.

Granted, I’m at my best when I’m making fun of complete strangers. Jay-Z might refer to it as both a gift AND a curse. I just wish that taunting imbeciles led to stronger abs and greater physical endurance. Until then…nap time!

“Every second is a miracle,” he said, attempting to flip through the newer Baby Einstein videos while navigating around the three-month-old strapped to his chest. “Seriously. Every second.” I nodded, pretending to give even an inkling of a shit about any syllable that managed to make its way past his prodigious teeth. “A living, breathing miracle! Every single second.” He stopped at one particular video and smiled. Or, rather, he smiled more. I’m not sure his mouth was built in a way that allowed him to do anything but. I hated him so much.

“Wow, you’re so lucky.” I said.
“You will be too, soon!” he whinnied at me, and motioned across the store to my then-pregnant wife.
“No, I mean, most people have to measure time by seconds. You get to measure it by miracles.”
“Yeah! It’s like that!” he brayed, knocking over an entire shelf of videos with his massive front teeth.
I winced. Playing the smart ass to the perpetually stupid is never as satisfying as it should be. I’d have to remember to tell my wife how funny I was. Sixty miracles later we were out the door.

My neighborhood in Brooklyn was a hornet’s nest of children and their horrible parents. I hated every single person with a kid that lived within a twenty-block radius of my childless home. To me, parents seemed nothing more than glazy-eyed automatons intent on getting the next best stroller and quitting their jobs so that they could teach their brood sign language before they could even sit upright. They re-jigger every single aspect of their lives to meet the supposed needs of this tiny mass of unresponsive flesh that they have so willfully given up their spare bedroom/awesome home office for. When these uber-parents finally take a few hours off they brag about “not taking epidurals” and how much they hate sleeping anyway. An “Epidural” by the way, is a kick-ass cocktail of Morphine and vagina-Novocaine that actually allows a woman to enjoy the birthing process. Epidurals are shunned by the overly proud and fucking stupid. I stand by this statement. If you refuse the epidural you are a retarded monkey.

Why is it that parents today are, mostly, horrible douche-bags? It’s most likely a reaction to their own upbringing; our parents’ generation failed at absolutely everything. But I hate blaming the whole phenomenon on Hitler, whiskey, Vietnam and Watergate. The world is a little more dangerous than it was when we grew up and we are acutely aware of it. We are afraid of everything in a way our parents weren’t and we are intensely protective and, I think, competitive. And what inspires competition more than the result of our own co-mingled love juices? Unfortunately, nothing.

I never wanted kids. I’m too lazy, self-centered and awesome. “Oh but that’s perfect!” an idiot once told me. “Having kids is the ultimate narcissism! Its a little version of you!” That seems less like narcissism and more like psychosis to me. While I do tend to think of myself (often) as talented and ruggedly handsome I have no desire to cultivate an army of tiny selves. I would, however, be interested in discussing an army of Zombies. While dangerous, Zombies are easy to kill. Babies are not.

I admit that, since I’ve had a child of my own, these people don’t bother me as much. I guess I’ve learned who to avoid. And these people are much more annoying when you aren’t a parent. I’ve vowed never to be as condescending to prospective parents as these parents were to me. “Your life is going to change!” is the most common mantra-hammer with which people love to smash the childless. But, when you have a child, your life doesn’t actually change all that much. Sure, I wake up earlier, so I can’t booze like I used to. I’ve also become a little more productive with my time, as it has become slightly more precious. But, essentially, I’m still the same functional alcoholic I was before my wife’s vagina exploded.

And every second is NOT a living, breathing miracle. Some seconds are boring. A lot are terrifying. Most are merely hilarious.

I apologize if this seems strident and reactionary. I hate the hip, devil-may-care parents almost as much as I hate the robot variety. J.D. Salinger once said something like, “Love your children with detachment for they are not yours. They belong to God.” Then again, J.D. Salinger is most likely a pedophile. I mean, have you read “A Perfect Day for Bananafish”? What a freak.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

Good to see you.
We met at that thing. For the kids.
No, I’m not sure if Shari Belefonte was there…
Do you like her? I can introduce.

Yeah, it’s nuts.
These things are so fake. I just come to laugh, you know?
Nice suit, who is it?
Never heard of him.

I’ll get a Baker’s Manhattan on the rocks.

You know Marc, right?
Are you friends with Marc?
No, with a “c”.
Well he was in my office today and-
No, dark skinned. Darker…
Yeah, anyway, he was in my office today
Do you know who I’m talking about?

Good guy. Black guy.

I’ll set you up to meet with him.
Marc gets it.

Yeah, Howie Mandell is always here.
He’s really rich.
Hold on, I’ll be right back.

They’re shooting a reality show in back.
I think one of them is a pregnant porn star.
If not, it’s a great idea.
Hold on, I’m going to leave that on my voicemail.

I’ll get a peach martini in a rocks glass. No fruit.

Who you with?
Good guy, great guy.
Good guy, great guy.

