Rescue Me

Dead in the water
If I’m feeling less than my full fucking self, you can blame the cocksuckers at HBO for recent actions so egregious, they’d give any reasonable man or woman cause to take up arms against them.

For those who’ve been hunkering down in some hidey hole for the past month or so, let me present the most recent fucking developments. It seems that, despite the continued assertions by “Deadwood” creator David Milch that he envisioned a tale told in four parts (the third part begins at 9 p.m. Sunday night on HBO), despite the fact that said show could be currently described as the finest, most notable feather in those big-city HBO cocksuckers’ hats, despite the general fucking lack of quality televised entertainments, “Big Love” aside, coming down the pike from HBO since “Six Feet Under” left the air and “The Sopranos” slowed to a crawl, those society people from New York City, who live with their heads up their asses anyway, decided not to renew “Deadwood” for a fourth fucking season. Gratuitous, hurtful, unnecessary! Lamentable, injurious, downright unthinkable! Shame the fuck on you!

It strains credulity. And then, on Monday, the latest news came off the wires that HBO and Milch have reached an agreement to replace the fourth season of “Deadwood” with two two-hour movies instead. As pleased as some may be that the show won’t unceremoniously disappear after what looks to be a very promising third season, I personally am not having any of it. I’d punch those cocksuckers in the balls before I’d cup ‘em for comfort, them that would pickle their pricks in the cunt-brine of frivolities like “Entourage,” or moderately intriguing yet disturbingly costly excesses like “Rome,” concocted with half the wit and genius that Mr. Milch might bring to the project, armed with half a pint of whiskey in his belly. You do recall that Milch originally intended to pen a tale of ancient Rome, but since the cocksuckers at HBO already had such a tale in the works, our good man refocused his efforts on the old West, much to our benefit. Ironically, HBO’s often lethargic “Rome” has emptied the coffers at $85 million for one damn season like some high-priced piece of pussy with an opium habit and, no longer strong in gold, those half-witted rats at HBO turned around and gave “Deadwood” short shrift.

How can the arrogant prick in charge possibly lay claim to a passable mind when he’d shortchange us on one of the most glowing examples of memorable, original, strange, unpredictable, invigorating amusements currently available? A man must put bread on his table, I well understand, but the current course defies fucking logic. Ratings are ratings, the color is any true entrepreneur’s only concern, but cutting this story short when it’s so clearly destined to bring great acclaim and good fortune to HBO henceforth is goddamn absurd. Milch had a story to tell in four fucking seasons, a healthy herd of cocksuckers nationwide are now addicted to said story like the dope fiend is to his concoctions, accolades untold await said tale as it continues to ripen and mature over time like a fine peach, but those short-sighted mules at HBO would still stop Milch short of his full fucking allotment? The imagination balks. Meanwhile, David Chase makes the most untenable request, be it three episodes this week, five next year, and 10 three years from now, and HBO gives it up like a whore half-drunk on bathtub gin.

Our moment permits interest in one question only: Will we, HBO’s until-now-loyal audiences, be more than targets for ass-fucking? Like many fine outspoken sorts before me, I’m raising the general fucking question, that’s all. Let us not forget that subscribing to HBO is not an inexpensive fucking endeavor, and we hold the purse strings. Personally speaking, I can’t with sound mind walk away from HBO’s offerings, lest I fail in my duties to my fine readers and in so doing, lose my source of gainful employment. As much as he’s her misery, the pimp’s a whore’s familiar, so even as the fist is raised, he draws her to him.

That said, and while I’m not normally a partisan in territorial rivalries, I’m no bought-out cocksucker either, one who’ll lift her skirt to remain in the good graces of a reckless capitalist as forward-looking as a dog next to a plate of unattended gizzards. Thus I’d be remiss if I didn’t strongly encourage the rest of you to cancel HBO as soon as the fine third season of “Deadwood” has concluded, so that those big-city fucks might feel their position weakening. And as for those of you who haven’t seen a single fucking segment of said televised spectacle, or you saw an episode a ways back but found it tough to mount that ornery mare mid-stream, I want to strongly encourage you to rent the first season DVD, and then the second. Cast aside any hasty assessments you may have made in the past, and mark my words: This show is not to be fucking missed.

