Mr. Funny Pants: A Memoir of False Starts
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I was at my wit's end. I'd had enough of this job, this life, and my relationship had broken up. Should I eat chocolate, or go to India, or fall in love? Then I had a revelation: Why not do all three, in that order? And so it was that I embarked on a journey that was segmented into three parts and was then made into a major motion picture. Later, I woke up on an airplane with a hole in my face and a really bad hangover. I was ushered brusquely off the plane by my parents who took me to a rehab where I tested positive for coke, classic coke, special k (the drug), Special K (the cereal), mushrooms, pepperoni, and Restless Leg Syndrome. It was there that I first began painting with my feet.
But rewind...the year was 1914. I was just a young German soldier serving in the trenches while simultaneously trying to destroy an evil ring with some help from an elf, a troll, and a giant sorcerer, all while cooking every recipe out of a Julia Child cookbook. What I'm trying to say is that there was a secret code hidden in a painting and I was looking for it with this girl who had a tattoo of a dragon! Let me clarify, it was the 1930s and a bunch of us were migrating out of Oklahoma, and I was this teenage wizard/CIA operative, okay? And, um then I floated off into the meta-verse as a ball of invisible energy that had no outer edge...
Ugh, okay. None of this is true. I'm just kind of a normal guy from New Jersey who moved to New York, got into comedy, wrote this book about trying to write this book, and then moved to Alaska, became the mayor of a small town, spent $30,000 on underwear, and now I'm going to rule the world!!!
of illnesses, but every morning after we wake up, we put a protective wrapping around our feet, and we call this wrapping shooze. I look up from my notebook, and the woman is walking over to me with her dog. Maybe she’s just walking toward the park. Maybe this is all in my imagination. Maybe she just wants to walk her dog in the park. It really feels like she’s walking directly toward me, though. “Hi,” she says. She is. She was. “Hi,” I say as I close up my notebook. I don’t want her to see
What’s wrong? What’s the MISSING LINK? It’s there but you need to find it. Be critical. Ask questions of your sandwich. Settle for nothing less than perfect because PERFECT is within your grasp, you fucking asshole! What’s wrong with this sandwich? Does it need more mustard? Start there. Your sandwich is your life! Don’t sell it short. Don’t throw it away. Don’t fucking one slice of cheese, one slice of bologna, wham bam thank you ma’am, fuck it, suck it. NO! This is your life we’re talking
having an invite-only thing in Hollywood and we all crashed it. Kobe was so comical. He was like, “Heeere’s Johnny.” It turns out Samaki Walker is an awesome DJ and was putting on one classic song after another. Everyone was into it. We made him play “Faith” by George (Michael) like five times in a row. Then we made him play the Limp Bizkit version, and a funny debate broke out over which version was better. The whole thing was so comical it would have been an excellent sketch for MADtv we all
like a zombie. I really need to take a load off.” I am partial to the Type #1 zombie. The Type #1 zombie is truly a free spirit. Unlike me, he is not self-conscious in the least. For example, I think about what I look like to other people whereas the Type #1 zombie has no qualms about going out in public with his clothes tattered, covered in blood, bile, dirt, and in all likelihood feces. I envy that kind of self-assuredness. I wouldn’t be caught dead out in public with my clothes tattered,
accurate portrait. So instead of telling the truth, I will write whatever comes to mind and if I’m asked about it I will just say that memory is subjective. For example: “When I was in high school I spent an entire day with Bigfoot. He was much smarter than I’d expected. Turns out he’s, like, this huge jazz buff.” Not true—or is it? Maybe it wasn’t Bigfoot. Maybe it was this kid Brendan Buckner from chemistry lab. Not sure, memory is subjective. 2. “The Roman Empire” While I can’t say that I’m