How’s your pilot/script/deal?
Who’s producing/writing/directing?
Good guy, great guy.
He gets it.

Yeah, she’s funny for a chick.
We used to be friends.

Did you see the new Youtube video?
Did you see the new Lost mugshot?
Did you see Jessica Alba in Defamer?
Did you see sex-tape?
Did go rehab?

Did you hear what that white guy called that black guy?
What a fag.

Did you see Shia on SNL?
Good Guy.
GREAT GUY.

I’ll get a Burnt Toast Martini. Extra butter.

Ah, the minds of babes! So full, and yet, so preposterously empty!

My three nieces are visiting my wife and me for a few days. They are staying in a hotel a few blocks away because young girls tend to ask a lot of questions, which can be very distracting. I’m writing a book about Alcoholic Boxers, and when I write about boxing I tend to yell a lot and thrash about. I have the reach of a young Lennox Lewis and I don’t want a four year old to get in the way of my arms. My punches, or as my wife has come to call them, “fist-kisses”, always come without warning, are delivered at full strength, and tend to be instigated by questions like, “Can fairies be different colors or are they always blue?”

My wife is less patient with the kids than am I. Yesterday, while taking the kids crossbow hunting in Griffith Park, the youngest (she’s fourteen months) somehow wiggled out of her dog muzzle and said… “Raaah?”

We could only assume she had meant to say “Rob” because, that is my name, and children are like little parrots. Actually, they are more like big parrots. They are also without any of the characteristics that make parrots interesting (feathers, wings, etc.). Also, children crap themselves, which parrots never do. Parrots crap the ground.

She started to incessantly repeat the word, “Raaah”. Even some monkeys can make “b” sounds so we put two and two together and decided she must be retarded. I laughed and laughed at her until she cried while my wife dialed 911. She told the older two girls that she was calling the hospital to take their retarded sister away and that if they, too, refused to sound out consonants they would suffer the same fate. That seemed to do it. The older two refused to make any sounds for the rest of the day, consonant or otherwise. They are so gloriously free of intelligence!

Last night they called us from their hotel, which was a surprise. We had not expected such un-formed humans to know how to dial a phone. So precocious! As it happened, we were in the middle of a heated lovemaking session, so we told them to hold.

After my wife and I had spent the full capital of our love we picked the phone up off the table. The oldest was still on the other end, and she immediately started in with the questions, “Are all hotels haunted?” “When can we have some food?” and “What’s a ‘manhood’ and why are you hurting Aunt Sandy with it?” So curious! They truly are like little cats! Actually, they are bigger than cats and smaller than “big cats” so that is a poor simile. Regardless, cats know where to crap.

The oldest one then asked if they could spend the night at our house. Patiently, I explained to her that we had locked them in their hotel room and escaping would be difficult given their tiny, barely human fingers and aggressively Downs Syndromed sister. You have to be soooo patient with kids! You have to help them figure things out on their own. We told her that if they could escape from the room and make it to our house, they were welcome to whatever sheets we had in the dirty laundry. I then told her that Aunt Sandy was calling 911 so they should dodge all policemen and ambulances or risk being carted away to Retardedland. Then, I hung up the phone and waited.

It was almost light out when there was a tiny knock at our front door. Sandy and I hadn’t yet fallen asleep because we were only two days into a crystal meth binge. We giggled at the children’s resourcefulness and got up to answer the door. I couldn’t wait to hear the wonder in their voices as they recounted their adventures.

Proud of my wife and myself for possessing the courage to allow the children to learn and grow on their own terms, I kissed Sandy. Our kisses quickly became more passionate and soon our cries of ecstasy were drowning out the fading knocks at the door. Before losing ourselves in the primal fury of our love we vowed that, one day soon, we would do the world a favor, and have children of our own.

Four hours later as we sagged, spent in each other’s arms, my wife remembered that we did, in fact, have a child. We have a nine-month-old child. For the life of us, we could not remember where we had seen her last. Perhaps she had moved on, we mused, braving the world as someone with parents like us can only do. Fighting the barely physical control she has over her bowels. Or his. I can’t really recall.

Mal Biederman wasn’t Jewish, though her looks and surname would have had you thinking otherwise. She had olive skin, a pronounced nose and blue-grey eyes that leapt away from her face like a secret exposed. A more beguiling seventh grader was not to be found at East Junior High School. She got good grades, didn’t smoke or drink and was an eager member of the Fort Square United Presbyterian Church Youth Group. So was I.

Service to God and community weren’t the only things Mal and I had in common. Our parents were friends so we had a shorthand that wasn’t limited to Bake Sales and Bibles. We also had Bar-B-Q’s. On our frequent Youth Group ski trips Mal and I would ride in the back of the bus, telling sinful secrets about our fellow Youth Group members and giggling at our liberal use of the word “shit.” I was, suffice to say, deeply in love.