Once you, too, join the strike against those ghoulish hounds of industry, I promise to alert you to anything of quality that might air, whilst saving you some hard-earned cash that you’d only waste on skin-deep trifles like “Entourage.” Certainly “The Wire” and the last eight episodes of “The Sopranos” can’t be forsaken, but until those noteworthy amusements once again see the light of day, let’s strike a blow to the belly of the beast. To make our voices heard by the bean counters, it’s clear we’ll have to do more than grab ankle. Those that doubt me suck cock by choice!

Unsavory blond layabouts and the like
More on “Deadwood” in a minute, but I must cast aside my burgeoning rage for the moment, lest I get so thoroughly consumed by my anger that I wander the thoroughfare gibbering like a simian.

Truth be told, there are plenty of brand new summertime entertainments to peruse, and while I clearly can’t speak to half of them in this sitting, I’ll do my damnedest to address just a few.

The most foul and inexcusable of the lot is “The Hills” (MTV, check listings) populated as it is by the whoring sea donkeys of “Laguna Beach” fame. Whatever limited charms “Laguna Beach” may have held for those easily distracted by the wiles and worries of winsome whippersnappers up to their collarbones in gold, the sorts with soft hands and weak minds who’ve never worked a day in their lives and likely never will, suffice it to say that “The Hills” has none of those charms whatsoever.

We join up with Lauren, flavorless young lady of “Laguna Beach” fame, just as she’s arriving in the big city, Los Angeles, and pulling up to her brand-new many-storied fortress in her horseless, roofless vehicle filled to the gills with an absurd glut of earthly possessions. Before we’ve time to blink in the strong Southern California sunlight, here comes her charmless sea donkey associate, Heidi, who immediately clues us in to the fact that she’s got the wit and graces of a tin of stale biscuits.

As the two lily-livered, tender-pawed society girls gasp and guffaw over their posh, elaborately appointed dwelling, we wonder how on God’s green earth they might afford such a residence, fresh from secondary school and without gainful employment in the works. Lest we sense the whole thing is just an elaborate exercise in fantasy, a fiction concocted by the capitalists at the dominant musical television concern, we next witness the two young fillies scurrying off to a school of higher education focused on “fashion and merchandising,” the sort of place where the classics are abandoned for more pragmatic approaches to mercantilism and trade.

Heidi, her head as empty as a drunkard’s bottle of spirits, expresses her most heartfelt desires for the future to an official administrator at the school: “I wanna be, like, the fun, party P.R. girl in L.A. type of thing.” When the sensible administrator patiently explains that high-level publicity whores don’t generally land their positions armed with little more than a lifetime of getting pawed by miniature bourgeois cocksuckers in short pants and wasting daddy’s gold on overpriced vestments, our little wenchlet looks confused. The administrator, undaunted, wonders out loud if the young lady might take an interest in acting as a sales associate at a retail establishment. The spoiled tart responds, “You mean, like, actually working the floor and stuff? Yeah, I don’t think I could do that.”

Having “actually worked the floor and stuff,” I can’t in good conscience blame the sad little harlot, but her inability to cloak her true feelings of entitlement sends the mind reeling. In short, it’s a rich scene that might bring joy to any breast, but sadly, such moments of high comedy are rare indeed on “The Hills.” Most frequently, we’re treated to thoroughly staged scenes as unnatural as the dirt worshippers’ craven rituals: Lauren secures some variety of apprenticeship at one of those perfume-scented lady’s rags, and is required to help out at a P.R. event, where she’s instructed to keep a certain area of a vast and highly adorned saloon free from patrons, since the area is reserved for those whose fortune and widespread popularity precedes them like the stink of shit precedes the heifer’s arrival in the barn. What happens next, you ask? Why, several young ne’er-do-well friends of Lauren’s arrive, unannounced, in all their finery, and insist not only in exhausting us with their tedious banter, but also in seating themselves in precisely those seats Miss Lauren was instructed to keep free from strays and lollygaggers and the like. Thereafter, some supervisory official arrives on the spot and reprimands Lauren for her oversight in allowing the fair but aimless young malingerers to gather thusly. Breathtaking, how the goddamn geniuses at the dominant musical television concern manage to drum up such transparent conflict without fucking fail!