I can’t remember why I hated Youth Group so much. I hated it with a passion that most of my fellow Presbyterians reserved for Jesus. But the possibility of riding in that bus next to Mal, our Toughskins grazing, put me on the path to righteousness. If it hadn’t been for her I would never have started going in the first place.

Our Youth Group counselors were typical, or so I imagine, having no one else to compare them too. They were most likely grad students making their obligatory way though the New England educational circuit. Mary-Ann wore a small wooden cross that had been carved from the wood of a cypress tree “on the road to Damascus” and she had long, straight hair that she let grow past her belt. I had always been suspect of people that grew their hair that long. It was the equivalent of wearing a certain piece of signature clothing or giving yourself a nickname. Mary-Ann had desperate hair.

Kurt, her boyfriend, was our steadfast leader. He was tall and would waste no time getting his shirt off when the sun even threatened to warm his back above seventy-two degrees. He had a hard, wiry frame; top heavy, like a swimmer’s and his hands were like two – OH MY GOD HE MOLESTED ME! OH MY GOD! THAT FUCKING BASTARD! HE TOTALLY FUCKING MOLESTED ME!

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! HE MOLESTED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!

Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh. Calm down. Calm down. If he had molested me I would have remembered it before now. Relax. Think of something el- OH MY GOD! HIS DIRTY FUCKING FINGERNAILS! OH JESUS, PLEASE. PLEASE! Let me forget. I want to forget again. I want to forget again. Please let me forget.

Why am I still writing? I should tell someone or call someone. My mother? No she would never forgive herself for sending me on those trips. Those trips! Oh God those endless trips! Those trips. Those trips. Those trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Jesus fucking Christ! Snap out of it! Get back to the story. Just get back to the story. Find comfort in the story.

Okay. Here we go.

Mal was, of course, the most graceful skier in all of Protestantism. She was confidant and sure. Not thinking. Unblinking. It was as if she had Jesus’ hot breath on her back, blowing her down the slopes. His scorching hot breath. On her back. Blowing her and pushing her. Pushing and blowing. It was as if the snow was not snow at all but hot oil and her skis were strong hands working the mountain. Working the mountain. Working it and blowing it. Pushing…

OH FUCKING SHIT, I CAN’T! I FUCKING CAN’T. I’LL KILL HIM. I WILL FUCKING MURDER HIS HANDS AND HIS MOUTH WITH A HAMMER! Shhhhhhhhh. Back to the story. Bury it in the story. Oh my god…

Okay. Here we go.

So. Youth Group was very…religious. Mal and I would hang out together. She was religious. I wasn’t that religious. There were a lot of other kids my age. Some of them were religious. Some of them weren’t religious. I wonder if any of them were molested as well? OH GOD! So horrible! So Goddamn horrible! He said he was my friend! I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll….

Shhhhhhh. Just stop writing. Stop writing and take a nap. Finish the story some other day. Take a long long nap. Maybe take a pill. Just stop writing! Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget.

Forget trying to tell my friends about Mal and I. They would never have believed me. She was too pretty and I was too awkward. Awkward and geeky. And stupid. So stupid. And fat. I’m such a fat fucking fatty. I hate my body. I HATE MY FAT FUCKING BODY!

I’m gonna go call my mother. Hold on.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
She wasn’t there. She’s never there. She’s never there when I need her. Where was she? Where were they? She wouldn’t believe me anyway. Who would believe me? Maybe I made it up.

I’m going to call my doctor and get something to help me sleep. He’ll give me something. I’ll just tell him I’m stressed out and having trouble sleeping. He knows me. He’s been my family doctor for years. He was my doctor when I was a kid. He’s always been my doctor. He was always so good to me. I remember that, when I was a child, he would warm his hands before examining - OH MY GOD HE MOLESTED ME TOO! OH MY GOD! THAT FUCKING BASTARD! HE TOTALLY FUCKING MOLESTED ME TOO! WHY WAS I SOOO MOLESTED ALL THE TIME?

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! HE MOLESTED THE SHIT OUT OF ME TOO? WHO ELSE? HUH? MAYBE I WAS ASKING FOR IT. I’M SO FAT…

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

Hey. It’s your best friend here. The guy that’s always pushing you to do some bonkers shit? Aren’t you glad you have me around? I mean would you really have done that crazy thing that is totally unlike you if it weren’t for my constant prodding? You’re so lucky I’m your best friend. You know why? Because you think too much dude!

Now of course, learning a lesson my way has its price. The Crazy Best Friend route is a recipe for madcap hijinks, including double entendres and mistaken identities. By the way, have you ever noticed that the word “identities” almost has the word “titties” in it? Do I make shit exciting or what?!

Here’s how it will inevitably go: First, you’re going to be pursuing your traditional, boring way of going about your tiny little life. Then, when you least expect it, it’s curveball time! Either your girlfriend is going to break up with you or you’re going to get fired or your family is going to disown you or you’re going to find yourself dating a superhero. Then you’re going to start obsessing pretty hard about whatever happened. That’s what you do, think too much. Then, during our weekly light-beer get together at that colorful pub we go to, or at the softball game where we playfully rib each other every week, or perhaps during those times I climb in your window as you are writing in your journal about how you are a teenage doctor, I am going to convince you that your girlfriend was a bitch, your job was worthless, that you don’t need your family and that dating a chick with superpowers is pretty rad, in spite of the dangers it presents. Sounds great huh? It should, but then again, you totally think too much!

I know what you’re thinking: this is coming from a guy who has five kids and a wife that won’t stop browbeating him. But, that pathetic juxtaposition allows me to see the value of taking insane risks with YOUR life. If you pursue my wacky premises long enough you will eventually learn, grow and change. And, in the meantime, you will totally get laid.

That all being said, let’s get one thing straight: I’m a terrible person. I can’t stand my wife, I hate taking care of my kids and I drive a minivan. I either dress in Member’s Only and pleated khakis or I’m uncommonly hip for a father of nine. That’s sort of why I do what I do. I want you to realize your full potential because I am living vicariously through you. I gave up on my spirit-sucking existence a long time ago. But remember what I was like in college? And high school? What about growing up together? Man, we’ve been friends a long time! You can’t help but like me! You know why? Because I am the perfect foil and I’m always there when you need some exposition.

I should warn you. After following my advice for a while you’re going to have your “All Hope is Lost Moment”. It’ll probably be because you got caught lying one too many times. Lying is one of my specialties. It will totally get you laid (youthinktoomuch).

Don’t worry. This is all part of the process. I will tell you that you’ve gone too far or that you’re taking my insane ramblings too seriously. It’s only now, when you’ve seemingly lost everything, that you will learn what’s truly important in life. You will have a series of epiphanies and there will probably be a monologue in which a few heart-strings will be tugged. Then, the girl of your dreams will take you back and you will live happily ever after or at least until the sequel.

But alas, what of your best friend? I will never change for that is my lot in life. You will be forever different and I will remain trapped for eternity in this state of suspended animation, having provided the basis for others to learn. I am the best friend. I am your angel and your demon. I have an impossible number of baby-seats in my van. And that chick is way too hot for you anyway.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

“The TV Corner”
The Shreveport Daily Trumpeter
written by: Stutz Blackhawk


The new Fox sitcom The Winner is anything but! That is to say, upon watching it, I decided that its title did not fairly represent the quality of the program. To be clear, I thought the show was a “loser,” not a “winner” as the title of the show, The Winner implies. If the show were to be entered in a contest it would certainly not “win.” It may not outright “lose,” that of course depends on how many entrants there are in said contest. For instance, if the contest were for Best Television Show Ever and the entrants were “every television show that has ever been,” it would come in way after Cops but still beat the pants off Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. This show is no “Winner.”

But far be it from me to make a cheap pun at the top of this review. I’m merely pointing out an obvious logic flaw in the show’s title and by mentioning that a pun is possible here, I am rising above the inclination. Let’s see the Boston Herald use that kind of restraint.

The show’s main character “Glen Abbot” is played by Rob Corddry who you may remember from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart as well as from guest starring roles in Arrested Development, Curb Your Enthusiasm and the hit 70’s cop drama Run Policeman! Rob is merely adequate as Glen. He says his lines in a believable fashion. When he is not speaking he appears to be listening to the other actors speak. He looks at things using his eyes and makes faces that seem to appropriately mirror his emotions. He looks surprised when he is surprised.

I won’t tell you what the show is about because I didn’t get it. I only understand “smart” shows that are shot with handheld cameras. I need the camera to shake a little bit so that I know I’m watching good comedy. Put a camera on a dolly and I am immediately confused. The show also used three cameras which, in my opinion, is three too many. I sometimes wish shows didn’t need cameras at all. I wish Fox could have beamed the idea of a perfect show in my head. The only laugh-track would be my own.

Speaking of which: why did Rob Corddry leave The Daily Show to do a show with a laugh-track? I much preferred the sound of one hundred and fifty liberals laughing at anything that jerked their knee. And I liked it when Jon shrugged off their approval like he hated them for laughing (I’ve interviewed him and he doesn’t).

But The Winner’s laugh-track is grating. They protest that they are performing in front of a live studio audience but I don’t buy it. Show us the audience! Let’s see a close up of their tonsils! And if they are actually there in the studio, how do we know Fox isn’t tickling them as they supposedly watch the show? That’s why they should have done away with the laugh-track in the first place. I don’t need the prodding, I know when to laugh: when the person sitting next to me laughs.

The supporting cast is wonderful. Erinn Hayes is so beautiful you want to murder her and dance in her guts so that only you can possess her fully. Lenny Clarke and Linda Hart are wonderful as Glen’s parents, though they probably gang-molested him as a child (the characters not the actors).

Speaking of molestation. The creepiest, most inherently wrong thing about The Winner is the relationship between 32-year old Glen and 14-year old Josh played by Keir Gilchrist. Every time they speak to each other I can imagine the assault taking place. Fox should take a note from the CBS hit Two and a Half Men, which treats the subject of pedophilia with great respect.