Shit-talking, smoke-breathing hero types and the like
But while we’re discussing the drumming up of conflict, we can’t rightly skip over the foul-mouthed miscreants of “Rescue Me” (10 p.m. Tuesdays on FX), what with their near-constant ability to forsake safety and even odds in a future fight for immediate fucking dubious combat. One of the longest-awaited dramatic amusements to hit the television in recent weeks, “Rescue Me” has never been a personal fucking favorite of mine, and yet I found myself affixed to the glass screen of my television set, my eyes unwavering from the flickering of the first three episodes, unable to wrench myself from the tales of Tommy (Denis Leary) and his various ill-mannered associates.

In past missives, I’ve called this show flashy and shallow, its characters simple-minded and undeserving of remark, and I’ve compared their relative lack of depth to the more nuanced shades and complexities of the characters inhabiting the oft-cited and oft-praised “Six Feet Under.” However, having focused my attentions almost entirely on dramatic series in the past year, hoping to deepen my understanding and appreciation of all that the genre might have to offer like a student resolutely glued to his composition book, I recognize that not every character navigating every stage need be armed with a bevy of neurotic tics and self-deprecating yet caustic asides, nor need be prone to extended forays into a deeper understanding of the self. As much as I might, personally, enjoy the Nates and Brendas of the televised universe, there is room for all variety of creatures on the lush hillsides farmed by the hoopleheads and hellions of Hollywood.

But all grandiose, expansive treatises aside, this particular dramatic amusement currently strikes me as worthy for its wit alone. Indeed, while Tommy’s joyless antics, whether drinking or bedding some local wench or tossing a bottle at the head of his estranged wife, may have seemed melodramatic and rough-hewn at some former juncture, the focus of such tales remains on a certain species of man for whom it is not unusual to rush to battle upon hearing one ill-considered remark, be it uttered by friend or foe. While last season brought the bloody death of Tommy’s offspring under the wheels of a horseless wagon manned by a certified drunk, a story that might appear unbearably sad and sick to any passersby, such a tale is not unlike the slaying of Mr. Bullock’s son William under the hooves of an unfettered stallion in the thoroughfare during the second segment of “Deadwood.”

It’s true that Tommy’s closest associates are prone to making oily remarks, such as, “Kinda girl I call a firecracker. She’s got one good bang in ‘er, that’s about it,” the fact remains that many a man has thought as much while pickling his prick in the cunt-brine of a young thing sauced on spirits and made the more willing by it.

The addition of noted thespian Susan Sarandon to the stage as an expert seductress certainly doesn’t dim my enthusiasm for this tale in any way, nor does the recent twist in which Tommy discovers that his own brother is having relations with his estranged wife. In a most dramatic fashion, Tommy discovers this unsavory alignment at his father’s birthday party. Upon seeing the lovers hands entwined under the table, Tommy plays it as dumb as a pile of rocks, but the grim look on his visage tells us that he’s working damn hard not to murder his brother where he fucking sits. Seconds later, upon finding the ingestion of birthday cake an impossibility, Tommy dives across the table at his brother’s throat and proceeds to unleash a hailstorm of punches upon his person.

Something strikes me fuckin’ melancholy about that creature. There’s a mood about Tommy, an air that tells the world, “I may have fucked my life up flatter than hammered shit, but I stand here before you today beholden to no human cocksucker!”

Deliriously delicious scoundrels and the like
Although HBO has fucked our moods up flatter than hammered shit, let us not allow that to dampen our enthusiasm for the ensuing episodes of “Deadwood,” for they feature the kind of exquisite storytelling that leaves all those within earshot rapt and hungry for the next mesmerizing fucking turn of events.

Perhaps the most alluring and provocative character to inhabit the small screen this summer, Al Swearengen (Ian McShane), as charismatic as he is devious, finds himself in cahoots with Seth Bullock (Timothy Olyphant), and this makes our hearts glad, for rooting against a man as engaging as Swearengen is damn near impossible.

Meanwhile, Hearst (Gerald McRaney) has revealed himself to be that variety of ruthless capitalist who’d slit his own mother’s throat if she stood in the way of his ability to secure the color from the bowels of Mother Earth. Even Hearst’s most beloved cook seems to loathe the fucking ground he walks on, yet as a high-profile captain of industry, he remains untouchable, as any harm that came to him would alert various meddling fucking forces of government to stick their nose into the workings of a town that prides itself on being beholden to no human cocksucker — or at the very least, a town that struggles, with all its might, to keep the sticky fucking fingers of outside influences and high-ranking officials and the like out of its goddamn pie.