If you want to watch Rob Corddry murder his career rent the lovable Matthew McConaughey romp Failure to Launch. If you want to watch your Tivo throw up all over itself, watch The Winner.


I give The Winner only 6 stars (out of 23).

The following is the second in a series of excerpts that SuicideGirls is running from the now-famous interview Rob Corddry gave Playboy Magazine back in 1977. As always, he was more than a little racist.


Playboy: What was it like growing up in the south in the forties?

Rob: It wasn’t all mint juleps and fishing holes if that’s what you mean. With the war going on, I imagine it was the same everywhere. It was about conservation. It was about sacrifice. It was about recycling metal. It was about consuming less Wonder Bread so that the boys overseas could eat sandwiches and feel America swishing around their hot, wet mouths. It makes me feel good to know that because I skipped an afternoon or two of fried bologna sandwiches that just one of our boys had the opportunity to shit Wonder Bread all over the corner of some fox hole in France. I did my part. Fuck the French, you know?

Playboy: Your father was a semi-famous politician in Atlanta. Was it hard growing up in the shadow of such a great man?

Rob: I remember once when my daddy was still just a small town lawyer he shot a rabid dog that had wandered into town. I’ll never forget what he said to me. I thought to myself, “Scout, it’s times like these when I think my father, who hates guns and has never been to any wars, is the bravest man who ever lived”.

Playboy: Um…

Rob: Later that year he went on to defend a black man who was accused of raping a white woman. At the same time, Truman Capote and I were busy befriending the retard next door.

Playboy: That actually sounds like the plot of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Rob: Is that a book?

Playboy: Yes.

Rob: Did I write it?

Playboy: No.

Rob: Did I read it?

Playboy: I don’t know.

Rob: I’ll just wait for the movie then.

Playboy: You mentioned Truman Capote. What’s your friendship with him like?

Rob: Tumultuous at best. He keeps trying to get me in the sack and I keep waking up next to him, hung-over.

Playboy: That’s quite a revelation.

Rob: Not really, he’s a total fag.

Playboy: What about the civil rights movement? You marched alongside Martin Luther King in 1965?

Rob: That’s a funny story. I was writing a book called Truly Tasteless Jokes under the pseudonym “Blanche Knott”. When I got to the chapter on Negroes I realized that I didn’t know enough about them as a people to accurately make fun of them. In the early sixties I had been a journalist in Poland so I was aware of how inherently stupid the Polish are. And I knew how weird gays can be because I apparently fuck Truman Capote so often. To write the opening chapter I actually went into a bar with a parrot on my shoulder just to see what would really happen. I was boozing with Faulkner one morning and he told me that “colored” was becoming an unacceptable term. I realized then how far away I was from the pulse and I was driving to Selma the next day. I’ve never met anyone like Martin. He was so articulate in the way he would talk back to the movie screen.

Playboy: Tell me about your college years.

Rob: On the record, my dad got me into Yale where I was afforded an opportunity to dodge the draft. I served for six months in the Merchant Marines making liquor runs to Bermuda back when Bermuda had no Burger Kings. Off the record? I held my fraternity record for most malleable scrotum. I can twist my balls into a series of shapes: animal, vegetable or mineral.

Playboy: Mineral? Really?

Rob: I can make my sack look like a geode.

Playboy: Yale is where you met your first wife, correct?

Rob: I’m not sure.

Playboy; Oh. Well, then, yes. That is where you met your first wife.

Rob: Good enough.

Playboy: What did you want to be when you grew up?

Rob: A commercial artist. I like drawing pictures of retail. Also an astronaut because they get so much pussy.

Playboy: We’re almost out of time. Is there anything I left out that you want to mention?

Rob: I’m an inventor! I’m in the process of patenting a new device upon which vehicles will travel. It will be made of rubber, will employ air and is largely based on my favorite shape, the circle.

Playboy: Sounds like the wheel.

Rob: Sort of. Its like the wheel but…re-imagined.

The following is an excerpt from the now-famous interview Rob Corddry gave Playboy magazine back in 1977. He was candid, personal, challenging and a little racist.

Playboy: What’s in store for Rob Corddry in 1977?

Rob: Mostly just my karate. I spar with Elvis once a week. I don’t know where I’d be without our little sessions, we both take the sport very seriously. We take a few greenies and beat the living garbage out of each other.

Playboy: You always have a glass of scotch in your hand. Is it real or is it apple juice?

Rob: It's Canadian Whiskey. No one makes whiskey like the Canadians. I can’t drink Apple juice because I have acute type-three diabetes, so... My body liquids will harden and my neck will swell up until my windpipe collapses.

Playboy: You’ve been a diabetes activist for some time now.

Rob: Nope.

Playboy: But you’re president of the National Diabetes Association.

Rob: Oh.

Playboy: Tell me about your music.

Rob: It’s very tuneful. When I’m in the studio working on a song and I realize that it has no melody, I’ll just put some of that in there. Same with notes. I try and use good notes over bad notes. But my music is mainly a vehicle for my politics. I want the US out of Vietnam right now.

Playboy: We’re out. Saigon fell in 1975. We’ve been out for two years.

Rob: Shit, really? Well, we’re probably fighting some secret war somewhere. Regardless, our young men are dying. I just wrote a song called, “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town” with Mel Tillis. I want to get to the heart of the real problem with whatever war we’re fighting now. Our boys are coming back with busted up torsos and they were no longer able to get their cocks hard.

Playboy: You’re notorious for spending a lot of time at Plato’s Retreat, New York’s infamous swingers club.

Rob: I love to fuck. I love to do oral. I’ll put my cock into anything. I’m like a little girl that wants a pony for her birthday but my pony is fucking and my birthday happens every night at eleven-thirty.

Playboy: Is that because of the sexual revolution?

Rob: No, it’s because I was severely, severely abused by an uncle.

Playboy: Oh.

Rob: He would wear a dirty Santa suit and his breath smelled like hot dog liquor. That’s all I remember.

Playboy: Can you tell me a little bit about your relationship with Dolly Parton?

Rob: Nope.

Playboy: Ok. In 1975 you were accused of racism. What was that all about?

Rob: That was a heady, heady year for me. For all of us. The Son of Sam was on a killing spree, New York was going down the toilet, there was the black-out thing. I was splitting my time between the Warhol crowd and this downtown club call Heebee-Jeebees or something. I was snorting a lot of Peenobutal. Me and Shelly Duval had just split up.

Playboy: And you called Puerto-Ricans “light-brown devils” in The New York Post.

Rob: That is correct.

Playboy: Do you want to clear the air?

Rob: Nope.

Playboy: Let’s talk about your movie career.

Rob: Naaaaah.

Playboy: No, let’s.

Rob: I’d rather talk about my TV thing. I’ve been bitter about movies ever since I was cut out of It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.

Playboy: Ok. What are you working on?

Rob: I’m developing a show about a cruise ship that takes a weekly journey with a cast of A-List celebrities. It’s got comedy and romance as well as a diverse group of regulars playing the ship’s crew. I’m gonna call it The Fuck Boat.

Playboy: You sure?

Rob: Well, no. I’m not sure how diverse the cast will be. Can I bum a cigarette off you?

Rob Corddry’s famous Playboy interview will continue next week.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

So you’ve murdered someone, huh? Well, you’ve just gained entrance to a varied, distinct and very exclusive club, more secret than Skull and Bones and gorier than a bus station toilet. How did you find yourself here? Did the incident take place ten years ago during a friendly fire “accident” in the Gulf or are you getting blood on your keyboard right now, having just dispatched a hooker or transient to the next realm? Perhaps you knew your victim? Regardless, you never really get to know someone until you cut them open and dance in their entrails, right? How can you be sure their insides even exist? What, are you going to take some “Doctor’s” word for it? You’re too smart for that!

If any of this sounds familiar, I offer you this “dummies” guide to murdering someone and getting away with it, both legally and emotionally. I say “emotionally” because unless you have truly transcended human morality, the harshest judge of all is not the grizzled old judge sitting behind the bench but, rather, that grizzled old judge sitting in your heart (not literally – please don’t hurt yourself).

First, let’s get the facts straight:

1. Who did you kill?
2. What did you do to them?
3. Why did you do it?
4. When did it happen?
5. Where?
6. Do you have a secret room?

Healing begins only after you begin to answer these tough questions. Let’s try to answer these questions using “Bob” as an example.

1. “Bob” murdered a neighbor’s daughter.

2. “Bob” killed her by tying her up using the intestines of another young girl he had previously murdered and then tickled her until she choked on her own tongue.

3. Why? Well, “Bob’s” as a classic excuse. According to him, she was very flirtatious. She was always playing in her own backyard which she KNEW “Bob” had a clear view of if he sat on the roof of his tool shed and craned his neck to clear the ten foot security fence that separated their properties. She also dressed provocatively, wearing t-shirts that prominently displayed her forearms. Forearms are a weakness for “Bob” and “the little bitch knew that!” he is fond of saying.

4. “Bob” has a pretty good idea of when the murder occurred because he had waited patiently for his wife to go out of town on business before he killed. So, in his own words, the murder probably took place “during some whore convention!”

5. Finally, “Bob” has the convenience of answering the last two questions at once: He killed her IN his secret room.

After you have answered these questions you are ready to take stock of your emotional well being. “Bob” decided that he doesn’t care because he believes himself to be the “reigning king of blood” and kings are beyond reproach. But perhaps this is your first murder and you are racked with guilt. In this case you have a choice to make. Do you learn from this guilt and truly become a better person, never to murder again? Or do you embrace the void within and start taunting your local police force with cryptic letters cut from newspaper type? Regardless, do not return to the scene of the crime! There are no answers for you there! Only cops!