So Bullock and Swearengen find themselves forging an unlikely pact for the continued sovereignty of Deadwood, even as self-serving cocksuckers like Cy Tolliver (Powers Boothe) sidle up to Hearst and stick their heads so far up his ass they can’t see past it to the welfare of the overall fucking community. Reminds you just a little bit of aforementioned bought-out big-city fucks with an unrelenting eye on the bottom line, don’t it?

Hoping for the fucking best
But the hour grows late and my typing fingers grow weary, dear cocksuckers, so I’ll hasten to the end of this missive and skip the intricate details of a show that you should see with your own eyes anyway, and use your own fucking faculties to assess its obvious worth. Why spoil the main course with my yammering, when you should savor the rich flavors of Milch’s stylized stew for yourself? I dare you to find it underdone or overcooked or sloppily assembled in any way, and if you do, and would like to question my judgment or call me nasty things in response, well I guarantee you, I’ve been called worse by better. And if you inhale and expel pure righteousness, my olfactories are keen to the smell of shit. Based on recent correspondences on the so-called letters page, you’re not a lot I want mistaking my intentions. Were you bullied when young and incapable? Now you see wrongs everywhere and bullying you feel called to remedy? Show me the secret grip that proves my sincerity and let’s be about our fucking business. I am a sinner who does not expect forgiveness. But I am not an HBO bigwig with the blood of one of the finest shows in recent television history on my filthy mitts.

It’s no accounting for why people do things. These days, our man Milch is developing a pilot for HBO, “John in Cincinnati,” a drama about a surfer in California, of all confounded things. Having worked on his deployments and flanking maneuvers with regards to “Deadwood,” even going so far as to attempt to raise the sizable pile of gold necessary to see his vision to its rightful conclusion, Milch finally resorted to compromise. No blame should rest with the man for securing a final chapter for his epic tale, but the stalwarts among us will continue to push for a full fucking slate of 12 episodes and nothing less. If the mind imagines other paths to the purpose, let’s hear them. Perhaps, with our concerted and combined fucking efforts, we’ll turn the goddamn tide. In short, one hopes for the best. One perseveres. One reevaluates constantly. One is an asshole if one doesn’t.

Next week: Janice Dickinson searches for her own gaggle of top models, and tells all who apply, “If you ain’t here to fuck or be fleeced, get on your merry way!”

But Leary’s book and his views are a little more informed and evenhanded than they first appear. Although activist groups have taken issue with Leary for suggesting that autism is caused by bad parenting, in his book Leary very clearly takes on the parents of kids who aren’t autistic — autistic kids are smart and industrious, not lazy and stupid, he points out — but who seek out the diagnosis as a means of explaining away their kids’ flaws and their own ineptitude.

The funniest, most colorful passages concern his family, from a brother whose standard greeting when they were little was “Hey faggot!” to a mother who still enjoys pointing out the gruesome ways that each of the people in her old photographs died. In another chapter, Leary scratches the surface of the Oprah phenomenon, only to find himself overwhelmed by the wealth of information Oprah has to share, her enormous range as a host, and her sheer, unquestionable power.

Leary called from his home in New York City to talk with Salon about George Carlin’s legacy, the culture of permissive parenting and the controversy surrounding his book. Far from the violent frat boy he portrays on his show, Leary not only referred to himself as a “dyed-in-the-wool Democrat” but said that he considers himself a feminist. Still, he insisted that if no one is pissed off, that means he’s not doing his job.

When you’re used to writing stand-up or dialogue, is the process of writing a book difficult?

Well, I mean I hate to say this because I think real writers will be upset, because [with] comedians, it’s kind of a cheat. We’re thinking these things anyways. Yeah, it’s work to put it down on paper as opposed to just getting up onstage and saying it.

I was just down in Washington last night for the George Carlin tribute [Carlin was awarded the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, announced four days before his death in June] and there’s a roomful of all these comedians, most of these guys have already written a book. Bill Maher was there and Lewis Black has written a couple of books now, and Jon Stewart. You know, they were all making fun of me because I was the last guy to come out with a book.

I interviewed Carlin last year, and he said that he didn’t become a real writer until about halfway through his career, and it really improved his stand-up routine.

It makes you sit down for four hours a day and formalize your thoughts. There’s a rhythm to it. The kind of comedy I do anyway is sort of an observational, satirical take on whatever — politics, society, behavior — but there’s a rhythm to comedy that’s kind of musically oriented. When I had to read these things out loud, it [made me want to] go back and rewrite it and find the right word. I liked it, I can’t wait to do another one.

Do you count Carlin as an influence?

Oh yeah. I didn’t know anything about Lenny Bruce until I discovered [Carlin's album] “Class Clown” in 1972 because the Catholic Church bulletin had a thing that said “Banned Books and Records” and they named “Class Clown,” and that’s what made me buy the record because that’s just the kind of guy I am. And as soon as I heard that record, I said, “I know guys like this. And I’m an Irish guy. Maybe I could do this.”

You’re sort of following in Carlin’s footsteps in terms of provoking a big reaction in the press. You’ve already caught some flack from autism activists about the chapter “Autism Shmautism.” But you’ve said that your words were taken out of context.

If you read the book, you know that they [reacted to] the exact opposite of what I was saying. I never said that autism didn’t exist. I never said that parents caused autism. I wasn’t defining autism, I was discussing it as a comedy doctor, not a real doctor. I was pointing to a real issue that exists, which a lot of people who deal with the issue and have children with autism have since e-mailed me to say they not only identify but agree with. Which is people who are, believe it or not, seeking out low-level diagnoses of [autism in] their kids to get a special needs recognition or to explain away the behavior. There’s no comedy point of view in saying there’s no such thing as autism, which is why I didn’t say it. The comedy point of view is to point out the ridiculousness of wishing away your child’s behavior by saying, “Oh, my kid’s special.” And that’s what I set out to say.

You wrote that the autistic kids who you know are smart, and if your kid is really lazy and stupid, that’s probably a sign that he’s not autistic.

The issue really is about lazy parenting and about the ridiculousness of seeking out or self-diagnosing yourself into that category. I did feel that when they pulled the words out, they did it without telling people what the chapter was about. I don’t blame people for being upset, because if I had read that, I would’ve been upset, too.

You weren’t exactly taking a cautious stance with this book, of course. You also wrote, “Please drug your children” and “You have to hit kids, you have a responsibility to do so.” Do you want to explain either of those?

You could also take something out of the “We’d Hate You Even If You Weren’t Black” chapter and make me look like a racist, I guess, if you wanted to approach it that way.

You seem to be taking a stab at the culture of permissive parenting.

Well, I think we all know that there are reasons that you tell kids yes and there are reasons that you tell kids no, and that’s part of good parenting. It’s become really an exercise for a lot of people in this country. They don’t have the time or the desire to pay attention to their kids, so they just yes their kids to death, and what you end up with are kids that are dying to have someone tell them no. And the reason that there’s a good smack on the ass is because it kind of works sometimes.

Have you had any backlash from your own kids when you were too harsh with them?

I think we’ve been pretty evenhanded with our kids. We ended up with two smart kids who would kind of tell us when we were being a little ridiculous with the punishment. But it’s like the whole issue of “We don’t want our kids watching this stuff on TV.” Well then, you’re going to have to actually watch your kids while they watch TV. At a certain age, they’ll find whatever they want. But if they’re in your house, you can pretty much control what they do and how they do it and when they do it, if you’re paying attention.

Are you in New York or L.A.?

I’m in New York.

I ask because I sometimes see parents giving in and taking the path of least resistance here, and I wonder if it’s a California thing or maybe an urban thing.

I think it actually happens all over the place. Because my kids were raised primarily in the country, and I certainly witnessed a lot of it out there, too … And then there’s the whole self-esteem thing, where everybody gets a trophy and we’re not gonna keep score. Well, you don’t really learn anything from that, except I should get a trophy every time I do something, whether it’s right or wrong, good or bad. That system doesn’t really work, and you end up with 30-year-olds who go, “What do you mean I have to have a job?”