This time of discovery is crucial and it’s important that you take your time. Do not make any mistakes! As a matter of fact, now is a good time to painstakingly review the littlest details of your crime, making sure you made no errors. Remember, in today’s high tech world, every piece of clothing or flake of skin is a potential fingerprint. This is why it’s best to murder in the nude after a salt scrub or skin peel. And sand off the palms of your hands! That’s just common sense!

Are you sure you won’t be caught? Have you decided that you want to learn from this experience? Good. But what can you possibly learn from ritualistically poisoning someone incrementally for a year until they die? You’d be surprised!

The first thing you have to learn is that no matter how different you feel, you’re just like everyone else. Except that you’re a murderer.
The second thing you have to remember is that it’s possible for your karma to actually improve. You may be able to come out of this a better person! Just kidding.

So remember, you’ve embarked on a very important journey. See this thing through! The greatest murderers of all time got away scot free: Jack The Ripper, The Zodiac Killer (I think), The Guy that actually killed Kennedy, etc. If you truly have what it takes, you too, can enjoy membership in this very exclusive club. Happy Killing!

Next week: Make your own spooky Halloween skeleton. Ingredients: Acid, a person.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

From the Editor:
Having been this year’s recipient of Yale University’s prestigious Bollingen Prize for poetry, it has been announced that two of Rob Corddry’s poems will appear in the latest edition of Norton’s Anthology. He will appear between Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Gregory Corso (alphabetically) on the condition that these poems appear, first, within the pages of his favorite publication, Suicidegirls.com.*


Time: Pictures from My Father’s Drawer
By Rob Corddry

Dad. I’m looking at a picture of you
When you were in Vietnam.
You were my age, younger.
I’m trying to reconcile
Your age with the age of your hands.
My hands are not as old as your hands were
When you were my age.

There’s another picture of you dad.
You’re not much more than eight
(though I’m not a good judge of age).
And your hands are marching hands
And your suit is perfectly tailored
And you have the look of someone
Who has been placed somewhere.

Here’s another picture.
Who combed your hair?
Who let you wear those shorts?
I can see right up your nose.
They look younger than you;
The boogers.

Ok, I can’t figure this picture out.
You’re acting like a
Jerk.
Rabbit ears behind your friend’s head.
You really thought we would believe that
Your friend had rabbit ears?
They look like fingers.

You have hair in all of these.
Not like now.
By the way, thanks for the genes.
Some kid called me “baldy”
The other day.
He was a teenager.
That was pretty fun.
Being teased by someone
Half your age.

Why can’t you keep porn
In your drawer
Like every other dad?
These pictures are boring.
Is that you coming home?
This would be awkward.

Here’s an entire album.
I’m just skimming through.
No.
No.
No. No. No.
There’s no good pics
Good enough for my poetry.
Wait, here’s one.
…Naaaaah.



And Ode to Alfred Lord Tennyson
By Rob Corddry

So clearly doth the body know too well,
How time doth pass

Dearly do the humors tone the knell
Of life’s repast

Like solid breath we eat the earth’s moss and leaf
So that every heart this winter day still beat
Full merrily:

Yet, I sharted.

The body still will tease;
The humors still will ease;
The food will still be et;
The hearts will beat on, yet,
I sharted.
I sharted.

My pants were nearly ruined.
O, vanity!
Beware, a poop waits at the door
As do the knocking masses.
See! The other Wendy’s patrons forsake
The amount of time it takes to make
My underwear presentable.

Scrub fast, scrub slow,
Time, mine enemy.
Brown now is the stitch;
That covered my loins.
Gone now is the twitch
That did rejoin
The air and my Frescata sandwich
O, misery!

Hark! The day manager is calling!
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing
Air with warm poop mixing
The eyeballs fixing
Nine times does the hand dryer dry
My underwear now.

So let the people stare,
And let the bathroom door beat its frame.
And let the knowing whisper my name;
For even and morn
Ye must never scorn
Thro’ eternity
Such a perplexing moment
As when your nether lips have parted.
For I sharted.


*Men’s Health declined to run them, Suicidegirls.com being Rob’s second favorite publication.

When it is my privilege to be working on a motion picture I often keep a journal of the process, both for posterity and so that, someday, young aspiring filmmakers may glean whatever knowledge they can from its pages. I am not alone. William Hurt keeps painstaking photo journals of his experiences in front of the lens. Pacino writes letters to his daughter while on set. Clooney films himself fucking black ladies in run down hotels. I have my journals. I humbly offer them to you…

The following diary excerpts are for serious film aficionados only. They are not meant for the general public.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

I’m off to Shreveport to shoot a part in Harold and Kumar II. This installment finds the boys having to deal with Kumar’s newly diagnosed cancer and his subsequent expulsion from the prestigious Philadelphia law firm at which he has found himself working. Dakota Fanning co-stars as a precocious young Swedish immigrant who is forced to work in a Chinatown sweatshop sewing pockets into baby onesies. She organizes the laborers and subsequently teaches Harold how to love again. It’s a dense, touching script notable mainly for it’s liberal use of symbolism (what baby actually NEEDS pockets?).