Actually, quite frankly, I think you get people like George Bush [from that approach], you know? Where they’re so convinced they’re right and they can’t believe that anything’s going to go wrong, because God’s telling them [what to do].

You say at some point in your book that kids should stay home with their mothers. If Mom’s a Nobel Prize winner and Dad works at Taco Bell, should Mom quit her job to stay at home while Dad leaves to man the sour cream gun?

These are general rules, not hard and fast rules. I think the majority of [parents] realize that most of the time, kids want their parents to be a yin and a yang. And they almost always will expect more from their mom than they will from their dad in certain circumstances. Obviously if someone is the breadwinner and someone else is the stay-at-home person, the situation can be switched. But in general if a kid falls down, they want their mom.

It made me wonder if you think that daycare is bad for kids.

No, I think daycare is great for people who have to work two jobs. My problem is with people who are dropping kids off at daycare because they want to go out and spend the day golfing or getting their nails done. You know what I mean? That’s not why they invented daycare.

Have you heard from any of the people you mention in the book? Has Kathie Lee Gifford given you a call, for example?

Yeah, she did. She booked me for a show next Thursday.

That’s funny. And Matt Dillon, he’s a friend of yours, but how did he feel about his chapter (“Matt Dillon Is a Giant Fag”)?

I passed that chapter by him before I used it, because he’s a friend of mine. But that’s one of those things that actually makes Matt look great. It’s one of those ones that, if I changed it to another guy friend of mine, they would’ve been fighting over being the guy who got mentioned.

Have you been criticized for using the word “fag” at all?

No. I really didn’t expect to, because the word is used in the book the way it’s used in real life, at least among the guys I know. But I did an interview with The Advocate, and they loved the book. I don’t think anybody uses the word “fag” more than the gay guys that I know, quite frankly.

You say that you don’t believe the power of words. Can you explain what you mean by that?

I saw it explained last night by George Carlin because I introduced the clip where he did his original routine of the Seven Words [You Can't Say On Television]. Part of my introduction was about how it’s still being argued by the Supreme Court this week, 40 years later. As George described it, there’s a bunch of words that we all decided we can’t use because they mean certain things, which is good, because without those words, there’s no power in the use of those words in the occasions when you do want to use them. “Motherfucker” and “tits,” all seven of those words, they have great sound and they have great meaning, whether it’s good or bad. They’re great words. So if the Supreme Court said tomorrow, “Everybody can say them,” they lose their power, whether the power is good or bad, because they’d be on “Friends” at 8:30 at night on network television. So there wouldn’t be the fun and the edge that they have.

Your wife wrote a novel and Gawker wrote that one of the characters appeared to be modeled after Elizabeth Hurley. What’s your take on the media guessing about such things?

Well there’s not much you can do about it. It’s sort of the nature of the beast. There are times when it gets ugly and there are times it makes no sense and there are times when there’s a sliver of truth to it. There’s nothing you can do about it.

You don’t seem to censor yourself either way.

It obviously pisses me off and angers me when they get it wrong, but you know, I have enough public access. Because I’m a comedian I can get up onstage or on a talk show or into an interview and defend myself or say what I want in response, so it doesn’t really worry me.

And any skeletons that are in my closet, I talk about anyways, you know? I’d never run for public office, but, it’s kind of like when they were saying that thing about Cindy McCain, when they were talking about her prescription drug abuse during the campaign, and somebody said, “Well, why doesn’t somebody talk about Obama’s cocaine abuse?” Well, he wrote about it! It’s in his book! So I kind of feel like, what do you want me to do? Nobody can make more fun of me than I already make of myself. Whatever they wrote today, it’s like that great line in that Elvis Costello song about how the newspapers are wrapping up fish the next day anyway.

Is there anything you regret writing about in your book?

No, not at all. I write what I think is funny and I write from a sense of popping a balloon or a sense of injustice, whether it’s about yourself, or whether it’s about something else. It’s my worldview, it doesn’t mean that everybody has to agree with it. Last night there was a great quote from George Carlin — I know I’m stuck on him but that’s just because it’s so fresh in my mind — he said, “The comedian’s job is to find where the line in the sand is drawn and then cross over it.”