I play Ron Fox, Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security. To prepare for the part I rode with members of the LAPD Terrorist Division for a week. It’s important as an actor to walk in the shoes of the people whom you are portraying. I also I watched a doctor perform open-heart surgery, I deprived myself of sleep for three days and I went feral dog hunting in rural Arkansas. Oh, and I worked extensively with a dialogue coach. The more work you do preproduction, the brighter the light shines behind your eyes.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Shreveport is a quaint berg in the Northwestern corner of Louisiana. I’m staying in a hotel that houses a casino so there is potential cancer everywhere. I may wrap myself in Saran if I ever go downstairs. I must be physically able to play this role every day. That means not getting cancer.

My wife and I tried for hours to get a video iChat going but to no avail. We kept getting a Communication Error. Hold on! I have to write that down! That’ll be great for the observational stand-up routine I’m working on. I’m thinking about getting back into comedy as a lark. Speaking of which, I’m a block away from Shreveport’s Funnybones Comedy Club. There were some people inside the club sitting at the bar so I decided to give them a little treat. I went up to the window and did some of my ”trademark” goofy faces. You should have seen them trying not to laugh! They were actually pretty good at it. Then I did the elevator trick, the canoe trick and the escalator trick. They looked at each other and pretended to be confused. They were pretty good at that too! Ahhh, what a treat for them!

I awoke this morning at the crack of 10:30 AM and called my wife. She was up with the baby at five. We laughed and laughed.

Tonight I went to dinner with the director. We sipped Anisette and talked well into the night about cinematography, Panavision, aperture, Germans, location-scouting and other relevant topics. These dinners are ubiquitous in the film world and go a long way to make one feel comfortable with his director. Tomorrow, the process officially begins. I start shooting.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Woke up at the ass-crack of dawn and shot all fucking day. Thirteen hours! This is fucking bullshit! And this hotel blows! There is someone’s fucking cum stains on my desk chair!

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Ahhhhhh the process! The art of film! I feel like an ancient vase filled only three quarters full with the sweet milk of experience! I must spend the weekend preparing for next Wednesday when I shoot again! I must experience life to its fullest while also making time to pour over my script, making choices, rewriting lines, etc.

So I jump in my rented Ford Fusion and I’m off to Hot Springs, Arkansas. There I will literally soak in nature’s own bathtub while symbolically soaking in America! I love being literal while also being symbolic!

Three hours and two bags of Wild Buffalo Ranch Doritos later I am sitting in my room at the majestic Arlington hotel. Presidents have stayed here! I mean, a President has stayed here! What better place to make my nest?

I eat BBQ at McLards, arguably the best in Arkansas. I order the Ribs and Fry. Seven Budweisers and an hour later I’m throwing up in the restroom so as to make room for more pork. Bulimia is a lot like life, don’t you think? Experience is the pork of existence!

Sunday, January 28, 2007

I arrive in Memphis just in time to eat some fried catfish and catch a band called the Dempsey’s. They are very accomplished musicians that play Rockabilly while standing on their instruments and making funny faces. A woman named Harmony asks me if I am THE Rob Corddry and I spend the next three hours indulging her in some of the more ribald tales of my times “treading the boards” back at New York City’s Soho Rep. She is an eager student and is desperate for me to meet the most popular blogger in town who is at the end of the bar. I, of course, don’t even own a computer (I write on a roll of toilet paper with a pen that Faulker once used as a sex toy) but I decide to give the kid a treat. His name is Paul Ryburn. We shake hands and he takes a picture of me with the aforementioned ladies. I find him chubby.

He calls the following series of letters and punctuation a “web address”:
http://www.paulryburn.com/blog/2007/01/wild-sunday-night-celebrity-sighting.html

Tomorrow I plan to visit Sun Records, land a recording contract and revolutionize music. If I have time, I’ll visit the former home of the undisputable King of Rock n’ Roll, Jamie Foxx. Lots to do!

Monday, January 29, 2007

I slept all day long. Hungover as fuck. This is bullshit!

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Ahhh the road! I swallow every grey inch of her and she passes through me like a shaman’s holy cord, cleansing and leaving me empty. Gloriously empty! It’s back to Shreveport for me. Before I leave I’ll hit Graceland where I’ll celebrate an era when it was acceptable to be completely ridiculous all of the time. On the way I’ll pass through Little Rock and return a book to the Clinton Presidential Library (Truly Tasteless Jokes Vol. IV).

Tomorrow I return to the set. John Cho and I will meet early in the morning to do some repetition exercises (Meisner stuff – real heady) and then I’ll go through my pre-shoot day ritual (Linklater vocal exercises, exfoliation, fingerpainting). If I have time, dear reader, I’ll continue these pages. Perhaps I’ll even include a picture of my cum-stained desk chair. Until then…