I’ve always felt like, if you were pissing people off and you were funny as a comedian, then you were doing your job, because there should be some people that are pissed off. If everybody was happy, that meant you were going down the middle of the road. There’s a great quote from Paul Newman when he died, which is, “If you have no enemies, you have no character.” I think that sort of describes what a good comedian is supposed to be doing.

When people meet you are they surprised that you’re different than they expected? What do they expect?

Some people expect me to be funny all the time, and I’m not necessarily funny all the time.

I was a little bit surprised by your chapter on Oprah. You wrote that you expected to find her annoying, and then, slowly, her immense power and reach in the world began to reveal itself.

Yeah, I gotta be honest, I just didn’t expect to see that much information on display, and I didn’t know about it.

Did you watch her show?

No, I didn’t. I thought I had enough information, and then when I sat down to write [that chapter], I had to get more [information], and then the more I got, the more surprised I was, and the more surprised I was, the more I kept going. Finally I was like, “Oh my God! This is crazy!” I said in the book, and I really believe it, they should have a show [like Oprah's, but] with Jon Stewart. If he did “The Daily Show,” and while he was ranking on the news of the day, he also gave you the sports scores and told you about things that could possibly break your penis? Then that would be the only show guys would ever watch.

Have you ever been on “Oprah”?

No, but I’m doing her radio show on part of the book tour, so that’ll be interesting.

You might have some trouble keeping your cool, being so close to such omnipotence. Every time I see her on TV, I’m amazed by her charisma and genius.

That’s how I got stuck in that chapter. I got overwhelmed!

That’s right. She’s like a shapeshifter.

She’s like a shaman.

I like the part where you say that there’s Mad Oprah, Sad Oprah, Holier Than Thou Oprah, Down and Dirty Oprah, etc.

I know, that was really unbelievable. I started watching episodes and snippets and pieces and I was like, “She tells you everything!”

And she’s appropriate to every moment. That chapter made me wonder, despite some other remarks you make in the book, if you consider yourself a feminist.

Yes, I do.

I thought so, but I wouldn’t have gathered that from the rest of your book.

Of course not, because I’m a man. But the truth is, if you’re really looking between all those lines, and I actually come close to saying it a couple of times … It’s actually serendipitous that we’re talking about Oprah, because when you come right down to it, whether it’s my wife or Oprah or my mom, women rule the world. And we’re [men are] just sort of in it. We’re in it and we’re using the towels, and we’re trying to remember the name of the color of the towels, and we’re hoping that we get the name right. We know that you might be pissed off — that’s why I say that Jon Stewart has to become the male Oprah, you guys have your Oprah. We need to have a guy who can tell us at 11 o’clock at night what the scores are, why our girlfriend or our wife might be pissed off, and how we can make her happy and keep our penises.

You seem to imply, in your book, that men are slightly inferior to women, although you don’t come out and say it.

I do think that that’s true. Ultimately, especially having raised children, if guys were left alone … I don’t know what would happen, but I think we have pretty good evidence: A lot of stuff would get blown up, there’d be a lot of really stupid fights over stupid stuff. And because there are these giant weapons, a lot of the time they’d be going, “Man, I wish we hadn’t blown each other up.” And also, I just don’t think it’s possible to be civilized and have children get all the information they need without a strong female hand. It’s great we’ve got a black president and it’s really kind of imperative that at some point we get a female president, too.

You know, “24″ is coming back with a two-hour special, and there’s a female president in it, but honestly, it was hard not to think, “Would the country really listen to a woman in her 50s?” Because no one listens to older women, they’re ignored. Ask my mom. Except for Oprah.

See, that’s the thing. Oprah would be a great president. If Oprah ran for president … which, by the way, maybe that’s the next thing! Obama does eight years, and then Oprah steps in. You know, in the book, I talk about how she can shame people into things? Because she’s sort of relentless. So not only is everybody going to be forced to do the right thing, but because she’s so open about weight and about clothing and about her greedy desires to own stuff and her private desires to change … She’s the ultimate leader, you know what I mean?

And there could never be any scandals, like you said, because everything is already out in the open.

Yeah, there are no scandals with Oprah, because if there’s a scandal she’s going to talk about it.

Now we’ve done it. We’ve taken the enjoyment of having a black man as the president of the United States, and we’ve already discarded that, and become unhappy, and now we want Oprah!